sophistication-as - Tumblr blog

sophistication-as · 25 days ago

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Sex, Lies, Ugly Truth

art in the banner is by @3-aem ! god they make the juiciest art, go follow <3

Pairings - Your mom's boyfriend Satoru x F! reader

Summary- here's just one thing worse than having to stay with your estranged mom for just a few days while your apartment is getting renovated - and that's the six foot four white haired man banging her out every night. And does he own a fucking shirt!? You can't stand being around them, your mom's much younger boyfriend who's closer to your age. What's worse is... you liked him first. He's arrogant, annoying and you're disgusted by him - he doesn't actually make you wet that's... nothing!? And you don't want to fuck him, not at all! No way you wanna fuck your bitch ass mom's boyfriend. right?

Warnings - oh boyyy aha, forbidden love, abusive mother (reader) mentions of past eating disorders, verbal abuse from reader's mom, sm tension and build up, sex doesn't happen till after Toru tells your mom byeee, but fingering does happen before that, oral (f and m receiving) backshots while on the phone with your mom -yeppp - damaged ass reader and Satoru, they have issues, hints of stepcest I guess but he's not rly your stepdad lol, Satoru is 32, reader is 22 so AGE GAP, reader calling him daddy as a joke - maybe. Oneshot - WC - 13.2k

This is literally so toxic aha, my mommy issues haven't gone away. read the warnings! and if you fuck with this brand of crazy, I'll see you in the comments

The first day staying under the same roof as Satoru Gojo

Staying at your mom's for a couple weeks was horrible to say the very least, not just because she was an insane bitch, and not just because you swore you'd never come back here. Not because the memories of being in your old room - transformed into a mural of her pictures and crowns from various pageants she’d been in, you think she changed it the same day you left.

No, not because you love having your freedom, and busted your ass to make sure you never have had to stay here, not because you hadn’t talked to her in so long you have no clue what to say to each other. And not just due to the fact that she was only allowing you here because your father called and asked her to do one favor for once - he lived way too far away.

No, there was another reason that you were miserable, and that was the moans emanating from the next room.

How many rounds could that man go?

And did she have to scream so loud!?!

You slam a pillow on your face, screaming into it while your mom is screaming out - Gojo! There, there! - and then to make it worse, you hear a filthy smack. You feel nauseated at this point, about to throw up if you had to hear one more moan, when finally he seems to finish up.

Jesus, that was a longer session than usual. Does the man do anything but fuck you’re really not certain. Huffing, you throw off the covers of the little futon she’d so graciously brought out, the woman was well off, mind you, but none of that ever helped you any. You wonder if he’s after her money or something, because he was gorgeous, but you suppose your mother was as well.

It still seemed odd, he wasn’t much older than you, but it’s not as if your mom wasn’t notorious for fucking younger guys - even some of your high school friends as soon as they turned eighteen. That was one of the reasons your dad moved out of the country, and you couldn’t blame him for it, she was by far the worst human being, but everyone didn’t know that.

In fact, it was really only you and your dad, along with a couple close friends of yours that knew how horrible she was. Keeping custody of you - for ‘appearances’ - had been hell. But everyone saw her as the ideal, doting mother - after all she spent all her time taking you to every competition there was, and made sure you looked and acted perfect for them.

As soon as you shed the ‘perfect image’ she decided to quit acting.

Shaking off reminiscent thoughts, you get up now and walk over to the door, glaring at the endless photos of her in bikinis and gowns, no one loved themselves more than your mother did, truly. You peek out and notice it’s finally gone quiet in that room, heading to the kitchen to grab a water, downing it to fight back the nausea.

That’s when he walks out, smirking at you, shirtless, nothing but boxers slung over his narrow hips - the reason this was even worse for you.

Satoru Gojo.

"Gimme, I'm dehydrated." This mother fucker snatches the watter bottle then, gulping it down, you watch his Adam's apple Bob as he does, sweat dripping across perfectly sculpted abs. You stare for a moment as your mom walks out, or should you say waddled out, glaring at you now.

"Gojo, come back to bed." She doesn't acknowledge you, and Satoru frowns a bit, the never ending tension between you two prevalent. Satoru actually never knew she had a daughter till he saw you come to the house yesterday, but she sure doesn't seem to have any affection- in fact she hasn't even introduced you properly to him, it was more - this is my daughter.

"Need a break." Gojo says, you bend down to snatch up your bottle, and he can't help but eye your ass in those shorts, looking away quickly now.

There was a big problem staying at his girlfriend’s house for the past couple nights, and that was -

Satoru wants to fuck his girlfriend's daughter.

His girlfriend is forty five, Satoru is thirty two. And it just so happens you're twenty two, so you’re honestly closer to his age just a bit, but Satoru loves older women, he loves milfs, girls his age or younger were never much interest. He probably has mommy issues, no, he definitely does, there's nothing better than having his head stroked and having a meal made for him after fucking a Milf's brains out-

Except, maybe, getting to ever touch you.

Gorgeous. You're so gorgeous, effortless and seemingly unaware.

You dress in all black, the opposite of what he expected with your mother who was literally beauty pageant winner for her state for years, her crowns are displayed everywhere. But not a single picture of you to be found, and you'd win them all too with your beauty. But you seem to shove it all away, baggy shirts and ripped jeans, you have not a speck of makeup on your face. Big buffalo plaid jackets as if to hide a body he now sees is fucking banging.

Your mom scowls over at you as she ties her robe. "Stop bothering him and go to your room."

"I just got water because hearing you all fuck for hours was making me sick. I'm not bothering him. He took my water."

"I don't care, when are you leaving again?" You blink a bit.

"I told you it's just a week while they're fixing that roof leak, and I won't bother you again. I'd have asked dad but I can't be that far from work."

"The sooner the better, and don't judge me for having a life, my sentence of you is over now." Satoru pauses, the woman he's been with for months was always sweet and perfect, until you got here.

Seeing your eyes water he clears his throat. "She wasn't bothering me, I did snatch her water up."

Your mom's face has plastered back on a fake smile, the beauty queen smile that’s so cold it makes you shiver, as she brushes up and down Satoru's bare arm, you hate how pretty he is. How much you think of him, and how her hand is all over him, it makes your stomach turn.

"You're right, sorry sweetie I'm just tired." She cooes, all fake she comes and hugs you. Satoru frowns, hoping he read that wrong, you stand still, unmoving, eyeing him over your mom's shoulder then. "I'll try to be quieter -" she leans against your ear. "So you're not so jealous of me hmm?"

You bite back tears, shoving her off. Satoru hadn't heard anything so he has no clue as she comes up to him that you're sobbing in your room. You almost forgot how much you hate that bitch. Yes, you hate your mother. Who pushed you beyond your means to compete when you were younger, damn near starving and working you to perfection, and when you turned eighteen and threw all your tiaras in the trash, lit your gowns and sashes on fire, she never fucking forgave you.

You haven't talked to her in four years, tired of living in her goddamn shadow, your father left her ten years ago and you see why. He hates her as much as you. They fought all the time over letting you have a choice of who to move with, but she ultimately won custody.

And now she takes the guy you were thinking of working up the courage to talk to.

Satoru Gojo.

You saw him every day as you studied at that coffee shop right by your college, flirting with everyone, so light and free with his bright smile and confidence, while you wallowed in the corner. But you never did say hi, you're sure he never saw you, but to come home and find him shirtless and grinning was almost too much.

Your apartment unfortunately had a horrible leak upstairs and you had to leave, this was the last place you expected but it was right across from work. Never asking her for a thing you hoped maybe you could mend some bridges, but she's as cruel, beautiful and cold as ever. As a younger girl, you craved to have any of her attention, looked up to her, but now you know it’s not worth anything.

Maybe that's the type of woman a guy like Satoru Gojo went for, not you.

What did it matter!? He’s as off limits as it gets.

You hear them moaning again and shove in your earbuds, throwing a blanket over your head and praying for the week to end.

*****

Three days of staying under the same roof as Satoru Gojo

“Shit, sorry…” You’ve stepped right into the bathroom while Satoru’s walking out the next morning, skin glistening with the shower he just took, steam rising out of the door behind him. He smirks down at you as you careen into him damn near, hitting his hard body and almost falling before he catches you.

“Sorry for what?” He sets you right, lazy in his assessment of your face, blue eyes impossible to read, while your eyes drift across his nearly naked body, falling to the towel that’s not hiding shit, bringing a flush to your cheeks. “What, never seen a naked man? You freak out all the time.”

“Well if you ever wore any fucking clothes,” you shove him out of your way, scowling at his smirking face. “What?”

“You’re cute. Bet you’re a whole virgin.”

“Oh fuck yourself, none of your business, fucking Mrs. Robinson.” Satoru chuckles now while your hands brush against his slippery skin a little too long, making him pause, seeing color decorate your cheeks. He falters then, looking down at you, so clearly unused to any attention, clearing your throat and dropping your hand.

“How do you know what Mrs. Robinson is, you’re a baby.” He teases, arm resting in the doorway, that towel daring to dive lower with every moment, you avert your eyes now, digging out your makeup bag from the drawer to wash your face.

“You’re not much older than me, right?”

“Ten years older. You’re still a baby.”

“I’m closer to you than she is.” He blinks a bit, you wish he’d leave, but he’s just lingering like a little fucking pest.

“I guess. You’re nothing like her.” You scoff then, he didn’t mean it as an insult but he sees it is one, your jaw setting while you dry your face with a soft towel, and fuck if you’re not prettier bare faced than anyone he’s seen with a face full of product.

He shouldn’t think like that.

“I’m definitely nothing like her.”

“You don’t call her mom, huh?” He raises a brow, while you’re slathering serum on your skin, cool and tacky as it dries, counteracting the steam and the overheating of your skin from his proximity.

“No, I don’t. It’s none of your business, you all will be back to an empty love shack in days.”

Satoru chuckles then, shaking his head as you glare up at him. “Love shack, what’s with these old ass references?”

“I enjoy old things too, just like you enjoy old women.” He snorts now, rolling his eyes.

“She’s not old to me, one day you’ll be there too.”

“Sure will and won’t be fucking dudes that look like babies.” Satoru leans forward then, that perfect, pretty face right against yours, you freeze when he tilts your chin up, breath brushing across your lips.

“I’m no baby.” His whisper is too much, you swallow nervously, stepping back while he wreaks havoc on your nervous system, heart hammering when his snowy lashes lower, hand falling. “Why do you care what she does and with who?”

“I don’t. But I am not surprised, she was a hit at the high school graduation party.” He blinks in confusion at your words, you shake your head now. “You’re new to her. I almost feel bad for you.”

“Do you now…” You shove him aside, hating how good his skin feels again, hating whatever the fuck he does to your tummy being too close, shoving those thoughts far back.

“I do, she runs through toys like you.”

“We’re dating, not just fucking, you know.” Your lips quirk up, patting his shoulder, only for him to grip your wrist with his huge hand, taking it over, pausing your steps. You turn back to glare at his grip, then up into those arrogant eyes. “You know something I don’t?”

“Let’s just say, she’s a bitch.” You shake him off again. “But you are too.”

“Me!? You’re the mopey, emo little brat glaring daggers at me, sweetheart.” His voice murmurs, his breath against your skin as he leans down, you yank your wrist out of his grip.

“Don’t call me sweetheart!” You hiss as the bedroom door opens, as you two quickly separate, but she’s eyed your proximity, smiling coldly as she assesses you, the look that’s always made you feel so small, holds less than it did before, but it’s still there, the haunting memory of it all.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” She says it so nasty to you then, you just glare once more at Satoru and nod, walking past, her hand halting you, her mouth against your ear, making you shiver in disgust. “Stop looking at him, you’ll never have someone like that.”

“I don’t want him.” You whisper back, earning her laugh now, while she fake hugs you, and you just want to fucking fall into a hole.

“Have a great day, honey!” She smiles and steps forward to Satoru, you can’t stop looking back over your shoulder at them, sighing when his eyes catch yours over her shoulder, unreadable - but you swear you see something flicker.

You can’t even think that way.

You’re stupid.

*****

Five days of staying under the same roof as Satoru Gojo

The man does not own a tee-shirt, you’re completely convinced - he’s always half naked, as if this is how he exists. Well, he clearly has dress shirts, he wears them when he heads off to run his business, you’re not even sure what that job entails, apparently some trust fund baby considering he’s never there. He left for the past couple of nights to go home, thank god.

When he does he brings her with him and she doesn’t come back until late, driven home in some fancy limo, but you get a reprieve.

You suppose he looks good in his Armani suits as he leaves every morning though, always getting some breakfast made from ‘mommy’- yuck. You have to watch them kissing in the kitchen as you fight waves of nausea, but the past couple days you haven’t heard that ridiculous fucking, and he barely kisses her, eyeing you intently when he does press his lips on her cheek.

“Satoru, do you have to go to work today?” She pouts as she blinks those long lashes at him, and he sighs, smiling and touching her cheek, as you vividly wish it was you, which you hate yourself for. You avoid his eyes, sipping on coffee before you head to work yourself.

“I do honey, don’t worry I’ll come stay tonight.” She pouts again, he just smiles a little stiffly, walking out as you head out the door, hands touching the knob at the same time, making you both pause. You clear your throat, pulling your hand back like it’s on fire, as he lets you out first, feeling your mom’s gaze burning a hole in the back of your head.

“Want a ride to work?” He asks quietly, heading over to the black car with a driver holding the back door.

“You don’t drive, huh?”

“Why should I when I can pay someone too.” His pretentious smirk again has you itching to smack him, but the thought of not having to catch a bus is tempting. “You know you wanna.”

“Whatever. Thanks I guess.” He bows as if he’s some gentleman and not an idiot, you slide in next to him, sighing as his thighs spread way too far, brushing against yours. “Manspread much?”

“You hate me don’t you?” You blink in confusion, looking away and biting that lower lip, the lip that fucks him up mentally to look at. Being this close to you alone is making his body react, his pulse racing, even as he keeps a neutral look, he aches to drag your lips against his.

He’s been trying to avoid you since that morning in the bathroom when you touched his chest, burning his skin like a brand. The pull is too much, to where he can hardly remember what he was thinking with your mom. She’s gorgeous, she’s his type, she’s got everything Satoru needs after spending the day at his boring ass family company, but her daughter won’t stop tempting him.

How he saw your breasts spill out of your tank top this morning, your scent that he can’t describe filling a room, it’s all horrible - and shit timing, as now your mom has been talking about getting more serious. Before he saw you, he was hopelessly enamored with her beauty, her clear confidence, but he can’t stop looking at the shy, insecure girl far too eagerly.

He’d show you how gorgeous you were if he had a chance-

The fuck is wrong with him?

You’re her daughter.

“I don’t hate you, Gojo.” You say softly, turning to look up at him now, so much pain behind your eyes it nearly takes his breath away.

“You sure act like it.”

“I know. I have to.” You clear your throat nervously, tucking strands of hair behind your ear, his fingers itching to sweep it back, breath catching when you look up at him, eyes so intense he can’t look away.

“Why do you have to hate me?” He asks quietly again, trying to remember - you’re young, you’re his girl’s daughter, while you remember, he’s your mom’s boyfriend, and you can never act on anything.

“You know the answer,” you whisper, leaning forward a bit, when he leans down, the car cruising gently through the busy streets, entrapping you both in the black tinted windows. “Don’t you?”

“Do I? Seems like you hate her, and I’m hated by default,” he brushes that hair back finally, the contact bringing heat to your cheek, he feels it against his fingers, exhaling when you don’t pull back. “Do you have a good reason to hate her?”

“I do.”

“What-” The car comes to a stop now, jostling you just a bit, as the driver apologizes for hitting the brakes too hard, throwing you right against Satoru’s hard body, you inhale that cologne, expensive and musky, almost making you salivate before he pulls back a bit. “Shit, you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” You pull back before it feels good, sliding away again and looking out the dark window. “It’s too long of a story.”

“We have a drive to talk.” He wants to talk to you, fuck he wants to do a lot more than talk, last night he’d seen you when he tried to fuck her, and he had to stop, much to her irritation.

He kept fighting the need to jerk it to the memory of your pretty tits, to picture you instead of her, to shove it all down and try to remember himself.

He’d be glad when you weren’t around, tempting him.

“It’s too much to even begin, but… let’s just say living in her shadow, and with her expectations were brutal.” Satoru tilts his head, big hands on his own thighs, sitting still so as not to further touch you, or do more. “I gave up pageants when I turned eighteen and she disowned me.’

“You did them?” He asks softly, you sigh and turn to look back at him.

“Yeah, since I was three. I… don’t wanna get into it all.” He sighs, was it just that your mother was so upset you gave up on her dream? It felt like more. “I don’t hate you though. Okay? Aside from constantly making her scream out like some goat-” he bursts into laughter then, making your eyes narrow. “And never wearing a shirt.”

“You really hate that.” He muses, you want to tell him more about her, but he’s not your therapist, not your friend, and as much as you despise your mother, it’s just not your place to spill it all. So you leave it at that, sighing and pulling out your phone, checking the time.

“Besides all of that you’re okay I guess.”

He smirks just a bit. “I’ll take it.”

“I will never call you step dad.”

“Oh god, fuck I hope you won’t.” You both laugh it off a bit, the tension, the unspoken words in the air, as you slip into a soft silence, the two of you busying yourselves now, both trying to ignore it. Whispering in your minds - it’ll be over soon.

*****

One week of staying under the same roof as Satoru Gojo

The amount of stress your mother puts you through is unreal, when Satoru is there at least she puts on enough of a show not to do too much in front of him, as to appear perfect. You went out with a few friends for the night - a much needed getaway, and free drinks - sounds like the perfect remedy for dealing with her bitchiness.

You wish you just had some extra money for a hotel, but you just paid all your bills and pay day is a couple days away. As soon as that came in you were going to just grab a hotel for the last couple of days - they are stupid expensive with the holiday right now, but anything was worth leaving her as quickly as you can.

Stumbling in, your mother eyes your clothes with disdain. “You look like a slut.”

You snort in laughter at that, opening the fridge and grabbing another drink out, the seltzers you bought to knock out at night when you had to hear her and Satoru fucking. You crack it open and sit on a chair, crossing your legs that are well revealed in the dress that does barely cover anything. You look hot as fuck though, you already know it.

“Says the woman who had like an entire frat run a train on her in her forties?” You raise a brow, and your mom smacks you right in the face, you smile nastily at her. “Ya mad your ass can’t wear this shit anymore?”

“You’re a stupid little bitch, everything I did for you - and you turn out like this?”

“What, work for a living? A degree? How’d I turn out so bad.” You swipe your cheek then, and her gaze drifts across you with cold eyes - the same color as yours, but they just have no fucking soul to them.

“The biggest disappointment. You could have had a modeling career, but now you’ve let yourself go.”

“Let myself go?”

“Remember how you looked senior year?” You shrink back at her nasty words, biting at your lower lip then, you try to act tough but it’s difficult at times to not let old insecurities hit.

“I was starving because of you.”

“Exaggeration, my god. I did that so you could look your best.”

“My best, huh? I think I look hot, so you can suck a dick. Where is Satoru, by the way? Can he shove one in your mouth?” You smile as your mom gasps, and that’s when the door opens, and you hear Satoru’s footsteps on the floor, still rubbing your stinging cheek as your mother instantly puts on her front.

“You’re a little bitch.” Your mom whispers, yanking your drink out of your hand then, slamming it on the table. “What a waste of your looks, down the drain.”

Usually your mom would stop when Satoru got here - perhaps your saving grace was that. But as he walks into the kitchen, his snowy lashes blink in confusion at seeing her. You catch his eye over her shoulder, smiling then. “Why don’t you fuck her so she’ll be in a good mood again?”

Your mom gasps as you take your drink back, standing and getting away from her overwhelming presence, taking a breath and acting ‘normal’ while Satoru’s gaze drifts across your outfit slowly. You feel every inch of your skin caressed by blue eyes, like he’s touching you.

You can’t think that way, even if she’s a bitch.

“What’s wrong?” He asks then, setting down his jacket, your mother finally seems to notice he’s there, putting on a pretty pout and batting her lashes.

“Just her being mean to me, Satoru.” She walks up to his arms, and you laugh then, so loud you’re crying, swiping tears as you truly feel you’re losing it, seeing her run her long red nails across Satoru’s chest as he looks at you.

There’s too much in the look.

“Maybe if you get dick in your mouth you’ll shut up.” Your words earn your mom’s mouth wide open, while you stretch, knowing half your breasts are fucking out, your thighs fully revealed in the short, tight skirt, hoping to piss your bitch mom off more.

It’s petty but.

It works.

You bend over to snatch two more drinks up, and Satoru has trouble tearing his vision from the sight, picturing bending you over and cursing himself for it. Your mom is whining to him, bitching about you, but your evil little smirk towards him and her turns him on more.

“I’ll be gone tomorrow night, then you won’t have to see me again mommy dearest.”

“I know you didn’t just call me that.” Her affronted tone just makes you giggle, drunk honestly, even more, walking back to your old room - her pageant trophy room - and sighing then, leaning against the door.

You can act as if you’re not hurt by her words all you want, but they hit and they hit deep, hearing the quiet murmurs of her and the man you’re fast desiring far, far too much. You slide down to the floor - you’ve talked endlessly about how your mom never loved you to your therapist - but it still feels like shit, not that you think she could love anyone but herself.

After downing your seltzers, you’re thoroughly drunk - something you haven’t been since freshman year of college, when you go out into the quiet kitchen, in search of a bottle of water. You tense when you see a shirtless Satoru, his strong back illuminated by the soft light over the stove as ice clinks into a glass. He turns his head, catching sight of you before you can dip back to the room.

“Hey.” He usually has something snarky to say, but that’s all he manages, turning toward you and leaning on the counter, you try to avoid your gaze on his body, on the light trail of hair under his flat belly button - but you’re too drunk to avoid it.

“You get her off enough? Maybe she’ll be okay tomorrow.” You murmur, and his jaw tenses then, while you walk up, stumbling just a bit when you get to the fridge, one of his hands dart out to your arm, wrapping around it gently. You pause, eyes darting up to his.

“You all right?” You scowl, yanking your arm out of his hold.

“What do you care for?” Your whisper is angry, he sees so much anger, and though he doesn’t exactly know what was said, hurt was written all over your face.

“Can I not care?” He asks softly. You scoff, looking away.

“No, you can’t.” He sighs now, sipping his drink as you bend down, grabbing another drink instead.

“You shouldn’t have more, you’re torn the fuck up.”

“Oh, thanks dad.”

Satoru scowls now. “Don’t call me that.”

“No?” You’re annihilated, he’s absolutely right, removing the barrier you have put up for him, fingers drifting up his chest, bare and hot to the touch. He tenses, as your fingers drift down over his abdomen, and you step closer. “Should I call you daddy?”

Satoru scowls, thin brows deep over his blue eyes, and his cock is throbbing under his sweats, he wills it to go down, feeling like a horrible fucking man. He couldn’t get hard for her tonight, not when every time he was touching her he pictured her daughter instead, pictured how tight and slick he bets your cunt is, pictures your perfect tits in his fucking hands.

“You’re drunk and stupid, sweetheart.” He grips your wrist, as you quietly giggle, and you look far too hot, drunk mess and all. “You’re too drunk to know what you’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing, Gojo. I just hold back when I’m sober.” He exhales, and your eyes dart down, raising a brow when you see a far too impressive bulge. “Need to go fuck mommy some more?”

“You’re a brat.” He whispers, pressing you against the cold steel of the fridge now, a thigh pressing between yours, and your heart races. His proximity has you dripping wet in moments, the strong thigh between yours, his breath ghosting over your lips as he bends down. “Touch me again like that and see what happens.”

“Gonna spank me, step dad?” He pins your wrists right over your head, muscled thigh pressing up against your overheated cunt then. Your eyes roll back, you’re too gone to act like you don’t want him, arching your hips up and earning his soft little moan, as he rests his head down on yours.

“Shut the fuck up, you’re… just shut up.” He whispers, a desperate, needy little voice now. “If you weren’t… If I wasn’t…”

“What, big man? Can’t finish a sentence?” You roll your hips again, he feels you soaking him, he can’t stand how badly he wants to slip his cock inside you then, lift your right on that fridge. “Don’t wanna make mommy mad, do we?”

“I can’t stand you.” His lips are a centimeter from yours then, and your breath catches. “Need me, don’t you? Cunt is soaking wet.”

“It’s n-not.” He smirks, letting your wrists go, you shove at his chest, when he pulls back just a bit, gripping your chin.

“It’s not?” You shake your head and he pulls back his leg, looking down at it. Your entire body heats up as you see it, the wet spot darkening his light sweats. “What’s this then, hmm sweets?”

“N-nothing.” You look down in horror, when he swipes it with his thumb, leaning forward again, silvery white locks falling over his forehead then.

“Nothing?” You nod, and he swipes that thumb over your lips, moaning as they’re coated in a gloss, while your cunt throbs around nothing, aching for his touch.

“Mmm, fuck, why do you have to look like that?” He whispers, lips leaning close again, his hands on your hips, your nails slip up his side, contemplating leaving marks for your bitch ass mom to see - hating yourself for it.

“Go back to bed, mommy will miss you. Go fuck her.” He glares even deeper, just looking far too attractive when his lips brush against yours barely, before there’s a noise and he immediately backs away, as do you, heart pounding. What the fuck were you even doing!? “I’m drunk.”

“Yeah, you are.” He whispers, fists clenching as he huffs, turning and pulling his cock up into the waistband of his sweats, annoyed as shit by your laughter. “You’re such a brat.”

“Am I, or are you just wanting to fuck a mom and a daughter? Didn’t you get off enough al-”

“I can’t fuck her, okay?” You blink a bit at his declaration, you scoff, rolling your eyes. You won’t believe him. “That’s your fucking fault. I’ll be glad when you go.”

“Good, so the fuck will I.” You shove at him now, and he hates the hurt on your face. “Don’t want you, creepy old stepdad.”

“Old!?” You smile, mean and nasty, only making him want to fuck that expression right off your face. “I’m not your fucking stepdad.”

“Sure you’re not.” You pat his bare shoulder, walking past him now, barely able to breathe when you walk back into your room, leaving him cursing, eyes shutting tightly when he leans against the fridge, heart racing.

Satoru Gojo has never hated someone until you, for fucking his brain up and whatever morals he does have. He’s by far not a cheater and never has been, but all he can picture when your mom sucks him is you instead, shutting his eyes and pulling on hair that looks just like yours. He hates whatever the fuck you’ve done to him, and how bad he feels for telling you he wants you gone.

He does want you gone so things go back to normal, he can be the milf fucker he’s always been, he can live his life and fuck away all his problems with the career he’s been shoved into. But laying next to her that night he’s staring at the ceiling, wondering what you taste like.

******

One day left staying under the same roof as Satoru Gojo

You and Satoru have avoided each other completely, you work and come home, packing up the few things you have left so you can stay with a friend who’s offered you to come with her for the next few days. It was tiny and cramped there, but anything was better than staying here, and not just because your mom is an evil bitch who loves to trash you every moment.

It was him, the reason you wanted to leave so fucking bad.

“Should you eat that, honey?” Your mom says, so fake sweet as you nibble on a candy bar, you didn’t eat shit at work so you instantly busted out a snickers.

“Should you fuck men half your age, mommy?” Your mother glares, and Satoru overhears, though he stays in the hall.

“He’s not - also your ass is just looking really big in those shorts, you know.”

“That’s good, I like it.”

“Your hair looks oily.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Your mom scoffs again, snatching the bar and throwing it out, and you glare up at her. “I just care about you. No makeup, you dress like shit, and you’re munching on a candy bar? How much further do you want to let yourself go?”

“I work for a fucking living, I don’t make money off fucking men and having them take care of me. So back the fuck off. I’ll be gone in the morning.”

“Thank god, Satoru can’t stand you.” You blink a bit then, wishing that didn’t hurt as much as it did. You could handle her trashing you in every other way, but the man that you can’t rip your fucking mind from actually hating you stung.

“Huh?”

“He can’t stand you, and you’re not going to come between what I want. I see you, looking at him.” She tilts your chin up then. “You think you’d ever get a man like him? That’s funny. Maybe before, when you were still competing. Now?” She laughs, and you feel tears running unwillingly from your eyes. “Not a chance, so stop dreaming about him.”

“You don’t know shit.” You smack her hand off you. “I’ll leave now.”

“Go right ahead-”

“Hey, what’s for dinner?” Satoru walks out then, and your mom pauses. “Who’s cooking?”

“She’s leaving.” Satoru checks his Rolex on his wrist then, frowning.

“It’s nine already, buses aren’t running. Why not wait till the morning?”

“Because she-” your mom puts back on her airs now, smiling so saccharine and fake. “No, you’re right, Satoru. She should stay and eat some dinner.”

You scoff, since the bitch just threw your only food for the day in the trash - but you do get paid in the morning, and it would be more convenient to just stay. “I’m not eating with you. But I’ll leave in the morning. Good night mommy dearest.”

“I swear to-”

She’s cut off with you shutting yourself in again, laying on the bed and shutting your eyes, wishing her words didn’t cut so deep like knives, stomach growling. Even later when you smell food you don’t come out, until a soft knock is on your door, and you finally drag yourself out of your bed you’re just rotting away and crying in.

“What do you want?” You say softly, looking up at the tall man - who really should wear a fucking shirt - in the doorway.

“You should eat something.” He murmurs softly, you sigh, shaking your head.

“I’m not hungry.” Your tummy inconveniently growls, and he frowns now rather than an amused smirk you’d expect.

“You should eat.” He repeats, shocking you when he grips your hand in his, bringing you out to find he’s set a plate aside for you.

“I don’t need you to feed me.” You nibble while standing, cutting up a piece of chicken however, chewing thoughtfully as he watches you, far too intensely. “What, are you gonna just watch me?”

His heart aches for you then, having overheard her. It all fits with the conversation he had with you in the back of the car, the pressure she had you under all made sense. He’d only seen glimpses of it, her cruelty toward you, but they’re glaringly apparent. When she’d tried to fuck him earlier, and brought you up, he couldn’t do anything with her, thanking god she went to sleep early.

He needed to see you.

You were so clearly not okay from her.

“Stop acting like you care.” You murmur then, nibbling another bite, not even sitting at the seat before you turn away.

“Finish eating.” His commanding tone is far too fucking sexy, in fact all of him is - and you could almost forget about last night, in your drunken haze, but the problem is you remeber it vividly, tasting your arousal on your lips.

“You don’t tell me what to do. I have a dad.” He laughs without humor then, shaking his head and leaning low, pressing one hand on the wall, lifting your chin with the other.

“Stop acting like I’m even close to old enough to be your dad.” You bite your lower lip that trembles, you inhale that hundred dollar a spray cologne that’s haunted your fucking senses all week.

“You fuck my mom, so.” Your little glare hits him so good, your mean little words that just make him more obsessed with you, picturing you constantly. He’d jerked off in his office just remembering your heat against his thigh today - simultaneously feeling horrible and the inevitable pull of you, intoxicating like the liquor he’d drunk to just lay next to her last night.

He can’t get hard around her - not when you’re in the next room.

“Does that make you mad, that I fuck her?” He asks then, your scowl deepens, teeth clenched as you shove at his chest.

“Why would it?”

“Seems like it bothers you,” his fingers brush your hair back, goosebumps rise on your skin, tummy clenching with the hot desire. “Seems like you’d want me inside you instead.”

“Ah, you wish, conceited ass of a man. I don’t want you.” You’re lying through your teeth, and it’s like he knows, the blue eyes seeing right through your fucking bullshit. “You don’t want me either, so stop fucking with me.”

“I don’t?” He’s close, too close, you shove him away then, shaking your head, her words ringing in your fucking ears.

He’d never want you

Out of your league

You’re nothing

Maybe they did still get you, words you’d long since stopped giving her the ability to speak. Years of striving for her affection, of wanting to be perfect and win so that you could get just a bit of her praise. The moment you broke free was the best time you can remember, throwing those tiaras away - but you fear you’re just barely a step away from falling back into the sadness that she caused.

Worse is this tall, beautiful fucking man acting interested.

“You would never want me,” his mouth drops open at that. “So stop fucking acting like it.”

“You think I don’t!?” You scoff, walking away now, heading to the bathroom to perhaps put some water on your face, but this fucker follows you in, shutting the door, coming up behind you now, and you see his reflection in the soft lighting around the mirror, see the way he’s looking at you.

“Get out. Stupid. I’m not your milf okay?” You gasp then, as he tilts your chin so that you catch his brilliant blue eyes, the bathroom is too small suddenly, when his chest presses against your back.

"Look at me," Satoru whispers, you shake your head, tears falling. "I said look at me." He tilts your chin to look to the side as he leans over you.

"What?" You whisper through your teeth, trying to be quiet in the dark room, as Satoru’s hand slips down your bare arm, the other arm wrapping your waist, dragging you against his hard body. You whine out softly at it, being pressed against him, before you can stop yourself. When he leans lower, cool breath against your lips.

"You're beautiful, okay? So fucking beautiful..." You shake your head at that, earning his sigh, gripping your chin so tightly you feel his strength, only making the sweet ache worse. "You are. All I can think of is fucking my girlfriend’s daughter on every surface, you know what that fucking does to me?" His hushed, desperate voice makes your tummy clench with desire.

You have tried to fight it, but the resolve weakens every second you stare into his cerulean gaze, words you don’t want to accept. "Satoru... I… mnh!"

“Shh, sweetheart,” he groans now, shaking his head, kissing up your neck as his hand splays your stomach, drifting to your heat, breaths faster and heavier, mixing with yours. "Is it just me? Being fucking horrible?"

You shake your head, crying out softly when he finds your hot cunt over your shorts, soaking the thin fabric of them immediately. He moans so sexy against your ear, as the longing keeps swirling around the two of you. "You're not horrible, I am..."

"No, she's a fucking bitch. I didn't know she... was that mean. I like psychos, but that?” Your eyes shut, ass brushing against his thighs, feeling his hardness press against the small of your back.

“She’s just how she’s always been. Mnh… you shouldn’t.”

“I know I shouldn’t, okay? Fuck, you just take it. Let her treat you that way, why don’t you stand up to her, hmm?” His fingertip finds your clit, pressing up as your head falls back, and his cock twitches, aching to come inside you when you soak his fingers through your shorts, gasping and writhing against him.

"I'll be gone tomorrow. It's f-fine... Satoru, what are you… mnh!” You cry out, he brings a hand to your mouth while you watch your reflection in the mirror, he's taking over every sense you have.

“God you're soaked, so fucking hot, so tight.” He leans down, slipping a thick digit in your tight little entrance, making you scream out weakly against his hand. His blue eyes dilate, in the dark, quiet hushed sighs against his hand mixing with the sound of embarrassing wetness echo across the walls. “Lemme make you feel good, hmm?”

You just nod weakly, so tired of pretending like you don’t want him, entranced by the image in the mirror of him overtaking you, fingers angling up as your juices pour down his hand, you whine out, trembling as he keeps hitting just that spot, the one that makes your eyes roll back. Your ass arches back for more, knowing she’s in the next room and could hear or see fucks you up too much.

Your mommy issues clearly are still prevalent.

After hearing all her loud high pitched moans from this man, knowing all of his attention is on you is addictive, his lips brushing the shell of your ear while his fingers curl in your slick walls, gripping him and quivering. “Can you keep quiet so I can see your pretty face when you cum?”

You nod weakly, his words are destroying you, and any resolve you currently have, any part of your brain that knows this is wrong is gone, you want to cum for him, as he is bending low to angle his fingers deeper. You gasp and bite your lip as he does, as the squelches of your hungry cunt echo in the small space.

His breaths come heavy as he feels your walls, as you feel every line of his long - fuck they’re so long - fingers curling against your spot over and over, thumb pressing your twitchy little clit. “Satoru!”

“Shh, sweetheart,” he’s lost in you, cock leaking precum as he studies your face in the dark reflection, feeling you grip him so fucking good, picturing stretching your perfect little cunt out. “Like this?”

You nod, swallowing as you cling to his bare arms, feeling his muscles bunch as he moves his fingers, you are blinded when he rolls his thumb just right, as his other hand grips a breast under your tank top, brushing against your nipple. It’s all too much, you bite back the moans that threaten to rip from your throat, instead whining out softly, gasping and hiccuping as pleasure waves through you.

You’re soaking his fingers, dripping down them when he leans low, capturing your lips, drinking in your little cries as his fingertips brush your spongy spot, over and over, while you shatter in his hold. Your saliva drips across your tongues as his fingers slow, thumb pressing up your twitchy clit again, while you’re lost in his embrace, his taste sweet on your tongue.

You should feel bad you’re dripping down Satoru Gojo’s fingers, had they been inside her earlier? Would he touch her with them? You wish it all didn’t just make you wetter, more sensitive for him, when he eases them out, sucking them into his mouth now, moaning when your flavor hits his tongue, the filthy thoughts just echo louder as your pussy pulses from the aftershocks.

“Fuck you’re so sweet,” he moans then, turning you and lifting you until you’re spread on the counter, your thighs shake as he presses against you, hard and thick, kissing you with your juices dripping across his plump lips. “God I wanna bury my face between your thighs.”

“Satoru, this is insane.” You whisper, as he’s hungrily kissing down your neck, moaning a little too loud. “Shh!”

“Fuck, maybe she should hear,” his eyes are batshit insane then, brilliant blue almost glowing, long fingers spreading your thighs apart. “All I can think of is you.”

“Shut up,” you’re shaking your head, hands slipping through his silky locks as he kisses down your chest. “Fuck me.”

Satoru blinks at that, when you’re reaching down to touch him, he exhales, hands trembling as they hold you, kissing your lips again and losing himself, cock brushing your soaked cunt. He hears the door click across the hall then, pausing and cursing. “Shit…”

“Shit!?” He covers your mouth, glaring with his snowy lashes lowered over his blue eyes.

“Shut up.” He’s kissing you again, hot and desperate as your mom is calling out his name, you can’t stop the soft whine from your lips. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Shut me up.” His hand lifts a thigh, groaning quietly as he hears his fucking name again, cock leaking so much precum, throbbing so much it hurts.

“Satoru honey, where are you?” He sighs now, and you shake your head.

“Go, I’ll stay for a few.” You whisper softly, he is aching to stay, but the situation at present is horrible, and he doesn’t want you getting hurt because he can’t keep his hands off his girlfriend’s daughter.

“Don’t leave tomorrow until we talk.” He says then, against your ear.

“Maybe.”

“Ugh.” You smile a bit at his scowl. “I’ll be right out, just in the bathroom!”

“Okay honey, I miss you.” You feel sick, watching him walk out, you let out a held breath, thighs shaking, trying to wrap your mind around the fact that he made you feel better than anyone ever has, that you've never cum like that.

Worse, how he had kissed you?

This was some sick, cruel fucking joke, falling for your bitch ass mother's boyfriend. You can't trust him. You know you need to slip out in the morning, to try to forget him and how good it felt to be in his arms.

******

The last morning staying with your mom

You want to wait for Satoru like he asked, but laying there and counting down the moments until you know the buses run, you couldn’t stay.

You can’t do this, even to her, have some sort of affair?

You can’t be the other woman - especially to your own mother, even if she’s fucking awful, the guilt is eating at you. It would be different if it was some petty revenge to her for all these years, if it was just sexual attraction, but you absolutely know it’s way more with Satoru, kissing didn’t feel like that, nothing felt that good, being consumed by Satoru and losing yourself in him.

You’re trying to slip out that next morning, when Satoru Gojo grips you by your wrist, out of nowhere, you look back and his azure gaze is furious. “I asked you to wait for me.” His tone is so hurt, you can hardly stand it.

“Gojo, we have to forget it.” Your broken words ruin him, he’s breathless as he looks at you, two bags slung over your shoulders. “I shouldn’t have.”

“No, why not?” He caresses your cheek, bending over you then, his sweet breath bringing back the memories that kept you up all night, of kissing him back, of his fingers now on your wrist that were inside you.

“You’re hers.” You hear her then, panicking and shoving at Satoru, but he doesn’t move an inch.

“Get the fuck away from him!” Your mom’s words make Satoru chuckle, and the sight of it confuses the fuck out of you, as he looks back at her, raising a brow.

“I’m pinning her to the door and you’re yelling at her right now?” She sputters, your heart fucking races, the heat creeping up your cheeks, burning as she stomps over to you both, furious so clearly.

When you were younger it would have scared you, but Satoru is here, and in the short week, you oddly trust him, feel the comfort, something to be said about it that you haven’t admitted to yourself yet.

“It’s her trying to take what’s mine, jealous of me always.” She grips your hand, your bag falls to the floor as she scowls down at you. “Never show your face here again, leave my life the fuck alone, stupid little bitch.”

“I didn’t-” She raises her hand as if to smack you when Satoru grabs her wrist, she looks at him in shock.

“You won’t raise a hand to her again, she might not stand up for herself when you do, but I will.” He drops her wrist now, raising a thin brow and bending down, picking up your bag for you.

“Satoru baby, you don’t understand all she’s put me through,” she’s trying to be sweet again, crocodile tears dripping down her cheeks, long lashes blinking, her lip is even trembling. She’s always been great at that. “I don’t want to hurt her, but she is horrible to me.”

“I’ve heard and seen far, far too much this week. You are an evil bitch to her, and you won’t get to be anymore.” He shoves her off him dismissively as she tries to cling to him now, then she scowls at both of you.

“What, because she’s younger!? Is that who you are? Some sick game to fuck us both?”

“No, she’s actually just better than you. In every single way, and you hate it, don’t you? That’s just pathetic.” You look down, unbelieving he’s standing up for you like this, your mom lets out an affronted scoff while Satoru picks up his phone.

“You don’t want her, you can’t.” She’s losing her composure, her act, it’s all falling apart as she starts to panic.

What could be worse than you ever outshining her? You’re supposed to live in her perfect shadow.

“Why are you so jealous of your own kid? You got some crazy issues, you know that? Not even hot crazy, either, just a batshit narcissist.” He clicks his tongue, sighing and smiling down at you, with lidded eyes. “Wanna stay at my penthouse until your apartment is ready, sweetheart?”

“What!?” Your mom is blowing a whole fucking gasket - you should feel bad for stealing her man, but you really can’t find it in you.

“Yes, if you really don’t mind?” Satoru grins, those bright white teeth, and picks up his dark shades off the side table, your mom is tugging on his dress shirt, and he brushes her off, looking over his sunglasses at her.

“Satoru I’m sorry, I just… I was acting out too much. It’s her, the problem! Look how happy we were before?”

“I’m sure there are plenty of young men for you out there, maybe younger than me so they are too dumb to see how fucked up you are.” She’s glaring as he takes your hand in his, and you can’t stop the happy little giggle from your mouth as you both leave, and you hear things getting thrown at the door.

“Satoru, that was insane!?” You whisper, he brushes your hair back then, sighing.

“I wanted it to go a little smoother, that whole exchange. But no, of course you were bratty and didn’t wait.” He tilts your chin up and you kiss him, smiling against his sweet, plush lips.

“You’re not step-dad anymore, maybe the appeal is lost-”

“I’m gonna beat your ass.” He’s scowling as you giggle through your tears, when his car pulls up, he hands your bags off to the driver, climbing in and holding out his hand, tugging you in the back. “You do need a good ass beating.”

“I think I had enough mental beatings,” you grumble a bit, he frowns at that as the car revs up, and he tugs you against his chest. “You noticed?”

“Yeah, hard not to. Last night was when I saw how fucking much she hates you, the way she talks it’s just not how a normal person does. I’m sorry you…”

“I’m good. I promise.” You look up at him then, kissing him softly, while your hand slips down his chest, hearing his hitch of breath.

“You can eat whatever you want at my place, okay? Also your ass is very nice.” You blink back tears, mixing with your tremulous smile from his sweetness, and you’re flustered- you’re literally a wreck.

“You heard it all?” He nods, swallowing, his brows together.

“It’s why I came to you. I’m so disgusted that I even…”

“How could you know? She’s beautiful, she knows how to play people.”

“You’re more beautiful than she could be,” he murmurs, kissing you again, messy and hungry in the back of the huge black luxury car, having you straddle him, your mom’s ex boyfriend, feeling his phone vibrating against your thigh now. “I swear if it’s her I’ll have you cum right on the speaker.”

“Gojo!” He’s sighing, his big hands drifting over your waist, when your phone starts going off too, but you’re too lost in his kisses, in his scent, in how good he fucking feels.

“Feel so good on me, fuck I wanna bury my cock inside you,” he is desperate and needy then, feeling your heat against his cock, when you drop to your knees, making his lips part. “Sweetheart…”

“Want your cock in my mouth,” he’s whining out at that, helping you unbutton and unzip his slacks, until his cock springs free, making you gasp.

You knew it would be big, but you didn’t know it’d be that big, a solid nine inches and thick, veins running and wrapping under his shaft from the base to his blushing pink tip. You moan softly at it, soaking wet under your panties from the sight, that clean yet musky scent. Satoru brushes your hair back softly with long fingers, eyeing you down there, making you feel so sexy with just a gaze.

“Want me to suck you down my throat?” He nods quickly, and you do just that, after spitting on his cock and slathering your saliva as the phone keeps vibrating, but his hands are enwrapped in your hair while you look at him under those lashes.

“Fuck, look at you, can you take it all?” He’s taunting, a mix of devotion and talking shit, so intoxicating you can’t take it, tummy full of so much pressure you whine out at the sensations, gliding his tip inside your mouth now, hot and hungry while you taste him. You swirl your tongue on his tip, fingers brushing across the soft white hair right over his cock.

His eyes never leave yours as you move, as he fucks up into your throat, hissing at just how fucking good your mouth feels, how pretty your eyes are as you look up at him. You’re whining out, vibrating around him, while his hands tug your hair into a ponytail, fucking into your mouth harder, harder, you’re slobbering down his cock so messy and filthy how you take him.

“So beautiful, fucking look at you,” you whine at the praise, from his soft lips, which he’s biting and releasing, making the sexiest moans from the back of his throat that drive you to get wetter and wetter. You reach down, touching yourself under your skirt when he yanks your wrist. “No.”

“No!?” You glare, and Satoru smirks, shaking his head.

“I’ll bet the one touching you, licking you- ah!” You’re sucking him again, even as he grips your little wrist tightly, sucking one of your little fingers, so lewd and sexy you can’t stand it, grinding on nothing for friction, as the car comes to a stop, Satoru huffs, yanking you up. “Open.”

You do just that, and freaky ass ‘stepdad’ Satoru Gojo spits in your mouth, you gasp, swallowing it and feeling the need grow so much it’s painful, kissing desperately, hand still stroking his length up and down. “In me, please.”

“Shit, yeah,” he adjusts himself, leaving the belt unbuckled as the two of you ride up the elevator to his stupidly fancy and clean penthouse, once the door is shut he presses you against it, hands slipping up your sides, gripping you everywhere. “Wanna taste you again, fuck…”

“Taste me then, mnh!” He’s on his knees right before you, the way he looks up at you is so intense it takes your breath away, as he shoves your skirt up, lapping a hot stripe up your slick panties, already soaked. “Oh my god, more, more!”

“Demanding little thing,” he teases, stroking fingers up your soppy panties, groaning as he then pulls them down, letting them fall down to your ankles, still clad in those ridiculous combat boots. They’re so hot he just keeps them on, throwing a thigh right over his shoulder, breath ghosting on your bare cunt. “Fuck, look at you, you’re so pretty.”

“Y-you don’t have to say- ah!” Your hands entangle in his silky, silvery white locks, soft as your fingers grip and pull until it hurts, but he wants more.

“Fuck my face, that’s it, taste s’good, mmm,” his whispers against you vibrate against your clit, and you’re screaming out, head falling back against Satoru’s door, as his mouth devours your cunt, so hungry and desperate for you.

His impossibly long tongue makes you furious that your bitch ass mother ever got him in this way, toxic and petty, it just makes you fuck his face more, hips rolling while that tongue plunges into you. He’s licking and stroking between your folds, right up in your hole, straight nose bumping your clit. Your thighs shake, his fingers pressing into them, your gummy walls are convulsing around his tongue.

The sound of him sucking up all your wetness - well he’s trying to, but you’re so fucking wet it’s pouring, his cock is leaking precum - already sensitive from that stupidly talented mouth, and now this? He can hardly remember your mom’s name any more, in fact he can’t remember anything right now, but how he should have been doing this, just drinking your sweetness up down his throat.

Devouring your pretty pussy, pulling your plump, puffy lips apart to slide that tongue in and out of your quivery little cunt as you scream out hoarsely. “Oh my god, don’t stop, don’t stop, please!”

You’re sobbing out his name, panting as he licks and nibbles your twitchy little clit with sharp teeth, making you gasp out at the shock of the pain and pleasure, your nipples pressing against your top, tummy clenching as you feel your orgasm so close. He’s slipped two fingers up inside your hole, looking up at you as his tongue flicks your sensitive clit again.

“You’re so messy, aren’t you baby?” He taunts softly, all you can do is weakly nod, while his fingers now know your spot way too fucking well, pressing up against your g spot while he stretches you hot. “So sweet now, is this what you needed?”

“Shh, jerk.” He chuckles against your cunt, before sucking your little clit into his hot mouth and fucking moaning, making you feel like you’re going to collapse. It’s so good, so fucking good, and you’re so close. “I-I’m gonna, Satoru, oh god-!”

He doesn’t let you go over the edge though, pulling away with a pop of pink lips,covered in your arousal like a gloss. You yelp, looking down at him with a desperate expression, your cheeks flushed, chest heaving. He can’t stop thinking how fucking pretty you are like this, desperate for him, whining and wiggling.

“Why’d you stop!?” He stands now, slipping up your sweater, groaning when he realizes you have no bra on, seeing those tits he’s jerked it to bounce gently.

“Want you to cum around my cock, like a good girl. Can you?” He’s way too fucking hot, it’s actually unfair. You nod weakly, he sighs, cupping your breasts and watching your eyes roll back, his thumbs brush your nipples, already hard and aching for more.

Satoru unlaces your boots, leaving your knee socks and skirt on, you just look too sexy in them, unbuckling himself hastily as you tug his shirt off him. “Please, hurry, fuck…”

“Demanding, thought you hated me not wearing a shirt?” You glare at him, just making him chuckle, before he’s down to nothing, fully naked and gorgeous, as the light streams in through the blinds of those floor to ceiling windows, casting shadows across his perfect form.

“Fuck…” You’re kissing across his chest, when he shocks you, lifting you up like it’s nothing, pressing you right on that door again, the cool wood against your burning hot skin, tip drooling and leaking against your cunt. “Mnh! Please!”

“Need my cock so bad inside you?” You just nod weakly, done pretending or teasing, you’re still throbbing from the way he edged you, and when his leaky tip bumps your clit it almost pushes you over the edge. You’re clinging to his neck, kissing him as you roll your hips, soaking wet and begging with your body.

“In me, g-god, just - ah!” Satoru shoves his cock so deep in one stroke you’re left breathless, blinking rapidly at the ridiculous stretch, so full you can’t think, you’ve never been stuffed like this. Your eyes lock, his are so bright they’re insane, his lips and chin coated in your arousal, holding you by your ass right under your skirt as your legs tremble around narrow hips.

“Fucking feel you, my god,” he’s whispering in wonder for a moment, blinking snowy lashes to try to orient himself, to not cum just from one stroke like some dumb teenager from pussy.

But your pussy!?

“Prettier, tighter,” he’s whispering, and the words itch that toxic, fucked part of your brain, the mix of craving Satoru and the petty part of you that hates her. He can tell too, smirking. “Wetter than her. Feel better, fuck than anyone.”

“Shut up, so full of - ah!” He’s fucking you now, you got that moment to adjust, bruising your lower back when he fucks you against that door with no mercy, thick cock bullying your quivering little walls with filthy smacks of skin and your squishing cunt. “Oh my g-god!”

“I’m telling the t-truth you… bratty little fucking… god she’s so tight, mnh…” Satoru’s lost then, hips bucking up and rolling just so, and he watches your pretty face hungrily. “Cum f’me, all over me, make a mess.”

“Ah!” You’re gushing, just making the sounds in the enormous penthouse you’ve barely noticed louder, mixed with his moans as he fills you up so good, when he pushes deep and rolls those hips, watching you intensely as you cum, his eyes so brilliant blue and fucking starved for you. “Ohmygod fuckfuckfuck!”

“That’s it, fucking you dumb, huh,” he’s groaning, feeling your slick coat him, your mouth in a slutty O when he looks back up, feeling your aftershocks pulse around his cock. “God, baby, you came so hard f’me, bet you never have.”

“B-bet you never… felt pussy this good,” your bratty little whisper makes him smirk, slamming into you and pulling you off the door, you’re clinging to him in shock without the support, but he’s lifting you up and down his thick, lengthy cock like you’re a little fuck toy. “Ngh!”

“You mean better than your mom’s?” You scowl, gripping him tighter with your thighs as he just walks around with your fucking cunt around him, smirking as he lifts and drags you back on his cock again. You’re clinging to his back, nails pressing in and leaving marks.

“Psycho, mmm!”

“Says you, need to know if your pussy is tighter? I already told you, but no, gotta know every part that’s better? You’re so fucked up baby.” You glare, biting the shit out of his lip and earning his moan, as you draw just a little bit of blood, a bright red droplet that makes him grin.

“Maybe I am fucked up.” Your answer makes him chuckle, picking you up again, fucking you suspended in the air as you cling to him, whining. “Feel s’good, so thick mmm!”

“Am I the biggest you’ve had? The best?” He’s whispering, husky and needy now, you could bluff and taunt him, but you just nod eagerly, and he exhales, pulling out with a wet squelch, making you whine. “Hang on to me.”

You do just that, heart racing while Satoru carries you now, and your dark spots fade for a moment, long enough to get glimpses of his gorgeous, expensive ass fucking penthouse, making your mom’s place look like shit when you thought hers was fancy. Everything is spotless, surprising you only briefly when he makes it to his bedroom, tossing you right down on it.

You bounce gently on a black silky comforter, taking several breaths, looking around then glaring. “She fuck you on here?”

He grins at you, nodding and unzipping your skirt, groaning as he sees your hips for the first time. “Fuck you’re sexy,” he caresses you softly for a moment, fingertips drifting down the jut of your waist, the curve of those hips, before grabbing them, looking at your cunt. “All beat up already, huh?”

“Shut it, back in.” He grins, fingering your knee socks and sighing.

“They’re too hot, they stay on.” His open admiration of you makes you feel so fucking good, the way his eyes worship you, leaning low and kissing you again. “So fucking sexy, y’know that?”

“Mnh, s-so are you. But you know already, conceited- ah!” Satoru’s cut you off with a bite to your lower lip, sexy glare on his face now.

“Couldn’t even walk around her house without getting wet for me, could you?” Your glare just turns him on more, while he bends down, sucking your nipple into his hot mouth as you cry out, his teeth sinking in.

“Ah!” He moans, going right to the other. “Y-you wish.”

“Bet you played with your cunt, maybe right next to your mom’s room huh?” You bite his shoulder so hard it makes him moan at the pain. “Shit.”

“Shut it. You wish I did, bet you jerked it thinking of me? Your girl’s daughter, freaky ass-” He’s bit you again on your other nipple, the pain shooting up and making your sore cunt wetter.

“I did,” you blink, so disoriented, eyes now looking up to his in shock. “Yeah, I did, thinking of that slutty dress you wore that night.”

“Shit… really?” He sighs, and before you can say anything else, Satoru turns you around now, bending your ass up in the air, moaning at the sight, the dimples in your back, the way your ass looks, he moans and slaps each cheek, as you whine out, head falling back.

“God, look at this ass, fuck…”

“Prettier from the back than mommy is?” He scowls as you look back and giggle, smacking the fuck out of your ass now. “Ah!”

“You’re so damaged,” he smacks your cunt, you’re just drooling now, eyes rolling back, so ready to be filled by him. “Already told you, prettier pussy, yummier, tighter - gotta hear how much better your ass is too?”

“Mmm! Was teasing,” you whisper, when he slips his cock back inside you, this time so deep he bottoms out in one stroke, you scream out at it, hair now in his hold as he fucks into you. “Gojo!”

“You’re so damaged baby girl, god it’s hotter than it should be,” he’s losing it inside you then, your wet, slick little cunt gripping him even tighter, balls smacking your clit with every brutal stroke, as his other hand grips your ass, marking it over and over. “Feel so much better.”

“Yeah, daddy? Ah!” Satoru’s smacked the fuck out of you again, it stings so good as he slams his cock deep, tip drooling along your cervix. “Oh my god!”

“Stop running that mouth,” he leans over, gripping your throat with one hand, long fingers wrapping it entirely, bent over you with a arm braced on the other side, as his cock is stretching you, feeling so fucking perfect even as it hurts, how big his cock is. “You’re so fucking slutty, huh?”

You nod weakly, as he starts squeezing your throat now, making it all fuzzy and heady, you’re gasping for a breath as he presses on your pulse point, cock pounding you from the back, you’re gasping for breaths as filthy smacks fill his huge room. “Oh, Gojo!”

“Satoru, call me Satoru…” he’s whispering desperately, needing it from you, and you feel his cock thickening inside your slutty, drooling hole.

“Satoru, ah!” You’re lost as he chokes you while fucking so deep, rolling his hips, making you shatter for him, walls quivering around his cock, trying to milk him for everything he has. “Satoru!”

“Wanna fill your pretty little cunt with all my cum,” he whispers, squeezing harder as he hits just that spot, and you feel the pressure in your tummy explode, screaming out as the orgasm hits. “Oh god baby, yes, cum again f’me hmm?”

You can’t not do just what he asks, blinded as he saps your oxygen with his fingers tightening over your throat, you’re fuzzy and dizzy as you scream, the sound hoarse and weak. He’s moaning and kissing you, drool spilling out the corner of your mouth, releasing your throat a bit and just gripping under your chin now. You’re shaking, cunt so wet it’s dripping onto the dark blankets.

“S-Satoru…” you whisper again, making him whine when your head falls back, he’s biting across your neck, groaning. “Feel s’good in me…”

“You feel s’good wrapped around me, f-fuck…” the phone goes off again, in the pants discarded on the floor, and he smirks as he bends down, grabbing it.

“What are you…” Satoru presses that green answer circle, before sliding back in your cunt, psycho grin and dilated blue eyes vivid as you hear her voice. You look at him, covering your mouth as you hear her voice, but he leans down, whispering in your ear.

“Make noise.” You shake your head - you can’t be that fucked up!?

Can you?

“Satoru please, just come back. I’m sorry.” She’s sobbing, her sweet little meal ticket is gone after all, he’s slamming his cock deep in you as you scream into your palm, making him laugh a bit.

“Sorry, I’m not… coming… back that is, hah-” he’s hitting those backshots harder, the filthy sound of your cunt echoing, your eyes roll back, drool spilling on your palm now as you hear her voice in the background.

“She’s manipulating you!? She wants what I have. Satoru- what’s that!?” He chuckles, bottoming out and stuffing you so full your hand falls and you scream out.

“That’s your daughter, god she’s so much tighter than you.” You gasp and glare back at him, only making him hit it harder, until there’s no denying the filthy sounds.

“Oh you are… you both… you’re a whore I swear-”

“Ah!” Satoru’s rubbing your clit, murmuring in your ear.

“Cum f’me again, hmm?”

“You’re insane!?” He grins, and you shake your head, but soon you’re shattering again, earning his moan.

“So, I need to go, gotta get your daughter pregnant.” You gasp again, mid orgasm, as your mother sputters and he hangs up on her, chuckling.

“Y-you… she’s… Satoru!”

“She won’t call again now I bet,” he’s leaning low until you’re in prone position, turning your face and kissing your soft lips. “I wanna fill you all up, baby, hmm?”

“Do you, daddy?” He glares, but his cock pulses, and you giggle, breathless, earning him shoving hard, pulling at your hair. “You like that.”

“Shut it,” he’s moaning as you tighten around him, aftershocks pulsing, as he pictures doing just that, knocking you up. “Beg for it, slutty little brat.”

“Please, daddy,” he whimpers at that, and you bite your lip. “You’re damaged too, huh?”

“Not as damaged as you,” he’s huffing, kissing you as you laugh. “You can laugh? Need to fix that.”

“Gonna teach me a lesson daddy- ah!” Satoru Gojo is so deep you feel him fucking everywhere, making you tremble, as he’s throbbing inside you. “You like it!”

“Shh. Yes.” Your breathy giggle is cut off when he chokes you again, so intimate like this, teeth sinking in your neck now. “Beg for it.”

“Daddy please fill me up - mnh!” You’re both lost then, Satoru won’t admit it but hearing you call him that makes him sensitive, whimpering as he busts deep inside your perfect little hole, your gummy walls grip his cock and pulse around it, while his white sticky load coats them. “Oh my g-god!”

