cherryseotang

[cherryseotang]

obligatory zoro back profile to go with my sanji one

[cherryseotang]

nerd!satoru who yaps nonstop about the multiverse while you’re just trying to eat your lunch, waving his hands around dramatically as he explains the concept of alternate dimensions with half a rice ball in his mouth and crumbs stuck to the corner of his lips. who pokes at his food with a mechanical pencil because he forgot his chopsticks again, and then insists with wide eyes and a mouth half full, “technically, pencils are just wooden utensils for intellectuals.” he gets giddy over a new graphing calculator update like it’s a new iphone drop, tapping the screen like it’s a baby animal, and once dragged you into a 40-minute rant about ant communication hierarchies while you were just brushing your teeth, half-asleep and mouth foaming with toothpaste.

he has no less than ten tabs open at all times—reddit conspiracy theories, physics forums, a paused youtube video on quantum tunneling, a spreadsheet titled “do cats defy newton’s laws?”, a google doc labeled “reasons why kissing might be a form of molecular alignment,” and none of it has anything to do with the assignment he’s supposed to be doing. he zones out during lectures, doodling black hole spirals, equations shaped like hearts, and cats in lab coats in the margins of his notes. once, he drew you holding hands with a worm in a bowtie and captioned it “me and my universe.” somehow still manages to get top marks every single time, even though he once turned in an assignment with a greasy fry stain in the corner because he used it as a napkin in the library mid-cram session.

he mutters the weirdest things under his breath like “i feel like a misaligned proton today” or “the moon’s energy was too sarcastic last night” and you just blink at him like🧍‍♀️while sipping your drink. he wears mismatched socks on purpose and says, “it’s a metaphor for duality.” has five alarms labeled “wake up genius,” “ur gonna flunk,” “your girlfriend will leave you,” “pls satoru,” and “EMERGENCY: CUTE, PRETTY AND SCORCHINGLY HOT GIRL WAITING” and still manages to sleep through all of them unless you call him. his glasses? perpetually smudged, held together with washi tape. his notebooks? an unholy fusion of complicated theorems, grocery lists, pressed flowers, cat doodles, love notes to you, and a page just titled “top 10 reasons why my girlfriend is cuter than entropy.”

his laptop is a biohazard—dusty, overworked, full of files like “time_is_an_illusion_final_FINAL_reallyfinal_actuallyfinal.pptx” and “uRwrong_iMright.docx.” the case is covered in anime stickers, tiny equations, stars drawn with glitter pen, and a wrinkled polaroid of you sticking your tongue out that he keeps taped on like it’s a sacred relic. he listens to lo-fi while studying and pauses every few minutes just to sigh dreamily and whisper, “this part sounds like you looking at me for the first time.”

and yet… he’s so fine it’s borderline illegal. tall, messy white hair that sticks up in all directions and defies every known force of nature, ice-blue eyes that melt when they look at you, and a cocky little smile that makes your chest hurt even when he says things like, “do you think our cells are spiritually linked?” he doesn’t even try to be charming—he just is, like he spawned with a flirt trait.

you fw it. you fw him. every unfiltered ramble, every hyperactive explanation about wormholes or why he thinks bees are secretly time travelers. the way his voice speeds up when he’s excited, and how his hands start waving like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra of nerdiness. you don’t even bother trying to follow every word—you’re just watching him, heart doing somersaults, because he’s so beautiful when he’s passionate. and the fact that you never laugh at him? only ever smile and let him go on? yeah. that cracked his emotional firewall a long time ago.

so now he’s all sunshine and sparkles around you. a literal bundle of joy. grinning at his phone like a middle schooler when you text him “lol ok.” kicking his feet while giggling, voice memos full of stuff like “what if we held hands inside a particle accelerator 😳👉👈” sent at 2:13 a.m., followed by three minutes of him wheezing into a pillow. he calls you his “favorite constant,” even if you don’t get the joke. and if you do? he twirls his hair, blushes, and stares at you like you just split the atom and made it cute.

he makes playlists named “gravity got nothing on how hard i fell for you,” draws you in lab coats saying “ur the thesis to my hypothesis,” keeps your photo in his pencil case and shows it to random people like “this is my girlfriend. she understands my quantum jokes.” if they blink weirdly, he’ll just smile and say, “it’s okay, not everyone gets theoretical perfection.”

being loved by you makes him goo. makes his neurons do the macarena. you make all his bizarre little pieces light up like neon signs. you walked into his strange little world and said “yeah, i’ll stay,” and now he’s rearranging every cosmic thread to make sure it’s perfect for you. adds fairy lights. labels his notebooks “our theories.” buys matching pens. you made his chaos feel like a cozy little planet. he buys you plushies shaped like atoms and puts your name in the acknowledgements of his lab reports. tells people “she’s the reason the data graphs came out prettier.”

nerd!satoru who’s helplessly, hopelessly, tooth-rottingly in love with you. who grabs your hand mid-ramble just to feel you close. who brings you hot cocoa and explains entropy like it’s a bedtime story. who kisses your forehead and tells you “you’re my favorite anomaly in this whole universe.”

and he thanks you—not in grand declarations, but in the quiet moments: when he scoots closer to you without saying a word, when he tugs on your sleeve with glassy eyes after a long day, when he looks at you after an hour of nerding out like you built the whole galaxy just to hear him talk.

his world was spinning way too fast. then you walked in and gave it gravity. and now he orbits you—and he’s never been happier to revolve around anything in his life.

[cherryseotang]

Sunny Lake 🐈‍⬛️🌿

[cherryseotang]

my favorite ponyo scene but with sand tiger sharks ^_^! if you join my ko-fi anytime in may, youll get this as a postcard + sticker in june!

[cherryseotang]

nanami kento

too tight ࣪ missionary style ࣪ backshot for his greedy wife ࣪ squirting kento ࣪ cockwarming ࣪ taming you ࣪ broken bed ࣪ rough day ࣪ hiding his moans ࣪ somno ࣪ ass slap ࣪ first time sucking ࣪ backshot for his greedy wife ࣪ mighty butt ࣪ fucking you gently ࣪ no diggity ࣪ getting mad at you ࣪ early birds? ࣪ you took all life ࣪ aftercare ࣪

gojo satoru

talkative while fucking you ࣪ biting during sex ࣪ keep your eyes on him ࣪ loud ࣪ soon love ࣪ goodboy ࣪ vidgame with your son ࣪ close as possible ࣪ calling you mommy ࣪ vanilla glazed ࣪ turtles ࣪ toxic ex ࣪

toji fushiguro

never letting you top ࣪ grinding on his abs ࣪ mean toji ࣪ one night stand ࣪ meanest bastard ࣪ fuck buddies, nothing else. ࣪

choso kamo

crybaby ࣪

jjk mixed

dumbfication ࣪

[cherryseotang]

you’re not used to people doing nice things for you. not really.

sure, people have done things to you, and maybe even for you, but rarely has it felt like it came from a place of softness. from love. from that gentle place nanami reaches for you from every time he looks at you.

you don’t know what to do with it, sometimes. like right now.

he’s standing at your stove—your stove, in your kitchen, like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and he’s wearing that damn apron again. the navy one with the little white pinstripes that matches the sleeve garters he wears to work.

he’s cooking you breakfast.

he’s made you coffee just the way you like it—without even asking this time—and he’s got a little pot of jam warming on the stove, and he’s slicing strawberries like it’s meditative.

you stand in the doorway and watch him for a minute, your throat burning.

he doesn’t even flinch when he sees you. just smiles, soft and unhurried, and says, “good morning, sweetheart. go sit, i’m almost done.”

and maybe it’s the way he says it. like you’re someone who deserves to be cared for. like this is normal.

you sit down, still blinking too fast.

he brings the plate over and sets it in front of you—golden french toast with warm strawberries and powdered sugar, and something in you cracks at the care of it all. the absurd, quiet kindness of a man who took the time to sift powdered sugar because he thought you would enjoy it.

you try to blink it away. you really do.

but when you look up at him, he sees it immediately. how your face has gone tight with the effort of keeping it in. how your lower lip wobbles.

“hey,” he murmurs, crouching beside your chair, one warm hand on your knee. “what is it?”

you laugh, shaky and a little pathetic. “you made me breakfast.”

“i did.” he’s smiling still, but it’s gentler now, more careful. “and that’s… upsetting?”

you shake your head, but your voice is cracking when you speak. “no. it’s just—no one’s ever really… done stuff like this. not for me.”

his brows knit, and he presses his temple against your arm, fingers squeezing your leg.

“then they’re all fools,” he says quietly. “because doing this for you is the easiest thing in the world.”

your chest aches. your eyes burn. and when he kisses the back of your hand and tells you, again, to eat before it gets cold—like it’s normal to be cherished like this—you cry into your breakfast.

just a little.

he doesn’t tease you. he just brings you a napkin and kisses your temple and tells you you’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling.

he’ll do it again tomorrow, too. and the day after.

until your heart stops breaking every time someone is good to it.

[cherryseotang]

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ just some emotional damage via praise and love because i’m pretty sure nanami is not protected from that

nanami is brushing his teeth when you sidle up beside him in the mirror, stretch your arms overhead, and sigh like a sleepy cat.

“you’re very handsome, you know,” you murmur, voice low and scratchy with sleep.

he blinks at you through the mirror.

you blink back. grin.

“what was that?” he asks, mouth full of toothpaste foam.

“i said you’re handsome.”

he stares for one more second—and then leans over the sink and spits, lingering a second longer than necessary to keep his expression in check.

“why?”

“…why are you handsome?”

“no, why would you say that?”

you raise an eyebrow. “because it’s true?”

he rinses out his mouth like he’s trying to scrub the embarrassment off his tongue. “you can’t just—say things like that. in the morning. while i’m brushing my teeth.”

“i literally woke up and felt overcome with love for your stupid face.”

he covers his face with one hand.

“you don’t like being complimented while you’re… minty?”

he sighs. “i’m not prepared for this level of sincerity at 7am.”

“what is your preferred time for me to express how stupidly in love with you i am?”

“never,” he mutters. “or at least after coffee.”

you lean in, cheek against his bicep, watching him in the mirror as he rinses his toothbrush. “i like your laugh lines.”

“they’re wrinkles.”

“they’re hot.”

he drops the toothbrush. “stop.”

“you have excellent forearms, by the way.”

“what does that mean?”

“and your shoulders? criminal. you should be fined.” your hands fall off of them as he steps away to go get dressed.

“i’m leaving.”

“i’ll miss you desperately, lover:”

he stares at you from the doorway like he’s rethinking his entire identity. then, very slowly, he walks back over and takes your face in his hands.

“listen,” he says seriously. “you can’t just… emotionally ravage me before I’ve had a chance to emotionally armor myself.”

“that sounds like a you problem.”

“it is a me problem.”

you grin. “does it help if i say i’m proud of you and think you’re amazing and love the way you always fold the laundry just how i like?”

his expression crumples.

he buries his face in your neck.

“stop,” he says, muffled. “this is damaging.”

“do you need me to—”

“no. no more compliments. not until at least lunch.”

you giggle, wrapping your arms around his waist. “deal. but at noon, i’m telling you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

he sighs against your skin. “i’ll prepare accordingly.”

[cherryseotang]

a treatise on inconvenient attraction

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

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

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot divided into two parts, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, mutual pining, medical drama, imperial intrigue, disguised royalty, forbidden affection, reader is so done, satoru is so annoying, suguru is tired, palace hijinks, touch-starved idiots, eventual smut, masturbation, possibly inaccurate court etiquette & other cultural inaccuracies, i tried my best please be kind ^^

wc — 29k | gen. masterlist | part two | read on ao3?

a/n: yes this was meant to be a oneshot but tumblr said no to my 46k draft so i split it into two parts. part two will be up tonight or tomorrow!! i also added A LOT while editing because i have no self-control. huge thanks to power thesaurus for enabling the vocabulary overdose. sorry for the long wait and i hope you enjoy <3

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

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

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

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor. “this was no mere ornament, my lady. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a gold-threaded handkerchief. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears.

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

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant. with satoru, both were plausible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like dew on a lotus petal.

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

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

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

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan.

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

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard.

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

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely.

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

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves brushed the corridor’s tiles with deliberate drag; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner, catching latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, gesturing with the fan. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

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

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles.

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

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replies, his wink a fleeting spark in the afternoon light, the sapphire stud in his earlobe catching a glint as he tilts his head. “besides, would you rather i act like a stuffy prince?”

the irony isn’t lost on him—he is a stuffy prince, or will be someday, when his father, whose breath rattles like dry leaves in his chest, finally yields the crown still heavy with the ghost of tragedy.

the late empress’s assassination, when satoru was barely old enough to stumble through palace corridors, had carved a brutal lesson into the imperial family: visibility invites blades. better to cloak the heir in silk and paint him with harmless whimsy than risk another dagger finding its mark.

only five souls in the sprawling palace know the truth: his father, whose sunken eyes track satoru with fading sharpness; the imperial chancellor, whose pinched lips birthed this charade; the minister of justice, whose tribunal and ledgers guard the succession’s fragile legality; suguru, whose shadow clings to satoru with the weight of unspoken oaths; and satoru himself, whose laughter sometimes blurs the line between performance and truth.

the inner court, bereft of an empress dowager, pulses with the consorts’ ruthless ambition, their silk robes whispering of power sharper than any sword. though the emperor weakens daily, these women wage silent wars for his favor, each dreaming of a son to crown her empress should the hidden prince perish.

they know such a prince exists, veiled for safety, but none suspect he flits among them, orchestrating their rivalries with a peacock’s strut and a courtesan’s smile.

the ladies adore their ornamental peacock—his flair for theatrics, his mastery of rouge and kohl, his gossip that slices like a hairpin’s edge. they sigh theatrically in his presence, their voices dripping with the practiced melancholy of lives honed by ambition and cushioned by luxury.

“what a waste,” the third imperial consort murmurs behind her fan, its ivory slats trembling faintly as her jade-green eyes trace the elegant curve of satoru’s throat, where a single pearl pendant rests against pale skin. “if only heaven had been more generous with your... wholeness.”

satoru’s smile blooms, honed over years—a charm that invites secrets, a distance that keeps them safe. his fingers, glittering with rings that snare the light pouring through latticed screens, adjust a fold in his azure robe, the silk whispering like a conspirator. “perhaps heaven knew i’d be too dangerous otherwise, my lady. imagine the chaos if i possessed both beauty and... capability.”

the women titter, their fans fluttering like startled sparrows, their laughter a delicate chime of scandalized delight. he navigates their tempests with a diplomat’s grace, though the irony of wielding statecraft to soothe cosmetic squabbles stings faintly.

lady xiao, her skin glowing like moonlight on snow from some costly powder, leans forward, her gold hairpin swaying as she adopts a conspiratorial whisper. “you simply must settle our debate, master satoru. lady chen insists crushed pearls in face powder yield the most ethereal glow, but i maintain powdered moonstone is far superior.”

“both have their merits,” satoru replies, his tone grave as a scholar’s, though his eyes flicker with amusement only suguru, leaning against a pillar, would catch. he lifts a strand of lady chen’s hair, its ebony sheen catching the light as he studies it with exaggerated focus, his silver bracelet glinting.

“with your warm undertones, crushed pearls would complement beautifully.” he turns to lady xiao, close enough that her breath hitches, her kohl-lined eyes wide. “but for your cooler complexion, moonstone would weave that otherworldly glow you chase.”

the verdict sparks preening—lady chen’s fingers smooth her hair, lady xiao’s fan snaps shut with a triumphant click. satoru sinks back into his cushioned seat, silk rustling like a secret unveiled, accepting their praise with the ease of a man crowned in their vanities.

“though,” he adds, mischief curling his lips as his lashes cast delicate shadows, “true radiance comes from within. perhaps you should consult the palace physicians about inner harmony before fussing over external charms.”

the suggestion, cloaked in earnestness, lands like a jest. laughter erupts, bright and sharp, the women reveling in his knack for dressing insults as wisdom, their painted nails gleaming as they clutch fans tighter.

suguru watches from the garden’s edge, his black robes stark against the pavilion’s vermilion pillars, his face a mask of weary endurance. a stray breeze tugs a dark strand loose from his neat bun, brushing his cheek as his eyes track satoru’s performance with the resignation of a man tethered to chaos.

“master satoru,” lady qiao ventures, her voice honeyed, her lips glistening with rose-tinted gloss as she tilts her head, a jade comb glinting in her upswept hair. “surely you have preferences regarding feminine beauty? purely from an aesthetic standpoint, of course.”

the question is a silk-wrapped trap. satoru’s smile holds, but his eyes sharpen, a flash of the mind destined for thornier battles. his fingers, tracing the carved armrest, pause briefly, the gold ring on his thumb catching a stray sunbeam.

“beauty,” he muses, “is like fine poetry. exquisite verses reveal new depths with each reading. surface prettiness fades, but intelligence, wit, character...” his gaze sweeps their faces, lingering just long enough to flatter, “those transform mere charm into transcendence.”

the answer sates their hunger for praise while baring nothing, a masterstroke they mistake for depth. their fans resume their dance, silk rustling like whispers of approval.

hours might pass thus—satoru weaving through cosmetic crises with finesse—but today, peace shatters like porcelain on marble.

the trouble begins with a silk scarf.

lady yun sweeps into the pavilion, azure silk draped to accent her porcelain skin, the emperor’s favored hue shimmering with intent. her hairpin, a silver crane, gleams as she moves, her eyes cool with triumph. lady mei, in pale lavender, stiffens, her fan halting mid-flutter, her lips tightening beneath their coral stain.

“how... bold,” lady xiang purrs, her smile sharp as frost, her fingers tightening around a jade bangle that clinks faintly. “to wear his majesty’s signature color so prominently. one might think you’re presuming your position.”

satoru’s fingers pause on his teacup, its porcelain cool against his palm, sensing the venom brewing. suguru edges closer, his hand brushing the hilt of a hidden blade, his jaw set.

“presumptions?” lady yun’s laugh chimes, her sleeve rippling as she gestures, revealing a bracelet of sapphire beads. “i wear what his majesty gifted me. perhaps if you spent less time whispering with servants and more earning his favor, you’d grasp the difference.”

the barb cuts deep. lady xiang’s face flushes beneath her powder, her eyes flashing like struck flint. satoru counts three seconds before chaos erupts.

“ladies,” he interjects, rising with a honeyed command, his robe catching the light in a cascade of azure folds, his silver hairpin glinting. “surely we can resolve this without—”

“stay out of this, master satoru,” lady xiang snaps, her voice cracking, her fan trembling in her grip. the dismissal bites, though satoru cloaks his flinch in feigned concern.

lady yun pounces, her nails tracing her sleeve with studied nonchalance. “how refreshing to see your true colors,” she says, her voice silk over steel. “his majesty noted your... common mannerisms lately. perhaps the strain of clinging to relevance frays your breeding.”

lady xiang’s palm meets lady yun’s cheek with a crack that silences the pavilion, her bangle clinking sharply. gasps ripple through the consorts, their fans freezing mid-air, eyes wide with shock. lady yun’s cheek blooms red, her crane hairpin trembling as she touches the mark with delicate fingers, her gaze hardening into something lethal.

“you dare strike me?” she whispers, her voice low, her sapphire beads catching the light like tears. “a daughter of the northern provinces, educated in the capital, marked by heaven with this beauty?”

“beauty fades,” lady xiang hisses, advancing, her lavender silk swaying like a predator’s tail, her hairpin glinting. “but vulgarity is eternal. his majesty will tire of your pretensions soon enough.”

“his majesty,” lady yun counters, her smile venomous, her fan snapping open with a flick, “has tired of your seduction attempts. why else cancel tonight’s private audience? other matters, he said, demand his attention.”

the blow lands. lady xiang falters, her breath catching, her coral lips parting as the truth sinks in—her meticulously planned evening with the emperor, her chance to secure favor, stolen. her bangle clinks again as her hand trembles.

“you scheming witch,” she breathes, lunging with murder in her eyes, her hairpin slipping slightly in her hair.

satoru moves, swift and fluid, his robe whispering as he steps between them, his fan snapping shut with a crack. “my dear ladies,” he says, voice laced with subtle command, “surely such passion belongs in more... productive pursuits?”

his tone halts them, though their glares burn like embers. satoru’s mind races, cataloging lady yun’s intelligence network, lady xiang’s desperation, the shifting sands of favor. his pearl pendant sways as he tilts his head, feigning concern.

“perhaps,” he ventures, his voice smooth as jade, “lady xiang, you wished to discuss that complexion treatment? and lady yun, your poetry recitation tomorrow deserves preparation.”

the suggestion, edged with condescension, reins them in. lady yun smooths her silk, her sapphire beads clinking faintly, her rage cooling into a mask of poise. lady xiang’s smile sharpens, but she nods, her hairpin now askew, betraying her frayed composure.

satoru claps, the sound sharp, his rings flashing. “how marvelous! such spirited discourse invigorates the afternoon. shall we revisit pearl powder versus moonstone? we were on the cusp of brilliance.”

the redirect forces civility, though tension crackles. satoru sinks into his cushions, his silk settling like a sigh, his mind dissecting the consorts’ moves—lady yun’s spies, lady xiang’s fragility, the court’s delicate balance.

as evening shadows stretch across the marble, satoru rises, his movements liquid, his hairpin catching the fading light. “duty calls, my ladies. the third consort awaits my counsel for her evening attire.”

their disappointment flickers, but they turn to tomorrow’s schemes. satoru bows, precise yet playful, his robe trailing like a comet’s tail. suguru falls into step as they leave, silent until the pavilion’s whispers fade.

“exhausting performance, your highness,” suguru murmurs, his dark sleeve brushing a pillar, his bun loosening slightly.

“getting easier,” satoru replies, shedding his theatrics, his posture sharpening, his fan tucked into his sash. “though my future subjects will despair when their emperor knows more about catfights than regiments.”

“your father would say palace politics and battlefields demand the same cunning,” suguru notes, his voice dry, a faint crease at his brow.

satoru’s laugh carries mirth and shadow, his earrings glinting as he strides forward. tomorrow brings more cosmetic crises, more veiled barbs, more lessons in power disguised as powder disputes. the crown prince will hide behind silk and sighs, studying his subjects’ souls one shallow secret at a time.

after all, the best disguises become second nature. and sometimes, the sharpest power lies in pretending you hold none at all.

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

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

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

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

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

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he drawled, voice lazy yet laced with a spark of intent, like a cat batting at a moth it fully intended to devour.

suguru didn’t lift his eyes from the scroll he feigned reading, arms crossed over dark robes that seemed to absorb the light, their folds creasing like a storm cloud on the verge of breaking. his hair, bound with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted glow, as if even it resented being tethered to satoru’s orbit. “the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed a patience fraying like a worn thread.

“that’s the charm of playing eunuch,” satoru replied, rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every gaze followed him. his robes—silver threaded with sapphire embroidery, ostentatiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight rippling across a still pond, the hem whispering against the polished floor like a lover’s sigh. “every door yields if you smile just so and dazzle them with a touch of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound heavy with a thousand unspoken curses, each one honed by years of trailing satoru’s chaos. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing’s beneath my station when i’m cloaked as a eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a sesame-crusted rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace, as if daring the world to challenge him. “it’s half the thrill. haven’t i earned a bit of fun after wrangling the inner court’s tantrums?”

and with that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and the promise of impending upheaval. suguru muttered a curse—something about peacocks strutting toward their inevitable fall—and followed, because someone had to tether the fool before he plunged headlong into ruin.

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

court physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their elaborate sleeves flapping like indignant birds, silk badges of rank glinting on their chests as they gestured wildly at treatment scrolls. someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of bitter medicinal herbs, sharp and acrid, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria.

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

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

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

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

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you knelt in the corner like a shadow given form. not beside lady hua—that privilege belonged to the proper court physicians with their silk badges and centuries of inherited authority—but close enough to see, to listen, to absorb every frustrated gesture and dismissive wave of their sleeves.

you weren't dressed like anyone of importance. your outer court servant robes were simple, practical cotton dyed the color of weathered stone, sleeves rolled past your elbows in a way that would scandalize the inner court but served you well in the servants' quarters where actual work got done. your hair was pinned back with a plain wooden stick, not jade or silver, and your hands bore the telltale stains of someone who ground herbs by moonlight when the day's official duties were done.

but oh, how you watched. your eyes tracked every movement of the physicians' hands, cataloged each herb they selected, noted the precise angle of lady hua's breathing.

when one physician mixed powdered deer antler with ginseng, your jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. when another declared her pulse “flighty as a sparrow,” your fingers twitched against your thigh—once, twice, three times, as if counting beats they couldn't feel from across the room.

satoru straightened, the motion so slight it might’ve escaped anyone but suguru, who stood at his side like a storm cloud tethered to a comet. his fan slowed, silk shivering in the pause, as if the air itself held its breath. “who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, curling like incense smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a cascade of moonlight.

suguru had already marked you, his arms crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the strain. “outer court servant. kitchen work, mostly. cleans the medicine rooms.” each word clipped, as if to dismiss you before satoru’s curiosity took root.

“hmm,” satoru hummed, but his eyes never left you, sharp and gleaming with the delight of a puzzle half-solved. “and yet she’s not scrubbing pots.”

you shifted, angling your body to better observe the lead physician’s fumbling needlework, seeking a pressure point to ease lady hua’s pain. the movement was subtle, practiced—a dancer’s adjustment, born of months spent watching, learning, memorizing from the shadows. your lips moved again, silent but deliberate, and satoru caught the glint of something fierce in your expression, like a blade catching lamplight.

this wasn’t idle curiosity. this was hunger, raw and disciplined, the kind that drove scholars to madness or mastery.

the physician botched his needle placement, and you winced, fingers curling into fists, your silent corrections now a faint whisper of frustration. satoru watched, enthralled, as your hands mimicked the motions—precise, fluid, as if you could thread the needle through her meridians from across the room.

“she knows,” he whispered, more to himself than suguru, his voice alight with discovery.

“knows what?” suguru asked, though his tone suggested he’d already glimpsed the answer and dreaded its consequences.

“that they’re doing it wrong.” satoru’s smile was slow, delighted, like a child uncovering a forbidden game. “look at her hands.”

your fingers danced against your thigh, tracing the exact patterns of needle insertion, herb grinding, pulse-taking—muscle memory honed through countless unseen hours, knowledge that shouldn’t belong to a servant who spent her days scouring medicine bowls. each movement was a silent rebuke to the physicians’ arrogance, a testament to a mind that refused to be confined by her station.

one physician stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief, his voice heavy with pompous resignation. “the lady’s condition defies our current wisdom,” he declared, more concerned with preserving his dignity than her life. “we’ve exhausted all known remedies.”

that’s when you moved.

not with boldness—that would’ve been suicide. instead, you rose from your corner with the fluid grace of a crane taking flight, approached the lead physician with eyes appropriately downcast, and spoke in the deferential tones expected of your rank.

“honored physician,” you said, voice clear yet soft, cutting through the room’s chaos like a bell in a storm, “this humble servant has seen similar symptoms in the outer courts. if it would not offend your wisdom… a kitchen maid last month suffered likewise.”

the physician barely spared you a glance, already dismissing whatever peasant cure you might dare suggest. “female hysteria is commonplace. hardly comparable to lady hua’s refined constitution.”

“of course, honored sir,” you murmured, eyes still lowered, but satoru caught the steel beneath your silk-smooth tone. “yet the maid’s symptoms mirrored these—the headaches, the pallor, the precise pattern of lesions. she recovered fully after a decoction of chrysanthemum, mint, and processed rehmannia root.”

his attention snagged, though he masked it with scholarly disdain. “absurd. such simple herbs could never address a condition of this intricacy.”

you held your ground, voice humble yet unyielding, like bamboo bending in a gale. “your expertise far surpasses my crude observations, naturally. but the maid did recover, and her symptoms aligned so precisely…” you trailed off, the perfect portrait of respectful hesitation, your fingers twitching as if itching to demonstrate.

the physician’s pride warred with his desperation. lady hua’s breathing grew shallower, her skin taking on a waxen pallor that would soon spell ruin for everyone in the room. “these herbs,” he said at last, feigning casual curiosity, “you saw their preparation?”

“this servant cleans the preparation rooms,” you replied, a careful lie wrapped in just enough truth to pass muster. “sometimes the physician’s assistants share their methods while i work.”

satoru watched the performance with rapt fascination, his fan now still, its silk frozen mid-flutter. you weren’t merely suggesting a cure—you were orchestrating the entire scene, playing the physician’s ego like a koto’s strings, submissive enough to avoid offense, knowledgeable enough to be indispensable, desperate enough to seem harmless.

yet your eyes, when they flicked upward for the briefest moment, held secrets sharp enough to cut glass, a mind that danced circles around the men who dismissed you.

within the hour, lady hua sat upright, color blooming in her cheeks like dawn over a lotus pond, the mysterious lesions fading like mist under morning sun. the lead physician accepted congratulations with magnanimous grace, claiming credit for “consulting palace staff to compile comprehensive symptom reports,” his chest puffing like a rooster at dawn.

you had already melted back into the shadows, your work done, but not before satoru caught the satisfied curve of your lips—fleeting, triumphant, gone in a breath.

