#tempest-born

[angelunderheaven]

[covertblizzard]

if i had a nickel every time garth got really really mad about people choosing to be pacifists instead of actively fighting the danger/evil that exist around them, i'd have (at least) 2 nickels, and that's not a lot but it's interesting that it has happened twice

[thats-a-lot-of-cortisol]

so solace and corentin are siblings? were they separated? if one is with wyll who is the other with?

They are! Solace barely survived Corentin attacking the family when their dark urge awakened, and was taken in by the Temple of the Open Hand because their mother had been going there regularly and the priests had been helping Tin try to keep things under control. Solace was 10, Tin was 15, and they had a 13 year old sister who didn't make it.

Corentin doesn't remember the attack because of a mixture of trauma and purposeful efforts by the Bhaalists, and I don't think they ever truly get the memories of their family back. They put the prices together eventually, though. Solace remembers the attack vividly and was conscious enough to see the direct aftermath when Corentin came to. They're actually the reason she survived: Tin threw one of the many healing potions placed around their house at her and screamed out the window for help before the Butler dragged them away. It's...complicated for Solace and I don't think he'd ever be able to forgive them (which Corentin never expected or asked for), but eventually they're able to move around each other to some degree. They're also working on elf time so by the time they settle into that pattern and make their peace very few people who saw the very beginning of all of that post-game are alive, so the way they interact around each other instead of directly is kinda just accepted as the Way Things Are among the folks in the city who notice.

I haven't decided who Solace is gonna go for yet. I was thinking about Gale but I'm not sure; they might be a no-romance run, honestly. I've got active playthroughs for all of the romances but Gale and Minthara at the moment. Wyll would actually be a good fit for them I think, but I'm not sure if the "both siblings survive" timeline will be the canon one in my head since durge dies if you're not playing as them, and the idea of Solace finding Tin's body after fighting Orin is intriguing to me. I'm not going to touch their playthrough much until I've finished Corentin's and/or gotten further in Candor and Luka's first though, so I have time to decide lol

[club-cheongyang]

[panicsimss]

Timber got his family together to share the big news. His siblings are looking forward to being aunts and uncles, his dad is unsure about the whole thing, and his mother couldn't be more proud. Overall, it went pretty great! Soleil just wishes her own family could be here.

[deathdxnces]

This makes me curious, would Irelia view noxians differently based on whether they were born in noxus, or willingly sided with the empire later in life? Is there even a distinction for her or are both just noxian scum in her eyes?

— @poisonflowrs

that's ALSO a great question, thank you sm semi!!

i think it's fair to say that, in her eyes, they're all one and the same. she'd hate all of them equally. someone like samira, for example, born shuriman and noxian by choice, would be seen by irelia as just as much a noxian as someone like katarina, who is noxian by birth. in the end she'd want to kill both of them on sight.

in a way, though, i think she would be even more judgmental towards those who willingly sided with noxus. because despite her broadly negative views of noxians, i think the extent of it and why she sees things so black and white is also tied to the fact she didn't have to face some of the more difficult questions where that might become more of a dilemma. as an example, if she had to face children, like some ionians had to face child soldiers, would she consider them as inherently bad and deserving of death because they're noxian? I really don't think so. which is why i think deep down (even if she's not. really that interested in dealing with those feelings or seeing things less black and white) irelia knows it's not that they're born noxian that makes noxians what they are; and that might be in part why learning about kayn's origin wouldn't change how she views him.

still, someone born in noxus, raised in noxus, was subject to an environment that would end up making them as terrible as noxians always are, the way she sees it. but that just makes it worse that other people, who lived in other places and had different experiences, actively embrace noxus instead of shunning it. in a way i think she'd see those as particularly unforgivable. they might all be monsters, but someone from somewhere else needs to actively make that choice at some level, which is in her opinion even worse. like. you could just not be noxian and you chose to be??? disgusting

i don't think that greatly impacts how she would interact with them (they are all just noxian scum in the end). because honestly there's also the fact if you are with the empire at all, born there or not, you're choosing to side with noxus. and i don't think irelia cares why people do it, if it's out of pride or need or what they were raised for or whatever else. they're with noxus, knowing what noxus stands for. it's enough for her to hate them.

[curiosity-killed]

Saltwater baths, ice baths, etc, all belong to a specific category of “simultaneously actual literal hell and also no I will not ever be leaving this is one of the best experiences on earth”

[thedragonagelesbian]

dru is still one of the funniest rogue builds ever. 0 points in stealth. 0 points in theft. only manifested a single point of coercion after meeting zevran. they’re not even charming.

[soft4kpop]

Hyuk.

[veritasangel]

⋆ ｡⋆ fem pov ୨୧˚ warnings: none, age gap (not specified, but legal) ↣ {wc: 524}

older knight! simon - one︱two︱three︱four︱five︱six

Older Knight! Simon who’s no longer in his prime. Though, years of training remain with him. The muscle memory engrained, honed through decades of fighting. Yet, the King had decided it was time for Simon to lay down his shield, to relinquish the sword that had served him and the kingdom so faithfully. 

Simon longs to argue on it. He wants to plead his case and tell the King that he can still manage. He knew he was a powerful fighter, he could still best most of the younger knights, even with the aches that now linger in his bones.

And he almost does protest, nearly drops to his knees to beg, until the King speaks once more. Muttering something about a parting gift that leaves Simon speechless. The words all blur together as soon as the King mentions your name.

The King chuckles lightly at Simon’s surprise. “She is my eldest,” he begins, voice filled with affection. “Honestly? A fussy brat when it comes to marriage, too picky for her own good. Every suitor we’ve introduced has fallen short in her eyes. But she cannot evade marriage forever—I need to ensure she can lead this Kingdom when I am gone.”

“But, your majesty, I-”

“She will accept it.” the King interjects with certainty. “She doesn’t talk to me on these matters, but my beloved wife tells me that she is rather... fond of you, for whatever reason.”

Simon only met you a handful of times, at ceremonies or boring royal events. You were always friendly to him, of course, but he had never imagined it extended beyond mere courtesy.

The thought of laying down his sword no longer finds its way to his lips, silenced by the King’s proposition. Marriage was never in the cards for a man like him, let alone with you, the cherished princess of the realm.

But why, then, does his heart beat faster at the thought of you? Why does the notion not fill him with dread, but with something akin to anticipation?

Sensing Simon’s hesitation, the King continues, “If you wish, you may speak with her yourself. Hear her mind from her own lips. But I believe she will be pleased with this arrangement, as will I.”

The King doesn’t elaborate on that last part, but Simon understands the unspoken words. He was essentially born into the castle, his mother had been working for the royal family and he became a knight at a very young age. He’s been loyal to the Kingdom for decades and he knows the King trusts him implicitly, with his own life and, by extension, with yours.

The King’s handshake seals the pact, a smile playing on his lips. And whilst Simon’s thoughts were partly the reason, the King failed to mention one other thing. 

He conveniently forgot to tell Simon that you were a nightmare to handle. A tempest that no suitor had managed to yet tame. But Simon was a fighter, one that had won countless battles. If he can handle the bloodshed in war, surely he can face the storm that is you.

At least, the King hopes so.

༄ cod m.list

© veritasangel ↣ 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴

[muntitled]

𝐀 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥

Aegon Targaryen x Fem!reader

Summary: You were the only one who truly saw the tortured king. Not his mother, not his brother, and certainly not his wife.

Warning: Language, Infidelity, Humiliation, Toxicity, King Complex, Slight Angst, Smut (+18) Minors DNI, Canon typical Incest, Grinding, Forced orgasm, King Kink?, Dom/Sub Themes, Controlled Orgasm, Ownership Kink, Dub/Con, Groping, Humping, Pussy rubbing, Exhibition Kink

This isn't very good, I admit. I just needed to get it out of my head.

Despite your eye following the pathway of High Valyrian ink splashed on the weathered pages of your book, your brain takes forever to process the words.. It is a story you had enjoyed since the days of your wetnurse but now you are focused on the utter injustices occurring by the dinner table before you. You always found your nose nestled in a book throughout dinner, all save for this one.

The Queen mother is bent over her plate, forgetting her table manners in the vehemence of her passions, while Aemond assumes a hostile glare from his perch at the head of the table. Aegon sits slumped in between you and Helena, with his half lidded eyes so painfully tedious as he prods at his food, while these fake gods scold him from above.

"And to make matters impossibly worse, you failed to display even a shred of sympathy towards his condition-" Despite the nature of his mother's tone, it does not stop Aegon from rebutting where necessary, with a quick, sharpness on his tongue.

"This 'condition' you speak of, being the imprisonment of a wealthy merchant's stupid son." Aegon releases a short, winded chuckle, one that you share behind the concealment of your book. "Perhaps he shouldn't have gotten himself captured."

"He is apart of your battalion, Aegon- fighting your war-"

"I am not at war. As I sit here, I am not harbouring any ill feelings towards any party-"

Aemond interrupts, "All you think about is fucking and drinking-"

"Precisely brother!" Aegon proceeds to turn to his mother, with his hands splayed outwards he reiterates, "All I think about is fucking and drinking,"

A loud, unladylike snort escapes the confines of your throat which you attempt to sheath with a cough as you study the words in your book. Aemond rolls his eyes while Aegon throws a blatant smirk beside you- "See Mother! Now our dear cousin has fallen ill as a result of the animosity stirred by your incessant scolding!” Aegon’s voice is doused in sarcasm as he rubs his hand into your shoulder, “All because of your nagging, mother," Alicent’s eyes darken as her voice descends into caution "Aegon. Tomorrow you are to formally apologise to that Knight. He is a seasoned member of your Kingsguard-" The politics was becoming far too much on him. His grip has yet to leave your shoulder.

"Why the complete and utter fuck should I be pandering to my subjects?"

Aemond is the first to inject "Have you not a shred of Diplomacy, you fucking imbecile?" You eye Aemond from above your book, and you cannot begin to imagine the younger brother would ever inject himself into Aegon's business, no reason except perhaps, jealousy?

Aegon promptly ignores Aegon, and, with his eyes on Alicent, he leans over the table and whispers:

"If Rhaenyra wishes to have the crown, she may gladly take it-"

"AEGON!" The queen's thunderous voice settles over the table like a tempest, injecting all those present with a sharp, instinctive flinch, all except Aegon, who remains lax and unaffected by her outburst, only fueling the Queen's anger to first born tenfold.

"I cannot rely on you for anything, Aegon, NOTHING! For a mother to be so utterly embarrassed by her son- her eldest son," there is venom in her incredulity, one that has your brows curving as you send a sympathetic gaze at the Usurper. You lower your novel and lean slightly closer to the battlefield that has befallen the dinner table. Aegon’s hand drops from your shoulder, landing in your lap. You clasp his trembling hand in both of yours.

How a simple visit to see your cousins in King's Landing had turned into a public execution of Aegon's dignity, is utterly beyond you. You decide that you simply will not allow it, you cannot allow it, and solidarity is all you hope Aegon feels radiating from your clasped hands under the table.. You look up at him, thinking you might look up to find anguish in Aegon's eyes, but all you find there is a sly, almost secretive smirk dancing along his visage.

"You govern this country like a child-" Aemond begins but you're quick to snip back,

"Perhaps we should be mindful, cousin of the fact that Aegon still is a child. He is but 20 years in age!" You exclaim, with your own incredulity coating your laughter, "Aegon's destiny was pre-written when you were barely able to wipe your own shit, Cousin." Aegon fails to conceal his crass bought of laughter.

"I've no time for this," Alicent says, pushing herself out of her chair before rising in silent anger, "Helena, come," she commands before leading a slightly aloof Helena out the dining hall without another word. Helena mumbles something about broken unions in iron castings before disappearing.

The silence is deafening as Aemond's one eye studies the two of you - he is not able to see your hand underneath the table, you don’t think…

"Before you think about fucking our cousin, at least think about fucking your wife." Aemond announces, to an amused Aegon who keeps his amused gaze lowered to the table. It is then that Aegon squeezes your hand, still seated on your lap. His fingers encircle yours in what you initially deduce is acknowledgement of your solidarity, but what you quickly realise is something much more sinister.

"I cannot say I will heed your counsel, brother," It is then that Aegon grabs ahold of your hand, guiding you until your palm is cupping his hardened cock. "But you can trust that your council is solemnly heard."

Aemond watches you from above the rim of his chalice as he empties the final traces of his wine before placing his chalice back on the table. His exit is a slow one, one that has your anticipation expanding and Aegon's patience waning. In all honesty, hearing your valiant defence to preserve his dignity raised an intense feeling of desire in Aegon. Even though Aegon's only feeling ever, always seemed to be desire.

"Come here," He says once Aemond footsteps have echoed away, "I need your mouth," Despite his command, Aegon is already leaning in with his hand cupping the back of your skull. Soon, all you can smell is him. All you can feel is him. All you can taste is the drunken and sunken taste of him.

His tongue forces its way into your mouth, ripping a fresh groan from inside you as he twirls you into his lap. He has you arrested on him, his front to your back, with your arse pressed on his crotch. His hand on your face cranes your neck backwards and forces his mouth on yours, promising that even if you wanted to free yourself, you may never be able to.

"I love how you see me," He whispers, never breaking away too far, in fear of you disappearing, "How utterly pleased I am with the version of myself I see living in your eyes," His words spill out of him and slip inside your mouth bridged by your shared saliva.

"He is not useless. He is not pitiful," Aegon breaks away from the kiss, to lay a palm on your cheek.

As one hand lovingly strokes the side of your face, Aegon’s other hand is ravenous, as it palms your sensitive breasts through the bodice of your dress.

"Thank you for not judging me," He all but whimpers as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He breathes you in until his hips attempt to grind into you like a touch starved adolescent boy, while he ventures under your soft skirts.

"You don't have to thank me, Aegon." Your hands reach backwards to cradle his head into the crook of neck just as Aegon's fingers reach around to hook into the seat of your underwear. You aren't nearly as aroused as him, but somehow that fact has Aegon spiralling even further into arousal. His eyes are squeezed shut as he leans into you, smelling you, while his fingers drift over your pussy, searching desperately for a reaction.