“Fuck, feel her… milking my cock huh?” You just nod weakly, when he cups you under your chin, kissing you messy and desperate, you’re cumming from the warmth, from all that cum pouring down his cock, mixed with your gossamer strings of arousal swirling down his cock, his balls, to the bed.

“Mnh, Satoru…” He’s kissing you deeper, teeth sinking into your lips as you both come down, easing his strokes and softening just a bit, still so thick inside you, making you feel so full.

“You’re so fucked up, baby.” You gasp, glaring now as he eases out. “It’s okay, all your issues? Hot as fuck.”

“You’ve got your own issues then, hmm?” He smirks, pressing kisses along your shoulder blades now.

“Too many to count. Not the only one with shitty parents, sweetheart.” Satoru turns you over now, and you brush a hand across his cheek, sighing.

“Then tell me them all, daddy.” He scowls again, and you can’t stop the grin on your face, Satoru lets you get away with it a bit, because it’s just so pretty to see on your face.

“Can’t tell if you have mommy or daddy issues or both?”

“Mommy issues. You can give me daddy issues though.” His glare is so cute you can’t stop the soft smile on your lips, as you lean up, body reeling from him.

“Should beat you, I swear. I’ll grab water.” You nod, and he leaves for a moment, you lean up, his cum leaking out of you, you search for any part that feels just a little guilty for fucking and stealing your mom’s man.

But it’s not there.

You see a picture of them on the side table then, sitting up and frowning a bit as he comes back, boxers slipped on, a blunt and lighter along with water. “Wanna smoke, sweetheart?”

“You’re corrupting me, step dad.”

“I swear to god stop.” You grin again, as he sits next to you, frowning as you study the photo. “Throw it out.”

“No…” you take his lighter and light the flame, burning the image of your mother and letting it die out in the ashtray, before handing the lighter back to him. “I burned all my sashes and dresses too.”

“Part of me wants to see you in a pageant dress, but the other part knows how much you hated it.” He says softly, watching the picture burn and lighting up a blunt now. “I’d fuck you in a sash and tiara though, nothing else.”

“Would you now?” You tease, he nods, inhaling the smoke, and handing the blunt to you, his perfect body covered in dripping sweat from you. “I may have one I didn’t get rid of.”

“Shit, don’t make it hard again.” You’re straddling him, inhaling the blunt and blowing the smoke into his mouth, he’s gripping your waist, already hard under his boxers, as you two fall into each other, each finding the other’s issues unreasonably hot, both damaged as fuck and honestly morally grey - but you really don’t mind fucking your mom’s ex boyfriend all night until you’re dripping his cum.

Your mom never does call you again - what a shame :’)

Sooo the pageant mom idea was fromm @huntyhuntycunty , also took inspo from them having met before from @yenayaps ! alsoo ty @blkkizzat for making me motivated to finally finish this hehe I love you girls <3

taglistt- @doulcha @chiyokoemilia @emonaculate @vladsgirlxx @bookished @ureuphoriasworld @rawwrrgal @rousouhouuu @ovela @4evahevah @sugucultfollower @maddy44 @disappointedpeaches @princess-bblgm @astrasworldsblog @nazzysworld13 @gojos1wife1 @selenerium @jkslaugh97 @satoruxsc @thecookiebratz @kaylarilla @ajd1111 @mo0nforme @yoimiyamain2932 @pinkfqiry @plznomonkeys @pandabiene5115 @thelostkira @lushjunkie @mochibunnex @mrsimpurity @coralbae @curlyhairkk @dollieeees @xixflower @ayumilk @leviskittywh0re @nx-0w @mahalsuya @sugarcoatedsoul @afrohani @ineedtofeedmycat @kinnimi @erensfavve @vvaoo

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sophistication-as · 27 days ago

Text

★ STRAWBERRIES AND CIGARETTES. all the times gojo desperately wants to kiss you, and the one where he finally does.

ft. satoru gojo x reader.

warnings — loser!reader / popular!gojo. smoking, kissing + making out. consumption of alcohol, mentions of sex, lots of cheesy banter. sato is a man down bad ! slow-burn kinda but mostly just very sfw fluff :p

(呪術廻戦) : note — 7k words + in my fluff era again awooga

୨୧ ⌞ act one: strawberry shampoo. ⌝

gojo rarely sees you. not often, truly. in class is different, but even then, it's infrequent.

you always wear a bored, distant look, as if you'd rather be anywhere but here. he suspects you simply don't care. the professor's words wash over you, in one ear and out the other.

most people don't notice your frequent absences. gojo does. he always does. the empty seat at the back of the room never escapes his eye.

it feels emptier, too, despite your quiet nature. he's unsure why. why he's so captivated by you. but when you are present, he stares. trying to be subtle, yet desperate to memorize every detail: the curve of your lashes, the perceived softness of your lips.

perceived softness, he should clarify. gojo isn't a creep. he doesn't spend every waking moment fantasizing about kissing you. (only every other waking moment.)

he knows you know he exists. you've exchanged words a few times, straddling the line between acquaintance and stranger. it's odd, but he finds a strange peace when you converse.

you're funny, kind, caring. a good listener, with a voice like honey he could listen to all day. god, he loves your voice. he wishes you'd speak more. if you did, people would listen. there's a lilt in your voice that makes him.

he's your opposite. you keep to yourself, wired earbuds always in. gojo has friends — many friends. he thrives on company and conversation.

he's got his whole crew: nanami, shoko, geto, haibara, utahime. even toji and sukuna, on a good day.

academically, he's a powerhouse. top of the class, loaded with extracurriculars, tests always returned with a perfect score.

and you? you're number two. he's certain you could be first, but you simply don't care. no ambition to be the best, no need to prove yourself.

you're just… there. you show up, ace your exams, and leave. he'd be threatened by the competition, but you don't seem to want it. he doubts you even realize how close you are to taking his spot.

it's infuriating. so much potential, so little drive.

yet, it's utterly enticing. you're enticing.

it's a shock when he pulls into the gas station in the dead of night, needing kikufuku because geto devoured the last of it, and there you are. perched on the ledge behind the worn building.

he doesn't see your face at first, but he recognizes the leather angel kiss bag you practically live with, adorned with sonny angels and charms.

the grocery bag falls limply in his hand. he takes a few steps, stopping just behind you. he calls your name out, quiet and hesitant, a rare tone for gojo. there's a crinkle of foil from you, and you turn, startled.

"gojo?" you inquire, head tilted.

"uh, hey," he manages a gentle smile. "what're you doing here?"

a small smile touches your lips. "hi. i could ask you the same."

the white-haired boy chuckles. "dickhead roommate ate all my snacks."

your quiet laugh is beautiful, he thinks. "yeah? well, i ran out of cigarettes." you place one between your lips. sliding over on the ledge, you offer a silent invitation, which he accepts.

you're close. the scent of your saccharine strawberry shampoo fills his senses.

"want one?" you offer. he shakes his head. gojo doesn't smoke, rarely drinks. instead, he watches you inhale, then exhale, wispy gray curls dissolving into the dark.

the silence between you is mellow, not awkward. in the dim streetlamp glow, your lips look coated in strawberry-red gloss, leaving a stain on the white of the cigarette.

"sure you don't want a hit?" you ask, sensing his heavy, focused gaze.

and because he'd do anything at the sound of that voice, he nods, changing his mind.

satoru gojo has game, no doubt. one hundred percent. he's smooth with women, but you're not just any woman. you're you, and with you, his game dissolves. all his past charm feels irrelevant, meaningless.

it's just you. you and him. he's not sure how to navigate it, and his attempt only leaves him embarrassed.

his eyes fix on the red smudge. he presses his own lips directly onto that spot. this isn't even a kiss, but an odd euphoria floods him, as if he's never kissed anyone before.

gojo's eyes flutter shut. he takes a quick, deep inhale, lasting only seconds before he's spluttering, coughing. a dry, charcoal-like feeling enters his lungs, leaving his throat dry. "jesus," he winces, handing it back.

you giggle, not teasing, but amused. he echoes the sound, and you both dissolve into laughter.

at two in the morning, everything's funny. your hands brush his as you take the cigarette.

"a— are you okay?" you ask, trying to compose yourself.

"yeah!" he clears his throat. "i mean, yeah. yes. i'm good."

"never smoked?"

"nah. coach would kill me," he chuckles, and you hum. sometimes, he forgets he's that picture-perfect, well-rounded student. in these moments, everything else fades.

"yeah," you say, meeting his gaze. his eyes are already on you.

"yeah," he repeats, smiling.

and then he remembers your closeness. his heart, if it ever slowed, races. should he do it?

should he kiss you?

you're so sweet, so pretty, right there — so close. he leans in, instinctual, like his body is drawn to yours.

and maybe you're leaning in, too?

just like that, gojo doesn't have time to tell, because his phone rings, a bleary call from his confused roommate.

just like that, the moment shatters. gojo pulls back, farther than before. the sweet scent of your shampoo vanishes, the press of his thighs against yours, knees knocking, gone.

you wave goodbye. he waves goodbye.

and just like that, you're back to being the girl in his class. the girl behind the gas station.

୨୧ ⌞ act two: pro-bono deals. ⌝

gojo doesn't see it coming. he knows you're here often enough, a quiet fixture in the library's familiar hum. there's not much he knows about you, not really, but what little he's gathered, he clings to like scripture.

he knows you like to read. that's a given.

he knows the cute thing you do with your nose when you're deep in thought, a slight scrunch, lips pursed just so.

he knows you hate writing in pen. he offered you one once, when you were caught without anything to write with, but you’d asked for a pencil instead. something about being accident-prone, you'd said.

he knows your handwriting is god-awful, an illegible scrawl that makes him abandon any idea of feigning interest in your notes as an excuse to talk. he figures it’s because your brain moves faster than your hands can keep up.

he knows you like flowers, sometimes catching you pausing by the daisies near the fountain on the way to class.

these little things, these quiet quirks you have, he catalogues them meticulously. they're important to him, these small habits you might not even notice yourself.

it's what makes it so real, so tangible. it makes him feel like he knows you, as pathetic as that might sound.

what you don't like is studying. so, when he sees your nose buried deep in the familiar green shade of a physics textbook, he's got every right to be a little lost. for the entire two and a half years he's known you, gojo has never seen you go out of your way to study.

he shifts his weight, from one foot to another. he could let you be, let you work. or, he could… work with you? would that even be okay? after a dreadful moment of hesitation, he slides into the seat beside you.

you’re surprised to see him; it seems like you always are, when it’s him. nonetheless, a smile touches your face, so it’s a pleasant surprise. "gojo, what's up?"

"just… reading through things, studying for finals," he says, watching you close the book. "you don't mind if i sit here, right?"

"no, not at all," you assure him, waving off his mild concern. "i might go crazy reading this dumb thing alone, anyways."

gojo laughs, and your heavy sigh turns into a little chuckle. "don't like physics?"

"don't like science," you correct, slumping in your seat. you click and un-click your pen, groaning, "it's so boring."

"sounds about right coming from a literature major." he hopes you don't focus on how he knows your major. it seems to be alright, though, because you know his.

playfully, you raise your brows. "seriously, i have no idea how you're planning on doing that for the rest of your life."

"you're not bad at it, are you? i mean, based on, like, your scores and… stuff."

"no. i guess not. all my absences are catching up to me, though, and i'm a little behind."

he supposes it makes sense for you to be struggling a little, at least. he's not sure how you do it in the first place, managing to pass at all without any visible effort. sure, gojo's smart, but he's not that smart. he wouldn't say he's envious, but he wishes he had that ability.

the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. "well, i could help you out," he offers. it comes out as more of a question, which he hates himself for. he also wishes he were more confident around you.

your eyes light up. "really? because field theory's kinda killing me." your gaze flickers from your notes to him, a little skeptical. you’re just not sure why he's hanging out with you in the first place, much less willing to, like, tutor you.

"yeah. if you want," his voice is a little less tentative, this time around.

"like… pro-bono?"

gojo chuckles. "sure. if you're up for aiding me in psychoanalyzing othello."

"you know what?" you ask, sticking your hand out. "deal."

he can't help the grin that spreads across his face, and he accepts your handshake. "deal."

your hand feels soft in his, and the mere touch makes him shiver. gojo inhales quietly, his eyes briefly glancing down to your lips.

it's the same strawberry-colored gloss. like a man down bad, all he can wonder is if it tastes like it, too.

୨୧ ⌞ act three: to get or not to get (some). ⌝

"i think we need to get you laid," shoko remarks, rather casually, the words cutting through the bass and chatter of geto's party. it makes gojo choke on his drink, a cheap beer in a red plastic cup, his grip tightening around it.

geto seems entirely too amused by this, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. "shit, sho, look at him, all red."

"shut up," he seethes, an unnatural flush creeping up his neck. he can feel the heat on his cheeks, a testament to his unexpected embarrassment.

she sighs, a faux melancholy. "poor guy. the clenched jaw tells me all i need to know."

"i don't— alright," gojo groans, quickly giving up. it's useless to argue with them when they're like this. "go ahead, abuse me like the great friends you are."

swirling her vodka with a straw, shoko snorts. "we are good friends, trying to save you from your newfound virginism."

"she's right," geto says pointedly, leaning forward. "you're like a male nun."

weakly, gojo repeats himself, "shut up." just as he’s reaching for his phone, a girl walks by. short dress, long legs, a smile that’s less friendly, more predatory, aimed straight at him. at some point, she would’ve been his ideal type, the kind of easy distraction he gravitated toward.

now? now, he doesn't even bat an eye. shoko looks at geto, a silent communication passing between them. geto looks at shoko. gojo glances up from his pocket, catching the sly, knowing looks his friends are giving him.

"or… maybe he's already getting some," geto nods, a mix of betrayal that he wasn't told and grudging impressment in his voice.

"you dog," shoko chuckles, nudging his arm with her elbow. "c'mon, who?"

"it's not— i'm not—"

geto sighs, "i didn't know we'd be around for the 'someone tied him down' era."

"guys—" he tries to interrupt, but then you walk by. his world narrows, the party noise fading to a dull hum. as if on instinct, his eyes get dreamy, following your path. his world stops, along with time itself, and gojo freezes, completely captivated.

they follow his line of sight, their gazes landing onto where he's looking. no, staring.

if he wasn't caught so off guard by shoko's low whistle, a sharp, clear sound in the sudden quiet of his world, he would have had a second to figure out why you were even here. "damn," she laughs, a genuine, unburdened sound. "if you fumble her, i call dibs."

"...didn't expect that. how do you even know her?" geto asks, a note of surprise in his voice.

"uh, she's in humanities with us," he says, a little annoyed that his friend, who shared classes with you, hadn't noticed you. he can’t imagine that possibility, especially not when you’re all gojo can seem to notice.

shoko squints, like she's trying to recall a distant memory. "oh, yeah. i think i've seen her, sometimes. doesn't she ditch, like, a lot?"

gojo shrugs. "i guess."

"i'm with geto. i wouldn't have pegged that, but congrats."

"it's not like that! we're just…" he’s about to say friends, but the word feels foreign, ill-fitting. he’s not even sure if you're that.

"no, no," geto shakes his head, a knowing smirk on his face. "sex is always great, man."

"we're not—"

the brown-haired girl cuts him off, her attention already elsewhere. "speaking of sex, i think i'm gonna have a go," she murmurs, vaguely gesturing to a pretty, curvy redhead across the room. downing the rest of her drink in one gulp, she's off before either of them gets a word in.

and, because god is good, a group of people walk in through the front door, and geto, ever the host, goes to greet them; it is his party, after all.

gojo sighs, weary, the weight of his friends' teasing momentarily forgotten. then he remembers: you're here. he’s practically racing away from the spot he's in, a desperate, though he hopes nonchalant, attempt to find you. had he been hallucinating? was he so crazy about you that he was now seeing you everywhere? oh, god.

gojo doesn't get any further with his worries, because someone runs into his back.

oh. oh, wait. the familiar, faint scent of strawberry shampoo. he turns around, heart already beating faster, a frantic rhythm against his ribs, when he sees you.

"jesus, i'm sorry. i didn't even see you." you look up, your eyes meeting his, and your apologies vanish into thin air, replaced by a soft, surprised expression. "oh, my god, hi."

"hey," he says, his voice a little breathy, holding his breath as if he’s scared to move, worried you'll simply vanish like a mirage.

"isn't it crazy how we keep running into each other?" you giggle, a light, melodic sound, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

"yeah, um, small world," gojo nods, straining a smile that feels more like a grimace. you give him a funny look, a slight tilt of your head, but thankfully leave it. "i didn't think this was really your scene?"

your shoulders slump, and you sigh, a familiar weariness in the sound. "it's not. my friend dragged me here, and then left to go have trashy sex with a trashy guy."

"oof," he winces, a sympathetic grimace. "that's alright. you can always stick with me, you know." the words tumble out, hopeful and a little desperate.

you put a hand on his arm, a feather-light touch that sends a jolt through him, sighing in relief. "once again, you're my savior. i'm stuck here until she's," you pause, a flicker of distaste on your face, "done."

"ah, well, if it's trashy sex with a trashy guy, it'll probably not be too long." he rubs the back of his head, a nervous habit. "i wouldn't mind if it isn't, though. i like talking to you," he admits, the confession coming out a little sheepish.

"oh," you say, your cheeks flushing so slightly he almost misses it. "thanks. i mean, me, too."

"yeah." there's a beat of comfortable silence between you two, the thumping of bass from downstairs filling the quiet space. "say, uh, wanna go upstairs?"

your eyes go a little wide, a startled deer caught in headlights, and gojo quickly backpedals. "to talk. it's— it's just loud, here."

you nod, a slow, deliberate movement, sighing in either relief or disappointment (he can't tell, but he desperately hopes it's the latter).

his fingers tentatively lace with yours, a hesitant connection, and he pulls you gently past bodies of people swaying to the music. he leads you into a less crowded room, a quieter haven, and shuts the door behind him. the muffled bass is a distant thrum now. "isn't this much nicer?"

"definitely, yeah." you take a seat on the edge of the bed, a quick, almost imperceptible glance around to ensure it's clean. "so… how's your day been?" it sounds awkward, a little stilted, and he's glad that he’s not the only one.

taking a seat beside you, a comfortable, close distance, he smiles, "good. very good. you?" he looks right into your eyes, letting the sincerity of his words reach you.

you return the smile, a soft, hesitant curve of your lips, debating whether or not to scoot closer. "s'okay. better, now."

"i know you don't like parties, but on that scale, how's this one been? be nice, i helped set it up," he warns, a playful glint in his eyes.

"it's good. i appreciate the lukewarm beer."

he holds his hands up, defensive. "see, i told geto to get more coolers. that part's not on me."

"okay, then, what part's on you?" you ask, crossing your arms, a hint of playful challenge in your tone.

"uh, i did the…" he frowns, trying to remember his own contributions to the party prep. "i taste-tested all the snacks. does that count?"

you snort, a small, endearing sound. "did you eat all of them, too? 'cause there weren't any left when i got here."

"i," a pause, a hint of guilt in his voice, "might have had a little more than i was supposed to, but those cookies were really good. so was the kikufuku."

"there was kikufuku?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"not anymore," he admits, a wry grin on his face. "that, i did finish."

laughing, a genuine, unforced sound, you tilt your head, "what parties have kikufuku?"

"the really, really cool ones."

"is that right?"

"would i ever lie to you?" his voice is teasing, but there's something else there, too.

"hm, maybe not," you hum, making a show of inspecting his features, your gaze lingering on his eyes. "you do have a really honest face."

"you have a really pretty one," he retorts, the words escaping before he can think better of them. it takes you a second to process, a faint blush dusting your cheeks. him, too, because… did he just say that? was that bad? he can't, for the love of god, read your face.

your mouth opens, a soft parting of your lips, but you're robbed of a chance to respond, because a couple barges into the room, their laughter loud and jarring. gojo flinches, startled. huffing, he says, "occupied!"

it's shoko and the redhead. shoko's eyes flit from you to gojo, a silent apology passing between them before she quickly steers the redhead back out of the room, shutting the door. god, out of all his friends,

he wouldn't have expected her to be the cock-block. well, at least someone's getting some.

୨୧ ⌞ act four: nepo-baby v. broke barista.⌝

the gentle chime of the bell above the door echoes through the quiet café, a familiar melody that always brings a sense of calm to satoru.

he pushes the door open, the scent of rich, freshly brewed coffee washing over him, a comforting aroma that instantly eases the tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying. he lets out a small, almost imperceptible sigh of contentment.

this, to him, is the best place to be.

his sunglasses, a constant fixture even indoors and in the dead of winter, are perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. he knows he probably looks a little eccentric, a touch out of place, but he doesn't care.

gojo’s soft, white hair, perpetually threatening to fall into his startling blue eyes, drifts gently across his forehead. with a practiced flick of his wrist, he rakes it back, the cool air a stark contrast to the warmth of the café.

he steps towards the counter, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the smooth, polished surface. his order was always the same, a creature of habit in a world that constantly shifts and changes around him, a small anchor of predictability.

“hi,” a soft voice says, breaking him out of his reverie. gojo’s eyes fix on the meticulously arranged cookies in the display case, and he’s caught between the choice of chocolate chip or macadamia nut.

chocolate, duh.

“hey, could i—” his gaze finally shifts up, and he locks eyes with the barista. but, because god really does have favorites, it’s not just any barista, it’s you.

he’s caught off-guard, seeing you, though he really shouldn’t be. not after having run into you unplanned this many times, already. it’s almost comical at this point.

“damn,” he shakes his head, a smile of disbelief slowly spreading across his face. “are you playing a trick on me?”

“god, no,” you laugh, a clear, bright sound. a few stray strands of hair escape from beneath the café’s branded hat, and you brush them out of your face with a practiced motion.

your smile is a little lopsided, charmingly imperfect, and he notices your apron is slightly askew, a testament to what must have been a busy morning.

“i come here all the time. don’t tell me i’ve been missing you… somehow, like, every single time,” he pouts, a playful whine in his voice.

“no, no. don’t worry, i’m new. i started yesterday. apparently, i’m more broke than i realized,” you confess, a wry smile touching your lips.

he nods in understanding, giving you a look of genuine sympathy. “yeah, i get it.”

“oh, do you, rich boy?” you tease, your gaze playfully raking over his expensive sunglasses, then his wrist to his watch, and finally the glint of a gold chain peeking from beneath his shirt. i

t’s not a secret that gojo is loaded, the son of gojo enterprises’ founder. he’s always gone out of his way to be humble about it, part of why he works so hard.

“yeah, yeah,” he waves you off, a dismissive flick of his hand. "speaking of, you gonna mess up my drink, newbie?"

"oh, haha. did you lose your stick? because i think i know where it went." you quip back.

gojo snorts, motioning to the register. “caramel macchiato, please. extra sugar.”

“aw, elitist baby can say please.” you pause, a faint wrinkle forming between your brows. “wait, did you say extra sugar?” you ask, making a face as you reach for a plastic cup and a sharpie. he nods, feeling his face flush under your intense, slightly disgusted gaze. “you know it’s already, like, super sweet, right?”

in return, he nods again, a little sheepish. gojo watches you scribble his name down on the side of the cup, your handwriting the same scrawl it always is. he shuffles to the end of the counter, waiting to receive his order.

your movements are a little clumsy, a novice’s hesitation in your hands, and you have to pause to remember the steps for making the drink. he even sees you gag, just a little, when adding the extra thing he’d gone out of his way to tell you.

“enjoy the, uh, macchiato.” you can't help the slight grimace as you push the cup across the counter. the smell alone was overwhelmingly sweet, amplified tenfold by the extra sugar he’d requested.

“you’re laughing. don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he grins, a flash of white teeth against his pale skin, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“nah, i think i’ll be knocking,” you giggle, shaking your head, a slight shiver running through you. “but, if that’s what you like, you do you.”

there's a beat of silence, and gojo watches you attention momentarily shift to a spilled sugar packet near the display. "we really should start planning our run-ins," he chuckles, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting moment as he grabs the cup.

"they wouldn't be run-ins, then," you correct, a sly lilt in your voice.

"i… wouldn't mind that." the words are soft, almost a murmur, but loaded with intent.

the universe has a weird way of pulling people together, doesn't it?

୨୧ ⌞ act five: she loves me, she loves me not.⌝

gojo goes out of his way to plan this. he knows it's not a date, and he probably shouldn't pretend it is one. you had taken him up on his offer to hang out sometime, and he wanted it to be perfect.

you don't deserve anything less than that.

to anyone on the outside, he's sure it does look like a date. it feels like one, at least, if that counts. gojo picked you up, he dressed nice, you dressed nice, and he drove you to the park for a nice picnic. all of it sounds date-like, especially the part where he told you that you looked very cute today.

and, especially the part where he frantically back-pedaled, telling you; wait, you look cute today, but you look cute everyday. he doesn't just mean today.

and, especially, especially, how you'd teased him about it after. so, yeah, forgive him if he's having a hard time differentiating a platonic meetup and a not-so-platonic date.

gojo's picking off the petals on the daisy he's holding, hoping you don't notice how he's mentally playing she loves me, she loves me not. he glances at the small pile of discarded petals, then back at you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

you weave the stem of a flower into another, your brows furrowed in concentration on the crown you're making for him. "how long should i make this? you do have a really big head."

"hey, that's insulting. my head is perfectly normal-sized," he huffs, feigning offense, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. he leans closer, trying to get a better look at your handiwork. "are you sure you know what you're doing over there?"

"positive," you retort, not looking up. you wrap what you've got so far around his head, the cool petals a gentle press against his temple. "yep, definitely needs to be longer. see?"

"okay, rude." he pulls away slightly, inspecting the half-finished crown. "i'm starting to think you're just trying to wound my feelings."

you sigh, a dramatic, mournful sound. "truth hurts, right?" you glance up, your eyes locking with his, a gentle warmth in their depths. "this is really nice, by the way. i'm really glad we're doing this."

"me, too. feels a lot less rushed, compared to just seeing you around. not that i mind seeing you around," he quickly adds, the words tumbling out a little too fast, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

you smile, a soft, genuine curve of your lips. "yeah, i get it. you picked a nice spot. the gardens are so beautiful, i can't believe i've never been here before," you say, looking around at the vibrant roses beside you, your gaze lingering on their soft petals.

"you just wait, then, i've got a whole roster, baby." he means the pet-name as a joke, a casual endearment, but the sudden flicker in your gaze has his breath hitching, a silent question forming in his mind.

"you make me sound like your girlfriend," you laugh, the sound light and airy, a small puff of air escaping your lips.

"i bet you'd like that, huh?" he teases, pushing his luck, and you respond by playfully throwing a torn-off stem at him, which he easily dodges.

rolling your eyes at him, you scoff. "i just meant all this. you're really nice to me." your voice softens towards the end, a subtle shift in tone that he notices.

"well, yeah, we're," he hesitates, the word catching in his throat, "friends." sure, he's glad that you're even that, that you tolerate his presence, but it's still disappointing, only that.

"mm, friends," you repeat, the word echoing his own slight disappointment. he wonders if that's a similar ache he hears in the tone of your voice.

"what? you fallin' for me?" he asks, playing it off as a joke, a lighthearted jab, but, god, he wishes. he so, so desperately prays that a tiny part of it is true.

"oh, shut up," you huff, but the warmth on your cheeks contradicts your words, a tell-tale flush that brings a hopeful flutter to his chest.

he tilts his head at you, intently studying the familiar sparkle in your eyes, the way they crinkle slightly at the corners when you're amused.

taking one of the remaining daisies, he gently tucks it behind your ear, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of your neck. "you should call me satoru."

"yeah? okay, then, shut up, satoru." the corners of your mouth quirk upwards, a small, knowing smile.

he plucks off the last petal. she loves me.

୨୧ ⌞ act six: stay, little valentine, stay.⌝

"i hate valentine's day, you know," you frown, slumping down in the bakery's chair. the place smells sweet, a comforting blend of buttered croissants and something faintly fruity, like berries.

"of course you would. you're single," he remarks, casually, playing with the crinkly wrapping paper of his straw.

"you're single, too, gojo."

he points a finger at you, raising his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. "yeah, but that's different. i'm at peace with it."

shoving his index finger away, you whine, "what, like you aren't sick of seeing love-sick couples sucking each other's faces off, all day?"

well, he won't admit it (to you, at least), but he's mostly just been imagining what it would be like if those love-sick couples were you two.

before he can come up with a lame excuse, an employee, a young guy with a chipped name-tag stops by, checking in to see if you need anything else. "just letting you know, it's all half-off for couples today," they say, their tone far too cheery for your liking.

you say, "oh, no, we're not—" at the exact same time gojo says, "sure. another blueberry muffin, please. two, actually."

"are you crazy?" you whisper harshly at him, leaning across the table, your eyes wide with disbelief. "we're not even a couple." unbothered, he shoves your face away, a playful flick of his wrist.

instead, he smiles brightly at mark, and audaciously winks at you. "a couple of those strawberry tarts, too. my girlfriend here has a real sweet tooth."

your voice is strained, a desperate attempt to salvage the situation. "he's exaggerating. just the muffins, please."

with a click of their pen, they're telling you that you're an adorable couple, then walking off, already distracted by another customer.

"see? adorable. i'm already winning 'em over." gojo leans back in his chair, a smug look on his face.

you shoot him a look, a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. "winning who over? the employee? or me, into wanting those things? besides, i didn't even need any."

"first, who said it was for you?" he retorts, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "second, it's half-off. it'd be a shame if we didn't take advantage of it."

"right," you laugh, shaking your head. he might be going crazy, but he's really fond of the idea that at least one person thinks you're dating. and, sure, that doesn't make it real, but it's a step closer.

"you know," he says, taking a sip of his smoothie (your smoothie, he stole it from you and you said nothing, which he considers a victory), "i think we'd make a good couple."

"oh? what makes you so sure?" you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

"think about it. i'm the brains, you're the… well, you're pretty good at complaining. we balance each other out," gojo claims, with a confidence that has you kicking his shin from under the table.

"ow! seriously?" he yelps, rubbing his leg.

"oh, is that your sales pitch? my top quality is complaining? how charming." you deadpan, crossing your arms.

"it's a very enthusiastic quality. plus, you'd never have to open jars again. or reach for things on high shelves. i'm basically a human step-stool with great hair." he gestures to his impeccably styled white locks.

"so, your criteria for a good relationship is purely utilitarian? i'm good for complaining and you're good for opening jars?"

"and looking good. don't forget that. i'm the eye candy. every couple needs eye candy. you can be good at appreciating my eye candy."

you fight the urge to stick a fork in his eyes. "right, because all i do is sit around and appreciate your god-given good looks."

"besides," he continues, ignoring your sarcasm, "that guy bought it. means we look pretty couple-y, right?"

you stare at him, a flat, unimpressed look on your face. "or, it means he's being paid minimum wage, and couldn't care less."

"you would know, broke ass." another swift kick, and he hisses, pouting exaggeratedly.

"excuse me?" you huff. "minimum wage or not, that man is doing his job. unlike you, who's just freeloading off my good reputation."

he nods, as if he's genuinely considering this profound statement. "good reputation? for hating valentine's day? that's quite the legacy."

defensively, you sit up straighter. "it's a very respectable stance! and i'm not broke. i just appreciate a good discount. like you, apparently, considering you just scammed a bakery employee into thinking we're an item."

he choose not to address you, taking a moment to meticulously tear the paper of the straw in half. "on the other hand," gojo says, eyes fixed on his paper dissection, "if you weren't single, you'd be far less grouchy all the time."

"you already said that," you huff, deadpan.

"it still holds true," he nods, finally looking up, a serious expression on his face.

snorting, you tilt your head up, looking at the cracks in the ceiling. "so… you're suggesting i need to get a boyfriend? are you also suggesting the boyfriend is… you? just to not be grouchy? okay, well, what if i prefer to be grouchy? what if that's, like, my thing?"

"not necessarily." he almost says yes, but catches himself. "but you should know, i'd make a gas boyfriend," he insists, puffing out his chest playfully.

"good to know," you hum, snatching your drink back. when you take a sip from exactly where he did, his heart does a little flip in his chest, a secret, happy flutter.

gojo clicks his tongue. "and, also, impossible. no one prefers to be grouchy. you're just… unfulfilled. a boyfriend would bring joy, sunshine, spontaneous acts of adoration. less frowning, more smiling."

"these are high standards to hold to yourself. or, like, this hypothetical boyfriend. also, i like the grouch. i think it's kind of like my core trait." you tap your chest, a definitive statement.

"that is such a sad, sad trait to base yourself off."

"oh, please," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "like the rich daddy's boy thing you have going on is any better."

he holds his hands up, defensive, but a grin splits his face. "well, one of us is paying for lunch, and the other isn't. you know, because she's broke." mildly offended, you kick him. again.

"hey! quit doing that. anyways, my point is, i've got all day to change your mind about valentine's."

"all day? what if i'm busy?" you challenge, a playful glint in your eye.

"nah. you wouldn't be here with me, if you had plans." he says it with absolute certainty.

he doesn't know it yet, but, yeah, even if you did have plans, you'd still ditch them for him.

୨୧ ⌞ act seven: strawberries and cigarettes always taste like you.⌝

gojo's phone died a little while back, and he has no idea what time it is. it doesn't really matter, though, not when he's walking in the dim-lit street with you, not when it feels like this moment will last forever.

he pulls you behind that same, tattered, gray building, the gas station he saw you at just a couple months ago. it looks the same, save for the dumpster that's against the bushes instead of the wall.

"oh, shit," he laughs, the sound a little breathless. "it smells rank back here."

you plop down on the familiar concrete ledge, scrunching your nose in agreement. "don't even start, you're the one who dragged me here. for your stupid matcha cravings."

pulling him down next to you, his shoulder bumps against yours. "wait, wait," you murmur, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. holding a flame to the end, you cup your hand to keep the tiny light from going out in the faint breeze.

there's an odd feeling that passes through him, not quite nostalgia, when he sees that identical stain of strawberry-colored gloss on the end your lips are over.

"remember the last time i tried to smoke one?" he asks, a small, knowing grin on his face.

"yeah," you giggle, your shoulders shaking slightly as the smoke hits your lungs. "you almost died."

he's a little flustered, denying it immediately. "i did not almost die."

"close enough, you started choking and everything. wanna try again?" you ask, holding it near him, the lit tip glowing orange in the dim light. he eyes it, then looks back at you, a challenge in his gaze.

"damn, you tryna kill me?" he teases, but his voice is softer than he intends.

you lean closer, a pretty smile on your face that makes his voice catch. "would i get your money, if i did?"

his lips part, a hesitant breath escaping him, and you slip the cigarette between them. he can faintly smell the sweetness of the red. it's barely there, a ghost of a scent, but it's enough.

"relax," you hum, your voice a low, soothing sound. "you don't need to be so tense, it's just me."

but that's the thing — it's just you. just you and him, here again, alone in the quiet hum of the night. you're so close, invading all of his senses, leaving him breathless. how is he even supposed to think straight?

he, hesitant, inhales the smoke. he lasts hardly any longer than last time, turning away and breaking into a coughing fit, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

"oh, my god," you wheeze, patting his back, a mixture of concern and amusement in your touch. "careful. you're not supposed to suck in that much. just a puff, sato." the nickname, soft and intimate, has him blushing, and he has to duck his head, hiding his flushed face.

"one more time, or are you tapped out?" you ask, your voice still laced with laughter.

"one more," he breathes, tilting his head up to take in a smaller stroke. it's easier this time, irritates his throat less. he has to clear his chest, a low rumble, but he doesn't start writhing on the floor, so it's a win.

"oh, look! you did it," you smile, your eyes sparkling, and you gently pat his cheek. he wants to respond, but all he can manage is to lean into your touch. you don't move your hand, but stay cupping his face instead, your thumb stroking his cheekbone.

"hey, pretty," he whispers, his voice thick, feeling his breath mingle with yours in the cool night air.

you scoot closer, virtually pressed flush against him, and the sudden warmth of your body sends a jolt through him. "hi." his heart is beating loudly against his ribcage, a frantic drum, and he's afraid you can hear it.

gojo watches your eyes glaze over, a hazy, soft look, and how your long lashes flutter against your skin. you clutch his shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric, and your noses brush against his. and in a moment of a burst of raw courage, he presses his lips against yours.

it's not patient, but it's still loving, desperate in its urgency. it's clumsy, rather, messy, because both of you have been waiting too long for this to happen. your teeth clash against his, a soft click, as your lips, almost silkenly soft, move against his.

he tastes the faint sweetness of strawberries, a hint of something smoky and intoxicating. his hand, warm and firm, cups the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.

the other hand fixes on your waist, keeping you there, pressed flush against him, as if he fears you might disappear.

it's awkward at first, tentative, because he's all too focused on the frantic butterflies that loop through his stomach, a dizzying swarm. it's like he's never kissed another person before, like he's forgotten how to. it was like his first one. his right one.

when he pulls away, you're panting little breaths, needing air, foreheads pressed together, your eyes still hazy. gojo presses another gentle kiss to the top of your hair, his nose nuzzled there, inhaling your scent.

you taste like strawberries and cigarettes.

unofficial permanent taglist: @jeonwiixard, @mia-can-yap-too did u guys know this is the longest fic ive ever written i should get head in the gc <33 big thanku to @mia-can-yap-too for beta reading i cannot be trusted to go back and do that myself i will cry also tagging myleslover @shokocide bc ur long fics inspire me + idk how u do it but share the talent !!! gatekeeping is bad incorrect buzzer

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sophistication-as · 28 days ago

Text

⊹ DIGITAL BATH

TONIGHT I FEEL LIKE MORE . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 4k

cw: NSFW—MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, gn!reader, switch!Dazai, mentions of scars, cock worship, finger sucking, spit, oral (m!receiving), anal fingering, nipple play (m!receiving), dirty talk, cum eating, itty bit of Dazai-typical mindgames, just feeding fruit to tired spoiled Osamu and then blowing him like he deserves

reid: i wanna fingerbang this mfker so good it makes him believe in love

“Such a long fuckin’ day.”

Osamu’s grumbling, wrapping himself around you from behind.

On any other evening, you’d be inclined to mock that it’s always a long day for him when he’s throwing balled-up paper at Kunikida's head, guilting Atsushi into doing his paperwork for him, and slipping out of the office under the guise of fetching snacks for Ranpo just to go lean against the railing of Bankoku Bridge and gaze longingly at the water—but frankly, there’s two factors at play keeping you from doing so.

One: his regular dramatics are nowhere to be seen. You hadn’t even realized he was on his way in until the door shut behind him—he’s normally sing-songing your name before he even opens it, before he’s bouncing over to you to ask what’s for dinner while he complains about the long day he had in that all too-spry voice of his. This evening, he’s subdued. Quiet complaints, quiet shuffling, quiet breath on your ear as he latches onto you. The second is that, when you turn around from the counter to face him, he looks like he’s had a long day.

His messy hair seems messier. His eyes aren’t so wide and sparkly, and he’s got a nasty bruise blossoming on the apple of his left cheek—you bite back, too, the instinctual urge to tease and ask if it’s Chuuya’s doing.

“Baby,” you coo, bringing your hands up to cup his face (pointedly avoiding the bruise). “I didn’t even cook. Was just cutting up some fruit.”

“That’s okay,” he sighs, seemingly content to be under your grasp. He really does look exhausted as he grins weakly and slumps into your hold, faltering down to brush a kiss against your lips. “Cut up some strawberries, too, please.”

“Mhm.” You kiss him back, short and sweet—not entirely pleased with such a concise request, but happy to indulge it regardless. “Go get comfy, I’ll be there in a sec.”

So he does. He wanders off; you dump your fruit into a bowl, fetch the (thankfully not moldy) strawberries from the fridge, and toss those in, too, also preparing a glass of ice water for him for good measure. No guarantee he’ll drink it, but at least it’ll be there.

When you pad to your bed, he’s sitting, pulling a shirt over his bare torso—the local bandages lay at his feet. A rewrap for tomorrow, you think absently, hopping like a cat onto the opposite side and kicking the covers back; not that he’ll have any use for them—the beginnings of stirrings in your brain will come to fruition more beautifully, anyway, should he leave them be.

His quietness always spooks you a little; you hope nothing too terrible happened today, because if he wanted to talk about it, he undoubtedly would’ve started by now.

There are very few things a bowl of cut fruit and your gentle fingertips can’t begin to mend, though.

You flick the light out, turn the television on, lean over to abandon the water on his side table; Osamu plucks a strawberry from the bowl you nestle in your lap and cuddles up to your side. Half a fat cherry gushes between your teeth; you peck the crown of his head.

Even if he is uncharacteristically quiet, you do always find a bit of joy in fussing over him. You might not draw from him what exactly is on his mind, but you can hold him while it simmers, take care of him—it’s one of the things you do best, after all, and you’re well aware Osamu likes being taken care of.

He’s painted soft, staticky colors from whatever sitcom plays. You curl the arm that’s fallen behind his head to twirl his hair between your fingers, toy with the shoulder of his shirt; you can feel the tension in him. But before you move, you let the fruit in the bowl dwindle. Better if he eats.

When his eyes flutter shut and he nudges you, mouth open like some sort of sultan, you shake your head (chuckling) and place a few halved grapes on his tongue.

You don’t know if he knows how proud you are of him; you tell him plenty, sure, but thinking back to the quip you’re relieved to have held back today, you wonder briefly why he only ever complains gratuitously about the easy days and never the ones that leave him like this. It fills you with a certain sorrow—one that shapeshifts swiftly into determination.

“Last one’s yours.” You pan back in, referring to the sole strawberry left.

“Mm.” Again, wordlessly, he demands you feed it to him. You concede, of course, with a sleepy grin of your own.

It’s when his tongue flicks out to lick the remnants of sweetness off your fingertips that you strike; only when you fiddle with his bottom lip do his owl eyes flicker open to peer up into yours.

Juxtaposition is a fascinating thing. You don’t know what happened today. You don’t know what’s happened on most of the darker days he’s left trailing behind him—you might never know all of it, other than it’s been horrible, scarring, gutting both for him and those staring down the barrel of the gun that is Osamu Dazai—but he looks so innocent before he takes your finger, all the way to the second knuckle, into his mouth to swirl his tongue around.

You can’t help biting the inside of your cheek.

As his jaw flexes around you, you press your middle finger in, too. Those brown eyes never falter from yours, nor does the quiet smile in them; any remaining strawberry is long gone, swallowed down, but Osamu sucks on your fingers with fervor, nearly nodding like he’s drawing some other sort of elixir from you—one that will compel him to keep moving forth another day, perhaps, and as he does, his ankles knock against yours.

“Needy boy, huh.” It’s a statement, not a question, which he needn’t deny or confirm; the attention you shower him with after the days that drag him to hell extends to all the vulnerabilities he doesn’t allow another soul to see—the ones that stem from a depth left neglected by any previous excuse for a caretaker he might’ve had.

Whereas, you’d be damned if you casted aside a single inch of that void.

So you poke a kiss to the corner of his mouth before you latch onto his neck—an I’ll be back here later—softly, with just lips first, then tongue, and finally teeth. You find his pulse point and bite, dragging spit-coated fingers down his chin, past his throat to his nipple.

The exhale from his chest prompts your knee into his lap like the kickback of a gunshot. Rolling equally into you, Osamu tugs you by your arms on top of him, across his hips so you can hunch over him and kiss, bite, kiss, bite, worship from above in the little rhythm you have that's so familiar to his fatigued body.

Fingers flitting, you creep up his shirt.

You work his sleep shirt off, too slow for his liking. Something he loves about what you do, though, is how you never even mind the scars; you look at the exposed, marred flesh of his chest, shoulders, arms, and abdomen like it’s empty and pristine only until you mark it up yourself. There are fading bite marks, ones from maybe a few days or a week ago, across the curves where his pectorals slope into his collarbones, and you take it upon yourself to retrace, refresh them as you caress up and down from his shoulders to his hips and back again, doting and unhurried. He sighs for you.

The empty bowl’s lost somewhere outside the searing kiss you land to his panting mouth (one of you has likely tossed it, kicked it, or pushed it to the floor), and his hands wander, eager to offer fair exchange—but you’re quick to stop him, slow him, lick his bottom lip and pin one of his wrists to the headboard beside him before you mutter, “Let me take care of you, ‘kay?”

In true Osamu fashion, he whines, not unlike a cat being denied a treat; after all, for him, half the fun of fucking is getting you off—but tonight, you smell insincerity in his protest, have sensed the smallness that silently begs yes, please, take care of me, and you find yourself grinning into his mouth. Osamu’s rarely straightforward; he gets what he wants anyway.

So, in equally as true Osamu fashion, he’ll sit pretty and let you send him to the clouds.

You creep with lips and fingertips back to his chest, to his nipples, where you both know he’s so sensitive; you could make Osamu cum just from your tongue on those pretty, pink buds of his—you have before—but you feel determined to work him up thoroughly, take your time with all of him, all of his distress, right now.

“Want that pretty mouth on me, baby,” he confesses, quieter and meeker than usual. He keeps drilling home how tired he is—here he is, telling you what he wants so soon.

You finish sucking a particularly harsh mark into his sternum. “It is on you.”

“Mm—no, on me.” And then his hand, the one not held hostage by you, is pushing yours down to his cock, beginning to stiffen in his sweatpants.

“Be patient.” You rise back up to kiss him again, swatting him away just to toy with him over his pants; Osamu chases your breath with his own, hungrily, fingers flexing and relaxing in your grasp when you squeeze him, circle your thumb over his tip, nip at his mouth. “I'll make you feel good.”

It’s when you sit yourself down fully on his growing erection and begin to grind back and forth that he starts whining against your lips.

You hold his face to yours, smile into him reflexively; it’s so easy to make him mewl. For as much composure as Osamu holds in every other corner of his life, your bed is the one place it tends to escape him, and you live to watch him crumble for you. You live to feel his jaw work into your kiss, to trace adoration into his skin, to hear the little whimpers he lets out rise in decibel the longer you drag him out. You love it most of all because he deserves it—to let go, retreat from himself into your touch.

“Please,” he whispers into you, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. It might be nothing to make him whine, but it’s no small feat, reducing Osamu Dazai to begging. That you didn’t even have to try tells you he needs this—he needs you; no matter how much he might’ve lied if you asked or banked on you missing it, you know the outline of that word on his lips, and he knows you know it, too. So you grind, not faster but harder, slipping your tongue into his pliant mouth.

After letting his wrist go, after he grabs your hip and presses you onto him feverishly with a few more of your undulations, you work your way down him again—stopping not at his chest this time but between his hips, waiting to peel the waistband of his sweatpants down and off until you've first circled his belly button and the gradual path of hair that disappears beneath the fabric with kisses growing more intense from one moment to the next. You seek out the little layer of fat stretching across his tummy and bite there, too; he grabs your hair and snickers, watching you through squinted eyes while he tells you hoarsely to stop, it tickles! And you relent with a giggle of your own only to kneel, shove his pants down, and settle on your stomach where you urge each of his knees over your shoulders.

You look up and think, god, you wish you could photograph him right now. Gazing down at you, lips parted with breathlessness, Adam's apple bobbing as you tease him; he's a quiet image of ecstasy as he curls his hands around your face, only because he trusts you to let him be. When you pause and admire for a moment too long, his lithe fingers take root in your hair; he's wiggling, saying please with his low-lidded eyes and desperate hips only so he won't have to subject himself to verbalizing it again.

You wrap an arm beneath his thigh to seek out his cock, finally, sweetly; you hold him up, lick a slow stripe from base to tip up the underside, and Osamu croons.

“Uh—yeah, was wondering when you'd get to the whole making-me-feel-good part.”

Just when you thought you had him.

With your free hand, you swat his leg—impatient and sassy, even while he's running on fumes. Roguish in every sense of the word, still, while you’re taking such good care of him. His spark wants to have you grinning; you try to hide the inevitable reaction by burying your face in him, lapping sweetly, diligently at the spot between his base and his balls that should shut him up.

“You're so mean, you know?”

You can tell from his tone he's smirking.

“Ngh—telling me to be patient wh—while I beg for you—”

Really, it should have shut him up. But he keeps going.

“—Mhm—yeah,” he exhales, one heel digging into your back—telling you he's going to fall apart faster than he's letting on. “You always know just—uh—just where to... t’—”

In a rarer display of force you reach behind yourself for his shin, gripping it, bending it up close to him and freeing your other arm; with this, you reach up, stuff your pre-cum dabbled fingers back in his mouth—to which he can only respond with a muffled mph! and widening eyes.

Your patience to have him drop the facade is thinning.

You prop yourself up on your elbow to shove your fingers deeper and look up into his face.

“How about you be quiet, Osamu?” you pose gently; your fingerpads on his tongue are anything but, and he's squirming at the loss of pleasure. “Get my fingers nice n’ wet while you’re at it.”

Osamu’s teeth are in your knuckles a little too harsh to be considered polite, but you thrust them toward the back of his tongue anyway; he holds your eyes, you shoo his legs open further so as not to have to work around them as you resume stroking him lazily, and you tilt your head, admiring again. He hums around you, sighs through his nose while he laps you up, so you pick up the talking.

“So cute when you shut up.”

You retract your fingers momentarily to squish his cheeks—the face as well as the sound he makes is nothing short of adorable, less in the contrived sense and more in the literal as his nose scrunches; you want to adore him by making him come, and you will, but not before thrusting your fingers back into his bratty mouth immediately.

“When have I ever left you unsatisfied, huh?” You don’t wait for an answer. “When have I ever not given my good boy what he needs?”

It’s rhythmic, how he echoes the cadence of good boy with his body—first in the way his hips buck into you, and next in the groan you don’t let pass his teeth.

“That’s right. You're smart enough to know by now when I want you to shut up and take it.”

Pushing yourself up—leaving him squirming again—you leave hardly a second between replacing your fingers with your mouth, sloppy, all breath, nipping at the tip of his tongue; Osamu loves when you kiss him hard, like you need him. Loves feeling needed more than he needs. But you know—maybe better than he does.

You smear his spit down his chin, wasting it for what you're planning next; it's a good thing you know just how to work him into a pliable mess. There’s one more thing he’ll do for you, and you'll get him there; you’ll disarm this unshakably smug and prodigiously self-controlled man and turn him into your lover, like you do so often.

For what it's worth, this is the least he's made you work for it in a while.

Osamu chases you when you leave his kiss, but you pin him down, cradling his bottom lip with your two fingers like a spoon.

“Aht—” You shove them back in, across his tongue, just the tips of them. Only until he settles, and then you hold them out for him again. “Spit.”

And he does.

“Good boy, Osamu.”

You love watching the power leave his body when you utter those two words in combination with his name. As if conditioned, his cock jumps; you notice this as you reach down, dollop of spit beginning to drip between your fingers before you circle them around his hole and oh, you're rewarded with the prettiest gasp that trails off into an even prettier whimper—yes, a whimper, because he breaks so pathetically beneath you.

You smile into Osamu’s mouth when his breath picks up, evermore unsteady as you tease the rim of his ass. Without having to ask, he pitches his hips up for you, knees bent and feet bracing when you traverse back down his jugular with your lips and teeth.

You’re fast now, eager yourself; your line's barely straight, but you meet your own hand again as you return.

“Please,” followed by your name, huffy, totally realized this time.

How can you do anything but oblige?

Curling your fingers back around his cock, collecting the leakiness at his weepy tip to stroke him fully, he throws his soft brown head back into the headboard, gripping the sheets. No free hand to use, you hum and hope silently for his legs over your shoulders once more, and like a mindreader, he obliges you now—good boy, you’d be saying, if your mouth wasn’t occupied with one of his balls, rewriting the meaning of triple homicide with the suction of your tongue.

When you’ve switched your mouth and your hand and you’re a knuckle deep in him, Osamu starts to get demanding.

“Deeper,” he growls through his teeth, and you’re unclear whether he means he wants you deeper inside him or his cock deeper down your throat. “C’mon—I want it, baby.”

No please—and definitely no thank you when you give into his whims both ways, thrusting your finger deeper to curl up and apply pressure to the exact spot you know will have him crooning and gripping onto your hair, and that he does—to shove your face further down on him nonetheless.

And then he really starts talking.

“Thought you’d be all nice n’ be in charge—n’ take care of me? Hah—”

You still your head while Osamu holds either side of your jaw and humps upward, drawing wet, smothered heaves from the back of your throat as his throbbing tip hammers it.

“That’s sweet, honey.”

You really, truly do know why he doesn’t complain about easy days, and the bulb flickers only once you’re choking on him—only ever once he has you right where he wants you—that when you fuss over him, it always gives him a leg up to take that control he thirsts for so deeply with all the more force.

He licks his lips as honey drips from it, cradling you with the same gentleness you talked to him with earlier and employing the same ruthlessness in contrast. Your eyes roll back in surrender to his brutal pace and the air he cuts off from you so cruelly—but god, if you had the faculty to, you wouldn’t even be able to deny that you love letting him use you, love letting him take what he wants from you, so you focus your swirling consciousness on pressing up, deeper into his ass, worming your ring finger next to your middle one to stretch him open, have him gasping, holding on loosely to control.

It’s always a little push and pull between you; you always let Osamu have his fun, but he knows who he belongs to at the end of the day, because you always have him sounding like—

“God—fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

—while he leverages his heels in your back to fuck your throat meaner, harder. You gag, and you know it spurs him on—you know the ring of drool at his base and the sweet, nasty sounds you make involuntarily for him keep him chasing that pretty fulfillment you inspire in the pit of his stomach.

“‘m not the only one who’s cute when I shut up,” he drawls on, pushing your hair away from your forehead to watch the way he possesses you when he’s in you like this; wheezing, whimpering in between, the dominator in him wants to laugh at you—but his taunting throttles almost violently back to strangled groans and cries of your name while tears bead on his lashes. For every take it, take it, take it, there’s an equal please, please, please.

Osamu grunts in a certain vocal register higher than when he talks sultry but lower than his usual speaking voice, and each byte you draw from him by sitting and being his good little toy is reminding you how much you want to make him feel good, how much it gets you off, too—you grind against the mattress helplessly while he has you pinned in place and you squeeze his balls while you keep his hole full, keep him moaning and sobbing for you through his little semblance of authority because you know all of his tells. You know when he’s about to fall apart, you can always tell by the way he twitches fast, abrupt—when those grunts get higher than his speaking voice and he starts breathing almost panic-like, enough to make himself a little dizzy while he unloads in you but you don’t give him the satisfaction of that this time, because he beat you too easily—you have to take something back, and so when he’s cursing with his eyes screwed shut and tears slipping down his face you wrestle yourself off of him so he can shoot spurt after spurt of hot, sticky cum across your fluttering lashes, the bridge of your nose, your raw lips, your cheeks that shine with tears of your own, all while you milk it out from inside of him—he cums so fucking heavenly when your fingers are in him.

And you accept it with a closed-eyed grin and hoarse, bubbly giggles at the way you cautiously keep one eye open to watch Osamu’s gorgeous face, jaw slack as it yawns the euphoria only you bring him just to recover into scrunched-nose, furrowed-brow satisfaction as he opens his eyes and sees you licking up your spit and his cum from around your own mouth.

He's grinning toothily as he swipes the mess away from your eyes and draws you up with a soft come here—he’s not about to let you have it all for yourself, licking his spend off his thumb and pulling you in with great delight to flick his hot tongue across each splatter he’s left on your face. Your fingers slide out of him and he hums against you, cleaning you up diligently—because he never won’t reward you for taking care of him exactly how he wants to be taken care of.

Osamu giggles, too—also hoarse, as if he’s the one who just got his throat fucked.

“You’re so good to me.” That sharp tongue disappears behind a coy smile, and you collapse into him, a little delirious and fully in love—he’s a fucking dog.

“Trust me,” you sigh back, pressing that promised kissed to the corner of his mouth again, wriggling on his thigh.

He’s going to tease you so bad for getting worked up by letting him use you, you know.

“I know I am.”

505 notes · View notes

sophistication-as · 29 days ago

Text

★ ABOVE THE TIME.

before he is a soldier, before you are the princess, and in between the titles that separate you, you think phainon might simply be yours.

★ pairing: soldier!phainon x princess!fem!reader ★ tags & warnings: romance, angst, light smut (unprotected sex, virginity loss), slow burn. childhood friends to lovers!au, royalty!au, secret romance!au. coming of age, first love, love confessions, mutual pining, etc. profanity, class differences, misogyny. ★ word count: 23.5k ★ song rec: above the time by iu.

i). When you are young, they assume you know nothing.

There is a boy inside your room.

He has hair the colour of snow, and eyes the colour of the sea just before a storm: blue and wild, darting around the room like a thief caught in the act. There is a wooden sword strapped to his belt, too long for his waist and carved with clumsy symbols he must’ve etched himself. He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too busy peering out the arched window behind your bed, standing on his toes, breath fogging up the glass.

You sit up, clutching your silk coverlet to your chest. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

He jumps. Spinning around, he stumbles over the corner of the rug and nearly crashes into the gilded leg of your writing desk.

“Oh stars, don’t scream,” he says, voice a frantic whisper. “I wasn’t trying to—I didn’t know it was your room, I swear.”

You blink at him. He looks about your age—nine, maybe ten—but he’s dressed in the dark training leathers of the palace guards-in-training, the sleeves rolled up unevenly, like he’d tugged them up in a rush. His hair sticks out in damp curls, and there is a smear of dirt on his cheek.

“You’re the soldier boy,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “The one who knocked over the archery targets last week.”

His cheeks turn bright red. “That was an accident.”

“You lit one on fire.”

He clears his throat. “Also an accident.”

Silence stretches between you. It’s early in the morning—early enough that the sun hasn’t begun its ascent yet, and the moonlight filters through your gauzy curtains, casting silver stripes across the rug where he stands frozen, as though your room was a stage and he’s forgotten his lines.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“I’m Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” he says, straightening a little. “I’m going to be the captain of the royal guard one day.”

“That’s a big dream,” you say, lifting your chin.

“Well, I already made it into the palace, didn’t I?” Phainon says, grinning.

You try to glare at him. You’ve never had someone your age sneak into your room before. You’re always surrounded by ladies-in-waiting and stiff-backed tutors, and the only boys you ever see are princes visiting from other kingdoms, always polished and dull.

Phainon looks like he tumbled in from the wild.

You scoot over and pat the empty space beside you on the bed. “If you’re hiding, you might as well sit down. Mistress Calypso wakes early. You’ve got maybe twenty minutes.”

His eyes widen. “You’re not going to tell?”

“Not unless you snore.”

Phainon beams. He kicks off his boots and climbs onto the bed without hesitation, flopping beside you with a sigh loud enough to echo. “I hate sword drills. Master Gnaeus makes us practice stances before breakfast.”

“That sounds dreadful,” you say, wrinkling your nose in sympathy.

“You’re different from what I imagined a princess would be like,” he says, glancing at you sideways with his cheek squished against the pillow.

“You’re not what I imagined a soldier would be like, either.”

“What did you imagine, then?”

“Taller,” you say. “Quieter, maybe. Less… floppy.”

“I am not floppy,” he says, affronted, and attempts to sit up straighter—only to sink back down with a groan. “Maybe a little.”

You stifle a giggle behind your hand. It bursts out anyway, small and silver like a bell. Phainon turns to look at you properly then, eyes sharp despite the pillow flattening his cheek. Up close, he smells like grass and horsehair and smoke.

“I meant it, though,” he says. “You’re different.”

“How so?”

“You didn’t scream. Or ring that little bell by your bed. Or call for a guard. You didn’t even look scared.”

“I am scared,” you say solemnly, then lean closer and whisper, “You’ve got a sword.”

Phainon scoffs, lifting the wooden hilt an inch from his belt. “It’s not even sharp. Watch.”

He draws it with a flourish—too quickly, catching the edge of your coverlet and nearly decapitating one of the embroidery swans. You both freeze. Then you burst into laughter, rolling onto your back as Phainon fumbles the sword back into place, mortified.

“You’re not very good at using it,” you declare between gasps.

“I’m a knight-in-training,” he insists, and you’re not sure whether he’s more annoyed or embarrassed.

“You’re going to make an excellent captain one day,” you say, and this time you mean it, not as a tease but as something quiet and true. “You’ve already snuck past five guards and a chambermaid to get in here.”

“Six guards,” he corrects proudly. “And the chambermaid was asleep. I left a biscuit on her tray so she wouldn’t be too cross.”

You smile. “That was kind of you.”

Phainon shrugs, but his cheeks are turning pink again. “Is it alright if I hide in here more often? It’s peaceful. Smells nicer than the barracks, too.”

“What do the barracks smell like?”

“Feet. And soap. And Gaius, who eats too many onions and sweats in his sleep.”

“Ugh.” You grimace.

“Exactly.” He yawns, eyes fluttering. The adrenaline is wearing off, you can tell. His limbs are getting heavy. “Your bed’s nice, too. Like a cloud. I bet princesses don’t have to wake up before dawn.”

“I do,” you sigh. “To learn embroidery and dance steps and which fork to use at state dinners.”