“fascinating,” he murmured, eyes lingering on the corner where you’d vanished, as if the air still held traces of your presence.

suguru’s expression remained a study in neutrality, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his resignation. “a lucky coincidence. simple remedies sometimes outshine complex ones.”

“hmm.” satoru’s smile lingered, bright and sharp as a freshly drawn blade. “tell me, suguru—what do we know of kitchen maids who memorize advanced medical techniques? who position themselves flawlessly to study court physicians? who move like they’re accustomed to being heeded, not ignored?”

“we know,” suguru said dryly, his voice heavy with the weight of impending trouble, “that you’re about to make this our headache.”

“not our headache,” satoru corrected with a grin. “my amusement.”

because lady hua’s recovery might’ve dazzled the court, but you—you were a riddle cloaked in servant’s robes, wielding knowledge that could heal or harm, navigating the palace with the lethal precision of someone who knew their own danger.

and satoru gojo, crown prince masquerading as eunuch, had just stumbled upon a game far more captivating than court whispers, one he intended to play to its end.

the emperor’s study always smelled faintly of old power—that particular blend of sun-warmed parchment, cedar polish, and something faintly metallic. blood, maybe, or the memory of it. it was the kind of room where even the air seemed to walk softly.

satoru sat across from the emperor with the calm of a man desperately trying not to tap his fingers. he adjusted the fold of his sleeve, eyes flicking toward the desk where his father’s brush moved in careful strokes. his posture was perfect, intentionally so—chin tilted, one knee loosely crossed, silver hair tied back but predictably disobedient with a few strands curling just beside his cheek. his robe, navy lined in restrained gold, sat sharp against the sun streaming through the lattice window. he looked every inch the noble son. all very deliberate.

“father,” he began, and the word felt heavier than it should have. maybe because he hadn’t used it in a while. maybe because he still wasn’t sure which version of the emperor he was talking to today.

no reply. the brush continued its whispered dance across parchment—a list of names, most likely. or death warrants. same difference in the imperial court.

“i’ve been thinking about the medical needs of the inner court.”

still no reaction, just the soft scrape of ink and paper. satoru swallowed the urge to fill the silence with more words and waited instead, watching for the telltale signs of his father’s attention.

then—a twitch of a brow. not much, but it meant he was listening. unfortunately.

“the women,” satoru continued, his voice smooth but softer now. “they’re suffering. quietly, of course. as they always do. they’re afraid to speak about their ailments, or worse, they’ve learned not to bother trying.”

the emperor’s brush paused for just a heartbeat before continuing its careful work.

“because they can’t be examined properly by male physicians, their symptoms are dismissed. attributed to nerves, to wombs, to feminine hysteria.” satoru kept his tone clinical, professional. “real suffering gets reduced to mood swings.”

“and you’ve discovered this how?”

the trap was expected, so satoru smiled—just a little, mostly to himself. “the third consort mentioned it during a conversation about hair ornaments. she gets migraines, told me she stopped letting the court physicians treat her after one tried to give her a mercury concoction and advised her to avoid loud colors.”

he left out the part where he’d actually laughed at the absurdity. she’d joined him. misery loves company, after all.

“she said a servant helped her instead. a woman from the outer court.” satoru watched his father’s face carefully. “i saw her treat the consort myself. her technique was impressive—precise, not palace-trained, but more effective because of it.”

what he didn’t say: you hadn’t spared him a glance during the treatment. your fingers had moved with unbothered certainty, tucking the consort’s hair behind her ear while applying pressure to specific points with your other hand. your eyes had flicked toward him only once, and the look had been unimpressed, functional, dismissive.

it had lit something unfortunate in him.

“you seem very well-informed about this woman.”

satoru inclined his head, letting one finger trail along the edge of the lacquered desk. “i asked around. standard diligence—you know how thorough i can be when something catches my interest.”

“i do,” his father murmured, finally setting the brush down with deliberate care.

satoru let the moment stretch, just enough to suggest sincerity without overselling it.

“she has no political affiliations, no family ties, no suspicious history. she’s been in the outer court six months and caused no disruptions. the only people who mention her are the ones she’s treated, and they talk about her like she’s something they dreamed during a fever—there but not quite real.”

he didn’t mention the late nights he’d spent tracing palace gossip until it led to your name, or how no one seemed to agree on what you looked like, only that you were quiet, clean, and dangerous in the way truly intelligent women often were.

“she’s better than most of our court physicians,” he said simply. “more hygienic too. she washes her hands, makes her patients do the same. revolutionary concept, apparently.”

the emperor gave him a look—hard to read, as always, but with an edge of something that might have been amusement.

“a woman like that, appearing out of nowhere with such skills.”

“suspicious, yes,” satoru agreed readily. “but also exactly what this court needs. what the women deserve. and...” he paused, letting the weight of unspoken words settle between them. “what you need.”

the temperature in the room seemed to shift, though neither man moved.

“you want to bring her into the inner court.”

“i want to give her an official appointment. court apothecary with proper access, recognition, protection.” satoru leaned forward slightly, and the afternoon light caught the edge of his silver hair, framing his face in something almost holy. “she’s worth the risk.”

he waited, watching his father’s expression for any sign of rejection. when none came, he pressed on.

“and there’s another reason.” his voice dropped, becoming something more vulnerable. “your condition hasn’t improved despite everything the court physicians have tried. she might see what they’ve missed, notice something they’re too set in their ways to consider.”

his voice didn’t shake, but it was closer than he wanted. closer than was comfortable.

his father said nothing for a long moment, fingers drumming against the desk in that familiar thinking rhythm satoru remembered from childhood.

“if there’s even a chance she could help...”

“then we should take it.” the emperor’s decision came swift and final. “appoint her. she’ll report directly to you—you brought her to my attention, you can manage her integration into court life.”

relief flooded through satoru like a tide, and he stood quickly, trying not to look as shaken as he felt. “thank you.”

“don’t thank me yet,” the emperor said, and there it was—that familiar edge of knowing amusement. “handling a woman of exceptional skill and mysterious background won’t be simple. especially when there’s personal investment involved.”

satoru hesitated, then offered what he hoped was a convincing lie. “my interest is purely professional.”

his father’s look could have cut glass. “you’ve described her capabilities in detail but haven’t once mentioned her appearance. either she’s remarkably plain, or you’re working very hard not to think about how she looks.”

“i hadn’t noticed.”

“mm.” it wasn’t quite a sound, more like a judgment rendered and filed away for future reference.

“inform the steward of her appointment,” the emperor added, returning his attention to the documents spread across his desk. “and do it properly. if you’re going to gamble on someone, don’t play your hand halfway.”

satoru bowed again, quick and precise, then left the room feeling like he’d been carefully dissected and sewn back together.

the hallway outside hummed with the usual quiet motion of palace life—servants gliding past with tea trays, scribes shuffling along with scrolls tucked into their sleeves, the distant sound of a flute meandering through some half-finished melody. normal sounds, normal sights, but everything felt different now.

you’d be staying. elevated to a position where your skills could be properly utilized, where he could watch you work and maybe, eventually, understand what drove someone with your abilities to hide among the servants.

he tried not to smile as he headed toward the inner court to deliver news that would change everything. tried and failed completely.

the first thing satoru noticed was the crack in your expression—not a chasm, just a flicker, like a lantern’s flame caught in a draft. he was always watching for it, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s, trained to catch the smallest tells in a court where lies were currency and truths were contraband.

that blink-and-you-miss-it smile—the quiet, cautious pride that bloomed when the summons reached you—vanished the instant your gaze landed on him in the receiving hall.

you went still, not with fear but with the kind of disappointment that stings like a paper cut, laced with offense, as if someone had promised you a jade pendant and handed you a wriggling rat instead.

he found it utterly delightful.

“you,” you said, the word a curse wrapped in velvet, sharp enough to draw blood.

“me,” satoru replied, spreading his arms just enough to invite applause, his grin a crescent of pure mischief. his robes today were pale violet, embroidered with butterflies that shimmered like moonlight on water, each thread catching the lantern glow with ostentatious grace.

his hair was twisted into a gold pin, too ornate for a eunuch but perfectly satoru, perched in the grey space where rules bent to his whims. a fine line of kohl rimmed his lashes, accentuating eyes that sparkled with dramatic intent—because if he had to endure the stifling heat and court nonsense, he’d damn well look like a painting while doing it.

the head steward droned on, his voice a monotonous hum about imperial favor and sacred duty, a speech satoru could’ve recited in his sleep.

he didn’t bother pretending to listen.

he was too busy cataloging your betrayals: the faint hitch in your breath, like a zither string plucked too hard; the way your hands folded, knuckles whitening as if gripping an invisible blade; the defiant tilt of your chin, a silent challenge to the world. you were furious, a bonfire masquerading as a lantern, and oh, how you tried to cloak it in courtly composure. but satoru saw the embers, and they thrilled him.

he caught the moment realization struck you, sharp as a needle: this wasn’t just a promotion. this was proximity. to him.

“the inner court welcomes you,” the steward concluded, his voice fading into the hall’s polished silence.

“i’m sure it does,” you said, your tone sugared with venom, each syllable a dart aimed at satoru’s smug face.

once the others dispersed, satoru glided forward, arms tucked within his sleeves, his voice dropping into that soft, insincere purr he saved for spooking cats and bureaucrats. “congratulations,” he said, leaning just close enough to make you bristle. “you’ve ascended. fresh linens, finer herbs, a view of the lotus pond. and, of course, me.”

you blinked at him, slow and deliberate, like a cat deciding whether to swipe or ignore. “is it too late to crawl back to scrubbing pans?” you asked, your deadpan so perfect it deserved its own pavilion.

“don’t flatter yourself,” he said, his grin widening, sharp as a crescent moon. “you’ll still scrub—just not linen. now it’s egos and temperaments, lotus tea for headaches, petals for petty heartbreaks. all the flowers of the inner court, lovingly pruned by your hand.”

“thrilling,” you muttered, the word dripping with disdain, as if you’d rather mop the emperor’s stables. “a promotion and a leash.”

“not a leash,” satoru said, pressing a hand to his chest with a mock gasp. “companionship—unsolicited, exquisitely dressed, and utterly unavoidable.”

and there it was—the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth, not a smile but a threat, like a blade half-drawn from its sheath. he liked it. no, he adored it, the way it promised trouble as much as it deflected his own.

he lingered a beat too long, eyes glinting like polished jade, before turning and strolling off, his robes fluttering like a butterfly’s wings, as if the world spun on his axis. and maybe, just maybe, it did.

later that evening, purely by coincidence (his words, not truth’s), he found himself drifting past your new quarters. entirely by accident (again, his words). three times, his steps echoing softly on the stone path, each pass a little slower, a little bolder. the fourth time, he stopped.

he waited until the courtyard shadows stretched long, pooling like ink beneath the flickering lanterns that cast gold over the tiles. then, with the humility of a man who’d never known the word, satoru leaned against your doorframe, one hand toying with the edge of a scroll, its wax seal glinting like a conspirator’s wink.

“what,” you said, not turning from the table where you sorted herbs, your voice flat as a blade’s edge.

“i brought a gift,” he said brightly, his tone all sunshine and mischief, as if he’d just unearthed a treasure.

“is it my resignation?” you asked, still not looking, your fingers pausing over a vial of crushed ginseng.

“better. a medical mystery.” he stepped inside, uninvited, and held out the scroll, its parchment crinkling faintly. you didn’t take it, of course. you just stared, expression as unyielding as the palace walls, as if calculating whether a pestle could double as a club.

finally, you snatched it, your movements sharp, and scanned the text with a flick of your eyes. “these symptoms contradict each other,” you said, voice clipped, like you were scolding a particularly dense apprentice.

“i know,” satoru said, leaning against a lacquered cabinet, his sleeve brushing a jar that wobbled but didn’t fall.

“this is fabricated,” you added, your glare pinning him like a butterfly to a board.

“only the illness,” he said, undeterred, his smile a spark in the dim room. “the need for your attention? painfully real.”

you sighed, loud and theatrical, a performance worthy of the imperial stage. satoru mentally awarded it a nine out of ten—solid, but you could’ve thrown in a hair toss for flair.

you unrolled the scroll again, your lips twitching in a scowl as you muttered, “ridiculous.” the word was a dart, but satoru caught it like a prize.

“you’re a parasite in silk,” you said, louder now, tossing the scroll onto the table with a flick of your wrist. “the most useless eunuch in three dynasties, and that’s saying something.”

“flattery will get you everywhere,” he replied, utterly unfazed, his fingers brushing the edge of a clay bowl as he wandered your space like he owned it. “keep going, i’m taking notes.”

“i wasn’t flattering you,” you snapped, finally turning to face him, your eyes blazing like a forge.

“that’s what makes it so charming,” he said, his grin widening, as if your ire was a rare vintage he couldn’t resist savoring.

you shot him a look that could’ve curdled goat milk, then turned back to your work, your fingers moving with the precision of a calligrapher, sorting herbs into neat piles. but you kept the scroll, its corner peeking from beneath a stack of notes, and your muttering continued—snatches of “insufferable peacock” and “why is this my life” drifting like smoke.

satoru prowled your quarters, ignoring the way your gaze tracked his hands, as if you were mentally mapping every pressure point from wrist to neck.

he brushed his fingers over jars, their labels curling at the edges, and peeked into a box of tools, its contents gleaming faintly in the lantern light. he didn’t speak, just watched—the furrow of your brow as you concentrated, the deliberate flick of your wrist as you ground yanhusuo, the rhythm of your work like a silent song.

he didn’t know why he stayed.

or rather, he did, but admitting it felt like stepping into a trap of his own making. you were a puzzle with edges that cut, a contradiction that hooked him deeper with every barb. the faint scent of crushed herbs clung to the room, mingling with the wisp of incense curling from a burner, and it anchored him there, tethered to the moment.

when he finally slipped out, you didn’t look up, hunched over your desk, scribbling notes like you were waging war on the scroll’s nonsense. but as he passed the water basin by the door, its surface caught your reflection—a glare aimed at his retreating back, sharp and searing, like a blade thrown in silence.

it made his whole damn day.

he found suguru by the koi pond, pacing the stone path, hands clasped behind his back like a tutor bracing for a lecture on broken vases. the moonlight glinted off the water, the fish darting like silver needles beneath the surface.

“don’t say it,” satoru said, cutting him off before a word could escape.

“you like her,” suguru said anyway, his voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs, each syllable a judgment.

“i said don’t say it,” satoru shot back, tossing his hair with a flourish, the gold pin catching the light like a star.

“and yet, here we are,” suguru said, his gaze flicking to satoru’s face, reading the spark there with the ease of a man who’d seen this play before.

satoru sighed, dramatic and long-suffering, tilting his head to the moon as if it might explain why his heart thrummed like a war drum. “i’m just monitoring a potential threat,” he said, the lie so flimsy it barely held together.

“sure,” suguru said, his lips twitching, not quite a smile. “because that gleam in your eyes screams caution.”

“i’m delightful,” satoru corrected, spinning on his heel, his robes flaring like a dancer’s.

suguru groaned, the sound heavy with the weight of a thousand future apologies. “you’re doomed.”

and he was probably right. but gods, what a glorious disaster to waltz into, with you at its heart—sharp-tongued, untamed, a flame that burned brighter than satoru’s own, and twice as dangerous.

satoru had never been a creature of habit.

routines were for bureaucrats, monks, and men with lives too dull to warrant a second glance. he craved spontaneity, thrived in chaos, relished derailing the meticulously stacked schedules of others like a fox scattering a henhouse.

unpredictability was his dance, disruption his song. so the fact that he now drifted down the same shaded corridor every morning—at roughly the same hour, with the same lazy gait and the same infuriating glint in his eye—was a confession he’d never voice aloud.

not that he’d admit it, even to himself.

his excuses shifted like the seasons. delivering a scroll to a scribe who didn’t exist. inspecting inner court security for threats that never materialized. dodging paperwork that multiplied like roaches in the archives. conducting a surprise audit of herbal stores. critiquing the palace tea for “quality control.” evading a minister whose droning voice on strategy briefings could bore a statue to tears.

each alibi flimsier than the last, but satoru wielded them with the confidence of a man who knew the world would bend to his whims.

really, it was one thing. one person.

you.

he found you as always—elbow-deep in some concoction, sleeves knotted tightly past your elbows, hair pinned in a haphazard bun that threatened to unravel with every movement.

a faint smudge of green—licorice root, perhaps—stained your cheekbone, a badge of your battle against the chaos you wove and tamed.

you were a paradox: a whirlwind of spilled herbs and scattered parchment, yet sharper, more focused than any silk-clad noble posturing in the emperor’s court. you looked like a battlefield medic with a grudge against decorum and a vendetta against wasted time, and it never failed to spark both amusement and distraction in satoru’s usually restless mind.

“you again,” you said, voice dry as crushed ginger, not bothering to lift your eyes from the mortar where you pulverized a root with grim determination.

“you sound shocked,” satoru replied, stepping over the threshold with a roll of his shoulder, his robes—deep cream silk embroidered with winding cranes that shimmered with each step—swaying like mist over a dawn lake.

today’s ensemble was absurdly extravagant for a glorified supply closet, the fabric catching the lantern light in soft ripples. his hair, loosely tied at the nape, let silver strands frame his face, and a delicate trace of plum-red pigment accented the corners of his eyes, a flourish that screamed performance. he was too much, and that was precisely the point.

“i thought we’d settled into a rhythm,” he said, leaning against your worktable, perilously close to your neatly bundled herbs and stacked parchment. “me, you, the tang of crushed roots, and that slow-simmering resentment you wear so well.”

you didn’t answer. instead, you ground the pestle with a force that suggested the root had slandered your ancestors, the bowl rattling faintly under your wrath.

he tilted his head, silver hair catching the warm glow like threads of starlight, his rings—three today, each etched with faint sigils—clicking softly against the table’s edge.

“no one else to pester?” you muttered, jaw tight, your fingers flexing around the pestle as if it might double as a weapon. “no decrees to ignore? no ministers to torment?”

“oh, plenty,” he said, his grin slow and sharp, like a blade unsheathed for show. “but none of them look half as charming when they’re plotting my demise.”

your hand stilled, the pestle clicking sharply against the bowl, a punctuation of pure exasperation. he nearly clapped, delighted by the precision of your irritation.

because it wasn’t just that you disliked him—plenty did, and he wore their scorn like a badge. you didn’t pretend. no groveling, no fawning, no hollow courtesies offered to his eunuch’s guise. your disdain was raw, unfiltered, a silent roar in every glance.

it was refreshing, like a cold stream after too long in the palace’s stifling opulence, and deeply, wickedly entertaining.

he returned the next day. and the day after. each visit a little bolder, a little longer, as if testing how far he could push before you snapped.

sometimes he brought absurdities disguised as inquiries: a scroll detailing a servant who sprouted hives when he lied, complete with fictional case notes. another time, a cracked jade hairpin, its edges worn smooth, which he claimed induced fevers under a full moon’s gaze.

once, he presented a koi scale in a silk pouch, its iridescence glinting like a stolen star, declaring it a rare cure for heartache—just to see if you’d fling it at him.

you did, with the aim of an archer, the scale skittering across the floor as you muttered something about “idiots in silk.” he gave you a mental ovation.

he started noticing things—more than he meant to, more than was wise. you drank your tea standing, spine rigid, eyes flicking to the window like you expected a rope ladder to unfurl. you reused parchment, scribbling notes in the margins of torn festival flyers or crumpled ceremonial edicts, your script tight and precise.

your tools gleamed, arranged like a general’s arsenal, each blade and vial in its place, but your hair perpetually slipped its pins, curling defiantly against your neck until you shoved it back with an impatient hand.

you hummed when you thought no one heard—a fleeting melody, half-forgotten, like a song from a village far from the palace’s red walls. your brows twitched, a subtle dance, when you puzzled over a formula. your lips curled, just so, a heartbeat before you unleashed an insult, as if savoring the barb.

and despite every barbed word, every glare sharp enough to draw blood, you never truly banished him. not really.

“you know,” he said one afternoon, sprawled in the corner of your workspace, one leg tucked beneath him like a cat claiming a sunbeam, his sleeves pooling like spilled cream, “you haven’t thanked me.”

“for what?” you asked, voice muffled as you rummaged behind a bamboo curtain, the clink of vials punctuating your words. “wrecking my mornings like a plague in peacock feathers?”

“for ushering you into the inner court,” he said, tipping his head back against the wall, silver hair cascading over his shoulder like moonlight spilling across snow. the motion was deliberate, a painter’s stroke, and he knew it.

a beat. then the sharp scrape of wood as you slammed a drawer shut, the sound a silent curse. you emerged, clutching a bundle of dried leaves, your glare sour enough to wilt the lotuses in the courtyard.

“right,” you said, each word a blade honed to kill. “my deepest thanks for the promotion i wanted and the permanent shadow it dragged in.”

“shouldn’t you be grateful?” he teased, propping his chin in his hand, rings glinting as he traced the edge of a nearby jar. “i handed you the emperor’s court—prestige, resources, a front-row seat to my radiance.”

you turned to him, slow and deliberate, like a swordmaster sizing up a foolhardy opponent. “and i curse it every dawn,” you said, your voice low, each syllable a spark. “if i’d known you came tethered like a leech, i’d have begged to stay in the outer court, scrubbing pans in peace.”

he clutched his chest, a theatrical gasp, his eyes sparkling with mock agony. “you wound me, truly.”

“not yet,” you muttered, turning back to your leaves, your fingers ripping a stalk with unnecessary force. “but i’m practicing.”

his grin widened, sharp as a crescent moon, and he settled deeper into his perch, as if your scorn were an invitation to stay.

and you let him. not with words, never with warmth, but with the absence of a broom or a thrown pestle. and he kept returning, drawn by the rhythm you’d carved between you—insult, retort, silence. a glance, then another, lingering like a brush of silk. proximity that stretched longer than it should, close enough to feel the heat of your irritation, the weight of your presence.

it wasn’t peace—gods, never peace—but something like understanding, a pattern etched in barbed words and stolen moments. a hum beneath the surface, unnamed, unacknowledged, but growing louder with each visit.

then came the laugh—sharp, unexpected, a single burst when he presented a “case” about a noble who sneezed only during poetry recitals. your eyes crinkled, head tilting back for a heartbeat, the sound bright and unguarded before you smothered it, your face twisting into a scowl as if you’d betrayed yourself. you looked like you wanted to burn the room down to erase it.

satoru stared, too long, too openly, catching the way your cheeks flushed, the way you ducked your head to hide it. he saw you glance at him, then away, quick as a startled bird, and something in his chest tugged—sharp, stupid, undeniable.

he left that day with a thought that prickled like a splinter: he was in deeper trouble than he’d planned, and it was entirely, gloriously your fault.

today’s morning puzzle was more unhinged than usual.

“man experiences nosebleeds only in the presence of caged birds,” you read aloud, your tone so flat it could’ve scraped the lacquer off the palace floors. “and when exposed to lacquerware.”

satoru, sprawled in his usual corner of your workspace like a sculpture no one ordered, blinked with the kind of innocence that fooled no one, least of all you. his robe—warm ivory threaded with golden phoenix feathers—caught the dawn’s light, casting fleeting sparks against the wall like a firecracker’s afterglow. his hair, braided with a defiant thread of red silk (he knew you loathed it), spilled over one shoulder with the precision of a stage cue.

he was every inch the frivolous, silk-draped menace he aimed to be, his rings—two today, etched with coiling dragons—glinting as he propped an elbow on a crate of dried herbs.

“don’t you think there’s a tragedy woven in that?” he asked, voice too chipper for the hour, like a bird chirping before the world had rubbed sleep from its eyes.

“you’re banned from tragedy,” you snapped, shutting the scroll with a crack that made a passing maid jump, her tray of tea wobbling. you tossed it onto the table, narrowly missing a jar of powdered rhubarb, its clay surface dusted with your fingerprints.

this wasn’t his first medical case, nor even the twentieth. he’d stopped counting around the time he concocted a patient who sneezed whenever lies were spoken nearby.

what began as a game—probing your diagnostic skill with obscure, half-invented symptoms—had spiraled into a ritual as absurd as it was unshakable. yet you read every one. scrawled notes in their margins. laced them with insults sharp enough to draw blood. returned them smudged with ink and bristling with barely restrained fury.

he hoarded them like relics.

“you should’ve seen the drafts,” he said, as if that salvaged anything. “the first version had goose feathers and wine fumes. i spared you.”

“if this is your plot to bury me in professional shame,” you said, wrenching open a jar of salves with a force that suggested personal vendetta, “you’re nearly there.”

he tilted his head, a single silver strand slipping free, brushing the curve of his ear like a painter’s afterthought. he watched you move—always with purpose, always taut as a bowstring. you no longer flinched at his presence, but you never softened either. you wielded words like scalpels, keeping him at bay with precision cuts.

he liked sharp things. always had.

at first, the game was straightforward: deliver impossible cases, watch you unravel them, maybe coax a laugh if the stars aligned.

they never did.

you didn’t laugh. but you scowled, rolled your eyes, muttered poetic venom into your mortar as you ground herbs to dust. you called him names with the accuracy of a physician lancing a wound—“peacock,” “nuisance,” “silk-clad calamity”—each one a tiny victory he tucked away like a magpie with trinkets.

“this isn’t a diagnosis,” you muttered now, flipping the scroll open to scrawl furious notes, your brush slashing the parchment like a blade. “this is a poem having a tantrum.”

“you wound me,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest as if your words could be stitched into his ribs. “you’re the only one who’s ever called me poetic.”

“you’re the only fool in this empire whose puzzles come with a musical accompaniment,” you shot back, your brush pausing mid-stroke, ink pooling at the tip.

he grinned, quick and wicked. “you noticed?”

“you brought a flautist last week,” you said, voice flat as a blade’s edge. “he tripped on your sash.”

“he needed the practice,” satoru said, smooth as polished jade, his fingers tracing the rim of a nearby vial, its glass cool under his touch.

you didn’t bother responding, just turned back to your work, sharpening a bundle of dried ginger with a knife that gleamed like a silent threat. the blade’s rhythm was steady, each slice a rebuke to his existence.

he watched it all. the way your hands danced, precise yet restless, as if they could never quite settle. the way your lips pressed thin when you read something particularly absurd, a silent curse forming before you spoke. how your hair, always slipping its pins, curled defiantly at your nape, streaked with ink from fingers too busy to care. how you muttered in a cadence just off-kilter from the palace’s polished formalities, a dialect of frustration and focus.

you were chaos cloaked in competence, a storm bound by will, and he couldn’t look away.

every day, he brought another case. a man who laughed himself into fainting fits during banquets. a servant girl who sleepwalked into the kitchen’s rice stores, waking with flour in her hair. an aristocrat’s daughter who swore her vision flipped upside down every other hour, blaming it on cursed earrings.

he scribbled them late at night, brush half-dry, on balconies between court sessions, once even during a poetry recital where he feigned sleep, his sleeve hiding the ink stains. each case a thread, a tether, an excuse to linger in your orbit.

because you read them. frowned. sighed. looked at him.

and the looking—gods, that was everything. he didn’t need your laughter. he craved what came after: the pause after the sigh, the flicker after the eye-roll, that fleeting moment where you seemed to forget you loathed him, where your gaze held something softer, unguarded, before you rebuilt your walls.

“i should report you,” you said now, your brush scratching the parchment with deliberate force, each stroke a small rebellion.

“for what?” he asked, shifting to prop his chin on one hand, leaning forward like a cat too stubborn to abandon its perch. “creative medicine?”

“for impersonating someone with a shred of sense,” you said, your voice low, each word a dart aimed at his ego.

he made a wounded noise, theatrical and bright, but his smile stretched wider. “i have sense. i just keep it locked away, like a heirloom too fine for daily use.”

you gave him a look, long and withering, that could’ve soured wine. it only made his grin sharpen, his rings catching the light as he tapped the table’s edge, a rhythm to match your knife’s steady cuts.

“you treat patients like mildew treats silk,” you said, tossing the ginger aside and reaching for a vial, your fingers brushing a stray leaf that clung to your sleeve like a conspirator.

he laughed—not the polished chuckle he offered concubines or ministers, but a real one, sharp and sudden, echoing in the cramped quarters like a misfired firework.

your eyes snapped to him, and for a heartbeat, you weren’t just annoyed. not entirely. there was something else, a flicker of surprise, maybe curiosity, gone before he could name it. but it tightened his chest, a knot he couldn’t untie.

he kept bringing puzzles—not for their cleverness, not for their humor, but because they carved a space for him in your shadow. they let him listen to your muttered curses, watch your hands move like a weaver’s, feel the weight of your presence. they let him be noticed, even if only as a thorn in your side.

and maybe they let him be wanted there, if only for the span of a scowl.

