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tonycries · 8 months ago

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Haunting You - G.S.

Synopsis. A bIoody trail of vampire attácks, a political marriage, and four suitors you’re forced to choose from - all haunting you. But none as much as the mysterious stranger that makes everything in you scream that you might just be fated for the very thing your kingdom is trying to escape from.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! princess! reader, king! Gojo, vampire AU, he’s actually ÍNSANE, royalty AU, arranged marriages, creampíes, breéding, fated mátes, FÉRAL down bad Gojo, mentions of bIood and kílling, bíting, óral (fem receiving), spítting, marks (a LOT), fíngering, pórn with plot tbh, overstím, ínnapropriate use of powers, jealous! Gojo, slight inspiration from Persephone and Hades, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 15.8k (HUH???)

A/N. Was listening to Haunted by Beyoncé, and my mind went “ooo vampires.” Hope y’all have a lovely week <3

In all your years being carefully primed to take over the throne, there have only been two rules you were raised under:

You live by the crown, and you will die by the crown. No matter what.

To stop the vampires - if your father, the king, fails to contain the bloody trail of killings before his own inevitable death, you have to. Or, more according to those tedious meetings with the table of elders, your husband will have to.

And it seems as if they were well and fully intent on enforcing that last rule as of late - with sharply increasing numbers of attacks on your local towns, the public was growing restless - and so was the royal court.

You weren’t doing any better either - but for a wholly different reason.

Maybe it was paranoia, but these days, you found yourself constantly catching a flash of crystal blue in the corner of your eye. Or hearing a sweet, sweet whisper in your ear deep at night. Maybe even a soft run of fingers down your spine as you were readied for yet another ball - hands much too large to be any of your ladies-in-waiting.

Like something was watching.

Waiting.

“And then I- your highness, are you listening?”

That familiar, grating voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and you’re gasping in embarrassment as you turn back to the prattling man in front of you.

“My apologies, Lord Naoya.” you smile tightly, desperate to finish up yet another conversation about his latest cavalry expeditions. Nodding dismissively, “Just tired, please continue with your ah- wonderful tales.”

But of course, when he starts right back from the very beginning to “cover the key points you missed”, your stomach turns when you realize that you won’t be escaping any time soon. Great. Wonderful. Perfect.

God, future suitors your ass. You’d been taught that there’s no such company as “bad company” when you’re an heir to a kingdom, but this has been the fourth royal ball this month - and the biggest one yet. The fourth night you had to listen to another uptight lord show off his sparse battle medals, or another elder snide about how you’d be useless against the dangers of vampires.

You knew it was likely some coping mechanism with the grim deaths this week, but surely the nobles were tired of all this silly dancing? You sure were.

Gauzy dress just a bit too tight, sighs just a bit too loud than was permitted for the princess, you let your gaze wander across the brilliant ballroom. Those intricate gowns, the huge reflective wall, those little pastries you really wish you could walk away from this conversation and-

Blue.

Crystal blue.

“Wait! Did you see-” you startle, and it disappears as fast as it appeared. Your heavy skirts sway as you whirl around to uselessly track that odd burst of color, “Did you see that?”

“I know!” Naoya gasps, making you turn your head in excitement. “The light reflects off my medal so gorgeously! Oh, and this one-”

Dammit.

All through your life, it was this same color that’d been flitting occasionally through your vision, now haunting you almost every day.

You didn’t know where to look to find that familiar blue again - and you didn’t want to stand here waiting to find out. At the very least, your ears have definitely been assaulted with enough talk about horses and how “absolutely enormous” Lord Naoya’s weaponry at the Zenin Estate was.

Compensating, you muse.

The thought helps you plaster on a grin to your face, humming in a saccharine-sweet tone, “It pains me to cut through, my lord.” It really didn’t. “And I’d love to chat more later, but I think I hear my lady-in-waiting calling for me.”

He sputters, breathing out a few profanities under his breath that you catch. An arm raising as if to keep you in place, “Now, wait a minute-”

You’re angling your body expertly to make your dash. Batting your lashes deceivingly innocently, “Oh? What was that?” you cup your ear. “I hear her again- I really do apologize, but feel free to recount your valiant um- fairy tales in a letter.”