The boy—your friend, now, you suppose—shakes his head in solidarity. “We should run away.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know. The stables. Or the forest. I’ll bring my sword, and you can bring snacks.”

You glance at him. His lashes are long. One of them has a bit of fuzz caught in it. “What if we get caught?”

“Then I’ll protect you,” he says sleepily.

You decide you quite like the sound of that. Outside, the sky is starting to lighten. The first birds begin to chirp.

You reach for the corner of the blanket and pull it over the both of you, just enough to shield him from the dawn. “Go to sleep, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. I’ll wake you before Mistress Calypso comes.”

Phainon mumbles something that sounds like a thank-you.

(You end up falling asleep, too, and only wake when Mistress Calypso shakes your shoulder with a fond—if exasperated—frown and reprimands you for sleeping in late. The mattress beside you is cold.)

“I won’t fall asleep this time, I swear it!”

You squint at him through the veil of sleep still clinging to your lashes. Phainon is back, dirtier than before, with a fresh scrape on his cheek and leaves in his hair, as though he wrestled a tree on his way in. He crouches by the edge of your bed, grinning like he didn’t vanish without a word the first time.

“You told me you’d wake me up before Mistress Calypso came!” he says. “I nearly got caught. And Master Gnaeus gave me a talking-to for sneaking out of the barracks in the night.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you look away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“I had to dive into a laundry basket,” Phainon huffs, flopping onto the carpet. “A laundry basket. Full of damp sheets.”

You try to hold in a laugh. You really do. But it escapes in a small, muffled burst, and once it’s out, you can’t stop. Your shoulders shake beneath your blanket, and Phainon turns his head to glare at you from the floor, betrayed.

“It wasn’t funny,” he says. “I smelled like lavender and mildew all day.”

“You smell like moss now,” you say in between giggles, pointing at a leaf stuck behind his ear.

He swipes at it with a scowl and misses.

Still grinning, you lean over and pluck it out for him. Your fingers brush his curls for only a second, but it’s enough to make something fizz strangely in your chest. Phainon must feel it too, because he goes very still, eyes flicking to yours.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Why’d you come back?” you ask, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

You wait. He fidgets with the hem of his tunic.

“And I didn’t want you to think I didn’t want to be your friend,” he adds, finally. “Or that I was in trouble. Or that I didn’t want to come back.”

Your fingers curl into your blanket. “I didn’t think that.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Do you want the pillow this time?” you ask, scooting to one side of the bed.

Phainon lights up like a lantern. “Do you want to sleep on the floor?”

You throw a cushion at him. He catches it, and then he clambers in beside you, wriggling under the corner of your blanket. You both lie on your sides, facing each other, noses a breath apart.

Outside, the wind rattles against your window panes. Inside, your shared silence is warm.

“I really won’t fall asleep this time,” he promises, blinking slowly.

You smile at him, drowsy, and mumble, “Me too.”

(“Stars above,” comes a voice, fond and faintly amused. “Gnaeus, come look.”

You stir. Phainon groans softly and buries his face in your pillow. You open one bleary eye to see Mistress Calypso standing beside your bed, arms folded over her golden skirts, lips pressed together in an almost-smile.

A heavier tread follows, and then Master Gnaeus pokes his head into view, all sharp grey stubble and frowns. “If this is what passes for night training nowadays, I’ll eat my scabbard.”

Phainon jerks awake at that, sits bolt upright, and nearly knocks his forehead into yours. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—I mean I was just—”

“Hush, little boy,” Mistress Calypso says, waving a hand with a smile so maternal, it could unmake gods. “No one is turning you into stew.”

“You should be running laps,” Master Gnaeus mutters, squinting at you both. “Instead you’re sneaking into the princess’ chambers like some scruffy raccoon.”

“He didn’t sneak,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “He was invited.”

“Oh, pardon me,” the captain of the royal guard says, mock-offended. “I didn’t realise he needed your permission, little princess.”

Mistress Calypso nudges him with her elbow. “Stop scowling, old wolf. You’re just jealous no one invites you to secret sleepovers.”

Master Gnaeus grunts but doesn’t deny it. He watches the two of you for a long moment—your hair mussed from sleep, Phainon trying to smooth his tunic into something that looks presentable—and then sighs through his nose like it pains him to find this sight charming. “I’ll expect you on the training grounds in ten minutes, mud-boy,” he says, turning away. “No excuses. Not even royal ones.”

Phainon nods fervently, already sliding off the bed.

Mistress Calypso’s gaze melts into warm affection as she adjusts the corner of your blanket. “Don’t let him make a habit of it,” she says, voice ripe with mischief, before turning and following Master Gnaeus outside your chambers.

Phainon hovers by the edge of your bed, sheepish. “I’ll come back tonight.”

“Bring fewer leaves next time,” you say.

He grins.)

Weeks pass, and then months, and years, and before you know it, you have more responsibilities thrust upon your shoulders.

Mistress Calypso teaches you about the bleeding that occurs once every moon, about the blossoming of youth. She speaks gently but frankly, brushing your hair back with fingers that have seen a dozen girls come of age before you. You try not to flinch at how grown-up it all sounds.

Your dresses get longer. Your voice becomes more measured. The halls you once ran through with muddy slippers are now places you walk with your chin held high and your hands folded neatly at your front. Even your laughter has changed—no longer loose and careless, but quiet and reserved, meant to be polite rather than real.

Phainon changes too.

You hear of it more than you see it, through whispers in the halls and idle remarks from the guards. He’s fast, they say, too fast for someone who’s only eighteen. He’s clever with a blade, and quicker with his words; reckless, often, but brilliant. Master Gnaeus’ favourite headache.

The maids speak of him more airily, with giggles and cheeks dusted pink. He’s too pretty for a boy with dirt on his cheeks and calluses on his hands, they say. He smiles as though he’s got more than enough happiness for everyone to share, and walks like the world already belongs to him. Mistress Calypso calls him a menace with more than enough charm to spare, but her eyes always twinkle when she talks about him, as though she remembers the mornings where she would find both of you tucked into your blanket together.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch glimpses of him from the tower windows: a blur of movement on the training grounds, sweat-slick hair clinging to his neck, his tunic darker from exertion. You never call out. It wouldn’t be proper. He never looks up.

It becomes easier, in time, to pretend that’s enough.

But one day, when the afternoon sun glows warm against the stone and the air carries the scent of crushed grass and coming rain, you find yourself standing for longer than usual by the window. Down below, the soldiers run drills in neat lines, their movements sharp and practiced. Phainon is among them. You spot him immediately. His posture is looser than the others’, less rigid, as if the rules don’t apply to him in the same way. His strikes are precise, his footwork quick, and even when he missteps—just once—he recovers with a grin and a flourish that earns him a clipped bark from Master Gnaeus and a smothered laugh from the younger boys.

Your fingers curl against the sill. You turn from the window before he finishes the set, something fluttering too hard in your chest to name. When you find Mistress Calypso in the solar, you surprise even yourself with your question.

“May we walk in the grounds today?”

She blinks at you, embroidery needle paused mid-stitch. “The gardens again?”

“No,” you say, and then, quieter, “Past them.”

Her brows rise but she doesn’t press. “Very well,” she murmurs, “but wear your hood. And don’t dawdle.”

You don’t. Your footsteps are eager, your heart beating a rapid staccato against your ribs. Mistress Calypso nearly trips over the hem of her skirts trying to keep up with you, and only then do you slow your pace.

It’s strange, walking so close to the training fields—stranger still to do it on purpose. The clang of steel and barked commands fills the air, but you keep your chin high and your steps even, even when your gaze shifts.

You spot him across the yard—older, taller, with broader shoulders and a sharpness to his movements that startles you. He’s sparring with someone larger, someone stronger, but Phainon doesn’t falter. He fights with all the wildness he used to bring to your bedtime stories, all the fire you remember from summer nights long past.

And then he stumbles—on purpose, you think, because in the next breath he ducks beneath his opponent’s swing and knocks the wooden blade from their hands. He laughs and shakes his opponent’s hand good-naturedly anyway.

Your chest aches.

Phainon turns, wiping sweat from his brow—and freezes when he lays eyes upon you.

You look away first, heat blooming at the base of your throat, but Mistress Calypso only huffs a quiet breath beside you. “I should speak with Master Gnaeus about the training rota,” she says, already stepping away. “Stay on the path. Don’t let your feet wander where your thoughts do.”

You nod, but she’s already moving, skirts sweeping behind her. You glance down again. Phainon is closer now, walking towards the edge of the field with a slow, lazy gait that you think is deceptive to his swiftness.

“Princess,” Phainon calls, just loud enough for it to reach you. His voice is deeper now, roughened like sandpaper against what you remember he used to sound like. “I thought you forgot how to look at me.”

“I haven’t,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I just forgot what you looked like.”

He laughs at that, ducking under the fence railing. “Well, I’ve gotten handsomer. Taller, too.”

You tilt your head. “More arrogant.”

“That, too,” he agrees, grinning. “But I can’t be blamed. I’ve been told I’m Master Gnaeus’ worst nightmare and his finest pupil. Possibly in that order.”

“I’ve heard,” you say, folding your hands in front of you and trying to still the ache in your chest.

He studies you now, something softer threading into his expression. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you.”

“Not all of it’s bad,” Phainon says, squinting at you. “You stand straighter now. You don’t stumble over your words when you’re angry.”

“I never did,” you murmur, lifting your chin.

“My mistake. You were always very dignified. Even when you threw a candlestick at my head.”

“That was once.”

“Twice,” he corrects, “but who’s counting?”

You laugh a little, soft, and it eases something in your chest. For a moment, he just looks at you—not in the way the courtiers do, calculating and distant, or the way the maids do, fawning and fearful. Phainon looks at you like someone who’s known you muddy-kneed and sleep-mussed and still thinks the sight of you in silks is something worth staring at.

He rubs the back of his neck. “They’re changing your guards, soon.”

“How do you know that?” you ask.

“I overheard Master Gnaeus talking to your father,” he replies.

You frown. You only ever see your father at mealtimes, because being the king and queen of a kingdom is tough work. Busy as he was, he still used to feed you peas and carrots and tickle your sides until you giggled, when you were much younger.

The older you get, the less you see of him. Your mother passed away whilst giving birth to you; your father focuses on managing his kingdom. Mistress Calypso, your nurse since birth, is the closest maternal figure you’ve had.

“Is it for a reason?” you ask.

“They’re saying it’s precautionary. Something about tightening security.” His tone stays easy, but his expression flickers. “Gnaeus will choose them himself.”

“And what are you telling me this for?” you say, pressing your fingers together, tight.

Phainon leans in a little—not improper, not indecent, but enough that you catch the scent of leather and sweat. “Because if you asked,” he says, low, “he’d assign me.”

“To stand outside my door?”

He shrugs, mischievous again. “I wouldn’t fall asleep on duty. Other than that, it’ll be just like the old times.”

You arch a brow, schooling your features the way Mistress Calypso taught you, though something bright and treacherous stirs inside your stomach. “The old times didn’t involve you standing guard. They involved you sneaking into my bedroom through the window and pretending not to be the one who knocked over the inkwell.”

“Yes, and I was excellent at both,” Phainon says unabashedly.

“You were terrible at both,” you retort, and though your voice is steady, it lilts in a way it hasn’t in months. “You always got caught.”

“Only because you told on me.”

“Because you blamed it on the cat.”

“That cat had it coming.”

You almost smile, and turn your gaze back to the training grounds, where the other boys are starting up again. Phainon follows your glance, but his eyes are already half on you.

“I mean it,” he says, quietly.

You don’t look at him, but the wind catches your cloak and lifts it slightly. The sun warms your cheek. “Mean what?”

“That I’d take the post. If you asked.”

Your throat works around a sudden lump. “It wouldn’t be your decision.”

“No. But you’ve always had a way of… making things happen.”

You do look at him then. His smile is subdued now, and something in his eyes—not fire, but resolve—burns steadier than it did in the boy who declared he would be captain of the guard as soon as he met you. It would be selfish of you to say yes. It would be reckless to want him near, not as a guard or a shadow by your door, but simply as himself.

“It would be improper,” you say.

He nods, accepting the words. But his voice, when he speaks, is gentle. “A lot of the world is. Doesn’t mean we don’t live in it.”

You open your mouth to say something, then close it. The path is still quiet, though you see Mistress Calypso crossing the grounds to come back to you. The scent of rain is stronger now.

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

Phainon steps back and bows. “Then I’ll wait.”

You watch him go until he reaches the far end of the field, and his figure blurs again into motion and shouts and sweat and steel. Mistress Calypso joins you and, guiding you by your elbow, ushers you back into the palace walls, fretting about the possibility of rain.

(You think, just maybe, you will ask Master Gnaeus.)

The next morning, the palace is quiet. Mistress Calypso has gone to oversee the linens, and your lady-in-waiting has excused herself to fetch your embroidery kit. You walk alone, steps echoing faintly through the stone corridors. You know where you’re going. You’ve rehearsed the words in your head all night.

The armoury smells of oil and dust and old leather. You spot Master Gnaeus standing beside a weapons rack, arms folded, eyes narrowed as he surveys the group of boys cleaning the rust from old spears. His presence is imposing, but you know he’s always had a soft spot for you and Phainon, after having had to wrangle the both of you away from each other. The memory brings a smile to your lips; Master Gnaeus had once called you and Phainon as inseparable as a sunflower and the sun.

He notices you before you speak.

“Your Highness,” Master Gnaeus says, his gravelled voice breaking through the clatter of metal. He straightens, folding his arms tighter, though something gentle flickers across his expression. “You’ve no business in the armoury unless you plan to spar.”

“I’ll keep my slippers away from the blades,” you say, smiling faintly.

The boys around you fumble into bows or hasty salutes before returning to their tasks, whispering to each other as you pass. Gnaeus jerks his head towards the back, where it’s quieter, away from nosy ears and adolescent posturing. You follow, skirts brushing the dusty floor. Once inside the small side chamber—a storage room that smells like iron and cedar—you turn to him.

“You always did have that look when you were about to ask me something I’d say no to,” he mutters.

You gather your words with care. “I heard you’re changing the guard outside my quarters.”

“You heard correctly. It’s overdue. Your father agrees.”

“I’d like to request someone specific,” you say.

Master Gnaeus smiles, almost knowingly. “Is that so?”

You nod, folding your hands in front of you to keep them from fidgeting. “Phainon.”

“Of course.” Gnaeus lets out an odd sound, a cross between a chuckle and a groan.

“He’s capable,” you say quickly, before he can wave you off. “You trained him yourself. He’s fast, observant, loyal—”

“—and reckless,” the commander cuts in, raising a brow. “Too familiar with you. Too stubborn.”

“But you trust him.”

“You do know what it would mean, having him stationed at your door?”

“I am not a fool,” you say. “I know what it looks like.”

“Looks aren’t the issue. It’s what it stirs up,” Master Gnaeus says. “People in this court and kingdom live for whispers. If they catch even a hint of impropriety—”

“There won’t be any,” you interrupt. “He won’t so much as look at me in the wrong way.”

Gnaeus snorts. “That’s the problem. He already does.”

“Then make him prove otherwise,” you say, holding his gaze even as your heart—that traitorous organ—races inside your rib cage.

Gnaeus studies you—eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like he’s chewing on something he doesn’t want to swallow. “That boy’s been sniffing around the assignment list all week,” he mutters finally, more to himself than you. “Didn’t say a word to me, of course.”

“He said he’d do it if I asked,” you murmur.

“Of course he would. You could ask him to walk into a fire and he’d do it without blinking,” Master Gnaeus says gruffly. He sighs deeply, as though the weight of his years and the weight of your request are the same. “Fine.”

You blink. “Fine?”

“He starts next week. Trial basis,” Gnaeus grumbles. “And gods help him if I catch him dozing off or sneaking you sweets. One wrong move, and he’s back in the kitchens peeling onions for the stew.”

A small laugh escapes you. “Understood.”

“And you,” he adds, pointing a thick finger at you like you’re ten again and have just hidden a training sword up your skirts, “are not to coddle him. Or distract him. Or lure him away from his post by any means whatsoever.”

“I would never.” You give him a solemn nod, fighting a grin. “Thank you, Master Gnaeus.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. You two were as inseparable as a sunflower and the sun—”

“You remember!”

“I remember how much trouble the sun got in when the sunflower followed it into the courtyard past curfew,” Master Gnaeus says, low and thoughtful. “He’s not a little boy anymore, and neither are you a little girl. Be careful, Princess.”

(You slip past the boys and their spears, rushing to the stables where Master Gnaeus said Phainon would be. Your feet cannot take you there fast enough, but you lift your skirts up and urge yourself to move faster. You find him brushing down one of the younger horses, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He has hay in his hair, and he hums under his breath, soft and tuneless.

“Phainon,” you call, breathless.

He glances over his shoulder, and when he sees you, his smile blooms so fast, it nearly knocks the wind out of you. “Princess. You’ve either come to drag me to a duel or to tell me something reckless,” he says, tossing the brush aside.

You come to a stop in front of him, cheeks flushed, not from the run but from the way Phainon looks at you: bright and open, like you’ve brought in the sun with you.

“I asked Master Gnaeus,” you say, “and he said yes.”

“You did?”

“He agreed. You’ll start next week, on a trial basis.” You bite your lip, watching his expression shift. “But he warned you not to doze off or sneak me any sweets.”

Phainon grins, wide and boyish and blinding. “Too late for that.”

Before you can say anything more, he steps forward and takes your hand—just briefly, just enough to squeeze your fingers once, quickly, like he might not be allowed to again.

“I won’t let you down,” he says, low and certain.

“I know,” you say.)

There is nothing you can do to quell the rush of excitement that jolts through your body when Phainon arrives for his first night of duty. It bubbles warm beneath your ribs, a spark fanned into flame, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from grinning like a fool.

He stands in the hall outside your chambers, a far cry from the boy who used to steal apples from the kitchens and blame it on the stablehands. Now, he’s clad in the full regalia of the royal guard: black and silver, crisp and ceremonial, the metal of his breastplate catching the flicker of fire. The insignia of your house is etched into the clasp at his shoulder, a small gilded sun. And yet, there are still remnants of him that remain unchanged—the ever-messy hair that no brush can tame, the faint smudge of ink on his fingers, and the tilt of his mouth, cocky but never cruel.

“Your Highness,” he says, voice pitched in that deliberate, court-appropriate register, before giving you an exaggerated bow. “Reporting for duty.”

You arch an eyebrow and fold your arms, trying not to laugh. “You’re late.”

“I was ambushed,” he says, straightening up, “by the cook. I barely survived.” Phainon reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small parcel, wrapped in linen and still faintly warm. He holds it out with both hands. “She said you’d requested for apricot pastries yesterday.”

“That’s very kind of her,” you say, and then smile, giddy and childish. “They’re for you.”

“For me?” Phainon blinks.

You nod, suddenly shy. “A thank-you. And to celebrate your first day on duty. I’d hoped to deliver it myself, but…” You trail off, sheepish. “The kitchens were busy today.”

He looks down at the parcel in his hands as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Then, slowly, his fingers curl around the edges of the linen wrap, careful and reverent. The torchlight makes his blue eyes look brighter, and when he glances up again, something in his expression softens, his usual wit quieted into something gentler.

“You always were the generous one,” he says.

“I wasn’t generous when you broke my reading tablet and—as always—tried to blame the cat,” you point out.

Phainon huffs a laugh, then shifts his weight, leaning just slightly closer. “In my defense, that cat hated me.”

You fight the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when you’re wearing a royal crest.”

“We’ll keep it between us,” he says, with a conspiratorial wink. Then, softer: “Thank you. Truly.”

You let yourself smile at that. You can hear the faint clatter of boots down the corridor, the echo of a servant’s voice, but here, in the little alcove outside your chambers, it feels like the rest of the palace has fallen away.

“You’ll be stationed here every night?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

“Until the king changes the rotation,” he confirms. “But Master Gnaeus gave me the impression that won’t be happening any time soon.”

“Good,” you say, trying not to let your relief show too obviously. “I think I’ll sleep better with you outside.”

Phainon smiles at that—an unguarded thing, a little crooked, a little too fond. “I’ll keep the shadows away,” he says.

You nod, then take a slow step back towards your chamber door, fingers brushing against the iron handle. “Don’t let the candle burn out. If you’re cold, there are spare blankets in the antechamber. And if anyone bothers you—”

“I’ll glare at them until they run screaming,” he finishes, mockingly solemn. “Very professional. Very terrifying.”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He holds up the pastry bundle. “Fuel for my duties.”

You open the door, pausing one last time to glance over your shoulder. He’s already stepping into position beside the frame, posture straight and expression composed—but his eyes, when they meet yours, are still bright with warmth and mirth.

“Goodnight, Phainon.”

“Goodnight, Princess.”

(When you finally lie in bed, heart hammering and cheeks warm, you wonder how on earth you’re meant to sleep with him just outside.)

Three nights after, sleep evades you wholly. No matter how many times you shift, how tightly you tug the covers over your shoulders, how deeply you breathe, rest dances just out of reach. The candle on your bedside table has long since burned out, and the coals in the hearth pulse faintly. The air is neither warm nor cold, yet you feel restless.

Eventually, you give up. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and reach for your shawl, wrapping it around your shoulders and knotting it loosely at the front. Phainon will still be awake, won’t he? You smile a little.

The palace is quiet when you open your door, quieter still when you step into the corridor. The flickering torches lining the hallway cast gentle amber light, and the stained-glass windows above them scatter moonlight into fractured gems across the floor. Your bare feet make no sound as you walk.

Phainon stands just as he has every night since he took up the post: beside your chamber door, one shoulder leaned against the wall. He’s not in full regalia tonight, only his black tunic with silver edging and a loose cloak fastened at his collarbone. His hair is, as always, a wild thing—too stubborn to stay neat, despite his best efforts. He straightens at the sound of your approach, though he doesn’t seem surprised.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he says softly.

“I tried,” you say, hugging your shawl tighter and crossing your arms over your chest. “The bed refused to cooperate.”

“A shame.” His gaze drifts towards the other end of the corridor, scanning it briefly, then returns to you. “Is this a formal inspection, or am I being graced with your company?”

“Depends. Do you want to be inspected?”

He hums thoughtfully. “I’ll take my chances.”

You let out a quiet laugh, and take a few slow steps closer, until you’re standing just across to him, back to the opposite wall. The stone is cool even through the layers of your shawl. His eyes follow you, not in the way of a soldier watching for danger, but something fonder. Master Gnaeus’ words echo through your head, but you squash it. It is nighttime now, and no one else is there.

You slide down the wall, careful, until you’re seated across from him on the cold stone floor. The hem of your nightgown brushes your ankles, and your shawl slips slightly from your shoulders as you settle your arms around your knees. You don’t fix it. It feels too gentle a moment to disturb with fussing.

“I thought I might find you awake,” you murmur.

Phainon sits down as well, crossing his legs. He watches you without speaking for a long while, his head tilted slightly. “I told you I wouldn’t sleep on duty,” he says.

“Master Gnaeus would be proud,” you agree solemnly. He cracks a smile at that, and shifts slightly so his knee brushes yours. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“Are your favourite things still the same?” you ask.

He leans back against the wall and thinks on it. “Some. Not all. I used to think the best sound in the world was the call to market in the city square at first light, before the crowds set in. Now I think it might be the way the torches crackle in the hallway when it’s too quiet to hear anything else.”

You glance at one of those torches now. It pops, like punctuation to his words.

“I still hate wearing the ceremonial gloves,” Phainon adds, tugging at the fingers of one hand, though he’s not wearing them now. “They make my hands sweat and I can’t hold my sword right.”

“You always said they felt like trying to write with wool tied around your fingers.”

“They still do,” he says, grinning. “I still think the kitchens make the best bread before sunrise, when no one’s had the chance to ruin it yet. And I still don’t like pears.”

You press your cheek to your knees, watching him through your lashes. “You used to say pears were fruit pretending to be water.”

“They are. Pick a side, I say.”

You laugh again, louder this time, and then fall quiet. “And… is Lyra still your favourite constellation?”

“Yes,” he says. “That won’t change anytime soon.”

You nod, something warm and fluttery settling inside your rib cage. When you don’t speak, he adds, “Your turn.”

“I still dip my bread in tea when no one’s watching. I still hate wearing slippers—too stiff. I prefer walking barefoot, even when I’m not supposed to.”

“I noticed,” he says, with a wry glance to your feet.

“I still sleep facing the window,” you continue, “even though it gives me the worst light. I still read by the hearth until my eyes ache. And I still braid my hair when I’m anxious, even if I undo it right after.”

He watches you closely, eyes roving over your features like you’re a scripture he’s memorising. You swallow, suddenly self-conscious, and say, “I still love marigolds. Even if they do smell like dust.”

“Because they look like little suns,” Phainon finishes for you, so easily that it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

Your eyes meet his. Neither of you looks away. He leans forward just slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s something cruel about time,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t wait for us to grow into the people we need to be. It just expects us to be them anyway.”

“I missed you,” you say before you can talk yourself out of it.

“I missed you, too, Princess. Every single day.”

You shift your hand and your fingers brush against his. “I should get some sleep,” you whisper.

He nods, but doesn’t move. “Will you be able to?”

“Maybe.”

“Then I’ll stay until you do.”

You push yourself to your feet slowly, and he rises with you, less like a friend now, and more like the soldier he has grown into being. “Goodnight, Phainon,” you say.

He bows his head slightly. “Goodnight.”

(What is this aching, this yearning, that settles itself behind the bones of your chest and nestles itself deep into your heart? It pulses with every beat, quiet but insistent, like a secret knocking at the inside of your ribs. You press your palm there as if you could smooth it away, but the warmth of Phainon’s voice still rings in your ears, and the ghost of his hand brushing yours won’t leave you be.

You return to bed, but the sheets are colder now, lonelier somehow, and your thoughts spin in endless, silent circles. You don’t get a wink of sleep, not like this, and Mistress Calypso tuts over the abysmal state of you come the next morning.

When you describe this strange ache to her, her motherly eyes soften in understanding, and her lips curve upwards in a knowing smile. “Oh, my dear child,” she sighs, and says nothing more of it.)

ii). When you’re older, you think you know it all.

Years pass. You are older now, not prone to childish whims and fancies anymore, or perhaps you are, but you’re forced to keep it hidden. Your father deems it necessary that you sit by his side during court meetings. You are to pay attention and make note of stately affairs, but you are not meant to speak, your father had told you sternly. It had stung, just a little, but Mistress Calypso comforted you by saying that your father was merely afraid you would surpass him in wit and knowledge.

Thus, you spend less time with your needlework and more time in the palace halls, and so, Master Gnaeus had only deemed it fit that Phainon gets a promotion. He is now your personal guard, and the distinction is not a small one. It means he is no longer posted just outside your door at night but follows you throughout the day—into the great hall, the colonnades, the gardens, and even the stifling court meetings where noblemen drone on about wheat prices and border tensions.

He stands a step behind and to your right, hands clasped at his back, eyes ever watchful. He rarely speaks, save for short exchanges or quiet jests whispered under his breath when no one else can hear. You’ve learned to school your expression well, to stifle your laughter behind the pretense of a cough or a delicate touch to your lips.

Today, the sun slants through the high windows in angled beams, catching dust motes in its golden light. You sit with your hands folded neatly in your lap. Your posture is impeccable and your gaze is fixed on the speaker, though your mind drifts.

Phainon shifts behind you, just slightly, and the movement pulls your attention like a tide. Even without looking, you can sense him—solid, steady, unchanged in most ways. Yet, two years has carved something finer into him, like a sword honed again and again on the whetstone. His face is sharper now, his presence heavier, though never suffocating. You wonder if he notices the changes in you, too.

As the meeting finally draws to a close and the courtiers begin their ritual of shuffling and bowing, your father rises. You do, too, bowing your head as expected. He doesn’t spare you a glance, his attention already swept towards his advisors.

Phainon steps forward, a half-measure closer. “Boring as ever,” he murmurs, too low for anyone else to catch.

You glance up at him, lips twitching. “I’ll add that to my notes.”

He smiles, but only faintly. “You’re doing well.”

The simple words settle in you more deeply than they ought to. You nod, grateful, and start walking, the long train of your gown whispering over the marble. Phainon falls into step beside you, just far enough to be proper. You don’t speak as you make your way down the corridor. You don’t have to; the silence between you both is companionable now, a familiar quiet like the hush before dawn.

But you’re aware, more than ever, of how much space he takes up in your world—and how little room you’re allowed to show it.

So you walk, head high, voice quiet, fingers itching by your sides for something you cannot name. When he opens the door for you and you pass through first, you pretend your heart doesn’t falter.

You are older now. You are wiser. But still—still—he is the softest thought you carry.

“Do you think we can visit Marmoreal Market today, Princess?” he asks.

“Why? So you may see your precious baker girl once more?” you say, allowing a sly smile to play at your lips.

Phainon exhales a laugh, low and amused, as he follows a pace behind you down the corridor. “She has a generous hand with the honey glaze, that’s all,” he says innocently.

“And a generous bosom, if I recall.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he replies with too much earnestness to be sincere.

“You’re a terrible liar,” you say.

“Terrible at many things, Your Highness. Lying is simply the least dangerous of them.”

You shake your head. He’s always been like this: clever in a way that toes the line between impish and careful. He knows just how far he can go, how much he can tease without overstepping. You, for your part, never quite want him to stop.

You reach the landing where the hallway forks—one way leads to the royal chambers, the other to the open terraces that overlook the city. The late spring breeze filters through the carved stone arches, warm with the scent of wisteria.

You pause, turning your face towards it. “Let’s go,” you say, already veering off the expected path.

“To the market?” Phainon asks, ever the guard, ever the rule-follower—but he follows anyway.

“To the terraces,” you amend. “The market can wait until you’ve made your peace with the fact that your baker girl does not, in fact, love you.”

“She doesn’t have to love me,” Phainon says breezily. “She only has to give me free pastries.”

You laugh, startled at the honesty of it, and you don’t miss the way his eyes flick towards you at the sound, like he’s collecting it to keep. The two of you walk in step now, no longer master and guard, but friend and companion. There are things you do not say: how his presence is a balm; how his nearness steadies you in ways even your lessons cannot; how in a court full of power plays that treats you as nothing more than a precious accessory, he is one of the only people who speaks to you like you’re simply a person.

When you reach the terrace, you rest your hands on the balustrade, staring out at the sea of rooftops and chimney smoke below. He stands beside you, just close enough to share the view. The wind lifts your hair gently, teasing strands loose from their pins, and you make no move to smooth them back. Phainon leans his forearms against the stone railing beside you. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.

“You’ll get in trouble for slouching like that,” you say.

“I’ll get in trouble for far worse one day,” he says, not looking at you.

The words land between you, light as falling ash and just as hard to ignore. You don’t respond right away. Instead, you look out again, watching how the light glimmers off the glass domes and copper roofs of the kingdom. It’s beautiful in the late afternoon, with the shadows lengthening and the air warming with the promise of summer.

“Would you ever leave?” you ask.

“Yes,” Phainon says, after a moment. “If it was the right reason. If it meant protecting something, or someone, I care about.”

When you breathe, the air catches in your chest and stays there, unmoving. “And would you come back?”

Phainon tilts his head towards you. “That depends. Would you want me to?”

You finally turn to look at him, the wind catching the hem of his cloak and the light catching in his eyes. He’s not smiling now.

“I don’t think I’d like the palace very much without you,” you admit. The words are too small for what you mean, too fragile—but they’re what you can give, and he seems to understand that. His gaze softens. Something in his expression shifts, like the drawing of a curtain.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to stay,” he says, and you think you can see the trace of a smile return, though it’s smaller than usual.

You lower your gaze before you can say something foolish. Before you reach for his hand, or let your shoulder brush his, or ask him if he ever thinks about things he shouldn’t.

“Phainon,” you say lightly, chasing the heavy quiet away, “when you go to the market, you ought to bring back something for me. Pastries, or maybe dried figs.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” he says with a playful bow of his head. “Though if I bring the wrong kind of figs, like I did last time, will I be banished to the dungeons?”

“Only if they’re sour. Like last time.”

“Then I’ll make sure to taste all of them first.”

You smile to yourself, turning your face back towards the sun. It’s easier this way—to pretend, to flirt with jest and hide everything you mean in the spaces between the words. You don’t know if he feels the same, or if this is all just duty and loyalty gilded in affection for his childhood friend. But for now, it’s enough. It has to be.

(You wonder what happens when a princess and her guard cannot stop looking at each other with fondness.)

“There are reports of the Northern Kingdom rallying for war, Your Highness,” says Master Gnaeus, voice grave as it cuts cleanly through the silence of the chamber.

The candlelight flickers against the polished marble floors, throwing golden shadows against the walls. At the centre of the great hall, the court is gathered—noblemen in their brocades and ribbons, advisors with scrolls and ink-stained fingers, the occasional general in muted armour trimmed with the kingdom’s colours. All eyes are on the man standing near the raised dais.

A hush falls in the wake of Gnaeus’ words. Tension coils in the room like smoke. You feel it settle in your bones, even as you sit perfectly still, hands folded in your lap like you were taught. You do not speak. You are not meant to.

Beside you, your father—the king—does not react at first. His face remains unreadable, cast in part shadow from the sun filtering through the high stained-glass windows. He is a man who does not betray emotion easily, whose command is forged from control.

“And the severity?” he asks.

“More than rumours this time,” Master Gnaeus answers. “Our border outposts have reported movements. Small skirmishes, targeting mainly the farmland on the border. They haven’t attacked anyone outright, yet.”

Your father drums his fingers once against his armrest. “What of the Southern provinces?”

“They remain neutral,” the commander of the royal guard says, “but neutrality seldom lasts when coin and blood are promised. The North is testing us. They are measuring how far they can reach before we push back.”

Lady Caenis, ever eager, ever cunning, rises from her seat near the front. Her ceremonial rings clink softly against one another as she clasps her hands behind her back. “If I may, Your Majesty.”

The king lifts a hand. “Speak.”

“We may yet avoid full war. The prince of Castrum Kremnos is expected to arrive at our court in three months’ time. His father has long sought favour with our kingdom.”

Several heads turn at this. The name holds weight—Castrum Kremnos is a mountain city-state fortified by steep walls and a fearsome army, known for surviving three major invasions without surrendering an inch of land.

“They are not without ambition,” Lady Caenis goes on, “but they are strategic. If we were to offer an alliance, formal and binding, before the North makes its move—before they choose a side—we could secure a military partner unlike any we’ve had before.”

“An alliance of what nature?” your father asks, though you’re certain he already knows the answer.

Caenis smiles with well-practiced diplomacy. “A royal one.”

You are acutely aware of your surroundings: the rustle of a silk sleeve to your left, the distant creak of a high window shifting in the wind, the flicker of torchlight behind the throne. But louder than all of that is the silence that follows. Your name is not spoken—but it doesn’t need to be.

A royal match. A marriage.

You remain unmoving, as you have been trained. But your breath catches ever-so slightly at the back of your throat. You don’t let it show. You focus on the cold edge of your seat beneath you, the feel of your gown’s embroidery beneath your fingertips.

“A marriage,” your father echoes.

Caenis inclines her head. “The prince is said to be capable and respected by his men. It would be a… strategic match. Kremnos’ military strength paired with our control of the trade routes would ensure no northern force dares to strike. We have a strong enough army to hold off their advances until the prince arrives.”

The weight of the room shifts, as if the very air bends towards your father. Everyone is watching him—but he is not watching them. He is watching you. His gaze turns slowly and fixes on you in full for the first time that day. You meet it, though your heart is thundering somewhere behind your ribs. You have always obeyed. You have always listened. Still, some part of you—that foolish, tender part—had hoped you would be more than a pawn on a royal chessboard.

There is no cruelty in the king’s eyes, but neither is there softness. There is only that strange, piercing contemplativeness, like he is studying you through smoke, measuring something that can’t be weighed with scales or numbers.

Behind you, Phainon is still as stone. The distance between him and you that has always been proper now feels unbearable.

(“Princess,” Phainon starts, later, when he accompanies you back to your chambers. “You’re to meet with the seamstress after the meeting.”

“Tell her I am unwell,” you say, hurrying down the corridor as fast as you can. It isn’t a lie; you do feel ill, your stomach roiling and roiling uncomfortably.

“Princess,” Phainon says again, keeping pace with you. “I understand this is sudden, but—”

“You don’t understand anything!” you snap, harsher than intended. Your words echo in the corridor, clipped and cold.

He falters just slightly, enough for you to notice out of the corner of your eye. His jaw tightens, though he says nothing. Loyal as ever. Silent as ever. You regret it instantly. Your footsteps slow; the tightness in your chest presses deeper now, regret curling alongside the sickness in your stomach.

You stop a few paces ahead and close your eyes for a breath. “I’m sorry.”

He approaches again, careful. “You’re not well,” he says, as though offering you permission to feel as overwhelmed as you do.

“No. I’m not,” you say.

He nods once, gently, and then says, “I’ll tell the seamstress you need rest.)

The throne room is overwhelmingly vast when it is just you and your father standing inside it. Your footsteps echo against the marble as you approach the dais, the train of your gown trailing behind you. The light through the stained glass paints the floor in fractured colours—crimson, gold, deep sapphire—but it does little to warm the air between you. Your father watches you with cool detachment from the foot of the throne, hands clasped behind his back. His crown sits slightly askew on the crown of his head.

“I would like to leave the palace,” you say, the words coming faster than you’d meant. You swallow and lift your chin. “Just until the prince of Castrum Kremnos arrives.”

Your father arches a brow. “Leave? And where, exactly, would you go?”

“To the coast,” you say. “To the summer manor. I won’t be idle—I’ll continue my studies with Mistress Calypso—”

“Your nursemaid?” he interjects, a faint sneer in the word.

“She is my governess as well,” you say. “I’m not asking for leisure, Father. I… I feel ill here. I haven’t been sleeping. I find it difficult to breathe within these walls.”

There is a long pause. A crow calls somewhere beyond the windows. Your father regards you a moment more; then, he exhales once, short and dismissive. “You may go,” he says. “There is no use for you here until the prince arrives anyway.”

You flinch, just slightly, but you nod. He doesn’t notice, or perhaps, he doesn’t care.

“You may take your guard and Mistress Calypso,” he says, already dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “I’ll not have the court talking of you dragging half the palace to the shore for your whims.”

“It is not a whim,” you say before you can stop yourself.

“Is that so? Very well, then. See to it that you leave tomorrow before dawn.”

“Yes, Father,” you murmur, dipping your head even though he no longer faces you. You remain where you are until he disappears into the adjoining corridor, footsteps echoing until they vanish entirely. Only then do you lift your gaze again and let your shoulders sag.

The next morning dawns muted and grey, the sky still heavy with the last clinging fingers of spring. Your trunks are packed by the time the sun crests the horizon, and Mistress Calypso waits patiently near the carriage. Phainon stands beside it, already in travel leathers, a pale grey cloak draped over his shoulders and a sword belted at his hip. He helps you into the carriage without a word, though his eyes linger on you longer than usual—not as a guard, but as someone who has quietly noticed how tired you’ve become.

The journey to the coast takes most of the day, winding down through green hills and old roads, past vineyards not yet in bloom and sleepy villages with bright rose bushes. The sea appears at last like a sliver of melted silver along the horizon, widening with each turn of the road until it swells fully into view—vast and blue and endless, the waves curling like ink upon the shore.

The coastal town lies nestled in the curve of a shallow bay, its rooftops the colour of worn terracotta and its buildings pale from salt and sun. It smells of brine and fish and rosemary, and the narrow streets are paved in rounded cobblestones that shift slightly beneath the wheels of the carriage.

The manor sits just beyond the town proper, high on the cliffside and overlooking the water. Pale limestone walls rise from wild green, sea-thistle and tall grass climbing up the stones. Ivy winds around the old balconies and shutters. The air here is sharp with the scent of salt and the sea, but it is clean. For the first time in days, you inhale without feeling caged.

Phainon and manor’s maids begin unpacking the trunks, while Mistress Calypso busies herself with inspecting the interior for dust and damp. You slip away quietly, sandals crunching over gravel, until you find the narrow path that winds down to the town below.

You aren’t alone for long. Phainon catches up with you, as he always does. “Princess,” he chides, “don’t walk away like that.” But you smile at him widely and he softens, shaking his head.

The coastal folk are not the court. They do not bow or stare. Few even seem to recognise you.

You pass through the open-air market with your hood pulled loosely over your shoulders, but it’s more habit than disguise. The baker merely offers a polite nod as he stokes his oven; the fishmonger continues haggling with a hunched old woman, and the children dart barefoot through the plaza fountains, trailing laughter. Here, they do not see a princess and her guard. They only see a boy and a girl, walking through streets unfamiliar to them.

Phainon walks half a step behind you at first, out of instinct more than instruction, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. But as the crowd thickens and the scent of roasted almonds and sea-brine swells in the air, the stiffness in his shoulders begins to loosen. A boy juggles apples near the fountain and nearly drops one at your feet. You catch it before it rolls away and toss it back with a grin.

“You should be careful,” Phainon says, though the corners of his mouth tilt upwards. “If anyone did recognise you—”

“They haven’t,” you say, tugging him towards a stall where seashell necklaces hang in neat rows. “And they won’t.”

You buy one with a pale pink conch strung between two tiny ivory beads, trading a copper coin from the hem of your sleeve. The merchant gives no second glance; he simply pockets the coin and moves to the next customer. Phainon watches you quietly.

“You’ve changed,” he says after a while, once you’ve wandered beyond the edge of the market, towards a low stone wall that overlooks the bay.

“Have I?” you ask, settling on the wall with your arms around your knees.

“You’re… lighter,” he says, and then immediately flushes, like the word has embarrassed him. “I just mean, you seem more at ease. I haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

“I suppose my father trading me off to some prince I’ve never met from some kingdom I’ve never seen will do that to a person,” you say. You lower your gaze to the water. The tide has begun to turn, waves curling in slow arcs towards the shore.

“I think,” Phainon says, “you could ask your father to let you stay for longer.”

“He might prefer it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” you say. “But it’s still true.”

A gull cries overhead. A boat rocks gently in the harbour, its sails furled tight. The air is cooler now, and the stars begin to prick through the veil of twilight, soft and faraway. You reach into your pocket and pull out the seashell necklace, the pink conch warm from where it’s rested against your skin. Without a word, you hold it out to him.

Phainon blinks. “For me?”

“For the boy who’s always chasing after me,” you say. “Consider it a reward.”

He takes it gingerly, like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. Though he doesn’t say thank-you, he loops it around his wrist.

(When you return to the manor that evening, Mistress Calypso eyes your wind-tangled hair with something like fond disapproval, but she says nothing—only sets a cup of chamomile tea on the table and reminds you to take your tonic before bed. That night, the waves sing you to sleep, and for the first time in many weeks, you rest.)

“Isn’t it cruel, Phainon?” you say, walking through the market once again, the next week. “I always thought parents were supposed to love their children no matter what. My father did love me, when I was very young, but it was so long ago that I hardly remember.”

Phainon walks beside you in silence, his eyes scanning the street as if the right words might be hiding between the bread stalls and spice carts. The market is livelier today—someone is playing a tin whistle near the fountain, and the sweet scent of cinnamon buns wafts through the warm air. You pass a stall draped in bright fabrics dyed indigo blue and pomegranate red. Children dart around your legs, laughing, their feet kicking up dust. But all you can think about is how far away the palace feels now—how far away you feel from it.

“Sometimes, I wonder if I only think he loved me because that’s what children are meant to believe,” you continue. “But the older I got, the quieter it became, as though his love faded with time, the way stars disappear at dawn.”

Phainon exhales slowly. “It’s not meant to be that way,” he says. “But it happens.”

“Did it happen to you?”

He shrugs. “My parents were bakers. They had too many mouths to feed to waste time on affection. But they gave me bread when I was hungry and kept me warm. Maybe that was love in their own way.”

“I think I would have rathered bread and warmth, too.”

A wind stirs, carrying with it the faint tang of approaching rain. You tip your head back towards the sky. The clouds are heavy, charcoal grey and swollen, rolling in fast from the sea.

Phainon notices it too. “We should—”

His warning comes too late. A single drop of rain lands on your cheek, followed swiftly by another on your brow. Then the sky breaks open all at once, a sudden, sharp curtain of rain that scatters the marketplace into bursts of movement. Children squeal and dart into open doors. Merchants scramble to cover their wares with linen and oilcloth. You laugh, startled, as the rain soaks through your sleeves in an instant, the hem of your dress sticking to your ankles.

“Come on,” Phainon says, reaching for your hand without hesitation, and you let him, your fingers slipping into his with a familiarity you don’t allow yourself to think about. He tugs you under the cover of a narrow alcove just beside a shuttered pottery stall. It’s cramped, the two of you standing close with your shoulders brushing, the sound of rain pounding the roof overhead.

The rain comes heavier now—thick sheets of it, washing the colour from the sky and smearing the edges of the market into pale, trembling silhouettes. It’s as if the sea itself has leapt into the clouds and poured down onto the town, soaking everything in its path. The cobblestones are already slick, puddles forming in the dips between them. Water rushes in rivulets along the gutter, swirling with petals from the overturned flower cart you passed by just minutes ago.

You shiver, rainwater dripping down your temples. Phainon’s cloak is coarse and rain-damp, but warm. It smells faintly of him: sun-dried linen and leather polish, salt and steel. He undoes it; and wraps it over your shoulders as he fastens it clumsily at your throat, his fingers brushing the hollow of your collarbone, and you don’t move. You barely breathe.

His touch lingers, fingertips ghosting over your skin like he wants to do more. Then, he draws back, expression shuttered.

The alcove is carved into the curve of an old wall, likely once part of the town’s inner ramparts. Its stone is damp and moss-slick behind your back, but you don’t dare shift. If you move, if you speak, you’re afraid everything will spill out—and it’s not the kind of truth you can shove back once spoken.

You stare at the market, though it’s empty now, save for the most stubborn vendors crouching beneath makeshift coverings. A woman pulls a basket of apples under an awning with an exasperated grunt. A dog scampers down the alley, drenched and wild-eyed. You try to speak—to untangle the knot growing steadily tighter inside your throat—but your voice fails you.

“Phainon…” you say, soft and shaking, eyes still fixed on the grey blur beyond the archway. You cannot look at him.

He doesn’t respond, though you feel him shift slightly beside you. Waiting. Listening. The words are right there: You make me feel safe. I don’t know how to exist in the palace without you. I think I’ve fallen—

“I—” you try again, but your mouth closes around the rest. Nothing comes. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his cloak where it bunches at your chest.

It’s too much. Everything is too much. The chill from your soaked gown clinging to your skin, the ache in your chest that’s grown bigger every day you’ve been at the coast, the quiet way Phainon looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching—it all unravels you from the inside.

You press your back harder against the stone wall and slide down just enough that your shoulders slump and your knees bend, curling in on yourself like the fragile thing you’ve spent years pretending you’re not. Phainon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t touch you, either, but his presence is steady and unwavering, as it always is.

Your breath fogs in the cool air, heart racing and thoughts tangled. You wonder if he knows—if he’s always known—and you’re simply the last to understand what you’ve become, what you’ve come to need.

The rain hammers down around you both. The marketplace stays empty. The skies remain grey. Still, he stands beside you, silent and stolid, as if he, too, cannot speak the thing that lies heavy between you.

(It’s as if you are children again, scolded for playing too long by the fountains in the courtyard. Mistress Calypso clucks her tongue as she pulls the soaked cloak from your shoulders and ushers you through the manor’s side entrance, both you and Phainon dripping water onto the tiled floor. You don’t resist when she pulls your hands into hers and frowns deeply at your cold fingertips.

“Idiots,” she admonishes. “Running around like storm-chasers. Look at you both: half-drowned and already flushed.”

You’re too cold to argue. The fever came on fast—maybe it had been waiting for the first excuse to bloom. Your limbs ache; your skin is too warm and too tight. Phainon’s face is pale, lips tinged with grey, but his hand steadies you at the elbow as you waver on your feet. You don’t make it to your own chambers.

Mistress Calypso directs you both to the same guest room at the end of the east wing: closer, easier, warm. The fire is already lit. One of the maids must have stoked it while you were gone, and the flames crackle gently in the hearth, casting soft amber light across the stone walls.

She has you both strip out of your damp clothing behind a screen, averting her eyes though she’s seen you in worse states since infancy. Fresh linens are brought, and the manor’s softest night things, smelling of cedar and rose. You pull the wool shift over your head with trembling arms, and when Mistress Calypso guides you to the wide feather bed, you don’t protest.

You don’t even realise Phainon has followed until the mattress dips under his weight. “You’ll share,” Calypso says briskly, tucking blankets around you both. “You’ll warm faster that way. Don’t argue; I’ve had enough of your foolishness for one day.”

Phainon shifts beside you, awkward and uncertain, but says nothing. It’s the first time you’ve shared a bed since you were children who knew nothing better. You’re both too exhausted to protest her orders, and truthfully, neither of you want to be anywhere else.

She lays a damp cloth on your forehead, then Phainon’s. Her touch is gentle now, brushing hair from your temples, fingers cool and firm. “Try to sleep,” she says. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

You nod faintly. When she leaves, the room settles into silence, punctuated only by the pop of firewood and the wind outside whispering through the shutters. Phainon lies on his back beside you, stiff as stone. You, curled slightly on your side, are close enough to feel the warmth of his arm beneath the blankets, though not quite touching.

“I can hear your teeth chattering,” Phainon mutters eventually.

You smile weakly. “They’ve a mind of their own.”

Feverish and trembling and tucked beneath thick quilts like unruly children, you finally sleep, pressed into the silence you cannot name and the warmth you cannot speak of yet.)

“The prince of Castrum Kremnos will treat you well, Princess,” Phainon says one afternoon, as the two of you walk a winding trail that cuts through the windswept cliffside. The sun is veiled by thin clouds, casting a soft, silvery sheen over the sea. “I’ve never met him, but I know a soldier who has, and—”

You stop walking. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you turn towards the edge of the overlook. Below, the sea churns, restless and dark, rolling and breaking against the jagged rocks far beneath. The air is sharp with salt and cold with the promise of another rain.

“Princess?” Phainon turns to look at you. His voice falters into silence.

“Please don’t call me that,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t respond, but he waits. Always, he waits.

You wrap your arms around yourself, the breeze tugging at the hem of your light wool cloak. The wind toys with your hair, and curls it at your temples. You can’t bear to look at him, so you look at the horizon instead—where the sky meets the sea, blurred in shades of pewter and indigo.

“I don’t want him to treat me well,” you say. “I don’t want to be treated like anything. That ship will arrive soon, and when it does, I’ll meet a stranger. I’ll smile at him, and I’ll dine with him. I’ll be paraded beside him in silks and jewellery, while the court whispers about how well the match turned out. And in time, I’ll be expected to love him—or at least tolerate him—and bind myself to him before the gods and bear his children in a kingdom I have never seen.

“And none of it will have anything to do with me. Not with what I want, or what I fear. There are other ways to secure alliances, Phainon, but they do not care.”

Phainon stands with his arm at his sides, but there’s tension in his shoulders. He doesn’t offer empty comfort. He knows better. Instead, he listens.

You glance at him, then, catching his gaze. “Doesn’t that sound like a sentence to you?”

“It sounds like a prison,” he says, voice soft.

You search his face, fingers tightening around your cloak. “If I did not bear the title of a royal,” you say, barely more than a whisper, “would you treat me differently, Phainon?”

He draws a slow breath, and when he exhales, something in him loosens. His gaze drops to the earth for a moment, and then returns to you. “Yes,” he says. “I would.”

Your throat tightens.

“If you weren’t a princess,” he continues, quieter now, his voice roughened by something that aches, “I’d steal your hand in the street. I’d kiss you when you looked at me like that—when you see something you want to show me, too. I’d braid wildflowers into your hair just to make you laugh, and I’d call you by your name, your real name, until you were sick of hearing it and asked me to never say it again.”

Your heart kicks hard in your chest. His words are simple, but each one is a tether pulling you further into the confines of your rib cage.

“I’d take you dancing at the summer festival,” he says, stepping closer. “Not in a hall with stuffy walls and bowing nobles, but barefoot in the town square, beneath paper lanterns, with music spilling out of open windows. And I’d hold you so close, no one would doubt what you meant to me.

“I would have written poems about your smile, even if I was no good at it. I’d have carved our names into the old fig tree by the palace gates. I’d bring you honey cakes when you were cross at me. I would have walked beside you—everywhere—not as your guard, but as the boy who accidentally climbed through your window and the man who loved you.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t look away.

You take a step towards him, lips parting, the confession trembling just behind your teeth. “Phainon, I—”

The words falter. Your voice breaks and nothing comes. You clench your jaw against it, but the surge of feeling is stronger than pride, stronger than caution. So instead of speaking, you slump down to the ground, sitting down with all the grace of a weary heart. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, trying to hide the tears that threaten to spill.

Phainon is beside you in seconds. He crouches low, but doesn’t touch you—doesn’t press. He simply sits there, knees drawn up, watching the wind rake through the tall grass and whip the water below.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I can’t say it. I don’t know how.”

There is no one here, in this secluded spot, and even if there was, the coastal folk don’t know you. It’s this logic, you’re sure, that compels Phainon to wrap his arms around you, tentatively, and draw you to him. You fold into him as though you’ve done it a thousand times before, as though your body knows something your tongue is still afraid to say. His chest is warm, the fabric of his tunic soft, and when you press your cheek against it, you feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat underneath your skin.

The sea below crashes against the rocks in a rhythm older than names. Overhead, gulls wheel and call out across the sky, and the clouds—those heavy, brooding things—have begun to break apart, letting through faint bands of light. The wind is calmer now. The storm has passed, but something in you still trembles like a girl lost in it.

Phainon’s hand shifts to the back of your head. He cradles you against his body.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says into your hair. “There’s no need to be sorry.”

You stay like that, wrapped in him, while the wind combs gently to the grass and the scent of the sea clings to your skin. Your dress is muddy, and your shoulders ache, but here, in the quiet hollow between cliffs and sky, you are allowed—for the first time in what feels like forever—to simply be.

You don’t speak again for a long while. You let the silence hold you both. When at last you lift your head, his hand falls away, but he doesn’t move far. He watches you with that same unreadable expression—half-guard, half-man—eyes the colour of deep sapphire skies.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“I know.”

“If I asked you to take me away from all of it, would you?”

He doesn’t say anything. His gaze drops to the earth once again, and he holds you close and buries his face into the crook of your neck.

(“I would want to,” he says finally, lips warm against your skin. “More than anything.”)

The halls of the manor are dark by the time you return. The oil lamps have been extinguished, and the shutters latched against the rising wind. The others sleep in the opposite wing—Mistress Calypso, the maids, the steward—and only the distant hum of cicadas and the gentle creak of wood frame the silence as you walk side by side, like children sneaking back in from mischief.

You reach your chamber door, and Phainon stops as he always does. He lingers just a pace behind, like a shadow unsure of its shape. A week ago, he might’ve bowed and stood outside your threshold with the discipline of a man sworn to service. But tonight—tonight, something hangs unfinished between you. Unspoken. Unburied.

You turn the key in the lock and open the door. He begins to step back—but your hand reaches for his.

He stills immediately, and the look in his eyes is not confusion. It’s caution, hope barely daring to surface. You don’t speak. You simply tug, gently, and he follows. You shut the door behind him, lock it, and turn to find him watching you. Your heart hammers, thunderous in your chest.

Phainon gives you that lopsided grin, the one that used to irritate you for how easily it made your guard drop. “My, Princess,” he says. “How very forward of you.”

You arch an eyebrow, walk past him to the chaise without a word, and throw one of the embroidered pillows directly at his chest. He catches it with one hand, chuckling.

“Do all royal invitations come with threats of smothering?” he says.

“Only for the most insufferable guests.”

“So violent,” Phainon teases. “Should I be worried?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” you reply. “That depends on how much more teasing I’ll have to deal with tonight.”

“More, probably.”

You watch him, waiting—for a joke, a quip, another deflection—but he simply stands there, silent, watching you in return. He sets the pillow down carefully. The candlelight plays against his jawline, his collarbone, the faint line of a scar along his knuckle you weren’t witness to him earning. He’s right in front of you. You ache.

Toeing your sandals off, you sit down on your bed, patting the spot next to you. Phainon obliges, unlacing his boots and unclasping his cloak.

“Will you indulge me once more?” you ask.

“Of course,” he says. “Of course, I will.”

“If I wasn’t a princess, and you weren’t my guard, and we were just two people alone in this room,” you say, unwavering despite the nervousness that flits inside your chest, “what would you do with me?”

Phainon stills, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers on your face for a long, measured beat, as though he’s trying to decide if you really want the answer. If he is allowed to say it out loud.

But he leans in slightly, voice low and steady. “I’d start with your hair,” he says, and your breath hitches.

“I’d take it down,” he murmurs, fingers moving slowly, carefully, to the pins holding it in place. One by one, he slides them free, until the last piece falls and your hair tumbles down around your shoulders. He doesn’t touch it, yet; he watches it fall like silk over your collarbones.

“I’d run my hands through it,” he continues, “because I’ve spent months wondering how it feels. If it’s as soft as I imagine. If it would slip through my fingers, or tangle there and stay.”

He lifts one hand, and brushes a lock behind your ear. Your skin burns beneath his touch. “And then?” you whisper.

His gaze drops, and a quiet smile plays at his lips—something almost shy. “Then I’d trace your face, slowly, with just my fingertips. Your cheekbones, your jaw. I’ve watched you turn away when you’re not trying to laugh. I’ve watched your mouth tighten when you’re fighting not to speak your mind. And I’ve always wondered what you’d look like if you let all of that go.”

“I’d kiss the space between your brows first,” he says, brushing his knuckle there, “because you furrow them when you’re reading. When you’re worried. Then your nose—because you scrunch it when you’re annoyed, and it drives me mad.”

You let out a quiet breath of laughter, and he grins. “Your lips,” he says, voice dipping, “I’d take my time with. You always speak so carefully. I’ve always wanted to see what you’d say when your mouth is only mine to kiss.”

“Your neck,” he goes on, and his voice is like velvet now. “I’d kiss the hollow of your throat, and the curve where your shoulder begins. You hold tension there when you’re trying not to show you’re tired, and I’d kiss you to make you feel better.

“Your hands—they’re so small compared to mine. But they’re strong. I’d hold them open, palm to palm, and kiss each finger, because I want to know what touches the world before it touches me. Your chest, because that’s where your heartbeat lives. I’d rest my head there and listen.

“I’d trace the line of your waist. Hold your hips steady beneath my hands. Kiss the softness of your stomach where no one else dares to be tender. I’d go slow,” he whispers. “Learn the map of your body like a pilgrim, not a thief. And if you asked me to stop, I would. But if you let me…”

“Phainon,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes, like your voice is something holy.

“And then?” you ask, again.

“I’d kiss you,” he says, and his eyes flutter open, “until your lips were red, until you forgot how to speak. I’d find every place on your body that makes you shiver, and claim them all.”

Your hands find the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling into it. You pull him closer. “Do it, then.”

He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t tease. He merely leans in and kisses you. It begins soft, a brush of lips. But the second time, it’s deeper—warmer. It’s as if you’re making up for every time you looked at each other and turned away; every secret glance; every second you stood too close and did nothing.

His hands rise to your face, cradling your cheeks as your mouth parts beneath his, and your fingers move up his chest, over his shoulders, dragging his shirt with them. He shrugs out of it without breaking the kiss, and you marvel at the heat of his skin, at the strength of it. Every inch of him is sun-browned and scarred, hard-earned.

Your hands find the hem of your dress, and slowly, you lift it over your head. You sit bare-chested before him, skin kissed by firelight, heart beating so loudly, you’re sure he can hear it. Your arms twitch to cover yourself, but you don’t.

Phainon’s gaze sweeps over you, not with hunger, but with awe.

“You’re—” He swallows. “You’re so beautiful.”

You duck your head, bashful, but Phainon will have none of it. He closes the space between you again, kissing you like he’s trying to commit the shape of your mouth to memory. His hands tremble slightly when they touch your skin, moving carefully across your ribs, your waist, as though he’s still not sure he’s allowed. You guide him. You teach him.

You lie back against the pillows, and he follows, bracing himself above you. You undress each other slowly, fumbling at times, laughing once when his belt catches on itself and breaks the moment.

You touch, explore, learn. You whisper when something feels good. He listens. He mirrors your movements, unsure at first, and then with more confidence, brushing kisses over your collarbone, the swell of your breast, your stomach, like you’re a language he’s finally been permitted to speak.

When he pushes into you, it’s slow and careful. You clutch at his shoulders, eyes locked to his, you breath stuttering in your chest at the stretch and burn and fullness of it. He goes still, watching your expression, concerned and cautious. You nod.