"It is very rare that I find myself wanting to give any woman pleasure," Aegon's admits, with a low, dense drawl. His actions steal the breath from your very lungs as you feel the first sign of wetness begin to coat your underwear. He is in utter awe when he feels it. Quickly descending into a level of pleasure that he was not even sure existed, "I fucking love your cunt," He murmurs in his desperate drunken haze, "I wish to play with it and taste it and fuck it until you’re barely able to speak-"

"God's, Aegon!" Your voice is hoarse and your cries reach the highest rafter of the dining hall. Despite your degenerate wails, Aegon does little to stop them, in fact he encourages them, as his fingers push your underwear aside.

"When did you get so fucking wet?" The warmth of his breath fans against your cheeks, as he presses his front against your behind, "Did I get you this wet?" He asks, before getting the strongest surge of arousal as he whispers, "Did your King get you this wet?"

All you are able to accomplish is a nod as your mind explodes with vibrant visions of your near release. Soon, you're moving your hips in tandem with Aegon's fingers squeezing sloppily at your clit before rubbing with vicious surety.

"Please-"

"Call me by my title," He whispers, completely stripped from his sensibilities. "Tell your King to make you come," Aegon's brain is filled with what he suspects is determination. He is determined to see the most lecherous parts of you crack, and have it done by his design. He rubs your cunt with furious passion while he pushes up from underneath you, utterly destroyed by the idea of having a monopolised control over the workings of your body.

"Fuck- please my King!" The ache between your legs is as warm and erratic as Aegon's hands. "Please let me cum-"

"Tis only I, who can get My Lady this wet and needy," He murmurs, quite literally to himself, as he pushes his hips against your arse.

"Only you, My King." You decide to humour him, seeking the quickest way to your release, "Only you can make me cum," Throughout his tirade, Aegon's other, unoccupied hand has reached around and clasped itself against your throat. He is violent in his actions, squeezing deliriously until your throat is vacuumed of all its air. It's an utterly depraved situation you have both found yourselves in.

Anyone could decide to walk in at any moment and Aegon affirms as much. "You're such a pretty little whore, making a mess on my fingers like this. Fuck, The servants could decide to walk through at any moment," His grip on your throat relaxes, allowing you gasp hungrily for air while the first spots of your organs threaten to surge through you.

"P-Please, My King-"

"What would they think if they find you humping my hand like such a needy, little whore?" He is rubbing rough circles against your cunt until finally, you're unable to resist teetering on the edge much longer. As your orgasm washes over you, and your body shudders above him, Aegon's own orgasm is triggered as he forces your hips further onto the seat of his pants.

"My Lord," your voice is shallow but a restless tremor settles on your limbs, "Have you no shame," you're partially jesting, as you try to come back from your previous delirium.

"I've already been branded a devil," He says, "There is no Grace left to fall from."

<3

© to @mphountitled on tumblr; do not repost

[cauli-flawa]

How a mother feels about “Project Tempest”

[dark-dawn]

you peel a pomegranate and watch as it bleeds, its juices staining your fingertips as you rip apart its flesh and devour the seeds within. you wonder if this is how the gods feel when they consume you, too. or, satoru gojo is born as the son of zeus. his fate does not change.

✭ pairing: demigod!gojo x mortal!reader

✭ contains: fem!reader, mutual pining, obsessive!gojo, religious imagery, greek mythology, slight manga spoilers, it's about him being used as a weapon, it's about him rediscovering his humanity, hurt/comfort, mortals can’t usually see him, but then he meets you, it drives him a little insane, mild sexual content, everyone is doomed by the narrative, slight angst, daddy issues!gojo, son of dionysus!geto.

✭ word count: 10k (utter agony) ✭ a/n: chapter 261 destroyed me, so i decided to write this as a coping mechanism :')

The first night you meet Satoru, the rain is relentless — a heavy downpour saturating the world in a thick curtain of silver. You stand alone on an empty street corner, the flickering glow of streetlights casting long, shifting shadows across the slick pavement. Water streams down your skin, soaking through your clothes and dripping from the ends of your hair.

Then, in a blink, a man appears on the opposite side of the street.

You notice how his lips curl into a sly, knowing grin, as if he’s been expecting you — as if he’s been waiting for this exact moment. You feel an unsettling sensation gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. You can’t shake the feeling there’s something slithering beneath the surface of his skin, raw and untamed, waiting to break free from its constraints.

The rain does not touch him, and the air crackles with an energy that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. It feels a little like you’ve stumbled upon a creature masquerading as a man — familiar yet foreign, like opening your bedroom door only to find a wolf staring back you.

A flash of lightning illuminates the sky, followed by a loud crack of thunder. The storm intensifies, and you see it — electricity surging through him, piercing deep into his flesh. He stands with his arms outstretched like a crucifixion, his body twisting in agonised ecstasy as tendrils of light entwine around him. The heavens roar, a judgment passed, and his form is illuminated with a halo of searing, holy light. It’s blinding, and then gone in a heartbeat. As if you imagined it.

He tilts his head ever so slightly, assessing you, weighing your worth. It’s not quite human.

You wonder how swiftly you might be devoured, a rabbit caught between his teeth, the taste of your own vulnerability lingering on his tongue.

“You’re different,” he finally speaks, his voice cutting through the roar of the tempest. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re not like the others.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a physical force — prey caught in a trap. “What do you mean?”

He takes a step closer, his movements fluid and graceful despite the violence of the storm. “Most mortals are blind to the truth,” he replies. “But you see me.”

“I don’t understand,” you breathe, heart pounding in your chest.

You notice that his eyes are a preternatural shade of electric blue, lightning trapped within the confines of human form.

“You will,” he promises. He says it with such certainty, as if it were an undeniable truth of the universe.

Perhaps it is. Perhaps he truly possesses that kind of power.

“What are you?” Your voice is barely audible over the cacophony of rain and wind.

His laughter echoes in the darkness, mingling with the rumble of thunder. “I am many things.” His smile widens, a gleam of amusement flashing in his eyes. “A messenger, perhaps.”

Before you can reply, another bolt of lightning splits the sky, illuminating his form in stark relief against the darkness. In that brief moment of clarity, you catch a glimpse of something beyond comprehension — something primal and ancient, older than time itself, gazing back at you with a smile.

---

Satoru is his father’s favourite child, and so the gods watch him every day.

He eats when they command. He sleeps when they command. When they ask for his devotion, his rage, his life, he cannot deny them. Their whispers infest his mind — always judging, decreeing, demanding — and he cannot silence them. He has been neatly erased and sculpted anew, again and again. The pain has long since faded.

He wants and wants and craves and needs and wants. They do not hear him. He fears he is forgetting his own name. His knees are raw and bruised and bleeding. How long must he pray? How long will he repent? He feels the blood under his skin and his heart throbbing in his chest, and he wants to claw it out and swallow it whole.

And then Satoru meets you. His longing grows teeth, and he wants to sink them into the marrow of your bones, to consume until there is nothing left but the echo of his name on your lips.

You can see him. He doesn’t remember the last time someone has.  

And so, he follows you.

He observes your every move, drinking in the sight of you as if trying to decipher a puzzle that has long confounded him. Other mortals pass by without a second glance, their minds clouded by the mundane concerns of their mundane lives.

He’s currently trailing behind you in a grocery store. He doesn’t think he’s ever been in one before.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow over rows of neatly stacked shelves. It’s been years since he’s tasted mortal food, years since he’s felt the sensation of hunger gnawing at his insides. He can almost remember what it was like — the taste of ripe fruit on his tongue, the feeling of warmth spreading through his body with each bite.

His childhood memories are but fragments now, faded and softened like aged parchment, but he thinks of his mother often. She had treated him with kindness — fed and comforted him. He remembers the way she whispered stories of heroes and villains, of spirits and curses. It is perhaps the only vestige of humanity that remains within him. But then she had died, and left him with his father.

The gods are cruel and fickle. This is the oldest story he knows. Maybe it’s the only story that matters.

But now, he has better things to occupy himself with.

“Hello, little mortal.”

You’re startled by the unexpected voice. “You...” you begin, mouth agape like a fish. “I remember you. From the storm.”

“It seems fate has brought us together once again,” he says, smiling in a way that shows too many teeth.

“…In a grocery store?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replies, his tone mocking and sharp. “Perhaps a dark alley is more to your taste? Maybe an abandoned warehouse?”

Other customers pass by without so much as a glance in his direction, their eyes sliding right over him as if he were nothing more than a ghost.

“Why are you here? Are you following me?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions, sweetheart.”

Then —

“Who are you?”

“There,” he grins. “Much better.”

He leans in closer, his presence electrifying the air around you. “I am the son of thunder and lightning,” he says, his voice low and resonant. “You are the first in centuries to see me for what I truly am. And for that, you have my interest and my gratitude.”

“I — you’re welcome?” you reply, your confusion palpable, and he finds himself quite enjoying the sight of you flustered and disorientated. “But what’s going on? Why am I the only one who can see you?”

“Maybe you’re blessed by the gods,” he muses. “Or maybe you’re just very lucky. Both, perhaps.”

“Lucky? This is crazy.” Your voice falters like a dancer stumbling mid-performance. “You’re crazy.”

He smiles. “Overwhelming, isn’t it? But don’t worry, you’re not losing your mind. Everything you see and hear is quite real.”

Satoru often wishes things were not real — that he had been born a simple soldier, just another grunt faithfully serving his leader, destined to fight and die in some random, meaningless battle. He would be lost to history, lost to the gods, and no one would remember his name or who his father was. Sometimes, he even thinks that might be preferable to this world, but he doesn’t want to scare you off that badly.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. “Okay, okay. So, what happens now? What do you want from me?”

“Nothing more than your company,” he replies. Satoru had always been a selfish child, unwilling to part with his toys, reluctant to share. This would be no exception. “You can expect to see me again soon. Don’t miss me too much, sweetheart.”

He watches you for a moment longer, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. And then, just as suddenly as he appeared, he fades into the shadows once more, leaving you standing alone in the store. As if you had imagined it.

It isn’t until later, when he’s alone with his thoughts and the gods’ whispers, that he realises something peculiar: the voices in his head fall silent in your presence.

He’s uncertain of its implications, yet strangely pleased by the trouble it promises. He’s always had a talent for pissing of his father.

---

The steady beat of the rain against the windows is soothing as you step into the shower. Steam envelops the room, clouding the mirrors and curling into a comforting haze around you. It had been a while since you were able to relax like this — thoughts of gods and monsters plaguing your mind with unsettling frequency. You were familiar with Greek mythology, of course, but it was one thing to enjoy studying history, another thing to relive it.

You had tried to convince yourself that it had never happened, that you just had an overactive imagination fuelled by reading too many fantasy books as a child. No, you weren’t being followed by a demigod; this was just a prelude to a wild, miraculous adventure. Maybe you’d slay a dragon, marry a handsome elven prince. This story wouldn’t be a Greek myth — you wouldn’t be swallowed by the sea, molten wings dripping down your spine; you wouldn’t walk into hell, never to return.

You’re halfway through rinsing the shampoo from your hair when you hear a strange rustling sound from outside the bathroom. You pause, water streaming down your face, listening intently. The noise is faint but persistent, coming from the direction of the kitchen. Your pulse quickens, mouth dry. It seems unlikely someone is trying to rob you; your apartment holds nothing of real value, nothing worth stealing. Perhaps a wild animal has found its way inside, seeking shelter from the storm.

You turn off the shower, wrapping a towel around yourself as you cautiously step out of the bathroom. The sound grows louder as you approach the kitchen. Your mind races through the possibilities, each one more improbable than the last.

Peeking around the corner, you brace yourself for whatever you might find.

Instead, you find the Son of Zeus rummaging through your cabinets. He looks up at you, unfazed by your dripping state, and grins widely.

You suppose you were right about the wild animal creeping in.

“You should really keep more snacks,” he says, holding up an empty bag of chips accusingly.

“Oh my god, I thought I was going to die.” You’re uncertain if you still might.

“Gods,” he corrects, and you’re really struggling to reconcile the image of him in the storm with the person now, complaining about your food options and grammar.

“You can’t just appear out of nowhere and start raiding my kitchen,” you hiss, wrapping the towel tighter around yourself.

“But it’s raining. You should’ve known I’d drop by.” he says, frowning, as if this were the most reasonable explanation in the world and not completely insane.

“Next time, send a text, a messenger pigeon, literally anything else. I think I’m going to have a heart attack.”

He shrugs, unperturbed. “Consider it a lesson in being prepared. You never know when a god might appear.”

“I could have been naked!” you retort, your voice rising in frustration. This is perhaps the least of your worries, but common sense and self-preservation has apparently abandoned you.

“Don’t shout at me about that! Besides, you’re in a towel, so crisis averted!” He seems disappointed by this fact. You want to throw something at him.

“I am not shouting!” you say, shouting. “I am communicating my annoyance.”

“With what? Your lungs?”

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, a stubborn set to your jaw as you turn mulishly silent. You can’t believe you’re being stalked by a demigod.

He heaves a deep sigh, leaning against your kitchen counter. “Fine, I’m sorry. I had not meant to upset or startle you.”

“Please stop following me.”

He ignores you completely, instead pulling out a can of soup and examining it with a bemused expression. “Seriously, how do you live like this? No ambrosia, no nectar. Not even a decent piece of fruit.”

“Get out of my apartment, I swear to god.”

“Gods,” he grins, before disappearing once more.

--- You realise you must have terrible luck when he begins to follow you around more persistently after the shower incident, no longer bothering to even hide his presence. It’s a little odd to have a demigod trailing behind you like a stray dog, but any initial wariness melts away when you catch him eating your cereal. He develops an immediate liking for Rice Krispies, insisting you keep the cupboards stocked with them. It feels as if you’re catering to a spoiled prince, but you suspect even that would be easier to handle.