“But your father-”

Not waiting to hear the rest of his response, you barely even bother with a polite curtsy before determinedly weaving your way through the stuffy ballroom. Nodding by the nobles greeting you, waving past the throng of young lords that wanted to reel you into more conversation. Your satiny feet taking you anywhere but here - anywhere but where you could feel the still, heavy gaze of something burning into your back as you escaped.

You just prayed that it was only a miffed Naoya and nothing else.

It was around this time that the orchestra struck up another upbeat waltz, and with most people pairing off on the dance floor, barely anyone noticed you tip-toeing out of the ballroom.

“God-” you’re letting out a sigh of relief when you reach the long hallway, rubbing at your throbbing temples. “The next ball they host, m’gonna conveniently disappear, I swear.”

You didn’t care enough for what matchmaking would happen in the future anyway, no matter what the elders may tell you.

Your ballgown swishes with every urgent step through the quiet, dimly-lit corridors. Maybe a bit too quiet.

Strange. You knew that not many nobles would be wandering around the palace during a ball but, surely you can’t be the only one here? Where were the guards?

Just then, a soft winter breeze puffs against your left ear - and you inhale sharply. “Wha- hello?” you shudder, gaze darting around. “Anyone there?” But when only silence greets you, you’re struck with the sudden thought that the windows along the hallway were closed.

Where did the wind come from?

The realization has you taut with goosebumps pricking at your skin, your pace increasing ever-so-slightly. Gulping, you round the corner quickly, making a beeline for the closest haven you could find - the library.

Ducking past the towering stone archway, you hastily slam the door closed. It takes you a few seconds to get used to the darkness inside. With silvery moonlight ribbons filtering in through the curtained windows, you could just barely make out the rows upon rows of books you’d pestered your father into lining. Surrounded by heavyset tables, and your favorite, cushioned armchair. Luxurious, yet completely dwarfed when seating the lone silhouette-

“If this is an attack, then I surely don’t mind.”

“Fuck-” you scream, reflexively grabbing the nearest book spine you could reach to throw in the direction of the shadow. “Show yourself.”

Somehow, it’s as if the book bounces off an invisible forcefield, plopping down unceremoniously onto the velvety carpet right in front of the tall figure.

“And here I thought princesses usually curtseyed.” that deep, honeyed voice cuts right through your heavy breathing. He makes a move to get up - languid, and torturous, as if he enjoyed your agonizing suspense. “Well, maybe I do prefer being pelted by a- hey, that doesn’t mean pick up another book!”

In a split-second, you were brandishing a weighty encyclopedia this time - holding it firmly behind your head in a ready stance to throw once again.

“Show yourself.”

The man sighs, stepping into a channel of low light. It illuminated his stature - taller than you’d thought, towering well above most of the generals in the royal court. Muscled, yet lean - powerful, the thought strikes you. Magnetizing.

Someone from outside the kingdom, you observe, otherwise you’d have remembered that cloudy white hair, strands falling over a strange, black blindfold stretched across the upper half of his face. Leaving you only a set of high cheekbones, and a pert, pretty mouth to admire.

One that curls into such a mischievous smirk of neat pearly whites, and a tiny dimple digging into his cheek. “Now, I’ve never had anyone this eager to see me.” He drops into a courteous bow at the waist, expensive blue fabrics rippling. “From the North kingdom, Satoru, at your service, princess.”

Your hand falters - partially because of the heavy weight, partially because you recognised that gold “G” insignia in the middle of this stranger- Satoru’s uniform. The Gojo family.

That mysterious, estranged kingdom from the Northern part of the country that hadn’t been seen since you were young. You’d heard stories of them - everyone in this vast country had, it was impossible not to. Of their cruel winters and even crueler king, how blood stained every room in his palace. It was rumored he was a monster, and yet, no one ever saw his face - if they did, they never lived to tell the tale.

You knew your father had invited the king to every single ball out of diplomatic obligation, but he’d never attended. Never even bothered to respond.