“why are you like this?” you asked one morning, your brush stilling mid-stroke, the question dangerously soft, like a blade hidden in silk.

he had a dozen quips ready—flippant, charming, deflecting. but he leaned forward, caught the way a loose strand of hair curled near your temple, ink-smudged and defiant, and said, soft and unguarded, “you look alive when you’re annoyed.”

you froze, your brush hovering, a drop of ink trembling at its tip. then, slowly, you looked up. met his eyes, their blue sharp and unguarded, like a sky before a storm.

he smiled—not mocking, not entirely, just a curve of lips that felt too honest for the game you played.

you threw the scroll at his head. it sailed wide, fluttering to the floor like a wounded bird.

he ducked, barely, laughter spilling from him as he retreated, the sound trailing behind like a comet’s tail. your glare followed, searing, but he caught the faintest twitch at your mouth, a ghost of something that wasn’t quite hate.

later, he sat beneath the south pavilion’s shade, one leg tucked beneath him, the other dangling off the edge like a boy too restless for propriety.

a breeze tugged at the red sash cinched at his waist, lifting it like a lazy flag, as if even the wind knew he was procrastinating. beside him, scrolls—court reports, diplomatic briefs, a poetry contest invitation he’d already singed at the edges—sat ignored, their wax seals glinting like accusations.

he thought of your scowl, your voice, the way your gaze landed on him like a blade seeking a target. everyone else in the court tiptoed around him, offering flattery or fear.

you never did.

and maybe that was why, every day, without fail, he drifted back to your door, armed with another impossible case, another absurd tale. each one a thread to bind him to you, a reason to linger, to disrupt, to be seen.

because the worst part of his morning was the hour before he saw you—empty, quiet, a void where his thoughts echoed too loudly.

and the best part? watching you glare like you wanted him gone, yet never quite forcing him out, your silence a grudging invitation to return.

the scrolls were getting longer.

not just longer—denser, labyrinthine, absurdly ornate. satoru had upgraded to calligraphy brushes dipped in perfumed ink—rosewater one day, sandalwood the next, a faint whiff of osmanthus lingering on the parchment like a taunt.

he was testing how long it’d take before you snapped and hurled something profane, maybe the inkstone itself. the symptoms wove intricate webs, the logic knotted like a courtier’s braid, the footnotes teetering on operatic.

he cited phantom case studies, fictitious physicians from provinces that didn’t exist, and once, with brazen pride, slipped in a forged imperial seal that nearly landed him in front of a magistrate. nearly. that one, he’d written in couplets, each line a smug little bow.

“you’re wasting my time with this drivel,” you snapped, brandishing the scroll like it carried a plague. “don’t you have feathers to preen or mirrors to seduce?”

he was perched, as always, on the low bench by your window, posed like a statue some lovesick noble commissioned and regretted. his posture was too perfect for someone who’d spent half an hour picking a robe to irk you most—storm blue, embroidered with cranes mid-flight, sleeves pooling over his knees like spilled ink, dragging across the floor with every restless shift.

a gold hairpin gleamed in his braid, red silk threaded through it, swaying like a pendulum when he tilted his head in mock fascination. he was a painting overburdened with flourishes, every detail screaming excess.

“your thorns are almost charming,” he said, sipping from a porcelain cup, its rim chipped from a prior visit when he’d “accidentally” knocked it off your table. his boots, still flecked with courtyard mud, left faint smudges on your floor. “like a pufferfish dreaming of cuddles.”

you fixed him with a stare—slow, lethal, the kind that could sour fresh cream or silence a minister mid-rant. the breeze from the open lattice tugged at the scroll’s edge, rattling the ash tray, but you didn’t blink, your fingers tightening until the parchment crinkled.

he beamed, as if you’d serenaded him.

you muttered something under your breath—likely a curse involving his tea turning to sludge, his bones melting to tallow, and a cholera revival tour.

he showed up again the next day. and the day after. and again, undeterred, even after you told the guards to “misplace his map.” they never did, swayed by his bribes of candied lotus and whispered gossip, plus a promise to rank their uniforms’ aesthetics—a scale he invented on the spot, complete with commentary on tassel placement.

each scroll outdid the last. a plague afflicting only left-handed nobles, their sneezes synchronized with lunar phases. a woman who could digest only white foods, weeping hysterically at the sight of lotus root, claiming it sang to her in minor keys. a child coughing poetry—verses from a romantic epic banned by the late empress, each stanza more scandalous than the last. one footnote, scrawled sideways in gold ink, taunted, “solve this with that temper you wield like a blade.”

you unraveled them all, dissecting each with surgical precision. your annotations bled red, sometimes purple for peak offenses, your brushstrokes sharp as a duelist’s thrust.

but somewhere between the sarcastic jabs and hissed curses, your critiques softened—not in tone, never in tone, but in focus. you asked questions, prodded his logic with a gentler hand, your frowns less like thunderclouds, more like passing shadows.

you lingered over his absurdities, as if they were puzzles worth solving.

not that he noticed. of course not.

suguru did.

“twelve visits this week,” he said, voice dry as a desert wind, eyes fixed on the go board where satoru was losing spectacularly for forty-five minutes. “shall i carve you a plaque for her door? engrave it with ‘satoru’s folly’?”

satoru flipped a game piece, then flicked it at suguru’s shoulder, where it bounced off his black robes like a pebble off a cliff. “i’m running an experiment.”

“on what?” suguru glanced up, one brow arched like a drawn bow.

“the effects of sustained hostility and ground herbs on royal composure,” satoru said, his grin a crescent of pure mischief.

suguru’s stare was withering. “findings?”

“unexpectedly delightful,” satoru said, leaning back, his braid swaying like a metronome.

court sessions were crumbling. satoru, once the deity of theatrical boredom—master of mock gasps, swoons timed to derail debates, and insults so sharp they left officials blushing—was drifting.

he missed the minister of rites’ botched couplet, a travesty he’d have roasted for weeks. he forgot to deliver a memorandum to the archives—twice—its wax seal cracking from neglect. tax discussions passed in a haze, his fan unopened, his quips dormant. his eyes wandered, tracing patterns in the ceiling’s carved dragons, as if they held answers he didn’t dare seek.

suguru kept a tally in his meeting notes’ margins: missed snide remarks: five. disinterest level: catastrophic.

the inner court ladies noticed, their eyes sharp as jade pins, their tongues sharper.

they tracked satoru like hawks circling a wayward sparrow, cataloging his absences with gleeful precision. first, he vanished from their mid-morning gossip salons, leaving their tea untouched and their scandals half-shared. then came his bizarre fixation on medical theory, of all things, muttering about rare fungi and diagnostic riddles like a scholar possessed.

“we’ve scarcely seen you,” one lady said during a stroll through the peony courtyard, her fan snapping open like a dagger’s unsheathing, its silk painted with vipers. “has the emperor’s health grown so dire?”

“oh,” satoru said, voice slow and honeyed, “the apothecary’s got a fungus collection that’s positively riveting. almost as captivating as her glare when i nudge her vials out of order.”

giggles scattered like dropped pearls, sharp and knowing. he offered no further explanation, his smile a closed gate.

that afternoon, he swept into your quarters, scroll in hand, bound with red thread, inked in violet on paper too fine for his nonsense—proof it was his worst yet. his hair was half-loose, wisps clinging to his cheek where he’d skipped pinning it, a faint ink smear on his thumb from a late-night drafting frenzy. the scroll bore your name, penned at the top in a flourish that dared you to burn it.

you opened it, scanned the first lines, and your expression could’ve shattered a tea bowl. “this better not rhyme,” you said, voice low, each word a warning shot.

he smiled, too soft at the edges, less smug than something unguarded, like a seam in his silk had frayed. his fingers brushed the bench’s edge, lingering as if to anchor himself, and he watched you read, his gaze catching the way your brow twitched, the way your lips pressed thin.

somewhere beneath the posture, the perfume, the performance, his heart stuttered—a single, traitorous skip.

it was enough to whisper: this was no longer just a game.

he sent a courier three provinces south for a flower that didn’t even bloom this season.

“you dispatched a royal courier to the southern mountains for a sprig of winter jasmine?” suguru asked, voice taut with disbelief, arms folded so tightly it seemed he was trying to cage a migraine. his shadow loomed across the veranda’s polished wood, sharp against the dappled sunlight filtering through the wisteria.

satoru, reclining in the east veranda’s shade, swirled his teacup with a lazy flick of his wrist, the liquid long gone cold and forgotten. “it’s for a case,” he said, shrugging, stretching one leg until his silken robes spilled over the floor like ivory ink, catching flecks of light.

his fan lay discarded beside him, its painted cranes motionless, but his posture screamed decadence: languid limbs, robe slipping to bare the gleam of his collarbone, silver hair a cascade tucked behind one ear, a blue cord woven through for no reason but to catch the eye.

“it’s a seasonal ornamental,” suguru snapped, his boots clicking as he took a half-step forward, resisting the urge to pace. “not medicine. not even symbolic medicine. it’s for perfume, satoru. perfume.”

“depends on the metaphor,” satoru replied, grinning without looking, his gaze drifting past suguru’s scowl to the corridor snaking toward the inner court. his rings—two, etched with lotus vines—glinted as he tilted the cup, letting it catch the light like a conspirator’s signal.

suguru dragged a hand down his face, his sigh heavy enough to stir the wisteria petals scattered nearby. “i’m going to strangle you with that sash.”

“you’d have to catch me first,” satoru said, raising the cup in a mock toast, his grin sharp as a blade’s edge.

he had no intention of explaining. not the three couriers he’d sent in secret, their horses kicking dust across provinces. not the velvet-wrapped parcel one returned, petals still dewed from mountain mist, their fragrance curling like a secret. and definitely not the way your brow furrowed—half suspicion, half awe—when he set the sprig on your worktable, its silk wrapping unfurling like a bribe from a poet.

“this is fresh,” you said, nose wrinkling, holding the jasmine between two fingers like it might bite. “this isn’t local. not even close.”

“i know,” he said, voice bright as festival lanterns, chin propped on one hand as he watched you with the shameless glee of a man too pleased with his own audacity. “gorgeous, isn’t it?”

your glare could’ve sterilized a scalpel. “you’re unbearable.”

“and yet, here i linger,” he said, his sleeve brushing a vial as he leaned closer, just enough to make you stiffen.

“tragically,” you muttered, tossing the sprig onto a parchment, where it landed like a fallen star.

he stayed longer that day—far longer, until the shadows slanted sharp and the afternoon’s warmth bled into dusk’s cool edge. your tea sat untouched, its steam long gone. your sighs grew louder, each one a performance, yet you never shoved him out. he watched you work: arms bare to the elbow, sleeves knotted loosely, hands stained with pigment and resin, moving like the shelves and tables were extensions of your will.

you always faced the window when handling volatile herbs, not for light, he’d learned, but for the breeze, its faint stir cutting the fumes and teasing loose strands of your hair.

he cataloged it all. the way you hummed when focused—fractured, tuneless, like a half-remembered lullaby from a village beyond the palace’s reach.

it wasn’t daily, but frequent enough that he timed his arrivals to catch its fading notes. the way you sorted jars by scent—camphor to the left, ginseng to the right—ignoring strength or tradition. how you cracked your knuckles before mixing tinctures, a sharp pop like a soldier before battle. the pause before you spoke to him, as if weighing which barb would cut deepest.

it was intoxicating, like chasing the edge of a storm.

he crafted excuses to linger: forged dosage errors scrawled on stolen parchment, misfiled records he “discovered” in dusty archives, fake prescriptions only he knew were nonsense. once, he claimed mint sensitivity just to spar with you over its diagnostic merit. he lost, spectacularly, your rebuttal so sharp it left him grinning for hours.

“i’m starting to think you’re a fixture here,” you said one afternoon, not looking up as he sauntered in, uninvited. your hands were buried in a jar of powdered ginseng, your hair falling into your face, dusted with chalk like a scribe’s error.

“don’t be absurd,” he said, claiming the spare cushion by your shelves with the ease of a man who’d never heard the word no. his robe—cobalt blue, stitched with black cranes and storm clouds—pooled around him, dramatic and excessive, its hem brushing a stray leaf you’d missed. “i have other haunts. they’re just less… stabby.”

“and less likely to throw you out?” you asked, flicking a speck of dust from your sleeve, your tone dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs.

“precisely,” he said, his grin a spark in the dim room.

you didn’t laugh, but you didn’t banish him either. and when your hand grazed his sleeve—a fleeting, accidental brush as you reached for a vial—you didn’t pull back. didn’t flinch. the contact, barely a whisper, burned in his mind like a brand.

he was too comfortable now, not just in your space but in your orbit—your rhythms, your silences, the way you tilted your head before a fight, lips pursing when you swallowed a sharper retort. you insulted him with the grace of someone who’d decided he wasn’t worth charming, each barb a masterpiece of disdain.

it was the truest exchange he had all day.

no one else dared. but you? you called him a fungus with delusions of grandeur. you said his robes looked like a peacock mugged by a thunderstorm. you told him his puzzles were “an affront to medicine and common sense.”

and still, he returned. because every insult was a flare, every glance a challenge, every unspoken word a riddle more gripping than any court intrigue.

he told himself it was curiosity. a game. a puzzle to unravel.

but if that were true, why did he measure his day by how long he could linger before you snapped? why did he trace the curl of your handwriting in his mind, the rhythm of your humming, the way you bit your cheek when lost in thought?

and why, when he left, did the world feel a little flatter, the colors muted, like a painting left unfinished?

lately, he wasn’t sure if he was studying you or unraveling himself. each visit chipped away at his excuses, leaving something rawer, riskier, in its place. he caught himself watching not just your hands but the faint scar on your knuckle, the way your eyes softened when you thought no one saw. he noticed how you lingered, too—not in words, but in the way you let him stay, let him disrupt, let him fill the silence with his nonsense.

he was in too deep, and the worst part? he didn’t care.

because every sprig of jasmine, every forged case, every stolen ribbon was a thread pulling him closer to you—and he was too far gone to cut it.

it began with a flower.

well, no. it began with a lie about a flower.

“lunar-affected fever,” satoru said, voice solemn yet dripping with drama, holding a scroll like it was an imperial decree rather than a parchment stuffed with absurdity.

he lounged across your workspace’s threshold, as if the breeze itself had swept him in, robes of slate gray—stitched with pale moons that shimmered faintly—billowing with each subtle shift. his hair, half-tied with a silver pin, caught the filtered sunlight, glinting like spun thread, a few strands curling defiantly against his jaw. “rare as a comet. strikes only under moonlight. fever, dizziness, faint prophetic dreams. possibly contagious.”

you didn’t look up. didn’t pause. just dipped your brush in ink with the precision of a surgeon, your movements steady as stone. “there is no such thing as lunar-affected fever,” you said, voice flat as a pressed leaf, not even indulging him with a sigh.

he tsked, tapping the scroll against his palm like a tutor poised to chide a wayward pupil. “how can you be sure without seeing the flower?”

your head lifted—slow, deliberate, your eyes locking onto his with a glare sharp enough to wither an orchard. your lips pursed, brow twitching, a silent vow of retribution etched in your expression.

satoru’s smile widened, blue eyes sparking with mischief, like a cat who’d just knocked a vase to the floor and called it art.

which is how you found yourself—against logic, reason, and three stern vows to your own sanity—trailing him through the moonlit paths of the imperial gardens, gravel crunching softly under your sandals.

your sleeves were tugged tight around your wrists, knotted to keep them from snagging on stray branches. your hair, pinned in a hasty bun, unraveled in soft curls that clung to your temples, damp from the night’s humidity. you walked in silence, letting the faint whisper of your steps speak for you.

ahead, satoru moved with the effortless grace of someone who owned every pebble, every leaf. the lantern in his hand swayed, its warm glow dancing across the path, painting his silver hair with flecks of gold, like a halo he didn’t deserve.

he glanced back now and then, just to check you were still there. each time, his smirk softened for a heartbeat, a flicker of something unguarded, before he faced forward, humming a tuneless melody under his breath, the sound weaving into the night like a secret.

“you could’ve just asked me to see a flower,” you muttered at his back, your voice low, edged with exasperation.

“and skip the theatrics?” he half-turned, walking backward with infuriating ease, his robes catching the moonlight in ripples. “you wound me.”

the pavilion he led you to crouched in shadow, draped in ivy and curling wisteria, their leaves glistening with dew. moonlight poured through the open beams, silvering the air, catching the faint mist that clung to the ground. the night carried a sharp, green bite of moss, layered with something sweeter, fragile, like a bloom holding its breath.

and there it was: the night-blooming cereus.

its petals unfurled, slow and tentative, as if coaxing itself into existence. the bloom glowed, ethereal, held together by moonlight and whispers, its edges curling like a secret shared in the dark.

“it blooms once a year,” satoru said, voice softer now, stripped of its usual flourish. he stepped beside you, not quite touching, but close enough for the warmth of his presence to brush your skin. “only under a full moon. they call it the queen of the night.”

your lips parted, breath catching, a faint hitch you couldn’t hide. your arms, folded in defiance moments ago, slowly loosened, fingers twitching as if to reach out. your eyes locked on the flower, and for the first time in days, your face shifted—brow easing, mouth softening, the hard edges melting away. you weren’t the court apothecary, nor the wary prisoner of palace games.

you were someone rediscovering wonder, like a child glimpsing a star for the first time.

“beautiful,” you whispered, the word escaping before you could cage it, fragile as the bloom itself.

satoru wasn’t watching the flower.

“yes,” he said, voice barely a murmur, “it is.”

he stared at you, caught in the moonlight’s caress on your cheekbone, the soft curve of your profile. his fingers flexed, not to touch, but to hold the moment—the way your eyes shimmered, the faint flush on your skin, the curl of hair clinging to your temple. he wanted to etch it into memory, to keep it sharper than any painting.

the silence stretched, warm and alive, a fragile bubble of stillness that pulsed with its own rhythm. the night held you both, the cereus glowing between, its petals trembling as if aware of the weight it carried.

then—predictably, perfectly—you shattered it.

“what a waste of my night,” you muttered, spinning away with a dramatic eye-roll, your sleeve swishing like a curtain falling on a play.

but your hands betrayed you.

you reached for the bloom with a reverence that belied your words, cupping it as if it might crumble to dust. when you turned, you cradled it to your chest, fingers curled protectively, like guarding a secret you hadn’t meant to claim.

satoru didn’t tease. didn’t speak. he fell into step beside you, lantern swinging gently, casting slow-dancing shadows that tangled with the gravel path. he stole glances as you walked, catching the way you peeked at the flower—once, twice, like you needed to be sure it was real. your sandals scuffed softly, a counterpoint to his silent steps, and the night seemed to lean in, listening.

he didn’t sleep that night. not properly. he lay beneath his canopy, robes half-discarded, staring at the lattice ceiling as moonlight slanted through, replaying the curve of your lips, the softness in your eyes, the way you’d held the bloom like it was a piece of yourself you’d forgotten. his chest felt tight, restless, like a bird trapped in a too-small cage.

the next morning, he arrived at your chambers as always, leaning in the doorway like he’d been carved for the space, robes of deep indigo shifting with each breath. you didn’t greet him, didn’t look up, your focus buried in a stack of parchment, your hair already slipping its pins, ink smudged on one knuckle.

same sleeves. same scowl. same you.

but when he leaned too close, feigning interest in your notes, his eyes caught it: pressed between the worn pages of your herbarium, nestled beside meticulous entries on sedatives, the cereus. flattened, pale, its glow dimmed but defiant, like a star pinned to earth.

your handwriting, precise and sharp: epiphyllum oxypetalum. blooms once yearly, under full moon. fragile.

he said nothing. didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. but his chest ached, a low, slow throb, tender and mortifying, like a bruise he hadn’t earned.

for the first time in weeks, he forgot to bring a new case. no scroll, no absurd symptoms, no ribbon-wrapped nonsense. he just stood there, watching you scribble, the silence heavier than it should’ve been.

and when you finally glanced up, your eyes narrowing at his stillness, he felt it—a tug, sharp and undeniable, like a thread pulling taut between you.

he didn’t know what to call it. not yet.

but as he left, his steps lighter than they should’ve been, he wondered if you’d noticed the absence of his usual chaos—and if, maybe, you missed it.

it started with kiyohiro, a court eunuch, collapsing in the corridor outside your chambers.

not with flair. not convincingly. just a calculated wobble, a practiced sway, before he sank to the floor with a theatrical sigh, clutching his stomach like the palace kitchens had slipped arsenic into his rice.

“abdominal pain,” he groaned, palm pressed to his navel, eyes fluttering as if scripted. “possibly fatal. i need the court apothecary at once.”

you didn’t flinch. didn’t glance up. the pestle in your hand ground dried peony root against stone, its rhythm steady, unyielding, like a heartbeat ignoring a storm. “eat fewer sweet buns,” you muttered, voice flat as sunbaked clay, handing a tonic to a maid without breaking stride.

it should’ve ended there.

but gossip spreads faster than truth in a palace of whispers. by week’s end, your chambers had become a pilgrimage site for every bored eunuch with a noble title and a flair for drama. a sudden rash? a fluttering pulse? a dizziness that struck only when you entered, your sleeves brushing the air like a challenge?

satoru watched it unfold, his displeasure sharp and simmering. arms crossed, posture a studied nonchalance that screamed irritation, he haunted your doorframe like a specter with a grudge. his robes—too fine for indifference, deep indigo threaded with silver lotuses—shimmered under lantern light, his hair tied with lazy precision, glinting like frost on a winter stream.

“remarkable,” he drawled one afternoon, voice silk laced with venom, as he ushered another swooning eunuch out with a smile that never touched his eyes. “how many eunuchs have fallen mysteriously ill this month?”

you didn’t look up, fingers folding linen cloths with deft flicks. “jealous?”

his gaze snapped to you, blue eyes narrowing. your face was a mask, but your hand paused, just once, on the bowl’s rim, a flicker of defiance. “of what?” he said, voice low, edged. “their fake ailments or their pitiful flirtations?”

“both, it seems,” you said, a smirk tugging your lips, mischief woven into your exasperation. your eyes stayed on your work, but your voice carried that familiar spark, like a blade hidden in a sleeve.

your sleeves were rolled to your elbows, dusted with faint lotus bark, strands of hair slipping from their pins to cling to your jaw, damp with the room’s humid breath. you looked unruffled, impervious to the parade of titled eunuchs feigning ailments to bask in your presence.

satoru, though, was anything but.

not openly. not officially. but he was there—always. every time a noble eunuch swept in with a new complaint, satoru materialized, claiming urgent business nearby. every consultation hosted his lounging form—leaning against a lacquered pillar, fan snapping open with a lazy flick. he never interrupted outright. he just… watched, his comments slicing with surgical precision.

“takamasa, you faint in sunlight?” he asked, voice dripping with mock concern, as the young eunuch clutched a silk handkerchief to his chest.

“yes,” takamasa murmured, voice frail. “it’s terribly inconvenient—”

“curious,” satoru cut in, fan pausing mid-flutter. “weren’t you sprawled in the courtyard yesterday, under midday sun?”

the silence that followed was a masterpiece, heavy and delicious. you didn’t bother hiding your eye-roll, your lips twitching as you ground herbs with renewed vigor.

“you’re absurd,” you told him later, after he’d dismantled enjirou’s complaint of “chronic sighs” with a single arched brow and a quip about fainting goats.

“i’m diligent,” he said, lips curving, his fan tapping his chin. “your time’s too precious for noble fairy tales spun in silk.”

he didn’t say the rest—that he loathed how they looked at you, like your attention was a prize to be won with theatrics, like you were a treasure to be claimed with a well-timed swoon. he hated the way their eyes lingered, as if they could buy your focus with flattery or feigned frailty.

then came the emergency.

a kitchen servant collapsed, breath shallow, sweat beading like dew on his brow. no posturing, no poetry. just raw panic—gasps, shouts, the clatter of a dropped tray. his skin burned under touch, his pulse a frantic stutter.

satoru was already there.

he didn’t knock, didn’t wait. he followed the stretcher into your chambers, sleeves shoved up, hair slipping from its tie, strands catching the sweat on his neck. the usual glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by something taut, focused, like a blade drawn and ready.

you were already in motion.

your face was a mask of calm, eyes sharp as you issued orders—clear, clipped, commanding. this wasn’t the you who wielded wit like a dagger; this was you at war, hands swift and sure, voice steady as stone. you didn’t glance at satoru, didn’t need to. he moved with you, seamless, like he’d studied your rhythm for months.

he passed you cloths, their edges fraying from haste. helped lift the servant onto a cot, his grip steady but gentle. ground herbs under your curt instructions, his fingers quick, precise, remembering how you liked the mortar angled for rhubarb root, its bitter tang sharp in the air.

“you actually care about these people,” he said quietly, voice almost lost in the clink of vials, as he handed you a ladle and wiped the servant’s brow with a damp cloth.

“someone has to,” you said, eyes fixed on your work, your fingers deftly measuring a tincture. “most here see servants as props.”

he didn’t reply, didn’t know how. just kept moving beside you, his sleeves brushing yours in the cramped space, the air thick with bile, heat, and crushed leaves.

the night stretched on. two more servants were carried in—one vomiting, one limp as a rag. the room reeked of sickness and herbs, the floor littered with discarded cloths.

your voice frayed at the edges, your hands trembled once—briefly—before you clenched them steady. your braid had come loose, strands sticking to your sweat-damp neck, but you didn’t pause to fix it.

satoru stayed.

when it was over—when the last fever broke, the last pulse steadied—you collapsed into your chair, limbs heavy, breath ragged. your brush slipped, smearing half-written labels across the desk. your eyelids sagged, your head dipping to rest on the crook of your arm, ink smudging your cheek like a child’s mistake.

he approached softly, his outer robe already in hand, its deep indigo folding over your shoulders like a shield. his fingers hovered above your arm, a moment of hesitation, then pulled back, leaving only the faint warmth of the fabric.

your cheek pressed to your arm, breath slow, lips parted in sleep.

he sank into the chair beside you, not touching, not speaking. he tilted his head back against the wall, eyes closing, his own exhaustion pulling at him. his feet throbbed, his fingers stained with bark and ink, but he didn’t move.

when you stirred at dawn, throat dry, eyes gritty, he was still there—head back, arms folded, mouth slightly open, a faint crease in his brow, like even sleep couldn’t ease his tension.

your voice cracked, raw from the night. “you stayed.”

his eyes opened, slow, steady, like he’d been waiting for you to speak. “someone had to make sure you didn’t drown in your own brews,” he said, voice hoarse but carrying that familiar lilt, a spark of amusement in the ruin of the night.

you looked at him—really looked—and said nothing more. neither did he.

but the silence between you wasn’t hollow.

it was heavy, alive, woven with something new—something neither of you could name, but both felt, like a pulse beneath the skin.

the summons came at dawn.

no pomp, no ritual—just a folded slip passed in the corridor, stamped with the emperor’s seal, its wax glinting like a quiet threat. satoru read it in silence, his face a mask, brows twitching faintly before he slipped it into his sleeve.

he rose from the window seat where his tea sat cold, the morning light catching the sheen of his indigo robes. his movements were fluid, but a weight clung to him—anticipation, not fatigue, heavy as a stone sinking in still water.

his father didn’t call unless it mattered.

and lately, everything mattered.

the emperor’s chambers were dim, morning sun barely piercing the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across lacquered floors. incense curled in the corners, frankincense and cedar weaving a thick, ancient haze, clinging like a memory too stubborn to fade.

satoru stepped inside quietly, his robes—indigo lined with black, unadorned—swallowing the light. his hair, usually a defiant spill, was pulled into a tight tail, no stray strands, no red cord for flair. he bowed low, spine rigid, fluid as a dancer, but his hands clenched too tightly at his sides, knuckles pale against the silk.

“you’re late,” the emperor murmured, voice thin but steady, a thread stretched taut.

“never late,” satoru said, slipping into the chair by the bed without waiting for leave, his tone light but guarded. “just selectively punctual.”

his father, propped against a mound of cushions, gave a faint huff—half breath, half fond rebuke. his eyes, sharp despite their sunken frame, flickered with a spark of the man beneath the crown. his skeletal hand adjusted the jade charm at his wrist, its edges worn smooth by restless habit.

silence fell, heavy, expectant, like the air before a storm.

“whoever she is,” the emperor said at last, gaze drifting to the far wall where a painted crane seemed to watch, “don’t let her pull you from what matters. your coronation looms closer than we planned.”

satoru stilled, his breath catching, a faint hitch he buried beneath a neutral mask. his lashes flicked, the only sign of the jolt beneath his skin. “it’s strategic,” he said, voice smooth, polished. “she fascinates me for reasons i can’t name. i need to know why.”

the emperor turned slowly, his gaze piercing despite the tremor in his fingers as he smoothed his robe’s folds. “is that why suguru says you linger in her chambers like a moth drunk on lantern light?”

satoru’s eyes dropped to the floor, tracing the mosaic of lotuses and dragons, their curves blurring in the dim glow. suguru, his bodyguard, had seen too much—every visit, every scroll, every stolen glance—and carried it to the emperor’s ear. duty bound him to report, and satoru couldn’t fault him, though the sting lingered.

“very strategic,” the emperor added, voice softening, a faint amusement curling beneath the weariness. “suguru tells me you’ve sent couriers across provinces for her. flowers, of all things.”

satoru’s lips parted, then closed, words dissolving like mist. his fingers tightened on the chair’s edge, the wood cool under his grip.