But the sight of him — this divine, impossible entity — utterly engrossed in his breakfast is strangely endearing.

You still wish he wasn’t eating your cereal, though, and he never cleans his mugs after using them, and —

“You’ve never asked for my name, you know,” he says, interrupting your thoughts.

“Believe it or not, there’s a reason for that,” you reply, eyeing him cautiously. “Namely, you were never invited into my apartment in the first place.”

“You’re always so mean,” he sighs dramatically, “but I suppose I can forgive you this once. It’s Satoru.”

“I would say it’s nice to meet you, but I think I’d be lying.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Everyone likes me.”

“Are you sure? How many people do you talk to? Humans, I mean, not gods.”

He pauses, considering. “Then the gods like me.”

“Is that a good thing?”

He shrugs, his expression pensive. “I’m not sure.”

It occurred to you that you should be frightened of him. You are not.

You suspect he might just be lonely.

(And you, well, you’ve always had a soft spot for strays.)

---

His random appearances in your apartment were becoming a daily occurrence now. One moment you’d be brewing coffee, and the next, he’d be sitting at your kitchen table like he was the one paying rent. He would ask questions incessantly, about the most mundane things — the colour of your curtains, the taste of cake, the texture of your favourite sweater. It made you wonder if you were hallucinating, if perhaps the stress of daily life had finally taken its toll on your sanity. But the more you interacted with him, the more you realised that he was undeniably — and annoyingly — real. You couldn’t possibly invent a creature like him.

In response, you had started asking him questions back. If he was going to be spending an uncomfortable amount of time with you, he owed you this. Plus, it seemed like he enjoyed the sound of his own voice — perhaps you could tire him out and he’d go find another mortal to pester.

The likelihood of that happening seemed slim at best, but one could pray.

“What are the gods like?” you ask, biting into a croissant he bought from a little bakery down the street. You’re not exactly sure where he got the money, but you’re not going to argue with free food.

“Describing the gods to a mortal is like trying to paint a picture without a canvas.” He furrows his brow, searching for the right words. “They’re vast, incomprehensible beings, each embodying different aspects of existence. Some are benevolent, while others are more…capricious.”

“And you’re similar to them?”

“In some ways, perhaps. But I’m also different,” he begins, “I’m not bound by the same rules and regulations that govern the gods. I have a bit more... freedom, you could say. I’m not beholden to any particular domain or duty.”

You nod, definitely not admiring the way the sunlight catches in his hair as he speaks. “What about your powers? Are they granted by your father?”

The idea that his father is a god is still strange, lingering in your thoughts like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit into the picture of the world you thought you knew.

“Yes, in a way. Zeus’s blood flows through my veins, so I can control the elements. I have the power to summon storms, manipulate lightning, bend the fabric of reality to my will.” He smiles, and it reminds you of a cat, smug and self-assured. “I’m powerful, you know.”

You roll your eyes at him. “You’re so cocky.”

“You would be too if you were me,” he grins.

But then you notice a shadow pass over his features. “Don’t mistake it for pride, though,” he continues, his expression tightening into a scowl. “I may not be bound by their rules, but I’m still expected to worship them, perhaps more than the average mortal.”

You furrow your brow. “But you’re the son of Zeus, why are you still expected to worship them?”

His laughter echoes through the room. “Because that’s the way it’s always been. You know the myths — they give you attention when it suits them, but they can just as easily cast you aside when they grow bored.”

“You’re caught between two worlds, then — not quite mortal, yet not fully divine,” you reply, frowning. “It sounds painful.”

“You seem worried about me,” he grins.

You can tell he’s trying to deflect, and you let him.

You briefly wonder what would happen if he carved out every unwanted emotion until only his soul remained. Would he shatter that, too? Break it down into more manageable pieces?

Had he tried to purge them, surgically extract sorrow, fear, anger, believing that what remained would be purer, stronger?

“I’m not worried about you,” you retort, crossing your arms defensively.

“Of course not,” he replies, teasing. “But don’t worry, I can handle myself.”

“On your own?”

His falters for a moment. “On my own,” he repeats.

Before you can press further, he seems to shut down, his expression becoming unreadable, like a mask slipping into place.

And then, without another word, he disappears.

You’re left standing there, alone, as if you had imagined it.

---

The next time you see him, Satoru is standing outside the door of your apartment. It’s a rare sight — he hardly ever bothers with such formalities as knocking. Usually, he strolls around your place without a care in the world, as if the boundaries of your home were mere suggestions rather than solid walls.

You notice the tension in his stance, the way he seems almost hesitant to cross the threshold. But it’s only when you see the blood that your unease turns to alarm. Flecks of red dot his hair, his hands, staining the fabric of his clothing, none of it his own — there’s not a scratch on him.

You hesitate, unsure whether to approach or flee, to lock the door and pretend you never saw him. But there’s a look in his eyes that stops you from walking away.

“What happened?” you ask cautiously.

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re dripping in blood, and that’s nothing?”

He exhales heavily, and he suddenly reminds you of Atlas, the weight of the world resting upon his shoulders. “Trouble,” he replies cryptically, his shoulders sagging. “More than I bargained for.”

You step closer, reaching out your hand to touch him, but he flinches away, as if the contact is too much to bear.

“Can I help?” you offer tentatively, the words slipping from your lips before you can fully comprehend their weight.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Why don’t you come inside?”

He nods, conceding defeat. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright.”

Together, you guide him to the nearest chair, his body slumping heavily as if drained of all strength.

You step into the kitchen, your footsteps soft against the cool tile floor. Opening the cupboard, you retrieve a clean towel and a small bowl, filling it with lukewarm water from the sink.

As you return to the living room, you offer him a small smile, much like coaxing a stray cat, as you place the bowl and towel within reach. “Close your eyes,” you instruct gently.

He complies without hesitation, tilting his head back to grant you better access. Dipping a corner of the towel into the water, you carefully press it against his scalp, the fabric absorbing the blood with each gentle pat. Root to tip, you work your way through his hair, your touch light as you cleanse away the stains. As you work, you can feel the tension slowly seeping out of his body, his muscles relaxing beneath your touch.

After a few moments of silence, Satoru speaks, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

You pause, glancing at him. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“I’m asking if you’re okay.”

He sits up, his expression guarded, as if he’s shielding himself from further vulnerability.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” he replies. “My feelings are irrelevant to the gods.”

You can sense the bitterness in his tone, the weight of centuries of servitude pressing down upon.

“That’s ridiculous,” you counter, your voice firm. “You’re a person, with your own thoughts and needs and wants. That matters more than anything.”

“You don’t understand. Being okay, feeling okay — it’s not something I can afford to indulge in.” He hesitates, his expression unreadable. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with such trivial matters. I am what I am, and nothing will change that.”

“You deserve more than that,” you reply firmly. You won’t let him deflect again.

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, his expression shifts from stoic resolve to something resembling surprise. It’s as if the concept of deserving more — of having a life beyond duty and sacrifice — is a foreign idea, one he has never entertained. He blinks, his eyes widening slightly, and you realise that no one has ever told him this before. The idea that he could desire something beyond his obligations seems to catch him off guard.

“Do I?” he asks cautiously, as if afraid of the answer.

“Yes, you do. You’re not a machine. You’re a person. You’re more than what the gods expect of you.”

He looks away, his gaze distant as he processes your words. “It’s hard to believe that after everything I’ve done,” he admits quietly. “I’ve spent so long being what they wanted me to be. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

He takes a deep breath. “No one has seen me in years, not really. I’ve forgotten how long it’s been. The only ones who notice me are the gods and cursed spirits. My friends are long gone. Some are in the Elysian Fields, others in the Underworld, forever lost to me.”

He pauses. “I’ve watched centuries pass, mortals live and die, while I remain. Your kindness is something I haven’t felt in a long time.”

For a moment, he looks at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty.

Then, with a voice barely above a whisper, he confesses, “I often feel like I am no more than a ghost.”

Oh, you realise, he has no one else.

He’s all alone.

“I see no ghost.” You grasp his wrist gently, feeling his pulse, the warmth in his hands. “Only a man, flesh and blood, right here with me.”

A corner of his mouth twitches, as if trying to restrain a smile. You wonder what would happen if he let go of all his control.

But then he clenches his jaw, steeling himself again before speaking. “I owe you an explanation for showing up here like this.” He looks away from you, his eyes fixed on some distant point. “The blood is from cursed spirits. The gods ordered me to kill them. Hundreds of them, for days on end. Over and over again.”

As he speaks, you can see the weight of his burden etched in the tension of his muscles, in the tautness of his posture. “The spirits were twisted, corrupted beyond redemption. They brought only chaos and suffering to those around them.”

“But why you? Why not another demigod?”

“Because I’m the strongest. And if I refused, the consequences would have been dire.” He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “This is not new to me; I have been doing this for hundreds of years.”

“The gods... they speak to me constantly, relentless in their demands. There’s no respite, no break from their commands.” His voice softens slightly as he looks at you. “But with you, they’re silent. I’m not sure why. Only that I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this.”

You blink, and then without thinking — instinctively, inevitably — your arms move towards him, pulling him into a hug. At first, he stiffens, as if unaccustomed to touch or kindness after years of solitude. But gradually, almost imperceptibly, he relaxes, leaning into your warmth.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe into the side of his neck.

“What for?” he asks, his voice tinged with bewilderment, as if he can’t quite comprehend your empathy.

“For everything you’ve had to endure. For the weight you carry, for the constant demands placed upon you. For helping people for centuries, without anyone to thank you.”

“I never expected...” he begins, his voice trailing off as he struggles to find the right words. “I never expected this.”

“Thank you,” you say, “for everything.”

His arms tighten around you, and it’s a small victory, a crack in the armour he wears so tightly.

As you pull back from the hug, there’s a brief moment of hesitation, a reluctance to let go. But you step back, allowing him some space.

“So,” you continue, “how about some pizza? I know a great place nearby.”

Terrible junk food always cheered you up — perhaps it would work on demigods, too.

His brow furrows in confusion. “What’s that?”

“Oh, I have so many things to show you.”

Has he ever had ice-cream? Greasy chicken nuggets? You realise with startling clarity that you want to introduce him to everything he’s missed, to show him the world, if you can.

You’ll psychoanalyse yourself later.

“I feel like a stray cat that’s just been adopted.”

“You are,” you grin.

---

That night, you dream.

Darkness envelops you, a suffocating shroud that clings to your skin. You find yourself standing in a desolate landscape, the ground beneath your feet cold and lifeless, covered in a fine layer of ash. The sky above is a vast expanse of swirling shadows, devoid of stars and moonlight. You are utterly alone.

And then, from the shadows, a figure emerges.

“You have trespassed into a realm not meant for mortal eyes,” his voice rasps, as though unused for years.

The figure steps closer, his form shifting and flickering like a flame in the wind. Long black hair frames a face that seems too perfect, too flawless to belong to any world. He reminds you of Satoru, but colder, more distant.

“You are in the Underworld,” he continues. “A place where the boundaries between life and death blur, where mortals are not meant to linger.”

“Why?” you manage to ask, but the words feeling thick and foreign on your tongue.

The weight of the atmosphere presses down on you, making your limbs feel heavy as if you’re wading through sticky, dense molasses.

“Because of the Son of Zeus. Mortals are fragile, easily ensnared by the allure of gods.”

“I don’t understand.” You wish he would speak clearly, cut through the riddles and half-truths.

“Satoru is bound by duty and legacy. His path is one of sacrifice and solitude. To draw close to him is to court danger.”

“But he needs help. He’s suffering.”

“Suffering is his burden to bear. Mortals and gods do not walk the same path.” He pauses, his gaze distant, like he’s not even looking at you anymore. “Turn back. Forget what you have seen. Forget you ever met him.”

It’s as if you’re underwater, each movement slow and weighted by unseen currents. But you know what you’re saying is important, that it carries weight.

“I can’t do that.”

“You defy the natural order. To involve yourself in the affairs of gods and their chosen is to court calamity.”

“I can’t turn away,” you insist. “He’s all alone.”

Uncertainty churns within you, a tumultuous mix of emotions that you don’t know how to navigate. You’re unsure when these feelings caught up to you, but you can at least recognise the depth of your own attachment. You’re scared of the consequences, but it pales beside the thought of doing nothing — of knowing you could do something, be something, and still choosing to walk away.

So, you take a step closer. “I won’t abandon him.”

The figure’s form shimmers momentarily, as if contemplating your words. “Fine,” he concedes, a fleeting hint of sympathy in his eyes. “But know this, mortals who tread where gods roam seldom emerge unscathed.”

“I understand.”

With a nod, he gestures toward a faint glimmer in the darkness. “Go then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you both.”

You wake suddenly, drenched in sweat, your heart pounding in your chest. For a moment, the darkness of the dream clings to your senses, blurring the edges of reality and casting your world into a cold, disorienting haze. Gradually, the details of your bedroom come into focus — the familiar contours of furniture, the posters on your walls, the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. You sit up, pulling your knees close to your chest, attempting to steady your breathing.

And then, as if he can sense your discomfort, Satoru is by your side.

“You’re awake,” he says gently, a tenderness in his voice that catches you off guard. It hadn’t occurred to you that he might care about your wellbeing, too,

You nod silently, unable to find words, your hands trembling.

“A nightmare?” he asks, his eyes searching yours.

“Yeah,” you manage to whisper. “Of the Underworld.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” he says softly. “Even the gods find it unbearable.”

“How did you know something was wrong?”

“…I’m not sure. It felt like I was missing a limb.” He pauses, contemplating. “It felt like a part of me was torn away, and I couldn’t find it.”

“What’s going on with the two of us?” You feel as if you’re two stars in orbit, drawn together by something neither of you can understand. “Why is this happening?”

“I’m confused too,” he admits, almost apologetically. “But I’m going to do some research, try to understand what’s happening.”

You exhale slowly, thoughts swirling as you try to make sense of it all. “In the dream, I saw someone. They warned me about you, about being close to the gods.”