So who was this?

“No one. Just a lowly attendant accompanying my king, your highness.” you’re jolting when he purrs, a brow quirking at just how he knew what you were thinking. “The question ah- showed on your face, my apologies.”

Finding your voice, “Um, I apologize, too, Satoru-” You note the lack of a last name, “-for the book. I can’t imagine being hit with Yaga’s 1001 Methods to Crochet was a very warm welcome.” And like a little truce, you’re placing down the encyclopedia in your hand. Flashing him your most practiced smile, “I bet you’re hiding out here for the same reasons as me, then.”

That draws out a pretty laugh from him, bubbly and boyish. “Mhm, the ladies just refuse to leave you alone, too?”

“Well, more like the lords there.”

He hums, something that sends a chill down your spine. Words just a little strained, “Not much for bragging about horses?”

And suddenly, you get the urge to snark back, huffing in a way you know your preparational teacher would faint at. “Absolutely not. I’d rather face a vampire than listen to Naoya and the “absolutely enormous” weaponry he uses to-”

“-compensate!”

“-compensate.” the two of you finish at the same time. “I like this place a lot better, it’s quiet- though…” your voice trails off in wonder. “It’s strange, guests aren’t supposed to be allowed in the library unsupervised.” His jaw clenches when your eyes sweep him, “We are supposed to have a few guards here but I don’t know where-”

All of a sudden, it’s like you’re being splashed with cold water. And your words are dying on your tongue when the room drops a few degrees in temperature.

Satoru is unnervingly still, yet he catches onto your slight shiver. “This damned wind, am I right?” And he’s gesturing at the windows with his head. The closed windows. Words tumbling quickly from those pink lips now, “Anyways- why don’t you sit down-” He prowls towards you, slow, confident. Large hands rest at your arms, they’re pale, surprisingly cold - guiding you easily to sit on the unoccupied armchair. “-since m’being nice enough to let you hide out here.”

His words drip with tease, and you still couldn’t see his eyes, but you imagined they’d be twinkling. No one ever dared to speak to you this way - it was always either thinly-veiled condescension or fear towards royalty.

Surprisingly, you didn’t mind.

You roll your eyes, trying to hold back your smile. “Yeah? Well what do I owe you in return for that, Satoru?”

His lips part, as if not expecting this response. Before letting out another sharp cackle at your expense, “Well, why don’t you-” You can’t tear your eyes away from his magnetic figure when Satoru begins unbuttoning his flowing coat to reveal a snow-white shirt underneath. Wrapping it snug around your shoulders in one, fluid motion, a hand of his tilts your head towards him. “-give me your soul?”

The Gojo emblem burns into your back, and Satoru’s deep, almost raspy tone rings in your ears. It sounded like a joke - but looking into his ethereal features, there was no trace of a grin on what you could see of it. And once again, you’re struck by the pure power radiating off of him.

You hoped it was a joke.

“S-soul’s not for sale.” you manage to choke out, trying to make it look like you weren’t breathing in his metallic, peppermint scent. Heady. Pulling the soft fabric tighter around your cold body, “Steep price for a hideout, don’t you think?”

“S’a discount for you, flower.” his chilling breath fans your face. Letting out hushed, “Heh, you should see the prices I charge others.”

You’re reeling, face burning, “Flower?”

“Because you’re shaking like one, see?” The pads of his fingers move from under your chin to trace up, up, up the goosebumps on your exposed arms. Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to pull away.

Hypnotic.

And his steps are soundless as he walks over behind you, the moonlight giving him an angelic halo. Haunting, almost. “And you’re just as gorgeous, like a wild rose. Way too gorgeous for the fuckin’ bastards out there, might I add, princess.”

The nerve!

Heart pounding, you turn around to- call him out for his disrespect? Snap back? Accept the compliment?

You don’t know - and you don’t get to find out, either. Because before your eyes can search for Satoru’s mysterious figure, the door to the library is slamming open with a deafening bang!

“Ah! There you are!” your lady-in-waiting’s relieved voice floods your ears. And she’s barging in with no comment about your sudden stiffness, or that foreign coat around your shoulders. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you, your highness. His majesty is just about to make his speech of the night and needs you there.”