“she reminds me of your mother,” the emperor said, eyes drifting to the ceiling’s carved phoenixes, their wings frozen mid-flight. “sharp-tongued. unyielding. challenged me every day of our marriage. made me a better ruler. a better man.”

satoru’s throat burned, a dry ache he couldn’t swallow. his gaze stayed on the floor, the weight of his father’s words pressing against his chest, fragile and unnameable. he had no reply, no quip to deflect the truth laid bare.

he left with silence draped over him like a second robe, his steps too quiet, his face too blank. guards bowed as he passed, their armor clinking softly, but he didn’t see them, his mind tangled in the echo of his father’s voice, suguru’s report, and you.

that night, he didn’t bring a scroll. no absurd case, no ribbon-wrapped nonsense to make you sigh. he brought flowers.

dahlias, crimson and bold, tied with an ink-dark ribbon, their petals vivid against the muted light of your chambers. dignified, elegant, deliberate—a choice that spoke louder than his usual theatrics.

he entered with a hesitant confidence, like stepping onto a bridge he wasn’t sure would hold. the air carried the familiar bite of herbs and ink, softened by the faint musk of drying parchment. you glanced up from your worktable, sleeves rolled, fingers stained with licorice root, one brow arching in quiet surprise.

“these are for…” he started, holding the bouquet with a care that belied his usual nonchalance, as if the flowers might wilt under a careless grip.

“another fake ailment?” you cut in, eyes narrowing, though a spark of curiosity flickered beneath the suspicion.

his lips curved, soft, not his usual smirk. “just thought they suited you.”

you paused, breath hitching for a moment, your fingers stilling over a vial. then you reached out, your hand brushing his—a flicker of contact, light as a moth’s wing, warm and gone too soon. it was nothing. it was everything.

neither of you moved, not at first. the air held its breath, charged with the weight of that touch.

then you cleared your throat, turned away, busying yourself with a jar that hadn’t moved in weeks, its label curling at the edges. he smiled at your back, eyes tracing the slant of your shoulders, the faint tilt of your head—always left when you were flustered, a detail he’d memorized like a map.

from then on, he brought meals.

not with fanfare. not every night. just often enough to become a rhythm. evenings blurred with your work, and he’d appear, tray in hand, the food simple but warm—soft rice flecked with sesame, miso delicate as a sigh, sweet egg custards you claimed to dislike but always finished, scraping the bowl when you thought he wasn’t looking.

“you don’t have to keep feeding me,” you said one night, chopsticks hovering, steam curling from the rice like a secret.

“and miss watching you eat while insulting my wit?” he said, settling beside you, his knee brushing the table’s edge. “never.”

some nights, words came softly, worn by exhaustion—snatches of court gossip, old memories, musings on the rain like it held answers. other nights, silence reigned, comfortable, heavy with unspoken things.

your chairs drifted closer.

knees brushed beneath the low table. once. then again. neither of you pulled away. his hand rested a little too close to yours. your gaze lingered a little too long. and the quiet between you stayed warm, charged, not innocent, but not yet dangerous.

still disaster bloomed, as it always does, in the quietest breath of night.

the garden held its breath, a rare stillness cloaking the night. the koi pond shimmered under moonlight, liquid silver rippling with each stray breeze, its surface catching the faint glow of lanterns swaying like conspirators. wisteria hung heavy, its scent weaving with damp earth, sharp and fleeting, the air thick with the promise of something about to break.

you walked side by side, sleeves brushing now and then, deliberate in their graze. the concubine you’d treated earlier slept at last, her fever broken, the air in her chambers no longer taut with dread. yet neither of you moved to part, steps slowing as the garden’s quiet conspired to hold you there.

satoru trailed a half-step behind, hands clasped behind his back, his long robe whispering against the gravel, its pale gray hem catching the lantern glow like mist.

moonlight wove silver through his white hair, sharpened the elegant line of his jaw, made him look like a figure etched from starlight. his eyes, glacial blue, flicked to you every few moments—memorizing the curve of your profile, the way your hair curled against your neck, damp from the humid air.

his silence tonight was heavy, careful, like a man cradling a glass too full to spill. “you really don’t rest,” he murmured, voice low, a thread of concern tucked into his usual drawl, barely louder than the wind’s sigh.

you didn’t slow, sandals scuffing softly. “rest is for those who can afford carelessness.”

he huffed, almost amused, the sound soft as a falling petal. “remind me never to share my medical records with you.”

your lips twitched, a ghost of a smile, gone before it could settle.

silence returned, thrumming now, alive with something unspoken—full, heavy with possibility, like a storm gathering just out of sight.

then you stopped.

he nearly bumped into you, catching himself with a soft inhale. you turned, gaze locking onto his, clear and unreadable, a spark of something sharp and startled flickering in your eyes. his breath hitched, chest tightening with a feeling he didn’t dare name.

no script existed for this. no smirking quip, no practiced tease. just a slow, swelling pause, the world narrowing to the space between you.

he leaned in—not a game, not a performance—raw, unguarded, his heart a traitor beating too loud.

his hand lifted, trembling faintly, hovering near your cheek as if afraid to shatter the moment. his eyes searched yours, seeking permission, a sign, anything to stop him.

you gave none.

so he kissed you.

softly at first, reverent, lips brushing yours with the care of someone handling porcelain. his mouth was warm, unsure but honest, and your breath caught—a soft hitch he felt and paused for. his eyes fluttered half-shut, lashes long and pale, his silver hair swaying slightly as he leaned in further.

your lips parted, startled but not retreating, your fingers curling tight at your sides. his hand found your jaw, slow and sure, thumb grazing your cheekbone like he’d memorized it. he tilted his head slightly, shadows shifting along his high cheekbones, his breath mixing with yours. your heart thudded, loud in your throat.

you tilted up, just enough, your mouth moving under his—tentative, then firmer, a quiet answer. the moment bloomed between you, the stillness of the air broken only by the soft brush of silk against silk, the distant sound of wind chimes trembling in the garden. satoru forgot how to think. his mind emptied, breath stolen. the world dissolved into the warmth of your breath, the taste of crushed herbs on your lips, and something sweeter beneath that made his chest ache.

he kissed you again—deeper this time, less cautious, more aching. his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there like a secret. his other hand, trembling, hovered at your waist before pulling you in by the small of your back. his lips parted, tongue brushing yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, reverent, like he was afraid to break you.

and you kissed him back.

not immediately, but when you did—it was real. your mouth opened to him, breath shaky, spine stiff but yielding. you leaned forward, just slightly, your hands still curled but not pushing. he tasted you like a prayer, like something sacred, like maybe if he kissed you long enough you’d stay.

then he pulled back, eyes dark and wide, pupils blown, lips red from the kiss. he looked at you as if he couldn’t believe it had happened, as if the world had turned inside out and there you were, still in his arms.

“you—” he breathed, voice hoarse, gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes, dazed, lost, drunk on something he never thought he could have.

and then he kissed you again.

this time, hungry. this time, like a man stepping into fire knowing full well he’d burn. your lips met his with a gasp, and you let him take you for one heartbeat too long. one second too many.

your fingers twitched. your knees wavered. you wanted to hate him for how good it felt.

and then—you shoved him.

hard.

he stumbled backward, arms flailing like a heron skidding across ice, nearly tripping over the embroidered hem of his robe. he caught himself on a stone lantern with a grunt, robes fluttering around his ankles. his eyes were wide, lips still parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

“have you lost your mind?” you snapped, voice like a blade. your cheeks blazed, your chest heaved, and your glare—gods, your glare could level dynasties.

he blinked, then grinned despite himself. crooked and boyish, maddeningly unrepentant.

“possibly,” he said, breathless.

“i’m not wasting my genes on a eunuch,” you spat, your voice sharp as shattered jade. “no matter how pretty his face.”

satoru froze.

then blinked.

then let out a laugh. not one of those dramatic, hand-over-mouth princely chuckles he liked to use when causing a scene. no, this one was quiet, startled—undignified, even. a breath of disbelief that hiccuped past his lips and got swallowed by the wisteria.

“you think i’m a eunuch,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

you didn’t dignify him with an answer. nor did you stay to argue. didn’t pause for a cutting remark or a dramatic glance over your shoulder. no, the moment he stilled, the moment that too-long silence fell between you like a dropped fan, you turned. spun on your heel and stormed off with the kind of pace that said if you didn’t leave now, you might do something you’d regret—like kiss him again. or worse: ask if he meant it.

which, of course, he did.

still, you muttered as you walked away. low and furious, under your breath, like the words were bubbling out whether you wanted them to or not. he caught fragments. something about hormones. about silk-robed maniacs with too many rings. about eunuchs, eggplants, and the gods forsaking your common sense.

the silence sank teeth into his shoulders. the night air folded around him like silk dipped in ice. his thumb grazed the edge of his bottom lip, slow, like he could rewind the last few seconds through touch alone.

he had forgotten.

forgotten what he was pretending to be. forgotten the rings, the incense, the mask he’d sewn into his skin over the years. he had kissed you like a man—not a prince, not a eunuch, not a myth wrapped in silk and riddles. just a man.

and you had kissed him back.

but the moment shattered before it could be named. your words had carved right through it. not cruelly, not intentionally. that was the worst part. you didn’t know what you’d done. you hadn’t even seen him.

you kissed the lie.

he pressed his hand to his mouth, jaw clenched. it was almost funny. it should have been funny. and maybe in the morning, it would be.

but right now?

right now, he was half-sick with the sweetness of it. with how close he’d come to believing that moment was real. with how much he still wanted it to be. the ache wasn’t sharp, but it was deep—a bruise blooming slow beneath the ribs.

he should have laughed it off. he should have returned to his quarters, poured wine, told suguru something smug and unrepeatable. instead, he just stood there, dumb and dazed and smiling like an idiot.

“she thinks i’m a eunuch,” he said again, quieter this time. and still—still—he wanted you to kiss him again. not because you didn’t know who he was.

but because, somehow, impossibly, you might want him anyway.

he didn’t see you for three days.

not for lack of trying. you were a specter, slipping through locked doors, vanishing into sudden meetings, leaving maids shrugging when he pressed for your whereabouts. even the gossiping servants, usually eager to spill, offered nothing but vague apologies.

in court, he was a shadow of himself. during a trade council, he sat rigid, staring through a minister droning about tariffs, his fingers tracing the same spot on his lips where your kiss had burned.

the room’s incense choked him, too sweet, and when a scribe dropped a brush, the clatter made him flinch, his thoughts snapping back to your startled shove. he nodded at the right moments, but his voice, usually sharp with quips, was dull, his eyes drifting to the window where moonlight might’ve been.

concubines noticed. one wept over a broken hairpin, its jade splintered like her heart, and satoru could only muster a tired, “it’s just a pin.” another sulked over a petty slight—someone had worn her shade of crimson—and he waved her off, words flat: “wear blue instead.” their pouts deepened, but he had no energy for their dramas.

suguru found him sprawled on the pavilion roof, one arm flung across his eyes, the other tossing dried plums at passing sparrows, each throw more despondent than the last. “so,” suguru said, tossing him a rice cracker with no pity, “she hit you with reality?”

“no,” satoru muttered, snapping the cracker in half with the mournful air of a man betrayed by fate. “she pushed me. emotionally.”

suguru’s pause, mid-bite, was louder than words, his raised brow a silent judgment.

the worst part? satoru couldn’t stop replaying it. the shape of your mouth against his, warm and yielding. the sharp twist of your face when you pulled back, eyes blazing with fury and something softer, unguarded.

a week passed. he performed—attended court, smiled on cue, offered wry commentary in meetings, even penned a birthday poem for the favored concubine’s pet nightingale, all wit and charm. but it was hollow.

in a session on border disputes, he doodled your name in the margin of a scroll, then scratched it out, ink smearing like his resolve. a concubine wailed about a lost fan, and he stared through her, muttering, “buy another,” his voice a ghost of its usual spark.

every night, when the palace quieted, his steps led him back to the garden, to the spot where you’d stopped, where he’d leaned in, where the line between strategy and sincerity had dissolved. the wisteria was fading now, petals curling brown, and he stood there, moonlight pooling around him, hand drifting to his lips, still tingling.

the ache wasn’t intrigue. wasn’t curiosity.

it was want—raw, relentless, refusing to fade.

and as he lingered, the irony gnawed deeper: he’d disguised himself as a eunuch to protect his life, only to lose his heart to a woman who thought he had none to give.

the problem began with a scream.

not yours.

hers.

lady mei, daughter of the insufferable minister of war, unleashed a shriek that could’ve cracked the palace jade, scattering birds from the rafters and jolting the court from their jasmine-laced tea. it ripped through the corridors like a war horn, shrill and self-important, drawing eyes and whispers like blood draws flies. by the time satoru caught the rumor, it had spread like ink in water—ravenous, unstoppable, vicious.

poison. hair falling in clumps.

dark magic, they hissed. foreign plots. a witch.

and you—gods, you—stood accused before the tribunal, chin high, jaw forged in iron, wrists bound in red silk that chafed raw welts into your skin. your robe sagged, one sleeve torn where a guard’s grip had twisted too hard, but you didn’t flinch. your lips were a tight slash, face a mask, yet your eyes blazed—defiant, untamed, a storm caged in flesh.

satoru overheard it by chance. or fate. call it what you will.

he’d been pacing the eastern promenade, robe loose at the throat, hair tied with reckless grace, his posture a thin veneer of boredom. two servants lingered by the reflecting pool, their whispers sharp, gleeful, cutting through the spring air. “she cursed lady mei’s beauty cream,” one breathed, eyes wide as lotus blooms.

“no,” the other hissed, leaning in, “a tonic. thins the blood. deadly in excess.”

satoru’s world snapped. his ears roared, a high, searing hum drowning all else. the garden’s lattice blurred, its patterns bleeding like smeared ink. the koi pond burned too bright, the air choking despite the breeze.

his hands clenched, nails carving crescents into his palms, silk twisting in his fists. he spun, robes flaring like a tempest, the blue fabric cracking with each furious stride. court eunuchs scattered as he stormed past, their bows faltering, stunned by the raw fury radiating from him. the usual glint in his eyes was dead, replaced by something glacial, murderous.

suguru caught him at the tribunal wing’s threshold, breathless, hair tied back, sleeves rolled as if he’d sprinted from his post. “your highness,” he hissed, seizing satoru’s arm in a grip that could bruise, “you cannot barge in. your position. your disguise.”

satoru’s head turned, slow, deliberate, like a blade aligning for a strike. rage poured from him, white-hot, unyielding as a forge. “they’re going to execute her over lies,” he snarled, voice low, jagged, each word a shard of flint. “i won’t stand by.”

his body trembled, not with fear but with violence barely contained, his jaw locked so tight the muscle twitched near his ear. his eyes burned beneath his white hair, colder than a winter’s edge, promising devastation.

“think strategically,” suguru urged, stepping in front, voice firm but pleading. “this screams more than justice. it screams you.”

satoru’s breath caught, a sharp stutter. his lips parted, then clamped shut. a beat. another. he exhaled through his teeth, a hiss like a blade drawn from its sheath. “fine,” he bit out. “strategy. but if they touch one hair on her head—”

“they won’t,” suguru said, softer, his gaze tracing satoru’s face, seeing the fractures in his mask. “they won’t.”

satoru didn’t nod, didn’t thank him. he turned, vanishing like a storm unleashed, not to brood but to burn.

he tore through the palace like a wraith on fire. scrolls ripped from shelves, bamboo frames splintering under his grip. records cracked open, pages scattering like ash. his movements were sharp, relentless, stripped of the lazy grace he once wore like a second skin.

servants stammered, spilling secrets under his stare, their voices quaking. he bribed, coerced, lied, threatened—one steward nearly fainted when satoru leaned in, his smile all teeth, voice a silken blade: “care to clarify?”

by midnight, his sleeves were rolled, white linen smudged with ink and soot, his hair fraying from countless rakes of his fingers, strands clinging to his sweat-slick neck. scrolls and witness names littered the lacquered table like battlefield wreckage, his voice raw from demanding testimony. lady mei’s handmaidens trembled under his questions, eyes darting like sparrows before a hawk.

her perfumer tried to flee, only to find satoru waiting by the storage room, leaning casually against the doorframe, voice like frost: “running somewhere?”

he summoned an outer court physician under a false name, tearing through ledgers with brutal precision—red stamps, supplier lists, ingredient logs—until he found it.

mercury.

tucked in an imported skin tonic’s recipe, a whisper of silver in the fine print. enough to shed hair, to bleach skin, to kill in time. he held the vial to the candlelight, its liquid shifting like molten guilt, thick and treacherous. his reflection twisted in the glass—pale, wild-eyed, lips a grim slash, the boy who’d kissed you burned away by rage.

the fury in him cooled, hardened, became something sharper—certainty, cold and unyielding.

he didn’t smile at first.

then he did. not the charming mask, not the courtier’s grin. this was jagged, raw, all teeth and shadow, a predator’s bared edge.

because he had it—the proof, the truth, the blade to cut you free. because no one—not a spoiled heiress, not a scheming courtier, not a whisper cloaked in silk—would touch you.

not while he still drew breath.

his rage didn’t falter, didn’t soften. it fueled him, a fire in his veins as he prepared to storm the tribunal with evidence in hand, the irony of his eunuch disguise a bitter sting. he’d hidden to save his life, only to find his life now hinged on saving yours.

the vial still sat in his palm when the sun began to rise.

dawn crept in, golden and soft, a cruel jest against the storm in his chest—tight, raw, ready to split at the seams. light spilled like syrup across the chaos of scrolls and vials strewn around him, glinting off ink-stained bamboo and glass, but nothing could dull the acid churning in his gut. he hadn’t slept, hadn’t sat, the night consumed by evidence and fury, leaving only the mercury’s cold gleam and the certainty that if he didn’t act, they’d rip you from him.

he didn’t change, just yanked his robe tighter, the pale silk creased from hours of pacing. his hair, tugged back with a frayed black ribbon, was crooked, strands escaping to cling to his sweat-damp neck. his movements were sharp, stripped of flourish, the mask of poise shattered by sleepless resolve.

he strode through the palace corridors with lethal purpose—not the slouch of a court eunuch, not the drawl of the royal fool they took him for. he moved as who he was: crown prince, predator, a blade honed and aimed. his steps struck the tiled floor like war drums, each echo a challenge.

no bowed head, no softened gaze—his outer robe flared with every stride, stark against the morning’s glow seeping through latticed windows. officials turned, startled, as he stormed into the tribunal, a figure cloaked in silk and wrath, moonlit hair twisted high, eyes like shattered ice.

suguru trailed three paces behind, silent, jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. he moved like a shadow, hand resting on his sword’s hilt—not for defense, but as if ready to drag satoru out if this went too far. his disapproval burned like a brand between them, unspoken but searing.

you were there.

kneeling, silent, spine rigid as jade. your robes were plain, hair hastily knotted, strands fraying against your neck. your wrists, unbound now, rested stiffly in your lap, fingers knotted white. your lips were a taut line, jaw locked, and your eyes—gods, your eyes—had shifted. still clear, still fierce, but now laced with something new: calculation, suspicion, a blade-sharp wariness that hadn’t been there before.

because you’d seen him enter—not as a servant, not as the eunuch you’d assumed, but as a man with too much power in his stride, too much steel in his voice, too much weight in how the court stilled. something didn’t add up, and your gaze cut through him like a scalpel.

satoru’s eyes locked on yours. unwavering, unyielding.

for the first time, in all your barbed exchanges, he couldn’t read you.

“lord satoru,” the minister of justice intoned, voice brittle as dried reeds, “you were not summoned.”

“i rarely am,” satoru replied, smooth but icy, his smile a blade that didn’t reach his eyes. “yet i arrive when it matters.”

he stepped forward, robes hissing across the floor like a drawn sword, and drew a lacquer box—black, polished, lethal—from his sleeve. “i trust the tribunal still cares for truth?”

he didn’t wait for permission, didn’t bow, didn’t blink. his fingers, steady as stone, snapped the lid open.

inside: the vial, sealed, labeled, venomous.

“lady mei has been slathering mercury on her skin,” he said, voice clipped, cold as a winter’s edge. “an imported cream to bleach her complexion. overuse brings tremors, fatigue, hair loss.” he let the last word hang, sharp as a guillotine. “symptoms unrelated to the apothecary’s work.”

he turned to the panel, gaze unblinking, deliberate. “it wasn’t her tincture that poisoned mei. it was mei’s own vanity.”

whispers erupted, spreading like mold. fans snapped shut, silk rustled, discomfort coiling through the court. ministers exchanged glances, some avoiding your eyes, others squirming under satoru’s stare.

“your source?” the minister of justice asked, voice thinner now, authority fraying.

“her handmaidens. her perfumer. her personal effects.” satoru tilted his head, expression a mask of frost. “shall i list the ingredients by name or rank them by toxicity?”

suguru’s glare bored into his back, a silent warning, his tension a pulse in the air. satoru felt it, ignored it.

because the room shifted. your name slid off the pyre.

“the tribunal finds no fault in the apothecary’s conduct,” the minister of justice said, voice tight, reluctant. “charges dismissed.”

you exhaled, a soft release, like you’d held your breath since the scream. your fingers flexed, chin lifted, but your gaze didn’t soften—not for him.

satoru’s shoulders eased, just a fraction, the knot in his chest loosening. but relief was fleeting.

“how convenient,” the minister of justice said, eyes narrowing, voice dripping with suspicion, “that you know so much about a servant’s case. one might think you have a personal stake in this apothecary.”

satoru smiled, slow, calculated, a jagged edge of teeth. “knowledge is my trade.”

“very well, your hi—”

the slip was a whisper, barely there. the silence that followed was a chasm. satoru’s gaze didn’t flinch. suguru’s jaw ticked, a muscle jumping under his skin.

—“master satoru.”

and that was that.

the matter closed.

satoru turned, robes flaring like a storm’s wake, the lacquer box gripped tight, its edges biting his palm. no triumph warmed his chest—only dread, heavy as iron, settling in his bones because he’d stormed in with fire in his veins and too much truth on his tongue.

suguru followed, wordless, his silence blistering, storm-browed and heavy. they didn’t speak as they left the hall, didn’t need to—suguru’s disapproval was a blade at satoru’s back.

but just before satoru crossed the threshold, he turned.

just once.

just long enough to see you, still kneeling, still watching. your eyes weren’t grateful. they were narrow, probing, a scalpel slicing through his facade.

and in that fleeting second, he breathed—not relief, not victory, but the hollow ache of knowing he’d saved you and damned himself.

you wouldn’t thank him. you’d ask questions—the kind that could unravel his lie, his title, his heart.

and gods help him, he’d still do it again.

contrary to what he was expecting, you gave him nothing—that’s the thing about silence—satoru feels it like a blade to the throat.

especially when it’s yours.

it hits him hard—not metaphorical, but literal, a sharp slap to the back of his head from his father the morning after the tribunal, in the locked imperial study where guards stood sentinel and the air reeked of bitter incense and sharper disappointment.

“have you lost your senses?” the emperor snapped, voice a low rumble, the kind that precedes a storm’s break. “you kindized your cover for the court apothecary. do you grasp the risk to everything we’ve built? your coronation looms, and one slip could have the court tearing itself apart with questions.”

satoru stared at the floor, fists clenched, knuckles bone-white, jaw locked until his teeth ached. his ceremonial robe sagged, sash skewed, hair knotted with an ink-stained ribbon, the black fraying at the edges. “i did what was right,” he said, voice steady but tight, each word a stone dropped in defiance.

“you did what was emotional,” his father countered, eyes piercing, seeing too much.

the worst part? he was right. no defense would sound like anything but a confession, so satoru swallowed it, the truth burning like bile.

now, days later, he’s chasing the one he risked it all for, and you won’t even look at him.

your silence is a weapon, surgical, precise. he feels it instantly—the way your shoulders tense when his voice spills into a room, a subtle flinch like you’re bracing for impact. your spine stiffens when he steps too close, a wall rising without a word. your gaze skims over him, light as a stone skipping water, never settling, never sinking. your hands freeze, as if expecting an unwanted touch, your face a perfect mask, blank and unyielding.

it’s not avoidance. it’s retreat—calculated, deliberate, leaving nothing for him to grasp, not even your sharp-tongued barbs.

he first catches it in the herb garden, where you’re crouched among flowering angelica, sleeves rolled, fingers stained green, a smudge of pollen dusting your cheek like gold in the sunlight.

you glance up, startled, then pivot smoothly to the court physician beside you, words clipped, professional, before excusing yourself. you brush dirt from your hands, braid swinging like a snapped cord as you vanish around the corner, leaving the air colder, heavier.

satoru stands frozen, clutching a jar of honeyed lotus he’d meant to give you, its petals already curling, drooping like his hope. he follows—of course he does.

the next day, and the next, he trails you through corridors, across courtyards, into the inner palace’s echoing hush. he memorizes the whisper of your sandals, the way your lips thin when he enters, how you wrap your arms tighter around yourself, even in the summer’s heat, as if shielding something fragile.

you don’t insult him. don’t banter. don’t anything.

your greetings, when they come, are cold, formal, a blade pressed lightly to his throat—polite, practiced, punishing. each one carves deeper than your sharpest quip ever could.

he corners you by the water jars one morning, after mapping your routes like a hunter. his robe is creased from rushing, a loose thread dangling from the sleeve, his hair half-falling from its tie, white tufts framing his temples. he clutches a sprig of purple gentian—regret, he’d learned, hoping you’d read it too.

“hey—” he starts, voice softer than he means.

you look through him, eyes empty, like he’s vapor, insignificant. then you step around, sandals hissing on stone, not rushing, not flinching, gaze fixed ahead, unreadable, distant. you leave him clutching a flower that feels heavier than it should, its petals bruising in his grip.

he staggers, heart lurching, chest hollow with disbelief. not because you’re cold—he’s endured worse. not because you’re sharp—he’s always craved that. but because you’ve erased yourself from the game he loved losing. you’ve left him swinging at shadows, and the absence of your fight is a wound he can’t staunch.

by midday, he slinks into suguru’s quarters, dragging his feet like a scolded child, arms crossed tight as if they could hold his unraveling together. his sash is half-untied, a dark smudge on his collar from spilled ink he didn’t bother to clean. he collapses onto a cushion, graceless as a felled tree, robe tangling at his ankles, a gentian petal stuck to his shoulder, wilted and sad.

“she’s avoiding me,” he declares, voice heavy with the weight of a man mourning a war lost. his hair is a wreck, strands clinging to his neck, the petal fluttering to the floor like a final surrender.

suguru, buried in scrolls, raises a brow, unimpressed. “yes. i noticed.”

satoru flops back, one arm flung across his eyes like a tragic poet. “i’ve been to the medicine hall four times today.”

“i’m sure they loved the interruption.”

“they offered me a foot bath and begged me to leave.”

suguru hums, dry as dust. “reasonable.”

satoru peeks from under his sleeve, the gentian now a crumpled heap beside him. “why?”

suguru sets his brush down, pinching his nose like he’s bracing for a saga. “maybe she’s unnerved by how you stormed the tribunal to save her.”

satoru sits up, indignation flaring. “i couldn’t let them execute her.”

“and that,” suguru says, voice flat, “is why she’s dodging you.”

satoru scowls, raking both hands through his hair, worsening the chaos. “that’s absurd. i saved her. she should be calling me brilliant, handsome, terrifyingly heroic.”

“she should,” suguru says, bland, “but instead, she sees you as a threat.”

“i’m not a threat,” satoru pouts—yes, pouts, lips jutting like a child denied sweets. “i’m charming.”

“you kissed her,” suguru says, blunt as a hammer, “then risked your identity to clear her name. you nearly exposed yourself in the tribunal. if that’s charming, we’re reading different scrolls.”

satoru opens his mouth, then shuts it, the truth landing like a stone. he is dangerous—not to you, never to you, but in the way men are when they want too much, feel too much, when your name in your sharp-tongued cadence has become a rhythm he can’t unhear.

maybe you saw it—the depth of his care, the reckless edge of it. maybe you knew what it could cost in a palace where love is a weakness, where weakness is a death sentence. maybe that’s why you’ve gone silent, because you’ve lived here long enough to know how quickly devotion becomes a noose.

and gods, it hurts.

no one’s ever run from him like this, not with this quiet, cutting precision. he’d rather you scream, call him a peacock, mock his silk robes—anything but this silence, this absence that feels like farewell.

because he’s not ready to let you go—not when your kiss still burns his lips, not when he’d burn the palace down to keep you safe again.

the thing about denial is satoru is incredibly good at it.

he’s practically a master of delusion—an expert in selective optimism, an artisan in pretending everything is fine, especially when it very much isn’t. it’s the first week of your silence, and he’s convinced this is a temporary misstep. a phase. a momentary lapse in your usually impeccable judgment that will surely pass.

surely.

he starts showing up in places he has no business being.

“oh! what a coincidence finding you here… in the herb garden… at dawn… when you always collect morning dew,” he says brightly one morning, attempting nonchalance. he leans far too casually against the wooden trellis, his outer robe slightly askew, strands of silver-white hair glinting with condensation from the early mist.

he even has the audacity to smile like he hasn’t been pacing that path for the last half hour, waiting for you to arrive.

your back is to him. you don’t flinch, but your hand pauses over the mint leaves for a beat too long before moving again. your fingers move with mechanical precision as you snip the stems, pile them into your basket, and keep your gaze locked firmly on the greenery in front of you.

you don’t answer.

he stands awkwardly for another breath, then another, shifting from foot to foot, clearing his throat once—twice—until you finally rise with your basket and brush past him with all the grace of a falling leaf that still manages to cut like a knife. your sleeve doesn’t even brush his. your hair smells faintly of crushed basil and dried chrysanthemum, and the scent follows you as you walk away.

undeterred, satoru escalates.

he appears in the medicinal stores that afternoon, arms folded behind his back like he owns the place. which, in a roundabout way, he technically does. his hair is freshly tied back, his sleeves rolled precisely to the elbow like he might do something useful. he’s even wearing his softer silk robes, the ones he knows don’t intimidate patients.

he produces a small pot from within his robe with the dramatic flourish of a magician mid-performance.