Satoru’s brow furrows slightly, his expression troubled. “They have reason to caution you,” he replies. “There are dangers you don’t yet understand.”

“But I don’t want to leave you,” you confess. A simple truth, but it still feels disarming to admit. “I want to understand, to help if I can.”

Satoru reaches out, his hand finding yours in the dark.

“You already do,” he murmurs. “But I don’t expect that of you.”

The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen blends with the occasional rumble of passing traffic outside, but otherwise, all you can hear are his slow, steady breaths, calming in the quiet of the night.

“Will you stay?” you ask.

He feels as safe as the earth and as steady as the trees — natural and unwavering, like something that can withstand time itself.

“Of course.” He says it without hesitation, as easy as breathing.

You shift slightly, making room for him on the bed, and he settles beside you, close but not quite touching.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Sleep. You’re safe here.”

You allow yourself to relax, reassured by the knowledge that you are not alone. That he isn’t, either.

---

You wake to the scent of something burning. It feels almost symbolic.

Groggy and sluggish, you stumble out of bed and shuffle towards the kitchen, silently praying that your apartment isn’t ablaze — that you aren’t the target of divine retribution from some irate deity. Pushing open the door, you find Satoru standing by the stove, a look of intense concentration on his face as he prods at a pan of charred bacon.

“Satoru?” you call out, half-amused and half-concerned. “What are you doing?”

“I... uh, thought I’d try to make breakfast, but it didn’t exactly go to plan.”

“Well, it looks like you’ve mastered the art of making charcoal,” you reply, moving to his side.

“It’s harder than I thought,” he admits, frowning at the pan.

“The big, scary demigod can’t cook,” you coo, gently nudging him with your elbow.

He stares at the bacon with contempt.

“Cereal?”

“I’ll get the milk.”

You set aside the burnt bacon and clear the stove, grabbing a couple of bowls from the cupboard while Satoru retrieves the Rice Krispies. Together, you sit at the table in comfortable silence, the early morning sunlight filtering through the kitchen window.

“You know, it’s nice to see this side of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that you’re no longer particularly intimidating to me anymore.”

“Don’t tempt me. I could still burn you to a crisp,” he huffs.

“I’ll take my chances.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re not as terrifying as you pretend to be.”

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“No promises,” you laugh.

A pause, and then —

“Can I show you something?” he asks you, still smiling. “Hold your hand up.”

Curious, you extend your hand toward him, but as your palm nears his, you feel a subtle resistance, an invisible barrier surrounding him. No matter how hard you try, you can’t get close.

“Is this a magic trick or something?”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and you definitely don’t want to admit how much you enjoy hearing it.

“Not exactly. You’re the first to call it that,” he replies. “What you’re feeling is my Limitless technique. It creates an infinite amount of space between me and everything else.”

“So, nothing can ever touch you?” Despite being in the presence of the most powerful, impossible man you’ve ever encountered, your mind can only fixate on the idea of touching him. You should be in awe, or even fear — literally anything else — but apparently, logic and reason evaporate in his presence.

“Only if I want it to,” he answers, his gaze steady on yours.

The air hums with a faint energy as the barrier fades, allowing your palm to finally connect with his. He slides his fingers between yours, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost reverent.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now you can feel it.”

You can’t help but notice how large Satoru’s hands are, his fingers long and strong as they intertwine with yours.

You blink, and a sudden, sinking realisation washes over you.

Your eyes trace the unblemished ivory of his skin, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his throat. You can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if his touch roamed further.

Then, as if sensing your thoughts, his thumb grazes the bare skin of your arm. His touch is so delicate as he traces a path down from your elbow to your forearm, it’s almost as if he’s not touching you at all.

You realise with sudden clarity that you want him to touch you. You fear you might not let him stop, that you would allow him anything he asked.

The intensity of your emotions takes you by surprise. You reluctantly pull away, breaking the spell that had woven itself around you.

Now is not the time for this.

You couldn’t shake the feeling you were adrift in a storm-tossed sea, waves crashing around you, threatening to pull you under at any moment. And yet, strangely enough, you felt no fear. Not of him. Perhaps you should be terrified; perhaps there was something fundamentally broken inside of you, something that even the gods couldn’t save. But his presence, despite its intensity, was the eye of the storm, the still point around which everything else swirled. And somehow, that made all the difference.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m fine.”

(Having a crush on a demigod was very much not fine, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

---

“Are any of the gods happy?”

You’re lying side by side, nestled in a field of tall grass that sways gently in the breeze. The warmth of the day hangs thick in the air, while the branches of nearby trees rustle gently, their leaves casting dappled patterns of sunlight over your intertwined fingers.

It was your idea to get out of the house, to show him something good and pure and timeless. The spot you had chosen is a favourite from your childhood, a place you’d escape to when you were stressed and overwhelmed. The scent of grass and earth brings back memories of those afternoons, when time seemed to stretch lazily and worries felt distant. Here, the biggest decision was whether to sit by the stream or follow a path through the woods.

As you lie there together, the scene feels almost sacred, as if the world has paused just for this moment of quiet between you.

You look at him and see the way the sunlight falls softly on his face, highlighting all the details you’d come to know by heart — the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the warmth in his eyes. His features are etched in your memory so deeply now that you could recognise him by touch alone.

In moments like these, it’s easy to forget the boundaries between mortal and divine.

“Happy?” he repeats. “I don’t know if happiness is something they seek,” he muses, more to himself than to you. “They are driven by duty, by ancient laws and responsibilities that are beyond even me.”

The breeze brushes against your skin as you wait for him to finish his thought.

“They experience moments of contentment, perhaps,” he continues. “But true happiness? I’m not sure they even understand what that means.”

“Do you think they envy mortals, then?” you ask.

“Perhaps in fleeting moments. Mortals possess a freedom we cannot fully grasp, but envy implies a desire for something different. I’m not sure they allow themselves such thoughts.”

“Do you?”

“There are times when I wish I had their capacity to experience emotions so deeply and openly — joy and pain, love and loss,” he says, glancing down at your intertwined hands on the grass. “But I also understand my path is different. My duty lies elsewhere, even if it means sacrificing certain desires. I cannot change what I am. I just wish I could offer you more.”

“You’re more than enough,” you reply, gently squeezing his hand.

He hesitates for a moment, then nods slightly. “Thank you,” he murmurs, squeezing back.

After a moment of silence, he sits up a little straighter, his expression pensive. “About the nightmare,” he begins, “the man you met...” His voice trails off, and you can sense his reluctance to delve into something so distressing for you.

You offer him a small smile, encouraging him to continue. “It’s okay, don’t worry.”

“Did he say his name?

“I don’t think so. He just said that I was in the Underworld, that I should stay away from the gods. I remember he had dark hair and eyes, and…” you pause, recalling another detail, “and he mentioned he’d warned you, too.”

“Suguru,” he breathes. “It has to be.”

“Do you know him?”

“I knew him a long time ago, perhaps. He was the son of Dionysus. We grew up together, and for most of my life, he was my only friend.” He clenches his jaw, and you can’t quite read the emotion in his eyes. “He’s gone now. It’s been more than a hundred years since I last saw him.”

“Do you miss him?”

“I miss him and hate him in equal measure, even after all this time.” His tone is perfectly neutral, carefully restrained. “He was a genocidal idiot. I was ordered to kill him.”

“Oh,” you respond, unsure of what to offer someone who has lost so much. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he dismisses with a bitter laugh. “It was written by the fates long before you were born. I’m just confused as to why he’s haunting your dreams in particular.”

“We’ll figure this out together, Satoru,” you reply gently. “Whether it’s fate, the gods, or something else entirely, we’ll find answers.”

You feel as if interacting with a demigod on a daily basis has made everything feel more possible, like you could pluck the stars from the heavens or reshape the very earth beneath your feet. You’re uncertain if this is a positive development.

“You’re taking all of this remarkably well.” His brows crease in confusion. “I’ve told you my dead best friend appeared in your dreams, that I killed him — hell, that the gods are alive and real — and you’re comforting me?”

“Sometimes, acceptance is just easier than disbelief and denial. You’re my friend, as strange and impossible as that may be. I trust you.”

Satoru laughs, a touch of disbelief in his voice. “Thank you,” he replies, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “For everything.” He leans in, kissing the top of your head.

“Plus,” you say, rummaging in your tote bag, “while things may seem messy and confusing right now,” you admit, pulling out a small box, “I did bring cupcakes.”

“Cupcakes?” he repeats, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Yep,” you confirm, handing him the box. “Chocolate chip with vanilla frosting. I figured something sweet might help, even just a little.”

“I knew following you around was a good idea.”

---

Satoru is his father’s favourite son, so when the gods call, he answers.

He tries to avoid meetings like this as much as possible, but a summoning from Zeus cannot be ignored.

He stands in the throne room of Olympus, the distant rumble of thunder echoing through the halls. Marble columns stretch toward a vaulted ceiling adorned with celestial frescoes, the air heavy with the scent of ambrosia and incense. The throne, carved from solid gold and studded with precious gems, rests upon a dais, elevated above the chamber like a sentinel standing watch over its domain.

Satoru thinks it looks tacky.

Servants and lesser gods scurry about, casting furtive glances at the demigod standing in their midst. They know him by reputation — Zeus’s strongest warrior, his favoured son.

He resists the temptation to kill them all.

Time stretches on, but the wait is a familiar ritual. He is nothing more than a dog on a leash, awaiting his owner’s return.

Zeus’s arrival shatters the silence with a crash of thunder, shaking the very foundations of Olympus. The torches flare, casting wild flickers of light as the King of Gods materialises upon his throne. Seeing his father always feels like staring into a distorted mirror — the same blue eyes, the same white hair. It’s a bitter irony that he bears such a striking resemblance to the deity who holds his life in an iron grip.

“My son,” Zeus begins, his voice a deep rumble reverberating through the chamber. “You’ve been avoiding your duties.”

“I do as I am commanded, Father,” he replies. The words feel bitter on his tongue, but meetings with his father are always like this — laden with expectations, heavy with the weight of centuries-old obligations. Satoru often wondered if he ever got tired of hearing his own voice.

Zeus leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Do not think you can run from this,” he warns. “Sukuna must be faced, and it is you who must do it. You cannot shirk this responsibility.”

Satoru clenches his jaw. “When have I ever run from a fight? When have I ever lost?”  

“And yet you hesitate, you question your purpose.” Zeus counters, his tone sharp. “You are my son. This is your destiny.”

“Destiny,” he repeats, almost spitting the word. “Is that what this is? Or is it just another way to keep me bound to your will?”

Satoru is his father’s son through and through – he could never control his anger in his presence, could never hide behind a façade of humour and indifference. He hates himself for it, but he hates his father more for gifting him these traits, like some fucked-up inheritance.

Zeus’s expression hardens. “You would be wise to remember who you speak to.” He rises from the throne, his steps heavy and resonant. “This is not a matter of choice. You are bound by blood and fate. Do not let your arrogance blind you to the responsibilities you bear.”

“Responsibilities that you have imposed,” Satoru retorts. “I have never chosen this path, yet I carry its weight while the gods do nothing.”

“I assume this is the mortal’s influence, then,” Zeus says, looking down at him with disdain. “Pathetic.”

“Do not mention her,” he growls.

“You have grown attached,” Zeus observes, a hint of mockery in his tone. “You forget your place.”

“She is not just another pawn in your games.” Satoru can feel his power crawling under his skin, the air humming with electricity like a gathering storm.

He had nearly forgotten how the gods watched him, how every moment of vulnerability could be seized upon to remind him of his place. He had grown too comfortable in your presence, allowed himself to slip into a sense of normalcy that the gods did not allow for.

Zeus’s expression darkens, the air thickening with his displeasure. “She is a distraction,” he asserts, his voice cutting like a blade. “Sukuna’s threat grows stronger with each passing day, while you’ve found yourself a mortal whore.”

“Careful, Father. Keep talking like this and I will let Sukuna feast upon your lands and swallow your oceans whole,” he hisses.

Zeus’s eyes flash with divine fury. “Do not test me, Satoru. The mortal’s fate hangs in the balance of your obedience.”

“You would threaten her?” Satoru’s voice cracks like thunder.

“She is mortal,” Zeus counters coldly. “Fleeting and fragile, her existence is insignificant.”

“And it still holds more meaning than you can comprehend.”

Zeus steps closer, his presence overwhelming. “Do not mistake defiance for strength, Satoru. If you defy the will of Olympus, you will face the consequences.”

“You underestimate me, Father. Defiance is all I have left,” he seethes. “I will face Sukuna on my terms, or not at all. If you threaten her again, you will face the consequences.”

---

To Satoru, worship had always tasted bitter — rituals steeped in obligation, prayers echoing hollowly through marble halls. It has been a tangled knot of obligation and distant reverence, something to be endured rather than embraced.

And then he met you, and found a different kind of sacred.

As a child, he remembers his father telling him how he had divided humans into two, each forever longing to reunite with their other half. Satoru had scoffed at the notion then, dismissing it as another tale spun by gods to amuse themselves. But now, he wonders if perhaps there was truth in the tale after all.

“I wasn’t expecting you until later.” You smile when you see him, and Satoru wonders if this is what home feels like.

He remains quiet, his expression softening as he lifts you off your feet with ease, carrying you towards the couch. You settle onto his lap as he sits down, his arms wrapping securely around you.

The conversation with his father has left him brittle, fraying at the seams, but you always made it easier to breathe. 

You run your hands through his hair, noticing the tension in his muscles, the furrow in his brow. “What’s wrong?” you ask, concern lacing your voice.

“Nothin’, just missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you reply, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“It’s just been a long day,” he admits.

“What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “I don’t want to drag you into my mess.”

“It’s not a mess if it’s you.”

He doesn’t quite know how to respond that, so he just presses his forehead to yours, tightening his embrace.