Shit, out of all the scandals.

“I- I can explain.” You’re desperately trying to catch Satoru’s eye to make up an excuse for why you’re alone with a strange man away from the ball, shooting from your seat to look around the library. “We’re just-”

The suddenly empty library.

“Yes yes, I understand that the balls aren’t exactly your favorite pastime.” The oblivious girl is pushing you towards the door, brown eyes narrowed. “But we’ve got to get going now.”

Despite her wrangling you outside, you manage to sneak a few glances backwards, straining to see if he was hiding in the shadows. Only to be met with a now-rumpled armchair and the still, dark bookshelves. As bare as if Satoru never existed - the only proof of his existence being a sad copy of Yaga’s 1001 Methods to Crochet lying on the ground.

And yet, you can’t help but feel a pair of eyes on you.

You feel it all through the short walk back to the ballroom, Nobara’s excited chatter about how finely your all-new coat was made filtering through one ear and out the next. Even when you reach the edge of the dance floor, even when you feel every single other eye in the room on you - you feel it.

“Um, Nobara.” you whisper, discreetly shuffling the coat off your shoulders. “Please take this to my chambers for me.”

The younger girl is positively bursting at the seams, murmuring conspiratorially to you, “So is this where you were? With who- The “G” what does that-”

“Ah! My daughter!” Saved by your father’s booming voice - though, you wouldn’t consider it too much of a salvation when you’re immediately being whisked away to the high platform your father’s throne was seated on. His arms spread wide to greet you in a hug despite stiff etiquette.

“You’re late.” he whispers in your ear.

It’s all you can do to manage out a quiet, “S-Sorry.”

Without another word, he’s addressing the congregation in the middle of the dance ballroom again. More ruler than father at this very moment. “My people, we are gathered here today to dance, to sing, to forget about the horrors happening in our beloved nation.” To large murmurs of agreement he continues, “And despite it all, it’s a reality we must all live with. Me, especially, as your king, have a duty to fulfill.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you wonder where this is all going - your father never brought up vampires during a time like this. Never.

Clearing his throat, “And as we all know, I’m not getting any younger here, unfortunately. Which is why-” He claps his hands once, and three figures - one of which being Naoya, amongst two other nobles you briefly recognized - step forward from the crowd. “Ah- there should be one more- Anyway, after thorough consideration with the table of elders, we have decided to go forward with the betrothal process for my dear daughter here. With the joining of hands will not only be the joining of kingdoms - but the joining of arms, and our people shall prevail as one over the vampires.”

You think you might stop breathing, eyes burning and trained firmly on the ground. This had been a topic of conversation - well, more the elders conversing while you skipped out on every meeting once this discussion was brought up.

You knew this would happen. You knew. But now? At this very moment? All you can do is stand there and listen while he rattles off.

“I know four of the- erm, three of the most eligible young suitors of the land will do their utmost to vie for her heart - and her hand. No easy task I tell you.” Your fists clench, head swimming. “And in a week’s time, we will hold the grand ball to announce my successor.”

Shit - a week. A week.

Somewhere in your line of vision you see - you feel that spark of blue. And you’re raising your head to cheers echoing from all around the room, and still no sign of where those eyes are.

“The next time we meet, will be with the future king and queen!”

Fuck.

---

That night was spent with a few too many tears, and a consoling Nobara at your side all until daybreak. And if you held onto that comforting, peppermint-scented coat through it all, well, you were only glad that you seemed too pitiful for her to question it.

Feeling much more composed and only slightly less bitter about the prospect of being married off to a stuck-up noble you didn’t know, you made your way to breakfast the next morning. An affair usually spent with your father, or in the palace gardens - but this time, surrounded by four suitors under the guise of getting to know you. Sizing each other up, maybe.

“Ah, your highness, good morning!” you sweetly reciprocate the greetings once you’re escorted into the dining room, taking your seat at the very end of the long, mahogany table.