“a rare specimen from the southern provinces,” he announces, eyes sparkling. “white-tipped chrysanthemum. useful for calming fevers, clearing toxins, and healing broken hearts.”

he adds the last bit with a grin that slides a little crooked at the corners. lopsided. hopeful. a little pathetic.

you don’t even look up at first. your hands continue grinding dried rhubarb root into powder, movements efficient, clinical. your brow is furrowed. there’s a streak of ash under your eye from hours near the incense brazier, and your sleeves are dusted with crushed herbs. when you finally glance his way, it’s brief. dispassionate. two seconds of eye contact that make him feel like he’s been dissected and found wanting.

“i have twenty-two of these in the western cabinet,” you say, voice devoid of venom or warmth. “but thank you for the… professional courtesy.”

your bow is precise. and then you’re gone. the hem of your robe whispers against the stone as you turn the corner without a single backward glance.

he stands there in the cool quiet, alone but for the chrysanthemum pot in his hands, which suddenly feels heavier than it should. the silence in the room hums louder now. it presses at the back of his skull. he sets the pot down on the nearest shelf and doesn’t look at it again.

later, he finds himself slouched sideways across suguru’s low table, picking at the edge of a rice cracker he has no intention of eating. his forehead is pressed to the polished wood, arms sprawled out like he’s melting.

“she’s just busy. it’s nothing personal,” he mumbles into the grain of the table.

suguru, who has been dealing with palace politics since before satoru could tie his sash properly, looks at him like he’s watching a fire burn too close to the curtains.

“busy?” suguru echoes, his tone so dry it might as well be powdered bone.

satoru lifts his head a fraction, eyes shadowed under his bangs. “overwhelmed,” he insists, sitting up and tossing the uneaten cracker onto the tray. “the tribunal aftermath, new responsibilities, increased patient load—she’s under a lot of pressure.”

“you stormed a tribunal to save her,” suguru interrupts, setting down his brush with pointed slowness.

“yes, but heroically,” satoru says, arms folding tighter around himself, like he can physically ward off the doubt creeping in. “nobly.”

suguru’s eyebrow rises. high. impossibly high. it might detach from his face and float away like a skeptical spirit.

“look,” satoru mutters, shifting to lie on his back and drape an arm over his eyes like the protagonist of a particularly tragic play, “this is just a bump. a weird, quiet, icy bump. i’ve weathered worse. she’ll come around. she always does. she—she has to.”

he pauses.

“right?”

suguru doesn’t answer. just watches him in silence, eyes narrowing with the kind of older-brother pity that makes satoru want to melt through the floor.

and then he sighs. a long, theatrical sigh that fails to lighten the weight in his chest. because he’s starting to realize this isn’t just a bump.

this is a slow, cold freeze.

and you’re the one pulling the frost line farther back every time he gets close. the air between you grows thinner, colder, until every word he wants to say dies frozen on his tongue before it ever reaches you. and for the first time, he’s afraid that all the warmth in the world might not be enough to melt it.

the thing about desperation is it turns satoru into a mastermind of madness.

week two dawns, and your icy silence is a fortress his charm can’t breach, so he pivots. he schemes. he crafts plans so absurd they’d make court poets weep for their lost dignity. you can’t be mad he saved you—impossible—so this is just a phase, a fleeting misstep he’ll charm into oblivion.

his opening gambit? a theatrical ailment, served with flair.

“my pulse races, i can’t eat, and sleep’s a stranger,” he proclaims one morning, materializing at your workstation like a ghost draped in pale silk, robes pristine but hair gleaming as if he spent an hour brushing it to catch the dawn’s glow. he leans over your table, just close enough for his sleeve to graze a vial, voice dripping with mock woe. “also, my palms sweat when i see… certain people—which is definitely not you!”

the apothecary hall hums with early light, golden rays slicing through lattice windows, casting woven shadows across stone. camphor and dried licorice root scent the air, sharp and heavy. junior assistants shuffle behind, sorting valerian and lotus pods, their murmurs a soft drone.

you’re a statue, unmoved, flipping a ledger page, ink brush scratching measurements with ruthless calm. “sounds like a minor imbalance,” you say, voice a blade, clean and cold. “chrysanthemum tea and more sleep.”

satoru gasps—gasps, hand to chest, staggering back like your words are divine judgment. a pestle clatters from an assistant’s grip, a tea bowl teeters on a shelf, wobbling like his pride. “none of that worked,” he insists, eyes wide, tragic. “it’s chronic. possibly terminal. i need daily checkups. twice daily, for… observation.”

you don’t reply, just pluck a jar of calming ointment from a cabinet and set it on the table’s edge with a thud, not sparing him a glance. he snatches it, clutching it like a sacred talisman, bowing with such reverence his hair spills forward, a silver curtain brushing the floor.

that’s the spark.

what follows is a campaign satoru deems elegant, a symphony of strategy. in truth, it’s a farce teetering on lunacy.

he turns sleuth, all subtle inquiries and innocent smiles. he grills kitchen staff on your lunch habits—bitter plum candies, you love them. he corners a laundry maid about your robes—same deep indigo, always pressed. he charms couriers for your midday haunts—west pavilion, near the koi pond. harmless, he swears, just… research. he scribbles notes, tucked in his sleeve, scrawled between council dronings: tools right to left, hums odd rhythms, hates wasted ink.

he’s not stalking. he’s conducting a study, a meticulous survey of your existence.

“reconnaissance,” he mutters one afternoon, crouched behind a decorative screen in the infirmary’s rear hall, wedged between a linen cart and a scroll of spleen meridians, half-unrolled like his dignity.

it’s a ritual now. daily excuses, each more brazen. a fan “dropped” near your herbs, its silk tassel suspiciously pristine. a scroll “forgotten” on your desk, its contents a poem he swears isn’t his. a comb—his personal seal carved deep, definitely not his—left by your inkstone. a pouch of dried dates, “slipped” from his sleeve, suspiciously your favorite.

he times his returns perfectly, catching the flicker of annoyance in your eyes, the slow sigh as you spot his silhouette. your jaw tightens, lips purse, gaze narrows like you’re diagnosing a plague.

“oh, thank the heavens,” he says one afternoon, kneeling by your table, robes pooling like spilled moonlight, embroidery glinting in the sun. “i feared this comb lost forever.”

“that comb is carved with your seal,” you deadpan, stirring crushed kudzu, steam curling around your face. “you’re the only one here who uses that seal as inner palace manager.”

he gasps, hand to heart. “so it is mine. a miracle.”

assistants exchange glances. one chokes back a laugh, sleeve muffling the sound. another’s eyes roll so far they might never return. you just stir, unamused, the bowl’s steam hiding the twitch of your mouth.

suguru finds him later, crouched behind a silk screen in the medicine hall’s corner, half-veiled by pressure-point charts and an abandoned anatomy scroll.

satoru’s staring at you mixing tinctures, gaze soft as if you’re a rare painting or a storm breaking over mountains. your sleeves are rolled, ginger staining your fingers, brow furrowed as you test the liquid’s thickness. a stray hair slips free, brushing your cheek each time you lean, and he tracks it like a comet.

“are you… spying?” suguru asks, voice teetering between worry and exhaustion.

“reconnaissance,” satoru says, eyes never leaving you. “completely different.”

“how?”

“it’s dignified.”

suguru’s sigh could topple empires. he walks away, leaving satoru to his vigil.

he stays, knees aching, drafts chilling his ankles, even as shift bells chime and servants pass with raised brows and whispered gossip. he can’t stop. watching you work—your precise hands, your quiet focus—is the only time the world feels right, the only time you’re close, even if you won’t see him.

your silence can’t be anger, not when he saved you, not when he was your shield. it’s just… a phase. you’ll crack, throw a barb, maybe hurl a vial at his head. he’d take it gladly.

he’ll keep showing up, unavoidable, until your frost thaws or you snap.

because if he’s in your orbit, you’ll have to see him eventually—right? right?

the thing about humiliation is satoru has no sense of it.

or maybe he feels it but buries it beneath stubborn vanity and desperate theatrics, draping it in silks and timed flourishes like a tragedian clutching a tattered script. he’s not wrong—you can’t be mad he saved you—so he barrels forward, undaunted, a peacock in a storm.

week three crashes in like summer monsoons—heavy, unyielding, impossible to ignore. satoru’s antics scale to operatic madness, each act more brazen than the last.

it begins at a court ceremony, the air thick with incense curling like specters around bored officials’ heads. sunlight seeps through high lattice windows, spilling gold across tiled floors, glinting off jade pins and silk fans fluttering like moth wings. courtiers murmur, voices low, while a servant’s dropped tray earns a hissed rebuke that echoes faintly.

you stand beside the inner palace physician, posture rigid, face a mask, eyes fixed forward, your refusal to see him sharper than any blade.

he notices. gods, he notices.

so he “collapses”—clutching his chest, dropping to his knees with a choked gasp mid-chant, silk robes pooling like melted snow. the sacred hymn stumbles, a musician’s brow arches, but the koto strings hum on. “weakness,” he rasps, voice cracking just enough to sell it, hand trembling as he sways. “sudden… overwhelming…”

you glide to him, linen rustling, herbal scent trailing like a faint curse. kneeling, you press two fingers to his wrist, jaw tight as iron. his pulse? steady as a war drum.

“your hands are so healing,” he murmurs, lips parted, lashes low, a saintly look ruined by the smirk tugging his mouth.

you drop his wrist like it’s plague-ridden.

“get up,” you say, voice flat as slate.

he pouts. “but—”

“up.”

he rises, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes, their shimmer catching the light like a winter lake, regal and utterly shameless.

it spirals from there.

next, the rash. “a mysterious affliction,” he whispers one afternoon, leaning in the apothecary doorway like he’s spilling state secrets. his robes are artfully mussed, a few silver hairs astray for effect, his seal as inner palace manager glinting on his belt. “in places too improper to show anyone else.”

you don’t look up from your mortar, grinding ginseng with mechanical precision. “i trust your medical discretion,” he sighs, hand over heart, theatrical as a funeral ode.

you gesture for a eunuch assistant without a blink. satoru dismisses him in five minutes, claiming a “miraculous recovery,” his grin brighter than the noon sun.

then, the hiccups. “three days,” he tells a dubious herbalist, face grave between hiccups so staged they could headline a festival. “unprovoked. incurable.” they flare only when you’re near, vanishing the instant you leave. “hic—lady rin fainted in the greenhouse—hic—scandalous—hic—heat or a lover?—hic—”

you shove a pressure point chart his way and keep walking. he trails you, hiccuping like a deranged waterfowl, robes swishing in your wake.

he takes to hiding behind potted plants—literal, not figurative. you catch the glint of embroidered silk behind a jasmine bush near the treatment wing. it rustles. he sneezes. you don’t pause. the gardeners are less forgiving; one finds a scarf snagged in a fig tree and mutters about cursed spirits with tacky taste.

a palace maid starts a betting pool on a parchment scrap behind the tea station. by midweek, court ladies wager on his next ailment: lunar migraines, aphrodisiac allergies, silence sensitivity. the tally’s pinned to a beam, fluttering like a rebel flag.

suguru finds him one evening, propped against a doorframe outside the record room, squinting at his reflection in a polished bronze tea tray. “what are you doing?” suguru asks, voice flat as a stepped-on reed.

“finding my best angle,” satoru says, tilting his chin, robes catching the lamplight like liquid frost. “this side’s devastating.”

“why?”

“some of us care about aesthetics, suguru.”

suguru stares three heartbeats, then leaves without a word, sandals slapping stone. satoru sighs, adjusts his sleeve, rechecks the tray. the problem isn’t his tactics—clearly, it’s the lighting.

because you can’t be furious. this is just a phase, a fleeting frost he’ll melt with enough flair. he’ll keep performing, unavoidable, until you laugh or snap—either’s a win.

the thing about pretending is the mask eventually cracks.

week four creeps in like a slow fog—dense, suffocating, clinging to satoru’s bones. his schemes, once fueled by giddy denial, turn brittle, their spark snuffed out. you’re not mad he saved you—surely not—but your silence is a void, and his antics no longer draw your gaze. still, he can’t stop, even as the performance bleeds into something raw, something real.

he spends an afternoon perched in a tree outside your window, teetering on a gnarled branch not meant for a man in layered silk. robes bunch under his knees, snagging on rough bark, his personal seal as inner palace manager glinting at his waist. ceremonial hairpins clink with each shift, the branch groaning under his weight.

petals drift into his lap, mingling with dust and a bold beetle that crawls up his sleeve. he swats it, muttering, as sap drips onto his shoulder, staining the silk. birds mock him from above; a maid below stifles a giggle, scurrying off.

he stays for hours, legs numb, arms clutching the trunk, eyes fixed on the lantern’s warm flicker behind your rice paper screen. a breeze carries distant gossip, the clack of slippers, the faint crash of a dropped mortar from the apothecary wing. he dozes off—chin to chest, cheek mashed against bark, mouth slack, snoring softly, undignified. a sparrow shits on his sleeve and flees.

your window slides open, airing out the stale warmth. he jolts awake, flailing, a squawk escaping as he tumbles—a sprawl of silk and limbs hitting dew-soaked grass with a grunt that echoes through the courtyard. leaves tangle in his hair, a grass stain blooms on his shoulder, a twig juts from his sash. one robe sleeve hangs off, his hairpin crooked.

you stare down.

“i was inspecting landscaping,” he croaks, blinking up, voice raw, throat scraped from days of shouting your name. “root systems. erosion. vital work.”

your eyes narrow. you slide the window shut, the wood’s soft thud louder than any rebuke.

his voice starts failing after that. he calls after you—across training fields, past koi ponds, through garden paths—first hopeful, then frantic, then ragged with need. his throat burns, words slurring, a dry cough haunting quiet moments, like his own body rebels. you never turn, not even when he trips over his sandals, voice cracking on your name.

“you’re overworking yourself,” suguru says one morning, watching satoru prod a congealed pile of rice. the breakfast hall buzzes—teacups clink, servants weave with platters of dumplings and lotus root—but satoru sits still, a ghost in the chaos where he once shone. his robes sag, collar limp, sash half-tied, dark crescents bruising under his eyes. he hasn’t slept, not truly, not in a way that heals.

“i’m fine,” he rasps, voice a brittle whisper, throat raw.

a thread frays from his sleeve, tugged absently for half an hour. a maid swaps his tea for honey water; it sits untouched, steam curling into nothing.

he stops performing—not by choice, but because his body betrays him. the court notices, their amused whispers turning wary. “cursed?” one mutters under the moon-viewing pavilion’s arch. “heartbreak,” an older consort replies, fan slow, knowing, “untreatable by herbs.”

the betting pool withers; no one bets on a man breaking in plain sight.

a young court lady tries teasing him during a scroll signing, giggling about his missing sash. he looks through her, face blank—not cold, just gone. her smile fades, and she retreats, fan drooping.

the emperor summons him. the chamber reeks of aged wood and sandalwood, cicadas shrieking outside, a moth dancing near the lantern.

“your distractions are… obvious,” the emperor says, voice mild over a porcelain cup of spiced tea. “have you sworn to starve?”

satoru blinks slowly, words sinking in late. “i’m capable,” he says, voice fragile, unconvinced.

the emperor sighs, cup clinking softly. “suguru, pinch him when he sighs.”

“gladly,” suguru mutters, already poised by the window.

he pinches satoru at the next council briefing. satoru yelps, startling a western envoy who drops his brush. “sorry,” satoru says, straightening, blinking fast, “muscle spasm. stress. common.”

no one buys it, least of all him.

you pass him in the apothecary hall later, face blank, pace even, tray of powdered herbs in hand, fingers stained with crushed petals. your sleeve brushes his, a fleeting touch that stops his breath, his hand twitching, hoping for your gaze.

you don’t look. not a flicker.

he wonders if he’s fading, if he’s a ghost you never truly saw.

the thing about hitting rock bottom is satoru drags props and a crowd with him.

by week five, even the imperial koi dodge him, one darting away when he slumps over the pond, sighing into its depths like a poet scorned. a servant mutters, “talking to fish again?”

another hisses, “no, monologuing. there’s a difference.” his antics swing from pitiful to deranged, depending on the hour and how close you are before he sneezes. palace staff whisper behind sleeves, watching a tragedy laced with farce unfold in real time.

it starts with rain—a relentless downpour soaking roof tiles, seeping into scroll rooms, turning courtyard stones slick as eel skin. it clings to bones, weighs hair, chills marrow. attendants scurry with parasols, eunuchs huddle under eaves, guards eye the sky, dreaming of indoor shifts. the head gardener slips twice, cursing weather gods with a rake in hand.

satoru lingers outside your quarters.

four hours.

he leans against a wooden post, a drenched statue of damp nobility and sniffles. rain beads on his jaw, dripping onto his robe’s collar, silver hair plastered to his cheekbones like wet silk threads. his soaked outer robe clings, transparent, revealing embroidered underlayers meant for court, not courtyards. his slippers squelch, squishing with each shift. he sneezes every five minutes, loud, pathetic, drawing glances from servants who now reroute entirely.

you open the door—not from pity, but because maids are betting in the side hall, giggling: five minutes more? ten? the cook wagers candied ginger he’ll faint; a laundress bets on a song; the steward swears he saw satoru’s eyelashes blink code.

you sigh, step inside, return with gloves and a cloth mask. your hair’s knotted tight, sleeves pinned, expression sharp enough to carve jade. he coughs, theatrical anguish. “you’re treating me like i’m plague-ridden.”

“you are plague-ridden,” you snap, gloves crackling as you seize his wrist, touch clinical, cold. his skin’s chilled, pulse steady despite his act.

he leans into your grip. you flick his forehead, precise as a dart.

he whines all day, mostly to suguru, who slumps in the physician’s lounge, regretting every choice leading here. an unread scroll lies in his lap, herbal poultice stench thick in the air. outside, birds chirp, mocking the farce within.

“she wore gloves, suguru,” satoru moans, swaddled in three blankets, sipping a garlic-laced brew that reeks of despair. his personal seal as inner palace manager dangles from his sash, glinting dully. “gloves. like i’m a festering toadstool.”

“you’re feverish,” suguru says, eyes on his scroll. “you are a toadstool.”

satoru gasps, rattling a tea set. an attendant flinches, a teacup teeters, caught by a mortified apprentice.

then, self-diagnoses. “nocturnal hemogoblins,” he declares one evening, bursting into your workroom, clutching his side, face pale from sleeplessness and a dusting of tragic powder. “it’s dire.”

you don’t look up from your parchment. “you mean hemoglobinemia.”

he beams. “you spoke to me.”

you freeze, brush hovering, face souring like you bit a rotten plum. you resume writing, silent. he tallies seven words in his head, a victory he celebrates like a war won.

his ploys escalate. rare herbs appear—ones you haven’t seen since southern training, wrapped in silk not from palace stores, their earthy scent lingering in halls. he trails sandalwood one day, golden pollen the next, a perfumed cloud like incense smoke.

“found this lying around,” he says, setting a saffron root sprig on your table, its crimson threads vibrant against wood.

you raise a brow. “saffron root from the western isles… lying around?”

he shrugs, smile strained.

then, disaster. he brings a volatile herb you’ve warned against, cradled in a velvet box like a jewel. within an hour, his face swells—left eye shut, lip ballooned, nose a vivid plum. “i feel… handsome,” he slurs, voice muffled.

you administer antidote with the weary air of someone resigned to fate, humming faintly, maybe to cope. your fingers are deft, grip firm, expression a blank wall. “where’d you get this?” you ask, spreading minty salve with a spatula reeking of despair.

“sources,” he wheezes.

that night, suguru catches him before a mirror tray, rehearsing lines like a doomed actor. a breeze lifts the corridor’s sheer curtain, a moth fluttering past.

“oh! fancy meeting you here, exactly where i knew you’d be!” satoru chirps, smoothing his robe, chin tilted for sincerity—looking haggard instead. “new hairpin? it suits you perfectly!” “your humor theory’s brilliant. also your face. mostly your face.”

suguru sighs, shoulders sagging under satoru’s folly. “gods save us,” he mutters. “he’s full peacock.”

satoru twirls a mugwort sprig, eyes glassy, grinning at his warped reflection. “she’ll talk tomorrow. i feel it.”

suguru doesn’t argue—not when satoru looks like he’s praying to a deaf god.

because rock bottom isn’t the end, not when you haven’t looked at him. he’ll keep performing, props and all, until you see him again.

the thing about spectacle is it spills beyond the stage, especially when you’re satoru—inner palace manager, supposedly useless eunuch, suspiciously well-connected, and now openly consulting marble lions for romance tips.

by week six, palace gossip sheds its humor. giggles behind perfumed fans turn to pity, whispers hushing as he enters, soft glances heavy with concern and secondhand shame. attendants quiet, kitchen staff wince at his approach. he’s no longer the flamboyant eccentric juggling concubine schedules, overseeing embroidery, delivering orchids with a bow. he’s a wilted ribbon snagged on your heel, trailing the apothecary who won’t spare him a glance.

the man who once danced through courtyards now stumbles into furniture, walks into half-shut doors, topples garden lanterns, eyes locked on you. you’re not mad he saved you—impossible—so this is just a phase, he tells himself, even as denial frays.

“i think i’ve forgotten how to swallow,” he declares post-midday meal, voice grave, like he’s diagnosing his own doom. honeyed yam lingers in the air, courtiers’ fans rustling faintly outside in the spring heat.

you don’t look up from your scroll, brush scratching ink. “that’s a tragedy,” you say, dry as dust.

“what if it’s muscular or psychological? some stress-induced esophageal issue?”

“chew slowly. drink water.”

“but what if i choke?”

“then i’ll have peace at last.”

he haunts formal events, a mournful specter five steps behind you—always five, counted under his breath like a lifeline. “one, two, three—damn it,” he mutters, crashing into a eunuch with a hairpin tray when you veer past the lotus fountain. the clatter echoes, pins scattering like stars. three attendants scramble to clean it.

you don’t pause.

his hair, once a silver crown, rebels, strands haloing unevenly, a jade pin perpetually crooked. his robes, once pristine, misbutton, sashes unraveling, trailing like a poet’s failed verse. he’s less courtier, more shipwreck, washed ashore after a botched love letter.

in the east garden, he slumps against a mossy lion statue, sighing so loud the gardener pauses, rake hovering, checking for wounds. “should i go for subtle longing or theatrical suffering?” satoru asks the lion, squinting at its weathered snout. “be honest.”

the lion’s silent. a maid stifles a snort, fleeing.

suguru finds him there—again. “are you talking to rocks now?” he asks, arms crossed.

“he listens without judging,” satoru says, solemn.

“he also doesn’t talk back.”

“that’s the appeal.”

satoru’s decline hits new lows. suguru catches him outside your quarters, face blank, as if willing himself into the stonework.

“you’re groveling for scraps of her attention like a starving dog,” suguru says, voice sharp but steady.

satoru’s head snaps up, eyes flashing, lips jutting in a pout that could shame a spoiled child. “groveling? me? the inner palace bends to my every whim! and soon the empire!” he huffs, crossing his arms, personal seal glinting at his waist. “i’m strategizing, suguru. strategizing! she’s just too stubborn to see my brilliance yet.”

he stomps a foot, robe swishing petulantly, then jabs a finger at suguru. “and don’t you dare call it groveling when i’m clearly executing a masterful campaign of devotion!”

suguru raises a brow, unmoved. “a campaign? you spent three hours yesterday faking heart palpitations just so she’d take your pulse. then you begged for a recheck because ‘it might be irregular.’”

“my heart does race when she’s near,” satoru says, chin high, though his voice wavers, petulance cracking. “that’s a medical fact!”

“it’s called infatuation, your highness, not an emergency.”

“and that swallowing thing could happen to anyone,” satoru adds, puffing his chest, but his shoulders slump, the fight leaking out.

suguru’s gaze softens, concern replacing jest. “this isn’t sustainable, satoru. you’re the crown prince. this behavior—it’s beneath you.”

satoru stiffens, petulance fading to a flicker of dread. “i know my place,” he says, but the lie tastes like ash, heavy on his tongue. his shoulders sag, bravado crumbling under the weight of his secret.

the emperor summons him that evening. the chamber glows dim, sandalwood incense crackling, its nostalgic scent thick in the stillness. tea steams untouched in a porcelain cup, its delicate aroma lost.

“you’re not sleeping,” the emperor says, eyeing him over his teacup, voice calm, not accusatory.

“i’m fine,” satoru lies, sitting rigid, eyes shadowed, nails carving crescents into his palms. his sleeve bears an ink blot, smudged from hours hunched over pointless scrolls.

he’s not fine.

“whoever she is,” the emperor says, pausing, gaze unreadable, “she’s left a mark.”

both of them know who is his father referring to.

the thing about spiraling is you run out of masks to hide behind.

week seven slips in like damp air—silent, heavy, inescapable. no corridor theatrics, no feverish wails, no ailments flung at your workspace. the palace corridors echo emptier, as if bracing for a storm. satoru stops performing, and the silence left screams louder than his boldest quip.

no giggling attendants trail him. no court ladies stage stumbles for his glance. he doesn’t lurk by the apothecary hall, conjuring maladies. he watches—from shadowed walkways, courtyards, corners where he can feign a passing errand. his eyes follow you, a silent question too raw to voice.

in court, his voice fades. once a spark in the dull churn of palace bureaucracy, now he speaks only when called, words brief, humor gone. no jabs at garish sashes, no quips to ease tense silences. he lets the quiet fester. when he skips sparring with the southern envoy—a woman who thrives on his banter—heads turn.

suguru notices, arms crossed in the council chamber, head tilted, eyes asking: what’s happening?

the truth lies at your door.

before dawn, satoru leaves heliotrope bouquets at your threshold—small purple blooms, fragile yet vivid, whispering devotion, unspoken love. not native, not in season, their existence defies reason.

he pulls strings—his authority as inner palace manager, his personal seal flashing in shadowed deals with garden masters and secret merchants. delivered under moonlight, wrapped in fine parchment, stems cut sharp, they’re offerings to a shrine only he tends.

he never signs them, never speaks of them. he waits—behind a painted screen, a corridor curtain, close enough to see your fingers brush the petals. his breath catches. your face stays stone, but he sees: the pause, your fingertips lingering, the faint crease in your brow, swallowing a sigh.

each day, the bouquets grow intricate—heliotrope laced with silk one dawn, wrapped in medical gauze the next, paired with a scrawled line from a physician’s text. the message roars, wordless.

palace staff whisper. some say a ghost leaves the flowers—who rises before the fifth bell? others bet on a noble’s secret suit. a concubine swears a fox spirit’s at work. guards step around the blooms, wary, reverent.

satoru says nothing, just watches, always watches.

at night, he haunts the moonlit garden—where you kissed, where he fractured. barefoot, steps silent on stone, pale hair loose, catching moonlight like spun silver. he murmurs to the koi pond, half-hoping for answers. “she doesn’t hate me, does she?” he asks, voice a breath, hoarse.

suguru finds him there, again. “does she hate me, suguru?” satoru asks, raw, fraying.

suguru pauses, arms folded, gazing at the pond’s still surface, a breeze barely stirring it. “it’s not that simple.”

satoru exhales, shaky, slumping, rubbing his palm against his eye, exhaustion carving every line. “what did i do wrong? besides everything.”

he replays your voice, your teasing eye-rolls, how you’d answer his nonsense yet see him, real. now your tone’s cold, courteous as a blade’s edge, eyes never landing. when he nears, your wall rises, unyielding.

in a corridor, maybe chance, maybe not, you nod politely. something breaks. “don’t worry,” he mutters, bitter, sharp, “i won’t keep you. i know you find me repulsive.”

you stop, head turning, confusion and guilt flickering, but he’s gone before you settle.

his mask flakes—slow, not sudden. he skips meals, nights blur sleepless, small slights spark fury. he snaps at a scribe for smudged ink, slams a door, cracking its frame, over a misfiled scroll. his hands shake reading reports you once marked with sharp notes.

“are you well, master satoru?” a junior physician asks, soft during rounds.

he smiles, too bright, too thin. “never better.”

the court whispers—behind screens, fans—about his silence, his temper, his drift. the inner palace manager, once a dazzling oddity, fades. none suspect his crown prince blood—only suguru, the emperor, the chancellor, and chosen ministers know, their secret guarded tight. but they question his focus, his steadiness.

suguru hears it—every murmur, every doubt—and watches his friend, the empire’s sharpest mind, the boy who made consorts laugh, unravel, thread by silver thread.

because spiraling starts quiet, until it’s a scream he can’t voice.

the thing about shame is that it never arrives alone. it drags longing behind it like a train of silk, heavy and unyielding, and satoru’s learning fast that longing is a damn tyrant, bowing to no one, least of all him.

week eight’s been a fever dream of jagged edges, but now, in a corridor outside the emperor’s chambers—vermilion walls lacquered to a bloody sheen, sandalwood choking the air like incense gone sour, scrolls rustling behind paper screens like whispers of the dead, morning light slicing through lattice to scatter dust motes like ash—satoru gojo is a wreck.

his robe’s crooked, one sleeve slipping, silver hair half-loose, sticking to his sweat-slick neck, dark crescents bruising under his eyes. his breath catches, raw, as regret gnaws his ribs, sharper since last week’s bitter words. your silence, your averted eyes, the way you glide past like he’s a plague-riddled corpse you won’t bother to name—it’s worse than your barbs, worse than fury. it’s absence, and it’s killing him.

you appear, a flicker of your silhouette against the screen, steps soft on the worn runner, scrolls clutched to your chest like a shield. your jaw’s clenched, lips a tight slash, gaze fixed above his shoulder like he’s nothing, air. his heart stumbles, forgets how to beat. he moves too fast, too desperate, a man drowning.