He wonders if this was inevitable — if this is always where he was supposed to be. Here, with you, like this.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“You worried about me, sweetheart?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, cheeks flushing, “I’ll always worry about you.”

He can’t help but wonder how far that redness might spread — if it travels down your neck and across your chest, if it touches places he’s only dared to dream about.

“You’re so cute,” he hums.

He notices you look especially pretty today, though you always do. Your dress fits you perfectly — cinched at the waist and snug at the top, with a neckline that’s a bit lower than usual. Not that he should be noticing any of this, or where the fabric ends.

But he can’t help but let his gaze linger on you for longer than is appropriate, tracing the curve of your thigh where your dress has ridden up. For a moment, he’s frozen, his mind racing with thoughts of the bare skin beneath — how easy it would be to push that little dress of yours up higher. He suspects that would solve most of his problems.

But he tears his eyes away, forces himself to focus squarely on you instead.  And then you shift in his lap, and all coherent thought abandons him. He feels the heat of your body against his, the softness of your skin, how effortlessly you fit against him.

You are the only divine thing he believes in — the altar at which he willingly kneels, pleading and beseeching.

He would beg if you asked him to.

(He would do anything you asked of him.)

Satoru has always been a selfish creature; perhaps that is why he’s unable to resist you, unwilling to contemplate ever letting you go. You have become his closest friend and greatest desire. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you since the moment he first met you.

He wants your hands in his hair, his fingers grazing against you, holding you down a little. He wants to push your skirt up until maybe, miraculously, you’re begging for him, too. He wants to take care of you, treat you how you deserve. Wants to feel how wet you get, the noises you’d make. He wants and wants and needs and —

“Satoru?”

“Sorry,” he says immediately, “I was just thinking about—”

Things he shouldn’t be, gazing at places he shouldn’t be, indulging in fantasies that are dangerous to entertain, especially with Zeus’s warnings ringing in his ears and Sukuna’s threat looming ever closer.

“—that Thai place down the road, want to order something?”

Casual. Normal. Perfectly in control.

(He’s decided he can’t have you sitting in his lap anymore; he worries he might accidentally set something on fire.)

---

“It’s so peaceful here.”

You’re sitting outside with him, staring up at the night sky. The stars sparkle like scattered diamonds, while the faint glow of city lights spills from below, casting a gentle haze on the horizon. It’s one of those nights where everything else seems distant and unimportant, the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

But something has shifted between you in recent months. There’s a new intensity in the way he holds you, his touch lingering longer, his gaze searching yours for something unspoken. Before, he was content with a hand resting lightly on your back, but now his grip around your waist is firm, almost possessive. He’s on edge, his body taut like a bowstring pulled too tight.

(And you really want to make him snap.)

You sometimes wonder if a constant battle rages within him, if his mortality wrestles with the divine power coursing through his veins. You see flashes of thunder in his eyes, the lightning crackle of emotions suppressed yet seething beneath the surface. It’s as if he stands at a precipice, teetering on the edge of control, where every touch, every word exchanged between you threatens to tip the balance. It both frightens and excites you, this dichotomy that makes him both ethereal and achingly human.

“I don’t think I ever want to leave,” he replies, tugging you closer to him. “And I won’t let you go anywhere, either.”

“You’re so clingy,” you say, laughing.

He grins, his fingers tracing a slow, teasing path along your waist. “Can you blame me?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

(You wish his fingers were touching other parts of you.)

“It’s not my fault you’re so pretty.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, flushing red.

“I don’t think I will, sweetheart.”

(You want to strangle and kiss him all at once – he’s always so frustrating.)

Down the hill behind you, someone is hosting a party. The faint hum of music weaves through the air, accompanied by occasional bursts of laughter. Lanterns sway gently, casting warm, shifting patterns across the dew-kissed grass. You wish all nights could be like this.

Here, with him, like this, you feel truly happy.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“Just how insane it is I even met you. How it’s even more insane that I like you.”

“You like me?” His grin is devilish.

“I’m trying to have a moment of introspection here, not inflate your ego.”

“No, no, tell me how much you like me.”

“I take it back. I barely tolerate you.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t, quite the opposite actually.”

“Okay, fine,” you relent, unable to suppress a smile. “Maybe I like you a little.”

His grin turns into a satisfied smirk as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Only a little?” he presses, his voice low and coaxing.

“Just enough to tolerate your cheesy lines and incessant teasing.”

He laughs, the sound rich and warm, causing a flutter in your chest. “That’s good to know.”

“I like you enough,” you say, “to want to stay here with you, too.”

“Careful,” he replies quietly, “You shouldn’t tempt me. You might find out just how much I like you back.”

Your feelings for him were beginning to feel like an oil spill; you’d let them overflow and now there was no way to clean up the mess. You’re not sure you even wanted to.

Your eyes flicker to his lips for just a second — a moment so fleeting, so small, you pray he overlooks it — but his lips curl into the smallest of smiles, and you know you’re truly fucked.

So, without thinking, without letting yourself pause and think for a second longer, you ask him a question you cannot return from:

“What if I wanted to tempt you?”

He looks at you like a predator would his prey, assessing and intense. You can’t help but think he is the most beautiful man you have ever seen.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “Would you let me kiss you?”

“I…” You’re embarrassed to realise you’re struggling to speak. His lips hover close to yours, a breath away, and you can imagine the feel of him against you, his body flush against yours. “Maybe.”

There’s a small smile playing on his lips, a blend of amusement and chastisement flickering in his eyes. “You really shouldn’t.”

His mouth traces a slow path down your neck, teasing and deliberate, but he refrains from kissing you. It’s as if he’s savouring the anticipation, drawing out the moment with a teasing, maddening patience. You wonder if he enjoys keeping you on edge like this, if he enjoys leaving a trail of heat and desperation wherever he lingers.

“Or maybe,” he continues, “you want me to kiss you?”

“Satoru,” you grumble, red-faced and wishing you could melt into the ground. “Stop teasing me.”

To his credit, he only lets out a small laugh. You genuinely think you might have murdered him otherwise, demigod or not. “I take it that’s a no, then?”

“You’re being so mean,” you whine.

“Am I, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “How about you tell me what you want?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you wonder if this is what Pandora felt like before she opened the box.

“I want you to kiss me,” you confess, both a surrender and challenge.

The moment you give him permission — the exact second — it’s as if he can’t resist any longer, pulling you close and pressing his lips against yours. Inevitable. Instinctual.

The kiss is anything but innocent; far from gentle or kind. You grasp his shirt, your fingers tightening as his hands roam appreciatively over the back of your dress. He holds you as though savouring something sacred, as if you’re the answer to a prayer he dared not utter. The world around you fades into a blur of sensations — the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the taste of him on your lips. You think you might die if he stops.

He deepens the kiss, intense and demanding, as if trying to leave a part of himself with you, to express what words alone cannot. You feel his breath hitch against your lips, a soft groan escaping as his tongue traces the line of your lower lip. There’s a hunger in the way he touches, an intensity that speaks of longing held in check for too long.

You wonder why you didn’t do this sooner — why you wasted so much time when you melt into him this easily, when your bodies fit together like they were made for this moment.

Your breath quickens, each inhale and exhale more desperate than the last. His touch sears through you like a wildfire, consuming every rational thought and making your heart race with an intensity that borders on painful. You cling to him, your fingers curling into his hair, urging him closer.

But then he breaks away, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is ragged, mirroring your own, and he brushes a strand of hair from your flushed face.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmurs.

“Why’d you stop?” you whine.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll always give you what you want.” His thumb traces the curve of your cheek. “I want to take it slow, take care of you properly.”

“I want you,” you whisper, a simple truth you cannot hide from.  

You knew that in all of the decisions in the world, he would be the most difficult. He was not something you could experiment with, not something you could predict or control — he was as wild as the winds, more myth than man, but you would choose him, again and again.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours with a hunger that matches your own. “And you’ll have me,” he vows. “We have all the time in the universe.”

---

Satoru is Zeus’s favourite child, and so the gods watch him every day.

Their gaze is unrelenting, their judgments immutable. They see his every move, his every choice. They see the shift, the subtle yet unmistakable turn of his loyalty toward mortal ties, and they want to watch the world burn.

The gods whisper among themselves, their voices carrying on the wind like a prophecy. They speak of consequences, of debts that must be paid, of balances that must be restored. They have tasted this before, have sunk their teeth into the bitter flesh of mortals who dare to defy divine decree.

They will consume you, too.

For while mortals may forget the weight of their choices, the gods do not.

Sukuna won’t, either.

[0bticeo]

lurk | feyd rautha

part four of five. (part 1.) (part 2.) (part 3.)

summary:

“i need you,” he rasps, etching a molten kiss on the dip of your collarbone. “need to get rid of his taste.”

his hand crawls up your thighs, the folds of your velvet dress gliding against your skin. you can still hear the soldiers outside, feel the low thrum of their clamour in your very bones. should you focus, you’ll perceive the baron’s suspensors sucking away at gravity, the servants’ roaming about, feet like neelde-ants on cold marble.

anyone could catch you.

“what are you waiting for, my lord na-baron?”

wc: 1.6k

tw: political machinations, reader being inches away from killing everyone in the damn place including feyd, kissing, biting, mentions of breeding, possessive & needy feyd, sub!feyd, oral (fem receiving), fingering, hallway sex.

you’re getting tired of dreams. 

there’s terrible, terrible purpose dripping from their edges. you see it all - snapshots of horror, fractals reflecting endless bodies dropping to the ground. sixty one billion people, dead. ten thousand worlds burning, the universe begging for respite under your brother’s crushing fist.

paul. little mouse, whom you’ve shielded all your life, whom you’ve sparred with, crysknife pressed against his throat, his shield a feeble protection against your blade. something shatters. blades. so many of them. your blade. jamis’ blade. feyd-rautha’s blade. 

your dream has you standing in what you know to be the emperor’s ship, shrouded in bene gesserit veils. two silhouettes stand against the bleeding sun of arrakis. 

the realisation embeds itself in your mind, marble-carved. fate is looking down upon you and tells you: one of them dies in the end.

when you wake up, there’s a scream dying on your tongue.

you don’t know where you are. you don’t know where you are, why your side is on fire, why you taste blood in your mouth.

slowly, you rise, heart beating furiously, breath laboured. i must not fear. your fingers dig your sheets. the infirmary. fear is the mind killer. you close your eyes, will yourself to breathe. fear is the little-death that brings total -

a hand settles over yours, bone pale fingers weaving with yours. warmth settles on your shoulder. you relax, ever so slightly, leaning into the touch, burying yourself in the crook of feyd-rautha’s neck. he’s all sharp edges, honed to deadly perfection. in the quiet midnight of geidi prime, he softens for you.

“what troubles you?”

you wonder if you should tell him. of the golden path, paved with blood, so much blood it clings to the soles of your feet, you see it rise, rise, eager to seize you-

a low mumble of your name.

“dreams are messages from the deep,” you whisper in the crook of his neck. 

his hold tightens over you, brings you closer to the warmth of him, thumb running over the smooth skin of your belly, over your unborn child growing there. from your position, you can feel it, the way his vocal cords vibrate. he’s purring, soothing you bit by bit.

you tilt your head, hand coming to cradle his face, knuckles brushing against his cheek.

“i should be plotting your death.”

a low chuckle, a flash of almost eagerness in his eyes.

“i don’t doubt you will.”

his hand wraps around your neck, resting on the soft skin of your throat, bringing you closer to him, shifting your bodies until you’re straddling him, arms wrapping around his neck. you could strangle him. you could use the voice. ask him to take the knife you know rests on the bedside and slit his own throat like the harkonnen beast he is. use it yourself.

but you’ve sealed your fate the moment you stepped on arrakis. so instead, you let the darkness swallow your confession.

“i don’t want you to die.”

“i won't,” he mumbles against your lips, words like an oath as he kisses you.

they say the beat of a butterfly wing can cause a tempest on the other side of the globe. you wonder what tempest will be borne out of the fury beating in your chest. here goes: morning comes. the spice rules it all, even the baron’s affairs, so he gathers his troops to make a planetary governor out of feyd-rautha. 

the glorious sun of geidi prime shines its lifeless light upon you all. 

the finest harkonnen soldiers, ruthless hounds barking their sovereign’s name in fervent adoration, thousands upon thousands of ants stretching as far as you can see. they corrupt it all the harkonnen, eating away at the horizon. waiting. 

you’re waiting, too, hands folded before you, lone silhouette clad in dark robes, veils like a mask before your face. bene gesserit, the court calls you. 

not quite.

by bearing feyd-rautha a child, you’ve gained a modicum of respite. the bene gesserit will spare you, the mother of their precious kwisatz haderach. they will keep your survival a secret and bury it behind inscrutable eyes.

plans within plans within plans. you’re a pawn in the baron’s meaty hands, he’s a pawn in yours, and the bene gesserit have been pulling the strings for ninety generations. 

your gaze flits to the scene before you. feyd-rautha harkonnen, clad in dark leathers, silver embroidery like pauldrons over his shoulders. the mass of his uncle hovers above him, a hovering beast eager for power. two meaty hands encompass his face - absolute disgust coils in your chest as you watch vladimir harkonnen kiss his nephew. he kisses back. a show of dominance.

the soldiers howl his name, earth trembling under the clamour. they salute, arms crossed over their heads, a living, breathing organism, synchronicity at its peak. 

arrakis has a new ruler. 

a hand clasps over your wrist, drags you away from the adoring masses, in the sweet darkness of the palace’s hallways. you’re pinned against the wall, and feyd-rautha looms before you, terrible hunger burning in his eyes. slowly, he lifts your veils, high enough to bare your mouth to him. 

“my lord-”

you’re cut off by his lips on yours, eager, desperate, savouring you like fine arrakean spice-wine. 

“i need you,” he rasps, etching a molten kiss on the dip of your collarbone. “need to get rid of his taste.”

his hand crawls up your thighs, the folds of your velvet dress gliding against your skin. you can still hear the soldiers outside, feel the low thrum of their clamour in your very bones. should you focus, you’ll perceive the baron’s suspensors sucking away at gravity, the servants’ roaming about, feet like neelde-ants on cold marble.

anyone could catch you.