Sighing you take in the scene - on your left was Lord Naoya from last night, the same sharp grins and shifty eyes as you remembered. Seated beside him was the young duke of the Kashimo clan - hair striking, his battle staff laid out next to him on the table. Intimidating.

But nothing in comparison to the hulking man on your right, it seemed as if his uniform was on the verge of bursting. Face sullen, letting his pink locks fall into place - Sukuna, you think you remember.

“Your highness.” Ichiji bows, taking his place supervising the breakfast. “I am afraid our guests from the Northern kingdom will not be able to attend this breakfast today. He sends his deepest apologies. B-but-” His face-paled, looking scarred for life. “-he did have his um- attendant send this note-”

You’re gratefully taking the creamy scrap of paper before the words have even left Ichiji’s mouth, flipping it over to reveal slanted, beautiful calligraphy - Apologies for the sudden departure last night, flower. And I hope you forgive my king for not being here to deter the talk of horses - duty holds both man and beast from freedom. Worry not, we will be seeing your sweet smile again soon. But, for now, give those three bastards a rude gesture from me.

You giggle, tucking away the note. A tiny pang of disappointment hitting you out of nowhere at the lack of that gold “G” emblem anywhere along the table - and more importantly, the white-haired enigma that would follow.

All three men were glowering, yet begrudgingly plowing on with their conversation from before as you settled. Not having the energy to contribute, you listened in.

“-this would never have happened in my estate.”

“Oh buzz off-” Kashimo interrupts Naoya, before throwing a guilty look your way at his crass words. As if you didn’t say worse. “Apologies, your highness. As I was saying-” he turns back to the man. “Don’t think we haven’t heard of those vampire killings in your court that you tried to cover up, your defense isn’t as impenetrable as you want it to seem, Naoya.”

That causes you to raise your brow - and evidently, Sukuna’s as well. “That so? Little fraud, aren’t ya, Zenin?”

The shorter man sputters indignantly, “You- you little- you call me a fraud and yet you’re the only one who didn’t bother to help investigate last night? Got something to hide, oh king-of-curses?”

“Tch, shut up.” That little nickname ticked something off in Sukuna, and his grip on his delicate fork tightens. Smirk intentionally bared to piss off, “It’s just because when the princess marries me, she won’t have to worry about vampires attacking guards in the middle of a ball.”

Wait, what?

“Yeah right, you and what army because I have an absolutely enormous-”

“What do you mean?” Your smooth voice cuts through their bickering, and all three men freeze, gazes snapping to you as if they’d already forgotten you were there. “I didn’t hear about any killings last night.”

If you thought they were tense before then you weren’t prepared for right now - shoulders raising in surrender, for all their blabbering, not a word was uttered after your accusatory question. After a few beats of silence, you scoff in frustration, turning towards your escort, squirming and avoiding your pointed stare at the very corner of the room.

“Ichiji.” The man looked like he could positively give anything to blend into the meticulously hand-painted flowers on the wall. “Ichiji, tell me what happened.”

“P-princess!” he yelps, adjusting his glasses. “I- I’m afraid the king said- please I can’t-”

“Ichiji…”

“P-please don’t banish me-”

You’re on your feet now, cornering the poor man. Mentally, you make a note to give him a raise. Eyes narrowing, “I won’t banish you, but as the future queen I have a right to know, don’t I?”

“...”

“...please?”

And the remaining men had been watching with morbid fascination as you worked your magic. They were already aware that the frail attendant was the weakest link out of them all, but what they certainly did not expect was exactly how weak.

It only took a single bat of your lashes before his pale cheeks colored an almost-concerning pink. Eyes scrunching shut in embarrassment, as the words spilled from his lips. Neverending and slurring with haste as he speaks in one breath, “Th-three of the guards stationed near the outer corridor and library wing were found killed by a vampire last night before you retired for the night, your highness. Their b-bodies were disposed of, and this in combination with all the recent killings was why the king hurried the announcement for your engagement. B-but, his majesty decreed that this never be relayed to you in order to keep you in high spirits after the betrothal eep-!”