“fancy seeing you here,” he says, breathless, slouching to fake nonchalance. it’s a lie—his voice shakes, hands twisting in his sleeves, fingers knotting silk to hide the tremor. his eyes, bloodshot, cling to you, raw, pleading.

your face doesn’t shift, cold as stone. “i need to pass,” you say, voice clipped, sharp as a blade’s edge, stepping left.

“not until you tell me what i did wrong,” he says, sliding into your path, shoulders hunching, robe swishing like a broken fan. his tone’s too raw, too sharp, betraying the ache clawing his chest.

“i have patients waiting.” you pivot right, scrolls creaking in your grip, knuckles pale.

“they can wait longer.” the words cut, harder than he meant, and he sees it—a flicker in your eyes, anger or hurt, gone before he can name it. “why are you avoiding me?”

you move left. he mirrors. you shift right. he’s there. his robe flares in dramatic waves, a stage actor mid-meltdown, planting himself with the stubborn desperation of a man who’s got nothing left to lose.

your lips press thinner, a muscle twitching in your jaw. “move,” you say, low, a warning that could draw blood.

“not until you look me in the eyes and say you’re just busy.” he drops his voice, rough, tilting his head to catch your gaze, breath unsteady, carrying a tremor of need.

you scoff, eyes dropping to the runner’s frayed weave, and duck under his arm. “i’m not avoiding you,” you lie, voice snapping like brittle wood. “i’m simply—”

“look me in the eyes and say that again,” he demands, voice low, gravelly, arm bracing against the wall, caging you without touching. his sleeve hovers near you, trembling, silk brushing the air like a ghost’s touch.

you pivot. quick. a step to the side, a swerve meant to slide past him.

he steps with you.

you dart the other way—he’s there too, like a mirror with better posture. you try a feint, then a fake-out, then a spin worthy of palace dancers. every time, he matches you beat for beat, fan flicking, robe swishing, like this was all a pre-choreographed tragedy staged just to annoy you.

“are you—are you blocking me for sport?” you hiss, ducking and weaving like a cat trying to escape a curtain.

“i consider it cardio,” he replies, far too pleased.

“you are not—” you lunge left—blocked. “—a door.” you spin right—blocked. “you are—”

he shifts again, one arm rising to lean against the opposite panel, successfully completing his transformation into the world’s most aggravating, smugly-dressed wall.

“damned peacock,” you mutter under your breath, your patience unraveling like a poorly tied sash.

he grins, all teeth and challenge. “is that panic?”

then—fate, that cruel bastard, plays its hand. in his eagerness to perform one final smug pivot, satoru overcommits. his foot catches the embroidered hem of his robe—once regal, now a treacherous coil of silk. a curse, sharp and scandalized, escapes him as his balance betrays him.

his arms flail like a bird startled mid-preen. he reaches—grabs the only thing in reach—you.

the world lurches.

you’re yanked forward in a graceless blur. scrolls burst from your sleeves like startled pigeons. your sandal skids. silk snaps. the floor rises.

you crash atop him, your knees bracketing his hips, robes tangled, your weight knocking the wind from his lungs. one hand braces on his chest, the other—lands on his thigh, then slips higher, dragged by momentum and misfortune—and then time stops.

your hand rests where no eunuch’s should be, pressing against the hard, pulsing truth of his lie. satoru’s eyes snap open, wide as moons, heart slamming, drowning the corridor’s hum, his pulse a wild drum in his throat.

you freeze, breath hitching, eyes widening in slow horror, pupils dilating until they swallow the light. your lips part, a faint gasp, your gaze locked on his lap, then flicking to his face, shock warring with disbelief. your fingers flex, instinctive, the slight pressure a spark that sets him ablaze, raw, unbearable.

his face ignites, crimson flooding ears to throat, sweat slicking his brow, matting his hair. shame burns like a pyre, but longing—eight weeks of it, festering, unspent—flares hotter, primal, coiling tight in his gut. his cock twitches under your hand, a traitor, throbbing, straining against silk, a humiliating pulse he can’t stop, fed by your touch, your horrified stare.

he tries to speak, mouth opening, closing, a fish gasping on dry land. a sound escapes—half-whimper, half-choke, not human, raw with need and mortification, a plea he can’t shape.

“y-you’re—” you start, voice a trembling whisper, hand jerking back like it’s burned, fingers curling into your palm, scrolls forgotten, scattered across the runner.

“late for a meeting!” he yelps, pitch shattering, a glass-breaking wail. he scrambles up, nearly headbutting you, sleeves flailing in a whirlwind of panic. “as are you! very late! we should go! separately! you first! or me! both!”

he shoves himself upright, stumbles, one sandal half-off, toes catching the runner, and crashes into a lantern stand. it wobbles, brass clanging like a mocking gong; he mutters a frantic, “sorry, sorry,” to the metal, voice high, fraying.

he’s gone, fleeing down the corridor like death’s on his heels, robe flapping, silver hair streaming like a comet’s tail. his footsteps echo, uneven, desperate, fading into the palace’s hum, sandalwood trailing like a curse.

he doesn’t stop until he hits the eastern wing’s darkest storage room, a crypt behind a forgotten pantry. dusty scrolls pile like forgotten sins, edges curling in stale, mildewed air. a broom slumps against a wall, bristles choked with cobwebs, spiderwebs veiling the corners, shimmering faintly in the gray sliver of light from a cracked window. the floor’s cold, gritty, biting his knees as he collapses, back slamming the door shut, sealing himself in.

his breath heaves, lungs raw, face buried in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp, tugging silver strands until his scalp stings, sweat dripping down his neck, pooling at his collarbone. shame scalds, a molten wave, but longing—weeks of your silence, your cold eyes, your absence carving him hollow—chokes him worse.

your touch, accidental, sears like a brand, your horrified gaze a knife twisting in his ribs. his cock’s still hard, painfully so, straining against his robe, a throbbing pulse that won’t relent, fed by every thought of you, every memory of your voice, your fire, your fleeting glance that once saw him whole.

he groans, low, broken, forehead pressed to his arm, cursing himself, you, the gods, the robe, the corridor, the whole damn world. his hand twitches, hovering over his lap, resisting, pleading, but the need’s a tyrant, born of eight weeks’ yearning, your sharp tongue, your gaze that cut him alive, your silence that breaks him now. he surrenders, fingers fumbling, shoving silk layers aside, fabric scraping his fevered skin, cool air hitting the heat of his flesh like a slap.

he frees himself, cock heavy, swollen, tip slick with precum that glistens in the dim light, dripping down his shaft, a shameful bead that pools on the gritty floor. he grips himself, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth, the contact a jolt that makes his hips jerk, his breath catching like a sob, raw and ragged. it’s not lust—it’s longing, raw, bleeding, for your eyes that once saw him, your barbs that cut him alive, your touch that burned through his lies.

he strokes, slow, punishing, hand tight, calluses from a hidden sword scraping sensitive skin, each slide dragging a moan, chest heaving, sweat matting his hair to his flushed cheeks, silver strands plastered across his brow, his throat bared as his head tips back, veins pulsing under sweat-slick skin.

he pictures you—your wide eyes, shocked, lips parting as you fell atop him, robe clinging to your frame, the faint herb scent on your skin, sharp and clean. he imagines your breath on his neck, your fingers deliberate, curling around him, guiding him, your voice whispering his name, not in horror but want, low and rough like it was in his dreams.

his strokes quicken, desperate, slick with precum, the wet sound obscene, echoing off dusty scrolls, bouncing in the stale air. his free hand claws the floor, nails scraping grit, fingers digging into cold stone, seeking an anchor as his body shakes, hips bucking into his fist, rhythm frantic, no control left, only need.

his moans spill, raw, unfiltered, bouncing off the walls, a litany of broken sounds. “fuck,” he gasps, voice shattering, “why you?” it’s your absence, your fire, the way you looked at him once, like he was real, now a ghost he chases.

his hand moves faster, rougher, slick and relentless, each stroke a plea for you to see him, to cut him again with your gaze. “please,” he whispers, to you, to nothing, “just look at me.” his vision blurs, tears or sweat, he can’t tell, heat coiling low, a knot tightening, pulling, until it snaps like a bowstring.

he comes hard, a shudder tearing through him, spine arching, hips jerking as he spills over his hand, thick, hot, splattering the gritty floor, staining his robe’s hem, a shameful mark that burns his eyes. his moan’s a broken cry, half your name, half a curse, echoing in the crypt-like room, jagged, raw, filling the air until it chokes him.

he collapses, sprawled across dusty linens, chest heaving, eyes wide, staring at the cracked ceiling, its fissures mirroring his fractured mind. his hand’s still wrapped around himself, slick, trembling, aftershocks fading into a hollow ache, longing unspent, pooling in his gut like poison, heavy, unyielding.

he lies there, time blurring, mildew’s scent thicker now, mingling with his sweat and release, air suffocating, pressing his chest. his hair’s plastered to his face, silver strands streaking his flushed cheeks, robe a tangled wreck, one sleeve torn, another inside-out, silk clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. he’s gutted, undone by his own hand, your touch a memory he can’t unmake, your horrified eyes a wound he can’t close, bleeding him dry.

later, he emerges, robe barely tied, one sleeve dangling, hair damp at the temples, flushed like he’s wrestled a demon and lost. his steps falter, sandals scuffing stone, smile forced, brittle, not touching his bloodshot eyes, dark crescents bruising beneath, cheekbones sharp from skipped meals, skin pale as moonlight gone wrong.

suguru passes him, dark robe pristine, pausing mid-step. “you look like you fought an assassin,” he says, flat, one brow lifting, eyes scanning satoru’s ruin—flushed skin, trembling fingers, sweat-slick hair matted to his neck.

“calisthenics,” satoru chirps, too bright, voice cracking, a pitch too high. “fantastic for circulation.”

suguru’s eyes narrow, lingering on the rumpled robe, the damp hair, the faint bruise on satoru’s knuckles from clawing the floor. “circulation,” he repeats, slow, heavy with doubt, like he smells the lie and the shame beneath it.

satoru hurries off, pace quick, like he’s fleeing a fire he set. his robe flutters, misaligned, dragon’s tail mocking him with every step. he doesn’t dare picture your face, your hand, your horror—not again.

he’s considering faking his death. or switching identities. exile in a fishing village sounds appealing.

(give him two hours. maybe three.)

a/n: LMAO pls don’t mind part one ending here. as i said this is meant to be a oneshot only 🧍🏻‍♀️

taglist: @n1vi @victoria1676 @rannie-16 @satokitten @fwgojos @sanestsanstan @satorusbabyy @simplymygojo @ch0cocat1207 @fancypeacepersona @yamadramallamaqueen @iamrgo @cuntysaurusrex @blushedcheri @achildofaphrodite @yourgirljasmine5 @mrscarletellaswife @satorupi @dayeeter @lovelyreaderlovesreadingromance @mo0sin @erens-heart @slutlight2ndver @yutazure @luvvcho @eolivy @se-phi-roth @gojowifefrfr @00anymous00 @peachysweet-mwah @heyl820 @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @weewoowongachimichanga @ssetsuka @etsuniiru @ehcilhc @synapsis @michi7w7 @perqbeth @viclike @shocum @saitamaswifey @dizzyyyy0 @c43rr13s @faeiseavv @beereadzzz @jkslaugh97 @wise-fangirl @tu-tusii @applepi405

[cherryseotang]

Bothersome beast, comforting friend

[cherryseotang]

THE SUIT STAYS ON.

starring: salaryman!nanami kento x housewife female reader summary: anything for his needy girl... but the suit stays. on.

content warnings: 18+ MDNI, the suit stays on but the condom stays off, creampie (guys don’t do this babies are expensive)

Nanami works too damn hard.

The late nights and the early mornings are wearing him thin enough to see through. Even worse, they’re driving a wedge between you two.

His beautiful wife. God.. how did he get so lucky?

He does it all for you, though.

Quit being a sorcerer. Settled down. Found a job he’s good enough at. One he doesn’t completely hate.

All for you.

Coming home to you after a long day is worth it all.

Nanami is greeted with the picture of domesticity when he opens the front door to your shared home. There you are, flitting about the kitchen and the dining room like a hummingbird as you set the table.

A deep inhale through his nose tips him off that you’ve made his favorite for dinner. He really is lucky.

He drops a quick kiss on your forehead and reaches for the plates you’re holding to set them on the table himself.

“How was work?” You ask, bringing over a pot from the stove. It was the last thing you needed for the table to be set.

“Long day.” Nanami pulls your chair out for you to sit before you can even think about touching it. Never too tired for manners, that one.

His lips press softly against the skin below your ear as he scoots you forward. “Better now.”

It stirs something up inside you. Deep in your stomach. Right between your thighs. A feeling that used to come regularly, multiple times a day even, before Nanami got so wrapped up in his work.

Neglected isn’t exactly the word you’d use. No, you’re not some stray alley cat abandoned and left to fend for itself.

You’re Nanami’s wife.

The woman he used to fuck within an inch of her life whenever and wherever she so damn pleased.

Your body autopilots itself while your mind replays all the ways he used to have you. He has to call your name twice to pull you out of your reverie.

“What’s on your mind so badly that’s keeping you from your dear husband?” Nanami teases before taking a bite of his meal.

The longing you feel for the old days of your relationship must be written all over your face, you’re sure of it. Just in case… candidly, you answer

“You.”

“Oh.” He chuckles. “You really love me th—”

“—You inside of me.” You tack on in the middle of his sentence. He wasn’t getting it.

His silverware clatters against the plate, dropped in shock. Nanami was completely accosted by your candor to say the least. It had been a long while since he heard you speak like that.

A slow smile stretches across his face before answering, his voice raspy with unmitigated desire. “I forgot how filthy your mouth can get, Tsuma.”

“I’d love to show you whenever you find the time for me.” Maybe neglected is the word you would use because what you just said definitely comes from a place of hurt masked by lust.

He’s at your side now, holding out his hand to help to stand up from the table. “How about I pencil you in for right now?”

“Oh? You’re not too busy?” You fold your arms across your chest, a subtle refusal to his upturned palm.

Sensing that this is no longer a fun game between you two, instead a serious discussion, he cups your chin and brings your face toward him.

“Never. I’m never too busy for you.”

Your gaze softens at the conviction in his voice, eyes fluttering closed in an effort to stop the tears before they come.

“I miss you, Nanami.” You whisper around the lodge in your throat, meeting his gaze again.

His heart nearly cracks right down the middle at the tears threatening to spill over your lash line. He pulls you up out of your seat to his chest and wraps both arms around you tightly.

“I miss you too.” He kisses the top of your head over and over in an attempt to soothe you.

“You work too much.” Your words come out muffled with your face buried in his chest but he can just barely make them out.

“I do it for you.” Nanami insists, cradling your precious face in his hands. “Don’t you like being taken care of? Having nice things?”

“I’d rather have you. Don’t you get that?” You pout. Maybe you are being a brat but you miss the early days, when he used to spoil you in other ways, too much to care.

“I know you only work so hard so that you can take care of me. I get that and I appreciate it, honest.” Now your hands cradle his face. “But you work so hard that you don’t get to take care of me.”

Nanami’s face falls in understanding. What good is all the money he brings in if this is how you feel at home all day without him?

“I’m sorry.” He swallows thickly.

“Don’t be sorry just be here. Okay?”

His lips find yours under the light of your chandelier and it feels like he finally came home.

“I’m here.” Nanami rasps, growing hungrier with each kiss against your mouth. You come alive under his ministrations, that long awaited passion like kindling to the fire inside of you burning for him.

You meet his mouth at every opportunity, groaning when his tongue finds its way past your lips to dance with yours.

Insatiable can barely describe the two of you. Hands all over one another… groping, squeezing, trying to learn the language of each other’s bodies all over again.

Nanami leans against the wall bringing you with him, raising your leg up to his hip so he can grind his hard bulge right up against your center. The friction is searing against your aching clit and you love it.

It’s like how you used to be when you couldn’t get enough of each other.

“I need you.” You pant, canting your hips against him in time with the rhythm he’s set using his bruising grip on your thigh.

“Right here?” Nanami is fully aware that you’re both still standing in the dining room, only steps away from the bedroom.

“We never used to care where we were before,” Your voice comes out light and breathy.

“That’s..” His head flings back with a groan. “That’s true.” Those breaths come out in harsh puffs now, Nanami’s forbearance waning with each harsh drag of your clothed pussy across his cock.

“Mm. You bought the damn house.” With a sultry whisper your breath fans over Nanami’s lip as your hand gently clutches his throat. “You can fuck me in any room you please.”

Under your palm you feel the vibrations from the growl building in his throat. It’s all the notice you get before he swings you around and slams you into the wall, careful to hold your head when doing so.

“Look who’s ready to play…” Your soft giggles reach his ear in a taunt. The look he gives in return sends a chill running through your body.

Oh yes, Nanami came home.

“You always get exactly what you want don’t you?”

“Only because you give it to me.” You lob back at him.

“So spoiled. Tell me..” His nose trails up the side of your neck until he reaches your ear. “What does my needy fucking girl need?”

This. Exactly this. Everything you’ve been missing.

“These pants off, for starters.”

Nanami unbuckles the belt holding his slacks up with a quickness you hadn’t seen since his sorcerer days. His fingers reach for the tie around his neck but you quickly intercept.

“No, nono… the suit stays on.”

His smile is wicked. “Whatever you say, Tsuma.”

Nanami’s hands fall from his neck and instead work to free his length from his briefs, slowly stroking it up and down while he sizes you up.

“I’ll keep the suit on for you but these,” He hooks a finger into the seat of your panties and tugs them to one side, “These stay over here.”

He cups the backs of your thighs and lifts you up to his waist. You grab onto him as he languidly feeds his cock into you.

“Uhn. Yeahhh, that’s it… Fuck.” His forehead rests against yours after bottoming out. You clench around him so spastically he has to focus on not blowing his load inside you.

It’s been so long since you felt the fullness of him inside you. The memories don’t do what you’re experiencing right now any justice. In a silent agreement, you two savor this together, neither of you making any sudden movements.

Without saying it you both know exactly what the other is thinking: It’s been too long.

“Nanami.”

“I know.”

Your breathless plea spurs him into action.

He gives you a couple of deep plunges, dragging himself along every ridge, all the way out then all the way back in, nailing you to the wall behind you. Your feet aren’t on the ground to brace you so all you can do is hold onto him and take it. It’s pure bliss.

You love how disheveled he looks fucking up into you in tandem with him pumping you up and down by your hips. The blazer, the vest, the tie, all of it clothing your salaryman. So prim and proper until he feels the heat of your wet cunt.

It’s romantic how quickly you two fall into sync, right back into your old rhythm. You’d be more embarrassed about the loud squelching noise that comes with each thrust if it didn’t turn you on so much.

“You’re so good for me baby, so good f’me.” Nanami’s words slur like he’s truly intoxicated. You know he’s pussy drunk when his usually taciturn temperament is gone with the wind.

The tip of his cock slams against that perfect spot deep inside of you so deliciously, repeatedly, that it may as well be a shot of whisky injected directly into your bloodstream. Suddenly you’re a little inebriated too.

“Don’t stop.” You beg. As if he was planning to.

No, he’s a man on a mission now. His wife wants to cum? He’ll make her cum.

It’s not long before the Spanish Inquisition comes. “Missed me inside of you like this? Hm? Fucking this pussy ‘til you gush around me?”

Drilled with questions and drilled with cock. You can barely keep up with either. You babble and it’s barely intelligible. Oh my god this and you feel so good that amongst a sea of cries in his name.

“Fuck, I feel you clenching. You wanna cum?” Your eager nods encourage him to speed up. “Yeah you wanna cum all over your husband’s cock?”

“Yesyesyesyes, yesssss.” Your drunken drivel spills out without much command from your brain at all.

“Show me how much this pussy missed me, Tsuma.”

Your fingers rake through his blonde tresses, gripping tightly for purchase when you finally cum on Nanami’s dick after so, so long.

You’re not entirely sure but you think your mouth meets his for a sloppy kiss that’s all tongues and spit while he fucks you through it.

Somehow he’s still holding you up, still pounding relentlessly. God you love him and his determination.

“M’not gonna stop baby don’t worry. Not done with you yet.”

One orgasm has never been enough for him. Nanami won’t stop until you’re spent. He lets one of your legs fall to bring two fingers to rub on your clit in slow circles. Even his pace slows, so gentle now that you can’t help but focus on every little sensation he brings you.

“Is this how you touched your pussy when I wasn’t here to do it for you? Hm? Am I getting it right?”

You wanna clamp your legs shut from the onslaught of pleasure but of course he won’t let you. Short breaths fall from your O shaped mouth as another orgasm quickly builds.

“All for you… All for you.” Nanami mumbles into the crook of your neck in between sucking the slightly salty skin into his mouth.

You clutch his head there, your anchor to the land of the living, when your second orgasm tears through you something fierce.

Your soft moans are his favorite song. He can’t believe he let himself go without this for as long as he did. Never again.

Nanami can’t fight the way your vice grip on him makes him feel any longer. And frankly, he doesn’t want to.

“M’gonna fill you up just like I used to.” He promises and kisses you until you’re lightheaded. At the same time, he shoots a sticky hot mess between your folds with a satisfied groan.

The two of you pant into each other’s mouths trying to catch your breath. And then the breaths turn to laughter when you realize you’re still in the dining room.

Your other leg gets carefully placed back on solid ground.  Nanami keeps his hands on you to balance you. You need it because they’re pure jello right now in the best way.

When you look to him, you see he’s still not quite had enough and neither have you. There’s still so much lost time to make up for.

When you’re confident you can walk without your legs buckling like a newborn foal, you head to the bedroom.

“Again. This time with just your tie on.”

You don’t need to look behind you to know that he’s following you. Of course he is.

Nanami is always happy to oblige his wife.

reblogs appreciated <3

[cherryseotang]

cowboy zoro‼️

[cherryseotang]

DOUBLE CROSSED, DOUBLE STUFFED

credit to ogata69 on x

synopsis --- you thought you were slick using each of them for sex. little did you know, they knew along. now you can get what you always, both of them. same. time.

pairing: gojo x geto x female reader

tags/warnings: smut, cursing, spitroasting, anal, vaginal penetration, public sex, reader kinda slutty, double-penetration, degradation, light praise, dirty talk, hair pulling, dick sucking, rough sex, humiliation kink, creampie (vaginal & anal), power play, dubcon-ish, overstimulation, small mention of uninformed videos/pics, @/cafekitsune for dividers

wc: 7.9k

Simply put, you’re a whore. A downright slutty woman who loves to have a good dick shoved inside you. 

Who wouldn’t?

You have a few more bodies than you’d like to admit and enjoy keeping that side of you private. You don’t really have any morals, not when it comes to dick. And you won’t shy away from the fact that you’ve blatantly walked out mid-session if the man wasn’t as big as you wanted him to be. 

Yeah, you were a slut. But you had standards, at least. 

Those standards led you to Gojo Satoru. It was the gym you frequented when you first laid eyes on that sexy man. His muscles glistening with a sheen layer of sweat that made you want to disgustingly lick it off. Or how he moved his white hair out of his eyes before tilting his head back to drink some water, watching his Adam’s Apple bob up and down. A black compression shirt doing nothing to hide his firm chest, the outline of his six-pack peeking through the dark material like a siren’s call. Grey sweats rested on his hips, and he had to have known what he was doing, considering every other woman in the gym was eyeing him like a piece of candy. 

You were already wet from just watching him bench press. 

What ticked you off was the way so many girls just coincidentally wanted to finish their workouts right beside him. When he moved machines, another girl appeared by his side, not even bothering to hide their ogling.  

But you also didn’t miss the way he basked in the attention. 

Maybe he was a slut too. 

Well, that makes things easier. If he liked attention, you’d give it to him. Real attention. Not the flirty giggles and nervous hair twirling that those other girls were throwing at him like scraps. No—if Gojo Satoru wanted to be worshipped, you’d show him how a real slut prays.

You didn’t waste time.

That very next evening, you swapped your usual leggings for those sheer black ones—the ones that clung to every curve of your ass like a second skin. No panties, of course.

Why bother?

You caught him by the squat rack. His hands were chalked, forearms flexing, sweat dripping down the slope of his neck like it was made to be ingested.

And when he looked up?

You held his gaze.

Then bent over real slow—like the weights were heavier than they were—giving him a full, unfiltered view of your ass and the outline of your cunt beneath the mesh. You knew he saw. His eyes didn’t even flicker away. If anything, he looked amused.

Good.

You liked a man who played games. Even more, you liked a man who played dirty.

“Need a spot?” he finally asked, catching up to you as you leisurely walked over to the other side of the gym. His voice was as smooth as his fuckable smirk.

You looked up, chest rising, that teasing tilt already curling your mouth.

“Only if you’re spotting me from behind.”

The way his smile twitched—it was all the confirmation you needed.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

You fucked him that night in the gym bathroom.

Messy. Quick. Animalistic.

Your back hit the tile, and he buried himself so deep inside you, you forgot your own name. His hands gripped your thighs like they were handles, sweat and spit smearing between your bodies, his mouth all over your throat.

And when you came, it was violent.

Loud. Embarrassingly loud. You knew people heard. You didn’t care.

Neither did he. 

Gojo fucked like he fought—cocky and overwhelming. He pulled your hair, bit your shoulder, told you how tight your cunt was and how much of a dirty little thing you were for taking him so deep.

It was everything you wanted.

Hence why he was your number one fuck buddy. 

Well, he…was. 

Until you met Geto Suguru. 

It was much more cozy and innocent compared to meeting Gojo. He caught your eye in your favorite cafe. 

Sipping from a cup of black coffee, nestled in the corner of the establishment. Dark, long hair pulled back into a lazy bun, a few pieces of hair coming out to beautifully frame his face. A thin pair of glasses rested atop his nose. He occasionally pushed it up after reading a couple of pages from his book. 

You remember smiling behind the rim of your cup like you just won the lottery, cheeks flushing. Your fingers curled around the warmth of your own drink, but it wasn’t the drink heating you from the inside. No, it was the way he licked his thumb to flip the page—slow, effortless, sensual. It made your thighs clench beneath the table.

You weren’t usually shy. Especially not when you saw something—or someone—you wanted. But there was something different about him. Something calm. Intellectual. Dangerous in a completely different way than Gojo’s cocky gym-rat swagger.

This one?

This one was quiet, sharp, and deliberate.

The kind of man who’d have you choking on his cock in the same breath he whispered sweet things against your temple. The kind of man who’d make you say please…just because he liked hearing it.

So you did what you always did. You moved.

Slid into the chair across from him without even asking.

“Book good?” you asked casually, sipping from your drink like you hadn’t just interrupted his peace.

His eyes lifted over the rim of his glasses, calm, unreadable. And then he smiled. Not big or cocky. Just like he already knew how this would end. Like he’d seen girls like you before.

But even then—you noticed it.

The way his gaze dipped to your mouth. The barest flicker of interest. Of hunger. So you smiled back.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

It took a little longer to fuck him compared to Gojo. 

(Only a week.)

He took you out on a date and acted like the kindest gentleman. But when he brought you back to his place, he fucked you like he was anything but. 

A firm, thick hand grasped around your throat in just the right amount of forcefulness as his tongue made home of your mouth, kissing you almost as deep as his cock that was plunging into your hole. 

You didn’t even try to hold back the noises he pulled from you. Moaned like a bitch in heat while your back arched off his sheets, hands clawing at his shoulders as he fucked you slow. Deep. Cruel. Like he wanted you to feel it tomorrow. Like he wanted to leave a mark.

“That’s it,” he whispered into your throat, voice low, like prayer and poison all at once. “Take it. Just like that. God, you’re so messy already.”

And you were.

His fingers had you gushing before he ever even put it in. But now? With every grind of his hips, every press of his cockhead to your most sensitive spot—you were gone. Tears in your lashes. Drool at the corner of your lips.

Pathetic.

You loved every second of it.

Because Geto Suguru didn’t just fuck. He studied. Watched your face like it was his favorite novel, catalogued every twitch, every gasp, every broken sound that left your lips, and filed it away for later. He kissed your ankle while he ruined you. Licked up your stomach when you begged for a break. Told you you’re doing so good for me, baby, even as he flipped you over and shoved you face-first into the mattress.

He was filth in fine clothing. A scholar in the art of sin.

And when you came for the third time, spasming around him like you were possessed, you couldn’t even remember your name—just his.

And maybe Gojo’s too.

Oops.