“what are you waiting for, my lord na-baron?”

he nips at your ear, grin sharper than his blade as he sinks to his knees. slowly, intimately, a shadow curling at his mistress’ feet. he unravels you, nails raking up your thighs, liquid desire burning in their path. 

“eyes on me.”

your eyes snap open. oh, he’ll be the death of you, with the way his eyes freeze you in place, willing, begging for his touch. you shiver, a low, needy sound escaping you. 

he grins, a flash of black teeth against the liquid darkness of your robes. shadows will swallow you whole - he will swallow you whole. already is, with the way he trails kisses up your thighs, teeth sinking in the meat of it until blood drips on your skin. 

he’s lapping at it, hands wrapping around your leg, spreading you apart inch by precious inch until he fits the broad expanse of his shoulders in the space he’s carved for himself. he raises his head, leans his cheek against your thigh, nuzzling in its softness. there’s blood coating his lips, sweet like forbidden fruit, and an unquenchable fire in his eyes.

“exquisite,” he purrs, nail digging in the blossoming mark he’s left, until your hips seek his touch.

he puts his mouth to you. you bite your lip, hard, as you feel him tease you, tongue lapping at you like sweet pomegranate, skilled fingers coaxing pleas for more. the cold of his silver ring has you keening - you're melting against him.

it’s obscene, how the only sounds you can hear are the pleased moans of your lover, the squelching of your juices dripping down his face, his wrist. it’s too much, too fast - your nails dig into his nape, bringing him closer. fucker’s purring, hands digging in your hips. he’s making a feast out of you, and you’ve never seen prettier sight. 

feyd-rautha, kneeling at your feet, a pretty, pretty blush dusting his cheeks, his soft mouth on your cunt, ruining you as he denies himself sweet release.

“feyd-”

a jolt - he’s just nipped your clit, and you’re falling apart with his name on your tongue, burning, melting in the pits of desire. you grow boneless, faltering on unsteady legs. he pulls you to him before you can fall, kissing you, moulding his devouring mouth to yours. 

distantly, you register that he’s breathless, that he’s pressing you against him, that you can feel the dampness at the front of his pants.

his voice is a low, needy rasp.

“you taste divine, my dear.”

there’s a commotion. someone, somewhere, is calling. a servant. a feast is prepared. blasphemy - the baron is a beast, and he will not have his nephew leave without obscene amounts of food. good. it leaves room for you to plan - you’re running out of precious, precious time. there are too many variables for you to act alone, yet you are.

you’re sitting at feyd-rautha’s side at a banquet table. on you watch, a mockery of a bene gesserit, nails digging in your palm. there’s a knife before you, of course. the baron’s sitting at the head of the table, stuffing himself until he’s about to burst. 

repulsive.

you could do it now. put an end to the harkonnen, avenge your family. plunge that knife in the baron’s throat and watch him die like an animal. 

but revenge is best served cold. you remember princess irulan being seated in front of you. you remember the emperor at the head of the table. you remember his knife slicing through unknown poultry. a falcon. he’s doomed your family to death. 

the emperor is old. paranoid. anybody would’ve seen that the atreides were far too loyal to even consider rebelling against him, rising influence or not. someone convinced him otherwise. the truthsayer, reverend mother gaius helen moriam. 

you take a bite of your own meal and find it tasting like ash. the only dish you yearn for is revenge.

you want the baron dead. you want the emperor stripped of his power. you want to watch the split second of horrified realisation on the reverend mother's face. 

you want them to burn, and burn they will.

taglist: @kpopnstarwars @moonsoulk @alexandrainlove @saturnhas82moons @coureurs-de-bois9 @kamcrazy123 @beebeechaos @avidreader73 @yzuposts @jaiuneamesolitaiire

[club-cheongyang]

[songsofadelaide]

Radiant Point

cw/tw: Vice Captain Hoshina Soshiro x Platoon Leader (f) reader, childhood friends to [one-sided sworn rivalry] to lovers, no use of yn and instead follows my usual naming convention (I use Otome as a placeholder for yn since it means maiden, which pretty much means yn too), time skips, Kendo and Fencing references, arranged marriages and family traditions and breaking said family traditions - requited unrequited love. ✦ based on my other Soshiro piece, Raging Tempest wc: 8.2k

"It was said that the gods tie a crimson string around the pinky fingers of those predestined to be together."

You recall the quiet night when your mother first said those words to you, as though reading you a fairy tale of old. Years ago, you were but a child who believed in such things. And perhaps your mother would weep at how realistic you've grown, rather than remaining a dreamy-eyed girl with her head in the clouds. 

As a daughter of the esteemed Koganei Family, whose extensive roots ran deep back into the Muromachi Era, you were expected to uphold your clan's sterling heritage and reputation by marrying a man of equally exceptional status. There was but one family that your clan had close ties to, for your ancestors fought for the same masters of old, defeated the same ancient monstrosities, and won the same battles of the past alongside each other— brothers in arms, as they were in the past, and even until now…

That is how you came to be the bride of the eldest son of the Hoshina Family.

Soshiro knows that. He knows that you were the bride-to-be of the esteemed first son of their house. He knows that fact well enough as though it was etched in the back of his hand, and yet…

"You have changed me already. I am a fireball That is hurtling towards the sky to where you are You can choose not to look up but I am a giant orange ball That is throwing sparks upon your face Oh look at them shake Upon you like a great planet that has been murdered by change— —And when you come upon me I won't look back at you You will feel a hand upon your heart while I place your voice back Into the heart from where it came from And I will not cry also Although you will expect me to I was wiser too than you had expected For I knew all along you were mine." — Poem To An Unnameable Man, Dorothea Lasky

"It was said that the gods tie a crimson string around the pinky fingers of those predestined to be together."

You recall the quiet night when your mother first said those words to you, as though reading you a fairy tale of old. Years ago, you were but a child who believed in such things. And perhaps your mother would weep at how realistic you've grown, rather than remaining a dreamy-eyed girl with her head in the clouds. 

As a daughter of the esteemed Koganei Family, whose extensive roots ran deep back into the Muromachi Era, you were expected to uphold your clan's sterling heritage and reputation by marrying a man of equally exceptional status. There was but one family that your clan had close ties to, for your ancestors fought for the same masters of old, defeated the same ancient monstrosities, and won the same battles of the past alongside each other— brothers in arms, as they were in the past, and even until now…

That is how you came to be the bride of the eldest son of the Hoshina Family. 

Your families said it was an auspicious union— and a rare one, too, for, despite your clan's aged and storied history with this fellow clan of swordsmen, the possibilities of marriages between the two were always slim at best. There would always be extraordinary rivalries born out of their sons' mutual respect, but seldom would there be any engagements between them and their daughters. 

There was a time you believed in the red string of fate— and how it made sense to you that you would marry one of the Hoshina sons… But only because you've been told that all your life. And maybe you would have fallen in love with the son that was ordained to be your husband in the future had he acknowledged you, or made himself known to you. 

Tough luck getting that to happen. Soichiro didn't even acknowledge his own younger brother. 

You first met Soichiro when you were children at the Hoshina Estate, his back facing you, not a care in the world whether or not you were able to follow his steps. His haori and hakama were mottled with dirt, evidence of his long hours of sword training. The older boy's dismissal of your presence made you question how exactly your match became an auspicious one, given his… carelessness. To think that your mother and the rest of your house's ladies spent all morning dressing you up, only to be ignored by your betrothed the moment you arrived. 

You couldn't fault him for his reaction. Soichiro was a boy, after all, and heir to his esteemed house in the future. He had much to prove if he were to stand at the helm of everything, while you…

What exactly did you have to do? Just sit pretty? Or perhaps squeeze out an equally exceptional heir? That won't happen until later in your life and your marriage. Then again, will that marriage ever come to pass if he doesn't even pay any attention to you? 

Were you not… pretty enough for him? Now that you thought about it, his silver hair was, in fact, much prettier than yours, but your annoyance at the situation made you want to pull his braid to maybe knock some sense into him…? You were deep in thought when you realised you lost sight of him as he vanished into one of their family's houses. 

From across the estate, you could hear the sound of wooden swords clashing, a testament to this family's continued commitment to the way of the swordsman. It made you wonder if your family was in the wrong for wrapping you up like a present for a boy who held no passion for fanciful romances… Or if he was ever told about your arrival— who you were and what your presence meant for him.

You were told that the sons of the Hoshina Family were considerate and good-natured, but the way your betrothed refused to greet you or even meet your eyes earlier said otherwise. And to think that you were so nervous about this visit… The loneliness was stifling. The excitement that coursed through you this morning when your mother dressed you in your new kimono had finally died down. You didn't want to cry, but the tears welled in the corners of your eyes, hot and blurring your vision. 

If this kind of life awaited me, then I don't want it. 

You hurriedly wiped away your tears when you heard footsteps approaching you, though it was too late, for a boy your age caught your hand before you could even run off. 

"You must be the girl my brother's going to marry in the future."

Brother?

So this was the second son of the Hoshina Family. 

"If you aren't doing anything, why don'tcha swing a sword at me instead?"

???

Soshiro had the same dirt of the land speckled all over his training clothes. In his hands were two shinai, the other stretched out to you.

"I don't really know how to—"

"What?! I was told the Koganei were great swordsmen! Ah, but then again, you're a girl, so I guess ya don't count." 

His evident surprise made your brows furrow in frustration. What did he mean by that? 

"On second thought, give me that. I'll take a swing at you. How hard could it be?"

Swinging a sword at a more experienced person was indeed hard. Coupled with his speed and footwork, albeit a little slap-dashed, your opponent wasn't someone you could land a hit on as easily as you expected. 

"Fix yer stance if you're gonna swing!" 

You lost track of how many times you've swung the bamboo sword at him, nary a care at how your pretty hair accessories and kimono nearly came undone at your sharp and sudden movements. All that mattered to you was landing a hit at your opponent, the dirt of the land that reached your face not at all bothering you.

"Yaaah! Ack!"

Your lunge was cut short when the master of the house wedged himself between you and his younger son. You unceremoniously bounced off the older man's legs, falling to the ground with a dull thud in complete and total surprise. Yet all you could think of was retrieving your shinai and rising to your feet. 

"Your father is here to take you home, ojou-san," the older man stated as he helped you to your feet, his other hand reaching out to gently pry away the sword in your smaller hand. It was only when you saw your father's silhouette approach from behind that your exhilaration turned into indignation. 

"Otou-san, you—!" You exclaimed, charging at your father with the same sword in hand. "You need to teach me swordsmanship! I can't believe you didn't teach me in the first place…! I must study it now!"

Your fathers exchanged confused glances before yours decided to speak up. "Otome, you—"

Only for him to be cut off by your voice slicing through the silence of the training ground. 

"Until then, you need to keep getting better, too, Soshiro-kun!" You declared to your opponent, who had a knowing smile on his face. "I will catch up to you!"

When you returned to the Hoshina Estate months later, you were no longer decked out in a beautiful silk kimono, but rather in training garb similar to what the two brothers wore. Emblazoned on the back of your haori was your family's mon, and strapped to your side was a weathered shinai you've obviously swung around a hundred times since your last visit there.

"Soshiro-kun, I've been practising! My father taught me Shomen-Uchi, too! I can take you on now!"  

As he thought, the look of delight on your face suited you better than tears. Soshiro watched in awe as you were able to hold your own against Soichiro, only for his older brother to topple you over with his sheer strength and advantage in skill. 

"You're leavin' yourself wide open in other areas, but other than that, your stance is perfect."

The older son finally acknowledged you, but you had no need of it anymore since it was the company of the younger son you looked forward to even more whenever you visited their home. 

For Soshiro, the sound of your voice calling his name and all of his attention so you could spar was like melodious music to him. It was the two of you who grew closer, and the two of you were often on the receiving end of Soichiro's disparaging remarks whenever you both lost to him while sparring. 

"When Otome-chan marries your older brother, she will become your sister-in-law," his father once told him ahead of your next visit to their estate. "You focus on training on your own. Soichiro will train with her this time around."

Soshiro knows that. He knows that you were the bride-to-be of the esteemed first son of their house. He knows that fact well enough as though it was etched in the back of his hand, and yet… 

There was an image in the back of Soshiro's mind that he couldn't forget, no matter how much he tried. A girl in a gold-coloured kimono sewn with the finest thread, a floral kanzashi in her hair as she tried to fight tears in one of the corners of his family's estate. Moments later, she was swinging a shinai at him, her eyes kindled with a fiery passion and a smile on her face as she tried to catch up to him. 

Something changed when you went your separate ways to different high schools. When you were both sixteen, you decided to abandon the ways of Kendo for another form of swordcraft— Fencing. It was such a sharp turn that surprised even your family, but they could hardly stop your meteoric rise to prominence in the sport. 

Something else always came to mind whenever Soshiro thought about you. He remembered your prostrated figure before his father in their family home, your forehead reaching the tatami as you uttered, "I thank you and your family for your kindness to me, and I apologise, oji-san, but I don't want to marry Soichiro-san."

When you met again not long after that incident, you laughed as you told him how you got a really bad walloping from your father. You shocked him with the bruises on your torso, all from the blunt end of your father's favourite bokken, but he was more pleased to see your spirit remained unbroken as you wheezed in breathless merriment, telling him, "you should see my father". 

With your engagement to Soichiro unceremoniously broken off and the Hoshina Family accepting your dismissal of their eldest son, your family held very little resistance to whatever it is you wanted to do with your life now. They permitted you to go to France when you said you wanted to perfect your fencing form because there was no other way you could disobey them more. Your family told you that, "brilliant women rarely made good wives, but good wives can learn to become brilliant women", or something along those lines, and it seems as though they've given up on finding marriage matches for you. 