He presses his forehead to yours, and the movement begins—gentle, uneven, his hands cradling your hips. You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper. The ache turns to pleasure, a pulse in your core that builds and builds, and the sounds you make only encourage him: little gasps and whimpers, your name on his lips, his on yours.

There are no titles here. No barriers. Only two bodies moving together under candlelight, tangled in silk sheets and first loves.

You cry out as pleasure crashes through you, seizing your limbs, your breath, your thoughts. He follows soon after, gasping into your neck, trembling above you; he is, you think, a man who’s finally been allowed to feel everything he’s been denied.

(“Is it strange that I don’t want the sun to rise?” you whisper into Phainon’s throat. He’s tucked your head under his chin, while his fingers trace patterns onto your spine.

“Not strange,” he whispers back. “Cruel, maybe. But not strange.”

You shift slightly, enough to press your cheek against the warmth of his collarbone. His skin smells like salt and cedar, and something softer—like the sheets between you, like sleep.

“If morning comes,” you murmur, “it all goes back to how it was.”

“I know,” he says. You feel the breath he lets out, the way it lifts his chest just slightly; then, he adds, “But it’s not morning yet.”)

Dawn comes cruel.

The pale light bleeds in through the gaps in between the drapes, casting the room in watery gold. You blink slowly from where you lie tangled in the sheets, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Phainon is already awake beside you—half-dressed, back half-turned, one hand dragging down his face in exhaustion or disbelief, or something in between.

You sit up, letting the silk slip from your bare skin, and watch him for a moment. There’s a softness to his posture, something almost boyish in the slope of his shoulders and the way the morning light outlines the curve of his neck. A purpling mark blooms at the base of his throat—your mark—and something about that fact knots your stomach with heat and something else you dare not name.

“We should’ve slept,” you say, voice rough with sleep.

“We did,” Phainon says, not turning.

“For an hour.”

“Better than none.”

You rise and cross the room. Your fingers brush the back of his hand as he laces up his bracers—not for armour, just for show. “You should go,” you whisper. “Mistress Calypso always wakes early, and if she finds you here, no explanation will suffice.”

He smiles faintly at that. “I know. I dived into a laundry basket because of her, remember?”

You laugh softly, but the sombre thought of him leaving wedges in your mind like a splinter. Phainon seems to realise it, too, because he simply nods once with no protest or drawn-out goodbye; just the quiet acknowledgement of what the world expects. He leans down, presses a kiss to your shoulder, then the inside of your wrist, and finally the corner of your mouth: a promise and a farewell folded into one.

When he slips out, the door closes with a soft click. You exhale.

You move through the rest of your morning on instinct—pulling on a light gown, brushing the knots from your hair, fastening a necklace you don’t even remember choosing. You find Mistress Calypso in the parlour, seated in an armchair with her book on her lap and her cup of chicory in her hand.

“I wish to visit the marketplace today,” you say. “The sea air is good for me, and I want to walk before the sun climbs high.”

“As you wish, Princess,” she says. “I’ll send one of the girls with you.”

You smile. “I’d rather go alone, if I may. I’ve grown tired of fussing.”

“You always were a stubborn little thing,” she sighs.

“Would you have liked me soft-spoken and obedient?”

“Stars, no. I wouldn’t know what to do with you.” She waves you off, and you leave before you can change your mind.

Outside, the market stirs to life with colour and noise. The scent of salt and fruit and spice fills the air as fishermen arrange their catch and fabric merchants unfurl bolts of dyed silk to flutter in the breeze. Shopkeepers shout over one another, offering baskets of ripe pomegranates, jars of preserved lemons, bundles of thyme and bay leaf, and combs cut from metal. You walk slowly past the stalls. A younger girl thrusts a petal-stained hand at you, offering a bundle of dried flowers with uncertain eyes. You buy it immediately.

Phainon appears eventually, as he always does. You find him standing just beyond a barrel of olives, his arms folded, posture loose. He wears no armour today, and there is no sword tucked into his belt. He only wears his simple shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and a sardonic little smile on his lips.

“Is it dangerous to let the princess wander alone?” you ask when you reach him.

“More dangerous not to,” he quips.

You grin and link your arms together, pulling him with you. You share grapes and honey-coated figs. He dares you to out-bargain a spice merchant, and you do, though the old man throws in an extra pouch just for your smile. Phainon nearly gets pickpocketed by a boy no older than ten, and ends up giving him a coin anyway.

When you walk past the stalls selling sweet loaves of bread, some of the older women smile knowingly in your direction. One offers you a braided loaf of bread with lavender baked into the crust. Phainon insists on paying for it, and the baker swats his hand away.

“Let a soldier buy a gift for his princess,” Phainon says, exaggeratedly courtly.

“Buy it for your wife, then,” the old woman retorts, winking.

You leave with warm bread, a small jar of honey, and cheeks that refuse to cool.

Later, with the heat rising and the stalls beginning to close, you and Phainon slip away from the crowded square and walk down to the narrow, pebbled shoreline. The beach is quieter here, tucked behind a rise of sand and sea-worn grass. Pebbles clack underfoot as you both step closer to the water’s edge. You kick off your sandals, letting the cold saltwater lick at your ankles.

Phainon sits first, knees bent, arms draped across them. You lower yourself beside him, knees drawn to your chest, head tilted back towards the endless stretch of sky. Your fingers graze his over the sand.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The wind plays with the hem of your skirt. A gull shrieks in the distance. Phainon says something, low and teasing, about kidnapping you onto a fishing boat and vanishing into a life of anonymity. You laugh. You tell him you’d hate the smell of fish guts, but your hand doesn’t leave his.

“I could stay like this forever,” you say eventually.

“I know.”

You look at him. “But I won’t, will I?”

“No,” he says softly. “You won’t.”

It hurts more than you expect, that simple truth.

“Princess!”

You both jolt at the voice—breathless, hurried, and too close. A maid stumbles over the rise behind you, skirts bunched in her hands, cheeks flushed with exertion and panic. When she spots you, her face nearly crumples with relief. “I’ve been looking everywhere,” she pants. “Please forgive me—there’s news. A messenger has come from the capital.”

You straighten at once. “From the king?”

She nods, still catching her breath. “He carries your father’s seal. He’s waiting at the manor.”

Behind you, Phainon has already risen. He’s gone silent again, every part of him falling back into his role: the guard, the shadow. You brush the sand from your dress, your pulse suddenly loud in your ears. The sea wind picks up, and suddenly, the morning is no longer yours. The world has come to collect you.

You trudge back to the manor, not bothering to fix your appearance. Let the messenger see you wild-eyed and wind-snared. Why should you care? Phainon’s offer of running away suddenly seems ironic, and you bite back the sudden laugh that bubbles up your throat. The maid rushes ahead, her slippers slapping unevenly against the stones, but you walk slower. Your feet drag through the fine grit that clings to your soles, and the humidity makes sweat bead at your temples.

Phainon doesn’t speak. He walks beside you at a careful distance, eyes forward, hands clenched into fists at his sides. You want to reach out, just once more, and say something small. But you don’t; if you do, you might not stop.

The manor gates loom up ahead, black iron wrapped in ivy, and beyond them, the sun-splashed courtyard where the roses are still in bloom. A shadow waits at the threshold. The messenger is tall and narrow-shouldered, dressed in the king’s colours—deep blue and silver—and he carries a leather satchel with the royal seal. His eyes flick over to you with the barest hint of surprise. You wonder if it’s the sand on your calves or the flush on your cheeks he notices first.

He bows. “Your Highness.”

“You’ve come a long way,” you say, dipping your chin, just slightly.

“I bring a letter from the king,” he says. He extends the sealed parchment, and you take it with hands you hope don’t shake. The wax glints blood-red in the afternoon sunlight, imprinted with the crest you’ve seen since childhood, familiar and final all at once.

You break the seal with the nail of your thumb. The parchment unfolds stiffly, the script inside unmistakable. Your father’s hand: ornate, precise, and devoid of warmth.

The prince of Castrum Kremnos is to arrive at the capital in two weeks’ time. His arrival must be met with the dignity and preparation befitting our kingdom and future alliance. You are to return immediately and make the necessary arrangements.

You are not to delay. Your presence is required.

— By Order Of The Crown.

(You glance at Phainon, stricken, wanting nothing more than his arms to wrap around you and soothe away the tension in your shoulders like he’d told you he would last night.)

iii). If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

The prince of Castrum Kremnos looks rather like a brute: long, messy hair, bright golden eyes that rake over your face, robes the colour of red rubies, and strong arms that look like they could crush a boulder. Yet, when he takes your hand in his and presses his lips to your knuckles, his fingers are gentle.

“Princess,” he says, after he straightens up. “It is an honour to finally meet you.”

You tilt your head to the side in greeting. “Welcome to our kingdom, Prince Mydeimos. I trust your journey here was pleasant.”

He smiles, and his eyes gleam like coins freshly struck. “Long,” he replies, “but not unpleasant. I do hope it will have been worth the ride.”

You withdraw your hand with care, suppressing the urge to wipe it against your skirts. Behind you, the courtiers shift in interest. Somewhere near the dais, your father watches with thinly veiled satisfaction, his expression the mirror of a man who has already counted his gain.

“Mydeimos,” he says, voice echoing throughout the hall. “We are pleased to host you. You must be tired. I’m sure my daughter will be happy to show you the gardens after you’ve had a moment to rest.”

“If it pleases you, I’d be glad to give the prince a tour,” you say, schooling your expression.

“Excellent,” the king says. “Then it’s settled.”

Mydeimos’ golden gaze flicks to you again, appraising. “I would be honoured.”

The moment the two of you step past the threshold of the great hall, into the quieter, sun-warmed corridor beyond it, it feels like slipping out of a costume. The marble walls hush the sounds of courtly interest behind you, and the breeze filtering in from the open arches smells faintly of lemon blossoms.

You lead him in silence for a while. Mydeimos falls into step beside you without complaint. His presence is large, but not overbearing, his footsteps heavy but measured. The sword strapped to his back shifts slightly with every step, a quiet reminder of who—and what—he is.

When the garden gate swings open with a soft creak, you both step into a world of colour and calm: roses spilling over trellises, white hydrangea blooming in the shade, and the soft burble of the fountain in the centre where ducks often gather in the early morning.

“Impressive,” he murmurs, gaze trailing over the grounds. “Your kingdom is fond of beauty.”

You glance at him. “Is yours not?”

“We don’t have the same luxury of fertile grounds,” he says simply. “But we do what we can.”

You walk slowly towards the edge of the reflecting pool. Mydeimos stops beside a small cluster of marigolds, crouching to inspect one without plucking it. His fingers are rough, but he touches the petals with unexpected care.

“You know why I’m here,” he says after a moment. His voice is low but not unkind. “There is no sense pretending otherwise.”

“The alliance was finalised only weeks ago,” you say quietly. “My father moves fast.”

“He’s trying to protect what he can,” says Mydeimos. “And he thinks a marriage will keep the borders from collapsing.”

“He is probably right.”

He looks up at you. “That doesn’t mean either of us has to enjoy it.”

“I have no interest in being your wife,” you say.

“I suspected as much.” Mydeimos sounds resigned.

“My heart belongs to someone else,” you say, softer now, “though no one else knows. It’s… complicated.” If you are to be wed to this prince, he must, at least, know the truth.

To your surprise, he doesn’t scoff or sneer. He only nods once, slowly. “Then I won’t insult you by asking if it’s returned. But I will promise this: if we are forced into this arrangement, I will treat you with respect. I won’t make a mockery of you.”

There is something sincere in his voice, you think. Something lonely, too. “Thank you,” you say. “That’s more than I expected.”

He straightens up, brushing the dust from his hands. “I’d prefer to have a friend in this, if nothing else.”

You consider him—messy hair, calloused hands, and eyes like summer lightning—and nod. “I would like that very much.”

He smiles at you, this time less like a prince and more like a boy your age who has also had to grow up too fast. “Then it’s settled,” he says. “At least between us.”

“I suppose it is,” you agree, giving him a smile of your own. “Tell me about Castrum Kremnos, my new friend. I have never visited, though I’ve heard many things about it.”

Mydeimos turns towards the hedge-lined path, and you follow his lead, walking in slow, companionable silence for a few steps. “Many things,” he echoes with a dry laugh. “Let me guess—bleak stone cliffs, soldiers with no tongues, and children raised to fight?”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Is that not the truth?”

“It’s not the whole truth,” he says, somewhat wistfully. “We do have cliffs, yes. Our mountains overlook the ocean, and the citadel sits high above the sea. It’s built into the rock itself. The wind there howls in the winter and makes you feel like you might be swept into the sea if you step too close to the edge. But in the spring… the fog rolls down like a veil, and everything smells of salt and wild herbs.”

You imagine it: the sound of crashing waves below stone towers, boys training with swords in the mist, women weaving thick wool in candlelit halls. You ask, “And the people?”

“Stubborn,” he replies. “Proud and practical. Not particularly good at small talk.”

You laugh at that. “I can’t imagine how you survived court, then.”

“Barely,” he admits, glancing at you sideways, a grin tugging at his mouth. “But I’m adaptable, even if I’d rather be sparring or riding.”

You reach out to brush your hand against the soft lavender lining the path. The breeze stirs the petals and sends their fragrances trailing through the air. “I don’t think I expected you to have a sense of humour.”

“I’ve been told that a lot.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that it makes you laugh again, and this time it feels freer, lighter than it has in days. You almost forget that you had worried yourself sick over this man, feeling so ill at the prospect of marriage that you’d put yourself through a self-imposed exile. But it was worth it, you remind yourself, because you now know that Phainon is yours and you are his.

“I think we’ll get along just fine, Prince Mydeimos,” you say honestly.

He gives you a short, mock bow. “Then I’ve accomplished something today. Although… I have told you about my kingdom, boring as it may be. It is only fair that you tell me something about yourself, Princess.”

The path begins to curve back to the courtyard. In the distance, the bells begin to chime the hour.

“I am madly in love with my soldier,” you say, surprising even yourself with your candour.

He straightens, clearly startled—but not offended. If anything, he looks intrigued, his golden eyes narrowing slightly, the tilt of his head more thoughtful than disapproving. “That,” he says slowly, “is quite the answer.”

You don’t flinch, though your cheeks warm. You lift your chin and meet his gaze squarely. “I assumed you wanted honesty.”

“I did,” he admits. “Though I expected a more… diplomatically evasive kind of honesty.”

“I’ve had enough of diplomacy for today,” you say. “You asked who I am. That is who I am.”

Mydeimos studies you for a long moment. “Does he know?”

“Yes,” you say. “But it changes nothing.”

You expect a sigh, a frown, some bitter commentary on alliances and duty. Instead, he hums, low and contemplative. “Then he must be brave. Or foolish. Or both.”

“He’s many things.” You smile faintly. “Brave among them.”

“I won’t ask who he is,” Mydeimos says. “It doesn’t matter to me, and I suspect it wouldn’t be wise for either of us to say more than we already have.”

You nod in agreement. He offers you his arm, and you place your hand in the crook of his elbow. “Thank you,” you murmur.

“For what?”

“For not being angry.”

“Ah.” His mouth quirks. “I might be. Later. In private. When I’m alone and wondering what sort of fool I’ve been made into. But right now, I think I quite like you.”

You don’t suppress your grin as you walk in silence back through the hedge gate. It is a tentative friendship, not created out of roses and vows, but made out of something oddly sturdier—honesty in the face of expectation, and the quiet understanding between two people playing parts in a story neither of them wrote.

(“Well, Princess,” Phainon says later, when you make your way back to your chambers. “What do you think about the prince of Castrum Kremnos?”

“Must we talk about this here?” you ask, rolling your eyes with fond exasperation.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m curious.”

“He is perfectly agreeable, Phainon, but he is not you.”)

The corridors of the palace are quieter in the late evening, steeped in amber torchlight and the sounds of the servants returning to their quarters. You move swiftly, the hem of your gown caught up in your hands to keep it from dragging on the stone. Phainon walks a pace behind you, silent but solid, a shadow at your back that warms rather than frightens.

You slip through an archway that leads into the west wing—a part of the palace few use, half-forgotten in the shuffle of royal life. It’s not entirely abandoned, but it’s private enough. The corridor ends in a small vestibule with high, narrow windows and an alcove half-swallowed by trailing ivy from the outside garden wall. It is, in essence, a hidden corner of stone and moonlight.

You turn to face Phainon as soon as you’re sure you’re alone, chest rising with the breath you’ve been holding in all day. “We only have a few minutes.”

He doesn’t ask if it’s a good idea. He doesn’t ask if you should be here. He simply steps forward, steady and certain, and brings his hand to your cheek.

“I hated seeing you walk beside him,” Phainon murmurs.

“I know.” You lean into his touch. “But I had no choice. My father expects—”

“I know,” he says. “You don’t have to explain.”

There is nothing but the sound of your breathing and the distant chatter of wind through the ivy. His forehead rests gently against yours. His fingers graze your wrist, and even that is enough to make you shiver. You tilt your chin up, and he kisses you, soft at first, slow and sure. Your hands twist in the fabric of his tunic, and—

You hear someone clear their throat behind Phainon.

You jolt back as if burned, heart leaping to your throat. Phainon instinctively moves in front of you, his hand flying to the hilt of his blade out of habit, until he realises who stands at the edge of the corridor.

Prince Mydeimos leans against the archway, arms folded across his broad chest. His golden eyes gleam in the dim light—far more amused than angry. “Well,” he says lightly, “I was looking for the stables. Imagine my surprise.”

Neither of you speaks. Phainon tenses like a drawn bow, and you feel your shame blooming hot across your cheeks.

But Mydeimos raises one hand, palm outward. “Relax. If I was going to cry treason, I’d have done it already.” He pushes off the wall and steps closer, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Though I must say, soldier, you’re either very bold or very stupid.”

Phainon doesn’t respond. His jaw is clenched so tightly, you want to soothe his skin with your thumb.

“Mydeimos,” you begin, voice low, “please—”

“Don’t worry,” the prince interrupts. “I’m not here to tattle like a child. I told you before—I like honesty.” He looks between the two of you. “And this… this is honest, isn’t it?”

You nod slowly.

Mydeimos sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well. It complicates things, but I suppose it makes my position easier to refuse when the council starts pushing for wedding dates.”

You blink. “You’re not going to—?”

“No,” he says, smiling a little. “I may be considered one of the best warriors around, and not very well-versed in matters of the heart, but I know enough, Princess.”

Phainon finally speaks. “You won’t tell?”

Mydeimos shrugs. “It’s not my secret to tell. But if you value her, soldier, you’d better be careful. The king may be blind, but the court is not.”

The prince disappears with a rustle of his cloak and a low whistle trailing behind him, as though he really means what he said—that he won’t tell. The corridor grows quiet again; the lack of his presence leaves behind a vacuum. You don’t move. Phainon does. He steps away from you, the warmth of his body vanishing as if a door has slammed shut between you both. His jaw is tight. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and when he finally speaks, it’s not the softness you’re used to—it’s something harsher, brittle and breaking.

“You can’t let him do that.”

“What?” you say, disoriented.

“You should’ve stopped him.” He turns to face you fully now, eyes dark and unforgiving. “You should’ve told him the truth—that you’ll marry him. That it was just a mistake. That this—” he gestures between you, his voice rising—“whatever this is, it ends now.”

The words knock the breath out of your lungs. “Phainon—what are you saying?”

“You can’t let him call off the engagement because of us,” he says.

“He said he doesn’t want to marry me if I don’t want to,” you argue, stepping towards him. “He said he understood—”

“He’s being kind!” Phainon shouts. “Because he’s honourable! Because he’s giving us a chance to walk away before this escalates any further!”

“You want to walk away?”

“I want you safe,” he says. “This is not safety. This is selfishness. We are selfish. Do you think I don’t want you? Gods, I want you more than I want to breathe. But if it means your father sees your reputation torn apart in court, if it means Castrum Kremnos turns its fleets away and innocent people die on the borders, then yes. I want to walk away.”

“Don’t put all this on me,” you say.

“I’m not!” he bites back. “I’m as guilty as you are. But you’re the princess. You’re the one they’ll parade down the aisle and pin like a jewel to someone’s throne. Not me. I’m just the stupid son of some village baker with a sword. I was never supposed to climb through your window all those years ago.”

“You don’t get to decide that!” You push past him, chest heaving. “You don’t get to act like this is just a lapse in judgement. You don’t get to—to kiss me and hold me and touch me, and—and then just run the moment something happens!”

“I’m trying to protect you!” he yells.

“Then stop pretending it’s about me,” you say. “Stop lying and admit it. You’re scared.”

Phainon freezes. “Of course I’m scared,” he says, low and bitter. “You think I want to watch you marry another man? You think I want to hear the bells ring and know you’re standing at an altar I’ll never be allowed near? I want to kill every man who’s ever looked at you the way I do. But I don’t, because I can’t. Because I’m not supposed to. I’m nothing. I’m a sword in your father’s army. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

You’re shaking now, rage and grief tangled together so tightly you can barely breathe. “Then why did you ever touch me?” Your voice breaks. “Why did you let me fall in love with you?”

He lifts his eyes to yours, and when he speaks, his voice is a whisper of war-torn resolve. “Because I thought—just once, I thought—that maybe the gods had made a mistake.”

“Then fall out of love with me,” you whisper, venomous and hurt. “Go ahead. If it’s for the kingdom, if it’s for the people—fall out of love with me, Phainon. And I’ll fall in love with Mydeimos like I’m supposed to. I’ll do my duty.”

Phainon’s face crumples. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Princess.”

You square your shoulders. You don’t cry. You won’t give him that. “I mean every word.”

(You cry and cry and cry yourself to sleep that night, streaks of saltwater running down your cheeks and your nose. The next morning, there is a different guard standing outside your doors.)

“Do you find this banquet particularly riveting, Princess?” Mydeimos nudges your shoulder, with the same ease he has shown you since your friendship.

You blink, pulled from your thoughts by the touch of his shoulder against yours. The ballroom is a blur of warm candlelight, colourful gowns, and laughter that sounds too bright to match your current state of mind. You haven’t tasted a single bite of the feast. You haven’t truly slept since that night with Phainon. Your eyes flick towards the far end of the hall—towards the empty space near the guards’ post, where he should be. But he’s not there.

He hasn’t been anywhere.

“Sorry,” you say. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Clearly,” says Mydeimos, a wry smile tugging on his lips. “I’ve been singing a ballad to you for the last five minutes. You didn’t even flinch when I rhymed ‘goblet’ with ‘sorbet’.”

That earns the faintest laugh from you. Mydeimos doesn’t push more than that. Instead, he reclines back slightly in his chair and surveys the grand room as if it’s a chessboard. “I have been thinking lately,” he says.

“A wonderful feat, Prince,” you tease him, and he smiles, just once, quickly.

“Indeed. But I have been thinking about how strange it is… how much power we let titles have.”

“You’re a prince,” you say, glancing at him.

He lifts a shoulder. “Precisely. And yet, I didn’t choose it. I didn’t earn it. I was born with a crown on my name and a sword in my hand and told the world would make way for me.” He takes a sip from his goblet, watching the wine swirl like blood amidst gold. “Meanwhile, I’ve seen men sharper than any general be dismissed because they didn’t speak with the right accent. I’ve seen women with more grace than any noble be cast out because their blood wasn’t ‘clean’ enough for court.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell the council about me and Phainon?” you ask.

Mydeimos doesn’t answer right away. He studies you, eyes glinting with something far more serious than his usual jesting nature. “No,” he says finally. “I didn’t tell them because I don’t believe love should be a privilege reserved for the highborn. And because… I don’t think either of you deserves to be punished for wanting something honest in a world this rotten.”

You drop your gaze to the still-full plate in front of you, food long gone cold, because your appetite has vanished. “You really think it’s honest? Even when it hurts so much?”

“I think,” Mydeimos says, “that anything worth wanting is bound to hurt. But it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

The music swells again, a string quartet weaving a lively melody as men and women line up to dance.

“Come, Princess,” Mydeimos says, offering you a hand. “We must salvage what little enjoyment is left in this banquet, don’t you think?”

You look down at his extended palm, hesitant, and then place your hand in his. His grip is warm. He leads you to the centre of the ballroom, where nobles glide like swans across the marble. The music swells into a sweeping waltz, ornate and majestic, like everything else in this place: grand and golden and only beautiful if you don’t observe too closely. You don’t look for Phainon this time. It already hurts too much.

Mydeimos settles one hand against the curve of your back, the other clasping yours. He moves with a grace that belies his broad demeanour, not stiff like the courtiers who danced only to be noticed, but smooth, fluid, as though music lives in his bones. You let yourself be led, each step a distraction from the turbulence in your head.

“My mother used to dance like this,” Mydeimos murmurs. “Always a bit too fast. My father used to say she was trying to outrun the court.”

You glance up at him. He’s watching the crowd, not you. “She sounds wonderful,” you say.

“There are few things court life respects less than a woman who defied expectation,” he says, eyes flicking to the high dais where the elder lords sit. “Fewer still who remembered her for more than the silks she wore.”

“Your mother was… Gorgo, wasn’t she? Didn’t they call her the Sapphire Princess?”

“Yes. For her eyes. Never for the fact that she broke a treaty engagement and nearly started a civil war because she refused to be sold off like cattle.”

“She was supposed to marry the northern lord, wasn’t she?” you ask.

Mydeimos nods, spinning you gently in between phrases of the music before returning you to him. “She was betrothed to the very man whose army threatens your borders now. But then came my father—Eurypon, the commander of the Castrum Kremnos army. He was a war hero, but he was common-born, and entirely unacceptable for that fact.”

You smile softly. “But she chose him.”

“She did,” he says, gaze finding yours, “and nearly lost everything for it. Her father threatened exile. The court was scandalised. Yet… they married. Their stations were close enough—barely—that it could be spun as political, not romantic. She reminded the court that without Eurypon’s army, her home kingdom of Argyros would have fallen to siege three winters earlier.”

You’re quiet, absorbing this. “She married for strength?”

“She married for conviction,” he says. “And she gambled her kingdom on it. My father was no noble, but he was necessary, and sometimes, that’s all the crown cares about.”

You close your eyes, your mind reeling with ideas now, after Mydeimos told you about his parents. “Phainon, he—he told me he was going to be the commander of the royal guard one day. It was his dream. Master Gnaeus is fond of him, certainly, but he cannot let favouritism come in the way of electing the new captain.”

Mydeimos’ eyes twinkle. “How convenient that you have one of the most skilled warriors of the nation visiting your court, then, Princess.”

(The banquet is not over yet, but you excused yourself early and now, you search for Phainon. You walk fast at first, then break into a near-run, your slippers skidding slightly on the polished stone floors as you hurry down the palace corridors. Your heart thunders louder than the orchestra ever could. You don’t entirely know where you’re going—but your feet do.

Phainon is not on duty tonight, but there are places he goes when he wants to be alone. Places even the guards forget; places he showed you when you were young and guileless. You remember them all.

You find him behind the old watchtower in the eastern wing, where the wall juts out just enough to be missed unless you know to look. The alcove is dim, lit only by moonlight slanting through the high windows. He stands there with his back to you, armour unbuckled and resting on the stone bench beside him. He’s in a plain shirt now, his hands braced against the wall, head bowed.

For a moment, you simply look at him, relief and frustration warring inside you. “Phainon,” you call.

He stiffens, and doesn’t turn. “Go back, Your Highness.”

You ignore the sting in his voice, the distance in it. “I will,” you say, “after you listen to me.”

“I have nothing left to say.” Phainon moves to reach for his armour, but you step forward, blocking his path.

“Then you’ll listen out of duty,” you snap. “If not to me, then to the princess of your kingdom, who is issuing you a command.”

Slowly, Phainon lifts his eyes to yours. The anger in them is subdued, like embers glowing between ash, but it is there. “Is that what we are now?” he says bitterly. “Orders and rank?”

“You told me, once,” you say, ��that you were going to become the captain of the royal guard.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” you say. “Everyone knows you are the top candidate for the next position, but Master Gnaeus cannot let his affection for you and me affect his decision-making. If you were to become the captain of the royal guard, then we—” You stop yourself there. “You have a chance now, Phainon. Mydeimos is here, and the court is already restless with the border skirmishes from the north. If war comes, they will need strength. They will need leadership.”

He shakes his head, turning away again. “They’ll never choose me. I’m no one.”

“Then make them choose you. Challenge Mydeimos to a duel.”

“Are you insane?” he says.

“I’m serious,” you say. “He’s a prince, yes, but he respects strength. And the court does, too. If you defeat him—or even come close—they’ll have no choice but to remember you. There are other ways we can secure this alliance, Phainon. And if you become the captain of the royal guard, they cannot say anything about us staying together, because our ranks will be nearly equal.”

Phainon ducks his head and curses under his breath. Then, he looks up at you, and his anger cracks. “You think I can survive fighting a prince and the court?”

“If there is anyone who can, it is you.”)

Dawn has barely begun to stretch across the horizon, but the court is already assembled around the patch of training grounds used as a sparring ring. Nobles in rich brocades and glinting jewels watch from the colonnades, expressions schooled into polite interest or thinly veiled dread. The dew has not yet dried from the stone, and a thin mist curls around the edges of the courtyard, ghostlike.

There is no music, no fanfare; there is only the rustle of silk and the occasional murmur of speculation passed behind a gloved hand. The duel is not public in the usual sense—no civilians, no celebration—but it is undeniably a performance. Every glance, every breath, every footfall will be judged.

On the eastern platform, the king watches from his elevated seat, robed in black and silver, his crown slipping down his forehead. His expression is as if it is carved from stone. You stand just beneath him, close enough to hear the way his ringed fingers tap once against the arm of the chair, right next to Master Gnaeus. You force your spine straight, your expression passive, but your nails leave crescent-shaped indents on your palms. You are not allowed to show favour here: not for Mydeimos, the foreign prince and your suitor; and certainly not for Phainon, your oldest friend, your hidden heart, and your last defiance.

The rules were made clear the moment Phainon approached the council chambers and issued the challenge. If Mydeimos wins, the alliance will be sealed by marriage between him and you. Phainon will be exiled for insubordination and interference in royal affairs.

If Phainon wins, the alliance will be negotiated through trade and defense treaties instead of marriage. He will be named the next captain of the royal guard, by merit and recognition.

At the far end of the ring, Phainon steps forward first.

He is silent, face unreadable beneath the steady press of expectation. His silver-white hair is tied back, his armour plain but fitted with care—worn in places, the leather softened from use. He carries no insignia. The hilt of his sword glints at his back, catching the early sun in flashes as he moves with calm, deliberate steps to the centre of the ring. He does not look at you.

On the opposite end, Prince Mydeimos arrives with significantly more fanfare. His entrance is flanked by two of his personal guards, though they peel away before he enters the sparring ground alone. He is dressed in deep crimson, edged in gold, and his armour is polished to an almost absurd shine. His twin swords rest easily at his hips, curved slightly and sheathed in scabbards inlaid with foreign script.

Phainon does not extend a hand. Mydeimos doesn’t seem surprised. They say nothing, but they bow their heads as the king rises. The hush that falls over the courtyard is instantaneous. When he speaks, his voice carries without effort.

“Let the court bear witness to this sanctioned duel—its terms already set, and its consequences clear. Combatants, you will fight until surrender or incapacitation. Death is forbidden.”

He motions for Master Gnaeus to step forward, and that old man, with his father-like fondness towards you and Phainon, calls out: “Begin.”

Just like that, the world narrows down to two figures moving swiftly across stone.

Phainon moves first—not charging, but closing the distance quickly, decisively, blade angled low. Mydeimos watches him, lips curling into a faint grin, before drawing one sword and blocking the first strike with a clean, practiced motion.

Steel meets steel, and the sound echoes throughout the courtyard.

The duel begins as a dance of testing: quick jabs, dodges, parries. Mydeimos is faster, his footwork more fluid, spinning lightly on the balls of his feet with the ease of someone trained since birth for pageantry and power. But Phainon is relentless. He fights like a soldier, not a showman, waiting for Mydeimos to overextend.

They are matched blow for blow, sword ringing against sword, the courtyard captivated by the clash of wills. Dust rises around them in golden clouds, sun now creeping past the pillars and spilling onto the marble arches.

Mydeimos breaks the rhythm first. He feints left, then spins behind Phainon and lands a glancing strike across his shoulder. Phainon stumbles but does not fall. He turns, grits his teeth, and retaliates with a blow that Mydeimos barely manages to deflect. Sweat beads on their brows. Blood blooms through Phainon’s tunic where the blade cut—but he doesn’t slow. If anything, it fuels him. He ducks low, aiming a swipe at Mydeimos’ legs, but the prince leaps back, laughing under his breath.

“You’re better than I expected,” Mydeimos says through panted breaths. “But is it enough?”

Phainon does not answer. Instead, he drops his centre of gravity, shifts his stance, and surges forward.

There is a moment—barely more than a blink—when everything shifts. Mydeimos lifts both swords in a cross-guard, but Phainon’s strike doesn’t aim for the swords. It aims just past them—forcing Mydeimos to twist, exposing his side—and Phainon slams his elbow into the prince’s ribs, making him grunt in surprise and pain. Mydeimos staggers. One of the blades flies from his hands.

Phainon doesn’t let up. He drives forward, his movements tighter now, every swing more urgent. Mydeimos parries one more strike, two—but his footing is off. He is sweating hard, slower than he was.

Phainon knocks the last sword from Mydeimos’ hand. Then, he levels his blade at the prince’s throat.

You realise you’re holding your breath when Master Gnaeus steps forward again and announces, “The duel is complete. The victor: Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, a member of the royal guard.”

Cheers do not erupt. The court is too stunned for that. But murmurs rise, and heads turn. Even the king’s eyebrows raise fractionally.

Mydeimos stares at the sword pointed at his neck, then raises his hands in surrender. Surprisingly, he laughs—just once, rich but tired. He steps back, out of reach, and bows. “Well played,” he says. “I hope you make a fine captain, soldier.”

Phainon lowers his blade.

You do not move. You can’t—not when every gaze is trained on him. Not when the weight of the court settles like lead on your shoulders, pressing into your chest until your lungs feel tight. Phainon looks up, and for the first time since the match began, his eyes find yours. There is a flicker there—just a flicker—of something that is soft, meant for you and you alone. It’s not a smile, not quite. It’s a promise. A plea.

But he does not reach for you. Not with the king mere steps above. Not with nobles whispering into goblets and adjusting their gem-encrusted jewellery. Master Gnaeus is already striding forward to escort him from the ring, murmuring something low that you cannot hear.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You imagine what it would feel like to run to him, to place your hand against the scrape on his cheek and whisper, “You did it,” over and over again into the space between his breaths. But you cannot.

So instead, you force your hands into stillness and let your eyes speak in the language you’ve both learnt too well: restraint; longing.

Phainon holds your gaze for one heartbeat longer than wise. Then two. Then, with the barest incline of his head—a bow meant for the crown, but perhaps tilted just slightly in your direction—he turns and follows Gnaeus from the ring.

You remain in place. Behind you, the king speaks, announcing the revised terms of the alliance. There is clapping. The courtiers resume their performance of diplomacy. You follow Mydeimos back into the palace.

(“Tell me the truth, Prince Mydeimos,” you say. “Did you lose to Phainon on purpose?”

Mydeimos blinks, then lets out a soft, almost wounded laugh. You’re alone now, or close enough. The colonnade is empty but for the afternoon sun hanging high above your heads and the low hum of distant music echoing from the feast halls. Mydeimos leans against a stone pillar, arms folded, his tunic stained from the duel and a sheen of sweat shining on his forehead.

“Do you really think I would do that?” he asks, looking at you not with offense, but with something quieter. “Throw a duel in front of the entire court? Humiliate myself in front of your father, the king, and the council, when I am a guest in your kingdom?”

You don’t answer.

He sighs, pushing himself off the pillar and taking a few steps short steps closer. “Your soldier bested me. That is the truth of it. I didn’t expect him to fight like that.”

“Mydeimos—” you start, but words fail you. What can you even say, that would be kind to this mighty prince from a mighty kingdom, but also your gentle friend, who promised he would treat you well even if the marriage were to go through?

“I didn’t lose on purpose,” he says again, gentler this time. “But if you’re asking me if I regret it?” He tilts his head, golden eyes studying yours. “No, I do not, Princess. It was an honour to fight against such a skilled warrior. I meant what I said—he will make a fine captain of your guard.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you, Mydeimos.”

“Hush, now,” Mydeimos says with a chuckle. “Friends do not thank each other for such trivial things.”)

Your father summons you to the throne room before the court meets the next morning. Mistress Calypso untangles your hair and pats your cheek, and tells you to not keep him waiting.

The throne room is nearly empty at this hour—quiet, hollow, the banners of the kingdom fluttering faintly in the stale wind. Light from the high windows spills across the polished floor, catching on the familiar stained glass windows. You walk with steps too loud and a heart beating even louder.

The king sits alone on the throne. There are no courtiers, no scribes, and no guards, save for two flanking the doors behind you. There is only your father, his crown placed on his lap and his shoulders wrapped in a robe, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The moment you bow, he speaks—not with rage, but with something closer to weariness.

“I would’ve rather heard the truth from your mouth than have to pry it from a sword fight,” he says.

You keep your head bowed. “I did not think it would change anything.”

“You’re my daughter,” he says. “You’re the heir to a kingdom and the last piece of a woman I loved more than life itself. Of course it would’ve changed something.”

Silence stretches like a shadow between you. Then, in a voice that surprises you with how small it sounds, he adds, “Do you think me such a tyrant that I would barter your happiness away without care?”

You glance up at him. The lines on his face are deeper than they were a season ago. “I only wished to protect the kingdom,” he continues. “You are smarter than I am, daughter, for you have done better than I in securing an alliance with Castrum Kremnos.”

“Father…” you trail off, unsure.

“I have not spoken of your mother to you,” he says, “and it is a great folly on my end. I have not been a good father to you, and she would despise me for it. She was wittier than any noblewoman who has ever graced this court, and ten times as beautiful. She was a commoner, yes, the daughter of a tailor, but she had fire in her blood and stars in her eyes.

“She used to say that fate is only a thing to curse when it doesn’t give you what you already knew you wanted. She would’ve liked Phainon. Gods help me, I think she would’ve told me to step aside and let you choose him.”

“But it was not in vain, father,” you interject. “Phainon was given the chance to prove himself and to the court that there is a reason why Master Gnaeus always favoured him.”

“Do you know,” he says, “the first thing your mother said to me? I was in disguise, wandering the markets, trying to discover the commonfolk’s woes in my kingdom. I had not been prince for long. She looked me up and down and said, ‘You walk like a farmer, but your boots are too clean. Who are you fooling, really?’ She never let me pretend to be anything less than I was.”

You allow yourself the tiniest smile. “She sounds like she would’ve terrified the court.”

“She did. And me, most of all.”

He looks down at the crown in his lap then—polished, heavy, too bright for the early hour. “I have worn this longer than I should’ve. My father died too soon. And I… I have tried not to repeat his mistakes, but I see now that I made different ones. I thought to guard you by turning you into a symbol. I forgot to see the girl who craved a parent’s love and had to learn how to stand taller than every man in this court, alone.”

“Father,” you begin, “I was never alone. I am everything I am now thanks to the people around me: Mistress Calypso’s motherly gentleness; Master Gnaeus’ fondness for me; Phainon’s steadfast, unwavering presence; and now, Mydeimos’ kind friendship. You have not been very kind to me, father, but I have more than sufficed with what I have.”

“I am sorry,” he says at last, swallowing hard. “For nearly binding your fate to someone your heart did not choose.”

“But I have chosen,” you say. “And Phainon has chosen me.”

He studies your face then. Not as a king studies an heir, but as a father studies a daughter grown too quickly—half pride, half sorrow. “Then may the gods bless what I nearly ruined,” he says, and rises from the throne with more effort than he shows. He places the crown back on his head, the gold glinting in the pale morning light.

“Let it be known,” he declares, “that the match was the Princess’ will, not mine. May the court know her judgement surpasses even my own.”

The throne room is full by the time the sun reaches its highest point, with courtiers and nobles lining the marble aisles in their finest dress. You stand beside the dais, dressed in formal regalia, but your hands are warm—not from nerves, but from where Phainon’s fingers briefly brushed yours beneath the folds of your robe when no one was looking. At the foot of the dais stands Master Gnaeus, his weathered face solemn but proud. Beside him, Phainon kneels, one fist pressed to the floor, his head bowed.

“Rise, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” your father says, voice ringing clearly through the chamber.

Phainon stands. Sunlight cuts through the windows, catching on the dull bronze of his breastplate at the clean line of the sword at his hip.

“By the authority vested in me as sovereign,” the king continues, “and with the recommendation of Master Gnaeus himself, I name you Captain of the Royal Guard. May your sword be the shield of this kingdom, and your loyalty its unbreakable spine.”

Master Gnaeus steps forward. In his hands, he carries his old sword—notched from years of use, the hilt worn by time. “I have served three kings, and fought more battles than I care to count,” he says, placing the sword flat between his palms. “But I have never met a soldier with a truer heart than this one.” He turns to Phainon and holds the sword out. “I was a younger man when I carried this into battle. Now I give it to one younger still, but stronger, steadier, and far more stubborn.”

Phainon takes the blade, kneeling once more—not to the court, not even to the king, but to Master Gnaeus himself. You catch the gleam in his eyes as he rises. He meets your gaze across the floor, and the faintest smile passes between you like a shared secret.

Mydeimos steps forward next. Dressed in his ruby-red ceremonial garb, he bows to your father, then to you. “It is with honour that Castrum Kremnos finalises its alliance with your realm. But I would be remiss if I did not also speak personally.”

He glances at you, his gaze kind, if bittersweet. “Your Highness, thank you—for your companionship and your presence. You were never obligated to give me either. I have learned more than I expected, and I carry no bitterness at how things have turned out. In truth—” he turns his gaze to Phainon—“I look forward to fighting beside a warrior like you in the campaign against northern raiders. Your reputation, it seems, is well-earned.”

Phainon nods. “I look forward to having you at my side, Prince.”

The moment settles—a rare, rare peace shared between kingdoms and warriors and people who have each made their choices. Your father raises a hand.

“Let this court bear witness to the dawn of a new alliance,” he says, “and the beginning of a reign led not by fear or ambition, but by strength, and by choice.”

Cheers rise like a tide, and the stained glass above scatters the light like jewels across the floor. Phainon sidles over to your side, no longer covert, but open and proud. He leans ever so slightly closer.

(“Is it always this loud when you win a fight?” he says.

You don’t look at him, but your smile answers for you.)

iv). Look at us, it’s like we’re one.

There is a man inside your room.

He has hair the colour of snow and eyes the colour of the sea before a storm, and he gazes at you with a smile you can only think to describe as terribly lovesick. The hour is late, and the moon spills silver through the open windows of your bedchamber, pooling in quiet puddles across the stone floor and the silken-smooth sheets. The hearth crackles low, casting flickering gold across the canopy above you. Outside, the castle sleeps. Inside, you don’t have to.

“Mistress Calypso is very proud of you, you know,” you murmur. “She would not stop raving about how the little boy who used to climb in through my window every night is now the captain of the royal guard, off to fight along with the prince of Castrum Kremnos two weeks from now.”

You turn your head, letting your nose nudge against Phainon’s jaw, where the faintest hint of stubble tickles your skin. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, legs hooked in between yours, and he smells like grass and leather and cedarwood. The shell on the necklace you’d bought for him, wrapped around his wrist, digs into your skin just slightly.

Phainon exhales a soft laugh, the sound low and warm against your temple. “I think Mistress Calypso just likes that she no longer has to pretend she doesn’t see me sneaking out of your window at dawn.”

“She always did turn a blind eye,” you agree. “But we were so young then, so what could she do about it?”

“Barred your windows, probably,” he answers solemnly. “But she is like a mother to you, and does not have the penchant for such cruelty.”

You stifle a laugh into his shoulder, fingers brushing over the fabric of his tunic where it’s wrinkled from your embrace. He shifts so you’re nestled even closer, his thumb drawing gentle patterns on your hip beneath the sheets. “Two weeks,” you whisper, quieter now. “That’s not very long.”

“No,” Phainon says. “But it’s long enough to kiss you a hundred times.”

“You speak like you don’t plan on coming back.”

“I do. But the north is cold, and war is colder. If I’m to leave, I’ll leave no words unsaid.”

You lift your head to look at him. His sea-storm eyes meet yours, steady and full of the kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache.

“I’ll return to you,” he promises. “If there is breath in my body and strength in my limbs, I will always return to you.”

You reach up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the spot just below his eye. “I’ll be waiting. With the same window open, just in case you forget the door exists.”

He grins then, boyish, beautiful, and yours. “I might climb it anyway. For tradition.”

You laugh, and he kisses the sound from your lips. There is no rush now, no secret to keep. There is only the moonlight, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the quiet promise of love that spreads between you like an oath sworn in fire and sealed in starlight.

a/n: thanks for reading! comments are very much appreciated ♡ also thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading & letting me ramble about this fic with her, and for being my biggest supporter ever! the first section’s title was taken from cardigan by taylor swift; the second was my own; the third was from emma by jane austen; and the fourth was taken from above the time by iu.

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sophistication-as · 30 days ago

Text

I'D GIVE YOU EVERYTHING (I JUST WANT TO SEE YOU WIN) ‧₊˚𓇢𓆸 ⸻ clan head Gojo

CHAPTER THREE: Pink Camellias

𓍯𓂃 pairing⋙ post Shinjuku clan leader Gojo x non-sorcerer reader

𓍯𓂃 description⋙ navigating a married life is hard enough, it is harder when you know nothing about your husband other than his heroic scars and dizzying smile.

𓆰𓆪 cw in this chapter⋙ canon divergence, NSFW, MDNI, clan and jujutsu world politics, arranged marriage, husband Gojo, Gojo with scars, one sided conflict, one sided pining, eventually both sided pining, so much yearning, slow burn, in a sort of eccentric way ngl, suggestive stuff, they are both a little stupid about e/o, misogyny (not by Gojo), dysfunctional families, fem oriented reader, use of she/her pronouns, angst, some fluff, eventually fully hashtag trust chat, Mr. wife guy (non derogatory), condescending Gojo, down bad Gojo, this is a very rollercoaster chapter, less sad than last one.

𓍯𓂃 a/n: art in the header by @/RUEheree on twt.

word count: 8.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST ‖ <<PREVIOUS CHAPTER . NEXT CHAPTER>>soon!

Gojo Satoru often wonders what kind of flowers there would have been at his funeral if he had remained dead.

Maybe the usual white wreaths of chrysanthemums, or perhaps something more grand. White dahlias, or maybe white roses? Maybe that’d be too hopeful for a funeral. Maybe even in death Gojo Satoru, the one alone honored through heaven and earth, the strongest, cannot have flowers that match his caliber, and maybe it's better to leave these things unanswered.

Because more often than not, he wonders if there would’ve been a funeral to even begin with—because something tells him his body would have been preserved for ages to come, displayed in some glass case, or hung up on some wall. Like a war-winning sword, too rusty and worn out to use, but gallant as ever to boast and display as a threat over the enemies’ heads.

And he wonders if that was the death he would've been satisfied with. If he would've gladly passed away, knowing there would not even have been a grave with his name on it. But then again, death does not knock at your door with options in its hands. You do not get to choose how, where, or when you were born, and neither do you get a say about these things in death. Even if you lose all your hope and will to live, death is supposedly always predetermined. Even if you are Gojo Satoru, no, maybe especially if you are Gojo Satoru, these things are simply out of his hands.

Maybe it is precisely why Gojo Satoru has not let his guard down many times in his life. Because whenever he did, he met his eventual demise.

Time and time again, he was proven right that he could not let himself be treated like any other human. Or even get treated humanely enough to begin with—that it is not possible for him to exist if it is not to aid others' peaceful existence. Even if he does not understand the better part of humanity, the majority that occupies this earth, the people for whom he relentlessly serves quietly and loses his friends. His existence signified something bigger than the deities in heaven, the ‘Gojo’ name attached to him meant more than his given name, and his powers required more acknowledgement than his identity.

He is a deeply flawed person for someone meant for greatness and divinity.

Sometimes he thinks maybe that he wasn’t meant to be the bearer of the burden. He came to believe more in strength above virtues and all. He became someone who cannot accept his emotions, as they always turned out to be his most fatal weaknesses. The past that haunted him and the future that terrified him—how they crippled him and obstructed the path he wanted to carve out for the generations after him.

Though what truly prevented him from understanding what he stood against was himself.

No one is Gojo Satoru’s biggest enemy other than himself. No one truly cared about Gojo Satoru's failures more than himself. And no one wished more than Gojo Satoru that the world one day would finally get fed up with him enough to finally leave him alone.

And that is probably the biggest tragedy of Gojo Satoru's entire existence. The things he never understood and the things he refused to understand—those are the true reasons behind his demise. And the reasons why he never became anything more than a cautionary tale. The god who failed to gauge his opponent’s strength and met his eventual death. Truly the fate of a tragic hero is to crumble and die during the most crucial of times. Shining under the spotlight during the climax, lying lifelessly on the ground in a pool of his own blood, with a smile on his face.

So what if he could feel the ground soaking in his blood, pooling underneath him, cooling down as his consciousness slowly drifted away into some abyss he did not think he'd return from? If it meant that his loved ones got to have another shot at survival at the cost of his life depleting from his cold corpse, he would not mind that choice, again and again.

Maybe finally, then, the world had enough of Gojo Satoru. Maybe his life was enough of a bargain, perhaps not the first time, but the second time around, it was the prize for restraint.

But dead or alive, he will always remain the enigma, the unmatched, the strongest, and the honored one. In life or death, the biggest weapon of jujutsu society, and in the entire existence of this world, is nothing more than a myth. That only manifested once in a few centuries and eons.

When the cold winter air becomes warm, and spring starts to quickly flee, the cherry blossoms all fall off the tree.

It is disheartening to see once full and pink trees lacking those hues. But when the ground gets covered by those fallen petals, and the air smells sweet, those trees start to sprout little leaves. The shiny little light shade of greens that pop up signifies that summer was just around the corner. Time for new beginnings to turn into age-old stories.

And yet, for one couple suffering from the great effects of misunderstandings created by their unfortunate circumstances and their poor understanding of emotions, it was misery.

To be completely honest, you have often wondered how things would have been if you had married an unkind man instead. If instead of averting his gaze from you, he looked you in the eye and told you that he could not stand you. Maybe things would have been easier that way. Maybe it would have been easier to hate him like that. It would have been predictable at least, the same age-old stories you have been watching unfold with your grandparents, your parents, and almost every lady who was unfortunate enough to have been born at the same status as you. And maybe you would have become one of them, ignored, neglected, bitter, and forgotten. It would be way easier then to keep to yourself in the boundaries that you have established for yourself in this estate, and there would not be any presence of this nagging feeling to cross them constantly.

It’d have been easier that way to understand why Gojo Satoru looked like he was suffering through deep pains when you were anywhere near him.

Instead, now you are left with your incomprehensible personal thoughts and actions. Why, despite all the kindness he showed you—more than what most husbands of arranged alliances have probably shown to their spouses—could you not bring yourself to be satisfied with just that? Could you not be glad that he was not at least similar to the men you have grown up around? Could you not accept that bare minimum? Have you been foolishly expecting some whirlwind romance to sweep you off your feet?

You should not bite the hands that are feeding you. Just because for once someone has given you some respect in this society that holds you a prisoner does not mean you get to act like a fool. It is crucial you understand your place in this equation. You are a normal and weak human being, somehow tied to the strongest— Gojo Satoru, the once-in-a-lifetime myth of this jujutsu society.

Though you must say, you never really understood the myth of Gojo Satoru. So self-sacrificial and benevolent, all for what?

But it does not take understanding to worship a myth. You were aware of that when you gave up all your hope in the heavens above, when you saw others closing their eyes and praying for everything their hearts desired, while you stood there blinking and wondering what the point of all of this was. What was the point of asking God to pardon you from the inevitable? Things like birth, sacrifices, hatred, and death. And like these many inevitabilities, it just happened to be that you married a man who is as mythical as the gods in heaven; perhaps that is why you don't really get him. But perhaps he was a god you could finally believe in or a myth you could worship?

But what was the point of worshiping your husband when you cannot truly love him?

And you cannot make any sense out of this bizarre relationship you have come to form with him. Not truly a husband, neither a lover, but more than an acquaintance, less than a friend. It is not that you enjoy being around him, but you get anxious when you do not see him for prolonged periods of time. You do not seek his approval, but you wish to appease him. Inevitabilities cannot be avoided, but things like love and affection can be carved out of a stone. And perhaps you have started to fool yourself into thinking that you are deserving of such a thing when you are stuck in a relationship lacking those feelings.

It is exceptionally greedy to want so much from a god, to want more and more from him when he has given up his literal life for others. So how could you ask your human husband, on par with the gods, to become the truly idealized husband you secretly always hoped for?

Hasn't he given you enough?

“Ma’am? MA’AM!” Mia, one of the girls given the responsibility to look after your immediate needs, called you out of your daydreaming.

“Are you alright, Gojo-san? You have been looking lost for the past couple of days.” Suki leaned down to fix your makeup while Mia continued to work on your hair. Mornings have never had such a routine for you.

“Yes, yes, I am. Do not mind me. Also, you two should stop addressing me as Gojo-san.” Your voice dimmed out of shyness.

“But we cannot, ma’am, orders from Gojo-sama.” Mia smiled at you in the mirror and went back to fixing your hair.

Their concern was justified. Since what happened with your husband at the lake, things have been awkward between the two of you. You have been anxiously hiding away from him, directly calling Ichiji to ask about the dinner preparations, and trying to delay your breakfast until he goes to his home office in the left wing or gets called out for meetings or work, even going as far as to have dinner earlier or later than usual by yourself with some lazy excuse. Because it was embarrassing.

Why did you even say those things to him at the lake? Did it even matter? Even if he hated you, did that matter? Or was it the fact that he didn't deny it even once?

Instead, you've started getting bouquets of flowers from him every day. He never shows up to deliver them or hand them to you himself; it is either one of the staff or Ichiji who gets them to you. Sometimes the staff will decorate them in a pretty vase on the dining table or on the little coffee table in front of the windows by the armchair in your bedroom, and other times they’d be wrapped up neatly in some sort of decorative paper in an intricately arranged bouquet. And every time you look at those gorgeous flowers, they make you think about just how shallow this relationship is.

“Good morning, Gojo-san. Late again, huh?” The chef said, as you sat yourself at the little dining table in the corner of the kitchen, mostly used by the kitchen staff, and now you.

“Good morning, Suzuki-san, just been tired lately.” You flashed him one of your practiced fake smiles. But unfortunately, in the brief period of time he has come to know you, he got a hold on how you actually look when you smile. When you eat the dessert at the end of the meal, the way your face lights up can be easily distinguished from when you force yourself to eat cucumbers and put on this smile after swallowing them down with what looks like ease.

“No cucumbers in the salad today.” He gave you a smile before setting it down with the rest of your breakfast.

“Thank you very much.” You sheepishly thanked him before digging into your meal, hungry from making yourself wait to have the first meal of your day. All just to avoid running into your husband.

“So, what flower is it today?” The chef asked with his back turned towards you; he only chimed in once you were about halfway through eating your food. Even though he was busy tidying up the kitchen and putting away dishes, the nonchalance with which he asked the question had mirth in it.

His question made you think back to the lilies sitting in your room, tall, beautiful, and fragrant, in hues of pink and white. You only looked at them once in passing when Suki mentioned where she should place them. And you offhandedly told her, ‘anywhere.’ As gorgeous as they were, they meant nothing. Just a sad apology for a sad situation. Where it feels as if you both are at fault, but also not quite really.

“Lilies.”

“Oh, my granddaughter loves them!”

“Would you like to take them back with you?”

You offered him the flowers more enthusiastically after you finished the rest of your coffee, but the chef stiffened up.

“Oh, ma’am, that is so kind of you, but I cannot do that.” Mr. Suzuki rubbed his hand dry once he was done cleaning up, and he fully turned towards you to deny your offer.

“Why not? I am sure they will stay fresh for a few days. If you are concerned that the flowers will wilt, With your dirty plates and mug, dodging Mr. Suzuki’s attempt to take them off your hands, you walked towards the sink.

“It is not that-just—”

“You know you can speak freely with me, Suzuki-san.” You continued to wash the dirty plates as Mr. Suzuki kept fretting beside you.

“Gojo-sama got them for you. How could I—” The chef nervously tried to explain to you.

“Technically he gave them away to me, so now they are mine, and I can do as I please with them.” Mr. Suzuki kept staring at you, blinking away, with nothing to refute your analogy.

“I would rather they wither with someone who actually wants them.” You finally looked at him after drying your hands, with a pleading voice.

“Oh, now you are making me feel bad.” Mr. Suzuki smiled at you sympathetically. He was stuck in a dilemma. On one hand was his employer, the head of the clan, the kid he saw growing up into a fine young man, for whom he couldn't help but root. And on the other hand was you, the new madame of the estate, the timid little girl whom he has come to think of like his own granddaughter.

“If it makes you accept them, then sure.”

“I insist, please.” The way you looked at Mr. Suzuki, with your face scrunched in a little sad frown, the old man could not help but concede.

“All right.” The old man said with a long sigh. But your smile and incessant thank yous made him smile to himself when you skipped out of the kitchen, happy to have successfully negotiated something in your life for once.

Mr. Suzuki was glad to have made you happy and could already imagine how happy his granddaughter would be as well when she sees those flowers tonight when he gets back home.

Yet he couldn't help but feel pity and a tinge of pang in his chest for your husband.

Gojo Satoru often wonders what kind of flowers there would have been at his funeral if he had remained dead.

Recently, he has been thinking about flowers more often than he used to. But for a completely different reason.

Since that night at the lake, he has been trying to come up with different ways to express how apologetic he is. Which is hard for Gojo Satoru. There haven't been many instances where he had to genuinely apologize for hurting someone's feelings. And no, it is not because he is some compassionate, empathetic soul; he just has the power, strength, and wealth to get away with anything.

It is true that privilege makes you blind. Gojo Satoru realized that the hard way after he married you. He has unfortunately hurt you one too many times in the brief time he's known you, even before he married you. He remembers when, after you two got engaged, he asked your father to have dinner at your house. He wanted to see the place where you grew up; maybe after dinner he'd have asked you for a tour of the estate and a walk in the gardens with you after dinner—to get to know you better.

And yet his duties didn't let him do that.

Professionally, in the context of the reformed jujutsu society, things have been better overall. Even for him, his messed-up schedule has become somewhat adequate. Now instead of three hours of sleep, he gets five whole hours! Not the hallmark of a healthy sleep routine, but that's an improvement nonetheless.

Unfortunately, on the day of the dinner, he was called away for an emergency meeting. If you asked him now, his opinion would be that it was not important enough to skip dinner with you (and your family). But sadly, even just a few months ago, Satoru wasn't the married, mature man he is currently! Still, the next day when he heard from your father that you didn't eat anything at the table, it stung.

He told himself he'll make it up to you somehow. And yet, since he married you, he's stepped on all the wrong stones around you.

This time around, he felt worse. It might have been because he's come to acknowledge his feelings for you. The fact that he has developed slight feelings of affection for you is astonishing. But he does need this to work out between you two, because he can't get married again. It’s all just so tedious! Yeah! That's the reason why. These are feelings similar to when you wish to permanently keep a kitten found on the side of the road, even though you planned on just fostering it.

Or maybe it was the fact that despite all his pretenses, you still managed to see through the facade he has perfected over the years. It scared him, but it made him more and more upset with himself. Not because he failed to fool you, but because everything has been so confusing for him—these feelings he has never truly felt before to this degree, and the lack of understanding he has for them, and the fact that you are getting caught up in this mess of sentiments and getting hurt by him. Unintentionally or not, he made you feel bad about yourself.

He couldn't just live with that. He couldn't just stand there and act like everything was fine. Not when you were ignoring him, avoiding being in his presence, and moving to sleep on the cramped loveseat in your bedroom when you felt like he was deep asleep—as much as your presence pained him, your absence pained him more.

But why was he even feeling all these intense feelings? He would rather not know the answer.

He just wanted to make amends with you as soon as possible. He genuinely does not fancy Ichiji showing up at his door to ask what he'd have for dinner, to relay the answer back to you—he means, the kitchen.

Satoru wants you to ask him, personally, what he wants for dinner. To have meals with you at the dining table as usual and wake up to your sleeping face, to stare at it for forty-five minutes before getting off the bed. And if he wants things to go back to how they used to be, he needs to say his sorrys. Which he sucks at. So here he was, doing what he was best at—buying things!

And since he doesn't know you well enough, actually, he knows basically nothing about you—he does plan on changing that—except for the fact that you like staring at the trees and the flowers at the lake. Which is why he went with the flowers.