You left his place in a daze, your thighs sticky, your panties stuffed in your purse because you’d forgotten to put them back on. Not that you cared. You strutted down the street like you had diamonds between your legs and heaven behind your eyes.

It’s been a few months of the back and forth, and you were practically on cloud nine. Two cocks that fucked so good but felt so different was your ultimate fantasy. And you were living it. 

Gojo was thin and long, curved and pale with veins that rode up his shaft. 

Geto, he was thick, fat, his veins would bulge out from his skin like they wanted your pussy to feel them. He was more tan than Gojo, and while it didn’t curve like Satoru’s, its chubby head poked forcefully at your g-spot with no issue. 

You thought you were slick.

Thought you had the perfect rotation—Monday nights with Gojo, Sundays with Geto, and the occasional mid-week emergency fuck with whichever one texted first. Sometimes, you’d finger yourself to the thought of both of them—mouth stuffed with a pillow, cunt clenching around nothing as you imagined them using you like a toy.

And why wouldn’t you?

Gojo was mean.

Mean in the way he held your face while you choked on him, hips snapping into your throat like you were just another fuckable hole. Mean in the way he’d whisper “don’t get too attached” even as he cradled your legs open and licked your pussy like a starved man. He liked seeing you cry—loved it, actually. He loved when mascara ran, or when your voice broke, and even when your legs shook and you begged him to stop—right before begging him not to.

Geto, though?

He was worse.

Because he was so sweet.

Tucked your hair behind your ear while he spat in your mouth. Called you princess as he split you open on his cock, told you how pretty your moans were while he ruined you slowly. You’d ride him until you were shaking, body covered in sweat, and he’d kiss your wrist like you were his little wife—right before flipping you over and fucking you into the mattress without a word.

They were perfect.

They were yours.

Or… so you thought.

Because lately?

They’d been acting a little too calm.

Like how Gojo didn’t even blink when you accidentally moaned “Su—Satoru” in his ear a couple of nights ago. You were sure he’d pull out right then and there. Or how he’d hide grins behind his hand as you messily fumbled with a shitty excuse about why you were extra sensitive.

And how Geto didn’t miss a beat when you mentioned Gojo’s favorite coffee order, thinking it was his instead. Already confusing him with his best friend. 

Now that made him want to fuck you harder. 

But no, they didn’t lash out.

They just… smiled. Like they each were holding onto something that you weren’t quite in on.

Because what you didn’t know…

Was that Gojo and Geto were best friends. Close enough to share everything. Even you.

They knew. They knew you were bouncing on one dick then deepthroating the other the very next day. And they let you. They watched it all play out like a performance.

 Two men.

Two cocks.

Two perfect sets of hands and mouths and voices saying your name in very different ways.

It was heaven. It’s not like it was inherently bad either, considering you were never exclusive with either of them. But, you may or may not have made promises to one while breaking them with the other. You may have accidentally imagined it was the other fucking you when it wasn’t. 

And it would’ve stayed that way—your own little double life, your own dirty indulgence—if you hadn’t fucked up.

Well, not like it was really your fault. 

They did play you pretty well. 

.

.

.

.

Gojo:

“Hey, u busy?”

Glancing down at your phone as you walk back from home, you almost trip over your own two feet. Straightening out your pencil skirt, looking around to make sure no one saw, you glance back down at your screen, thumbs flying across it. 

You:

“A little. Just got off work.”

Gojo:

“Let me come over.”

Any other day, you would’ve instantly said yes. But it had been a particularly stressful day at your boring office job, and all you wanted was instant ramen, a hot shower, and sleep. Crinkling your brows, you type back:

You:

“Not tonight, maybe this weekend?”

Three bubbles come and go on the screen. He never usually hesitates when texting you, and for a second, you think he’s going to try and convince you to say yes. 

But…

Gojo:

Sure, see u. 

Hm, easier than you thought. You shrug and toss your phone back into your purse before stepping into the conceive store. The automatic doors slide open, and your heels clank against the floor as you make your way to the ramen, picking the spiciest flavor, and paying. 

You check the time. 

8:59 pm. 

A sigh escapes you. A very late night at the office that shouldn't even be legal. As you near your apartment complex, your feet have started to drag against the pavement in tired anticipation. Taking the hair clip out of your hair, it lets loose against your shoulders. Yawning as you take your key out and shove it in the handle, successfully unlocking the front door and stepping inside. 

The darkness greets you, as always. Tossing your coat to your right, taking your heels off so your bare feet land on the wood. You trek through the dark, already knowing your way around. You get to the kitchen, pour some water into your pack of ramen to the line, then pop it in the microwave for three and a half minutes. 

You do your entire routine in the darkness. Grabbing a glass of water, waiting for the microwave to be done while snacking on something, taking your bra off and throwing it on the kitchen counter, untucking your button-up from your skirt. 

The microwave beeps. You wait a few seconds before opening it and taking out the now-heated ramen. Striding over to your small, circular table in the middle of the kitchen, you finally flick the lights on. 

And that’s when you scream—louder than you’ve ever screamed. 

The ramen hits the floor and your heart practically drops to your ass when you see Satoru on your couch like he owns the place. Legs spread out, arms resting out and above the top of the couch. He smiles after your heart attack. 

“Hey.”

“S-Satoru?! What the hell?!” You shout, putting a hand to your racing heart as you slowly pant your breathing into a slow and steady routine. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Key under the mat. Though I told you not to do that. Keeps scary guys like me out,” he laughs, head tilting in a way that momentarily freaks you out. 

You gulp, just left staring at his lax form. Surprise, confusion, it all swirls in your mind. He’s never been one to do this, no matter how addicted he is to your pussy. Was tonight just a particularly needy one for him? You’re too stunned to speak. Still braless, shirt loose, skirt slightly wrinkled from the long day—looking more vulnerable than you ever do in front of him.

He notices. He always does.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you mutter, rubbing your temple and grabbing a napkin to clean the ramen you spilled.

Satoru doesn’t move. He watches the way your tits sway a little with every irritated movement. Watches your skirt hike as you crouch down, too distracted to care about what he’s doing—or what he knows.

You stand up again, sighing. “Seriously, what are you doing here? You said ‘sure, see you’—I figured you got the hint.”

“Oh, I got it,” he says, that lazy grin still stretching wide across his lips. “Just figured I’d wait for your next excuse. Y’know, let you get it all out of your system.”

You furrow your brows. “What the hell does that mean?”

He leans forward now. Slow. Dangerous. Forearms braced on his knees, tongue swiping the inside of his cheek as his grin fades to something darker. And that’s when you notice it. The way his jacket’s tossed over the couch. The slight swell in his grey sweats. The faint gleam in his eyes that tells you this wasn’t just some impromptu visit.

“Means I know why you’re tired, sweetheart.”

Your stomach turns for some reason. 

“Yeah, work,” you huff. 

“Sure.”

“What do you mean?” You frown, throwing the dirty napkin away before crossing your arms over your chest. 

He puts his palms up in surrender. “Nothing, nothing. Just joking.”

“Joking doesn’t involve breaking and entering,” you walk closer, eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“Had a key, remember?” His grin turns crooked. 

There’s a momentary silence, one that both sets you off and disturbs you. 

“You’re acting fucking weird,” you mutter, a nervous laugh catching in your throat. “Seriously, Satoru. You’re freaking me out.”

He hums, raising a snowy eyebrow. His gaze drops—slowly—to your bare legs, your wrinkled skirt, your breasts, then back up again to your flushed face.

“Not trying to freak you out,” he says calmly, leaning back again with that smug, boyish stretch of his long body across your couch. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“How it’s gonna go,” he replies simply.

Your brows knit. “What’s gonna go?”

You’re barely offered a second of knowledge before you hear a door down the hallway open, the light shutting off. 

You flinch and whip your head in that direction. 

Striding down the hall, in all his casual glory…Geto fucking Suguru. 

Wearing black baggy sweats with a simple white t-shirt. No more glasses, his hair let loose. Fucking barefoot in your fucking house. 

Your eyes widen, and your limbs freeze. You hear a delighted chortle from Satoru—one he doesn’t bother to hide. But all you’re focused on is the new man who’s somehow found his way into your safe place. 

You’ve never even invited him here. Only Satoru and that was twice. So how the fuck is he here?

Suguru kindly smiles, stopping by the couch with his hands tucked into his sweats. “Back, huh? Sorry, used all your toilet paper.”

That’s when you finally move. Backtracking and almost stumbling, your wide eyes flicker between Satoru and Suguru. “I-I-I—the fuck?” You scoff in disbelief. “W-What’s…”

“I figured we’d do this all together tonight,” Satoru says casually, like it’s a normal dinner party or something. “Group activity, y’know?”

You stare at the man like he’s death himself. “…You didn’t.”

He shrugs. “You were so eager bouncing between our dicks, I thought it was rude not to give you both at the same time.”

“H…How do you….”

“Best friends, beautiful,” Suguru continues for you, leaning against the side of the couch. “A little unfortunate for you, huh? Playing two guys like that, very rude.”

Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. All you can stammer out is a weak: “n-neither of us…We weren’t together…”

“Sure, babe,” Satoru drawls, standing up from the couch now. His height seems to stretch forever, all long limbs and slow, menacing movements as he starts toward you. “We weren’t together. You just let me fuck you raw three times a week and sleep over when I felt like it.”

Suguru snorts, walking lazily behind him. “Yeah, same here. Not together. Just happened to suck my cock in a bookstore bathroom last week. Real casual.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. There’s no good defense. No quick tongue or flirty grin is gonna get you out of this. Your pulse is going wild in your throat.

“And the best part?” Gojo murmurs, coming to stand right in front of you now, his fingers gently hooking under your chin, tilting your head up. His grin is gone. His eyes are dark. “You didn’t even realize we were setting you up.”

“Wha—”

“We shared everything,” Suguru says behind you, his voice hot at your neck. You didn’t even hear him move. “Pictures. Videos. Notes. Hell, I gave him your favorite way to be fingered.”

Gojo hums. “You like being called a little cockslut, right? That’s what you texted me, anyway.”

“And moaned for me.” Suguru’s hand snakes around your waist now, fingers splaying across your stomach. “Cute how you thought you were in control.”

You’re trembling. The heat between your legs is humiliating. You should be scared—two men you deceived, cornering you in your own home. But all you can think about is the hunger in their voices. And what they’re about to do to you.

You try to move, but Suguru’s already holding tight. His smile isn’t kind anymore. It’s quiet. Controlled. Dangerous.

“We’re not mad,” he says gently, almost soothingly. “Just… disappointed.”

Gojo snorts. “Speak for yourself. I’m fucking pissed. Not ‘cause she played us—but because she thought we wouldn’t notice.” He tilts his head again, his palm moving down to rest above his clothed tent, and your breath catches when you realize he’s very hard. Fully, painfully hard, his cock visibly straining under the thin material of his sweats. “And because she thought she could keep getting away with it.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. You don’t even know what to say. What can you say?

They already know everything.

You feel Suguru’s palm brushing your stomach—not rough, not soft either. Just enough pressure to make you feel it.

“Bet you thought you were being clever,” he murmurs, leaning close to your ear. “Sneaking around. Letting us touch you, taste you. Letting me fuck you while you still had his cum dripping out of you.”

Your legs feel wobbly.

“Did you even shower between us?” Gojo asks, mock curiosity dripping from his tongue. “Or did you just let one of us lick the other off your cunt, huh?”

Your cheeks flame, stomach churning with guilt and arousal. You should leave. You should run. But your body is betraying you—heat flooding your core, thighs pressing together, pulse hammering in your throat. “I didn’t mean for—I wasn’t trying to play you guys.”

“Ah, ah,” Satoru raises a hand. “But you did. Feeling sorry now?”

“No, not sorry,” Suguru coos from behind you, his hand wrapping around your throat. Tilting your head back and up to look him in the eyes. “Blushing.” 

He kisses a deceptively sweet kiss below your ear, and you almost melt. Until his hand tightens—stronger than ever before—and you physically feel your breath hitch, air gasping out of your lungs. Your neck tilts, an attempt to evade his grasp. A hand claws at his, but it’s no use. 

“Here’s what you’ll do,” Satoru starts calmly. “You’re gonna get on those pretty knees of yours and apologize.”

“F-For what?!” You choke out, coughing a dry huff of air. 

“For being mean,” he fakes a frown, before motioning to Suguru to let go. 

He does so, and you cough a fit, holding your chest. Cheeks red and flushed, attempting to calm your breathing for the second time this night. 

“Go on,” Satoru interrupts you, Suguru moving to stand beside him. “Apologize.”

Your mouth is dry. You feel like your skin’s been lit on fire. Every nerve, every inch of your body—is too aware. You’ve never felt so bare. So owned. “I…” you try. But it’s barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

Satoru’s palm cups your jaw suddenly, not harsh, but firm, his fingers sliding into your hair. He tips your head back, forcing you to look only at him. “Shh. Don’t talk. Just nod if you’re gonna be a good girl.”

You pause. Then… nod.

“Good,” Suguru nods in acceptance. “Then get down.”

You sink. Slow. Shaking. Humiliated and aching. Every brush of their gaze feels like it strips you down more than their hands ever could. You settle on your knees, skirt riding up, blouse hanging off one shoulder, hair a mess.

A perfect little toy.

Gojo stands in front of you, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his sweats. His cock springs out—already hard, already dripping. Veiny, curved, flushed. He grips the base lazily, letting it sway right in front of your lips.

“Start with me,” he says, letting it condescendingly slap your cheek. “Since I fucked you first.”

You stare at his cock—twitching just slightly where it hovers near your lips. It smells like him. Clean and warm, leaking. Already aching for your mouth. But you don’t move right away. You can feel Suguru’s gaze burning into the side of your face, like he’s daring you to hesitate. Like he’s waiting for any excuse to drag you away and make you beg.

And Satoru—Satoru doesn’t move either. Just watches with half-lidded eyes and mouth slightly parted as if this is the easiest thing in the world. Like this is where you belong.

“You know what to do,” he murmurs.

You do.

Your lips part slowly. You feel a flicker of shame—not for the act, but for how easily your tongue flicks out to taste him. For how your thighs press together at the first salty drop that hits your tongue.

He hisses. Low and sharp.

“Fucking tease,” he breathes. “Didn’t even hesitate.”

You wrap your lips around the head, cheeks hollowing as you start to suck, slow at first—tentative, waiting for praise or punishment. One of his hands threads into your hair, guiding your pace, the other still gripping himself as if he’s not ready to give you the whole thing yet.

“Sloppy already,” Suguru observes, and you shiver. “What a greedy mouth.”

“Always knew she was a little cumdrunk,” Gojo chuckles, the sound curling darkly around you. “Even when she pretended she wasn’t.”

He presses deeper, and you let him, the stretch of his cock pushing past your tongue, hitting the back of your throat. You gag, but he doesn’t stop—just holds you there a second too long before easing back, watching your saliva string from your lips to his tip.

Your mascara’s already smudging. Your throat’s raw. But you’re wetter than you’ve ever been.

“Switch,” Suguru commands softly.

You blink up at Gojo, dazed, still catching your breath, and then turn. Suguru is already out—dark, thick, the head flushed nearly purple. Bigger than you remember somehow. Or maybe you’re just finally seeing him in full daylight—no shadows, no secrets.

You barely open your mouth before he’s guiding you onto him, one hand on your jaw, the other gripping the base. The weight of him on your tongue is dizzying.

“Don’t be lazy,” he mutters. “You had energy to play the two of us. You can put in the work.”

You moan around him, humiliated and dizzy on the taste of him. Your hands grasp his thighs as you bob your head, gagging more this time, mess dripping down your chin.

Gojo moves behind you. You don’t even hear him until his hands practically rip your shirt apart in two, gasping around Suguru’s dick when your bare breasts get exposed. You knew you shouldn’t have gotten such a cheap one. 

“What a fuckin’ view,” Satoru groans. “Might not wait for her to finish you, Suguru.”

Suguru hums, brushing your hair back. “Let her earn it.”

You moan, tears clinging to your lashes as you continue to rub your thighs shamelessly. 

“Look at that,” Satoru huffs. “Fucking leaking, I bet.”

He slaps your tit once—carelessly and loud. You jolt, choking slightly on Suguru’s cock. He groans in approval, petting your hair. “Breathe through your nose, sweetheart.”

Another slap. And another. Until your the heel of your foot presses against your cunt and dripping down your thighs.

Satoru leans down, voice low in your ear. “You’re gonna take both of us tonight. Mouth, cunt, maybe that tight little ass if we feel generous.”

Suguru pulls out with a pop, tapping his tip against your spit-slicked lips. “Gonna fuck you till you forget which one of us came first.”

Before you know it, you’re being lifted from under your arms and tossed onto the couch without much thought. You yelp as you hit the cushions, having no time to get up before a body is pinning you to his chest. Your thighs being pried open with ease, skirt bunched up at your hips. 

“W-wait—!” You squeal out, gulping as Suguru regards your wet panties with a small laugh. 

“Oh. She didn’t even wear new ones. These are the ones I ruined last night, aren’t they?”

“Holy shit,” Gojo’s eyes darken, warm breath fanning the shell of your ear. “You came straight from my best friend’s bed.”

You choke on a sob—half denial, half arousal.

“Filthy little thing,” Suguru coos, fingers rubbing up and down the damp, flimsy material. “You’re not sorry at all.”

“She never is.”

“Figured.”

“Suguru,” you pant, thighs trembling with nervous anticipation. “Please…”

“Begging? Already?” His eyes flicker up to yours. “A little pathetic, don’t you think?”

Satoru hums, grin sharpening. “You wanna see how far her loyalty goes?”

Then, with no warning, Suguru yanks your thong down your legs and spits roughly on your pussy.

You jolt. Gasp. But Satoru holds you tight.

“That’s it,” Gojo smirks, watching it drip. “Slippery little liar. Tell me—does your cunt even know who it belongs to?”

Your breath hitches when Suguru inserts two thick fingers knuckle deep. Back arching off of Satoru’s chest with a quiet moan. 

Testing the waters, he curls his fingers and slightly twists them, enjoying the way a high-pitched whine slips out. 

“Yeah,” he lowly comments. ��Love it this way, don’t you?”

“Like that…!”

“So picky with what you want,” Satoru tsks, hand fondling your breast, pinching your perky nipple. “Can’t just get fucked like a normal girl.”

You squirm as Suguru’s fingers slide in and out with a sloppy ease, the sound of your dripping pussy having both men practically see stars, hyper focused on the way your greedy cunt swallows the fingers that feed you. 

You pant, whine, and writhe, especially when Suguru speeds up. Hips lifting off the couch, but Satoru forces them back down with a single hand to your hip. 

“Stay still and get finger fucked,” he grunts in your ear. 

“O-ohhh….! Fuck! Fuck! Ngh!” You gasp out, eyes squeezing shut, tightening around the digits that enter you. 

Suguru can’t help the low moan that falls from his lips, poking lightly around your gummy entrance like he’s examining it. His palm rubs brutally against your puffy clit. Satoru’s hard wood pokes your back, and you can feel the way he’s already palming himself up and down. Suguru’s precum leaks out onto your couch. 

You’re coming undone on his fingers quickly and efficiently. You enjoy your high for just a few seconds before you’re being manhandled to straddle Satoru, hovering right above his incoming tip. Gripping it, he rubs between your folds, groaning loudly. Enjoying the way your sticky cum lathers his cock like it’s lube. You moan, crumpling against his chest. 

“Can’t…too—too soon…”

“Yeah, you can, you did it before, remember?” Satoru pants from below you, slowly inching his cock into your heated hole. 

The intrusion slightly stings, burning with the way you must now grow accustomed to something larger than Suguru’s fingers.  “Fuck!” You shout, nails digging into his shoulders. 

Satoru shamelessly whimpers, holding your hips in a vice-like grip, maneuvering you up and down his cock like you’re his personal fleshlight. Guiding your first slow, tantalizing descent. The stretch, the fullness—God, it’s like nothing else exists but this. You bite your lip, meeting his intense gaze as you begin to rock forward, the friction igniting every nerve ending.

The sounds you make—the desperate gasps, the soft moans—fill the room, weaving around the steady rhythm of Satoru’s hips lifting to meet yours. His pace is furiously demanding, coaxing you closer to the edge with every stroke. His cockhead hitting right up agasint your sensitive spot each time makes you feel lightheaded, you barely can catch pace with him. 

“Look at you, riding me like you belong here,” Gojo growls, voice thick with desire as he leans in, trailing hot kisses down your neck.

Before you can catch your breath, Suguru’s lips are at the other side of your neck, hot and demanding, sucking bruises along your skin. His hands roam from your waist to your thighs, squeezing and kneading, sending jolts of electricity through your body.

“Don’t stop,” you whimper, voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

Satoru smirks against your skin, his thrusts deepening, hips rolling up to meet yours quicker. “Not a chance.”

The couch creaks beneath you both, the room filled with the sounds of skin slapping, breath hitching, and whispered curses.

“Harder,” you beg, voice shaky but desperate.

Gojo complies immediately, his hips snapping up sharply, sending jolts of pleasure deep inside you. Suguru’s fingers move to your clit, kneading roughly, sending waves of fire through your body. 

His hand pushes you down flatter against Satoru’s chest. You almost think it’s so Satoru can wrap his arms around your body more easily. 

But no. 

It’s so his hands can spread out your ass cheeks, his thumb swirling around your tight, virgin hole. 

You actually scream, hips stuttering against Satoru’s. Looking back over your shoulder.

Suguru only smirks at your wide-eyed stare, unbothered by the panic starting to rise in your throat. “Relax,” he coos, leaning in close, his breath brushing the nape of your neck. “I’m just playing.”

But his thumb presses a little firmer against your untouched hole, circling with obscene wet sounds from the mess between your legs. You tremble in Satoru’s lap, unsure if you’re trying to pull away or push back, body caught in that delirious space between fear and arousal.

“Sugu…” you whimper, your voice shaking. “I-I’ve never—”

“I know,” he says, almost tender. “That’s why I’m being so gentle.”

“Gentle?” Satoru snorts beneath you, his voice muffled where his mouth is pressed against your neck. “You mean patient. Don’t act like you weren’t dying to be the first to wreck her here.”

Suguru chuckles but doesn’t deny it. His thumb slides down to gather more slick, then slowly returns, pressing with just enough pressure to tease, not enter.

“Just getting her used to it,” he murmurs, then glances at you. “You okay?”

You bite your lip hard enough to sting. Everything in your body screams no, this is wrong, this is too much—but there’s also that deep, humiliating pulse between your legs that says yes, yes, keep going.

“I… I don’t know,” you breathe.

Gojo’s arms tighten around you from below, grounding you, his lips ghosting just beneath your jaw. “You’re practically choking my cock, must feel a little good, right?”

“M-Mngh…I…I…”

“Suguru likes anal, he’s a pro at it. You got nothing to—fuck—t-to worry about,” Satoru bites his pretty pink lip, breathing coming out in sharper huffs. 

“H-how do you know he—ah!—likes…that…?”

A look over your shoulder, then at you, before he hides a giggle in your neck. 

You have no time to question it because Suguru’s thumb prods in a little deeper now, almost breaking the surface into the unmarked territory. You clench. 

“S-shhh,” Suguru soothes, his voice low and steady. “I’m right here. Just breathe with me, okay?”

You swallow hard, heart pounding, caught between nerves and something darker, something that feels like trust wrapped in heat.

You hide your face in the crook of Satoru’s neck, squealing when your cheeks get spread wider, the foreign sensation of a wet muscle lapping at your asshole. It makes you tingle and twitch. 

His tongue moves slowly and gently, like he’s savoring your taste even from that area. You feel slightly disgusted. But Satoru distracts you with a thumb to your clit, pressing down. 

“Sa…sa…” you cough out a cry, tears stinging at your eyes, forehead resting against his. 

The overstimulation of it all makes you feel used, but simultaneously like the luckiest girl in the world. Getting fucked in both ways, from your two favorite men—you might just faint. 

Satoru goes back to playing with your nipples, his tongue swirling around each bud, showing them both affection. He sucks on one, then the other, pulling off with a wet plop before going back to sucking. 

All the while, Suguru is slowly and slowly stretching and preparing your untouched hole for his own leaking cock. He rubs his length between your cheeks, his thumb just gently pressing in and out. You don’t see it (you’re glad you don’t), but he even brings the wet finger up to his mouth to taste before diving it right back in. 

Truly, utterly, disgusting. 

But that’s how they both are—that’s how they’ve always been. However, even now with your asshole slowly being poked by Suguru’s thick cock, his balls full of cum pressed against your asscheeks, you begin to think that maybe—just maybe—you should’ve thought twice about fucking with them. 

You should’ve thought twice about being a fucking whore for them the second you laid your eyes on them. 

Satoru’s already cum in you. You were able to tell by the way his moans got louder and his grip on you loosened, and how his warm seed flowed into your pussy, coaxing you into your second orgasm of the night. Your combined fluids sprinkle down your thighs and onto him. 

And he doesn’t stop fucking you, almost cockwarming with the way he’s intent on watching your expression as Suguru takes your asshole. Sweat coats all of your guys’ skin. 

“…mmnngghh! Ah! Ah!” You tense up again. 

“Shhh,” both men coo, gently calming you down. 

Your breath is shaking, head swimming from the sheer overstimulation. Your body’s exhausted, every nerve frayed and twitching, but their touch keeps you grounded—Satoru’s soft lips brushing your temple, Suguru’s hand firm and reassuring at your hip. The way they look at you like you’re something fragile and holy, even as they ruin you—it’s something you’ll never forget. 

The stretch to that tight, virgin hole is unfamiliar, even slightly painful. Something foreign being stuffed into it almost makes you want to kick off both of them. But you can’t help the way your body feels enticed to stay and endure, how Gojo’s thumb slowly rubs your clit like he’s trying to soothe your nerves, and how Geto is adding his own spit and your essence as makeshift lube. 

It makes your legs twitch. Your nails leaving marks on Satoru’s shoulders, breath catching in your throat. You’re trembling—more from confusion than fear—your body caught in that twisted place between discomfort and arousal. Every nerve feels lit from within.

Suguru murmurs something low and encouraging, lips brushing your spine as he works you open with slow, practiced care. It doesn’t ease the ache completely, but the sound of his voice, paired with Satoru’s steady thumb circling your clit, grounds you. Anchors you. Makes it bearable. Almost.

“You’re doing so well,” Satoru breathes against your ear, voice tinged with a warmth you weren’t expecting. “So fuckin’ tight… He’s taking his time with you, yeah?”

You manage a shaky nod, tears rolling down your cheeks, the rest of you won’t stop trembling.

“Just breathe,” Suguru murmurs. “Let go. You’ll feel better soon.”

You try. You let your forehead drop to Satoru’s collarbone, lips parting in a soft moan as your body slowly, agonizingly begins to adjust. The sting dulls into pressure. And the pressure begins to melt into something else entirely—something far more dangerous.

“How’s she feel?” Satoru asks breathlessly, the vibration thrumming against your forehead. 

All you hear is a grunt, then a strangled chuckle that sounds like he finally bottomed out. And he did with the way you feel his balls against your ass. 

“Heaven.” Suguru grins. 

Your breath hitches at the sound of his voice—rough, low, and edged with something primal. Suguru’s grip tightens on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel the shape of them, like a brand.

“Heaven,” he repeats again, more to himself this time, savoring it. You feel every inch of him nestled deep inside, the fullness overwhelming, stretching you in ways you didn’t think you could take. But you are. You are, and your body’s slowly betraying you with how it pulses around him, adjusting to the new, illicit sensation.

Satoru groans beneath you, rolling his hips slightly like he’s trying to remind you he’s still there, still buried in you, still hard. “Damn, you’re getting spoiled,” he mumbles, one hand trailing up your spine to cradle the back of your head. “Don’t think you’ll ever be able to go back to normal after this.”

You let out a breathy sob—half a moan, half a cry. It’s all too much. The stretch. The pressure. The obscene closeness. But you don’t tell them to stop. Because you don’t want them to.

Suguru leans forward, chest pressing to your back, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “You’re doing so good for us, sweetheart,” he whispers, rolling his hips slowly and deep. “Let me hear you.”

And when you finally make a sound—soft, broken, and needy—they both groan in tandem, like the sound alone was what they’d been starving for.

And just like that, they both work in tandem with one another. You’re left whimpering, pathetically sobbing against Satoru’s chest. “S…Sa…”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Satoru cups the back of your head, holding you there like you’re something fragile—like your cries are sacred, a melody only they get to hear. “You’re doin’ so good,” he whispers, voice hoarse and thick with lust. “Just take it. Let us take care of you.”

Behind you, Suguru keeps his rhythm steady and deep, grinding into that untouched space he’s claimed like it was always meant for him. He listens to every gasp that tears from your throat, every little tremble of your body, and adjusts like he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs with a low chuckle, wiping a tear that’s slipped down your cheek with his thumb. “You’ll make us think you don’t like it.”

But you do. That’s the worst part. The way they move together, how one touches you where the other can’t—it’s too much, too good. Every drag, every thrust, every breath you take feels stolen and sacred.

You’ve never felt so damn full in your entire life. And fuck, were you missing out. 

But just when you thought they were being nice. You were sorely mistaken. Because there’s a reason why they put you in this compromising position in the first place.