Soshiro was unable to accompany you to the airport ahead of your trip to France. You didn't mind, though you were a little upset. Neutralization College wasn't something you could leave whenever you wanted if you were truly serious about entering the Defense Force. He was still the first one you messaged when you touched down in France, counting the time difference in your head as you opened WhatsApp on your mobile phone. 

[ YN: 🗼-> Eiffel Tower ]

[ H. Soshiro-さん: 😂😂😂 Glad you made it there in one piece! ]

"To Hoshina Soshiro-隊員,

How are you? Paris is unsurprisingly beige. I miss Tokyo every once in a while, but not having to hear my father's nitpicking is more pleasant than I thought. 

I know we can always just message each other on WhatsApp, but letters are pretty ingenious again this time around. 

As I thought, there are many skilled sabreuses here in Paris. The club that I joined is called ASA Maisons-Alfort Escrime, somewhere along the south of the city. This town is famous for its veterinary school. Should I ever want a career change, I think I'll know what to do next! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

Congratulations on passing the Defense Force Selection Exam! I know for a fact that you are going to do an excellent job just like your father and your brother. From what I've been hearing from my father, though, it seems the force is slowly moving away from the primary use of swords and blades. Still, I hope you aren't discouraged. You've always wanted to be an officer, so I'm proud of you for reaching the first of your many more goals!

I hope you're always taking care of yourself, too."

…

"The wine here is good, too, but you know I'd rather be drinking beer back at home with you. If anything, I like the wine because it reminds me so much of your eyes. And perhaps how I wish I could swim in them and maybe read your thoughts while I'm at it."

…

"I miss you, Soshiro."

Soshiro sometimes thinks it may be his fault that you changed. But then again, you were already a brilliant girl in your own right, and perhaps too smart for your own good. Men of old clans always wanted docile, unassuming women for themselves so their decisions would never be questioned, but you were neither, thus never fitting into your society's mould of how women should be. He wasn't aware of his older brother's preferences, but it was safe to say that he was consistent in never really caring that much about you. 

"Dear Koganei Otome-選手,

I hope you're well! Just as you have no lack of fine opponents in France, there's no lack of Kaiju attacks here at home. There's never a dull moment here in Japan as long as we're always at the centre of monster sightings. 

Remember when I last told you that swordsmanship is slowly losing its foothold in the Defense Force? Something amazing just happened. The Captain of the Third Division asked me to join her force. She did so herself! It feels almost unreal how the whole thing happened, but here I am. 

…I never got to write about how I almost died that time, too, because I know for sure that you'd get worried and start calling. I'm fine now, so don't you worry your pretty little head about me. ദ്ദി ( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ )

Are you taking care of yourself? I hope you're always eating well. And doing proper cooldown exercises after training. Whether it be Kendo or Fencing, taking care of yourself and your sword arm is paramount for us swordsmen.

Just the other day, I went out drinking with my men. The beer here at home is exceptional, as always, and it tastes even better as the cherry on top after a long day of exterminating Kaiju. I feel a little bad for you for only having wine to drink there. They say it's sweeter but stronger. Strange enough, it kind of reminds me of you, too."

…

"I miss you a lot."

At one point, your letters stopped arriving. Your Line and WhatsApp exchanges were less frequent, too. And though you did your best to stay on top of what's been going on with Soshiro, your growth in your sport was something you prioritised more than waiting for his sparse replies. 

He had just been promoted to Vice Captain of the Third Division when he saw your name on the top of the list of Japanese athletes on the International Fencing Federation's website. His promotion meant he'd be much busier, but like you, he did his best to check up on what you've been up to, especially for the last few years. 

There was no stopping your meteoric ascent to the ranks, and you stood onstage amongst the best swordsmen and swordswomen in the world. Though not in the way he expected, it was still an extraordinary achievement for him. 

That's no surprise, he thought to himself, only for the rest to be drowned out by the pounding, resounding blare of the Third Division Base's alarm, which could only signify yet another Kaiju attack they had to get on top of. 

As the Vice Captain of the prominent Third Division, Soshiro was tasked with overseeing the second part of the yearly Selection Exam. Each hopeful that passed and came in became their little fledgelings, some more promising than others.

This year was a little strange, though, since even the top brass were muttering something about an elite athlete taking the exams. Athletes usually scored high on the physical tests but tend to flip-flop on the aptitude tests, depending on what it was. It was only after receiving this year's list of candidates that the whispers finally made sense to him. 

Mixed in between the fresh graduates and the more experienced examinees was your application form, bookmarked with a recommendation by the Japan Fencing Federation. And all the whispers were right about one thing, too— You would have to carve a space into this new era of the Defense Force, which has slowly stepped away from blade work as a primary form of combat. 

Soshiro wasn't surprised. Even though he was at the receiving end of many discouraging comments due to his poor marksmanship, Captain Ashiro Mina herself saw his potential and value in his skill. He's heard it before, and the officers will not be kind to you just because you brought home some medals for the country. For everyone else, whatever skill with a sabre you have would prove useless, seeing the force's growing preference for automatic firearms.

As he expected, you scored well in your physical tests, but he was faintly holding his breath for the aptitude test, which involved Kaiju disposal this time around. As the hopefuls suited up into the provided combat suits, the systems and machines lit up in anticipation of a surge of power from each present. 

UNLEASHED COMBAT POWER: 27%

Soshiro had the same knowing smile on his face as your preliminary combat power was announced out loud. Most examinees would reach a maximum of 5% to 15%, so for someone to score that high on their first try was worth noting. 

You were slightly older than most of your fellow examinees, so you had no problem taking on a leadership role— you helped maintain an organised field, ensured everyone had the proper precautionary gear equipped, and coordinated with everyone willing to cooperate with you. 

From where he stood inside the base's Operations Control Room, he tried his darndest to stifle his laughter whenever he heard a French swear word slip out from one of the examinees. And even until the end of the test, you took no credit for your class's effort. Some have taken a shine to you while others considered you a goody-two-shoes trying to worm her way into the Defense Force with clerical expertise. 

It was no surprise that you even caught the eyes of the Third Division's existing Platoon Leaders. They took your athletic and leadership experience into account when they deliberated your application. Your marksmanship was mediocre at best, but it was nothing continuous training can't improve. The other thing they couldn't ignore was the fact that you received a commendation from the Captain of the Sixth Division. 

A curious thing, if they were being honest. Division Captains rarely get involved in the exams and deliberations, so for someone like you to receive such a prestigious recommendation meant you were someone worth investing in. 

Soshiro eyed the document from the Sixth Division before eventually tucking it away in the rest of his files. They didn't need that commendation to know that you were skilled, and you had all the time in the world to sharpen those even further.

[ H. Soshiro-副隊長: Your uniform looks good on you. ]

[ YN: Not even an hour in the job and you're already flirting with me, Vice Captain? 😂 ] 

[ YN: Also, it's the other way around. I look in the uniform. Though I'm sure that's what you meant to say. ]

[ H. Soshiro-副隊長: What if I made you run laps after the ceremony? You wouldn't be laughing then, would you? ]

[ YN: I'm going to report you to the Captain. ]

[ H. Soshiro-副隊長: And you think she'd take a rookie's word over her own Vice Captain's? 😂 ]

[ H. Soshiro-副隊長: You're lucky you're so, so pretty today. I'll go easy on you. For now, my li'l fledgeling. 😂 ]

In every mission, you endeavoured to accomplish every task as swiftly and efficiently as possible— without breaking ranks, of course. Your tenacity was rewarded in the form of a promotion to Platoon Leader, an unexpected but welcomed opportunity. Soshiro seemed to agree with the Captain that other officers could stand to learn a thing or two from you.

They say a radiant point is the track of light in the sky from which meteors appear to come from. 

Your leadership has been compared to that. Many say your commands are always easy to follow, and your team members are easily filled with the same courage whenever you take to the field yourself. 

It didn't take long for your history with the Vice Captain to come to light, too, all because you slipped up and drunkenly called him by his name during a night of drinking with your squad. Soshiro was the one who explained everything to your teams while you were fast asleep with your head on the table. It happened again when you thought it was just the two of you in the training hall. By the third time, he had you run laps as a consequence of your carelessness. 

"Y'know your carelessness is gonna get ya in deeper trouble if this keeps happening in the long run," he told you as he watched you finish your 23rd lap around the training grounds. "Seven more. I know 30's such a measly number fer a seasoned athlete like you, but I suppose I'm being a little lenient since you are my dear childhood friend."

"Childhood friend my a—" You scoffed as you ran past him. You heard him chuckle to himself, followed by a thinly veiled threat. 

"Do you want another 30, then? Looks like ya still have a lotta fight in you."

You picked up the pace even faster, his silly laughter rang in your ears as you shouted back your breathy reply. "N-No, sir! I'll…! Be more mindful of… myself! Vice Captain!" 

XX August XXXX

"To Hoshina Soshiro-隊員,

I wonder how different things would have been if you were the one betrothed to me instead. Or would you have acted like your brother back then, too? 

Clubs are on recess this time of the year. I don't feel too comfortable having this too much time on my hands and not being able to fence. Good thing my lodging has this wide backyard I can   

Just the other day, I received a package from my family. It was just some snacks, but imagine my surprise when I saw my father's bokken in the box, too. I wonder how that got through French Immigration. 

A wooden sword is so different from a sabre, but holding it made me feel… I dunno, kinda like I'm home or something. Do you remember when you first handed me your sword when we were children? That's when I realised what was missing from my life. 

The Koganei are no longer like the Kaiju exterminators of old. I think it has to do with the lack of talented sons being born in our family. We've always had a lot of pride in our history as slayers alongside the Hoshina Family, but I think… I think that's all our family has now.

History. 

When I asked him before, my father said he didn't bother teaching me swordsmanship because he feared I would get so many 'ideas' in my head. Like joining the Defense Force. He laments my disobedience, but there's nothing he can do that will make me return to my old ways. 

I feel sorry for him that he doesn't have talented sons like you and your brother, just a stubborn daughter with a skill for a sport that's more like art than action. Would he have been happier if I stayed obedient? If I hadn't broken off my engagement to your brother? 

My father would have been happy seeing me become Soichiro's wife, but not me. Though I would have agreed to marry into your family if it were you. I like you so much, after all.

I want to say thank you for handing me your sword back then. For introducing me to the sword. And if you'll let me say this, too— for giving me purpose."

…

"I like you a lot, Soshiro."

…

"Some idiot here thought I was single. I mean I AM, but that doesn't mean I want to be all chummy with guys here!" 

…

"If you ever ask for my hand in marriage, I'm going to depart from this earth and ascend to the heavens out of sheer happiness—"

XX XX XXXX

"To Hoshina Soshiro-副隊長,

I'm going home in a few months. My father said that my grandfather is refusing treatment. He even said your family visited our estate to pay your respects to the old man. I love my gramps, but when I found out that he was the one who told my father not to teach me swordsmanship, the shine on him kinda dulled. 

Izumo Tech sent me an email saying I would receive a 'hero's welcome' once I get back. I'll have to make a courtesy call to them, too. Not every athlete is blessed to have such a generous sponsor. (Not to mention that they've been closely watching my progress ever since they signed me on…)

I've been thinking of retiring from fencing. But I wouldn't know what to do with myself—

I'll see you soon."

— Present Time.

With your father summoning you back home to your family estate, you had no choice but to file for leave and miss this year's Selection Exam. It was a pity you couldn't watch the potential recruits take to the field, too, since Izumo Tech's heir was part of this year's crop. 

When your grandfather's death anniversary memorial concluded, you retreated to your room. It was left untouched for the most part. When you arrived back home a few years ago, it was only to unload your excess belongings. The clan hardly had time to give you a proper welcome home since you had to secure the documents you needed for your Defense Force application. 

In a pocket of your old carrying case for your sabre was a bundle of unsent letters addressed to Soshiro, along with a bunch of unused French stamps and a pack of envelopes. You haven't practised your sabre sword arm for quite some time now, so you thought of bringing it back to base with you. Kendo was one of the primary forms of training at the force, so you did a lot of digging back into your roots whenever there were training sessions. 

The exams will have been done by the time you return to base, so you may as well sleep while you can. 

"It was said that the gods tie a crimson string around the pinky fingers of those predestined to be together."

You never really paid much thought to your mother's story back then, but you could faintly recall the chilly evening breeze that blew through the shoji of your bedroom. Her yukata was the colour of ginkgo leaves, her embrace kind and warm. 

"But what if you… don't like the person on the other end of the string, okaa-san?" 

Hmm. What a profound question for someone so young. Did you really ask that yourself? Even so, your mother smiled at your query, brushing away the hair over your forehead with a cool hand before pressing a tender kiss on it. 

"If that day ever comes, my little heart, I know for certain that there is one who will defy fate for you, but you will have to be courageous, too…" 

There was no helping your curiosity when you caught wind that this year's recruits were an exceptional bunch— and that one happened to share a tremendously intimate history with the Captain. It was a sizzling hot press release you couldn't help but sink your teeth into when Tae started talking your ears off about it.

You tried not to make that much noise as you both made your way back to your personal quarters that evening, but your topic was far too interesting to just stop and drop— it was about your usually pensive Captain…

"Do you think the Captain will start softening up?" You couldn't help but muse out loud.

"Doubt it! This is Captain Ashiro we're talking about," your fellow Platoon Leader remarked. "Then again, she's still a woman..."

Pretty much, you thought to yourself. Woman or not, a person's relationships shape the way others view them. Officer Hibino's revelations about his shared childhood memories with Captain Ashiro painted her in a new light, unveiling her as a tender girl in her youth— more human than machine like everyone else thought her to be…

"I heard something interesting about you, too," Tae said, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "One of the rookies said they already knew you from before. When you were still a professional fencer."

There's only one, you sighed to yourself this time. "It must be Haruichi-kun. If you must know, Tae-chan, Izumo Tech sponsored my fencing journey, especially when I was just starting out."

"That's not all, too," she chuckled at your slight change of tone. "Last I heard, the kid might even have a crush on you."