“Is- is that so?” you breathe, eyes wide. Taking one last look at the four speechless men, before walking out of the tall doorway. “I seem to have lost my appetite, I will be heading for my chambers now. I sincerely hope you enjoy your stay, my lords.”

Shit shit shit - how did you not notice?

Maybe you walked right past the killer last night and didn’t even realize - who knows what could’ve been hiding in the shadows. How did you not realize? How did you not see?

Just then, a thought strikes you - did Satoru see?

---

It’s one of the whirlwind of questions ringing around in your mind even by the time you hear a steady knock on your door. Jolting you upright from where you splayed out on your plush, silken bed, rows upon rows of books on vampires haphazardly surrounding you.

Peering out of your large window, you notice the hues of pink and red painting the sky, a big red sun just dipping below the horizon - shit, when did you even fall asleep?

“Come in.” you answer, voice scratchy. Rubbing away the sleep in your eyes, you could barely make out the hazy outline of Ichiji standing in your doorway.

“Ah- your highness, I apologize for waking you up.” he bows. “But master Kashimo will be headed out for a late-night hunt at this very moment, and requested your presence shall you wish it. He noticed that you seemed upset at breakfast, and wanted to make it up to you.”

You take a moment to mull over the question - it certainly was rude for you to just ignore your guests all day. And considering you might just be marrying one of them, it wouldn’t kill anyone to actually get to know them.

“Alright.” you reply, voice even. And your answer seems to surprise the other man, “Tell Tsukumo to get my gear ready, I will be down as soon as I change.”

“Y-yes, princess! I will call for Nobara to help you get dressed.”

As the door shut once more behind him, you threw off your heavy blanket- and your coat? Satoru’s coat, which had evidently been draped around your upper half. Heart stuttering, you didn’t remember putting that on before…

Hm, you had to thank Nobara for that later.

---

Hunting with Kashimo was, unexpectedly, dull.

“So…” you drag your words, trying to fill the tense silence. “What is it that we’re actually hunting for-”

“Shhh-” you hear for about the third time this past hour. A brow of yours quirking at the way it seemed like the two of you had been wandering the woods belonging to your kingdom’s estate for hours, and you still didn’t know what it was you were supposed to be looking for.

Alright, perhaps hunting wasn’t the best opportunity to get to know your potential future husband.

“My lord…” you call out warily, already aware of the duke’s affinity for hunting. “Maybe we should rest for a bit, after all, the stars are out already and the moon is so bright.”

He barely even turns to look back at you, “No time. The woods belonging to your kingdom have some of the rarest species of cursed animals in this country. I must make the most of this week in that case, your highness.”

You brighten at the closest shred of conversation in so long. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard! I also hear they-”

“Shh!”

So close.

Letting out a resigned sigh, your eyes glaze over as you watch Kashimo trace his thick fingers over animal tracks on the dirt. Suddenly, gesturing for you to follow him as he sped off in another direction.

It doesn’t take too long for him to stray out of sight. Meanwhile, your legs lag behind in protest - and pettiness, you realize. Grumbling to yourself about how you’d rather have watched paint dry as you’re sure the elders often did. Well, you look at the now-barren pathway, at least now you didn’t have to worry about someone shushing you all the ti-

“AHH!”

And then, all of a sudden - it felt like you were the hunted.

It’s like every bit of blood drains from your body at the blood-curdling scream. Grip tightening on your bow, you’re jolting at the direction it came from - where did Kashimo disappear off to again?

Yet, for how much you knew your kingdom like the back of your hand, it’s so dark. The moon barely peeking through gloomy gray wisps of clouds that you don’t know where exactly you’re running to - just that something was tugging. Reeling you in. No destination in sight until you’re crashing face-first into- a wall?

“Hey, flower, where are ya running off to this late?”

Your hairs raise, something visceral in your body jolting.

Satoru - blindfold and all.