After what happened at the lake, he tried to follow you to your bedroom, but when he got there, you had already locked yourself in the bathroom. In the morning when he woke up, you were not there beside him; the bed on your side looked neat, like it wasn't slept in. He later noticed the blanket and pillows on the loveseat in his bedroom and added two and two together. So he waited at the dining table for you to join him for breakfast with a bouquet of tulips. And when you didn't show up even then, well past breakfast, he had no other choice but to leave the bouquet with someone to hand it over to you.

Later that night, when he found those tulips arranged in a pretty glass vase on the dining table, his entire face lit up. He sat down in his chair, expecting you to join him, and when you didn't, he went to the kitchen and got to know you ate earlier before he arrived. Then when he went to your room to look for you, he found the little card, saying sorry in his handwriting—that he slipped into the bouquet—in the trashcan in his bathroom. And he understood that you, in fact, hadn't accepted either the bouquet or the apology.

But Gojo Satoru is nothing if not persistent! Since then, he kept getting you different varieties of flowers. Telling himself that, at least one of these days, your heart will melt looking at the pretty blooms. He got sunflowers, more tulips, roses in different colors, lilies, and some varieties of hydrangeas—whatever flowers were in season or he could get with his bottomless wallet.

He’d place the flowers on your nightstand every morning, and when he'd come back home, he'd ask either Mia or Suki if there was any noticeable reaction from you. Often you’d just hand over the flowers after instructing them to place them in a sunny spot. Sometimes they'd tell him that you took some time longer to smell certain flowers, like hydrangeas and lilies, before handing them over—and he'd make a mental note to repeat those flowers on his roaster.

But the cards with his handwritten sorrys would always end up in the trashcan of your shared bathroom.

Today, he got you an assortment of lilies, pinks and whites, some in full bloom, some still unopened buds. And he hoped that you liked them; maybe you finally smiled a little and kept the card this time. He really hoped that was the case as Ichiji pulled up in the driveway of the Gojo estate.

He kept staring at the mansion from his window. As it got closer and closer, he saw your silhouette at the main entrance. Standing there smiling, bidding goodbye to some staff as they retired for the night, including Chef Suzuki, who was the last one to bid you goodbye with a smile on his face. As he was walking away, Satoru saw a bouquet of flowers in his hands, lilies to be exact. And when he rolled down his window, he saw the same pink and white lilies in the chef's arms. Some of the buds were now partially open, and the flowers he saw blooming in the morning were upright and bigger than before.

“ICHIJI! STEP ON IT!” Satoru leaned forward and shouted at Ichiji with urgency, making the poor man stiffen up in his seat.

“Y-yes sir!” Ichiji nervously looked back and forth between the glass in front of him and his boss in the rearview mirror as he did what he was instructed to do.

In that instance, Satoru wished he lived somewhere smaller. An apartment, maybe. One bedroom, one living room, one bathroom, barely a kitchen, a nightmare to live in, but that's all he wished for right now. Somewhere small enough that it wouldn't take thirty minutes for his stupid car to go from the main gate to the main entrance.

“Oh, fuck it.”

With those last words, Gojo Satoru teleported away.

It was almost a routine for you to bid the staff goodbye at the door; after all, they always took such great care of you. Sure, it got lonely at night when most of the people in this massive mansion were gone, but nonetheless you were glad they had loving homes to get back to after a long day of work. It made you somewhat jealous that you never had that, a home to look forward to going back to. You had at least hoped that maybe someday you'd be that home for someone to come back to. But how things are going with your husband seems like it'll stay a wishful dream.

“WAIT!”

You couldn't help but pick up your pace, hearing Satoru’s voice suddenly speak out from behind you. Even though his legs were longer than yours, you speed-walked as fast as you could and made sure to not turn around even once. Once you took a turn down the hallway that led you into the main part of the estate from the entrance, you couldn't hear his footsteps.

But you were forgetting there is no point in running from the lion in the lion's den. Especially if the lion can teleport.

From there on, you kept turning around to check if he was following you. Fortunately, you didn't notice his shadow or his voice. Soon enough you were in the hallway that sat between the main part and the right wing of the mansion.

Calling this place a mansion was honestly not appropriate; the way the structures were built and how every route to one part of the mansion connected to another, the gorgeous lighting down to the lit marble floors—it was nothing less than a castle to you. Including how beautifully this hallway was built. Each hallway that separated the main part of the mansion from the left wing and the right wing was designed to look alike. There were gorgeous pillars that lined up from one end of the hallway to the other end, standing tall on each side of the marble floor that led to the right wing. On each side, between the pillars, there was just enough space to fit an intricately carved statue, or a big vase, or two people. You've only heard how the one leading to the left wing looked exactly the same.

Whenever you're here, it makes you want to peek into the spaces between the walls and the pillars, but you never got around to doing it. That is until now.

“Got you.”

Satoru pulled you by your wrist and dragged you with him behind the pillars. He pressed you back to one of the pillars; with both his hands on the pillar behind you, he had you caged between him and the long structure.

“Were you trying to run from me?” He raised one of his eyebrows in question, and something in his voice sounded like a challenge.

“I-I wasn't...” You tried to look away from him and turned your head to the side.

“You really want to do this right now?” He also turned his head and once again looked straight into your eyes. The blue pupils that wavered a few weeks ago to even look in your direction now looked straight into your own irises with no hesitation.

“Just how did you even get here?” Everything about this situation was frustrating. From where you were exactly standing, how close to him you were standing, how his eyes looked at you, and how they didn't even blink for at least a minute straight.

What a strange man.

“I can teleport if you're forgetting.” His eyes followed your pupils in every direction they moved.

“Right…” You dryly swallowed, nervous about where this conversation was going.

“You're not going to ask me why I asked you to wait? Also, how rude of you to instantly start running when I asked you to wait for me?”

“It just—I just—it happened automatically.”

“Are you serious?”

He looked at you incredulously. Like you've gone and personally offended him. Which you've probably done more than one time since he sat down in front of you the very first day you two met.

“Gojo-san?” Before Satoru could continue with reprimanding you, Mia’s voice came into both of your ears.

It was already well past 12:00 AM. Usually by now you're already in bed or at least in one of the sitting rooms reading something. It was expected that Mia would come looking for you since you asked her to draw you a bath before you could head to bed.

“I wonder if she got lost again.” Mia mumbled to herself as she looked around the area for you.

Each individual pillar was thick enough to hide one or two people behind it easily. So when you tried to get Mia’s attention, it came in handy for Satoru. He pressed his right hand’s palm to your mouth, and his left hand flew to your waist as he leaned in to keep sandwiched between the pillar and him.

“MMHMF!” Your voice was completely muffled by his huge hand.

“What?” He whispered close to your face; you could feel the warmth of his breath mixing in with yours. You could even feel the coolness of his hands on your mouth and through the silk of your robe.

“Mmmf mf mmff mm!” You muffled some more in his hand, trying to get your words across to him, and hoping some of the stupid noises you were making would get to Mia's ears before anything worse than what was happening happened.

“Want me to take my hand off?” You nodded vigorously while gripping onto the wrist of his right hand, futilely trying to tear it away from you. While he just smirked at your struggle.

“So, what are you offering if I do take it off?” Satoru’s eyes were taking their time to move between your left and right eyes. The more intently he gazed into your eyes, the playful smirk on his face fell. He could feel your lips on his palm; he felt a little discomposed to be touching them, and now that he is cognizant of that, it was making his heart beat unusually fast. And he was afraid you could hear it too. But he could not just take his hand off your lips.

“Mmhf.” You tapped his hand, trying to signal him to take it off so you could answer him. But not really; you were planning on escaping as soon as he'd take it off.

“Yeah, I could take it off, but I know very well you'd just run.” You shook your head aggressively and looked up at him with your best puppy-dog innocent eyes. And it did partially work; you best believe he was tempted to do as you asked.

“Hmm. How about you nod yes or no to my questions? When I'm done, I'll take it off.” Though you were a little nervous about what he was exactly about to ask you, still you nodded yes. He smiled for a second before furrowing his eyebrows. He looked serious, and he never really looked serious. Especially without his blindfold on, it was jarring to be this close to him and see him make such a face.

It almost made you wish he continued to wear his blindfolds again. Which he has completely stopped wearing around you since what happened at the lake.

“The lilies in Suzuki-san’s arms— were they the ones I gave you?”

You stared at him dumbfounded for about two minutes or so. There was nothing wrong with what you did; you just gave them to someone who will appreciate them better instead of watching them wither away in front of your eyes. You shouldn't feel guilty about that, yet with each passing second you could see his eyes getting somber, and they looked like you had somehow hurt him again.

With a guilty gulp, you slowly nodded yes.

“Why—I mean, I got you lilies before; did you not like them? Or just, it's this whole thing; do you want me to stop with the flowers?” Usually when your husband speaks, he speaks in precise hits and points. You don't remember him being a blabbering mess in a way that felt, for once, like he didn't intend on this.

You nodded yes again.

“Alright… But—just know that—I, I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know how to explain myself. I want to, but—can I ask what I can do to properly say sorry to you?” With a sigh, he looked at you expectantly as he removed his hand off your mouth.

You stared at each other in the shadows behind the pillars. You were free to run away, but you could not. You could not leave him like this; you just couldn't do that.

“Instead of flowers, I'd—uh—much rather you got me a plant. And explained things to me. And I'm sorry too. I was being too harsh.”

“You were not, trust me.”

“I really want to.”

There was no lie to what you just said. You did feel sorry about how things went down and how things have been going. You want to be nicer to him because he has been so kind to you. But he seems so unfathomable and like someone in another realm above you. And you are just you. Not worthy to stand beside him, much less eat with him at the same table or someone he could share his surname with. But what's done is done, and if you must coexist, there should at least be some mutual trust.

“Gojo-san!?” When you heard Mia’s voice echoing at the end of the hall again, you moved out from the back of the pillars, leaving him behind in that little alley of shadow. With one last look at him, you walked away.

A plant. Of all things, a plant.

Since he got engaged to you, then married you, to now, you've never asked him for anything. And now you asked him for a plant. No jewelry, a no to flowers as well apparently, not even books or something more expensive. But a plant. And what plant exactly?

“Ichiji.” Satoru sighed and rolled around in his office chair again.

“Y-yes, sir?” There has never been one day when Ichiji didn't feel like throwing up if his boss asked him some stupid question.

“What plants are good as a gift?” And Ichiji's streak remains intact, because right now he feels like throwing up.

“I—I don't know, sir, maybe a cactus?” What kind of stupid question even is that, and how do you even answer that?

“No, absolutely not. Too prickly, no. Maybe a flowering plant?” Satoru turned in his chair to stare out of the window behind his desk.

“Maybe a rose plant?” Ichiji suggested as he looked at the stack of papers on Satoru’s desk while piling up more papers on top of them.

“NO! Why are you just suggesting plants with thorns? Just go, leave!” And this is why Ichiji feels like throwing up everything Satoru asks him some stupid question.

If Gojo Satoru wants to get his wife a gift she will actually like this time, he needs a second opinion. Which is not from him, assistant. So he left for home early that day, early enough to catch the gardener, who mainly looks after his estate gardens.

“Watanabe!”

The gardener stopped shearing the bushes and turned around to look at the source of the voice. Every time Satoru screams his name and runs to him, he remembers when he was barely three, running behind him, asking about plants. And he feels a smile stretching on his lips, looking at the snowy fluff of hair rushing to get to him.

“How are you doing today, Gojo-sama?” Mr. Watanabe smiled at him and moved slowly to put his shears down; his age is finally catching up to him.

“Later, Watanabe! Can you tell me what's a good plant to gift someone?” Satoru asked him in a hurry, like time was ticking away too fast.

“Oh, well, succulents are everyone's favorite to gift.” The gardener was perplexed at his question; that was the last thing he was expecting.

“No, no, something pretty! Flower-bearing plant. Not roses; they are thorny, and everyone keeps recommending roses.” Mr. Watanabe laughed at his whiny tone.

“Alright, if you don't want roses… But how about something similar? Without the thorns, of course— how about camellias?” Satoru blinked at him, hearing about the flower for the first time.

“I don't know that one; do we have one here?”

“No, unfortunately, we do not. But you might remember them from your grandfather’s funeral. They were his favorites.”

Satoru does remember those flowers almost vividly. The white flowers were used to decorate for his grandfather’s funeral. Ever so stoic was the old Gojo, so hearing he liked such a bright and beautiful flower made him see his dead grandfather in a new light. But it did make sense for him to like those flowers. As beautiful as those flowers are, they were just as bold and elegant, words anyone would use to describe the old Gojo clan head. Satoru always thought those were just some very full roses, but apparently not.

“Some reason why we don't have one in our garden?” Seeing all the varieties of roses in the west part of the estate’s garden, it didn't make sense to him why something so rose-adjacent wasn't here already.

“Well, your mother didn't like them. Unlike flowers like roses, camellias drop their entire flower instead of letting go of it petal by petal.” Satoru tilted his head and thought to himself about the eccentric plant.

“Your mother didn't like that; she said it was dreadful.” Mr. Watanabe sighed as he went to clear up some of the cuttings.

“Ok, so can I ask you… Uh, could you get me one of those plants?” Suddenly Satoru felt shy in front of the gardener. The same one to whom he'd run up as a child and demand whatever flower that would catch his eye that day.

“Oh, do you want us to plant one in the garden? Surely it could be arran—”

“No.” Satoru interrupted his train of words, “I mean—as a gift. Could you get me a small one?” The gardener stopped doing whatever he was doing to look at Satoru. For a moment he forgot why Satoru came up to him asking about plants. He thought the gift must have been some sort of formality. But if he is putting this much thought into this, it could only mean one thing.

“What color do you think the camellias should be, Gojo-sama?” Mr. Watanabe’s smile widened.

“Does it matter?” Gojo Satoru didn't know much about flowers or plants, which is why for the last few weeks Ichiji was responsible for sourcing out the most suitable and best flowers so he could give them to you.

“It sure does! Flowers have a language of their own!” Satoru blinked cluelessly at the old man.

“Well, what is the purpose of this gift?” Even though Mr. Watanabe had an idea who this gift could be for. He may be old, but he still keeps up with the gossip that goes around the estate.

“I want to—to apologize.” Satoru meekly said everything about this situation was a new experience for everyone.

“And who are you apologizing to?” When Satoru’s ears became redder at his question and his eyes wavered a little in nervousness, Mr. Watanabe felt it was best to not tease the man any further.

“Alright then! How about a pink Camellia plant? It'd be perfect!” With many pats on Satoru’s back, the gardener picked up his shears and walked away smiling to himself, excited to make arrangements for Satoru's request.

Satoru didn't know flowers could mean something other than, ‘Oh pretty!’ So he was curious why Mr. Watanabe thought particularly pink Camellia flowers would be perfect to get his feelings across.

Things have been somewhat better since your husband cornered you in the hallways the other day. You two have been eating together again; you're not sleeping on the couch, but you're still not really speaking to him. So the regular calls inquiring about dinner are still going to Ichiji, and other than eating at the same table and sleeping in the same bed, nothing is really back to normal.

Like how usually on Sundays your husband is locked up in his office or hiding away from you or you're hiding away from him. But today, on this particular Sunday, Satoru is dragging you somewhere by your hand.

“Will you just tell me where we are going?” You were right behind him, and being this close to him, holding his hands, was not something you were used to. You could feel the rough calluses on his hand and the sheer size difference between yours and his hand. And it irritated you to even think that this feeling of his skin on your skin is not fading away anytime soon.

“How about I show you instead?” Even though all you could see was his back, you could hear the excitement in his voice.

“I really don't like surprises.” You mumbled to yourself as you looked around, realizing you two had already crossed the main part of the building and were well into the left wing.

The colors of the walls, the marbles and stones on the floor, the painting on the wall, and the decorations scattered everywhere were cohesive with the rest of the mansion. It broke away the little illusion you had in your mind about the boundaries you created for yourself.

“Here we are.”

Satoru walked through another hallway, which had large glass windows for walls. It felt like you were already outside, given how the pathway was lit with natural sunlight and overlooked everything in its surroundings. At the end of the hallway was an opaque glass door, which, when he opened, led into a room with plants.

It was a greenhouse, with light blue tinted glass and humid, dewy air inside. There were not many plants inside, just some little seedlings and small plants that you were sure the gardeners were growing to plant in the gardens for the next season.

“What is this…?” You could not help but be in awe of the place as you walked between the little plants on each side and a raised platform in the middle with a table on it; everything felt like it was meant to be exactly where it was. Sure, it was not the most gorgeous feature of the Gojo estate, but to you, it was just as awe-inspiring as the lake or the huge, soft couches all over the mansion.

“Your gift!” He excitedly pulled you to one of the corners, where in a pot was a little plant, and there was a little card hanging over the edge of the pot. You looked at Satoru for approval to reach out for the card, and when his smile stretched bigger on his face, you reached out for the card.

On the card, it was written in a somewhat messy but familiar handwriting you've been seeing for the last couple of days—‘I am still very sorry; I hope everything I'll say next will get that across to you.’

“I am sorry. I know nothing makes sense, but just know you don't cause me any pain.” Satoru said from behind you. You didn't have it in you to turn around and look at what kind of face he was making, so you kept staring at the plant in front of you.

“You're the only reason why I look forward to meals, especially dinners. I look forward to sleeping in our bed, and I don't just sleep in my office chair.” He didn't explain any further. Because he could not. He could not say why he looked like he was always in a dilemma when you were a little too close to him or why he has been so unfairly kind to you. But it was enough for now. He didn't really owe you any more than what he has given, and you could not help but feel like you've just been ungrateful to him.

So with a knot in your throat, you put on your best smile and turned towards him to nod in acceptance of his apology. And he didn't push you to say anything more; he didn't ask why you looked like you were in so much pain, or why you couldn't look him in the eyes, or why you looked like you were on the verge of tears.

“Can I ask you something?” Satoru asked you after a few minutes of silence.

“Sure.” He noted that you didn't sound like you were about to break down into tears anymore.

“Why a plant though?” He stood beside you, staring at the side of your face while you stroked one of the leaves on the plant.

“I used to have many plants at my father's estate; I used to spend a lot of time in the gardens. I just liked taking care of them.” Your eyes lowered again. And you didn't look like you were about to cry again, but you looked somber.

“You could still do that here! I mean, we have so many plants in the gardens.” He looked genuinely excited to gesture to your surroundings with both his hands.

“Yes, but they're not mine.”

“Everything with my name on it is naturally more yours than mine.”

You didn't know how to respond to that. But then again, that's just how things always are with your husband. He unknowingly says something too kind, too misleading, that has your tongue heavy as a stone in your mouth and your chest contorting in foreign shapes and feelings.

“Can I ask you something now?” You were clearly trying to divert the conversation, and Satoru knew that, but he didn't stop you.

“Mmhmm?”

“What kind of plant is this?” You looked at him for the answer.

“Huh? I thought you were a plant expert?” The signature Gojo Satoru smirk was back on his face, and you were surprised at yourself to feel relieved to see it.

“Oh, come onnn.” You whined and playfully pushed his side while he looked down at you with a smile.

“I don't know.” Satoru playfully shrugged his shoulders.

“You don't know?” He shook his head from side to side, with no intention of answering you.

“Find out for yourself when it flowers.” And he walked ahead to get out of the humid glass house, with you whining from behind.

Satoru didn't know why he didn't just answer your question. Maybe because you didn't acknowledge when he said everything of his now also belongs to you. Or maybe teasing is just a natural part of his personality; that is why. Either way, it worked in his favor. In the last few days you have been talking more and more to him, trying to figure out what exactly the plant he gifted you was. You tried to compare it with the plants in the gardens, now free to roam around everywhere, with at least one of the staff trailing behind you with Satoru's orders.

“Is it Peony?” You handed him his blindfold as he put on his watch.

“Thank you. But nope.” He took it from you with a smile and walked out of the walk-in closet.

“Just tell me!” You shouted behind him while he giggled and walked away.

Satoru already told the gardeners who look after the estate gardens, specifically Mr. Watanabe, so he does not give you any answers. But you still somehow figured out it was a camellia plant. And he remembers how ecstatic you were when he finally agreed with you that it was a camellia plant. But now your concern was what color?

“S-sir, it's ma'am. Should I ask her to call back in a bit?” Ichiji held Satoru’s phone in his hand; it flashed ‘wife’ on his screen.

“No, give it to me.” Satoru took his phone from Ichiji while everyone in the room looked at him with eyes that said, ‘sigh, newlyweds.’ Suguru smirked at him from his left with a raised eyebrow. He is getting teased later.

“I’ll be back.” But that doesn't mean he's hanging up on you. You're finally calling him, actually him, and not Ichiji to ask about your regular dinner inquiries; there is no way he is hanging up on you.

“Good afternoon to you, Gojo-san.” He said in a sing-song voice as he walked out in the hallway to pick up your call.

“You too, I was calling to ask ab—”

“Dinner, right?”

“...Right.” He couldn't see you, but he could tell from your voice you were feeling a little nervous again.

“The usual is ok.” You hummed from the other side. He never really asked for anything particular; it always went like this, and you just chose whatever you thought he'd like the best.

“Also can I ask again—”

“No, I am not telling you the color of the flowers. You'll see when they bloom.” You whined from the other side of the call, and he couldn't help but giggle at your response. You were really resilient, huh?

“Asking me constantly won't give you the answer, sweets.” His voice sounded so fond; if anyone nearby heard that, there'd be gossip going around that Gojo Satoru has become a hopeless romantic since he married his wife.

“Ok, then bye.” Satoru didn't mind your tantrums; in fact, he welcomed them. He wanted you to be able to eventually talk back to him and converse with him freely, and this was a step in the right direction. With one last glance at his phone, he walked inside the room full of people staring him down. In partial disdain and partial awe from most people and teasing glances from friends, still confused that this was the same Gojo Satoru they've always known.

The rest of the day, Satoru spent half anticipating when he'd get to leave work. And half thinking about pink camellias.

Sure, Mr. Watanabe didn't tell him what they meant, but he understood why they were the perfect gift Satoru was supposed to get for you. And Satoru understood that after doing a quick research after talking to Mr. Watanabe. Anything could be given to apologize, but there should be something meaningful behind the gift other than just feeling sorry.

To say broadly, pink camellias are given to someone you admire. And at certain times, they can mean longing for someone. Someone out of your reach, someone you know, has been trying their best. It's a sign of affection, admiration, and yearning. And Satoru believes that's precisely what he felt for you.

So, Gojo Satoru often thinks of flowers when he thinks about his own death. But now he believes whenever he surely thinks about flowers, he'll be thinking of you.

NEXT CHAPTER>>soon!

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

divider by @/omi-resources. header is from watashitachi wa douka shiteiru drama. art in the header by @/RUEheree on twt.

yeah so april and may were not it.

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sophistication-as · 1 month ago

Text

Lust for Life

pairing: ex-boyfriend!suguru x f!reader

synopsis: in the time you've loved him, you've learned he's stubborn at best and possessive at worst. maybe even a little unhinged when you take the time to think about it, which is why you don't, you'll just start to miss him all over again. you'd think a couple years away from each other would change the oddly thrilling dynamic between you two, but you're proven wrong once he's back in your orbit

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, smut, angst, profanity, slight yandere behavior from suguru, reader loves pushing his buttons and pulling that side out of him, the type of exes that everyone bets on how long it'll take for them to get back together lol, wc: 6.4k!!

if you’ve asked to be tagged and didn’t get notified of this update, im not ignoring you, I just have yet to make the tag list 😭

m.list | part one | next part

Can you not be fucking boring and get your ass over here already?

So? You’ll have two whole days to rest after.

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just get your ass over here, I miss my friend.

You already knew it in your soul that Shoko already had more than a few drinks in her when she decided she’d ignore your initial decline last week, treating it more like maybe, instead of the definitive answer it absolutely was. But like she said, you’re her friend and you miss her too, so you dragged your ass to her condo, ditching your original plans of staying at home and binge watching your favorite show with a glass of your favorite wine in hand.

Now you’re here, catching up with long time friends with a tequila sunrise instead. Maybe you were being a little dramatic and boring earlier, forgetting that you’d start to loosen up and have a good time after a couple sips. Not that you’d blame yourself, work has been stressful, straight up kicking your ass at some points this month too.

You tell Kento all about it, because he’s probably one of the very few people that’ll understand the stress your job puts you through. Both of you just so happen to work in PR, constantly having to put out fires, most of the time there’s multiple fires blazing all at once.

The only thing keeping you going at this point is the pay. They may have you questioning the decisions you make on a daily basis, sometimes even going through an existential crisis from some of the morally questionable things you’ve resorted to in order to get the job done, but they pay you accordingly. Enough to live in a nice part of the city, buy the things you want without a second thought, and have more than enough money left over to hire a competent therapist.

Not that you’d do that, the last thing you need is to put more thought into what your life’s become.

Kento’s in a middle of telling you all about the current crisis going on with his job and boss when you both slowly overhear bickering in the background, turning your heads to see Shoko and Satoru whisper-screaming at in each other in the kitchen— both too tipsy to realize how obvious they’re being.

“Do you mind putting your story on pause for a minute?” you ask the man, pointing at the two as you do, which is a more than good enough explanation for what you’d be leaving the conversation to go do.

“Not at all,” he sighs, seemingly exhausted from just the sight of the two and how much energy they manage to have at the end of the work week. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, grabbing your drink and walking over towards the two.

You didn’t even know Satoru was here, figuring he’d just gotten here and wondering what he could’ve possibly done to get into trouble already. By the time you step into the kitchen, they’re just hurling insults at each other, blaming each other over something you’re sure you’ll find out about soon. Shoko doesn’t hold back on telling him how much of an idiot he is, but he stops listening the very moment he notices you.

You watch his eyes grow wide with an emotion you can’t quite put your finger on— you couldn’t tell if he was scared or if he was sorry. All you know is that he did something wrong, Shoko’s scolding him for it, and he doesn’t immediately come out with the truth because he somehow thinks an explanation first would lessen the blow.

“She said you wouldn’t be here,” he says to you almost immediately, pointing at Shoko because there was no fucking way he was going down alone.

“I mean, I originally planned on coming, but then she called me and begged me to come,” you respond, confused over what that had to do with their little quarrel.

You take another step forward towards the two, they’re both tense and the longer they go without telling you why that’s such a big deal makes you tense up yourself.

“...Well?” you lightly throw your arms out, trying to break the long silence. “Are you two going to just keep standing there staring at me or are you going to explain why me being here is suddenly such a bad thing.”

“You being here isn’t a bad thing,” Shoko’s quick to correct you, slowly starting to feel guilty over pushing you to come over. “It’s just…”

“Look it was just a lack of communication, that’s all,” Satoru takes over and says after Shoko fails to finish her sentence.

“Oh my god— can you just spit it out already?” You all but say after growing impatient.

Satoru suddenly blurts out, “Suguru’s gonna be here. Any minute now, actually.”

Oh.

You don’t even know how to feel about that right now.

“What the fuck Satoru?” you breathe out. “Why would you do that?”

There’s not an ounce of anger in your voice, you sound more betrayed than anything and it just makes him feel even worse but he truly wouldn’t have invited his best friend if he knew you’d end up coming over too.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear,” he responds and the remorse in his voice makes you believe him. He may be a selfish asshole, but it’s not that bad when it comes to you, especially in a situation like this. “He just– look, he just moved back a couple days ago. I didn’t even know he was moving back to begin with. I got so excited that I wanted to surprise everyone tonight.”

Explains why your ex randomly called you at 11:00 pm last night. You’ve been too tired to really think about it though and completely forgot all about it until tonight.

“Yeah,” Shoko adds, “I swear I would’ve never pushed you to come if I knew. Satoru only mentioned it after he noticed you talking to Kento.”

It’s been a little under 2 years since you two broke up and he abruptly left the city. Everyone swears that his decision to move had nothing to do with you, but you’ve always had a hard time believing it, even up until now, when he finally decides to move back.

The reason why the two in front of you are so apologetic right now is because they know how bad the break up was, how torn up you both were, and how it all became so much worse for you when you found out he left the fucking country. It was hard enough knowing everything ended on such bad terms, realizing you wouldn’t be getting closure over it just did you in.

But the past is the past— seriously. If you still felt that way, you’re sure his random call would’ve left you feeling shaken up, at the very least. Yet instead you saw the incoming call, waiting for it to go to voicemail, then went back to bed afterwards, as if nothing had ever happened.

“You know what, I think I’ll be fine,” you end up saying.

“Wait seriously?” Shoko flatly asks.

“Yeah,” you nod and offer her and Satoru a soft smile, “I mean c’mon, you’re his friends too. It’s not fair for you two to have to work around us just because we dated.”

They nod in response at first, both thinking that you two didn’t just date. Sure, you two were together and official, but they wouldn’t call what you had just dating. They’d compare it more to a hardship, one that changes you and builds character.

Yeah that’s it… except you and Suguru were putting each other through that at least once a week, not to mention that you both fucking enjoyed it.

But they don’t bother reminding you of how much you two thrived during the tumultuous parts of your relationships, and instead take your word for it, hoping to god that you truly meant it.

“You swear?” Satoru mutters.

“Mhm,” you hum back, he could almost feel the sincerity of it all if it weren’t for the fact that he knew how you and Suguru could be, together or not.

“Okay good,” he responds, not sounding too convinced, “because I just saw him walk in through the front door… and now he’s walking over towards us.”

Crap.

No, no. Not crap. It’s okay, you’re fine, you’re safe.

You hear him greeting Satoru and Shoko just a few feet behind you and it’s obvious he doesn’t realize the person facing away from him is you. It makes you take deep yet silent breaths to prepare yourself, hoping that whatever greeting you’ll be getting isn’t awkward or rude.

Once you start to feel his footsteps is when you step aside and slowly turn around, giving him the same smile you would wear when walking into a meeting with people you had yet to introduce yourself to.

The kind that signals “I know we both don’t want to be here right now, but I come in peace”.

And like you just a couple minutes ago, he too is surprised that you were here, especially since Satoru told him you wouldn’t be. But he extends the same “I come in peace” smile to you as well.

It’s something he’s great at, staying steady. Staying unmoved. A sudden change isn’t something that fazes him, he just rolls with it.

He doesn’t even mention anything about not expecting to see you here tonight, just sucks you into his initial greeting by curtly saying your name when coming to a full stop. It’s casual but familiar, effortless too.

“Well,” he smirks at no one in particular and shoves his hands into his pocket, maintaining his perfect posture and relaxed demeanor, “surprise.”

The brief conversation between the four of you is… good. So good it’s almost scary, the way you’re all able to avoid the topic surrounding why he left in the first place and sounding normal while you do so. All you know is that he literally just got back and has jet lag.

Oh, and that he’s happy to be back.

Did you say anything? Not really. You didn’t have questions ready for him like the other two did, so all you did was nod. It was an acknowledgement that you weren’t bitter about him being there and that you’re listening. In return, he glanced at you a healthy amount of times to show that he’s not ignoring your presence and that he considers you an active participant in it.

Though you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel relieved that you got a sudden call in the middle of it, giving you the opportunity to step out onto the balcony to take it, feeling more thankful than ever for the new interns in office. And not only did it give you an excuse to leave, but it gave you the opportunity to go back to Kento to talk more about the drama at his job.

But that was after Suguru greeted him, along with everyone else he knew, then introducing himself to the ones he didn’t, because he knew he was going be sticking around to see them again.

The night goes on smoothly, you two maintained your distance when you could and acted cordially when you couldn’t. You’re sure Shoko will be calling you the next morning, telling you how proud she was of you for basically behaving. Maybe even Satoru, you two have grown close(r) this past year.

You even find yourself laughing at something one of the newer friends in your group said. Like actually laughing, because you felt comfortable enough to relax and be in the present rather than being in your head.

But then Satoru, Yu, and Suguru enter the kitchen, with Yu so innocently being the one to approach you, Shoko and Akari. It’s only normal for him butt in and wonder what it was you ladies were talking about.

And god bless Akari, who’s blissfully unaware that the ex you’ve always refused to talk about is Suguru.

She’s also just as kind as Yu, and doesn’t dance around the truth when she tells him about the fucking date you have next weekend, going as far as telling him it’d be at the restaurant that just opened last month.

Suguru pauses mid-sip when he hears that shit.

Yu on the other hand is delighted to hear that, because he’s actually a good person.

“Oh really? Nice!” his brown eyes sparkle as he says it, he’s smiling too. A true sucker for love.

Suguru smiles too.

His just has more amusement. It was the kind of smile that you give someone after they’ve said the most ridiculous statement ever, and it’s so stupid that you just hope they keep going.

That’s it, the kind of smile that dares you to keep fucking with him.

You’d rather not, so you pretend like you didn’t just see the way his eyes briefly darkened and respond to Yu.

“Yeah! Just a date though, nothing serious,” you chirp out.

“Not yet at least,” Akari says, completely unaware of how she just twisted the knife for Suguru.

It’s only something you and Suguru are aware of, though you seem to find it funny with how you try to look away and clear your throat, trying your best not to laugh.

He was never planning on saying anything in the first place, but your immediate reaction was all he needed to know in terms of how much you changed, which isn’t a lot, clearly.

But that’s okay, spending almost two years in Spain didn’t do jack shit for him either, which is why he decided to open his mouth.

“All that matters is you’re putting yourself out there again, right?” He asks. It’s soft and encouraging, meant to push the conversation forward.

It immediately triggers Satoru’s fight or flight. He’s seen Suguru pummel other men without warning for just standing too close to you, he knows he’s jealous as fuck under that calm exterior right now.

“Yeah— kinda,” you respond rather blissfully, “he’s been trying to get me to go out with him for a while now, I finally decided to give him a chance.”

“Persistent,” he hums, taking a sip of his drink to suppress a laugh. “He must be real excited to take you out then, huh?”

“I’d hope so,” you pensively say, suddenly sounding more interested in the guy than you actually are, “it’s always nice feeling a little wanted.”

“Oh I’m sure,” he passively mutters.

“Okay,” Shoko joyfully cuts in, clasping her hands together as a way to gather everyone's attention, “I completely forgot about the dessert I threw in the fridge to chill. Anybody want some?”

“What’d you make?” you ask.

“Tiramisu,” she nearly beams, knowing that it's one of your favorites and that she made lots of it.

Without sparing the man across the kitchen island another glance, you push yourself off the counter to help her carry the second dish out to the living room.

It’s something you keep up for the rest of the night actually— not looking his way, that is. It’s subtle, nobody notices except for him. It helps that he doesn’t try to get in your space afterwards either, he just keeps his distance, trying his best not to pay too much attention to you.

It’s more difficult than he thought it’d be. Keeping an eye on you is as easy as breathing for him, it was like second nature almost.

It was also something you were used to, at one point you even admitted it was something that made you feel safe.

He wonders how you’d feel about it now.

He wondered if you even felt anything at all, especially when he watched you give everyone except for Shoko an Irish goodbye, doing one last look over at the room filled with people. No, your eyes still didn’t stop on him, but he knows you’re aware of the eyes that followed you and watched as you walked off.

—

You’re in the parking garage when you hear the door that leads to the staircase swing open. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was, he was the type to take the stairs when he knew waiting for an elevator would just waste time.

You weren’t surprised that he followed you either. Deep down you already knew he would and expected it.

For the second time tonight, you’re turning around to look at him, but this time around you don’t give him the fake smile that you gave him earlier. There’s no need to pretend that you’re happy to see him, no need to act like everything’s okay for the sake of others. But there’s not a trace of anger or resentment in you either as you watch him walk closer, not even when he comes to a full stop.

For a while, neither of you say anything. There’s no rush to fill the silence, you just finally get a good look at each other, it has been nearly 2 years after all. Not much has changed about him, the only noticeable things being a new nose piercing— a hoop to be exact, and his hair being slightly shorter, judging by the way it looks tied back in his usual style.

Then you wait, watching the way the words get caught in his throat. The only reason why neither of you grow nervous or impatient is because you know each other. You know he has too many thoughts that he doesn’t know how to translate into words. He knows you’re not exactly dying to hear them either.

And you both know this is a moment that’s been played over and over in your heads more times than you’d ever admit.

No, it’s nothing like either of you thought it’d be. There’s no breaking down in tears, there’s no fit of anger, no intense profession of love. Instead it’s quiet, the only thing you’d agree on right now is that this is nice, knowing that you both chose peace for once, even if it was something you’d only get a few minutes of.

“You only said goodbye to Shoko,” he finally says.

“I did,” you murmur, “letting one person know is better than none though, no?”

He walked right into that one, but knew it was fully deserved.

“No, I know,” he murmurs back. “I tried calling you last night.”

“You did,” you confirm, still no animosity in your voice. “What for?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, “just wanted to hear your voice, to tell you the truth.”

“Okay,” you softly say, suppressing a laugh. “You’re hearing it now, feel any better?”

He chuckles, “no, not really.”

“And why is that?”

“Doesn’t make me miss you any less,” he casually admits.

You can’t help but sigh once you realize this conversation’s starting to take a turn towards where you didn’t want it to go. It’s not a dramatic one, it’s one that shows just how exhausted you are, that this was another thing you didn’t want to have to deal with.

“Hey Suguru?”

“Hm?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with any of that information?” you flatly ask, just barely holding back on the sudden annoyance.

“You’re the one that asked,” he reminds you. “Do you not believe me?”

“You’re the one that came to me,” you remind him as well, beginning to look at him in disbelief, as if he’s lost his mind. “Okay fine, you miss me and it’s nearly two years later. Am I supposed to feel better or something because you randomly called me at 11 on a Thursday night?”

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles to himself. “No. I just wanted to fucking talk to you, is that so hard for you to believe?”

“Yeah, a little,” you say bitterly, “especially since you completely cut me off and moved to fucking Spain.”

The extra kick to your tone doesn’t go unnoticed by him and knows he deserves that too, knowing that he only moved to a place you enjoyed visiting purely out of spite. Not that he’ll admit that.

“Don’t act like I fuckin’ ghosted you, baby,” he lets out a low laugh. “We were broken up at the time.”

“Didn’t make it hurt any less,” you murmur as you begin to fumble with your keys.

That completely disarms him. The way you said it made him remember that you’re not just the woman he used to have petty fights with in the past. You’re also the one he’d love on, the one he swore he’d protect, the one that’s plagued his body, mind, and soul since the day you sunk your teeth into each other.

Yes, even while he was gone.

“Look, I really do mean it when I say I’m sorry,” he says, hoping you’d give him another minute or two if he opened up. “I was having a hard time too and thought leaving was the only way to fix it. I’ll always regret leaving like that. I understand if you don’t believe me, but for what it’s worth, there wasn’t a day I didn’t think about you— you’re all I’ve thought about since moving back too.”

He wasn’t planning on saying all of that so soon, but if you didn’t mind pointing out the things that hurt you, then he didn’t see a reason in holding back on how he felt.

You were receptive, looking into his eyes when he spoke, nodding as if you understood him. There was hope that you’d somehow understand, and he really thought you did there for a moment.

But then you start ripping into him.

“I hope you know that while you got the chance to run off and work through your emotions in some slow, coastal city, I had to stay back and work through mine during the lunch breaks I barely got and the little time I had for myself. So yes, I understand where you’re coming from, but I don’t feel sorry for you, not one bit. I’ll never feel sorry for you,” you reveal with little to no effort, taking pleasure in the way his plans of having a heart to heart literally crumble right in front of him.

“But don’t worry, baby,” you murmur softly, taking a couple steps forward to whisper the very last of what you had to say in his ear— just so he’d really hear you. “I’ve thought about you a lot too… my stomach never fails to twist in disgust every single time and I’m starting to think it’s from how much I hate you. I don’t just regret dating you, I regret knowing you.”

It takes him a moment to process everything you just said to him and all he can do at first is let out a dry laugh. You really haven’t changed.

And again, neither has he. The moment he feels you start to pull away from him, he’s wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and tilts your head up to look at him.

You’re met with that same amused look from earlier— a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, the kind that shows you what happens when you keeping fucking with him.

“You know— it’s a good thing that I know about your bad habit of saying shit you don’t mean when you’re mad,” he murmurs, not breaking eye contact once, but neither do you. “Otherwise, I might’ve actually believed you.”

“And what makes you so sure I don’t mean every bit of it this time?” you ask in the same low tone.

“Because I know the difference between your anger and your hatred, and right now, you’re giving me all the signs I need to know that you’re just mad that I left,” he simply explains, not interested in going into too much detail about how you give it away. “It’s okay to be mad at me too, trust me, I fuckin’ get it. But I know you don’t hate me, kinda hard to believe that with how unsure you sound when you say it.”

To put it simply, it sounds forced to him.

He still has you in his hold and tightens the grip he has on you, but it doesn’t hurt. If your ex was good at anything, it’d be handling you with the utmost care, even when it’s to make sure he has your full attention while it was your turn to listen. His thumb draws circles on the back of your nape, you always loved when he did that. It was always the small things.

“You don’t have to believe me,” you scoff, “why would I care about what a man who lies to himself thinks?”

“Alright then,” he chuckles, taking that statement as a challenge. Then his voice drops an octave, “Say it again. Tell me you hate me. If I believe you, I’ll never bother you again.”

“You’re so fucking ridiculous.”

“No, I wanna hear it. Tell me you fuckin’ hate me again, baby.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“That was cute,” he remarks, suppressing a laugh. “You showed me you didn’t right when I mentioned never bothering you again though. What stung more? The thought of me leaving you alone again, or the fact that I even suggested it in the first place?”

“What are you even talking about?” you grimace at him.

“Your reaction to hearing the words ‘I’ll never bother you again’. I saw how hurt you were from just hearing that come out of my mouth,” his voice softens the more he explains. “You’re good at hiding these things, but don’t forget I’m good at catching them too.”

He’s right, and you change the subject because you’ve tried to forget that fact since he left.

“What happened to you just wanting to talk?” you whisper, pulling you both out of the odd moment you two were having. “Telling someone about how much you think about them, while holding them like you love them, isn’t what I consider a quick chat.”

“I guess you're right,” he hums back, “you’re not just someone though.”

“Is that something you remembered when you moved back, or did you just remember that tonight when you found out that I was dating again?”

You watch the irritation build up in his face, only for it to dissipate right after remembering that he didn’t come out here to fight you.

“Didn’t have to remember it,” he mutters. “I’ve known for years now.”

“Must not hold much meaning then with how easy it was for you to leave for as long as you did,” you murmur in disappointment.

“That was the hardest part,” he persists, now cupping your face and mindlessly running his thumbs through your jaw. “I signed a contract while I was there too, an obligation is an obligation no matter where you’re at. I’ve tried calling you a couple times, sending you some emails too, you just deleted them.”

“Didn’t open them either,” you gladly mention, before finally cutting to the chase. “What do you want, Suguru?”

“You,” he easily says, “all I’ve been able to think about this past year is giving us another try, see if the time and distance did something.”

A few more minutes pass with a couple sweet words and soft touches thrown in them. It’s scary how easy it was for you to fall back into what was once normal, but he made it easy. He knew what to say and made sure he only said words that he truly meant.

Being held by him felt nice, being wanted by him felt even nicer. You never really knew what it felt like to be seen until Suguru came along and showed you what that meant and the affection it holds.

Maybe that’s why you were so distraught with this last break up. It was different with all the others, he was always a drive away, there was always that possibility of getting back together. That’s what happened every time.

So when you remember the last time— how utterly lost you felt, how you felt like there was a chunk of your soul missing— you get spiteful.

“You know I love you, baby,” he softly reminds you. “What do you say?”

“I hope you rot in Hell.”

—

There’s not much else to say about your surprise reunion with Suguru, other than you left after he told you he’d save you a spot when he gets there.

He’s stubborn, getting the last word in is something you already expect from him.

You also knew that night in the parking garage was not the last you’d hear from him. Suguru’s persistent. Being told to go to hell is the last thing that would stop him from trying again.

You’ve heard from him every day since then. It’s never annoying, he’s not the type to smother you unless you ask him for it. The messages he sends you aren’t the kinds that you have to reply to right away. They’re the ones you can read and take your time replying to, if you even feel like replying at all.

The purpose of them serves more of a reminder that he’s back and that he’s not going anywhere, not that you feel much of an urgency when you remember that. He’s someone you can take your time with. Which is wonderful, because you plan on taking all the time you need. And not even that is a guarantee that you’ll want to give him another chance.

Which is why you never canceled on the date that you had planned for the night. You deserved to go out and have fun and forget about your life for a moment. Yeah, you can do that with your friends, but you all are so invested in each other's lives that spending time with them doesn’t provide much of an opportunity to step away from yourself.

Tonight’s… nice. This new restaurant is higher end, which isn’t bad, it just doesn’t have the same atmosphere as some other places you’d prefer to have your first dates at. It’s what you expected this place to be. The interior and furniture are modern. Main colors are black and emerald. Each dish is triple the price compared to most restaurants and no bigger than your palm.

You hope to god you don’t have to pay.

Your date's name is Gabriel. He’s a really sweet guy. Although, there’s not much you have in common with him. You find yourself mainly asking him open ended questions so that the conversation doesn’t awkwardly fizzle out, and thankfully it’s working. The one thing you’ve come to learn from constantly meeting new people is the best way to get them to open up is to get them to talk about themselves.

Everything’s going okay, and yet you’ve felt a disturbance in the air for the last ten minutes. You don’t realize what it is until your date goes on his phone for a moment when you decide to do a quick look over at the restaurant and see Suguru himself.

He’s a few seats away from you, and from where his seat is positioned, he’s had a clear view of you for however long he’s been here. He should be focused on his date right now, but he’s been a little busy waiting for you to notice him these past couple minutes. No, she doesn’t realize it, you have no idea how she doesn’t.

You almost question how Suguru was able to get a date and reservation so fast, but then you remember he’s handsome and wealthy. He’s also a little asshole that’ll use those two to his advantage if needed.

His presence almost immediately makes it more difficult to enjoy yourself and focus on your date. Not out of nervousness, you are way past that with him. This is pure annoyance. It gets so bad that you end up having to excuse yourself from the table a few minutes later, just so you could have a moment for yourself and relax.

Right before you reach the door of the bathroom, you get the idea to just wait in the hall instead, opting to lean against it while you use your phone. You didn’t really need to use it anyways.

“Long line in there?”

You almost hate how you were right.

“Seriously?” You snap at him in a low tone, all he does is offer you a slightly confused look in return. “Don’t look at me like that. We both know you’re just wasting that poor girl's time just so you could see what I’m doing here.”

“Not everything’s about you, baby,” he says, determined to maintain his innocence for the night. “It’s not a crime to suddenly want to eat here— the place has good reviews.”

“You are so full of shit,” you say, clearly stressed over his presence. “You have to book a month in advance to eat here. You moved back a week ago.”

“I know. That’s why I paid,” he states it like it’s obvious.

And that’s because it is. “That’s the point I’m trying to make!”

The more annoyed you get, the more pleased he seems by it, so you force yourself to calm down because you’d rather not have him get the brilliant idea to start picking on you.

“So what you’re saying is,” he tilts your chin up so you could look at him, “I found a random girl to take out, called the restaurant to see what time your reservation would be, paid triple the amount an average dinner costs here to get a reservation, then paid a little extra to be seated near your table— you think I’d do all of that just so I could be in the same place as you?”

Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head after realizing that he also took another customer's seat to get a better view of you. The answer is yes, you do think he’d do all of that, especially after seeing his initial reaction to learning that you were going out with another man, because he’s fucking crazy.

You sigh and look away from him. “You’re right, guess I’m overthinking things,” you say, making the man nod in agreement. He seems satisfied with how fast it took to get you to back down.

Then you open your mouth again.

“Probably just the nerves,” you shrug, feigning innocence that he’s easily able to see through. Not that you care, it was your turn to mess with him. “But hey— if I don’t make a good enough impression here, then there’s always the chance after dinner.”

His eyes narrow at that, but then magically finds it in himself to gain his composure– clearing his throat, unclenching his jaw.

Then he chuckles, darkly might you add, “and how do you plan on doing that sweetheart?”

“There’s no point in asking when all you need to do is just simply remember, baby.”

And that pisses him off in ways most people wouldn’t believe, so he lies.

“I’m having a hard time remembering right now actually, care to remind me?”

He does it so easily too, it takes zero effort showing you the asshole he’s capable of being.

“No, not really,” you say, taking a step closer to adjust his collar. Then you sigh in disappointment, cupping his jaw with one hand and looking straight into his eyes that were full of nothing but murderous intent right now. You’re just not sure if it’s towards you or your date tonight, maybe both. “I really am a fool for loving you as much as I did, aren’t I? Maybe I’ll forget too once I let him have his way with me later, seems to have worked pretty well for you since you have to ask.”

If you’re a fool, he’d admit he’s an even bigger one, just not tonight when he’s forced to picture you with another man in his head.

Your vulnerability takes zero effort, you’re the only person he knows that’s able to actually weaponize it. You know admitting something like that to him is something that’ll soften the sharpness of his gaze.

Loving him is easy to admit. Love isn’t a weakness to you, it’s not something that has control over you. You could set it aside for a moment while you stick your hand through his chest, rip his heart out, and keep it for yourself.

It’s sick.

He admires that about you.

If you’re a fool, he’d admit he’s an even bigger one anyway other day, just not tonight.

“You’re smart babe— picky too. Do you actually think he knows how to fuck like I do?” he whispers in your ear.

“No idea,” you calmly respond, which is harder than most days, you’re not very used to him dipping his head down into the crook of your neck to whisper something to you. “But I could fuck him as good as I always do, not that you’d remember.”

Oh he fucking does.

The way you’d slam your hips down on him over and over again, forgetting about everything in that moment, including him, all while you’d focus on treating him as if he were your personal toy. It’s just one of the things he misses about you.

There’s a sudden change in his tone when he finally speaks up after the little flashback.

“Let’s get out of here.” It’s not a demand, he’s throwing a suggestion out there and praying you take it, maybe even a beg if he were feeling more desperate than usual.

“I’m on a date,” you suddenly laugh.

“So am I,” he argues, but finds himself smiling too, “I’ll ditch mine if you ditch yours.”

“You are such an asshole,” you say, covering your face while you continue to laugh, all while he tries to move your hand away to get you to look at him. “I feel so bad that you dragged her into this.”

“She’s probably the happiest customer here— no pressure, order what you want, while the guy who’s footing the bill is spying on his girlfriend who’s on a date,” he shrugs, having already accepted that he looks even crazier now.

It doesn’t even surprise you though, you just shake your head. “I’m not gonna ditch him, Suguru. He thinks this whole thing is real.”

He smirks at that, “so what you’re saying is it’s fake for you?”

“It became fake when you decided to infiltrate my date,” your mutter.

“Alright fine,” he gives in, taking a deep breath, “don’t go home with him.”

“Do you actually think you’re in a position to ask that?”

“Nope,” he curtly responds, “this is me being so fuckin’ selfish right now. I will literally buy you whatever you want if you go home right after this.”

At least he admits it. Maybe it’s time to admit that you weren’t planning on going home with the guy to begin with.

Actually no, you’re better off keeping that to yourself.

“Okay fine,” you finally agree, before murmuring, “this isn’t me agreeing to giving you another chance though, you just look fucking insane right now.”

“I’m alright with that,” he hums, “what do you want, by the way?”

“To never do this again,” you sharply respond.

“I can do that,” he chuckles.

He’ll just fight them instead.

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sophistication-as · 1 month ago

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Alucard / Castlevania

#Art #Castlevania #Alucard #Symphony of the Night #Fan art #Konami #Nocturne #Artists on tumblr #Illustration #Aleksi Remes Art

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sophistication-as · 1 month ago

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a treatise on inconvenient attraction — teaser.

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

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

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

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

a/n: dropping this 3.2k teaser before finals devours me like a cursed koi in a reflecting pond. i am but a humble court scribe flinging words into the wind before academia drags me kicking and screaming into its gilded dungeon. this week will be pain. this week will be suffering. this week will be caffeine, tears, and the haunting echo of “you should’ve started studying earlier.”

to my beloved bbs—my ride-or-dies, my imperial council of enablers—i will miss you terribly. i’ll crawl back next week, dehydrated but victorious. until then… read well, thirst responsibly. TAGLIST IS OPEN, COMMENT IF U WANT TO BE ADDED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then—your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but you?

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

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

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

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sophistication-as · 1 month ago

Text

Samsara; 1

⤕ She was plagued. Shadows loomed over her mind. She was alone in a world where no one dared to look into the occult. She missed the faceless man from her dreams, the one her soul longed for. She wanted to meet him again. He was plagued. Alucard had loved countless times. There was one love he was never able able to forget, however; the one that was ripped away from him. He knew they could never meet again.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: reincarnation, angst, romance, smut, hurt/comfort

warnings: violence/blood, explicit sex (mild in this ch), mental health issues, blasphemy (?), reader is a girl kisser, lowkey ableism (use of the r word), century xix misoginy

rating: 18+

word count: 7k

A/N: hello world!! first of all, thank you so much for giving this fic a chance!! <3 - this is loosely inspired by nosferatu. - takes place a few decades after nocturne, so century xix. - you're 27 in this fic which is still young but not TOO young bc i don't like the idea of a 300+ guy with a barely teenager - i chose a bunch of random european last names, but i won't specify which country they're in because uh. don't wanna. please don't think too hard about actual history when reading this fic for the sake of, you know, fantasy. As usual, feedback is MUCH appreciated!! Let me know your thoughts!! Enjoy <3

⤕ Masterlist ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Taglist open!

SAMSARA; noun. The cycle of life, death and rebirth.

• • •

It was a perfectly normal morning in the Saint-Clairs’ manor.

The spring weather was perfectly normal – a comfortable temperature; perhaps a bit chilly at the hour, but it would definitely get warmer later on. Perfectly normal birds chirped their melodies, the breeze played with the perfectly normal trees on the backyard. You had just eaten a perfectly normal breakfast, wore a perfectly normal attire – light tones, hair carefully tied up in a perfectly normal bun, almost no rouge on the lips.

You could hear your little nephews playing outside. Perfectly normal. The nannies had trouble educating them, but well, considering their age, that was perfectly normal. Your brother-in-law had already left to his perfectly normal office in the city to take care of his perfectly normal real estate business while your sister was probably reading some of her perfectly normal books.

Everything was perfectly normal.

You just had to prove to Dr. Becker that you were perfectly normal, too.

Your posture was flawless – your hands resting politely over your lap; your expression serene. The wooden crucifix pendant hung from your neck proudly to give a sense of… well… normality. Dr. Becker had already taken his book from his leather suitcase. He sat across from you, legs crossed, adjusting his glasses over his eyes. His suit was perfectly normal. His gray beard was perfectly normal. He read his past annotations in silence for some seconds before lifting his gaze to you and opening a tight smile.

“How have you been these past two months, Miss Salles?” He asked.

His voice was calm and welcoming as usual. All odds considered, you didn’t hate this man. He was just doing his job based on what he believed… well, what everyone believed. You managed to open a small smile.

“I have been feeling very well, Dr. Becker. I believe the airs of the countryside really do me good.”

The doctor chuckled lightly and scribbled something in his notebook. “Oh, I believe you. The Capital is… noisy, isn’t it? And can smell quite bad.” He grimaced playfully.

“It certainly can.” You imitated his chuckle in a demure way.

“So…” He was still scribbling, eyes down. “How have you been spending your time?” His green hawk eyes were upon you again.

“I spend most of my days with my sister.” He took notes. “We’ve been apart for a long time, so… a lot of catching up to do.”

“For sure.”

“We go to church together on Wednesdays and Sundays. We do our prayers in the evening.” He took a quick glance at the crucifix on your chest before taking more notes.

“How do you feel being surrounded by other people during the masses?” He was looking at you again. “Any… sudden discomfort?”

That was his polite way of asking if you’d been panicking in public again.

“No.” That wasn’t a lie. “The church we go to is very calm. Mostly elders.”

“Good. As I have advised.” He nodded whilst taking more notes. “What else do you do?”

“Horse riding. I’ve always loved horses.” Dr. Becker nodded again and smiled.

“There’s some magnificent horses here, aye? I’ve taken a quick glance at the stables. Mr. Saint-Clair sure has great taste.”

“He does.”

“And a lot of space to ride, too. This is great. Being in touch with animals does wonders to the spirit.” More notes. “What else… have you been doing?”

“I spend a lot of time with my nephews, too.” The first time you opened a genuine smile during this conversation. Dr. Becker smiled too while taking more notes.

“They’re sweethearts, aren’t they?”

“Little devils they are.” You giggled. “But yes. I play with them when they’re not studying. They’re wonderful.”

“Your sister told me of the great relationship you have with them. You’ve always liked children, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

There it was.

The way Dr. Becker’s smile tightened. You’d been through this too many times to know what was coming next.

“I’ve come to know you like to tell them stories, too. Mr. Saint-Clair told me… of the bed time stories. About a… how was it called…? A vampire hunter. A witch. And a vampire prince.”

If you were a little less used to this type of interview, your serene expression would have faltered. Your nostrils would have widened in anger. Fucking Julien. Of course he’d think you were hallucinating to his children.

“They’re just bedtime stories.” You shrugged lightly.

Dr. Becker took a deep breath. “Yes, of course, Miss Salles. But… you do understand my concern here, don’t you? Vampirism… and the likes of it… have always been a recurring topic to your panics.”

You scratched your forehead. It was becoming hard to hide your discomfort.

“My nephews are boys. I tell them stories of bravery and heroism. This is the type of tale they like to hear.”

“Sure… but…”

“It’s called imagination, Dr. Becker.” You opened a tight smile. “I know my brother-in-law isn’t quite familiar with the concept, since he’s always so busy with work. But that’s just what it is.”

Maybe you went a little too far.

Dr. Becker looked at you in silence for maybe three seconds. Then, more notes. These notes took longer this time.

“On the topic of imagination. Your sister told me you didn’t have any night terrors these past two months. This is great news.” He looked up at you again. “Have you been taking your medication properly?”

No.

“Yes.”

“Any… nightmares? Strange dreams?”

Yes. Every night.

“No. My sleep has been silent… peaceful.”

“What a relief. Any apparition?”

Many.

“Not at all.”

More and more notes.

Dr. Becker looked to the desk resting behind him and took some papers. “You still paint a lot, I see.”

“Yes. The landscape here is beautiful. It’s impossible to not feel inspired.”

The doctor analyzed the paintings with care. Horses… Hills… Flowers… A portrait of your four nephews… All perfectly normal. All painfully boring. They didn’t like when your paintings got more free or abstract.

“You are very talented, Miss Salles.” That was a compliment, but deep down you knew it wasn’t. “Painting well” was a talent that many crazed women had. “Very beautiful.”

No blood or vampires or witches or demonic symbols is what he probably was scribbling in his notebook.

Dr. Becker put the paintings aside again and looked at you. Really looked at you, analyzed, scrutinized.

“I want you to be honest with me. Brutally honest.” Dr. Becker tightened his eyes. “How are you truly feeling?”

Horrible.

I have migraines. I have nightmares. I feel shivers all the time. I know something bad is going to happen. I have been dreaming of him more than ever. My heart aches whenever I think of him.

But you’re not going to believe me.

So you smiled.

“I feel… at peace. I don’t know if it’s my sister’s company, or the food, or the Spring that makes me feel better. But… I feel that my prayers are finally being answered this time.”

Dr. Becker watched you. Analyzed you. Scrutinized you.

His gaze softened.

“This is wonderful news. I have been praying for your recovery as well, Miss Salles. God is definitely hearing; He always does.”

More notes.

You hoped he was signing your perfectly normal certificate this time.

Your older sister was a perfectly normal woman.

She was your opposite in many ways. Clara always fit. Demure, well-educated, a good Catholic from birth; she always excelled in her studies, she always did what was expected of her. Clara was a good child. She became a coveted lady. She caught the eyes of a fabulously rich man, as was expected of her. She married such man, dropped the Salles last name and became Mrs. Saint-Clair. She gave birth to four perfectly normal and healthy boys, as was expected of her. She was still beautiful and took care of her appearance well despite the four pregnancies, as was expected of her.

All perfectly normal.

But despite everything, you loved her.

She loved you – which was very surprising, considering the general idea perfectly normal people had of you, including your parents. Clara was never embarrassed of you, never wanted to hide you from the face of Earth… though, for most of the time, her feelings didn’t really matter.

Clara was the one who always tried to convince your parents that you were perfectly normal too, despite the fact that you much obviously weren’t. The times you spent not being hospitalized or in boarding schools or in convents (which were just asylums for rich women) were mostly thanks to her efforts – that is, until you’d have another panic attack or night terror or premonition and your parents would want to hide you from society again. This cycle repeated over and over again since you were… eight? Nine? You didn’t even remember.

As soon as your father died a year ago, Clara didn’t wait a week to take you out of the convent. Not only was she the oldest daughter and heiress to the Salles fortune, no one would dare argue with Julien Saint-Clair’s wife. She kindly took you to her home… well, you even tried to live by yourself at the Capital for a while until that happened and you had to come back.

The past six months had been good. Except for… well. Your problem. But you became quite good at pretending you were normal, so good that even Clara started to believe you.