"That is not true at all," you elbowed her and laughed at her statement. "That's probably the most absurd thing I've heard in my entire life. Haruichi-kun is—"

"Why do you think it's absurd? I think it's ridiculously truthful," came the voice of a man from behind you.

"Vice Captain! G-Good evening!" You squeaked and managed a salute as Soshiro made his approach. He didn't look like he was ready to retire for the night just yet but was just hanging around.

"Kafka's tales have made the rounds, huh?"

"It's hard not to get roped into the gossip when it's so interesting," Tae said with a grin. "And with a Captain like ours who's so well-loved and well-respected, it's pretty tempting to hear what kind of person she was when she was just a kid."

"Yeah, she really went for her goals and succeeded," you nodded in agreement. "She's awe-inspiring."

"We're all aware of how amazing our Captain is," Soshiro stated with the same recognisable cheer in his voice. "But what's that thing about you and one of the rookies again?"

"Y-You mean about me and Haruichi-kun, Vice Captain? I-I mean Officer Izumo—"

The redhead standing right next to you could only purse her lips to prevent herself from laughing out loud, because by the gods, only she and a handful of other superior officers were aware of their Vice Captain's long-time infatuation with you. Not that he's ever confirmed it, but you two were childhood friends, after all. And this was their Vice Captain getting all jealous and territorial with you.

"I'm just gonna go ahead and turn in for the night," Tae said as she nudged you before breaking out into a salute directed at Soshiro. "Good night, Vice Captain!"

"T-Tae-chan?!" You could only call out to your fellow Platoon Leader as she disappeared into the darkened hallway leading to your quarters.  A little whimper of defeat left your lips as you turned back in the direction of your Vice Captain. "Vice Captain—"

"Are you two close?"

"Huh?"

"You and the rookie."

Close wasn't exactly the right word for you two. Haruichi was your main sponsor's son. You've met a lot of times before and have nothing but great respect for each other. A silly crush doesn't do him any justice. That rumour was made in poor taste and faith.

You shook your head at your superior. "We're familiar with each other, but not really as close as everyone thinks."

"Is that so?" Soshiro said, not at all sounding convinced. "If I ask him, will he say the same thing?"

"I suppose," you replied to him with another small sigh of resignation. "I'm sorry, Vice Captain. It's not a nice rumour if you ask me… I feel sorry for… the rookie for being embroiled in this mess."

"Don't apologise because of that," he said as he reached out for your hand. "If you're going to apologise, at least say sorry because I heard it and believed it."

You can confirm now that he wasn't there to reprimand you at all since his hold on you was both tender and solid. There was a storm in his wine-dark gaze— languid but brewing and the way he looked at you made you want to dive right into the depths of his eyes.

"If you want to apologise to me properly, let's do it somewhere more comfortable," he told you as you caught the twinkle of expectation in his eyes. You were likely playing into his hands now, so what else could you do but dance to his rhythm?

"Yes, of course. My personal quarters are nearby," you said, pointing in the direction of the dimly lit hallway that Tae disappeared into moments ago. "If… If it's all right with you…"

"Okay."

"You know, if my family ever finds out I've been alone with a man in my room, no one would ever want me anymore," you said to him in jest. He paused in his tracks the moment you opened your door for him, and you did not expect his reply to your silly joke.  

"Whaddya mean? I want you. I've always wanted you. From the moment I saw ya crying in our family's garden, I—"

Oh, he's done it now. His words slipped out so easily because talking to you always felt so natural to him. 

"V-Vice Captain?!"

"Yer calling me 'Vice Captain' now, of all times?!"

"I-I don't wanna run laps after hearing t-that! I-I'm just being careful!" You squeaked at him. It was only when you heard the shuffling of footsteps from next door that you managed to take him by the hand and hurriedly pull him into your room. 

You didn't think you'd slip and fall on your back in the process. And since you held him by his hand, Soshiro toppled over you with his surprisingly heavy frame. He was quick to cup your head in his hand to brace your fall. 

"H-Hey, are you okay?" Came his concerned query as he lifted himself off of you, but he was taken aback by the shine of tears in your eyes. 

"Soshiro… Did you mean what you just told me?"

For a moment, you feel like you're back in France, sipping sweet wine on your bedroom windowsill, the colour reminding you so much of your first love's eyes. 

The very same eyes staring right back at you at this very moment. 

"I do. And if ya don't like it, then let me know. Let me know so I can take it back. And we can pretend this never happened—"

You tenderly coiled your arms around his neck, as though returning his half embrace. With your chest so closely pressed to his, you could hardly tell apart whose heart was beating so incredibly hard. 

"Don't take it back," you murmured into the crook of his neck. "Not when I've waited this long to hear it."

And though you said you wanted to talk to him— to clear the air and rid yourself of this trepidation and hesitation that you felt— very few and far between words were exchanged that night.

You liked him too, after all. Now all those times you looked forward to seeing him and he was always just as excited… He's had eyes for you ever since. 

You drank deep into his wine-coloured eyes while he helped himself to your warmth, the radiance that you were now in his arms as a single beam of sunlight he wanted to keep all to himself. 

And keep you he did.

Soshiro couldn't help his curiosity when he saw the carrying case for your sabre in your quarters. He quietly walked over to it as he dressed himself, careful not to make any noise that may wake you from your deep, deep sleep. 

It was no surprise to him that you always kept your weapons in immaculate condition, but what piqued his attention even more was the bundle of unsent letters addressed to him, all of which he stealthily pocketed in his uniform. Some of the envelopes addressed him as 'Officer' and not 'Vice Captain', which could only mean those go way, way back. 

"Time for some morning readin', then." 

When word got out that the female rookies caught Vice Captain Hoshina leaving your room early the following morning, you already expected to be summoned to the Captain's office that very day.

But instead of being vexed about the situation and her Vice Captain's unusually poor judgement, Mina had a rather amused expression on her otherwise normally calm face as she sat across from you two.

"What happened to not breaking rules, Hoshina?"

"Hey, it's not like I wanted to get caught!" Soshiro shot back at her, though there was very little he could do in the face of his Captain's evident thrill at his predicament.

"I can turn a blind eye to this, but the rumours are already out there," she continued. "I suppose I'll have to mete out some form of 'punishment' for you both. Just to make an example out of you."

"I-I'll accept whatever punishment you have in mind, C-Captain!" You exclaimed with a stiff and deep bow. You've never been reprimanded by the Captain ever since you first started out in the Third Division. For you to be sanctioned for the very first time... I've really done it this time!

"On second thought, I'll just have you two file this instead," Mina stated as she handed you a single sheet of paper with a header in bold letters that read Workplace Relationship Disclosure Form. "As a formality. It's also a written promise that you won't let your relationship get in the way of your jobs."

"That's it? Piece of cake!" Soshiro said with a smile as he read out the form. "We'll file it now and—"

"You'll file it at headquarters yourselves," she said with a small smile as she stood up from her desk. "Other than that, I hope you two managed to talk things out. You're dismissed."

"Headquarters?! Captain Ashiro! We'll do anything! Just don't make us go there! It's such a pain to get there!" He pleaded with the Captain this time. "We'll tell everyone if we have to! I mean that's not a bad idea, too, so they'll know that we're together! But we're just going to be normal about things, we swear!"

"Just how normal are you two going to be?" The Captain said with a small laugh, just like the one you heard from the rumours. "Just promise me you won't let this affect your work. I have great faith in you both, after all."

"Roger!" You exclaimed in unison, followed by your shared tender laughter.

"Good. Now do 30 laps each before training starts again this afternoon," Mina replied to your enthusiasm with another small smile. "I'm really not letting you guys off the hook that easily."

"Th-That's fine, Captain! We-We'll make a start now!" You stammered before she could change her mind about your choice of consequence, throwing her a salute before eventually jogging out of her office.

"Don't make her run your laps, Hoshina. She'll do it for you without you even asking."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Captain. As if I'd let her do all the heavy lifting herself," he replied with a salute and his usual cheer. 

"What do you plan on doing about the rumours?"

"Let them talk. It's even better for us. At least they know now who she belongs to."

"It's so strange hearing something like that come from you," Mina said to him, the same hint of amusement in her voice before eventually asking him, "Is there… anything else you wish to discuss with me, Hoshina?"

"While we're here, Captain. I was wondering if you could hear my request for time off," Soshiro started. As he thought, his Captain was keenly perceptive. "There's someone I gotta talk to." 

"It must be important, then, if you're requesting time off."

"Guess you could say that! I gotta make my intentions clear, after all."

You were summoned back home to your family estate on one of your days off. It was rare for your father to call on you given your busy schedule, but on the phone, it sounded like he had something important to discuss with you. When you arrived, your servants promptly brought you over to the estate garden, where your father stood smack in the middle. He wore his favourite hakama, your family mon embroidered on it with fine gold thread. 

"Otou-san."

"Ah, there you are," he welcomed you with an uncharacteristic smile on his face. He looked a little tired, but also somewhat pleased. "Walk with me, daughter. I have something I wish to tell you."

He offered you his elbow as you walked over to him, and you took it, though you were evidently confused. "Soshiro-kun was here the other day."

"Really?" You asked, your confusion compounding even further. "What business did he have with you?"

Your pace was restful and leisurely, an afternoon breeze blowing overhead. You tried to match your father's steps, only realising now how short his strides were. 

"You should have known from the start that the Hoshina Family only permitted your presence in their home out of pity. It was no surprise for us that their heir didn't think much of you. He must have known that the Koganei owe a great deal to the Hoshina and your grandfather was so hell-bent on having you marry into that family for reparations."

So that's what it was. "Huh. I suppose that makes sense…"

"Your marriage wasn't really for prestige. We've long lost that, after all… If anything, it would have secured you a home in the future. They would take care of you, at least…"

"Was it a large sum?"

"A debt that can only be paid by a life."

Someone from the Hoshina Family died for yours. How long ago it was, you will never know. 

You couldn't help but think back to your childhood, that very day your family brought you to the Hoshina Estate, and how Soichiro looked over you as though you were an ostentatious doll on display. That was why your family tried so hard—

"The Hoshina… wanted us to excel at swordsmanship so there would be no more needless deaths like of past. But all I had was a daughter. They thought the marriage was a good idea at first, but then the brothers started fighting over you."

"That's new, otou-san. I know for a fact that Soichiro-san hates me and my guts."

Your father chuckled at your statement, even though he knew you were right. "He only hated the fact that he could not make a rival out of you. But his clever younger brother did."

His fingers were cold from the breeze, the hardened calluses across his palm tenderly squeezing your smaller hand in his.  

"I know it was Soshiro-kun who gave you that very thing we deprived you of," he told you, holding your gaze for you to understand the gravity of this conversation. "Purpose." 

Time was still for you all of a sudden, the weight of your father's tired eyes rested on you before he spoke once more. "He came to ask for your hand. In the future, he amended. He said the two of you are far too busy and far too valuable to the Defense Force to even consider marriage at present." 

It was your mother who related the events of Soshiro's visit to your family estate the other day. 

The blockhead second son of the Hoshina Family came to your home and prostrated himself before your father, his forehead reaching the tatami as he beseeched the patriarch with a crack in his voice that pulled at the older man's heart. 

"I don't care about your family's debt to mine. I promise to be good to her, so please…"

"What's this I heard about the Sixth Division Captain reachin' out to ya the other day?" 

You were conducting drills with your platoon when Soshiro arrived at the training ground. His arrival prompted your team members to pause their exercises to throw him a snappy salute that matched your own. "Vice Captain, sir!"

"We'll resume in five. Take a break, fellas," you gestured to your team, who could only watch with bated breath how your commanding officer pulled you aside. 

"Now, of all times?" You asked him, a hint of annoyance in your voice. "You do know everyone's watching us… Vice Captain, sir."

"I was just… curious. Why's he callin' you now—"

"Captain Hoshina simply wished to… congratulate us on our…" You replied to him, though every word you said made you more embarrassed and self-conscious because your members were still in their respective positions, only pretending not to hear your conversation. "30 laps around the block! You all better pick up the pace when I catch up! Go! Go! Go!"

Your team was quick on their feet when you clapped and motioned for them to start running. The mischief makers smiled as they passed by you, shouting their congratulations on your engagement. 

"Good grief…" You sighed in defeat. "I thought we were keeping things under the wraps."

"Hard to do that when everyone in the Third Division's so nosy," he chuckled. By the time all your members disappeared into a block, he gently took your hand in his and gave it a tender squeeze. 

"You know, Vice Captain, your brother did say something interesting earlier. I thought I'd let you know about it," you started. "Soichiro-san said you always challenged him to improve yourself, but there was one time you actually scored a point over him. Because you two were fighting over something."

"Really, now? I wonder what it was…" He replied with a playfulness in his tone. "It probably didn't matter to him much since he was a genius and all."

"He said he only let you win because you'd never stop bugging him about it," you told him, followed by a small pfft when you saw his expression change. "But you're right. It didn't matter to him much, but he saw how much it meant to you…"

It was supposed to be a petty argument between brothers, but it meant so little to him now since you were the one who broke off your engagement with his older brother. 

"There was a time when I thought I'd end up being Soichiro-san's wife because he was the one on the other end of the string… or so my family said," you stated with a scoff this time. "But if you must know, Soshiro, I considered myself yours the moment you asked me to swing a sword at you."

You squeezed his hand right back. "Thank you for defying fate for me. And for giving me the courage…"

Soshiro smiled at you— his same, knowing Cheshire Cat smile you've liked from the start. "Are ya kiddin' me? It was you who defied fate. Probably not for me, but good enough to think that it is. And our ancestors got what they wanted too, so there's that."

"Our ancestors didn't want a marriage," you retorted with a laugh. "They wanted a life for a life." 

"They got that, too. Yours is mine and mine is yours. Y'know, I think that red string just got tangled in the midst of everything. You're meant to be part of my family one way or another."

You returned his warm smile as you raised his hand to your cheek. "This is the only way I'd have it. The only way I want."

✦ x x