“Wh- Satoru thank God you’re here.” you gasp, looking nervously over his broad shoulders. “I heard a scream, and I’m worried about Kashimo because he went somewhere over there and-” You’re pointing aimlessly in his direction, before clasping a hand around Satoru’s defined bicep. Tugging, “You have to help me, that idiot even insisted on no guards because of disturbing the wildlife and I’m so worried and-”

Before you can react, big strong arms are enveloping you. And you’re suddenly hit with the smell of peppermint and Satoru - something so sickly sweet tinging the air, it makes you droop limply into his firm hold. Your skin burns when he breathes in, deep.

“Shhh shhh, I know I know, princess.” he hums, pulling you deeper against his chest. Until you could feel every dip and curve of his pectorals. “You must’ve been scared, right?” At your hesitant nod, “You did good. You did perfect- in fact. Especially putting up with that pretentious bastard.”

The shocked laugh that drags from your throat has Satoru sighing contentedly, an almost-pained grunt leaving him as he pulls away ever-so-slightly. You felt much the same.

“S’alright, I’m pretty sure it was some animal.” he soothes. He clasps your hands with his, running a damp thumb over your knuckles. “I saw him trudging about disturbing more wildlife over there.”

You breath catches in your chest at just how close Satoru was now, his breath mingling with yours. Pretty plump lips so close - too close. Yet you’re leaning in closer, like you’re drawn by a thread. “Are you sure? Maybe we should-” You gasp, eyes widening when you look down at where your hands were intertwined - red. Or, what you assumed to be red, a saturated, patchy stain on your hands where Satoru’s met yours. He stiffens when he follows your gaze, trying to pull away, but you only hold your grip harder. “Satoru, are you bleeding? Or is this-”

“Not mine.” his voice is hard - and for a second you have to wonder whether this is really the same Satoru. And you swear there’s a little tremor in his words as he explains, “You see, I went out on a little hunt myself, flower.”

Even if Satoru didn’t have his blindfold on, you’re sure his face would’ve been unreadable. That almost-familiar grin of his is strained. Too strained. Yet, his movements are unwavering as he tries to wipe away the blood. “Must’ve forgotten to wipe down, I apologize for sullying your hands, princess.”

“Let me-” you mutter, taking a hold of the coat around your shoulders to wipe away the blood. Uncaring for what you were dirtying at the moment. “I swear you need to take better care of yourself, Satoru. Seriously.”

And you didn’t see them - but somehow you could just feel the amusement dancing in Satoru’s eyes. Raising your confused gaze up to meet his, “What?”

He only flashes you a knowing grin, “S’jus’, you’re wearing my coat, your highness.”

Your movements pause, mouth gaping open while you try to pathetically spout out an excuse. “I- I didn’t mean to get this coat dirty, oh my god. I didn’t think-”

“S’alright.” he inches in even closer. A smirk grazing those sinful lips of his, “I actually prefer it like that, you look like mine.” Taking a deep breath, “You smell like mine.”

And before you can ask about his cryptic message, he’s placing a hand at the back of your waist. A very improper hand that would definitely make the elders gasp in scandal. “We should head back to the palace, it’s getting late. I will escort you, m’sure that born hunter of yours is already halfway back too.”

“Carry me.” you blurt out, your body aching to feel more of him. And before you can retract your words - probably sputter a few apologies, you’re being cradled by a smug Satoru. One hand under your knees, the other supporting you like you’re weightless.

“Heh, a princess carry for a princess.”

“Oh, shut up.” you grumble with embarrassment when he walks forward slowly, your legs swaying in midair. “Want my soul for this as well?”

And you can feel Satoru’s muscles ripple, you can feel the way his breath hitches in his chest ever-so-slightly. Rumbling as he drawls, “More than you’d know.”

“S’that a discount, too? You still didn’t tell me what you charge others.” you quip, remembering the conversation from the night before.

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough, your highness.”

You’re quirking a brow, something hot churning at the pit of your stomach at that ragged tone to his words. “I’m onto you, y’know.” You stare up at his clenched jaw, highlighted in the dim moonlight. His long, pale neck, the crevices of his blindfold. For a moment, you wonder what it would be like if you could peek under. “Onto you and your absurdly high prices, Satoru.”