“The appointment was good, I suppose?” Clara said after dinner, when the kids were already put to bed. She sat beside you on the couch with that hopefulness you were used to. “Dr. Becker said you made progress.”

You nodded. So you had succeeded.

“It’s like I told him. The countryside does me good. You and the kids do me good.” You playfully elbowed her side. Clara smiled and sighed.

“I’m so glad to hear that, sister.” She caressed your hair softly. “I’ve never seen you so… calm.”

Oh my dear, you have no idea. You were anything but calm. Your dreams and premonitions became more frequent over the past two months for no reason. But no, you weren’t going to tell her that – not only because Clara was perfectly normal, so although she loved you, she also thought you were insane, therefore you wouldn’t try to explain anything to her. And… you already caused her enough trouble. You didn’t want to bother her with what plagued you anymore, not now that she had her own family to care for.

“I feel calm.”

Clara rested her head on your shoulder. You stayed in silence like that for some moments.

You loved her. You loved her so much. There weren’t many people in his life who treated you with normality or even kindness. While your parents were alive, you were just a freak. A failure. To your religious mother, you were possessed; to your father, you were retarded. To the both of them… you were nothing but a problem. But to Clara, you were a sister – and she made her sons see you as an aunt. You’d always be grateful for that.

Clara played with the embroidery of the skirt of her dress absently.

“I was wondering.” Her voice was quiet and hesitant, which immediately made you feel tense. “Do you still dream of… that man?”

You froze.

“No.” Lie lie lie lie lie. You frowned. “Why are you asking me this all of sudden?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. I was just… remembering how you used to talk about him when you were younger. Those seemed to be your only good dreams. Right?”

You looked down, hoping she wouldn’t notice the way you gulped.

She was… partially right. Most of the dreams involving him were good. The faceless, nameless man that lived in your head and plagued your nights.

His voice was deep. Husky. Most times, serene. For some reason, you couldn’t see a face… just strands of long, golden hair. A scar crossed over his chest. Kind, reassuring words. Sometimes banter. The warmth of hugs. The heat of kisses. The ringing of laughter.

You’d dreamed of this man since… always. It almost felt as if you knew him. As if he was real.

And that’s precisely what plagued you.

You knew your problem wasn’t insanity – at least, not by the usual conventions of men. Every doctor, every priest, every nun, all of them tried to convince you that your shivers and terrors and dreams were just in your head (or, well, caused by Satan); they tried to make you not believe anything. But you knew they were wrong.

Because the things you saw and dreamed of happened.

You dreamed of your mother’s death five days before she went. You saw her die. You knew she’d have a heart attack at three in the morning, you knew she’d die on bed by your father’s side. You were locked at the convent at the time; you tried to reach for your parents, send them a messenger or a letter or anything, but the nuns simply dismissed it as another insanity fit. No one cared what you said.

She went exactly like that.

When you were nine, you saw your sister fall off a tree and break her arm minutes before it happened – you were on the other side of the house at the moment. The nannies were scared when you told them. Your father brushed it aside.

You knew the Mother Superior from the convent would die choking on an olive seed approximately two weeks before it happened. You didn’t warn anyone – they wouldn’t believe you anyway… and you hated her. You dreamed of your sister’s first pregnancy a month before the good news came. You dreamed of Julien Saint-Clair years before they first met, though Clara judged it was just a coincidence. There were so many more occurrences like that; you had premonitions of trivial things, like what you’d have for dinner tomorrow, or much more serious things like the mentioned above.

There was not a single time when these premonitions didn’t come true.

Which leads you back to that man.

Just why did you keep dreaming of him for years?

For a long time, you foolishly waited – hoped – he’d miraculously show up; a prince on a white horse to save you from your torture. But… you never met him. You never met any of the people that appeared in the dreams he was involved… like the redhead witch. The blue eyed, dark haired warrior.

These dreams were detailed. They were disconnected, like different pieces of a puzzle. Over the years, you managed to thread some sort of… timeline of events that you kept written on a secret journal. Sometimes they ended abruptly. Sometimes, you dreamed of them the entire night.

Your dreams usually depicted future events. These premonitory dreams were short, made you wake up with your heart racing. So the dreams with this man felt… different.

They felt like memories.

But how could you remember something you’d never lived?

You didn’t know. In fact, you understood very little of this problem. You’d never found anyone that actually sat down for a minute and listened to what you had to say without assuming you were insane on the spot. Your family discouraged you from speaking; the Church disapproved any of it, as “magic” and “seeing the future” were “demonic”. So all you could do was sit alone inside your own head and wonder.

You hated all of this. You hated that Clara of all people mentioned him. Just thinking of him made your heart tighten as if you were under physical pain. The man of your dreams… for a long time, you considered him a friend, the only one you had. When you were locked in the asylum that disguised itself as a convent, having not a single person to talk to and being constantly scrutinized, not receiving a visit from your parents for years… as you slept, all you had was him. The serene voice of the faceless man who seemed to love you despite everything.

It didn’t make sense to love someone that only existed in your own head.

You sighed. You weren’t insane, and you weren’t an idiot. Clara wouldn’t touch such subject out of nowhere.

“I am going to ask you again,” you spoke quietly but seriously. “Why are you talking about this all of sudden?”

It was Clara’s turn to sigh.

She straightened her back and turned her body in your direction slightly. Clara held both of your hands, resting them over her lap between you. She avoided your gaze at first.

Here it comes.

“You know I want you to be happy more than anyone in this world, right?”

“I do.”

“You know I love you more than anyone in this world too. Right?”

“I love you too, Clara.” You tightened your eyes slowly.

“And I want you to find love in your life. I… I hope it to be as kind and good as the one you described in your dreams when you were younger.” Your stomach started to twist. Oh no. “And… the kindest, purest love that exists is the love of a mother.”

No no no no no. You knew where this was going. You wanted to vomit.

Clara looked at you and smiled.

“I never thought I’d love anyone as much as I love my babies. Sister, my life… my life became complete with them in a way I can’t even describe. It’s the love of Mary. The love of our Lord.” She hesitated before proceeding. “I believe… I believe this type of love can complete you, too.”

You stiffened.

“Clara. Be direct.”

She gulped.

“Julien… Julien has an associate. A bachelor. He showed great interest in you–“

You immediately let go of her hands.

“Oh, right. Julien.”

“Sister, please…”

You couldn’t help the angry grimace that covered your features, the way you tapped your foot on the floor nervously, the crossing of arms. Julien. Of course he’s been looking for a way to get rid of me. You didn’t hate him – how could you? He actually loved Clara, he gave her four beautiful boys. But you knew he was similar to your father in many ways. He was perfectly normal after all – and you were a problem.

“Listen to me.” Clara continued in a pleading tone. “He’s a respectable man. I’ve already researched his entire life… I’d never let you marry someone indecent.” She hesitated before continuing. “We all knew this was going to happen some time, didn’t we?”

You refused to look at her. Yes, it was childish. Yes, you knew she was right. But it didn’t make anything better.

Clara reached for something on the cabinet near the sofa. It was a silver locket, slightly bigger than a common one.

She offered it.

“His name is Alfred Zardini.”

You took it and opened it reluctantly.

And you almost dropped it.

“He looks fifty!”

Clara took both of your hands forcefully, making you look at her. Right then, she wasn’t talking like a sister – she was talking like a mother.

“Sister. I know this might sound cruel to you, but we must be realistic.” You didn’t like that tone. Not at all. “Mr. Zardini might not be in his prime, but he owns half of this country’s ships. His family is traditional and respected everywhere. The life he can offer you is more than comfortable; he’ll make you a queen. Do you understand how blessed you are? How many women must be fighting to become Mrs. Zardini? And he showed great interest in you!”

“Oh, how extraordinary that any man would willingly court the Salles freak. How blessed I must feel!”

Clara choked on her own words.

“T-That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly what you meant. Didn’t you ask me to be realistic?”

You got up and held your own head, feeling your breath get ragged. You walked from side to side, facing the carpet. You could feel Clara’s embarrassment and guilt fill the room – yet, you refused to look at her.

The Salles freak. The retarded daughter. You knew how people talked about you – sometimes they didn’t even bother talking behind your back. They talked about your night terrors, your hospitalizations, your insanity fits. They whispered and side eyed you. They made these whispers bigger than they actually were.

She’s been a burden to her parents. Now, she became a burden to her sister.

Mr. Saint-Clair is brave for letting her live among his children. Crazed women like that can become very dangerous.

Poor Mr. and Mrs. Salles! They didn’t have a son, and their second daughter is invalid. That’s why Clara is so kind; she always worked to keep this family together.

These were things you heard with your ears and with your mind. That’s what they thought of you. That’s why you avoided attending any social events, no matter how hard Clara insisted.

Were them all even wrong?

“You are not a freak. Don’t talk about yourself like that.” Clara said.

“Does what I think of myself matter?”

“Of course it does. More than anyone else.”

You stopped for a moment and looked at her.

Your dear, dear sister. You knew she was trying her best – she always did. You knew taking care of you wasn’t easy. Yes, you woke up in the middle of the night screaming; sometimes, being in the middle of any crowds was unbearable, made you want to scream and rip your hair off because there were so many emotions and so many thoughts flooding into you. Yes, you knew that dealing with your visions would be scary to anyone perfectly normal.

You knew she was right.

You were twenty seven. You were a famous freak. The fact that this Mr. Zardini was even remotely interested in you was a miracle.

Julien saw you as a problem to be solved, an expense to be cut. Clara was the heiress to the Salle’s estate – and you knew she’d let you live the most comfortable life money could offer – but Julien was responsible over Clara. He owned the estate. He didn’t want to spend more money on you… so he found a substitute.

That’s why he’d been so adamant with the evaluations by Dr. Becker, you finally realized. He really wanted you to have a “perfectly normal certificate” to assure Mr. Zardini that you weren’t that crazy.

Was he even wrong? Shouldn’t women get married at some point? You couldn’t live in their home forever. You were a burden. You always were.

This would never change.

You sighed deeply. Your head hung low.

“I apologize, Clara. I’ve been ungrateful.”

“No!” Clara got up immediately. “No, you’re not. Don’t apologize.”

“I just got surprised. That’s all.” You couldn’t look at her in the eye. “I… I’ll go to bed and we’ll talk about it better tomorrow. Okay?”

“Sure. Sleep well.”

Maybe it looked like Clara wanted to hug you, but you couldn’t bear physical touch right now – so you turned around and left.

Your heart raced. Your mouth was dry. You wanted to cry – oh, please. Not right now. You ran through the corridors, not wanting to be seen by any maid so they could spread even more rumors about you.

You spent years locked by your parents in different institutions. Now, after only a year of freedom… you’d have to be locked to a man again?

You were about to reach your bedroom when you heard a whistle.

You stopped on your tracks.

“Auntie!”

It was Pierre, peeking at you from a breach on his door. He smiled excitedly.

You gulped, immediately swallowing the tears, and smiled too.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“You didn’t finish the story! We want–“

“–To know the rest!”

Oh. It was Gabriel too. They were all awake.

You really, really didn’t want to… but their little faces lured you in. You could feel their excitement vibrating in the air around them, making everything feel lighter.

How could you resist that?

You sighed and entered the room. They squealed in joy.

The four boys were reunited in Pierre’s bedroom, the oldest; he was ten years old. You sat on his large bed, and the others followed.

“Before I continue, I have to ask… which of you gossipers told anyone about our bedtime stories?”

“It wasn’t me!”

“Me neither!”

“Uh… I don’t remember…”

“Oh, sure. No one is to blame.” You crossed your arms, pretending to be angry. They all giggled. “Listen to me. Our stories are secret, aye? Otherwise they’ll lose all the magic.”

“Right, right! We won’t tell anyone!”

“So… where was I…?”

“The warrior and the witch crossed the magic mirror!” Gabriel remembered.

“Ooooh. Right.” You rubbed your hands excitedly. The four boys watched you with widened eyes and giant grins. You had dreamed of these events many times. They were as clear as day in your mind – almost as if they happened yesterday.

Almost as if you were there.

“The warrior and the witch crossed the mirror in time to save the vampire prince. Fire, the witch conjured; chains, the warrior swung. The flames surrounded them, engulfed the black castle in chaos. It was hot, so hot! Hotter than the hotter summer you can thing of. The castle felt like hell on Earth. There were monsters everywhere… and a powerful magician upstairs planning to do something terrible.”

“And what did they do next?” Little Leo asked, his eyes gleamed.

You smirked mischievously.

“What do you think? They fought.”

“Are you seriously hiding here?”

He peeked at her through his lashes.

She stood beside him with her arms on each side of her waist, gazing down at him disapprovingly. It was lighthearted, however. He knew it. The hem of her dress was dirty with mud, as well as the apron around her waist. Her hair, mostly hidden under a colorful scarf.

He liked it. When she looked disheveled and annoyed.

He closed his eyes again and hummed.

“Just five minutes.”

“They’re looking for you. They want to know where the tools are.”

“I already showed Greta.”

“Well, you clearly forgot about that part.”

“Can’t they just… search?”

“The basement is the size of a city. They won’t find anything.”

He sighed again.

“Just five more minutes.”

“You can’t be serious–“

His next movement was swift. He sat up, grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him; his back hit the soft grass under his body. Her head rested over his chest.

She was shocked for a few seconds.

“This was low of you.”

“I know.” He chuckled. His deep voice reverberated in her body. “Just five minutes. I’m serious.”

She sighed, but didn’t move.

He knew that soon, everyone else would find out about this clearing. It was hidden behind thick trees and tall boulders, just a little space in the midst of the dense woods, relatively far from the castle… and the newborn village. These people knew how to navigate inside a forest. Soon, this clearing wouldn’t be a secret anymore. But for now… it was just his bubble of peace, his breath of fresh air from the many voices out there.

That was being more stressful than he first assumed.

“I’m not used to so many people.” He confessed quietly. “They can be loud.”

“I know.” Her voice was as quiet as his, matching his tone. “I’d say you’re doing a great job, though. For a sheltered prince.”

“Of course I’m doing a great job.”

She punched his side playfully.

“Cocky bastard.” He laughed.

“The way they come to ask me things all the time… and make questions and… and Belmont…”

“Trevor can barely walk. He’s still severely injured.”

“His presence annoys me. I can feel his reek from miles.”

“Oh, God.” He couldn’t see it, but he knew she was rolling her eyes. But she laughed. He laughed, too.

She looked up for the first time, resting one of her forearms over his chest. She put a strand of golden hair behind his ear softly. He loved her touch. He loved her warmth. He loved her eyes. Loved, loved, loved.

“Everything will work out in the end.” She said softly. He chuckled.

“It’s already working, my dear. Because you’re here.”

He loved the way she was so fierce and outspoken, but would still open a shy smile whenever he said something like that.

“That was low of you,” she repeated. He held her chin softly, his voice dropping even lower.

“I love to play low.”

He captured her lips on his. They were soft, sweet, as they always were. It rapidly progressed from a small peck to a deep kiss, as it always did. He entangled his fingers around the back of her hair, as he always liked to do; she sat on his lap with her legs on each side of him, as he knew she would do from the start. His hands roamed her body. It spread fire through her skin, to her core, as it always did.

And then, he was sat, with her still on his lap; his lips kissed and licked and sucked on her neck, while it was her turn to grip his hair – as she always did. She bucked her hips on his repeatedly, deliciously, as she always did, igniting every nerve of his body. She was quick to unbutton his pants. She always was. She smiled mischievously when her hand gripped around his hot, hardened member, earning him a soft grunt, guiding it towards her throbbing entrance. She always did.

She always felt amazing. Hot, wet, tight – tight tight tight tight. He loved the sweat dripping over her face, neck, cleavage, the format of her lips. She loved his moans and his whimpers, the obscenities that erupted from his deep voice, his pleasured expression, the blush over his face and chest; he almost looked in pain. He looked glorious. He always did. He locked his strong arms around her waist, as he always did, while she rode him relentlessly, feeling every centimeter of him inside of her, melting and shaking at the way he filled her so perfectly.

They took much more than just five minutes.

They always did.

Alucard stared at the wooden ceiling for a long, long time.

He shouldn’t have slept. He’d been avoiding it for months, just resigning himself to quick naps when his brain couldn’t take it anymore. Well, that was a quick nap. He didn’t expect to dream during it.

To remember it.

He massaged his own forehead, letting a deep groan escape. Shit. It was getting worse. These… dreams. He didn’t know why. Quite honestly, he didn’t want to know why. If he investigated the cause, it meant he’d have to think about it, and he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to remember it.

But Alucard wasn’t in control of his subconsciousness, unfortunately.

He sat on the bed, feeling his entire body heavy and tired, and pushed his hair back. The lighting from outside indicated night was about to fall… which meant he had an unpleasant task ahead of him. He didn’t have time to think about anything else. He came here for a reason. To lay on bed and brood over the past wouldn’t help him.

Alucard came to this city to hunt.

So he got up and washed himself.

He had been tracking this prey for months, the wicked magician that refused to die. He had many names over the years, but Alucard first met him by the name of Gael. The sick fuck obsessed with immortality. Alucard ignored him back then, but he knew better now. That man became far more powerful and dangerous than he could ever imagine. Ignoring him was a mistake.

Alucard didn’t know what the hell he was doing in the countryside, living among the rich. More importantly – Alucard didn’t know where he was. Gael was a master of disguise; that is why he was able to successfully hide from Alucard for so long.

Quite frankly, the half-vampire was sick of him.

It could be because Gael was a hateful murderer, because Alucard didn’t like him on a personal level, or because he was just very annoyed overall. Sleep deprivation was really starting to get to him. That linked with all these dreams…

Alucard made a conscious effort to never dwell too much into the past. As an immortal, he knew very well how dangerous it could be, how it could poison his soul. Of course… he cherished the ones he loved during his life. He was grateful for the marks they left. But some memories, some people just hurt way too much. Were too unbearable to take.

Like her.

Fuck. Just the thought of her made Alucard feel a sting right in his heart.

How long has it been? Two… three hundred years? In his mind, it felt like yesterday. Why were his memories so vivid? He didn’t remember every moment of his life with such clarity – and he was grateful for that.

But her?

The color and the texture of her hair between his fingers. The warmth of her skin. The sound of her laughter. Every conversation, every disagreement, every joke, every hug, every fight. Every good morning. Every good night.

He remembered everything.

He never forgot her. How could he? Alucard didn’t want to erase her existence from his life; he’d rather feel the agony of longing than the emptiness of never having met her. Even so… to think too much about her hurt, because it didn’t only bring the good memories. It brought the bad ones, too.

It brought back the farewell.

So, he decided to keep her… hidden in his mind, but at the same time, always there. She came back from time to time over the years – a smell that reminded him of her, a flower that matched her hair color, something he knew she’d find funny. Even after all these years, she stayed.

But these vivid dreams didn’t let Alucard remember her in a good but distant way.

They made him miss her. Miss her bad.

So bad that he was starting to lose focus.

He stared at himself in the mirror while adjusting his cravat. The curse of immortality kept him the same, except for his hair that completely lost their golden color over the years. Perhaps that made everything worse. A constant reminder that everything had an end; everything went. Everything forgot.

Alucard didn’t.

He sighed deeply and attached the sword in his belt.

There wasn’t time to think of any of it.

He had to hunt.

The ceremony hall of the Saint-Clair’s manor was crowded.

Well – as crowded as a high society ball could be. Prestigious families from all over the city came over, wearing their most impressive attires; an explosion of colors, silk and diamonds. Soft music played by a very competent band filled the halls. Conversations, laughter, the smell of wine and champagne… all very luxurious, all very proper.

Alucard would rather tap dance barefoot on broken glass than be there.

But he didn’t have much of a choice – not when he knew Gael would attend.

The stench of his magic was everywhere, made Alucard want to vomit. All of these humans, innocently walking around and talking, had no idea of the creature that loomed over the hall. Because that was what Gael became – he could barely be categorized as a human anymore, let alone a vampire. He was a thing. An entity.

He was disguised.

He could be anyone.

Gael was smart. He impregnated his presence everywhere, and did so well that everyone smelled like him – that old lady, that waiter, that musician… all of them. Alucard couldn’t simply attack. He had to gather information; he had to wait.

And no, he wasn’t trying to hide himself.

He knew the quick glances people took at him – some not so quick – and the whispers. The blushing. Alucard was taller than almost everyone else, it was impossible to go unnoticed. Not that he cared. He wanted Gael to see he was there. If Gael stayed, Alucard would find him one way or another; if Gael tried to flee, it would make Alucard’s life even easier. His absence in the city would stand out like a sore thumb. It’d be even easier to track him.

Unfortunately, that meant he’d have to behave for now.

He wouldn’t be able to hunt the way he wanted. No… he’d have to be polite and small talk. Because for these people, he wasn’t Alucard.

He was Duke Tepes.

“Mr. Tepes!”

Alucard turned around to see Julien Saint-Clair approach with a broad smile. The man hadn’t changed much since the last time he saw him three years ago… maybe his hairline was starting to recede. Alucard was glad to not know him for that long, otherwise Julien would find his unchanging appearance strange.

None of these people suspected Alucard wasn’t human, of course.

Mankind was changing rapidly. After Erzsebet Bathory’s failed attempt to rule the world decades ago, vampires got scared (for lack of a better word) and decided to hide more than they ever did. So, slowly, the fear inherent to humans was fading; the rise of technology, of easier global travels, of new discoveries, made mankind not look into what they couldn’t see anymore. Mothers didn’t warn their children about the dangers of the night. Fathers didn’t carry silver knives for protection.

This newer generation didn’t even believe vampires or magic existed.

Which was both good and bad. Good because it became easier for Alucard to simply blend in; when they looked at his pale skin or prominent fangs, they didn’t immediately assume he wasn’t human, because that would be illogical. At the same time… it made humans more fragile. How could they protect themselves against something they didn’t even believe existed?

In other words, Alucard had a lot of work to do everywhere.

Including there at the Saint-Clair’s manor.

He gave Julien’s hand a firm shake. “It’s an honor to see you here, my friend.” The man said. “Did you have a comfortable travel?”

“As comfortable as possible.” Alucard offered him a tight, humorless but polite smile.

Julien chuckled. “Yes, I believe coming all the way from Wallachia can’t be easy. Here, let me introduce you to some of my friends…”

Oh, there were so many excited to meet the Duke of Wallachia. Such a mysterious man. I heard he’s fabulously rich. I heard he owns a diamond mine. I heard he’s hard to approach. I heard he’s single. I’d like to be the mother of his children.

Alucard wanted to die.

It was hard to divide his attention between these empty conversations and finding Gael. The stench – it was disgusting. The pressure of Gael’s presence was like black mud dripping from the walls, from the tall curtains, made the marble floor sticky; every person present was drenched in this black mud, their teeth were dirty with it, their expensive attires drenched – but no one else could sense that, and that made Alucard go insane. How blind did humanity become? How can they not feel this?

Why did I let Gael get so powerful?

He silently stood in a circle of men – all rich heirs to different types of fortunes he didn’t care about – absently watching the champagne bubbles play inside the glass he held while they talked about… oh, he wasn’t paying attention. Any strange voice… any disturbance… his ears traveled far. He needed a hint. Any hint. Anything–

The man beside him gasped softly and looked back. Alucard didn’t remember to his name. It immediately caught his attention.

“Look who just arrived,” the man said, not necessarily at Alucard.

It seemed that the entire hall stopped for a moment to watch. It was weird.

Alucard frowned and turned around towards the entrance of the hall–

And the world stopped.

It stopped. Went silent. Went empty. Like reality itself cracked in front of his eyes.

Alucard couldn’t breathe anymore.

There were two women entering the hall.

They looked alike, probably sisters. The one that looked the oldest and had a large smile walked in front; she wore a deep purple ball gown. Pretty pearl earrings and a necklace decorated her skin. Julien Saint-Clair rushed to grab her by the arm, and Alucard immediately understood that was his wife, hence the commotion; she was the Mistress of that house.

But he didn’t pay attention to her. Not at all.

The woman walking behind her.

The younger one.

She wore an emerald green dress that let her shoulders and collarbones apparent. The tight corset, puffy sleeves and skirt had golden lines weaved into them. A diamond necklace sat over her collarbones with matching earrings. White embroidered gloves covered her hands.

Alucard could pretend that his breathing halted because the newcomer was beautiful – more beautiful than any other woman in the hall.

But that wasn’t the truth.

It was her.

The same the same the same. She looked the same. Exactly the same as the woman from his memory, the woman he saw as clear as day in his dream earlier that day. The woman that never left his mind. The woman that he loved with every fiber of his being.

The lover that died over three hundred years ago.

Alucard blinked, tried to recompose himself. No, this can’t be true. Stop that. It’s just… she’s just similar– no, not just similar; she’s identical. He felt his fingertips shaking as if a magical attack had pierced his soul, managed to crack his nonchalant façade. How can it be? How can someone be so similar to her…?

She wasn’t stained by that black mud, Alucard noticed. The only one that didn’t reek.

Gael. You have to focus on Gael. Stop that.

All of it happened in the course of three seconds.

“Sweet mother of Jesus,” the man beside him said under his breath. “That’s a sight for sore eyes.”

“Has she ever been this beautiful?” Another man whispered.

“I don’t even remember seeing her since she was fifteen.”

Alucard tightened his eyes slowly. So… he wasn’t the only one paying attention. Why was everybody else so shocked?

Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask–

“Who is she?” Alucard asked.

The man gave him a knowing smile.

“Miss Salles. Mrs. Saint-Clair’s younger sister. She’s a jewel, ain’t she?” The man chuckled. “But you don’t want that kind of trouble into your life, no matter how pretty it looks. Trust me.”

Alucard’s quirk of brow was enough of a question. The man took another sip of his champagne.

“That pretty thing is crazy.” The other men beside him giggled. Alucard didn’t like that… not at all. “I mean… clinically insane. She brought so much trouble to the Salles Family that I don’t even know how Mrs. Saint-Clair managed to save her reputation from her sister’s shadow.”

“Well, Alfred already made sure to keep her out of everyone’s reach.” The other man beside him said. “He’s going to court her.”

“Mr. Zardini?! I didn’t know that.”

“My wife knows it all.” He giggled. “Well, looking at her right now… the man might be a genius, aye? I bet a bit of insanity is worth it if he gets all that in the end.”

“But isn’t she too old already? Can she even bear children?”

Alucard felt more and more disgusted.

He wasn’t listening to their futile talks anymore. He tried not to, but his eyes unconsciously traveled to her figure again. Ms. Salles stayed closer to her sister; although she had a small smile and offered polite curtsies, he could see she was immensely uncomfortable. Almost like she wanted to run away.

How could she not, when all of these people were whispering absurdities about her?

He felt bad.

God, she is identical. She really is.

It wasn’t the first time Alucard met people similar to someone he met or loved in the past. How many Trevors and Syphas and Gretas had he already encountered? But… but like that? Identical like that?

Was she really all that identical, or was his mind playing tricks on him?

Maybe if he got a little closer… maybe if he heard her voice…

No. No no no no. That’s not why you’re here. You came to hunt Gael. He’s certainly in this hall with you. He has to be captured. He has to be stopped.

Alucard looked around. The musical group began a different tune, and couples started to walk to the center to dance. Gael. You must find Gael. He can be anyone. Pay attention, sharpen your senses; focus, focus…

“Look. Zardini is going to make a move.” The man beside him caught his attention again. They watched in expectation.

A tall bearded man that looked to be in his fifties slowly crossed the hall. He wore an imposing and expensive suit. His chest was filled, his chin was high with confidence.

He made his way towards the younger Salles sister.

Towards her.

And then, Alucard forgot about Gael.

He forgot how to control his body. He placed his glass of champagne on some waiter’s tray. His feet walked on their own. He crossed the hall at a nonchalant, yet speedy pace.

Alucard stopped in front of her before Zardini could.

The world stopped.

Identical. Identical. She’s identical.

Alucard didn’t let his astonishment show.

His face was a mask of serenity; in his lips, a small lip tightened smile. Her eyes widened. She let a small gasp of surprise.

The entire hall stopped breathing when Alucard bowed politely, his left arm behind his back, his right hand offered to her, and said:

“Ms. Salles, may I have this dance?”

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sophistication-as · 1 month ago

Text

I FEEL THE RUSH ──── Gojo Satoru.

synopsis ────⋙ Instead of spending the very last summer vacation of your life like an average university student, you come back to your home town under unexpected and unfortunate circumstances; and silly misunderstandings lead to a blossoming summer romance.

pairing ────⋙ summer fling Gojo Satoru x reader

wc ────⋙ 15.2k (for a spontaneous silly fic i worte in 5 days idk how it got this long)

cw ────⋙ NSFW, MDNI, fluff, i mean some angst, mention of cheating, shitty ex, shitty friends, depressive episode, everyone here is rich af, teasing, banter, oral sex (f! receiving), car sex, flirting, lots of it, nothing else i wanna spoil lol, give it a read.

a/n: art by @/m0ryy , find the art here. the playlist that i used (very fun playlist ngl), also I'm tweaking the layout here and there as it just fits.

Summer is often dubbed the season of fruition, fulfillment, happiness, and new beginnings. Though for you, summer seems to be the season when you just never know what day it is.

Days blend into each other, hours pass by, the sun never seems to set, and weeks seem to end way ahead of time. And your boyfriend, or now ex-boyfriend to be more accurate, finds it the perfect season to finally break up with you. After months of cheating on you behind your back with your own closest friend, it seems he finally found the nerve to get away with it.

After they were both done leaching off of you and betraying you, it was time to leave you behind.

You wish you could say you were hurt. Broken and miserable. Well, you were miserable, not because of the recent circumstances. But rather than you being concerned about graduating, the dread of leaving behind the safety net of a tiring education system was daunting, to say the least. But at least it was there.

You don't really blame them for anything, but then you also do, though you knew when it started. When you found one of her socks in his room. Or when you smelled his perfume on her sheets. But you just never did anything; it sort of gave you leverage to not really input anything into these exhausting relationships without feeling like an asshole. A good excuse—that's all it was.

Maybe your parents wouldn't understand these things so easily; maybe to them you are their heartbroken little girl. That is probably why they showed up at your apartment unannounced immediately the day after you told them about your breakup.

And now you are in the backseat of your father's car, being driven back to the town you grew up in. Passing by the familiar ocean you always hated looking at whenever you had to drive back and forth. The vast, never-ending, salty mystery never made any sense to you. Probably why you never got around to learning how to swim.

“Are you alright there, sweetheart?” Your mother looked back from the passenger seat, only to hear you hum an unenthusiastic yes.

“We're almost there. You know they renovated the club? You should come with us tomorrow. Everyone asks about you all the time.” Your father spoke without moving his eyes from the road.

“Sure. I will.” It didn't take much to appease your parents.

Simple-minded or privileged, whatever they were, you were probably worse. With all the comfort in this world, here you were, alone by choice. Left behind and soon forgotten. Which was never your intention; you just could not be what your parents, your ex boyfriend, and your friend's expectations wanted you to be. And therefore you are now taking steps backwards at a time in your life when you are to be sprinting forward.

Summer has always been the season most unkind to you, and you've never made it feel any less unappreciated. The animosity between you and the most beloved season cannot be that easily erased with a renovated country club, or the ocean, or some ice cream, or the wind that breezes by your windows at night, or twelve hours of sleep.

But at the very least you can hope it does not burn you into the ground.

Every time you step back in your old room, a part of you wishes that your parents just threw everything out and made it into another sitting room or another gym. Then you see the posters of the band you and your high school friends once snuck out to see during your last senior year summer vacation, and it reminds you that maybe summer didn't hate you as bad as you thought.

Then the memories of the summer during your first year of college come back, how miserable it was. Locked in your small dorm, with your annoying roommate gone, yet her side of the room remained as headache-inducing as ever. Parents you could reach out to, as they were not even in the country, and you did not have it in you to ruin their vacation. High school friends who slowly drifted away and suddenly broke all relationships and the promises. All that was left was you and the miserable heat of the summer.

Anything will always be better than that shitty dorm room, even the room you grew up in that haunts your dreams now.

Walking down the stairs, you found your parents enjoying the wind cutting through them on the patio. And as you passed the living room while looking out at them sitting by each other's side, without even looking where you were going, you realized that maybe you have not really forgotten what that sense of familiarity felt like being back home.

It hasn't even been half a day that you've been back in your childhood bedroom. It was already well past 12:00 AM, and you could still walk from your room to the kitchen with your eyes closed, half asleep. Even the sound of a car pulling up in your neighbor’s driveway, the teenagers giggling in a hushed voice, and someone's dog barking—everything felt comforting and just as it always sounded. It felt like home.

It felt like you could finally open your windows, at the end of the day, and welcome the summer breeze as happily as your parents did.

You wish you could say you spent your first few days back home more productively. Instead it was just a routine of waking up at either 4:00 AM or 4:00 PM. Making coffee, eating whatever could be easily grabbed, and then spending the rest of your day rotting away in bed.

This was summer. The summer that everyone longed for and idealized, for you it was days bending into each other. Until the urgency of the decreasing free days finally made you want to pick up your unfinished assignments and open those untouched documents.

“Alright, get ready!” Your father barged into your room unannounced with the amount of enthusiasm that made you kind of regret being back home.

“You have got to stop walking into my room like that.” You didn't bother to look up at him from your bed, keeping your eyes trained on the screen of your laptop. The poor thing has been running since last night without a break. All because you found some horrible show to occupy your brain for some hours and not let you think about anything.

“Go get changed; we're going to the club!” With every step he took forward, the more you wanted your bed to swallow you whole.

“Why can't I just stay home—AND STOP OPENING MY WINDOWS, IT'S SO HOT OUT!” The sunlight suddenly poured in from your windows, and it felt like just from the looks of the shining rays of light, the heat outside could melt even when you were in the comfort of your nice and cold room, courtesy of the air conditioning.

“DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME, YOUNG LADY! YOU'RE COMING WITH US!”

And what is a poor little girl to do when her father is the one paying for her tuition fees and air conditioning bill? Certainly not going against what he asked for. She has to move her butt, take a shower, and change into a presentable sundress. To smile and nod at old neighbors she always found detestable.

You can only hope this white dress passes as presentable. Though there is nothing wrong with the dress, and sure, it is worn in, the cotton has softened significantly from when it was originally bought, which feels better on the skin than anything ever. The thin straps have become a little flimsy, and you genuinely believe the length has somehow shortened from above your knees to now where the hem lies on the middle of your thighs. But the pretty embroidery of flowers that ran all over the dress in a cream thread was what made this dress as captivating as it was.

The country club has never been a place you went with much enthusiasm. It was either about tagging your parents, running away from swimming lessons they forcibly signed you up for, sneaking into some empty room to take a nap, taking tennis lessons, or just simply sitting by the pool with your friends for lack of anything else better to do.

The worst part was always running into familiar faces, especially in such an exclusive place; everyone knew everyone. Especially when you're left by yourself at a table, like right now, sipping on some tea, only for just about any nasty neighbor to come up to you and make a few sarcastic comments.

“Oh my goodness! How have you been, honey? Look at you! It's like you're a fully grown adult now! But I still can't choose a pretty dress I see.” Oh, how you wish Mrs. Wilson would finally change for the better and stop running her mouth. And what is that even supposed to mean? You are a fully grown adult. Even though she will argue you're still the same petty kid from all those years ago. But you'd have to argue that you're a vengeful grown-up now. This is why you'll never see eye to eye with her.

“And you also look like you've aged a lot in these few years, Mrs. Wilson.” Her face soured just as quickly as it always did whenever she stopped to talk to you on the street back when you used to live here.

“Your tongue is as sharp as ever, huh?” She smiled at you with the most faux politeness.

“Well, some things never change.” And you returned her smile with a similarly fake one.

Thankfully, your parents were done chatting with some of their friends. So you said your goodbyes to her with a tight smile and walked back to your parents. Not before you let out a little chuckle to yourself hearing her scoff behind your back.

“Oh, you met Mrs. Wilson, huh? I hope you were nice.” Your mother asked in a concerned voice, knowing your long, tumultuous history with her.

Well, maybe you would've had a better relationship with her like the rest of your neighbors, who adore you! If only she didn't insult your fashion choices since you were a baby, and if her daughter didn't spend the entirety of high school trying to compete with you. Then maybe—actually never mind, you cannot be nice to a woman like her.

“Yep, I was on my best behavior!” Your smile sure didn't say so, and your mother knew that too. At least your father understood your hatred for that woman. And thankfully he still does, given the fist bump he offered you.

“You two are going to kill me one day. Anyway, we are going to the sauna. Do you want to come with us?” She sighed, tired of you and your father's dislike for the woman who happens to be a big source of your mother's neighborhood gossip.

“Sauna with you two and your friends? Absolutely not.” You'd rather sit in a scorching hot room full of old people who've seen you in your diaper, like any sane person.

“Alright, but the Getos wanted to meet you.” The Geto family lived right across from you. They happened to be your parents’ probably closest friends here. You and their son, Suguru, grew up together. You two have been childhood friends who always had a mutual respect for each other because of your mutual disdain for Mrs. Wilson and Summer.

“I'll say hello to them after you guys are done or just drop by their place later.” You adored them the best out of all your neighbors. After all, they've been nothing but kind to you growing up. You've spent a lot more time in Suguru's front yard than your own.

“Alright. We'll let you know when we are done.” You and your parents always had very different ideas about most situations.

“Huh? I can't just go home?” Where your parents wanted you to engage in some social and recreational activities, you wanted to go back to your bed.

“No. Either do something or come to the sauna with us.” At this point it felt like your mother just wanted you to be humiliated in the sauna more than anything.

“Sure, threatening your fully grown-up daughter is the best method of parenting.” The way you were sighing made you sound more like an angsty teenager than anything.

“If you were actually a grown-up adult, we wouldn't have to lecture you like this.” God forbid you get snarky and your mother lets you get away with it.

“Jeez, I'll find something to do.” No one can really argue with your mother, so guess you better find something interesting enough to do while your parents get cooked in the sauna.

“Don't cause any trouble, sweetie!” Your father said, loudly enough from behind you, that made you pick up your pace out of the dining hall. Twenty or seventy-two, they'll never stop embarrassing you on purpose.

“Not a kid, oh my god.” You speed-walked past the pool, full of teenagers and old people. Mumbling to yourself, like some sort of reassurance.

No one you know will ever call you childish or anything but mature. Except for your parents, they'd say you're still a kid. And maybe they are right; you don't really feel like an adult, nor do you feel like a kid. It's a weird limbo of being in your 20s, the supposedly best years of your life, just passing by in vain and emptiness.

The country club truly looked better than ever. The playground for the kids looked like it had been through some major improvement. The pool was now bigger; even the kids' pool was better than what you remember flapping around in. The path around the lake, by the garden, looked newly paved. And the golf course was just as vast but greener than ever.

But all of that did not meet the requisite of your interests. What interested you was beyond the pool, adjacent to the garden, and right before the golf course started.

It was the tennis court where you spent the majority of your childhood, where you met Geto Suguru. And immediately decided you have to win everything where you face him off, because otherwise he will just tease you to death. You learned your lesson when you lost one friendly match to him the day you met, and that too only on the second day of your tennis journey. And suddenly the reserved new kid on the block was a smug little shit.

‘Maybe you never had to try hard enough, but you'll have to, if you want to win against me.’ Was what he said, if you remember correctly.

Since then you've been great friends. But it was either you tried not to compete against him or made sure to grind in secrecy to not give him even the smidge of a chance to tease you.

You wish your friendship with Suguru stayed as it was when you guys were kids. Playing in his front yard, getting ice cream after school, going to the beach, and pulling pranks on Mrs. Wilson. You wish some things just never changed. But you can't really say you two are on unfriendly terms now or anything; you still get a text or call from him here and there, and you make sure to always text him back and call him if any opportunity arises. You've met up with him from time to time. And you often hear about him through your parents, and you're sure he also hears likewise.

So it doesn't feel like you truly lost a friend to your shitty teenage hormones and the span of time. But you sure feel sorry for the both of you. Neither of you had a good time in highschool, it was very similar emotions you both were going through. But you two were dealing with them in your own unique and respectively different ways. Where he chose to completely shut himself away, you chose to try so hard to fit into places you never felt like you belonged.

It was only after you came back home during Christmas after getting into college that you guys reconciled.

You are glad you met Suguru that day as a kid; otherwise, maybe you wouldn't have ever gone through with your tennis lessons. If only Suguru were there to race you to the pool, you'd have been a state-level swimmer by now.

The tennis court was empty. In the heat of a summer afternoon, with the sun at its peak, it was obvious only a fool would be on a tennis court. Thankfully there wasn't another fool like you anywhere around.

And since the net was so nicely tied up, the equipment was there looking like it had just been cleaned, and you needed something to pass your time—why not take advantage of the situation? To check your rusty tennis skills and how well your new sunscreen worked. Whether or not you were about to come out looking like a sun-dried tomato depended on it. After all, summer will be here for a while, and so will you.

The neon green ball bounced off the ground and back into your palm easily, just as easily as it flew up in the air and then collided with your racket. It made a snappy sound as it spanned across the court. The ball went to hit the fence on the opposite side. You felt the sweat dripping down your temples, the ball rolled around on the ground, and you felt like something within you finally stirred up after a long while.

The number of neon balls started to gather on the opposite side of the court, as well as around your feet, from a few missed serves. But it felt good to hear the sound of your heart beating with the sound of the ball hitting the racket.

But you can only serve a few bunches of balls in the air all by yourself without an opponent. So you tried to look for the ball-dispensing machine, which you never got around to figuring out, thanks to the always very helpful staff. But given the time, everyone must be busy serving or helping out for lunch.

Yet you walked out of the court anyway to find someone to help you out with the machinery. And just behind the court, under a tree, just at the beginning of the golf course, you found a golf cart. To be more specific, you found a man leaning back in the driver's seat of the cart, with his hands behind his head, looking beat and exhausted.

He had a baseball cap covering his face, his white pearly hair was shining in the sun, and a single drop of sweat slowly streamed down his neck, along with his prominent veins, very cinematically. Even though you couldn't see his face, you could tell this guy was not from here; maybe he recently moved or something, or he was visiting for the summer and making some cash. Either way, you felt this intrigue bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you stared at his bulging biceps and the sheen of sweat at the end of his rolled-up sleeves around his shoulders.

‘Get a grip, jeez.’

You had to warn yourself before walking up to him. Each step you took felt heavier than before; for some weird reason, now you are thinking twice about asking the hot golf cart driver for some help.

“Um, hey?” You finally reached beside the cart and leaned just close enough to his ears. And when your barely audible voice didn't get to him, you had to summon up the courage to speak up.

“Excuse me?” This time the guy jerked up in his seat. The baseball cap fell from his face to his lap, and one of his sleeves rolled down to cover up his bicep because of his sudden movements.

“Yeah?” Now that you could get a clear look at him, you could feel the tightening knots in your stomach getting worse. Not only did his body look so much better up close, but his build also looked bigger than what you imagined from afar, and his face, oh boy.

How to start? The root of his pearly hair was damp with sweat, coming off as a darker shade of something in between white and gray compared to the rest of his fluffy hair blowing in the hot summer winds. His eyes were squinted from the sudden change in lighting, but you could see the sunlight reflecting in his blue pupils. There was a layer of sweat accumulated above his upper lip, and you had to conjure up everything to not reach out and wipe it away.

“Hi, uh, I needed some help.” You pointed back at the tennis court behind you with your free hand, and the racket in your other hand came to cover the front of your legs, like some sort of shield from the unfamiliar worker’s eyes. Which made it no secret that they were raking up your body from toe to toe, probably wondering why the fuck you are playing tennis in this heat.

“Oh sure!” He quickly jumped off the cart, leaving the cart to wobble from the sudden movements and lack of weight.

He took maybe three long strides, and he was already almost at the tennis court, while you were still standing with the empty cart, looking at the silhouette of his thick thighs in those basketball shorts.

“You comin’?” He called out for you from the entrance of the court, flashing you a toothy grin, waiting for you to reach him there instead of entering the grounds all by himself. You quickly yelled a yes and ran up to him, giggling at your half-effort running.

You walked into the court, choosing to blame the sudden rise in heat on the sun above your heads. He followed suit obediently, ending up in front of the ball dispenser.

“So, could you help me start this thing? I don't know how to work this thing.” You explained to the man, hoping for some help.

“Alright. Let's see, did you try turning it on, or did it suddenly stop or something?” He crouched down on the ground to sit on his left knee on the ground. Looking around the machine and toying with the buttons at the side that you also pressed, you were also met with nothing. He inspected the machine further to find any other way to start it, even kicking it a few times.

“Yeah. This thing is definitely broken.” He gets up to now stand facing you, with his hands on his hips, defeated.

You sighed, all disappointed, but then again it made sense why the tennis court was completely empty. He looked at your face for a bit, contemplating whether or not he should blurt out what he is thinking about offering.

“Uh, I could play against you instead!” He walked up to the rest of the equipment under the shade and picked up a racket and spun it in his hands.

“Are you sure? I'm not interrupting you, right?” You were happy to hear his offer, but you also didn't want him to get scolded by his boss or something.

“Oh please, it's my pleasure!” Maybe this was part of the service.

“Alright then, you serve.”

“Gladly.”

You threw the ball across the net at him, and he caught it without any hesitation.

He slightly bent down to position for his serve as you walked up to your post and got in position as well. He made the ball touch the racket three times before jumping up in the air and served the ball like an experienced and in-practice player. The ball flew right by your head and hit the ground outside of the boundary.

“Surely you didn't call me here to lose to me, did’ya?” A smug smirk stretched on his lips. And it irked you. In a different way than Suguru, sure, you still wanted to beat his ass in the game, but it did more for you than just aggravate you. That tightening sensation in your abdomen was back.

“No, I called you here to eat shit.” But god forbid you let yourself lose a match against some smug smart ass.

“Oh, ho ho, feisty, aren't we?” He chuckled at your shit talk. You sure didn't look like the type to shit-talk in that pretty white dress, with the wind flowing by you, asking him so politely to help with the ball dispenser.

He didn't get a time to register when you even served the ball; he was expecting another sharp reply. Instead he somehow managed to hit it back, and this time the ball stayed in the air for a while. Until you rushed forward and jumped up in the air and pushed the ball down with as much force as you could, one of his knees bent, and he slid forward to get the ball. Unfortunately, his focus went from the ball to you—the way your pretty white dress hugged you and how the skirt flipped up in the air when you made that jump, exposing more of your thighs and a glimpse of your also white panties and the little lace trim on them. This need started to brew within him, and he couldn't pinpoint what it exactly was; he is not some horny teenager, after all. And so the ball crossed the net and hit the ground, making his efforts useless.

“Huh, so you're not just all talk.”

“I am not the one running his tongue here.”

“Uh huh? We'll see who's left tongue-tied at the end then.”

“Yeah, you'd know more about that, since you're losing.”

And with a chuckle from him, you were in your position, legs spread out, racket in between your legs, ready for whatever he's about to throw your way.

Let's say you were far from tongue-tied even though you just lost.

“No, you were clearly out of the boundary there.” You walked up to the net, ready to swing your racket at him.

“Alright, alright, don't make up things now like a sore loser.” His racket fell out of his hands and landed on the ground as he walked towards the middle of the court. Meeting you behind the net.

“Sweets, please, you just could not keep up with me; it's ok to admit defeat.” That smile on his face, you wanted to smack it off, but not really.

“This one doesn't count!” You pulled the racket up to his face, not even cognizant of what you were doing at this point, blinded by the fury from your loss. “Alright, sure. Rematch then?” He grabbed the head of your racket and pulled you closer towards him; the net clung to your body, and you could feel his body against yours, with the barrier of the tennis court net between you two.

And you wish you had something to say. But you were finally tongue-tied.

“Satoru!”

Both of your heads turned towards the source of the voice, ever so familiar to both of you. Thankfully the distant silhouette of Suguru walking up to the court finally had you push away from the stranger's body. This guy you've known for mere hours, apparently named Satoru, suddenly had you at your wit's end. And somehow you had thanked Geto Suguru for interrupting your game, a first for everything, truly.

As Suguru walked up to the both of you, his usual furrowed eyebrows shot up to see you standing there looking clueless, with a racket in your hands. And he rushed his step a little more to get to you.

“And what are you doing here, huh?” His hands reached out in a fist. Which you gladly bumped in acknowledgement, and he instantly pulled you in for a hug. With one arm around your shoulders and another on top of your head, patting it, like he always did.

“Should've told me you're visiting. I saw you like months ago; you weren't even here for Christmas last year.” Suguru kept blabbering with you in his embrace, finally letting you go when you tapped on his chest to let you go for some air.

“You have to lose this habit, Sugu.” You two pulled away with a smile on your faces, glad to be running into each other after a while. It has been just texts and calls for the last few months, since your degree absolutely fucked you over, and so did your boyfriend and your friend.

“So what, you're here with your loser boyfriend?” Suguru placed an arm around your shoulders, and his smile started dimming down as he saw your genuine smile getting replaced with a tight, awkward one.

“Yeah, oh god, about that.” You explained to Suguru the whole situation with your ex-boyfriend and ex-friend, as his face started contorting in rage.

All the while, Satoru stood behind you two, leaning on the net between the courts; your hushed voices were barely audible to his ears. But one thing was clear to him: his best friend and this pretty stranger he just met a few hours ago sure had a great bond. The sort of friendship where even when you don't talk for months, you can see each other and hug instantly and spill your guts without any hesitation. Somewhere he felt a little envious, or left out maybe, unsure what it exactly was. The fact that his best friend had someone besides him whom he relied on so heavily, or the fact that you were smiling at Suguru with such ease. But then again, he literally just met you, and he's already getting ahead of himself. He doesn't even know your name yet.

Once you were done calming down a very angry and cursing Suguru, offering to beat up your ex, you finally noticed Satoru leaning on the net. And your eyes lingered on his, staring into each other's eyes, with something dense between you two, beyond physical and comprehensive explanations.

Suguru finally realized Satoru's presence, the reason why he ended up here anyway. And walked up to him, who was still staring at you instead of shifting his focus to Suguru. You felt pinned to where you stood, incapable of any movements under his gaze.

“You dumbass, you said you were going to take a break for a few minutes, and you disappeared for hours!” Suguru smacked his forehead, and finally his focus shifted from you as he got busy pouting and rubbing his forehead. So you used this opportunity to walk up to the benches to grab your bag, take out the water bottle, and check your phone. But even then, Satoru's gaze discreetly followed you there while also trying to give Suguru his attention.

“Oh, come on, it wasn't thaaaat long, and your parents left for the spa; why would I stay there and get my ass beaten up by you?” So there was another person beside you who would rather back out than go against Geto Suguru; it was somewhat comforting to know.

“Alright, sure. Anyway, how come you two are here? Together?” Suguru looked back at you and then again at Staoru.

“Oh, I was looking for a staff member, and he was just out there. Honestly I did not expect a golf cart driver to be much help to me anyway but—”

“Woah, wait, sweets, what do you mean?”

He stood up straight and had to cut you off. Because something about what you were saying told him that there was a bit of a misunderstanding here.

“And I was going to say this earlier as well: should you be speaking to a club member like this?” You walked up to the both of them and stood beside Suguru, looking a little disappointed at Satoru.

“Huh?” Genuine confusion poured out of his voice.

“I mean, as an employee here, you should—”

“Wait, wait, wait. So you actually think I work here?” He pointed a finger at himself and looked at you with confusion and dejection. So you've fucked up the calculation here, it seems.

“Oh, this is hilarious to me.” Suguru chimed in, hands folded over his chest, enjoying the mystery of Satoru's identity unfolding. Smirking to himself, enjoying his best friend's humiliation.

“I mean, you look like it. With the white polo and shorts and those sneakers with socks. In this weather, on top of it.” You tried to contain your smile while describing his outfit; it looked exactly like what some of the part-time, non-uniform-wearing employees wore to come off as more friendly.

“SEE! I told you, you look fucking stupid, Satoru!” Suguru’s voice shot up, and he pointed his index finger at Satoru in an accusatory tone. One you knew oh so well, the ‘Hah! I told you so!’ tone, and you felt bad for throwing Satoru in a situation you've hated being in in the past.

“I thought it was a good golf outfit, ok? I’M SORRY!” Satoru, in return, comically gestured at his attire to make a point for Suguru. If this whole exchange wasn't so funny, you'd have felt really bad for him.

“Yeah, and then you sucked at it on top of your horrible outfit. His father is so good at golf you'd think he'd be good as well.” Suguru looked at you, trying to put up a picture of Satoru's poor skills regarding anything golf.

“Shut up. Also, you have a lot to say for someone who made the same amount of holes as me.”

“That's because I am tired.”

“Excuses.”

Suddenly you were now a key witness for a whole crime that was about to take place; it felt like they were about to throw hands any moment. Fortunately, your phone, along with Suguru's phone, buzzed in your respective pockets. And even before checking, you both knew it was your parents.

“They're done, so should we head inside?” Suguru placed the phone back in his pocket after checking the text.

You nodded and gathered your bag to meet up with your parents and the Getos, along with the two men you ran into through a series of unexpected happenings. On the way, Suguru introduced you and Satoru to each other. You gave Satoru your name and a gist of how you grew up with Suguru. In return, you got to know that his full name was Gojo Satoru.

“I mean, I sort of know you already.” His side slightly bumped into yours as Suguru led you two into the building. You tilted your head in confusion, not sure where you even ran into someone this outstandingly gorgeous and then forgot about him. That's not possible; he doesn't have a forgettable face, even for someone like you who forgets people's names and faces really quickly. You were sure if you ever saw him, you wouldn't have forgotten him. If you ever walked past him on a busy street, even then you'd remember him.

“Well, Suguru talks about you sometimes, so it feels like I kind of know you already.”

You didn't know what was the cause of the fluttering sensation in your chest, the fact that Suguru cares about you enough that you get brought up in his conversations, or the gorgeous smile that Satoru threw after what he said, or was it simply what he said?

There have been plenty of times someone said they felt like they'd known you for a longer time than how long they actually knew you. And it always irked you to think someone you don't even know thinks they know you, presumably, well enough. Yet in this case you didn't feel that, maybe because he's Suguru's friend. But this wouldn't have been the first time you didn't like one of his friends, so that was not the case.

Maybe he was just some strange exception.

On your way back home, at dinner, after dinner, during breakfast the next morning—all your brain was occupied with was nothing but Gojo Satoru.

I mean, what choice did you have left when your parents wouldn't stop singing his praises? Truly simple they are. The whole story about how you thought he was a staff member was a hit. That, accompanied by some flirting with your mother and some bad dad jokes with your father, and now suddenly he is their favorite person ever.

If there was a tier list, surely it's Gojo Satoru, then Geto Suguru, only because he has broken a lot of your windows while playing catch as a kid, and lastly you. And you cannot argue with them. The man sure has his charms and knows how to use them.

Now that you are just standing by your window, with no one to influence your opinions or thoughts, you cannot help but go back to thinking about that man. For once you wanted to open your windows during the day, in hopes of catching a glimpse of something. Or someone, but you were still too stubborn to admit that to yourself.

But you still were fortunate enough to find what you were exactly looking for.

Satoru was in the Geto residence’s driveway, right across from your house, visibly clear from your windows. In a tank top that had a Sonic X logo in the middle, which was soaked in sweat and soap water. There were bubbles around his forehead, and his bangs were clumped up and wet. The sheen of the off-white car covered in soapy water reflected an angelic light and all the colors of the rainbow all over him. It was flashy and ridiculously expensive-looking, most probably imported from somewhere, flashier than most of your neighbor's cars, but it really suited him.

There was nothing remarkable about what he was doing; he was washing his car. And yet, to you it was somehow the most fascinating thing you've seen since you came back home, or maybe in years.

The shape of his muscles was making outlines in his tight-fitting, drenched top. That silly Sonic X logo somehow made him look cuter. And all it did was make your eyes drag upwards from there, towards the platinum chain sitting on his collarbones. It lay flat around the curve of his neck, and the taut muscles there, as he moved his arms back and forth to clean the car, the chain moved along with his movements. Bouncing off his skin to sit curved on his collarbones again and again.

His teeth grazed his bottom lip from time to time, but his eyebrows and eyes did not show any signs of frustration. How he was just standing in the sweltering sun, in a soggy tank top and shorts clinging to his body, soap all over him, hair semi-wet in that said water and sweat—it was beyond you. But you just could not look away from him.

But maybe the intensity of your eyes reached his skin better than the sun. He looked up from his car, right towards your house, and after a second, his eyes found your window. And also you, standing in the window, shocked to be found caught red-handed, not doing anything bad, but also nothing you were proud of.

Satoru's unoccupied hand moved up to wave at you with a sweet smile. And you malfunctioned. Instead of waving back at him like a normal person would, you hid behind your curtains. With a heaving chest, you stood there until you felt the heat rising up your body, going down. When you peeked outside, still hiding behind your curtains, you saw him leaning down on the car, with his arms folded under him, head tilted and eyes still directed towards your windows.

Now you certainly could not just come out and wave a hi back at him. So you did the sensible act of ducking down on the floor to crawl all the way to your door. You remained on the floor until you could shit your bedroom door behind you, and when you did so, your back went against it. For some support to get back up on your two feet, and even then it felt like it was impossible.

Your heartbeat was racing, and your entire body was burning up in a blaze.

Out of precaution, your windows remained shut for the rest of the day. And you kept your face buried in your pillows, trying to process the sudden influx of emotions that you were feeling. Unfamiliar and few feelings that people usually feel way earlier in their lives, and yet here you were, early in your twenties. It was not your fault you wasted the majority of your college life on some guy whom you only kept around because you were too scared. Too scared to be left behind and forgotten, you just did not want to be lonely. Even if that meant surrounding yourself with people you knew didn't give a shit about you. It somehow worked in high school, so naturally you thought it'd work out in university.

And now, slightly more mature and a little more comfortable with your own company, you found a strange guy who made you feel strange things.

It was a strange day altogether. Since you offered to accompany your parents to the club without being pressured. Even they were caught off guard, but there was no way they were about to fumble this with snarky comments. They will save it to throw them at you later at dinner.

It was a pleasant Saturday; if you ignore everything that happened by your window, a perfect day to go out to brunch instead of your usual coffee and toast breakfast before bed rotting. And after the events that happened earlier, you needed to get out, feel the warm wind blowing right in your face, and maybe forget how embarrassing the whole exchange was, if you can even call it that.

“Oh goodness, fancy running into you guys!” Your mother suddenly spoke out, looking towards the door behind you.

A part of you was too busy and too delighted by the waffles in front of you to mind your mother's words. While the rest of you already knew who these people could possibly be. Even though you reassured yourself that the Geto family usually doesn't come here on Saturdays, you were still dreading the possibility. And here you were, stumped and with a mouth full of waffles, about to be embarrassed for the second time in a day in less than 12 hours. A new record!

Chimes of good mornings came from behind you, first in Mr. and Mrs. Geto’s voices, then Suguru's voice, and lastly a very cheerful greeting by the one person you did not want to see today. Everyone was chatting as usual as they took a seat at your table. You also said your greetings to them, trying to not make eye contact with Satoru at all costs, even when you could feel his eyes on you as he sat down directly opposite to you.

“What a rare sight to see Miss holed-up-in-her-room.” Mr. Geto jokes.

“These days even vampires need some sun.” As stupid as the joke was, Mr. Geto came down with a boisterous laugh. He has always been an easy audience to please, or maybe it's his bias towards you.

“You two and your stupid jokes.” Suguru grumbled beside you, never a big fan of your and his father's sense of humor.

The table fell into an easy conversation. You caught up a bit more with the Getos, as you didn't get to see them after lunch the other day. And your parents seemed more fascinated by Satoru. Honestly, it was surprising to see your parents having this much interest in an individual your age, other than Geto Suguru. What was weirder was how well Satoru just got along with them, talking about whatever nonsense that is the stock market and business. You presume that his family is some big-shit conglomerate, surely. He found common ground with your mother about his fascination for art, even going as far as naming her art pieces that are his favorites. What a strange, strange man.

You have had an array of people around you over the years—friends from school, college, and some neighborhood friends—and none of them ever got along with your parents this well, except for Geto Suguru. They couldn't stand your high school friends, they warned you about your college friends, and they never warmed up to your boyfriend. You never officially introduced him, just that they unfortunately visited at a time he was also dropping by. Maybe you were wrong; maybe even they picked up on how miserable you have been regardless of a shitty boyfriend or not, given how much they visited in the last 6 months.

And now that you are back here, at this noisy table, this feels alright. It felt like home, and it felt safe, around people you care about. With the addition of a man who just aroused weird feelings within you, weird and incomprehensible. But it was also just a summer; it'll pass, it'll be gone in mere weeks.