Satoru grabs your jaw, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze—blue eyes blown wide and wild. “Look at you,” he pants, thrusting up lazily inside your soaked cunt. “Stuffed full of both of us… like you were fucking made for this.” The continuous motions of his lazy thrusts allow for that wet, squelchy sound to become more prominent. 

“You hear that?” Suguru breathes out behind you, voice rough and wrecked. “She’s dripping down your cock, Satoru. Can feel it all over my balls. Fuck.”

You choke out a moan, twitching at how full you are, how filthy it feels to be stretched in both places at once. You’re drooling now, body limp, barely holding yourself up. They’ve turned you to mush, and they know it.

“Too much?” Satoru taunts, dragging his thumb across your clit, slow and cruel. “Or just enough for a pretty little slut who couldn’t pick one of us?”

“Couldn’t pick?” Suguru laughs darkly, his thrusts picking up, obscene slaps echoing through the room. “She took us both. Greedy little thing. Wanted both our cocks, didn’t you?”

Your walls clamp down involuntarily, a garbled cry ripping out of you.

“Ohhh, she clenched,” Satoru grins, hand smacking your ass just hard enough to sting. “She liked that.”

“Whose cock do you like more?”

You’re not sure who asked that, entirely too fucked out to come up with a coherent response. But when Suguru tugs on your hair, yanking your head back, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Satoru!”

Suguru stills.

Just for a second.

Then lets out a breathy laugh, mean and disbelieving, one hand sliding up your spine while the other grabs your jaw, forcing your head back further. His cock stays buried to the hilt in your ass, pulsing with heat.

“Oh?” he purrs, voice slick with amusement. “Satoru, huh?”

You can’t respond. Not with the way your body’s shaking, barely hanging on. Not with how Satoru’s rolling his hips up into your creamy cunt like he’s trying to mold it to his cock.

“Didn’t take you for a traitor,” Suguru teases, but there’s something sharp in the way he digs his fingers into your cheeks. “And here I was, being so nice.”

A sharp, amused laugh bursts from Satoru’s chest, fingers curling possessively around your waist. “That’s my girl,” he grunts, thrusting up into your soaked pussy with new, eager rhythm. “Knew you liked mine best.”

But Suguru’s grip on your jaw tightens, his thrusts rougher now, deeper—like he’s staking a claim. “Is that right?” he drawls darkly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Then why’s your ass milking me like this?”

You sob, caught between both of them, your body stretched and filled and overstimulated to the point of tears. You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore—mercy, more, maybe both.

“Her pussy’s twitching,” Satoru groans, head tipping back against the couch as he watches your face twist with every stroke. “She’s close again.”

“She doesn’t deserve to come yet,” Suguru growls. “Not until she says it like she means it.”

“Y-You’re both… f-fucking mean!” You cry out, thighs trembling.

“No,” Suguru’s low voice against your ear scares you. For a second, he stills again. Until he thrusts deep in your hole like it’s your pussy, uncaring for how you instantly whine out. “I’ve been nice. This entire time. From when you threw yourself at me like a desperate little whore, til now. But now? Now I’m gonna fuck you like you’re nothing but a hole for me.”

You groan, eyes fluttering, when he continues his merciless pace. Satoru below takes pleasure in the sight above him, fucking your pussy like it’s just another regular day for him. You clamp down in both places, pulsing and twitching. 

You hear their simultaneous moans. Balls against your ass, skin slapping against skin, heavy breathing and ragged moans. It’s a filthy, filthy fucking sight. 

You’re putty between them, only offering whimpered moans and sobs, panting against Satoru’s sweaty collarbone. Suguru fists your hair into a makeshift ponytail in his palm, and Satoru smashes his lips against yours. 

Their hips twitch. Once, then twice. 

Before you know it, they cum at the same time. 

One painting your hole milky white, the other coating your walls so deep you swear you feel it in your stomach. You jerk between them with each twitch of their cocks, their groans echoing in your ears like a chorus of filth and satisfaction. Your own orgasm tearing through you like a storm, your body locking up as your vision whites out.

Satoru bites back a hiss, hand gripping your waist as he rocks his hips up one last time, letting you feel every pulse, every drop. Suguru growls through his teeth behind you, fingers digging into your hips as he spills into your ass, pushing in deep enough to make sure none of it leaks out.

Stuffed full. Marked. Claimed.

You’ve never felt so wanted.

Suguru finally stills behind you, chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon. He doesn’t pull out. Neither of them does.

Instead, they both hold you in place—one cradling you from the front, the other draped against your back. Trapping you in the heat of their bodies, the weight of what’s just happened settling heavy between all three of you.

Then Satoru whispers into your hair, voice hoarse, satisfied:

“Next time… you ask us which cock you want.”

And Suguru chuckles, low and dark.

“‘Cause now, sweetheart…now you don’t get to pick.”

a/n: first time writing anal/threesum. if some things are not realistic, forgive me. hope u guys enjoyed ^ __ ^

[cherryseotang]

Ripped ghost truthers come to my doorsteps to die.

[cherryseotang]

The door creaked open with a heavy sigh, and there he was — your husband, toji. His shoulders were broad and slouched, heavy work bag slipping off his arm as he rubbed his neck with a low hiss, clearly worn out from his long shift. But the second his heavy boots crossed the threshold, a burst of giggles and tiny feet came barreling towards him.

“Daddy!!”

Your two boys—wild little 4 and 5-year-olds—practically tackled his legs, wrapping their small arms around his thighs like little baby koalas on a branch. They were both talking at once, babbling about their day, about the snacks you gave them, about the bug they found outside. Toji chuckled under his breath, eyes softening as he reached a heavy, calloused hand down to ruffle their messy hair.

And then came the waddling.

Your 1-year-old daughter, still a little unstable on her feet, made her way over with little squeaky steps, arms up in that wordless, universal baby plea: ‘Pick me up, Daddy’. She plopped herself right onto his boot, clinging on like it was her own little island while she blinked up at him with an adorably wide, gummy smile.

“Hey, hey,” Toji murmured, his voice rough from exhaustion but still thick with affection as always. “Look at my crew, huh? You guys miss me or something?”

The boys shouted “Yes!” while the baby just giggled, kicking her tiny feet against his shoe. Toji’s gaze finally flicked up to you, and the moment his eyes landed, they softened even more.

There you stood, hands resting on the curve of your swollen belly—round and glowing with your fourth little one on the way. The house was full, loud, chaotic, and growing but the sight of you carrying another piece of him made his chest ache in that familiar, overwhelming way. Like his heart couldn’t hold it all.

You made your way over too, smiling widely as you slipped your arms gently around his waist to hug him, careful with your belly pressing between you. “Welcome home, baby”.

He let out a low grunt, eyes warm as he watched you with love. “C’mere,” he rasped, and with that same easy strength, he scooped you up with one arm, making you squeal softly as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His other hand came down, palm wide and gentle as it cradled the back of your oldest son’s head, the way a father instinctively shields his kids. The younger boy and baby stayed hugging his legs and feet, all of you tangled around him like he was the center of your little world.

Which, really, he is.

“Hard day?” you whispered, forehead pressing against his as your hands settled against the solid bulk of his shoulders.

“Was, but now?” He exhaled against your skin while rubbing his nose on your cheek, voice full of quiet devotion. “S’perfect”.

He kissed you softly, careful of your belly between you while your kids stayed latched to him like little ducklings, the whole family wrapped around him—his safe little world.

Eventually, after several more minutes of standing there swarmed, he finally shuffled you all to the living room, groaning as he slowly lowered himself onto the couch with all of you still attached. “Alright, alright—lemme sit before you all break me”.

But sitting only made him more of a target.

You nestled yourself into his lap properly, your belly resting softly against his stomach as your arms draped around his big shoulders. Toji instinctively rubbed your back, his other hand settled gently on your bump, thumb idly tracing slow, loving circles.

“Hey, baby bean,” he murmured to your bump, voice going soft like it always did when he talked to the new little one inside you. “You giving Mommy a hard time today?”

You smiled sleepily, your head against his chest. “Not too bad. Just kicking a lot”.

The boys clambered onto the couch next. Your oldest was immediately fascinated with Daddy’s thick arms. “Whoa… your muscles are huge,” he said in awe, carefully rolling his toy car up and down Toji’s bicep like it was some kind of ramp. “Look, Mommy! It’s a race track!”

Toji smirked confidently, flexing slightly to make the car bump. “Hey now, don’t scratch me up, huh?”

Meanwhile, your younger boy wiggled his way to Toji’s hand, grabbing his large palm and carefully trying to crack his fingers like he’d seen Toji do so many times. “Lemme do it! Like this, Daddy?”

“Gentle, kiddo,” Toji laughed while letting him try. “You’ll break my whole hand”.

And your daughter—sweet little thing had wormed her way behind him on the couch, tiny fingers tangling gently into his dark hair. She giggled softly every time his hair tickled her palms. “Hairrr,” she babbled.

“You like Daddy’s hair, princess?” Toji tilted his head slightly toward her, voice so warm it could melt.

The whole scene made your heart ache in the best way—your big, strong husband surrounded and smothered by his kids, doting on all of you while you carried yet another life the two of you created inside of you.

“You’re getting attacked, baby,” you teased softly, tracing your fingertips along his jaw.

“Wouldn’t want it any other way.” He kissed your forehead. “My whole world. Right here”.

You leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to his lips while your children happily continued their ‘assault,’ completely unaware how precious this moment was. Toji hummed into your kiss, hand still rubbing soothing circles over your belly like it was second nature now.

Eventually, when the kids started to tire themselves out a little, Toji leaned in close, voice dropping low just for your ears, lips brushing your temple.

“Later tonight… once these little monsters are finally asleep,” he murmured, voice warm with affection and a little husky with promise, “you’re gonna sit on my lap again, baby. Real close this time”.

You flushed instantly, biting your lip as you smiled. He grinned, watching your reaction with that same glint in his eyes, full of love and want.

But for now, he was perfectly happy, sinking deeper into the soft couch, into your warmth, into the pure, beautiful chaos of your growing family — his favorite place on earth.

[cherryseotang]

pirate!satoru who has a bad habit of picking up shiny things and an even worse habit of teasing the sweet mermaid he meets every sunset.

he first saw you while chasing a storm. his crew had warned him of cursed waters ahead, thick with fog and stories about drowned men who never sank. sea birds had stopped circling, and even the wind seemed to hesitate—but satoru liked cursed things. they were usually interesting. and interesting things always led to fun.

what was more fun than a girl in the sea, glowering at his ship like it had insulted the ocean herself?

he remembers that day like salt on skin. ropes whipping in the wind, the creak of the ship’s old bones groaning beneath his boots. gulls screeched overhead, barely heard over the crack of thunder. and then—your eyes, breaking the water like two shards of moonlight, locked onto his with that same look of unimpressed calm, as if you’d already judged him and found him deeply, deeply annoying.

you were tangled in another crew’s net, fins thrashing, hands cut red from rope. he didn’t free you out of chivalry—no, he wasn’t that sort. he just hated the other pirates. loudmouthed, greedy, and smug, like they were owed the sea’s bounty. they caged you like a prize pearl in a box. and that pissed him off.

“i owe you a favor,” you’d said afterward, voice soft like seafoam clinging to a quiet shore.

“you can owe me your company,” he’d replied, tipping his hat like a man far too confident for his own good.

turns out, getting under your skin was impossible. your metaphorical skin might’ve been made of coral and old secrets. he teased. you smiled. he flirted. you tilted your head in confusion. he poked. you thanked him.

like now.

he lounges at the edge of the ship, one leg dangling lazily over the side. the sun’s lowering behind him, turning his white hair gold at the edges, glinting off the pale sweep of his lashes. the breeze lifts the ends of his coat, fluttering it just enough to add flair. in his hands, he twirls two mismatched seashells between calloused fingers, idly rolling them together with a click.

a few crewmates are scrubbing deck nearby, trading quiet gossip about strange tides and the price of fish. none of them look over. they know better. at sunset, the captain talks to the sea—and she talks back.

then you arrive.

rising slowly from the waves like the ocean herself breathed you out. droplets cling to your collarbone, shoulders glistening under the fading sun. your hair, wet and clinging to your cheeks, frames the serene warmth in your eyes. you blink at him with that same quiet anticipation, like this ritual—this meeting—is the most natural part of your world.

he smirks, holding up the seashells. “oi, these yours?”

your brow furrows as you float closer, curiosity blooming across your face. “mine?”

“they look like your bra,” he says casually, letting them swing between his fingers.

you tilt your head. “bra?”

satoru leans forward on his elbows, grinning like the smug little shit he is. his eyes gleam with mischief, watching your expression intently.

“you know. the thing you wear over your chest?” he makes a vague motion toward your own shell top, then glances down at the ones in his hand. “though these—” he eyes the tiny shells, then very obviously eyes you, “—are definitely snack-sized. yours are, uh. not.”

you look at the shells, then down at yourself. then back at him. your smile spreads slowly, luminously. “they’re very shiny. thank you.”

he freezes. “wait. no, that’s not—”

your fingers break the surface and take them gently, like he’s handed you something precious. your touch is cool, damp, and feather-light against his knuckles. he tenses, a little startled by the sincerity of the gesture.

“i will wear them tomorrow,” you say, delighted. “they’re beautiful.”

he sputters. “they’re too—wait, you’re serious?”

you nod, already lowering back into the waves, cradling the shells like they’re pearls from a lover. “thank you, satoru.”

the sea folds over you in one smooth motion, and you're gone—your tail flashing silver in the last bit of sun, leaving only ripples behind.

satoru stares at his now-empty hands. then drops his face into them with a groan. “i was teasing, you little—”

that night, he doesn’t sleep right.

he tosses in his hammock, arms crossed behind his head, boots kicked off haphazardly on the floor. moonlight drips through the porthole like spilled milk, casting pale lines across his wall. every time he closes his eyes, he sees the way yours sparkled. hears your voice echoing in the back of his skull. "i will wear them tomorrow."

“they’re too small,” he mutters. “they were for crabs. or like, decorative. who even makes shell bras that size?”

he flips over and buries his face into the pillow with a frustrated grunt. wills himself to sleep out of sheer frustration.

satoru wakes with a start the next morning, tangled in the hammock’s netting like a man caught in his own trap. the wood above him groans softly with the sway of the ship, but inside his skull, everything is loud. echoing. relentless.

"i will wear them tomorrow."

the memory hits again, not so much a whisper as it is a war drum. a cursed prophecy. his breath catches, and he blurts out—“shit.”

he nearly tumbles out of the hammock, lurching upright like he’s missed roll call at death’s door. his coat is thrown over his bare shoulders in a crooked mess, one sleeve still twisted from sleep. one boot is half on, heel dragging noisily across the floorboards as he bolts for the deck like a man late to his own wedding. his hair is a disaster—white tufts sticking out in every direction, the ends tangled like salt-kissed seaweed.

his crew parts like startled fish, wide-eyed and wary. some lift their heads from mugs of lukewarm grog, others pause mid-scrub, the morning sun casting halos over buckets and ropes.

“what’s gotten into the captain?” a deckhand murmurs, still holding a mop dripping seawater.

“maybe the mermaid did curse him,” another offers, leaning on the railing with a skeptical squint.

“more like blessed,” a third snorts, biting into an apple with the smugness of someone watching a romance unfold.

satoru hears all of it. ignores all of it. his boots clack against the wood like thunder rolling toward a storm.

his strides are frantic, yet deliberate. his shoulders tense. his expression, usually carved from smug marble, is twitchy—like a man walking into his own trap with his eyes wide open. he rakes a hand through his hair—more chaotic than usual—and curses softly when it tangles between his fingers.

the morning air is salty, thick with gull cries and the faint scent of fish stew wafting from the galley. behind him, the sun has barely begun to climb, painting the deck in long gold strokes and casting shadows that stretch like sleepy cats.

and there you are.

rising from the sea like a myth rewritten.

your silhouette breaks the water with ethereal grace, droplets clinging to your skin like borrowed starlight. your hair, soaked and glinting like pearls, drapes around your shoulders, framing your face with moonlit strands. your eyes—curious and bright—search the horizon before landing on him. and there, nestled over your chest in all their misplaced glory—those fucking seashells.

tiny. ornamental. utterly useless in the face of reality. they barely cover what they’re meant to. they sparkle obscenely under the sun.

satoru’s spine locks like a rigged pulley. his pupils shrink.

he pivots too fast—then smacks directly into the mast.

thunk.

“ow—! dammit—” he hisses, stumbling back and grabbing his forehead like he’s been cursed by the gods themselves. one eye cracks open, pained and watery, just in time to see you waving.

“satoru! good morning!”

your voice is sunshine poured over seafoam. you tilt your head, cheeks dewy and glowing, sea breeze brushing through your bangs.

he spins again, half-hiding behind the mast, gripping it like a lifeline tossed from a lifeboat. his mouth is dry. his pride is dissolving. he forces a grin—shaky, stretched thin like fraying rope—and manages, “h-hi.”

his voice cracks in the middle like a boy in love. a boy in trouble.

“the shells fit nicely!” you call, hands floating over the water’s surface as you paddle closer. “they’re a little snug, but very shiny. i like them.”

his brain just stops.

“i—i figured you’d—uh—you didn’t have to actually—I was just—just teasing—”

his words trip over each other like drunken sailors on a tipping deck. his hands flap helplessly in front of him, like he can push the moment away through sheer air resistance.

you blink, thoughtful. your tail flicks behind you under the water, sending a ripple that bumps gently against the ship. “teasing?”

he breathes in too fast and immediately regrets it, choking on his own spit. he bends slightly, hand over his chest like he might physically keep his soul from bailing.

he looks at you. really looks.

the way your brows knit together softly in confusion. the way your fingers cradle the shells like they’re delicate offerings. how your skin glows, kissed by the morning light, shimmering where droplets cling to you. how the innocence on your face is devastating.

he drags a hand down his face, fingers smearing across his cheeks. his pale strands falls over his eyes. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you look genuinely concerned. “with seashells?”

he gives a defeated nod, letting his forehead rest against the mast like he wishes it were a guillotine. “yes. exactly that.”

you hum thoughtfully, still watching him. “do humans often give shells like that to show affection?”

he chokes again. this time, violently.

“w-what?! n-no, i mean—sometimes? not like—i wasn’t—it’s not—”

you smile, pleased with the answer you’ve crafted from his gibberish. “then i’ll treasure them. thank you again, satoru.”

you say his name like it’s a charm, a secret tied to your tongue.

he might actually die.

[cherryseotang]

𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚝𝚜

pairing: fratboy!gojo satoru x fem!reader

genre/warnings: friends with benifits, collage au, suggestive comments, situationship, cussing, reader is referred to as babe twice, mentioned of degradations

notes: first gojo fic lets go ✌🏽🤓

your relationship with gojo satoru, fratboy extraordinaire, usually begins and ends with a late-night text to come over. so why does it suddenly feel like he wants more?

[cherryseotang]

୨୧ ― The hotel room door closes with a soft click behind you, the pale light of the moon streaming through floor to ceiling windows.

Nanami had reserved the penthouse suite, ordered champagne that cost more than most people's rent, and even scattered rose petals across the king sized bed like fallen prayers. The man- your now husband, had ensured every detail was perfect for this moment after your wedding.

Because nothing- absolutely nothing, was ever too much when it came to you.

His hands wind around your waist from behind with the same reverence he'd shown sliding the ring onto your fingers hours ago. It was almost like he was memorizing the moment through touch alone. "Mrs. Nanami," he murmurs against your ear, and you feel him smile at the unfamiliar weight of your new name. "My wife," pressing his lips against your neck, the word still foreign on his tongue but sweeter than any bread he's ever had.

You lean into his warmth, the soft fabric of his tuxedo rubbing against the back of your own dress. "Mr. Nanami," you breathe, reaching back to caress his cheek, and you feel him press into you more at the title, his grip on you tightening, "My husband."

His fingers found the delicate zipper at your spine, drawing it down with practiced patience. Each inch of exposed skin received its own blessing- lips, warm breath, soft touches that made you arch against him.

"So beautiful,” he breathes against your vertebrae, "always so beautiful." his breath ghosts over your bare shoulders as the white gown slides away like shed silk... "Perfect," he adds, voice hitching as the fabric pools at your feet in waves of ivory and lace, leaving you in nothing but intricate lingerie. The garter belt sits high on your thigh- his gift to you, adorned with a diamond that matches the one on your finger. 

Turning you in his arms, "Gorgeous," his lips find yours in a sweet kiss, hands tracing your jaw, "Stunning," he whispers, cupping the nape of your neck as he draws you deeper, tongue coaxing a quiet moan from your lips… "All mine." he says with a low growl. All these words heavy with the weight of a man who's never been careless with language. When Nanami Kento calls you beautiful, gorgeous, stunning... perfect, it's because he's catalogued every detail that makes them true.

And it was all reserved just for you. Only for you.

Your hands reach up to push the jacket from his shoulders, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt- needy and impatient until he caught your hands. "Slowly," he commanded gently, "we have all night."

His mouth traced the column of your throat, pausing at your pulse point to feel your heart racing. "I love how responsive you are," he murmured, teeth grazing your collarbone, "how you tremble when I touch you here..." his thumb traced your nipple through delicate white lace… "How you make those little sounds..."

A soft moan escaped as he took the lace covered peak between his teeth, rolling gently until your knees buckled.

"That sound," he groaned, steadying you against his chest, "I'm going to spend tonight learning all the new ones you'll make as my wife."

"Mmph~ K-Kento~ oh god I-"

"Shhh, I'll take care of you," he promises, fingers ghosting along the lacy edge of your panties, "just like I always do, only this time..." his thumb rubs circles through the thin fabric of your thong, a teasing pressure against the bundle of nerves that has you moaning and rocking against his hand, "i think i'll make sure this whole building knows you're Mrs. Nanami now."

His strong arms hook beneath your legs, lifting you effortlessly to settle you among the rose petals. The bed dipping under his knee as he follows, hovering over you like a man worshipping at an altar, fingers caressing your face as he takes a moment to simply admire the picture you make- sprawled out beneath him. 

"I love you," the words barely audible as he leans down, lips finding the delicate skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing the delicate skin, "so much." Your back arches involuntarily as he finds the diamond adorning the middle of your garter, giving it a flick with his tongue before tracing the silk band with calloused fingers. "I'm so glad you didn't toss this earlier," he admits... "When you told everyone you were keeping it... I was relieved you wanted to skip that particular tradition."

The diamond catches in the moonlight as you bite your lip, a sweet smile playing at the corners of your mouth, "Well~ I was thinking," you card your fingers through his styled hair, mussing the soft strands, "maybe I could wear just this when you come home from work from now on."

His eyes snap to yours, "Don't," his tone serious- the careful control he's maintained all evening fracturing at your words... "Don't tell me things like that unless you want me taking extended lunch breaks to come home… I don't think I'd be able to control myself if you did." he confesses, and the honesty in his voice has your heart skipping a beat, "I barely manage now."

Without breaking eye contact, he catches the garter between his teeth, his lips grazing your skin as he drags it achingly slow down your thigh, "do you know how many nights I’ve dreamed of you greeting me at the door wearing nothing but this?" With a final tug, he slips the garter free, letting it dangle from his mouth before tossing it aside with a smirk.

"K-Kento please~" You squirm under his heated gaze, thighs squeezing together, trying to relieve the throbbing ache between your legs, but the action only makes it worse… "Please don't tease me tonight. I can't-"

"Please what, darling?" a lock of his hair falls in his eyes, "Tell your husband what you need." He runs his hands up the back of your thighs, lifting and spreading them apart. The sight of his head between your legs, looking up at you from beneath the fall of his hair has you biting the inside of your cheek...

"Please~" the word barely a whisper, "M'need you, Kento. Need my husband to make a mess of me hah~"

Your words dissolve as he removes your lace thing- his mouth finding you bare and fucking soaked, "God," he groans against you, tongue swiping at your slick folds. 

He devours you like communion wine, like salvation itself, tongue fucking into your entrance, a thumb circling the small bud above.

"Nghhh fuck~" Your eyes squeeze shut, the pressure building, hips rolling to meet his tongue, your juices covering his chin.

"So sweet," he groans, the words muffled against your pussy, the vibration making you buck against him, "I could savor you all night."

With that he rises up, mouth leaving you empty and aching, his hands pinning your hips to the bed, "But I think i'll save the rest of my appetizer for later." He smirks down at you, wiping the remnants of your slick off his chin with the back of his hand.

Slowly, he reaches down to unbuckle his belt, pulling it free in a single motion, "Put your arms above your head, love," he orders softly, watching as you obey without question, a soft gasp escaping when he catches both your wrists, securing them with his belt. "This is my wedding night as well, after all…" securing the leather strap around the frame of the headboard, "And I intend to take my time with you."

Your fingers curl around the smooth leather, testing the bindings as his cock springs free, precum already pearling at the tip. The head is flushed, straining, and aching to be buried in your heat.

"Fuck-," he groans, hand gripping the base, thumb sweeping his weeping slit, "you have no idea what you do to me."

He positions himself between your thighs, the thick head of his cock teasing your entrance, sliding along your wet folds, the tip catching your clit, and then he's sinking into you, a strangled groan torn from his throat as you wrap around him like a vice.

Each thrust has the bedframe creaking as he fills you completely, perfectly, his cock stretching you just right. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling as you move together, the only sounds in the room are the obscene sounds of your joined bodies, your broken cries, his grunts of pleasure.

"Ah! Mnnnh Kento~" You writhe beneath him, tugging at the restraints, body arching and straining for release, but the position keeps you helpless, a moaning wreck, pinned and bound by his cock, his weight, his strength.

"Harder~" The word slips out before you can stop it, and you feel him still above you.

"Are you certain?" His voice carries an edge now, something darker lurking beneath the tenderness.

"Please, Kento. I need… I need you to fuck me. M’need my husband to make me scream~."

The change is immediate. Your sweet gentle Nanami, replaced by his more desperate… pent up, and demanding side- god you loved it when he got like this~. His thrusts become punishing, deep enough to make you see stars- head so dizzy it causes you to babble incoherently. And his words… oh, his words turn absolutely filthy.

"This what my precious wife needs?" he rasps, breath hot against your throat as his cock drives deep, "Her loving husband splitting this perfect pussy open, making her beg for more like a whore."

The headboard rocks against the wall as he thrusts into you, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. "Look how you're taking it," he pants, voice breaking, "Greedy little thing swallowing my cock. You're dripping all over the sheets, darling."

When he pulls out he’s quickly undoing his belt from your wrists- flipping you onto your stomach hastily as you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But then he's slamming back into you from behind, the new angle making you scream into the pillows.

"That's it," he groans, watching as that pretty pussy of yours grips him each time he withdraws, "let the whole hotel hear how good your husband fucks you. Let them know how desperate- how hungry you are for my cock."

His hand comes down on your ass with a brutal crack, making you clench and gush around him. "You like that, don't you? My beautiful wife likes being spanked while she gets her pussy destroyed from behind."

"Y-yesss! Oh god, yesss!" you babble, drool pooling at the corner of your lips as you're fucked senseless- eyes rolling back, "I love it when you ahhhh! when you use me like this!" Your voice breaks into needy whimpers, pussy clenching desperately around his length as he pounds into you, "Yesyesyes! Fuck me harder!"

He sets a brutal pace, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside that makes your vision white out, your body trembling as you lose yourself completely to the sensation. "Please," you moan, saliva dripping from your parted lips, "don't stop... m’need it so bad... need your cock so f’hah- fucking deep..."

"Going to stuff you so full," he growls against your ear, teeth sinking into your shoulder, "give you everything until you’re overflowing with it… until your belly swells with it..."

His movements stutter for just a heartbeat- eyes widening in shock at what he'd just said… Until your belly swells... Did he really just confess he wants to make a child with you tonight? The admission sends a shock through his system even as his cock throbs harder at the thought.

"I- …," he breathes shakily, almost stunned by his own desperate need. But there's no taking it back now… the raw truth is out.

"D-do it~" you coo breathlessly, the words sending a shiver of pure want down his spine. Your fingers push back his hair, holding him close, and the way you look at him... The sheer amount of adoration and love in your eyes, it nearly steals his breath away. You are the light of his life...

His thrusts become erratic, sloppy, each one driven by that new need to create something precious- a son, a daughter… either or it didn’t matter.

"Look at me," he gasps, his voice breaking. "I want to see your face when I- ngh-"

Your eyes lock as his control finally snaps. With a broken moan of your name, Nanami buries himself to the hilt and releases. Hot sticky ropes of cum flood your womb, painting your inner walls white as he empties himself completely. Your own orgasm washing over you from the fullness of him, your pussy clenching and milking every last drop from his throbbing cock.

Afterward, you lie tangled together, skin slick with sweat and cum. He holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your neck as you both slowly return to earth, his cum slowly leaking out of your thoroughly used pussy.

Later, much later, dawn creeps through silk curtains to find Nanami already awake, memorizing the sight of you sleeping peacefully beside him. His thumb traces over your wedding ring, this symbol of a future he never dared imagine…

"Wife," he whispers to himself, the word starting to sound less foreign.

Husband…

Thats what he is now.

And someday, perhaps sooner than later… A father.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, marveling at you- this woman who chose him, who said yes to forever with a man who once thought love was a luxury- the only luxury he thought he couldn’t afford in his dangerous line of work. Now he knew this, it was the only wealth that mattered… and he was the richest man alive.