It was just a normal and nice Saturday brunch until you felt something creeping up on your legs. It didn't feel like an insect or something; it was distinctly the shape of someone's toes. And the only possible answer to who it might be was sitting right across from you. His face was turned towards your father, with his eyes occasionally drifting to the corners to take unnoticeable glances at you. The way one of his hands was placed on top of the table and his other was perched on top of the back of his chair—no one could suspect anything unusual about him or what he was doing right under this table.

“You ok?” Suguru asked, seeing how suddenly you froze up, occasionally twitching in your seat. His toes were trying to map out the plain field, which was your legs. They tangled themselves in the strap of your sandals, which wrapped around your ankle, pulling on them tentatively and snapping them right back lightly, but the sensation could only be described as so good.

“Yeah. Just tired.” Suguru didn't look like he bought your excuse, but he was never someone to get involved in your business if you didn't want him to, so he went back to the book he was reading. And who honestly does that at a busy table like this? Anyway,

As Satoru's foot glided upwards, from your shin to the side of your knees and right between where your legs crossed. To prevent any further invasion of his foot. Yet you could still feel his toes scraping against the skin over the front of your thighs. Trying to dip between the gap where your thighs pressed together. And it didn't really try to probe in between them, just going up and down there, teasing you, barely giving anything, with hints of everything lying thick in the air.

And it was frustrating to sit there and take it all and to not let your legs open up themselves willingly. What was more frustrating was just when your legs were about to fall apart and open up, after trembling on their own, pressed together, to aid the feeling pooling in the bottom of your stomach, he swiftly pulled away his foot.

All while talking to your parents like the most ideal man out there. Like he is not trying to get in between their daughter's legs. The audacity of this man really amazed you, looking at the smile on his face, it's impossible even for the gods to realize what a sinister man he is. And honestly, these are the people you always have made sure to stay away from; cunning and charming was not something you were equipped to deal with.

But that scheming smile and those side glances across from you, boy, were fun.

“What is wrong with you?” You managed to corner Satoru before heading home. Making up some dumb excuse about leaving behind your hat (which you didn't even wear) to catch him before he could get to the men's restroom. Let the others wait for the two of you, thinking you were busy doing your own thing, while here you were trying to interrogate Gojo Satoru.

“I would like to think everything is perfectly fine with me.” He simply smiled at you, with either of his hands on his hips.

“No, I know you are fine—I mean—that you are—you know that is not what I am talking about!” It was all utterly cringe-worthy, the way it slipped past your lips, making you wish to bury yourself.

“Yeah? Maybe I am more interested in talking about how fine you think I am.” He walked a step closer to you, making you take a step backwards.

“Don't twist my words.” You dig your index finger into his chest, somehow his hard yet supple chest. You take the step forward that you backed away from, but he did not budge from where he was standing.

“Why would I? I’m not the one playing games here now, am I?” Satoru's head tilted to the right, and his face dipped slightly downwards to look you properly in the eyes. And when you had no answers to give, was it that you were lost about what he was exactly asking or lost in his eyes? It cannot be said for sure which it was.

“So why did you ignore me this morning?” At first you were dumbfounded about what he was even talking about, then the embarrassing moment you had by your windows came crashing down on you.

“I—I don't know. What do you mean?” You did your best to look him in the eyes while also trying to lie through your teeth.

“I mean, when you were checking me out this morning and when I waved at you, you just ignored me!” His eyebrows frowned a bit, and his lips jutted in a pout. If you were not digging a mental hole to bury yourself out of embarrassment, then you'd have rather shamelessly just admired how adorable he looked.

“It's just that, I was—” “You were…?”

“I was looking at the car you were washing! Yeah! It didn't look like, uh, what the Getos drive, so... yeah.” You've made bad excuses before and lied like a pro even, yet in this moment you felt like a criminal trying to get away from being convicted.

“Uh huh? You liked my car then?” Satoru narrowed his eyes at you, and his hands, which remained on his hips this entire time, added to what his eyes were saying—liar. But you nodded a yes with a tight smile, and suddenly instead of interrogating him, you were the one being interrogated.

“What color was it?”

“Huh?”

“My car. What color was it?”

For the love of everything, you could not remember what the hell the color of his car was! Sure, he could've asked you what the color of his shorts was, or the logo on his tank top, that mole under his left eye, or the dip between his collarbones, or perhaps the exact hex code for the color of his eyes—but he had to go and ask you about that stupid-ass car.

You knew you were fucked, and he knew he had you cornered. For that one step you took forward a few seconds ago, you now had to take two steps back, while he took three steps forward. Your whole charade was up, and your petty crush on your childhood friend's best friend was about to be aired out, and you were about to be embarrassed into the ground. You were sure this is it, but thank God for Geto Suguru, for once in your life, maybe. Your true angel in disguise!

“Oi! What’s taking you two so long?” Suguru asked while walking towards you two through the hallway, at the end of which you were being interrogated by Gojo Satoru.

“Oh! Satoru got lost, so I was helping him! It’s fine now. Let's go!” You enthusiastically said while walking towards Suguru in a hurry. Because if you spent another second around Satoru, you'd lose your mind.

You pushed Suguru’s back to make him walk away from the hallway, because another second here and he would start interrogating as well. So you pushed a reluctant and suspicious Suguru from behind, leaving a disappointed Satoru to follow your two’s lead outside. And mumbled to himself while looking at your back—

liar.

Since then, you did your best to avert the topic of conversation whenever Satoru tried to bring up your wandering eyes. Being in his close proximity was hard, especially when Suguru was not there. So you made sure he was always there when you were getting involved with Satoru. And yet there were always these moments that made you remember why you sometimes just cannot stand Suguru and his audacity.

“Y’wanna go to Lewis’ party this Saturday?” Suguru casually raised the question while still looking at his phone. Ignoring whatever silly flirting you and Satoru were doing, mostly him looking at you with heart eyes and you getting red like a beet at his little comments here and there. The horrible summer sun was already in the middle of the sky, and the tennis court itself felt like a frying pan.

So here you three were, drenched in sweat and clad in shorts and loose shirts, sitting under the apricot tree near the tennis court, pressed between the two men. The same tree under which you found Satoru, made assumptions in your head, and dubbed him as a hot new cart driver.

“He still does those?” You looked at Suguru while ignoring Satoru’s finger poking your cheek from your other side.

“Yeah, he still does, every summer. The dedication of that guy.” Suguru scoffed to himself and finally put his phone down to look at you after quickly throwing Satoru a side eye.

“Who is this guy?” Satoru’s head suddenly was right beside yours; his body was basically leaning into yours.

“Just some guy we went to school with; he throws these big parties every summer. He can be pretty douchey, though.” Suguru paused a second to think to himself before looking between you two and continuing with a smirk.

“Yeah, and this hotshot here dated him in high school.” Suguru’s hand landed on top of your head, slightly shaking it and patting it. And your own hands went to his wrist to shove it off you with a scoff.

“Oh please, it was like 5 months or less.” You rolled your eyes while leaning away from Suguru's hands; they can mess anyone up easily. “And it was nothing. Just some stupid summer fling.”

You looked over at Satoru briefly to gauge his reaction while simultaneously trying to ignore Suguru's teasing. It was honestly never the best idea to date the local party thrower; it meant everyone was up in your business. It was rough after the breakup, because not only did random people come up to you asking questions and being rude, but Lewis chased you around for another two weeks persistently. Thankfully he never had the best attention span.

You looked at Satoru with eyes that said, ‘please do not think I have bad taste!’

It was a lot to ask of Satoru when he did not even know the guy, and you did not know why you felt like you had to justify anything. After all, aren't you two just friends through a mutual connection? It did not feel right to watch Satoru stare at you and Suguru with a blank face while Suguru teased you about some stupid high school ex. But it also didn't feel right for Satoru to feel this bubbling jealousy within him, hearing about your old relationship with this guy you might potentially see tonight, whom you've known longer than you've known him.

“No, I get it. Sounds like a fun guy, huh?” Satoru's tone from earlier flattened just a notch. Not really noticeable to most people, but you and Suguru knew. You've known Satoru for barely a week and a half, and you've come to notice little changes in his voice almost the same way Suguru can notice them. The difference is, you use them as a cue to change topics to something that'll lift his spirits, while Suguru doubles down on things.

“Oh, the most fun guy ever! He threw gummy bears in his pool and timed himself on how fast he could fish out as many of them using just his mouth.” Suguru’s back went against the tree bark in a fit of laughter with a thud, remembering exactly what finally gave you the ick to break up with him. A mouthful of pool water and half-chewed gummies.

“Yeah, I am going to sit this one out. You guys have fun.” You rolled your eyes at Suguru, who was still laughing like a maniac, and stood up while dusting off your skirt.

“Huh, why? ‘ Cause he might try to smooch you with a mouth full of gummies and pool water again?” And Suguru was back to laughing like it could be a threat to his lungs.

Without any more words, because there were none to defend yourself for dating a frat guy and expecting an intellectual and respectable relationship out of it. You walked away after waving Satoru a goodbye and ignoring Suguru, who was by that point on the grass, tired from giving himself a one-man comedy show.

“She was looking forward to going out this weekend. Do you think she'll be ok?” Satoru asked Suguru while his eyes were trained on you walking on the grass.

“Yeah. She will be fine.” Suguru knew you better than him, so Satoru should barely doubt his words, but he couldn't help but needlessly worry when you didn't even look much bothered about the party other than the fact that Suguru just outed your dating history.

“If she's not, you can always check on her.” Suguru stood up and, similarly to you, dusted his shorts before extending an arm towards him.

Satoru did not say anything more to that, just grabbed onto his hand and stood back up on his feet. There was a silent understanding in the air that Suguru knew whatever Satoru was feeling. Suguru’s hand went up to his shoulder and placed itself there with a sharp slap. Satoru looked to his right and saw Suguru's eyes sharp and unforgiving, not his usual sly, half-smiling, kind eyes.

“If you do anything stupid or hurt her, it's on sight.” Satoru let out a wheezing laugh and placed his own hand on Suguru's shoulder while looking him in the eye.

“You got it.”

That's all they needed to speak on this. Any more, and Suguru would punch him square in the jaw unprovoked. It was not that Suguru was expecting him to sweep you off your feet or anything, and he knew Satoru was far from some prince charming. But he respects you two and trusts you, and despite his lifelong protective urges towards you, you were now a grown adult who was more than capable of making her own decisions, and he wanted to respect that. As long as Satoru didn't do anything stupid. Like that recent ex of yours, because when you go back on campus after the vacation, you might hear a thing or two about his fucked-up face or a neck collar.

Not that it had anything to do with Suguru, surely.

In the blink of your eyes, almost three weeks have gone by since you came back here. And two weeks since you met Gojo Satoru.

It was already Saturday night, and you were rotting in your bed as usual, trying to forget about the party that you truly had no will to go to. But somehow you could not help but let your mind wander there. Wondering how many people showed up, whether Suguru and Satoru were having a good time, and if Satoru found someone other than Suguru to talk to there. Which you assume he definitely did; he practically befriended everyone on your street, he is a favorite of the retired people at the country club, and he just blended right in with everyone.

It was one of those few summers you will be looking back at with a fond smile. All the parties you three crashed, all the nights you snuck away to the beach in Satoru’s off-white Maserati, all that weed you three burnt away in your room, the day when Suguru was cleaning up the garage and found the little inflatable pool in which you two used to play. It was hilarious for everyone to see three fully grown kids smooshed up in a little kids’ pool, splashing water at each other.

You have come to love the little watermelon plant that spontaneously shot up from the ground in your backyard, exactly where you three were shooting watermelon seeds with your mouths to see who could get the furthest. You got the flimsy little plant a support stake and made sure to water it every day because you did not want it to wither away in this summer heat.

Speaking of the summer heat, it seemed as though the weather started getting hotter from last night. When usually things cooled down after the sun set, everything your skin touched was sweating if the air conditioner was not on. And given the occasion tonight, you figured it was best to spend the entire Saturday at home. In the comfort of your bedroom, behind locked windows and doors, with the only source of light and noise being your laptop.

That was until the wind outside your windows started picking up. It made you feel some relief that it was not going to be a streak of horrible hot days.

The wind swung by your windows, making swishing noises and rattling the glass doors to your balcony. It made you want to shift your focus from the mind-numbing show playing on your screen to whatever that was going on outside. The swinging trees, sharp wind, dark red hued clouds in the night sky, Satoru trying to climb over your balcony railing, spark of lightning and faint sound of thunder-

Oh, wait, let's backtrack. Did you just see that correctly? Was Gojo Satoru trying to climb into your balcony? Because who else could be in that baby blue cotton shirt and bouncy tuft of white hair?

You rushed out of your bed, in your short shorts and tank top, probably as old as the eye bags that started to form under your eyes when you got into university. But you could not bother about that, or the crumbs of chips all over your top, and your unkempt and unbrushed hair. You just needed to get to Satoru in time before his wobbling body fell from your balcony and broke some bones in his body.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” You grabbed onto his hand and pulled him towards you, then helped him jump over your balcony railings.

“Climbing your tower, Rapunzel. Even though your hair looks more like a bird's nest than a rope.” He flashed you the whole set of his teeth at the end of his joke. Teasing you, trying to elicit a response out of you, as always.

“I will throw you off my balcony.” You deadpanned in return, ready to push him off, with your hands on his chest, pushing him ever so lightly to not actually make him lose his balance on the edge. He flew to catch yours and held onto them as he erupted into giggles, and the wind blew by his hair, getting it all over his eyes and face. And yet he still looked effortlessly gorgeous, as if that's exactly how it was supposed to look.

“Ok, ok, I just came here ‘cause I got bored at that party; the gummy bear guy lost his edge. It was just people pretentiously gathering around the pool and going, ‘Oh! Are you studying there? I am going here!’ and Suguru fled with some girl, so here I am.” Satoru sat down on the floor of your balcony, with his back against the railing. And pulled you down to sit right in front of him, facing him, with hands still held in his.

“Also just missed ‘ya.” He said it with such ease and nonchalance, like it was the most obvious answer. It was just a simple little line that crossed more lines between you two than anything, boundaries that must exist in a friendship. All just gradually blurring out of existence.

“Y’wanna go to the pool?” He says to break your train of thought to get rid of the questions and silence in the air.

“You were just complaining about people gathering around a pool.”

“So? It was more of a critique of the crowd than the pool; the poor pool has seen some things—leave it alone!”

At this point your hands, which were in his grip, were forgotten. It was like the most natural thing. It feels as natural as pushing your glasses up on your head and forgetting about them.

“Ok, ok, but you want to swim in our pool in this weather? Also, I don't know when my parents last got it cleaned.” Since you came back, you've never once used that thing, and you were never exactly there to see when your parents’ pool boy came around to clean it.

“Not your pool, silly!” He bounced your hands with his, making a ripple of movement in your entire upper body. “Then?” “I meant the one at the club.”

You just blinked and watched him. With a smile on his face, he did not look one bit hesitant about his suggestion. And honestly, his idea made you want to rather check out how clean or not your pool is instead of trespassing on the property where your family was a regular.

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that without turning on alarms?”

“I know the security code.” Your narrowed eyes did not look convinced with his answer.

“How even—” “I play billiards with the general manager.” It did make sense for a social butterfly like Satoru himself to befriend the most terrifying guy in the entire club. The general manager was quite the grump; he was a nice old man. He helped you out of the pool once when you almost drowned because you wanted to join your then high school friends instead of being upfront about not knowing how to swim. The general manager later, when you seemed stable enough, scolded you while drying off your hair with a towel.

“That old man who is always annoyed at every living, breathing thing?”

“Yep. He said, I remind him of his late husband!” Which wasn't far off the mark; the general manager’s husband recently passed away from what you heard from our parents, leaving him to be more annoyed at everything. And Satoru had a similar, blasé positive energy radiating off of him.

“So you seduced him!?” You jokingly said before pulling your hands out of his and moving to sit beside him, similar to him, with your back to the railing, knees under your chin, and thighs close to your chest.

“Nope. The only person I am trying to seduce is you.” Satoru’s head tilted to the side, and he kept looking at you. Recently, since he caught you checking him out while he was washing his car, his words and actions towards you have gotten bolder.

“Well….you should try harder.” You tried to lighten the tension in the air, which was now at least two or three degrees colder and felt suffocatingly hot, until he spoke up, still staring right into your eyes, with a faint trace of a smile on his lips, “I will.”

There was nothing more left to say after what he said, nothing, not even a joke to retaliate against the frustrating tension hanging heavy between you, making it impossible for you to breathe normally around Satoru.

“So! You're coming with me, or should I kidnap you?” You wish you could say no, but there was no refusing Gojo Satoru; that much you've learned about him clearly in these last couple of weeks.

As you looked out of the glass of the front window, exactly where the headlights of Satoru's car fell, on the side gate of the country club, only accessible by the employees. And yet here you were, getting dragged out of the soft leather seat of the car to sneak through that door with Satoru. Follow his steps closely from behind as he leads you to the pool by dragging you by your hand.

Without any word, Satoru let go of your hand once you two stepped on the paved concrete around the pool. Going straight to strip down to his boxers, his back muscles flexed with each step he took towards the pool. And some of the cold water in the pool splashed on you as he dived inside.

“You comin’ or what?” Satoru then intentionally splashed some water your way, absolutely drenched in the chloride-smelling water.

“This is as far as I go.” You walked up to the edge of the pool and sat down with your legs in the water. It made you flinch at first, surprising you how quickly the water cooled down since the sun set. The water started to feel nicer around your skin as you watched Satoru do several laps in the water.

He looked magnificent. One second he was at one end of the pool, and in the blink of an eye he was on the other side. It was easy to lose sight of him; he used the water to his advantage like a pro, which made you wonder if he did swimming back in school. How else was he able to hold his breath underwater so long that it had you worried enough to not notice his silhouette coming up to your legs and dragging you in the water?

“What are you—” You would have slapped his hands instantly off of your thighs if you knew what he was actually up to when they slithered up on them. Instead you were now in the cold chloride water, in Gojo Satoru's arms, trying to grab onto his shoulder and locking your legs around his waist.

It took you a few good minutes to acclimate yourself. With the cold water, and the feeling of drenched shorts and shirt, and especially the feeling that came from being in his arms. You could feel his body radiating heat even in the cold water and the vibrations that rumbled in his chest from laughing at the state of you, a clueless cat thrown off-guard in water.

“You, you're so dead.” His laughs only became deeper at your threats, and his arms tightened around your waist.

“Oh, c’mon, a little water never did anyone harm.” Satoru finally stopped laughing and just smiled at you; his gaze could not remain just on your eyes—they wavered. His pretty blue eyes scaled your face as if he were an archaeologist who just found a new artifact.

And under the scrutiny of his eyes, you could not continue the banter. It was agonizing to have the little 3-inch gap between you two; it felt more like 3 miles. So you couldn't help but close that distance. Satoru had similar ideas, as he met you halfway through.

His lips were everything and more that you ever imagined and dreamed of.

They were soft, and they tasted faintly of those fruit candies he always crunched on: oranges, strawberries, lemons, and pineapples. And overall he oddly tasted of summer. Like the embodiment of everything you ever wanted from an ideal summer. As his lips slotted themselves with yours with more assurance after the first few pecks to measure the boundaries he could step on, you could feel the giddy tingles back in your stomach, shivers that prickled the back of your nape and ran down your spine, when his tongue pushed against yours.

The hand that crept from your waist to your ass and pushed you up in his arms, your arms tightened around his neck, and one of your own hands went up his nape to his hair, the ends of which were now drenched in the pool water. And you wondered how you've been living without this, without kissing him silly the very day you met him, light tan and sweat covering his body, and just a cap to shield his eyes from the glaring sun.

“Hey! Is someone there!?”

You pushed away from him in a snap when the voice reached your ears. You had to push Satoru away by his shoulders to stop him from chasing your lips from the lack of their warmth on his.

When the guard blew on his whistle, that's when his eyebrows shot up. You placed your index finger on his lips as you saw them part so his voice wouldn't confirm the security guard's suspicions. And he nodded his head once to let you know he won't.

In a swift few seconds, Satoru swam to the edge of the pool, with you now in both of his arms, like a princess he needed to cradle close to his heart to keep her safe—you found it silly. The platform in the pool on which he was standing was barely five and a half feet deeper than the surface of the water. It was absolutely possible for you to walk to the edge by yourself, but you liked being in his arms. Even if the wiser thing to do in this situation would've been to separately make a run for it.

Once you two were out of the pool, he grabbed onto your hand in one hand, took both of your shoes in another, and his clothes under his armpit, and then made a run for it. You both ran barefoot on the concrete and crushed the dewy grass under your feet.

“HEY! YOU TWO! STOP RIGHT THERE!” The guard tried to shine his flashlight on you two.

“Don't turn around.” Satoru said while dragging you two towards the main entrance, avoiding the pebble path, and instead running across the prohibited grass fields.

It was the most invigorating rush you've felt in years.

Satoru did not stop his car until he was far enough from the country club. He parked his car by the riverbank, turned off his engine, and finally lay back in his seat with an exasperated sigh. You two sat staring ahead towards the river, then towards your sides, when your eyes landed on each other, and neither of you could hold back your laughter.

It was the most natural thing to be here with him, in your drenched clothes, him in his boxers, in his expensive-ass car, laughing like you two did not just commit a crime, one moment; and in the next moment you're on his lap and kissing him hungrily.

It was so good.

There was something about the cramped space, especially how his car was built; there was even less space compared to other cars—something that you usually get annoyed at, especially when you end up in the excuse of a backseat because of Suguru and his stupid long legs, but this time around you did not mind it.

You did not mind when his hands roamed up your back, hot and dry, a clear contrast to your wet and soggy clothes. It felt like everything had slowed down, from the cars on the road down to the gravity, and it was just you and him, against each other, lips slotted together like two perfect pieces of a puzzle, tongues exploring every little crevice in your mouths, and hands all over one another. You could feel his cock growing under you in his soggy boxers, incentivizing you to move your hips in a slow rhythm. He wasn't even sure anymore if it was wet from the water or just his precum. You could not take your hands off his shoulders nor out of his hair, and he could not take his hands off your ass and hips. It was addictive, and in the humidity of the summer night, it was more than enough to drive you crazy.

Desperate to feel more of him, more of his skin, you tried to take off your t-shirt while still kissing him, reluctant to take your lips off of his, even just for a second.

“Wait, sweets-wait.” He spoke in between your lips and pushed himself away from you. Without any explanation, he opened the doors on his side and went out of the car and pulled you out as well.

He haphazardly opened his back backdoor, pushed his front seat forward to make more room for the two of you, and lightly pushed on your lower back to make you get inside. Which you did, and finally took off everything on your upper body, then laid down on the seat and held yourself by your elbows, waiting for him to get in as well.

“Get in here.” You asked him, as you moved forward, to pull him inside the car by his neck, and your lips were back on each other. Your hands traced the shape of his cock over his boxers, and you tried to take off his boxers and slip your hands inside.

“Uh-uh, you first, sweets.” You didn't really understand what he meant by that; you just stared at his pretty smile and trusted whatever he wanted to do. But you couldn't have guessed what he did next. His right hand grabbed the back of your knees, and his other hand was on the seat for support. With flawless movements, your back was flat against his car seat, and he was in between your legs.

He started from your temples, soft lingering kisses on your eyes, the tip of your nose, a peck on your lips, and on your jaw. Then he went on to suck and bite all around your neck, with every intention to leave marks visible to anyone who tried to stare at you longer than ten seconds, which was generous in his opinion.

“I've been itching to get my hands on these pretty things.” His hands got a hold of your tits, squeezing them, fingers teasing one nipple while the other felt salient attention from his mouth. As his mouth swirled around your areolas, and his teeth bit down and pulled on your nipples while maintaining clear eye contact with you, you could feel the wetness between your legs dripping down your slit.

“Ugh—Satoru, ah, fuck.” You didn't really have anything to add, other than the moans and grunts that left your mouth. And his hands remained on your hips, rubbing up and down in soothing movements, as his lips continued to kiss downward once he had his fill of teasing your tits and was satisfied with the amount of marks he left behind on each mound and the valley in between them. A true scenic masterpiece in his opinion.

He stopped right above the waistband of your shorts before pulling them down with careful and calculated movements until you lay bare before his eyes. “Hah. No panties, huh?” He placed his mouth above your pelvic bone, right before your clit, and you could feel his mouth stretching into that very familiar devious smile on your skin.

“Sato—”

Your words remained in your mouth, and instead you let out a sharp yelp as his tongue took a long strip of lick from under your navel down to your clit. It was an awkward position to be stuck in, half bent, back almost hitting the ceiling of his car, one knee on the floor of his car, between his legs, and his foot was pressed against the door. But nothing bothered him more than the lack of your taste on his tongue.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You kept on chanting as your hands went to get a tight grip in your hair, almost pulling out a patch of white pearly hair, as his tongue continued to swirl around your clit. And the hands around your hips moved down to your thighs as they tightened around his head, holding a deathly grip around them but doing nothing to loosen them, probably digging his nails deep enough to leave marks and broken skin.

“Oh, I've fucking dreamed of dying between these pretty things. Fuck. Do your worst, baby.”

You wish you were the one wrecking him, even if he insisted he was the one blissed right out of his mind, between your legs, tongue teasing your pussy lips. One look at your face and anyone could tell who was absolutely fucked here. There was nothing imploring about how he dove right in like a starved man at your mercy. His teeth pulled your lips open to lick a long and anguished strip down from your clit to your now twitching hole. And in went his tongue.

Burning hotter than the summer sun, you were a puddle on his lips, like a melting popsicle.

“Sht—shit, shit. Ugh, ah, AH!”

Each one of your moans was returned with the vibration of his own grunts and moans, which ran through your core, making it worse for you to hold onto any semblance of sanity that remained intact. And it was hard to do that when his left hand was kneading your abdomen, and his thumb was rubbing away on your clit, and his right hand was digging into your thighs, pulling them up on his shoulder, all the while his lips sucked away every drop of arousal your cunt dripped, and his tongue poked around your walls.

“Please, Satoru, just—just please, want—no, need you inside.” You took one of your hands from where it was in his hair, which was now almost dry, and placed it on top of his hand on your abdomen. And without even moving his face, his fingers intertwined with yours and held onto them for his dear life as he finished giving you the first of the many orgasms for tonight.

“FUCK, Sat— AH, ah.” And you had nothing more than broken moans and words stuck in your throat to let out.

It was only when he was done lapping up everything with nimble licks that his hand let go of yours, which was shaking and almost numb. “Not just yet, sweets; gotta stretch you out properly.”

And the fingers that were just tangled with yours were now inside you. You were simply so out of it that you didn't even realize when his tongue got replaced with his finger, one at first, slowly mapping out the shape and ridges of your walls from within. Then two more to stretch you out well enough to accommodate him.

“There!” Your eyes rolled back in your head, and your head went back as his fingers found that one spot that almost drove you right over the edge in mere seconds.

“Here?” His head tilted as he pulled his fingers halfway out, teasing you even in this state, and saying things like he was the pitiful one in this equation. What a liar.

“Satoru, for fuck's sake!” Your hands flew to cover your eyes as your back arched off of the car seat; if it weren't for his right hand and shoulder holding you down, you would've probably fallen off.

“You surely know how to ask nicely for what you y’want.” You could see him smiling like a little shit between your legs when you took your hands off your eyes and instead dug your nails into his expensive car seat. Not like he minded.

“Will you just let me cum, Satoru?” Your tone was faux sweet, wavering at the mercy of his fingers turning inside of you.

“I need you to beg properly, baby.”

Satoru’s instructions came out as a matter-of-fact; his smile disappeared and left behind the piercing cerulean eyes, boring into your soul.

“Pleas—please, please, Satoru, let me cum.” Never in your life have you ever begged for anything like this; this was a first, and you could not be more glad that it was Gojo Satoru in between your legs, eliciting these embarrassing sides of you, instead of someone else.

And his smile returned to his face, and his fingers went right to work. It took him no more than two minutes to have you come undone on his fingers for the second time since you two ended up in his car. And there was nothing but exasperated breathing in the air, which Satoru assumed was probably more humid than the air outside, when he saw the windows fogged up. It made him chuckle to himself, thinking how cliché this was. But given the state he has gotten you in, he can't waste any more time before you pass out from just two orgasms. So he sat up and got rid of his underwear, finally feeling less suffocated.

“Don't have any condoms, sweets.” Satoru caressed the side of your face, making sure you didn't already pass out. He had no intention of pressuring you into anything; one word and he is cleaning you up, getting you some water, and driving you home to tuck you in your bed and cuddle you to sleep.

“Don't fucking care…… on birth control.” He chuckled at your scrambling and slurred words before he maneuvered you so that one of your legs was on his shoulder and the other was over his thigh, around his waist. He rubbed the head of his cock in your folds, getting whatever leftover juices that he could not lick clean all over his cock.

“WILL YOU JUST GET INSIDE?” You could not just tolerate any more of his teasing, so you had to take things into your own hands. Literally, as you moved one hand between the both of you and pushed his tip inside you, that was enough to have you flat on your back, unable to initiate anything else. Satoru also leaned forward from the sudden sensation of your slippery warm walls.

“Ah, fuck, don't rush it, sweets.” His whimpering was not helping you any more than the burning stretch you felt from just his tip. And he could tell from how your mouth fell open and the nails that dug into his seats harder than before. So he gave the both of you a second to adjust. It was no easy job to acclimate to the heat that you offered; it was dizzying, but he welcomed this heat over the burning sun.

“I’m goin’ in.” It was only after you gave him a late nod that he pushed the rest of him inside of you. And both of your yelps and grunts remained in the car. But surely if someone passed by, either one of your moans was enough to make them figure out the obvious.

Once he was inside, you assumed the never-ending dizziness that you felt around him, the rush of accidental touches, and heavy breaths—it'll all come to an end. Unfortunately, nothing really stopped; instead, there was something worse, something hotter and more imprudent between you two now. Each thrust of his hips and the kisses that he placed on your legs: everything was incinerating. And you wanted it all; it didn't matter if it was forever or a week, you needed this summer to never end.

“Ah—so good, sweets, so good to me.” Satoru kept on placing kisses around your shin, your ankle, and your knees, even leaning slightly down to bite down on your thighs. While his other hand pushed down on your abdomen, you felt his cock going in and out of you, and it was all so surreal—the warmth of your walls, your drooling mouth, the whimpers that left your throat, and those glazed eyes that refused to look away from him. And he didn't want this moment to ever end; he didn't want to pretend like every passing touch of your skin didn't burn him alive, that he could live on from here on forward without having you in his grasp.

“I, I’m coming, ‘toru.”

“Fuck, sweets—come with me. Please.”

He dropped your leg on the seat and pulled you on his lap, even while he still remained buried within you. In those last few minutes, he didn't move his hips with the same fervor as before; you two just grinned at each other, chasing your highs, the rush of having each other all to yourselves. With his face buried in your neck, kissing everywhere, down from the column of your neck to your jaw and finally to your lips, his arms around you tightened. And your nails dug into his shoulders as your tongues tangled with one another again, and this time you could taste the remnants of yourself in his mouth. As you both broke away from the kiss, with a single string of aliga connecting you two, all it took was one look for the both of you to come simultaneously.

“Fuck… fuck, fuck, sweets.”

“I know—I know, Satoru.”

And you two came together, holding onto each other for your dear lives, kissing one another into some other worldly ecstasy. You could feel his cum shooting up and pooling inside of you, and he could feel you twitching in his arms, your walls tightening, getting warmer with his cum dripping down and slipping out between you two. It took a while for you to come down from the high, and yet neither of you was willing to let go.

“Are you ok, sweets?” He asked while placing feather-light kisses on your shoulders while nudging your head slightly that remained steady on his shoulder.

“Mmhmm.” You did not have anything in you to utter a single comprehensible sentence. And Satoru knew that well enough to not push you any more; he chuckled to himself and let himself enjoy your company like this for a little longer. And he told himself a few minutes more, and then he'll properly clean you up and take you home.

While you drifted away into sleep, with a matching smile on your face, you told yourself how different this summer has been. And how, despite the disgusting heat and humidity, you never wanted this summer to end. To have one another in your arms, with reciprocity, and with the same rush that made your head silly that day you met—it was so good.

And you wanted the best out of this summer.

a/n: dividers by @/omi-resources. pictures from Pinterest, art by @/m0ryy

lmao ik i have two big wips in the works rn but lol when i saw moryy's art my mind just suddenly flooded with this plot and i was already singing rush by Troye Sivan in my head for the last few days lol ok and i have like 4 exams tmr bye i gotta cry and study.

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @teddytoru @cuntphoric @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @rriwyu @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @soupicidesquad @indiewritesxoxo @gojosconsort @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi @emochosoluvr

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sophistication-as · 1 month ago

Text

THE SONG OF A THOUSAND CRANES | G.S.

SUMMARY: forged from sin and lilies, you are the curse suguru is destined to destroy. yet beneath his blade blooms a tenderness more dangerous than death.

PAIRING: samurai!geto suguru x curse!fem!reader CONTAINS: angst, doomed romance, myth and folklore inspired, edo period japan, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff??, slow burn, forbidden love, paper cranes, a forest that acts as a guardian, samurai suguru supremacy WC: 16.6k WARNINGS: implied abuse/violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation

–THE MYTH

PROLOGUE: THE CURSE WAS SLAIN BENEATH THE FULL MOON And the forest fell silent ever after.

In ancient days, beneath the watchful gaze of distant gods, there lay a village cradled between towering mountains and dark forests–a village prosperous and proud, guarded by traditions as old as the mist that lingered between the trees. It was a village that knew tranquility only as intimately as it knew fear, for peace is ever fleeting, fragile as petals shaken loose by a storm.

A storm indeed had come–but one fashioned not of wind nor thunder, but sorrow. Born from shadow, born from grief, from the wicked whispers and the unspoken crimes of those who walked in daylight and wore masks of virtue, the curse emerged like a bloom opening under moonlight. In the darkness of a forgotten temple, where broken bells hung rusted and voiceless, she took her breath and opened ruinous eyes that reflected only the bitter sins of the living.

They called her a curse, a wraith formed from their collective suffering. A spirit wrought from sins too grave to name and sorrows too deep to bury. Some whispered she had been born when a child was left to perish, crying beneath silent, uncaring stars. Others murmured darker things–tales of violence done in shadows, of innocent blood spilled onto soil that yielded nothing but lilies, pale and ghostly under the moon’s watch.

She rose each night like mist from the temple grounds, a shadow among shadows, a silhouette outlined in moonlight, her robes billowing soft as spider silk, carrying the fragrance of lilies–sweet and heavy, intoxicating, suffocating. Her hair flowed like water, never quite touched by the moon’s silver glow, eyes cold and unfathomable as the bottomless lakes hidden deep within the mountain’s embrace. Her skin, though no one had clearly seen it, was said to be as soft and supple as fallen petals on frost, as smooth and deadly as polished jade.

The curse spoke no words to the villagers, but she sang. And when she did so, the villagers trembled. Her voice was not loud nor shrill–it was soft as mourning doves at dawn, sorrowful as an abandoned lover, sweet as poisoned honey dripping from a comb. Her song was beautiful, terribly beautiful. It stole the breath from the chests of men and women alike, filling their lungs with fragrant despair, until they wept tears of madness and joy intertwined, choking upon her tragic melody. Those who heard her song were found in the morning–faces pale and twisted, eyes frozen open, lips parted, breathless and beautiful in their deathly repose.

When the villagers tried to fight, their weapons rusted and rotted. When they ran, their paths twisted and turned back toward her shadowed temple. Always, when she took her victims, the bells of the abandoned temple would toll–hollow, mournful echoes filling air that stood still as though bound by unseen chains. No wind ever stirred the ancient chimes, yet their tolling marked death with relentless certainty.

Thus, the village languished beneath her reign, helpless, praying to deaf gods for relief, until the lord shogun himself took pity upon them. A messenger arrived with scroll and seal, proclaiming that the shogun, wise and merciful ruler, had sent one of his most loyal samurai–a warrior with a blade blessed by the priests and tempered under the watchful eyes of the gods–to slay the curse and restore peace.

The samurai’s name was Geto. His hair was long and dark as raven feathers, bound tightly back to reveal a face calm and stern, eyes clear as polished obsidian, devoid of fear. Geto was not merely brave–he was fearless, steadfast. He had faced countless foes upon countless battlefields, his katana a whispering judgement that had never faltered, never failed.

He entered the village upon a pale horse, its hooves silent as death upon mossy paths, and asked no comfort from the fearful people who cowered behind closed doors. With only his katana, wrapped carefully in fine silk, he made his way to the temple in the heart of the forest.

At the threshold of her cursed sanctuary, Geto paused only briefly, sensing neither dread nor hesitation. He stepped forward, fearless as he was honor-bound, into the shadows where lilies grew wild upon stones that bore forgotten names. The ghostly flowers parted like subjects before a king, bowing beneath the weight of his righteousness.

She came to him, then–silent as mist, beautiful as midnight, terrible as love betrayed. Her gaze was ice and poison, disastrous eyes seeking to entrance, to ensnare. Her voice rose, as soft and sad as a mourning wind, rich with longing meant to break a heart and steal a soul. Her hair floated as though submerged in water, her hands lifted gently, beckoning him forward to certain death.

But Geto was unmoved. Her voice could not stir his heart, her beauty could not dim his resolve. The samurai stood firm, katana unsheathed and shining with moonlight, pure silver against her shadows. She reached toward him with fingers lithe and lovely, her touch deathly soft, whispering sweet temptations to let go, to rest, to stay with her in the darkness forever. Yet he resisted, strong as a stone beneath storm, unwavering as the mountains that loomed above.

And when she saw that he could not be swayed, the curse screamed–not in song, but in fury. Her lovely face twisted, lilies scattering like broken promises under her wrath. She lunged, ethereal form shifting like smoke, hands becoming claws tipped with sorrow and despair. But the samurai was swifter than her rage, blade slicing clean and true through shadows that bled moonlight instead of blood.

The curse fell, defeated, vanishing like mist burned away by dawn. Her final cry echoed through the forest, ringing through the silent temple, drowning beneath the solemn tolling of bells. And as the last echo faded into silence, Geto sheathed his katana and turned away, never once glancing back at the emptiness left behind.

When the villagers awoke, they knew peace once more. Flowers grew again without pain, the wind sang softly through trees no longer haunted. The temple, though empty, was quiet. The bells ceased their tolling, finally silenced by the samurai’s divine justice.

Thus was peace returned by Geto, whose name lived in whispers and prayers, revered for courage that could not falter and honor that could not tarnish. And the curse, who had bloomed only to wither beneath a righteous blade, was forgotten–nothing more than a shadow in stories told to warn children, a whisper of danger that no longer dwelt among the living.

Yet some still wondered, quietly under the silence of stars, why the forest lilies remained so pale, so fragrant, so unbearably sad. And though the bells were still, why on certain nights, beneath the full moon’s sorrowful gaze, one might hear the ghostly strains of a beautiful voice–soft, mournful, forever singing of a love never born and a peace that was never truly found.

–THE TRUTH

PART I: SHE ROSE FROM ASH AND SORROW Born of grief, she fed on sin and silence.

You did not remember your birth, for you were never truly born. You were made–woven together, strand by strand, breath by breath, from the bitter threads of grief, betrayal, and despair. In a forgotten corner of a land tormented by hunger and shadow, your spirit was conjured from a darkness the villagers feared yet refused to name. They whispered of demons, specters, and curses, yet never spoke of the hands that shaped your existence, the sins they buried beneath the cold soil, watered by tears shed only in secret.

The village, beautiful in the daylight, thriving beneath the summer sun, masked unspeakable horrors in the privacy of its night. It was a village of silence, where children learned early never to cry loudly enough to draw attention, where mothers hushed weeping newborns by forceful hands, suffocating innocent breaths out of fear. It was a place where fathers gambled away their daughters underneath the flickering lanterns, where the starving stole scraps and paid for their desperate courage in fire. In those dark alleys, hidden among tangled pathways, bodies vanished, sins bloomed, and souls were traded like worthless coins.

It was from these atrocities that you rose–woven from sorrow and wrath, from despair and fury. From the woman who hung herself in the old stone well after listening helplessly to her child’s cries, until silence overtook them both. From the young girl whose pleading eyes did nothing to halt the flames that consumed her alive, a punishment for taking what she needed simply to survive. From the man whose greed devoured all his love, who sold his wife to wealthy travelers for riches that turned to ashes in his trembling hands. You were born of broken promises whispered by betrayers, of mutilated bodies abandoned without rites, of screams drowned beneath laughter and festivity.

When at last you drew your first breath–if breath it could be called–it filled your lungs not with air but with choking grief. You rose, neither alive nor dead, neither flesh nor wholly spirit, but something in between: a shadow wrapped in twilight, carrying sorrow in every unseen pore. Beneath your form lilies bloomed, pale and ghostly, feeding off bones long dissolved under fertile soil, their fragrance heavy and mournful as the scent of fresh graves. They clustered around your ankles, winding softly upwards like gentle chains, whispering reminders of sins that could not be forgiven, nor forgotten.

When you first opened your eyes, you stood upon the crumbling stones of a temple abandoned by gods who had long ceased to listen. The villagers had forsaken this place, left it to rot with moss and neglect, believing it would bury their crimes beneath creeping vines and fallen leaves. But the temple remembered everything, the earth hissed of deeds unspeakable, and from that sorrowful memory, you rose–silent, wondering, confused.

At first, you understood nothing. You wandered the crumbling shrine, floating quietly among rusted bells that had long lost their voices, touching worn stone carvings depicting gods whose names were erased by wind and rain. You did not know who you were, nor why you felt such pain, such overwhelming grief, as if mourning lives you had never known, hearts you had never touched.

Then came your song.

It emerged from your lips the way lilies unfurled beneath the moon: slowly, achingly, beautiful and deadly. Soft as silk, woeful as a widow’s lamentation, your voice carried melodies older than memory, dripping melancholy like honey. You sang because your sorrow demanded release, because silence was unbearable, because your soul overflowed with pain not truly yours but that you felt with cruel intimacy. You sang because it was all you knew, unaware of the death your song carried on its gentle notes.

The first time your melody drifted beyond the trees, it reached a man lurking at the edge of the woods–one whose hands were stained with the blood of those he betrayed. You did not see him. You did not know him. Yet your voice wrapped around him softly, quietly, inescapably. His lungs filled not with air but with flowers, delicate blue lotuses blooming invisibly beneath his skin, bursting with silent agony as he fell, choking, staring upward at the moon with desperate eyes. When he drew his final, anguished breath, the rusted bells in your temple tolled forlornly, without wind or hand.

You wept in confusion at your unintended cruelty, your tears vanishing into the earth, nourishing lilies that grew thicker, brighter, heavier with sweet sorrow. You hid within the temple’s shadows, ashamed of your very existence, yearning for understanding yet afraid of yourself.

It was not long before others came, drawn not by curiosity, but by their sins–by lust, greed, ferocity. Your forest, older than their crimes, took them before your voice could reach them, vines and thorns piercing flesh, roots rising hungrily from soil fed by innocent blood. The bells tolled, steady and solemn, as the earth reclaimed what it had lost, burying their bodies quietly underneath lilies and moss.

The villagers, terrified, spoke of a curse who sang and slew, blaming you rather than acknowledging their deeds. They cast stones upon your temple’s steps, whispered hateful prayers beneath frightened breaths, condemned your name without ever knowing it. No innocent, however, ever stumbled onto your grounds. It was as though purity itself shielded the good from your presence, and you soon understood why: you had been made to punish, crafted to reflect their sins back upon them, a mirror of their own cruelty and despair.

Slowly, painfully, you accepted this truth. If you could not control your song, nor tame the forest that guarded you fiercely, you would at least embrace the purpose forced upon you. You no longer wept when your melody brought death, nor mourned when the bells rang through quiet nights. Those who came seeking destruction would find only their own. You learned solitude, learned silence when possible, learned acceptance of a duty no spirit ever asked for.

You lived alone, cloaked in shadows, hidden from stars that watched you woefully, their silence deep as the universe. Days and nights became meaningless as you drifted through the ruined temple, brushing fingers over lilies that curled affectionately around your touch. You were neither evil nor righteous–only a vessel of justice born of tragedy. A ghost fashioned from living sin.

But in quiet moments, beneath moonlight filtering gently through tangled branches, you wondered if perhaps, had the villagers been kinder, had they not spilled innocent blood, had their cruelty never awakened you… perhaps you might have been something else. Something kinder, softer–a guardian rather than an executioner.

Yet they had shaped you in cruelty, in bloodshed, in unspeakable horrors. They had given you voice only to lament, hands only to claim souls. The forest was your ally and your jailer; it protected and imprisoned, loved and smothered you. You belonged to the lilies and the shadows, to songs and silence.

One night, beneath a moon heavy and full, you stood at the heart of your temple and raised your eyes to the stars. Your voice rose gently, without command or wish, flowing like silk upon the air. A new song, mourning all you had become, all you could never be.

And in distant homes, behind barred doors, villagers trembled, whispering prayers to gods who would never answer, hiding their sins underneath desperate pleas. For in your voice lay judgement woven delicately through sorrow, inevitable as the lilies that blossomed beautifully, mercilessly, beneath the silver moon.

PART II: THE WARRIOR CARRIED THE GODS IN HIS BLADE His sword did not tremble. His heart did not yield.

Geto Suguru hears of the curse long before the messenger arrives. Rumors drift through the shogun’s capital like smoke through silk curtains–soft whispers behind paper screens, murmured exchanges among retainers in dimly lit halls. Tales grow like weeds in the courtyards: villagers found with faces twisted in agony and beauty, lungs flowering from within, temples overtaken by lilies and ghosts. Some speak of a siren song that kills softly, of bells tolling where no hand pulls the rope. The stories twist with each telling, painted thickly with superstition, dread, and awe.

He sits silently at the edge of the shogun’s hall, eyes half-lidded, listening to the voices ripple across the room, soft like rain on rooftops. In his mind, Suguru separates truth from embellishment, filtering superstition from reality, leaving only bones and blood and logic. He understands well enough what these whispers mean: another monster born from the rot of men, another slaughter he must carry out in the name of peace.

He watches from the corner of his vision as the messenger is ushered into the hall, head bowed, trembling hands gripping a sealed scroll. This village–one that supplies the shogunate with rice, lumber and silk–is too important to lose. Its suffering cannot be allowed to continue. Too many have died, and too few shipments have reached the capital in recent months. The shogun, compassionate only when it suits his reputation, will not tolerate disruptions to his precious order.

When the summons comes, Suguru rises fluidly from his kneeling position, his movements precise, practised. He crosses polished floors, feeling countless eyes follow his steps, their gazes heavy with reverence and envy. They see him as fearless, incorruptible–like iron tempered beneath priestly chants, immune to rust or doubt.

In truth, Suguru is merely weary, resigned to duties performed again and again, tasks grown repetitive and meaningless. But he carries his weariness like a badge under layers of silk and steel, hidden deeply, unreachable to the eyes that watch him so closely. His hair, dark and neatly bound, marks his rank, his face unreadable, flawless in its practiced stillness.

“Geto Suguru,” the shogun addresses him, voice authoritative yet detached, “you have heard the whispers, I presume?”

“Yes, my lord,” Suguru answers, lowering his head respectfully.

The shogun gestures for the messenger to speak. The man stumbles forward, pale and sweating, proffering the scroll as if holding fire in his shaking palms.

“My lord,” he begins, voice quivering, “the curse has killed many. We find our people dead each dawn, faces marked with strange blossoms, their lungs filled with flowers. No weapon can harm it, no prayer drives it away. It haunts the old forest temple–”

Suguru takes the scroll, unfurls it slowly, methodically. Elegant calligraphy stretches across ivory paper, detailing the village’s plight with more drama than truth. He scans quickly, folding it again with careful precision.

“What exactly have you seen?” Suguru asks calmly, eyes pinning the messenger’s fearful gaze. “Describe the curse.”

The messenger swallows hard, wiping his forehead with a trembling sleeve.

“It is a woman, they say, though no one sees her clearly. She sings, sir–sings softly, beautifully, yet whoever hears her dies choking, flowers sprouting from within. Lilies bloom everywhere, sir, even atop graves. Bells toll when she kills, though no one touches them. They say she guards the temple and takes vengeance on all who enter.”

“Vengeance,” Suguru echoes quietly, thoughtfully.

The shogun interrupts, impatient. “This curse must be felled. Take your blade, Geto. End it swiftly.”

“As you command, my lord,” Suguru replies smoothly, bowing once more, obedience etched clearly in every disciplined movement. He steps backward gracefully, turning to leave the hall, feeling the weight of countless eyes following his path.

Outside, servants await him with his horse, saddled and ready, the pale animal standing motionless as a statue beneath the sunlit sky. He approaches quietly, patting the steed’s neck in silent greeting, fingers tracing familiar patterns through its silvery mane.

His katana rests at his hip, wrapped lovingly in silk, the hilt familiar and reassuring beneath his palm. This blade is indeed special, though not because it carries any blessing from gods or priests. Its strength comes from steel alone–folded, tempered, sharpened by human hands skilled in the art of destruction. No divinity resides within its polished edge, no heavenly voice guides its strikes. Only Suguru’s steady grip and honed instincts give it power.

He mounts swiftly, guiding the horse toward the city gates without looking back. As he rides, the bustle of the capital fades gradually behind him, replaced by quiet fields stretching under wide, empty skies. With each step, the rumors settle deeper within his chest, taking shape, whispering questions he cannot answer, doubts he will not entertain. He feels neither brave nor cowardly–only numb, resigned, driven forward by a duty that has become mechanical, detached from meaning.

Something about this particular tale, however, lingers just beneath his thoughts–an unease stirred by words like lilies, bells, and song. Perhaps it is merely exhaustion whispering uncertainty, or perhaps it is intuition–a quiet warning that this task might differ from countless others he has executed without hesitation.

He allows himself no further contemplation, burying doubt underneath resolve, silencing uncertainty with practiced discipline. Yet the whispers persist softly in the quiet spaces of his mind, following him as he moves steadily toward the village’s darkened horizon, toward a forest said to be cursed, toward a temple haunted by a song he has never heard, but already knows will plague him.

His blade, untouched by gods, unblessed by priests, rests silently at his side, promising only steel, judgement, and finality.

In truth, Geto Suguru feels neither valor nor fear–only a distant weariness, like the first breath of winter frost, chilling and familiar.

Suguru reaches the outskirts of the village at dusk. The sky is bruised in shades of violet and ochre, like old wounds fading beneath gentle skin. He pauses at the village’s edge, breathing deeply the scent of smoke and decay that lingers even here, thinly veiled by aromas of cooked rice and burnt incense.

He steps down from his pale horse, guiding it quietly along paths overgrown with weeds. He notices the unnatural silence, how the crickets hesitate in their chorus, how even the wind holds its breath as though afraid to disturb the hush of the land. Lanterns flicker ahead, casting a weak, uncertain glow over the clustered homes–each one crouching low, hunched under the weight of invisible guilt.

Word spreads fast of his arrival. Doors creak open cautiously, releasing villagers who pour forth like shadows into fading twilight. Faces hollow and pale peer at him anxiously, eyes glittering with a mix of reverence and fear. Voices murmur and hiss excitedly, clawing at the air with whispered accusations and desperate prayers.

They surround him quickly, reaching hands extended to touch the sleeves of his kimono as though grasping at a fragment of salvation itself. Their voices clash and overlap, incoherent, pleading, ugly in their desperation.

“Samurai-sama,” a withered woman calls hoarsely, grabbing at his wrist, her fingers thin as dried reeds, nails caked in dirt, “you have come to slay the demon at last!”

“The curse has stolen another child!” another voice shrieks, wavering with hysteria, shoving forward to meet his gaze, teeth rotted and blackened. “It sings, it sings–and flowers bloom in their throats. It mocks us, even as it kills us!”

Suguru’s eyes move slowly among the gathered crowd, observing their faces carefully, neutrally. He sees twisted grief, sour anger, but beneath it something darker–fear tempered by guilt, suspicion grown from sin. They seem repulsive to him in this moment, grotesque in their eagerness to place blame on something unseen, rather than confronting the rot within their own hearts.

He is no stranger to curses. Nor is he ignorant of their nature: that they are not truly born but rather shaped, molded, nurtured by darkness within human souls. He has felled many, yet none so hauntingly described, none cloaked in lilies and song, none heralded by mournful bells. These signs trouble him, the quiet beauty wrapped delicately around the death they bring. They speak less of malice, more of sorrow–something that silently demands understanding, not blind violence.

The villagers continue their bombardment, oblivious to his hesitation. An old man pushes forward, his back bent double, eyes rheumy, voice crackling with age and venom. “She is a seductress of souls, Samurai-sama! A demoness who wears beauty like silk and sings to ensnare good men. She has bewitched the forest itself, summoning vines and thorns to tear flesh from bones!”

Beside him, a woman hisses, “She rose from the grave of a woman drowned for her sins–a wicked harlot punished by the gods themselves!”

“She lures the innocent–”

“No,” Suguru interrupts quietly, gently lifting a hand to halt their tangled voices. “Innocent?” He scans their faces once more, thoroughly. “Has she taken the innocent?”

A silence heavier than guilt settles thickly upon them. Eyes shift nervously downward, fingers clutch sleeves, feet shuffle anxiously. They avoid his gaze, haunted by something deeper than mere fear–something like shame.

Then the bells ring, softly at first, clear yet impossibly distant. They ripple outward gently, mournfully, filling the empty spaces between breaths, weaving through silence like silver threads of melancholy. The villagers gasp collectively, shuddering, turning frightened eyes toward the forest shrouded in darkness.

Suguru stands still, listening intently. Another soul claimed, yet he cannot help but wonder at the gentleness of these chimes. They ring with sorrow, not triumph. They toll with regret, not joy.

He shifts his katana into its saya slowly, deliberately, the soft metallic whisper silencing the villagers once more. He tucks the silk away. “Enough,” he speaks evenly, authority tempered by weariness. “Show me where I am to rest. I ride at moonrise.”

They lead him to a home more spacious than the rest, its floor mats worn, faded, yet carefully swept. He is seated respectfully, offered rice and fish and tea, which he accepts without enthusiasm, tasting emptiness behind each bite. They chatter endlessly, recounting each incident, embellishing deaths into horror stories filled with seductive spirits and clawed demons.

He eats mechanically, listening without interest. Their tales bore him, their voices scratch at his patience, their desperate lies and half-truths growing thin. Yet he remains quiet, passive, allowing their fears and suspicions to drain into him, absorbing without agreeing, observing without judgement. He has no taste for the way they blame their suffering upon phantoms when their own shadows bleed sin into the soil beneath their homes.

Outside, the bells have stopped tolling. The villagers have retreated, leaving him alone in fragile silence, moonlight filtering through paper screens and painting patterns of light and darkness across his folded hands. He sits still, empty plates before him, gaze trained on shadows dancing softly upon the floorboards.

He knows curses too well. He has seen too many shaped by human cruelty, bound tightly in bitterness and blood. Yet lilies–pure and pale beneath moonlight, their fragrance heavy yet sweet–have no malice. Bells, solemn and soft, speak grief rather than rage. And songs… Songs are never weapons in the hands of monsters, but laments of souls wounded beyond healing.

Perhaps, Suguru thinks slowly, thoughtfully, it is not the villagers who need protection from this curse. Perhaps it is the curse who needs protection from them.

He rises, straightening his garments, adjusting his katana at his side. He steps into the courtyard, looking skyward to see the moon climb steadily into place–full and pale and watching solemnly, impartially, as though it already knows the truths he has yet to uncover.

Suguru mounts his horse quietly, hands steady, heart uncertain but disciplined into silence. He looks toward the forest now silhouetted against moonlit clouds, dark and mysterious, awaiting his approach.

He knows what is expected of him. He will ride into the forest. He will find the curse.

But his thoughts remain unsettled, unsure, drifting toward lilies blooming from sorrowful soil, toward songs trembling in grief, toward bells ringing softly without cruelty.

He nudges his horse forward, hooves moving soundlessly across moss and dirt. And as the village disappears behind him, Suguru carries within him only the questions he cannot answer, the doubts he cannot quiet, and the faintest glimmer of curiosity–something he has not felt in a very long time.

Tonight, beneath the watching moon, he rides toward death or revelation–perhaps both. But he knows now, in his bones and blood, that the truth he seeks lies far deeper than steel alone can reach.

PART III: HER SONG LURED MEN AND WOMEN TO DEATH Soft as snowfall, sweet as rot.

The forest greets him like an old enemy–coldly, silently, awaiting his misstep with patient cruelty. As Suguru steps away from the moonlit clearing where his horse stands tethered, he pauses, breathing deeply. The air here is thick, heavy with moisture, dense with the fragrance of lilies and the deeper, cloying scent of decay hidden beneath the sweetness.

He proceeds carefully, each step precise, thoughtful, moving through shadows cast by trees whose branches weave together like hands clasped in desperate prayer. Moonlight becomes a rarity underneath this living canopy; starlight is but memory here, consumed by ancient foliage. The trees crowd closer, whispering softly in a language older than any human tongue–warning, mocking, testing him with every heedful advance.

Branches reach gently at first, brushing him like the hands of uncertain lovers–tentative, mild. Gradually, they grasp tighter, pressing, scraping, dragging against his garments. He winces silently when thorns graze his cheek, his sleeves torn as he pushes onward, deeper into this labyrinthine heart. Vines snake hungrily around his ankles, yet he pulls forward, determination quiet, relentless. He knows the taste of violence intimately, wears atrocity like a hidden scar beneath his clothes; the forest recognizes this scent of bloodshed and sins unredeemed.

He steps over roots swollen like veins atop dark soil, ducking under moss-laden boughs thick as burial shrouds, until he stands breathless yet unyielding before a path carved reluctantly into shadow. Lilies bloom here, luminous and ghostly in their beauty, crowding the narrow path as though eager to bar his entry or welcome him intimately–he cannot yet discern which.

Beyond the lilies rises the temple: ancient, broken, hauntingly serene despite the rot eating away at its beams and foundations. Its doors hang crookedly open, vines climbing desperately over splintered wood, as if trying to heal wounds of abandonment with their gentle embrace. Bells rusted and tarnished hang solemnly above, motionless yet watching carefully, silent sentinels waiting for their cue to toll once more.

Suguru crosses the threshold, blade sheathed at his side. He takes measured breaths, eyes adjusting to shadowed depths that whisper sorrowfully, greeting him not with malice but melancholy. Inside, the air is cooler, almost comforting, scented faintly with incense long extinguished and forgotten prayers. Shadows drape themselves gracefully over ruined altars, old statues shattered yet dignified in their brokenness, faces worn smooth, voiceless yet eloquent in their muted despair.

He touches nothing, simply observes with eyes darkened by shadows of his own deeds, feeling strangely out of place, as though his very presence here is an intrusion upon a sacred grief that does not belong to him.

Then he hears it–a voice rising gently, softly, like mist unfurling over a still lake. His breath halts sharply in his chest, caught suddenly by that fragile melody, each note trembling, achingly beautiful, profoundly sorrowful. The song drifts toward him like an offering carried by delicate hands, wrapping tenderly around his heart in ribbons woven of regret and longing.

It is the sweetest agony he has ever known.

His chest tightens painfully, lungs fluttering beneath the pressure of that melody, as though petals are blooming within him, flowering steadily, suffocatingly, winsomely. Suguru remains standing, firm despite shaking breath, defiant against the seduction of surrender. He listens carefully, absorbing each note like precious silk unraveling around his resolve.

He wonders quietly, almost breathlessly, how something capable of killing so softly can hold within its voice so much tenderness, so much pain–nothing of cruelty, nothing malicious. It is mourning set to music, grief distilled purely into sound, its lethality an afterthought rather than intention.

Slowly, his eyes lift, searching through shadows for the singer whose voice haunts him now so beautifully. He sees only darkness, the fluttering of moths that drift lazily around lanterns long extinguished. The voice pauses briefly, hesitating–aware of him, perhaps cautious of this intruder who carries steel but wields no weapon.

Suguru’s lips part, breathless words escaping before he can halt their flow:

“Is it you who kills?”

He hears no response, only silence stretching gently between them like silk threads spun in darkness, yet he feels eyes upon him, observing, quiet and watchful, uncertain of his purpose as he is unsure of his own.

The voice returns warily, flowing toward him once more, slightly softer now, vulnerable in its honesty, fragile but inexorable. He listens, heart aching beneath the weight of emotions he does not understand, emotions he had long believed he had buried under discipline and bloodshed.

“Do you sing to mourn or kill?” he murmurs softly, again.

No words come in reply–only song, tender as morning rain, heartbreaking as a child’s plea for mercy. His chest tightens further, his eyes grow warm with a sorrow he has never permitted himself to feel until now. Tears prick painfully yet remain unfallen, withheld stubbornly behind eyes trained to never reveal weakness or doubt.

He breathes deeply, forcing control into limbs that quake softly, hands that ache to find something solid upon which to anchor himself. He has felled curses before–monsters, spirits, nightmares shaped by human cruelty–yet he has never faced something so clement, so terribly, tragically beautiful, whose lethality is accidental, whose presence seems rooted in woe rather than malevolence.

And so, though he should draw steel and sever song from sorrow, he remains passive, blade untouched at his side. He stands still under the temple’s broken roof, moonlight filtering through cracks like silver threads woven among shadows, breathing softly, deeply, letting the song touch him with kind fingers that promise nothing but sadness, nothing but truth.

You watch from the shadows unseen, cautious, wary, prepared for violence yet curious about the silence of his weapon. You have killed many, though never by choice, never with joy–always mourning those your voice claims gently, relentlessly. But this one stands calmly, his heart troubled yet quiet, weapon sheathed, as though awaiting something other than death.

You wait, hidden and watchful, feeling neither safety nor threat, but rather a strange, brittle interest. For the first time since your unholy birth, a human hears your voice clearly and remains alive, unbroken, unharmed.

He does not raise his katana, and hope stirs tentatively, dangerously in your wounded heart, as frail as moth-wings brushing moonlit air.

Your song fades like the ending of a dream, leaving behind an aching stillness heavier than any melody. The temple becomes a tomb once more, shadows reclaiming their hold, moonlight slicing through broken rafters in sharp ribbons, illuminating dust and memory. The silence hits Suguru with the force of a blade, a sudden, violent cessation of something he had not realized he depended upon for breath.

And suddenly he collapses, knees striking cold stone as his hands claw at his chest. His lungs burn with a strange, exquisite agony–as though flower buds, tender and merciless, had begun blooming inside him, unfurling petals that now wither into dust as your song vanishes. He gasps, heart stumbling erratically, vision clouding as though caught between drowning and awakening.

From the shadows you emerge like mist pulled forth by moonlight–form vague yet captivating, features softly defined in pale glow and ink-dark shade. Your robes drift like silk upon water, cascading around your ankles in ripples of silver. You gaze at him warily, lips parted slightly, unsure how to address a man who still breathes after your voice has touched him.

“How?” you murmur at last, your voice devoid of song but heavy with disbelief. “How did you come so far?”

Suguru meets your eyes, lungs raw as he draws careful, unsteady breaths. He tastes lotuses, feels ghostly petals wilt upon his tongue. His voice is low, rough with lingering pain. “I do not know.”

“None survive my song,” you reply, a note of distant regret threading through your words. “No one reaches this shrine without punishment.”

“The forest tried,” he whispers, standing with slow determination, hands trembling slightly as he steadies himself. “But it seems I am difficult to kill.”

You narrow your eyes, studying him with cautious curiosity. “The forest claims only the guilty,” you say, your voice softening almost imperceptibly. “It kills without mercy, punishing the sins brought into its domain.”

He nods, understanding you without admission. “Yet here I am.”

“Yes,” you agree, neither accusation nor judgement in your voice–only confusion, perhaps awe. “And I do not know why.”

He regards you with quiet scrutiny, taking in the softness of your form, the sadness haunting your expression. Nothing in you resembles the malevolence whispered by the villagers, the wickedness described with shaking tongues and fearful hearts. He sees only melancholy wrapped in moonlight, sorrow clothed in silk. Your eyes reflect neither malice nor cruelty, only a weariness too profound for words.

“I’ve slain curses before,” Suguru finally says, “but none like you.”

You tilt your head to the side, cautious still. “What makes me different?”

“You have no claws,” he answers, quiet yet firm. “No teeth that rend flesh. Only a voice. Only flowers and bells.” He pauses, eyes dark with contemplation. “Only death that comes unbidden.”

Your gaze falters slightly, voice lowering, nearly breaking beneath the burden it carries. “I do not choose to kill. I would halt it, if only I knew how. But this curse–my curse–is beyond me. My song rises without permission, my forest guards me fiercely, punishing only those whose crimes stain deeply.”

He exhales slowly, understanding settling upon him with undeniable clarity. “The villagers speak as though innocent blood marks your hands. Yet I see no innocence in them.”

You regard him solemnly, lips pressed into a delicate, sorrowful line. “Innocence does not stray here,” you murmur, gaze distant, haunted. “Those who enter carry darkness heavier than their bones. The forest senses it, devours them whole. My voice finishes what their deeds began.”

“They blame you,” Suguru says, bitterness coloring his voice. “Rather than face their own shadows.”

“Of course,” you reply, voice tinged with gentle resignation. “It’s easier to fear a monster than confront oneself.”

Silence spreads between you once more, weighted by understanding and sorrow unspoken yet deeply felt. You watch him warily, recognizing in him a complexity you’ve never witnessed before–a strength tempered by weariness, a darkness unwilling yet unmistakable. He is dangerous, yes–but you sense he is not dangerous to you.

“You should leave,” you tell him finally, softly insistent. “You’ve seen enough.”

He stands motionless, observing you intently. “Are you not afraid I’ll return to end your existence?”

“If that were your intent,” you reply quietly, eyes steady, unflinching, “you’d already have tried. But your weapon remains sheathed, your hands empty.”

He almost smiles–almost. “You assume I am stronger than I am.”

“Are you not?” you ask, neither skeptical nor challenging–simply curious.

He shakes his head slightly, eyes shadowed with something unreadable, fragile beneath layers of practiced discipline. “No,” he whispers. “I am not strong at all.”

You say nothing more, respecting the quiet truth behind his words, acknowledging a sorrow he does not give freely but which radiates from him nonetheless. The silence deepens, heavy yet peaceful, a frail truce binding two being accustomed only to solitude and suffering.

Slowly, you step backward into shadow, withdrawing carefully from the delicate intimacy born of shared pain. “Do not return here, Samurai,” you murmur gently. “I cannot guarantee your safety again.”

“You will not harm me,” he replies, soft certainty coloring his words.

“It is not I who would harm you,” you remind him quietly. “My curse is beyond control. It does not spare those it finds.”

He nods slowly, understanding yet unwilling to give promise. You vanish wordlessly, like smoke dissolving into darkness, leaving behind only moonlight and silence and lilies that bloom eternally upon stained earth.

Suguru stands for several moments more, breathing deeply the air still fragrant with lilies and loss. Eventually he turns, stepping back into the forest, passing once more through branches and vines that no longer grasp hungrily but hang motionless, subdued, respectful of something unspoken yet understood between curse and samurai.

He reaches his horse at dawn, the sun bleeding gently across the horizon, banishing shadows yet unable to erase memory. He rides back to the village, meeting the villagers with careful, practiced deception.

“The curse is stronger than anticipated,” he lies smoothly, voice authoritative yet hollow. “I must prepare differently. Stay indoors, avoid the forest. Wait for my return.”

He does not stay to witness their fearful nods or whispered thanks. He retreats to the quiet house prepared for him, isolating himself carefully, thoughts haunted by your presence, your voice, the quiet sorrow that cloaks you.

That night, beneath lamplight softened by paper screens, Suguru sits alone, folding paper with meticulous fingers, transforming blank sheets into delicate cranes, each fold precise, intentional, filled with silent wishes he does not yet dare to speak aloud. He does not fully understand why he begins this quiet ritual–only that each crane eases slightly the ache lodged deep within his chest.

Outside, the forest waits silently, guarding secrets gently, lovingly, until night descends once more, and your voice rises again softly–woeful and beautiful, calling to darkness, mournful yet mercifully unheard by human ears tonight.

PART IV: HE WITHSTOOD HER SEDUCTION Even when she wept in moonlight.

The next night, the moon ascends with reluctant grace, slipping silently through clouds heavy with hidden rain. Its pale, half-veiled face casts a hesitant glow over the forest path, painting trees and roots in silver melancholy. Suguru moves deliberately, breath steady, heart uncertain, though he hides doubt behind careful silence. He carries no lantern, drawing guidance from memory, senses sharpened by years of following darkness toward unknown ends.

The forest welcomes him less kindly this time, its vines snaking aggressively toward his ankles, roots grasping fiercely beneath his sandals. Branches rake at his face, leaving thin, stinging cuts along cheek and brow, reminders of countless sins etched invisibly into his skin. His robes snag on thorn-covered bushes, cloth tearing quietly in protest as he moves forward, determined despite whispered warnings carried by rustling leaves.

Suguru understands the forest’s anger, its fierce desire to punish what he represents–bloodshed ordered in hushed councils, the wordless crimes committed under a banner of justice. He bears the forest’s punishment without resentment, enduring sharp thorns, bleeding in silence, knowing well the price exacted for the truths he has buried deeply. He pushes onward however, unyielding beneath the weight of guilt, guided by something he cannot name just yet–something drawn forth by sorrowful songs and lilies blooming from sadness.

As he breaches the tree-line and stands once more before your crumbling temple, your voice rises instinctively, lifting into the night as delicate as the scent of lilies carried on an evening breeze. The first notes waver like whispers upon water, mournful, sweetly tragic, before abruptly fading–choked, halted suddenly by recognition. Your voice fails you, notes dissolving like mist caught by sunrise, leaving behind startled silence.

You emerge from the shadows swiftly, robes rippling gently around you, eyes bright with disbelief and frustration.

“You returned?” Your voice shatters the quiet sharply, incredulity tangible in your breathless words.

Suguru regards you calmly, ignoring the scratches on his skin, the torn edges of his clothing. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“You are going to get yourself killed,” you snap, exasperation mingling with worry, emotions unfamiliar and uncomfortable. “The forest will not allow you passage again. Why have you come back?”

He does not answer immediately, only watches you closely, quietly, something unreadable lingering in his dark gaze. You sense a softness behind the disciplined mask he wears, though he offers no words to reveal it.

“I know you were sent to kill me,” you press softly, eyes narrowing, voice low with tension. “Yet your blade remained sheathed yesterday. Why?”

“Perhaps,” Suguru replies carefully, “I found no need to draw it.”

“That’s absurd,” you retort, anger tinged with confusion, a strange heat rising beneath your calm facade. “You felt my power. You felt the death woven into my song. Do you think you can resist it again?”

He tilts his head slightly, a faint smile ghosting his lips, gentle yet stubborn. “Your song did not kill me last night. Nor tonight. Perhaps it won’t try again.”

You stare at him incredulously, fingers curling tightly into your sleeves. “You risk your life on assumptions.”

“Not assumptions,” he replies, meeting your gaze steadily. “Instinct.”

You fall silent, unable to fathom such obstinate behavior. He is different from any human you’ve encountered–unyielding, resolute, calm beneath the harshness of your warnings. You realize suddenly he carries something in his hands–a small wooden box, carefully wrapped in silk.

He notices your gaze, steps closer carefully, offering the box with outstretched hands. “For you.”

You hesitate, wary, uncertain how to respond. Never before has a gift been presented to you, never before has a human shown such gentle persistence. Your fingers tremble faintly as you accept the box, lifting away the silk cover to reveal glistening candied plums, sweet and fragrant, something delicate and lovely you’ve never imagined tasting.

“What is this?” you ask quietly, eyes flickering toward him in curious wonder.

“An offering,” Suguru answers simply, “to prove I mean no harm.”

You pick up one of the plums, cautiously tasting sweetness upon your tongue–strange, intoxicating, beautiful. Your guarded expression softens lightly, unable to fully hide your astonishment or delight.

“Why?” you whisper, eyes lifting to his, questioning his intentions but no longer angry.

Suguru’s expression gentles further, a subtle warmth entering his dark eyes. “You don’t seem accustomed to kindness.”

“I’ve had no reason to be,” you reply, the truth feeling fragile in your mouth.

He reaches slowly into his sleeve, pulling forth a stack of flimsy sheets of paper, pale as moonlight, thin as breath. Carefully, deliberately, he sits upon the stone steps leading into the temple, smoothing the paper upon his knee, his long fingers moving in practiced precision.

You watch him closely, fascinated despite yourself. “What are you doing?”

“Folding cranes,” he murmurs without raising his eyes, fingers moving gracefully as each fold transforms the paper into something delicate, elegant, alluring.

“What purpose does it serve?” you ask cautiously, drawn closer by interest, kneeling prudently beside him.

He pauses briefly, eyes flicking toward you with quiet contemplation. “They are a tradition. They represent hope and desire.”

“For what?”

He does not answer, only continues folding with care, face calm and unreadable. You observe in silence, memorizing his motions, learning this gentle ritual from him. He finishes the crane, placing it delicately upon the ground between you both, wordless invitation in his action.

Slowly, you reach forward, fingertips brushing over paper shaped like wings, marveling quietly at its beauty. “Will you teach me?” you ask, voice barely audible, hesitant, yet oddly hopeful.

He nods, passing a fresh sheet of paper to your hand. “Watch closely.”

You follow his movements, mimicking his folds precisely, each crease becoming the bones of something beautiful and intricate, until a second crane rests in your palm.

“Do you fold these often?” you inquire softly, turning the paper bird in your fingers like it’s made of glass.

“Not until last night,” he answers quietly.

“Why?”

His eyes drift toward you, hesitant yet unwilling to speak his reasons aloud. He simply says, “Because it calms me. Because I wish to.”

You sense there is more hidden behind his words, yet do not press further. Silence settles over you both comfortably, punctuated only by rustling paper, soft breaths mingling between you, cranes forming one after another upon the stone steps.

After several more cranes, you pause again, holding one carefully in your hand, regarding him thoughtfully. “You truly intend no harm?”

He meets your gaze steadily, eyes filled with sincerity. “None. You believed I was stronger than I was. Perhaps you were correct.”

You nod once, unsure but choosing to trust him despite the uncertainty. “Then stay, if you wish,” you whisper. “But only briefly.”

“Understood,” he murmurs, continuing his folding.

You remain quietly beside him, watching moonlight reflect upon folded paper, lilies blooming faintly around you both, the fragrance filling night air with sweetness born of melancholy. Your heart beats gently, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting, your thoughts lingering upon the warmth of his presence.

You do not fully understand why he returned, nor why he chooses this companionship, but you ask nothing more, content to share this moment between shadows and sorrow. With someone who does not want you slain.

Later, after he departs into darkness, you gather the folded cranes he left behind, cupping them in your palms with utmost care like precious treasures. You wonder about their hidden meaning, suspecting the depths of intention he has not revealed.

And in your chest, fragile hope blooms delicately once more, like paper wings taking shape beneath careful hands, waiting to discover what wish these silent cranes might one day grant.

Every night, as stars climb solemnly into the darkened sky, he returns. And every night, the forest wages its familiar war against him. Branches scratch and snag his robes, thorns bite into his skin, roots grasp hungrily at his ankles, yet never deter his resolve. He pushes forward, relentless yet calm, enduring the forest’s fury with silent patience, until he stands again at your temple, moonlight illuminating his quiet determination.

Your voice no longer rises to meet him. Your curse has learned him, memorized the gentle rhythm of his footsteps, the muted purpose that carries him through your defenses. Instead, you await him at the shrine steps, fingertips brushing the wood of the doorframe, your expression cautious but welcoming. You watch him approach with restrained curiosity, wondering what new offering he brings tonight.

Some evenings it is candied fruits or delicate pastries wrapped in thin silk, others a carved wooden comb or a polished stone shaped like a crescent moon. Each gift he places carefully into your hands, eyes holding yours as if the offering itself is secondary to the simple act of giving. Tonight, he offers a single silver bell tied with red thread–a small thing that rings with clarity and sweetness as it settles into your palm.

“For protection,” he murmurs, eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight.

You run your fingers across the smooth metal surface, listening to its voice resonate softly. “Do you believe I need protecting?”

His lips curve into something gentle yet unreadable. “Perhaps.”

You smile then–a hesitant, shy thing blooming upon your lips like a flower uncertain of its right to exist. It is the first smile you’ve allowed yourself since your existence began, tentative and luminous as dawn breaking slowly through clouds. He watches this transformation, eyes widening briefly, astonishment flickering in his otherwise guarded expression.

“You smile,” he notes softly, wonder threading through his voice.

“Should I not?” you ask, eyes searching his face for disapproval.

“No,” he replies, “you should smile often.”

An unfamiliar warmth settles within you, comforting and strange, as you turn and lead him inside the temple. The interior is gradually coming alive again, each night enriched by the folded cranes he leaves behind. They dangle like ornaments from ancient rafters, paper wings suspended in still air, breathing life back into this forsaken shrine. He notices their careful placement, recognizing your silent gratitude in each crane positioned lovingly about the temple.

As always, you fold together, seated on worn cushions by flickering lantern light. Tonight, your fingers pause, your gaze filled with interest as he quietly counts each crane before departure, his voice barely more than a whisper as he numbers them.

“Two hundred sixty-seven,” he murmurs.

Your eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Why do you count them each night? Is there a certain number you seek?”

He glances upward, hands poised gracefully on another fold. “Perhaps there is.”

“You never tell me,” you remark with mild accusation.

“One day,” he answers, eyes meeting yours with an intensity that startles you, “you will understand.”

You tilt your head, thoughtful but willing to trust him, even in mystery. Your gaze returns to the crane forming in your hands, movements becoming practiced and graceful under his careful instruction.

“Do the villagers not scorn you for your hesitance?” you ask, folding another wing neatly. “Surely they demand proof of your deeds.”

“They do,” he admits, expression darkening slightly. “But I sin in that regard. I deceive them instead.”

You consider this quietly, your eyes fixed on the crane. “Do you not fear their anger?”

His voice is heavy. “Their anger is rooted in their shame. They fear themselves far more than any curse.”

You nod, understanding him clearly. “Perhaps their fear is justified.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees softly.

One evening, beneath the moon’s watchful gaze, you gather lilies blooming near the shrine steps, their petals radiant and luminous. Sitting beside him, your fingers weave blossoms into the silken cascade of your hair, fragrance drifting around you. He watches, his gaze filled with an unspoken admiration you do not fully comprehend but feel deeply.

“You adorn yourself,” he murmurs appreciatively.

You glance away, warmth spreading across your cheeks. “Does it please you?”

“It suits you perfectly,” he replies gently.

A small silence settles comfortably, before you find the courage to speak again. “Would you teach me a human song?”

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. His voice rises slowly, carefully teaching you words to a melody that speaks of springtime, new beginnings, warmth born from winter’s ending. Your voice joins uncertainly at first, gradually finding harmony alongside his deeper tones. The temple fills with your interwoven sounds–untrained, yet beautifully matched, alive with joy neither has fully known.

When the last notes fade, you glance toward him, your expression open, vulnerable. “Tell me of yourself,” you ask. “Why do you come here each night? You are unlike others–unlike any I’ve met.”

He exhales, eyes shadowed with memories long repressed. “I once believed myself righteous–a warrior serving justice. But I saw the truth beneath the shogun’s commands: cruelty disguised as honor, bloodshed masked as righteousness. Monsters are rarely monstrous, only broken souls twisted by pain.”

“And now?” you whisper.

“Now,” he replies, meeting your gaze steadily, “I serve neither justice nor cruelty. I follow only what my heart recognizes as truth.”

He lifts his hand slowly, carefully, touching fingertips gently to your cheek, as if testing whether this fragile moment might fracture beneath his touch. Your breath catches slightly, yet your skin remains smooth, unmarred. His palm does not wither, his fingertips do not blacken; there is no decay between you.

Your voice trembles slightly. “You still have not answered my question clearly. Why do you not kill me? You were sent for that purpose.”

His gaze remains fixed upon yours, hand lingering against your skin. “If harm were my intent,” he echoes your words from the first night you met, “I would already have tried.”

“You told me then,” you whisper, repeating the words etched deeply in memory, “that I assumed you stronger than you truly are. Is that still so?”

He shakes his head slowly, a faint smile curving his lips, resigned yet sincere. “I am weaker now, I think. Each night I return, my resolve weakens further.”

“Why, then?” you press, desperate for truth. “Why return if your purpose falters?”

He draws a slow breath, eyes serious and unwavering, hand lowering from your face, fingers brushing your fleetingly before withdrawing fully. “Perhaps because, for the first time, weakness is not shameful–but something worth surrendering to.”

You do not fully understand his meaning, yet warmth spreads through your chest, comfort mingling strangely with confusion. You look away quickly, shyly, heart unsure yet beating steadily.

He stands finally, preparing to depart into night’s embrace once more. Before stepping into shadow, he counts cranes again, softly murmuring their total. “Three hundred twenty-two.”

He leaves silently, your gaze following until darkness swallows him. Alone once more, you cradle a crane in your palm, considering its precise folds, wondering about his wish, his purpose. A faint smile returns, tender and hopeful, born of uncertainty yet unafraid.

You begin to hum quietly, the melody he taught you rising into the night air, tentative but growing in strength. It carries toward the forest, toward darkness now familiar, reaching gently toward the man who walks back to his village cloaked in silence and regrets.

And beneath the temple’s watch, you hang one more crane among the others, each paper bird a promise, a wish unspoken, waiting patiently for fulfillment.

PART V: THE BELLS RANG TO MARK HER KILLINGS They tolled with no wind, in mourning or mockery.

Almost a month passes, and the village seethes like a cauldron simmering over low flames, murmurs boiling into restless accusations. Suguru’s nightly departures into the woods have etched a narrative in blood and bruises upon his skin–his clothing torn, features darkened by fatigue–and the villagers nod knowingly, whispering sagely among themselves. In their eyes, the samurai battles fiercely against the sinister force in the forest, locked in unending combat with the curse they fear so profoundly.

Suguru does not correct their beliefs. Instead, he wears their mistaken reverence as a mask, a thin veil of falsehood draped across his truth. He allows them to think him noble, tireless, though the cuts and scratches speak only of the forest’s bitter attempts to bar him from you. Each dawn he returns, breathing laboriously, stepping through their clustered gazes without comment. Each dawn he speaks gravely, somber voice declaring the curse too powerful, too elusive for one man alone.

He watches resentment bloom like weeds among them. They once revered him as a hero, their respect glistening like fresh lacquer, polished and bright–but now impatience corrodes that shine, turning admiration into suspicion, gratitude into irritation.

Then one evening, as Suguru readies himself at the village’s edge, he sees torches ignite like stars beyond the fields. Villagers approach–men armed clumsily with pitchforks and old swords, their bodies tight with reckless bravado. They march toward him, resolve distorted by anger, fueled by ignorance.

A man steps forward, eyes bright with defiance. “We tire of waiting, Samurai-sama. Tonight, we join you. We will defeat this curse ourselves.”

Suguru straightens, folding his arms within the sleeves of his kimono, stern composure etched across his features. “Do not be foolish,” he warns them, his voice heavy with the gravity of experience. “This curse is not so easily subdued. Return home.”

Another villager thrusts forward, clutching a rusted blade. “If you cannot defeat it alone, then together we shall. We cannot endure another night of waiting while death hovers at our doorsteps!”

Their desperation paints their faces starkly in torchlight–each man bearing his own hidden guilt, each soul weighted by fear and shame. Suguru senses their stubbornness rooted deep in fear’s fertile soil, and he knows his words fall on deaf ears. He shakes his head once, sharply, but steps aside.

“You go toward your deaths,” he tells them sternly. “The curse will not spare you.”

They pass by him, their torches flickering and shadows stretching long as though attempting to hold them back. He watches until their forms are swallowed by the forest, torches dimmed into distant sparks consumed by darkness. He waits, heart tightening within his chest, for the inevitable.

The bells toll suddenly–piercingly clear, mournful, ringing in slow procession. Each strike resonates like iron upon stone, echoing through the village. One, two, three–each chime another life lost. Suguru closes his eyes, bowing his head slightly as the villagers behind him cry out sharply, wails rising into the night.

Women burst from homes, children cling to skirts as frantic voices cry names into the empty air. The ringing bells do not cease their count, do not soften their judgement. Seven tolls in all, each more devastating than the last.

The villagers rush forward, grasping Suguru’s clothing desperately, sobbing openly, knuckles white as they claw at silk sleeves. “Why?” a mother shrieks, grief shattering her voice like porcelain upon stone. “Why did you not protect them? How could you let them go?”

Suguru’s expression grows harder, colder, forcing their hands away with controlled strength. “You accuse me of failing to protect those who refuse to heed my warnings?” he retorts icily. “I warned you clearly–why rush blindly into darkness I myself have yet to conquer?”

They flinch, recoiling from his reproach, their grief momentarily silenced by the sting of truth. His words hand between them like heavy smoke, and they step back slowly, eyes downcast, mouths trembling, unable to challenge his accusation.

But news travels swiftly as misery itself, carried upon winds to the distant capital. The shogun’s message arrives days later–a scroll sealed in crimson wax, delivered by a stern-faced messenger who regards Suguru coldly. The message is curt, starkly written, each character a dagger plunged into Suguru’s resolve.

“You have failed thus far, Samurai,” the messenger declares with impassive contempt. “The shogun grants you one final moon to eradicate the curse. Should you fail or refuse, your family will bear your dishonor. Should you perish, another shall take your place until success is achieved.”

Suguru holds the scroll tightly, its edges crumpling slightly within his grasp. He acknowledges the decree with a nod, voice steady yet heavy with suppressed bitterness. “Tell your lord the curse shall be dealt with. He has my word.”

The messenger departs immediately, leaving Suguru alone in silence that bears down upon him oppressively. He retreats into the home provided by the villagers, sliding the door shut with weary finality. Seated beneath flickering candlelight, he reaches for sheets of delicate paper stacked carefully nearby, fingers moving with rapid intensity, folding cranes without pause, without rest.

The night deepens, candle flame guttering uncertainly as each crane emerges crisply formed from skilled fingers. He folds one after another, determination etching lines of strain into his features. His heart pounds insistently, whispering desperate hopes and hidden fears, counting silently the paper birds that scatter across tatami mats like fallen blossoms.

His eyes blur with fatigue, shoulders tightening with tension. He folds relentlessly, the sound of creasing paper loud in the room’s suffocating stillness. Each crane is a plea, a prayer formed from desperation–a quiet rebellion against fate and duty.

At last, he pauses, breath heavy, fingers trembling faintly as he surveys his creations spread around him. His voice, worn yet resolute, whispers the count into emptiness:

“Seven hundred and fifty-two.”

Outside, the wind stirs trees into restless murmurs, moonlight cold and unyielding. Suguru knows that time runs thin like candle wax melting into nothingness. His chest aches, not merely from exhaustion but from knowledge–knowledge that soon he must face a choice impossible to avoid.

He gathers the cranes into his palms, placing them alongside the others carefully stored, each crane delicate yet resilient, a silent testament to his resolve and the unspoken wish he holds secret.

Tomorrow he will return to the temple, to lilies and songs he now longs for more fiercely than he can admit even to himself. Tomorrow he must tell you of the decree handed down, of the cruel demands made upon him.

But tonight, Suguru sits alone, wrapped in shadows cast by flickering flame, surrounded by cranes born of desperation and quiet defiance.

He does not sleep. He simply waits–heart clenched tight, breath measured precisely–as the night deepens further, as the moon watches impassively, counting silently with him.

PART VI: SHE TRIED TO STEAL HIS SOUL With hands like silk and breath of lilies.

The temple air bristles with tension, heavy like storm clouds threatening lightning. You await him near the crumbling pillars, fingers restless, twisting lily petals into tight spirals that bruise their velvet softness. Night has stretched its shadows thick across your shrine, its depths filling with the murmurs from trees and rustling vines–a forest alert, uneasy.

When he finally steps into view, you rise sharply. Your chest tightens, your voice brittle, sharp as flint. “You didn’t come last night,” you accuse him immediately, words breaking from you like shards of porcelain. “Seven villagers died in your absence.”

Suguru pauses mid-step, his expression clouding with weary regret, shoulders weighted by the accusation. “I tried to stop them,” he answers, voice low, worn like river stones polished by relentless currents. “They would not listen. Their stubbornness drove them to ruin.”

You step forward abruptly, frustration radiating off you, eyes blazing fiercely. “You believe I am responsible?” you demand, bitterness coloring each word. “I swear upon whatever gods may still listen–I did not take their lives. My voice was silent; my hands untouched.”

He meets your wild stare without wavering, speaking deliberately, each syllable laden with conviction. “I believe you,” he says simply. “I know your truth already. It was not your doing. The forest guards you jealously.”

Your shoulders slump, anger seeping out, replaced by weariness more potent than rage. You move closer, hesitantly reaching forward, your fingers brushing lightly over the torn fabric of his kimono. The touch, your first initiated, startles both of you–intimacy without consequence, contact without destruction. His body remains steady, unmarked, whole. Relief blooms faintly in your chest.

“I wish you had come,” you whisper, anger now supplanted by something softer, more painful. “Perhaps then, those men would not have ventured here seeking me.”

Suguru regards you thoughtfully, his eyes revealing deep conflict, a weight he bears silently. “Do you think,” he asks carefully, voice edged with cautious hope, “it might help if I spoke your truth to the villagers? If they understood your innocence?”

You shake your head instantly, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “No. They are blinded by fear and hatred, deafened by superstition. Even if they believed you, my curse remains. My song would eventually claim them, or the forest would strike without mercy. It protects, it punishes–it does not listen to reason.”

He exhales sharply, frustration evident, tension woven deeply into the lines of his jaw. Slowly, he withdraws a scroll from within his kimono, handing it to you reluctantly. You unfold it gingerly, reading the inked characters that command his hand, that threaten his lineage. Each word sends a chill twisting through your veins.

You lift your eyes to his, hands shaking faintly with dread. “Will you kill me now?” you ask plainly, steady despite the vulnerability threading your question. “The shogun commands it. Spare your family the shame.”

His expression hardens, eyes darkening with quiet defiance. “If I fail or refuse, my family suffers dishonor. If I die in the attempt, another takes my place–but my kin remain untouched.”

You study him closely, apprehension curling tightly within your chest. “Well, I will not harm you,” you whisper forcefully, your voice cracking beneath the weight of honesty. “You must believe this.”

A charged silence fills the air, heavier than any spoken word. Suguru stands tense, the struggle within him tangible, his fists clenched tight enough to strain knuckles white. “I believe you,” he says finally, his voice taut with controlled anger–not at you, but at fate itself, at the cruelty of commands he despises but cannot ignore.

You turn suddenly, moving toward a corner where moonlight spills through cracks in broken timbers, illuminating a scattered array of small, folded shapes. “I have been folding,” you announce quietly, kneeling to collect leaf cranes you’ve crafted with painstaking care. They are not as neat as his paper creations, yet beautiful in their imperfect sincerity. “Nearly one hundred, fashioned from leaves.”

Suguru joins you, taking one into his palm, examining its form closely. His fingers brush yours briefly in the exchange, warmth mingling between skin. He counts each crane methodically, adding your leaf-bound offerings to his ever-growing tally.

“You still won’t tell me their purpose,” you murmur, your voice edged with faint accusation and gentle curiosity.

He shakes his head slowly, a wistful smile flickering across his lips. “Not yet. In time.”

You accept his silence, though frustration lingers stubbornly. Carefully, you set aside the leaf cranes, arranging them lovingly alongside their paper counterparts that adorn the shrine like relics of devotion.

Turning back toward him, you sense turmoil twisting through his being, emotions barely restrained beneath a surface smoothed by practiced discipline. Without conscious thought, you reach again, your hand resting lightly against his sleeve, tracing the pattern of fabric thoughtfully.

“Why do you hesitate so strongly?” you whisper earnestly. “Your honor compels you, your duty demands it–yet still, you spare my life. Why?”

Suguru studies you for a moment, the silence pregnant with unsaid truths, his eyes betraying secrets even he dares not speak. Finally, his voice emerges, low and strained with sincerity. “Because I see no monster in you. Only pain sculpted into a form misunderstood. Because the shogun sends me to strike down beasts, yet I find only souls lost and wounded.”

Your fingers tighten upon his sleeve, desperation surfacing in your words. “Yet still–your family, your honor–these must come first.”

“My honor is worthless if it demands cruelty,” he answers bitterly. “I have learned that now. And my family would grieve more deeply if I betrayed myself.”

You exhale unsteadily, your fingers reluctantly releasing him. “Then we both stand condemned by forces beyond us.”

He does not answer immediately, but the subtle incline of his head acknowledges the truth in your words. He watches the cranes thoughtfully, then murmurs softly, “Eight hundred and forty-seven.”

You nod solemnly, the number carrying quiet weight–a promise, a hope still hidden. He rises, preparing to depart, tension lingering between you both, unresolved yet deeply felt.

At the threshold, Suguru pauses, turning back slightly. “Will you continue to fold?” he asks, voice strangely hopeful.

“Yes,” you promise. “Though I wish I understood why.”

He offers no answer, only inclines his head gently in farewell, stepping into darkness that swallows him swiftly, completely. You remain within your temple, fingers tracing leaf cranes with reverent touch, uncertain but resolute.

Your heart breaths a rhythm unfamiliar yet welcome–longing tempered by cautious hope, intimacy born from understanding, not theft. The cranes, woven from leaves and dreams alike, guard secrets you cannot yet decipher.

Outside, the bells rest silent, trees hold their breath, and the land itself mourns quietly for what may soon be lost or gained, awaiting the outcome neither of you yet dares predict.

PART VII: THE CURSE BEGGED FOR MERCY AND WAS DENIED Even monsters may kneel. Even demons may cry.

Two days remain until the moon swells full and pale, poised in the heavens to bear witness. The forest has grown restless, the air dense with expectation, leaves whispering secrets among branches bent like supplicants. You await Suguru at the temple’s entrance, feet planted on the steps worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, the stone cool against your soles. Lily blossoms cluster close, petals luminous in moonlight, releasing perfume heavy with memories.

When he appears at the forest’s edge, you step forward, meeting him in the clearing. The night’s pale glow etches harsh lines upon his face, tracing shadows beneath his eyes, revealing a fatigue he no longer tries to mask. Your hand lifts instinctively, brushing tenderly over the fresh scratches and bruises marring his skin. His eyes close briefly under your touch, relief softening the tension buried deep within him.

“You are hurt again,” you murmur, your voice thick with worry.

He breathes deeply, leaning slightly into your touch. “I have endured worse. The forest resents me more fiercely with each passing night.”

You withdraw your hand, fingers curling uncertainly at your side. “Two nights remain. Have you decided your course?”

He hesitates, eyes flickering toward the direction of the distant village. “I have thought endlessly about your origin,” he says finally, voice heavy as a winter storm. “I see clearly now–how their darkness created you. Their cruelty, their betrayals, their sins–they shaped you, formed you into something they could hate. They are the true monsters, not you.”

His confession strikes you, painful yet freeing, your chest tightening with recognition. “Yet they are blind to their faults,” you respond bitterly. “They cast blame outward, refusing to acknowledge their own ugliness.”

Suguru nods gravely, regret shadowing his features. “I too have been blind–blind to my own complicity. I have walked among monsters, serving their whims without question. Perhaps the greatest beast is myself.”

“You are no monster,” you whisper sharply, voice trembling with sudden conviction.

His hand rises, fingertips gently brushing strands of hair from your face, his touch lingering tenderly. “You are too forgiving. You know nothing of the blood on my hands, the innocent lives taken in the shogun’s name. Every atrocity I committed was masked by duty and honor, yet honor is no justification for cruelty.”

You reach up, capturing his hand between both of yours, holding it reverently against your chest. “I see clearly,” you say firmly, your heartbeat thrumming steadily beneath his palm. “I know you carry guilt, and pain, yet a true monster would not feel remorse. A true monster would not return here night after night, risking everything simply to share my company.”

His expression softens, eyes reflecting emotions rarely permitted. He lifts your joined hands, pressing a fleeting, tender kiss to your knuckles. A simple gesture, yet rich with vulnerability and restrained longing. “You honor me far more than I deserve.”

You stand close, moonlight enfolding you in silver warmth, intimacy deepening gently. “Tell me of the cranes,” you ask quietly once more, hope and curiosity weaving through your tone. “Will you finally speak their meaning tonight?”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, mysterious yet affectionate. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “Patience a little longer, please.”

Frustration flickers briefly in your chest, but you yield gracefully, trusting despite the doubt. “You torment me,” you complain playfully, warmth coloring your voice.

He laughs–rare and transient, surprising even himself. “Never intentionally,” he replies, eyes filled with tenderness. “I swear to you, soon enough the cranes’ meaning will be revealed.”

You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder, savoring the comfort and strength radiating from his presence. The night settles around you, sounds of rustling leaves and distant wildlife providing harmony to your shared moment.

Eventually, Suguru speaks again, voice solemn yet determined. “I promise you this–I will find a way to free you of this curse. I don’t know how yet, but I will search every path, challenge every god if I must.”

You lift your head, expression guarded, hope tempered by ambivalence. “The curse binds tightly. My songs, my forest–they follow their own laws, beyond human influence.”

His eyes darken with resolve, fingers tightening around yours reassuringly. “Then I will defy those laws,” he states fiercely. “I will rewrite fate itself if it means your freedom.”

Your chest aches painfully, heart struggling against the walls of caution you’ve constructed carefully around your hope. “Why risk so much for me?” you whisper.

“Because,” he replies quietly, a rare vulnerability surfacing in his voice, “for the first time, I see clearly what is worth fighting for. You have shown me gentleness amid cruelty, grace amid brutality. You taught me compassion where I believed only violence existed.”

His words sink deeply, resonating powerfully within your chest. Your hand lifts again, cupping his cheek affectionately, savoring the warmth beneath your fingertips, marveling at how this man–marked by violence, burdened by guilt–has become something precious to you.

But even as you savor this intimacy, dread curls bitterly in your stomach. “But your family, your honor–the shogun’s demand–”

“My family would understand,” he interrupts gently, certainty coloring his voice. “They would want me to uphold honor by following my heart. And the shogun’s demands no longer control me–not when their price is your life.”

Your chest tightens, words tangled within your throat, heart swelling painfully with emotion too profound for speech. Instead, you cling to him, your embrace intense, protective, desperate.

For a moment, he holds you, his heart beating strongly against yours, heat shared dearly. Finally, reluctantly, you pull away, moonlight illuminating regret upon both your faces.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs heavily, “is the last night before the full moon.”

You nod, sorrow etched into your eyes. “Then I will see you tomorrow.”

He steps back slowly, lingering gaze upon your face, memorizing this moment with quiet reverence. “Until then,” he whispers softly.

He disappears into darkness, leaving you alone with your thoughts and cranes scattered across temple steps. You sit, gathering your folded leaf cranes lovingly into your lap, counting each creation quietly.

“Nine hundred and three,” you whisper to yourself.

As night deepens, your hands continue folding, turning leaves carefully into wings, hearts, dreams–each crane a silent plea, a wish for freedom, for truth, for hope still unspoken but deeply felt.

Nightfall brings no relief, the air taut as bowstrings drawn and held, tension vibrating through the temple stones and flowering vines alike. The moon, almost perfectly round, rises imperious in the darkening sky, bathing everything in a luminescent glow, silver and severe. You await Suguru at the threshold of your sanctuary, anticipation tightening your chest, breath thin as mist upon glass.

When he finally appears from the shadows, his expression carries exhaustion, deepened by restless conflict etched starkly upon his features. You move forward swiftly, your fingers reaching instinctively for his, your grip firm yet tender. He exhales in relief at your touch, body sagging slightly under unseen burdens.

“You have come late tonight,” you murmur softly, guiding him toward your collection of folded cranes, arrayed lovingly upon the steps like offerings before forgotten gods.

He sighs, nodding wearily. “The villagers held me back, their fears boiling into demands. They demand reassurance, proof that tomorrow night the curse will finally be lifted–or that I perish by your hand.”

A faint tremble threads through your fingers. “I am sorry they burden you so.”

He squeezes your hand gently, a faint warmth suffusing the motion. “It matters little now. We have more pressing concerns.”

You kneel beside the cranes, your fingers brushing reverently over the crafted wings, each bird a testament to patience, trust, and dreams yet unfulfilled. “We have nearly reached one thousand,” you whisper, voice edged with awe. “Yet tonight, you bring none.”

“I had no opportunity,” he admits quietly, regret shadowing his tone. “They accosted me and would not relent.”

Your fingertips pause, hesitation coiling in your throat. Finally, you voice the question burning insistently within your chest. “Will you finally tell me the meaning of these cranes? Is there a certain number to be reached, or do we fold forever?”

Suguru remains still, his eyes lifting slowly to meet yours, profound emotion shimmering behind them. He breathes deeply, gathering resolve, before speaking at last. “A thousand cranes,” he begins carefully, voice low and steady, “crafted in earnestness and sincerity, is said to compel the gods themselves. They grant a wish–one wish, spoken from the deepest truths of one’s heart.”

Your breath stills abruptly in your chest, understanding settling heavily upon your shoulders, realization dawning like sunrise–slowly, inexorably, flooding your heart with clarity and anguish intertwined. You stare at him wordlessly, your lips parting as comprehension reshapes your entire perception.

“All this time,” you whisper, voice shaking with restrained emotion, “you have folded them to change my fate.”

His expression betrays quiet acceptance, his posture humble yet resolute. “I had hoped to spare you the burden of knowledge until certainty could follow. I wished not to raise false hope.”

You pause, then lean toward him, your eyes intent, searching his face for truth and reassurance. “Are you a man of your word, Suguru? Would you honor a wish if I ever asked it of you?”

He nods without hesitation, sincerity illuminating his face vividly. “Always. If it were within my power, there is nothing I would not grant you.”

Your pulse quickens wildly, your words quavering slightly in vulnerability. “Do you truly believe the gods will listen? Or do you intend to carve your own path, defiant of divine decree?”

His hand rises to cup your cheek, his palm warm and comforting against your skin. “I have spent my life serving the will of men who play at gods,” he replies earnestly. “I find little comfort in hoping divine beings might listen now. Yet still, I fold these cranes, hoping desperately their promise is real. And if not–then yes, I shall forge my own path, gods or no.”

Your hand covers his tenderly, leaning subtly into the embrace of his palm, eyes closing for a moment in contemplation. “Such defiance carries heavy consequences. Do you not fear the cost?”

“Fear has held me hostage long enough,” he answers firmly, thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. “If I must pay a price, it will be one I choose willingly. You are worth any consequence.”

A gentle ache fills your chest, sweet and painful in equal measure. Without conscious thought, you press your forehead lightly against his, sharing breath, heat, the rhythm of hearts beating closely in tandem. His other hand finds your shoulder, sliding carefully down your arm, grasping your fingers with unwavering tenderness.

Doubt, however, clings to your spirit, persistent as shadow, whispering bitter truths of duty and sacrifice. “Tomorrow night brings judgement,” you murmur sorrowfully, heart heavy beneath the weight of the unknown. “Either you suffer for sparing me, or I perish to free you. Is this balance fair, Suguru?”

He exhales deeply, resolve mingling with regret. “Nothing in our circumstances is fair, yet fairness matters less to me now than truth–than the certainty of my heart’s convictions.”

You lift your head, your eyes meeting his with intensity, emotion raw and vibrant within your chest. “Should you truly suffer for allowing me to live?”

His answer is immediate, voice low and unyielding. “If living freely, truthfully, costs me suffering and strife, I embrace it. You deserve life, happiness–not punishment for crimes that never belonged to you.”

A faint smile curves your lips, bittersweet yet deeply grateful. “You are a rare creature, Suguru–one who sees beauty within darkness, hope amid despair.”

He returns your gentle smile, expression warm with quiet affection. “And you, a being who shows compassion where none was ever granted you. Perhaps we were destined to find one another, to forge a path toward truth beyond suffering.”

You lean close again, savoring the intimacy of proximity, your heart whispering of hopes and fears still unspoken. Tomorrow’s confrontation looms darkly ahead, yet tonight you hold tightly to the warmth and strength Suguru offers unconditionally, allowing yourself the sweetness of shared affection, even as dread coils persistently within you.

Finally, and reluctantly, Suguru rises, gently releasing your fingers. He surveys the cranes, counting once more, a soft exhale marking their number. “Nine hundred and eighty-seven,” he whispers.

“Nearly complete,” you murmur, heart twisting at implications unsaid yet profoundly understood.

He nods, lingering briefly at the temple’s entrance, eyes soft with longing. “Rest well,” he bids you quietly, voice tender yet tinged faintly with sadness.

“You as well,” you reply softly, watching until darkness swallows him fully.

Alone once more, you kneel before the cranes, fingers deliberately shaping the final folds needed to reach completion. Your thoughts linger on Suguru’s whispered promise, the uncertain hope of divine intervention or determined defiance guiding his actions.

A decision weighs heavily upon you, quiet yet inexorable–your own resolve sharpening steadily as the last crane emerges from your fingers. Tomorrow night, beneath the full moon’s cold stare, a choice will be made–one of sacrifice or salvation, suffering or freedom.

The cranes rest quietly before you, their folded wings poised gracefully, each bird bearing the weight of silent wishes and dreams unsaid. You lift one, heart aching at the fragility of hopes now entrusted to your care.

And as the moon climbs higher into midnight sky, you wonder–heart heavy yet undeniably clear–if perhaps his suffering need not continue, if perhaps your fate has always been to grant mercy by surrendering your own.

PART VIII: HIS BLADE STRUCK THROUGH HER SHADOW Steel meeting sorrow, moonlight meeting mist.

The moon hangs vast and luminous above the temple, a silver orb so full it seems swollen with unspoken promises. Its pale fingers brush across the forest, illuminating pathways tangled in shadow, touching lilies that lift their blossoms in reverent surrender. The night is impossibly still, suspended as if caught between breaths, waiting with the patience of ancient spirits.

Suguru approaches with measured steps, his presence etched sharply in moonlight. He appears weary, a man worn thin by obligations and decisions too heavy to carry alone. You await him on the temple steps, your kimono pale in the moon’s glow, hair cascading freely down your shoulders, lilies woven delicately among its strands. Your eyes meet across the distance, speaking truths that words have yet to express.

When he reaches you, you move instinctively toward him, your fingers rising to rest upon his cheek. His exhaustion reflects back at you from dark eyes shadowed by sleepless nights and restless contemplation. “You are tired,” you murmur, a quiet ache resonating through your voice.

He inclines his head slightly, leaning into your touch with weary relief.

“What of the village?” you ask, concern threaded in your voice. “Have they relented their demands?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes filled with regret and resignation. “They await either victory or my end. Their patience has frayed entirely. Tonight, they anticipate resolution–one way or another.”

Your heart clenches sharply, dread and guilt molded together within your chest. You lean slightly against him, seeking comfort from the warmth radiating through his robes. “And the shogun?”

Suguru exhales heavily, frustration clear in the set of his shoulders, the tension carved along his jaw. “His command stands unchanged. If dawn rises and you remain alive, my family bears disgrace. Another warrior will be sent swiftly in my stead.”

Your fingertips trace gently along the tired lines of his face, memorizing each contour as though you might soon lose the right to touch him. “Have you made your decision?” you ask, voice steady despite the tremor beneath its surface.

His eyes lift, holding yours, unwavering in his resolve. “I will not harm you,” he answers firmly, conviction unshaken by doubt or hesitation. “I refuse to be their executioner. I would rather face whatever consequence awaits me.”

Your heart tightens painfully at his sincerity, knowing the cost his words carry. You take his hand, guiding him toward the shrine’s interior, where one thousand cranes rest proudly–paper and leaf intertwined into silent prayers. Moonlight dances across their carefully shaped wings, illuminating their fragile beauty.

“I finished folding,” you tell him, pride mingling with bittersweet awareness. “One thousand.”

He draws a single folded crane from within his kimono, the final offering cradled reverently in his palm. You gather your collection, arranging them carefully before him. Together, you count softly, voices mingling like gentle currents in a stream. Your hearts thrum with expectation and uncertainty, whispers blending until they fall silent at the final tally.

“One thousand,” he murmurs, voice hushed with hope. Then he lifts the crane held in his hand, eyes solemn. “And one.”

Your eyes flicker toward the final crane, curiosity stirred deeply. “How does it work, exactly?” you ask quietly, apprehension threading your tone.

Suguru regards the crane thoughtfully. “I believe,” he begins softly, unsure yet hopeful, “one holds the crane, speaks their wish aloud clearly, sincerely–and prays the gods listen.”

You nod, looking at the cranes, heart pounding insistently within your chest, the weight of your decision pressing down heavily upon your spirit. Your fingers brush tenderly across their wings, absorbing the earnestness in each fold, every careful crease imbued with hope.

Suguru prepares himself, drawing breath deeply, shoulders squared against the weight of his wish. Just before he speaks, you reach out, touching his wrist, voice tenderly imploring.

“May I see it first?” you ask innocently, carefully masking your true intention.

He hesitates only briefly before handing it to you, trusting without reservation. You cradle it lovingly within your palms, fingertips tracing carefully over words once commanding violence, now transformed into something poignant and beautiful.

A silence settles between you, expectation heavy in the air. Suguru waits, his patience quiet yet palpable, unaware of the decision already solidified inside your heart.

Before he can comprehend your purpose, before understanding can fully dawn, you lift your eyes to his face, tears shimmering faintly in their depths, moonlight refracting gently upon your lashes, and your lips part suddenly, voice quavering with quiet intensity as you speak your wish–one meticulously concealed until now, its revelation shattering peace, quietude, hope itself.

“I wish,” you whisper, your voice breaking, words carrying heartbreaking clarity, “that by your hand, Suguru, my life and curse shall find their peaceful end.”

The air cracks sharply around you both, the temple trembling faintly beneath your words. Horror flashes sharply across his handsome features, realization striking violently. He lunges forward instantly, hands grasping your shoulders firmly yet gently, desperation threading tightly through his voice. “Stop–please, you must not–”

Yet your words have already fled into the still air, each syllable ringing with finality, sealing fate irrevocably. The crane shakes within your fingers, paper softening beneath falling tears.

“Do not ask this of me,” he pleads urgently, eyes searching your face for reprieve. “Not this.”

Your fingers lift tenderly to his cheek, thumb brushing across his skin, tracing paths already familiar. Tears spill from your eyes, silver trails glistening upon your skin, your heart aching deeply with quiet certainty.

“It must be so,” you whisper, voice breaking under the weight of finality. “Your suffering ends only if mine does first. Your family, your honor–I cannot allow you to lose everything because of me.”

He grasps your hand tightly, anguish burning in his gaze. “No, there must be another way. Please, do not leave me alone with this burden.”

You lean forward, forehead resting lightly against his, warmth shared intimately, breath mingling softly between you. “You promised me,” you murmur, voice steady despite tears. “You vowed you would grant any wish within your power.”

“It is cruel,” Suguru chokes out, voice hoarse with despair, fingers shaking where they now clutch your hand, “to force my hand against the only truth I’ve ever known.”

His breathing comes unevenly, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm, pain vivid in his eyes like storm clouds ready to rupture. He pulls you closer in desperation, as if proximity alone could shield you from fate already decided.

“You promised me,” you whisper, your voice gentle yet firm, holding his grief with tender reverence. “You vowed that if the gods would not listen, if fate refused to yield, you would grant me any wish within your mortal power.”

He shakes violently, teeth clenched tightly, sorrow battling rage within his heart. “Not this wish–never this,” he snarls, anger splintering through his voice like shattered porcelain. “You are no monster; you carry no guilt deserving death. The villagers should atone–their lives, not yours. They crafted your curse from their own wretched sins, shaped you from cruelty and betrayal. They bear responsibility. Not you.”

His body trembles fiercely, the usually steadfast samurai now stripped bare by grief and fury alike, heart openly bleeding beneath the pale moon’s cold judgement. You reach up, your hands cupping his anguished face with infinite care, fingertips tracing the tension locked within his jaw, soothing the pain etched deeply upon his features.

“Do not speak such dark thoughts,” you implore softly, voice steady despite heartbreak pulsing sharply in your chest. “Vengeance only breeds further strife. We both know this truth.”

His eyes close tightly, breath shuddering between parted lips, shoulders shaking beneath an unseen weight he can no longer bear. “How can this be justice?” he whispers brokenly, voice cracking like brittle ice under unbearable strain. “How can I harm the only soul who has ever shown me true compassion? Why must I wield my blade against innocence?”

“Because it must be done,” you murmur carefully, your thumb brushing tears tenderly from his skin. “Your honor, your family–your life deserves freedom from suffering. Mine was forfeit the moment I became this curse. Let me bear this ending willingly, with dignity.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark irises glistening wetly, gaze haunted yet resigned. “It is not fair,” he whispers weakly, heart aching beneath his confession. “Nothing about this is fair.”

“Fairness is irrelevant now,” you reply, moving closer to embrace him fiercely, your warmth enveloping him completely, binding you both together in shared grief and quiet resolve. “We found each other despite impossibility, shaped peace from turmoil. Such joy outweighs tragedy. Let that memory endure.”

He wraps his arms tightly around you, breathing deeply your scent, imprinting forever upon his memory your heat, your touch, your essence. “I fear life without you,” he whispers hoarsely into your hair, his voice trembling with vulnerability laid bare. “I dread the emptiness left by your absence.”

“Yet you will live,” you remind him not unkindly, pulling back to meet his gaze lovingly. “You will remember me kindly, honoring my memory by living fully and freely. This, too, you promised me.”

His fingers trail reverently across your cheek, his forehead pressing firmly against yours, breath mingling intimately in shared warmth and pain. “You ask the impossible,” he whispers painfully, eyes dark with devastation.

“I ask only what must be,” you answer, tears falling freely down your face, tracing silver pathways upon your skin. Carefully, your hands reach for his katana, fingers quivering faintly yet resolute, drawing forth the blade from its sheath.

His breath catches sharply, body stiffening beneath the weight of impending loss, yet he does not resist, hands shaking as you guide his fingers gently around the hilt, your touch steering him unwaveringly, determination mixed with infinite sorrow. The blade glimmers coldly under the moonlight, steel sharp yet beautiful in deadly grace.

“Forgive me,” he whispers desperately, voice choked by anguish, tears spilling unrestrainedly down his face. “Forgive me for failing to save you.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” you answer softly, gaze holding his with profound compassion. “You gave me purpose, love, dignity. You gave me life, Suguru–even if fleeting. For this, gratitude remains eternal.”

His tears fall faster, grief wracking his body with an anger, but you remain steady, guiding his trembling hand until the blade rests lightly against your heart, steel cool yet not unwelcome.

“Know this,” you whisper, your voice steady despite imminent finality. “You will carry no blame nor guilt. Only memories cherished deeply.”

He nods faintly, whispered response broken yet sincere. “I shall remember you always, honor your memory until death reunites us once more.”

With endless tenderness, he leans forward, lips brushing gently upon your forehead, a final gesture of reverent affection, whispering softly against your skin, “May peace welcome you warmly, beloved. May lilies bloom perpetually where your spirit rests.”

Your breath stills, heart stuttering under final words exchanged sweetly between you. “May your life blossom freely, Suguru. May you forgive yourself as fully as I forgive you.”

Then, resolutely yet with infinite gentleness, you guide his hand forward decisively, steel piercing carefully through flesh, your breath catching, eyes widening briefly in quiet acceptance. Pain comes quickly, sharply–then fades softly into warmth, peacefulness blooming deeply within your chest.

Suguru cries out softly, blade falling softly from numb fingers, grief flooding forth uncontrollably as he cradles your body tenderly against him, heart breaking irrevocably beneath the weight of unbearable loss. “Forgive me,” he sobs desperately, pressing kisses softly upon your forehead, your cheek, whispering brokenly between sobs. “Forgive me, forgive me–please, forgive me.”

Your fingers lift faintly, brushing weakly across his wet cheeks, breathing final words into night’s quiet embrace. “I forgive you wholly, eternally. Farewell, Suguru.”

Your form shimmers under the moonlight, edges softening into countless lily petals, drifting gently upon night breezes, fragrance filling air sweetly yet mournfully. Suguru watches helplessly as petals scatter around him, tears falling silently, heart aching with irrevocable loss.

Above, the bells begin tolling mournfully, their voices solemn, resonant, grieving openly beneath night’s watchful gaze. The forest itself weeps, leaves trembling softly, vines twisting woefully, sorrow resonating deeply throughout nature itself.

Suguru kneels numbly, misery overwhelming yet cleansing, heart opened fully to pain and love intertwined. He gathers scattered petals within shaking fingers, pressing them softly against lips quivering with anguish and tenderness.

“Rest now,” he whispers brokenly into night air thickened by the scent of lilies and sorrow. “Rest gently, beloved.”

And the moon watches above, silver tears hidden beneath distant surface, bearing silent witness eternally to love found unexpectedly yet treasured infinitely, lost tragically yet remembered beautifully.

Forevermore, lilies bloom endlessly where your spirit rests gently–memory enduring faithfully, bittersweet but cherished deeply, long after final echoes fade into silence profound and eternal.

EPILOGUE: THE FOREST KNOWS ONLY PEACE NOW But the lilies still bloom pale, and the bells toll for one.

They say the samurai returned triumphant, sword cleansed in moonlight and righteousness, the village freed forever from shadow’s grasp. They speak of Geto Suguru as a hero, a slayer of nightmares, whose courage dispelled darkness like sunlight piercing through winter’s fog. The villagers celebrate openly, torches lifted high, sake cups raised joyously, laughter echoing brightly through streets no longer clouded by dread. They fashion songs in his honor, paint scrolls detailing bravery forged from steel and heart, their gratitude inscribed permanently within carefully folded legends.

Yet Suguru himself never sings these songs, nor does he linger to taste the bittersweet sake poured generously in his honor. He does not join their revelry nor share their jubilant laughter, though they implore him fervently to remain. Instead, he departs at dawn, a solitary figure cloaked heavily in grief and memory, his shadow lengthening solemnly beneath the rising sun’s tender gaze.

The villagers rebuild swiftly, eager to erase lingering memories of horror now banished by heroism. They scrub carefully every bloodstain, dismantle shrines dedicated to darker forces, constructing new temples filled with sunlight, prosperity, hope. Their memories, selective and convenient, reframe their tale into something palatable, digestible, righteous.

The forest, however, remembers clearly, unwilling or unable to forget truths carved deeply into ancient bark, whispered persistently by leaves shivering restlessly in gentle winds. Lilies bloom continuously, luminous petals whispering quietly of love lost tragically yet cherished deeply. Their fragrance, sweet yet mournful, drifts faintly into village streets during twilight hours, unnoticed by villagers celebrating obliviously beneath starlight’s forgiving embrace.

At the forest’s heart, your temple remains untouched, vines claiming every stone, wood slowly crumbling beneath patient hands of decay. Paper cranes still adorn rafters, countless delicate wings suspended patiently, each bearing whispered wishes forever unanswered. Moonlight bathes the shrine reverently, illuminating quiet beauty born from loss and devotion intertwined inseparably.

Each full moon, bells ring softly through forest depths, their voices solemn yet tender, resonant yet respectful, marking passage of time felt keenly yet invisible to mortal eyes. The villagers claim ignorance of their meaning, dismissing gently ringing chimes as mere echoes or tricks of imagination. But deep within their hearts, unease stirs persistently, memories suppressed yet lingering, truth pressing against fragile walls of denial.

Suguru returns frequently to your temple, stepping across moss-covered stones, fingers brushing against lily petals trembling faintly in greeting. He kneels within the moonlit sanctuary, folding fresh cranes lovingly, adding carefully to the endless collection, each bird a whispered promise, a confession, an apology carried silently within soft creases.

He speaks aloud sometimes, voice almost inaudible yet clear, recounting memories painstakingly guarded within a heart aching under the weight of irrevocable loss. He recalls warmth shared intimately beneath the silver moon’s watchful gaze, laughter blending with hushed truths, fingertips tracing along skin warmed with stolen moments.

He tells you often how the world feels emptier, colors more muted, sounds softened slightly since your absence, yet how memories of you sustain him, guiding his steps forward despite the grief interlaced inseparably with love. He describes vividly lilies and lotuses blooming persistently within his dreams, fragrance sweetly recalling your presence lucidly, comforting him quietly within sleep’s gentle embrace.

Over years, villagers forget carefully constructed myths, names of heroes fading slowly into obscurity, tales reshaped by time’s hands. Yet the forest retains memories clearly, truths whispered by rustling leaves, petals trembling beneath moonlight’s tender caress.

And Suguru remembers eternally, carrying within a heart broken yet profoundly grateful for love found unexpectedly and treasured infinitely, pain accepted willingly for the brief moments shared under the moonlight.

Eventually, his visits cease, footprints fading slowly from temple paths, paper cranes yellowing beneath the patient eyes of passing years. The forest continues to hold every truth, the lilies blooming perpetually, fragrance drifting faintly, and memory sustained within the timeless embrace of nature’s arms.

Legends shift, evolve gently, village tales reformed into distant folklore, yet the truth remains woven deeply into earth, stone, lily petals blooming in the night.

The myth proclaims victory, finality carefully constructed from convenient lies, but within the forest’s depths, bells continue tolling softly, petals trembling gently, memory persisting eternally, truth remembered profoundly and lovingly.

For the forest never forgets.

And neither, quietly and endlessly, does he.

A/N: thank you so much for reading! and thank you @gojover for proofreading. (sorry i made you sob) i was inspired by the senbazuru tradition, and this was birthed. i feel like i lost the plot midway, but i think we made it back toward the end (art by mitsimeow_ on X)

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