He breathes out a shuddering, overly-dramatic shudder. “Mhm, flower, I should be worried.” Before looking up at the sky - and you wondered just how well he could see through his blindfold. “The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”

That night, you dreamt of long-winded star-gazing and blue, blue eyes.

---

“What do you mean Lord Kashimo has left for his kingdom?” you hiss, feeling a faint stab of offense. Seriously, were you that awful at hunting? “He didn’t make any indication of it last night.”

And if your careless words made Nobara beam with slight embarrassment, you didn’t take note of it - too caught up in what you’d just heard. Enough so that it takes her next words to bring you out of your stupor, “Exactly what I said, your highness. The lordship and his court have all vacated their wing, leaving behind only a letter of forgiveness for ending the festivities early.”

“Still.” you murmur petulantly. Setting aside another one of your books on Vampire: Mates, Murder, and More. “It’s strange, I thought he was here for the hunting sprees, if not for me.” Your tiara weighs heavy on your head as you turn to your young lady-in-waiting. “I would like for Ichiji to catch up to Kashimo’s traveling party, make sure they’re safe, and send them my well wishes.”

Ha! Take that elders - you’d show them you’re fully capable of holding diplomatic relations as a ruler.

“As you wish, princess. Additionally, this-” She’s holding out a small pouch of blue fabric that you’d never seen before. “-was found by your bedside when cleaning and I wished to give it back safely.” Before her polite smile drops into a much more devious smirk, “A gift from one of the suitors, perhaps~?”

You gesture for her to hand it over, the silk casing soft under your touch. Detailed. One-of-a-kind, from what your tedious lessons in the history of fabrics had taught you. You didn’t recognize the patterns sewn onto it as something typical for your kingdom - or any other you’d learned about, really.

“M’not sure.” you whisper. Opening the little purse to reveal a flash of gold - a necklace. Thin and intricate, holding a sapphire pendant in the shape of an eye.

Blue.

A blue you knew too well - the same one that peeked out from every dark corner, that you saw before you slept at night. The one that’s been by your side for years.

Constant. Now coming to haunt you.

Chills run down your spine, and your fingers tremble at how life-like it looked. Burning into your very soul.

“Would you like for me to help you put it on?” Nobara asks, mistaking your shock for difficulty. And yet, you don’t correct her - body moving before your mind to simply nod.

There was only one clasp on the chain - leaving you to worry about the fit. But when it was hooked around your neck, you found that it fit you so perfectly. Like it was tailored to you - and only you. Why was it so perfect?

Why did it capture the exact color you’d been chasing after your whole life - since before you’d even formed memories? Since you were nothing but a surly, teary-eyed little girl that was crying about the dark, babbling about that “blue flash” that no one else ever seemed to see.

“If that will be all, your highness. I will take my leave.” With a nod and a low bow, you’re left all by yourself in your sprawling chambers. Wondering, somewhat in amusement, whether you’d be let off this marriage pact if all the other suitors suddenly left as well. Hell, maybe you could marry whoever got you this necklace since they apparently know you so well.

And you swear - maybe it was the fatigue from trekking last night, maybe it was the stress from the past month - but you swear the wind picks up in its chilly bite. Howling just low enough that it sounds like a deep, taunting cackle.

The necklace doesn’t leave its palace around your neck for the next few days. You still didn’t know who’d gifted it to you - right inside your chambers for god’s sake - and if either of the two suitors remaining knew, they didn’t make any indication of it either.

Three, technically, but it seemed that the more the days passed, the less you saw of the mysterious king of the Northern kingdom.

While Sukuna and Naoya had taken it upon themselves to woo you by joining you in your daily activities, he hadn’t even shown his face to you yet. You were sure your father would’ve had him humiliated and thrown out of the palace already if he wasn’t afraid for his life.

But you didn’t mind, because you saw enough of Satoru to make up for King Gojo and Kashimo. The man seemed well and fully intent to stick by your side, talking yourselves well into the night.

It was on a night like this - sprawled out along the plush armchairs in the very library you’d met, only a few days after Kashimo’s departure - you asked, “Satoru, what color are your eyes?”

That makes him pause in the middle of his extremely animated story about how he’d caught Earl Yaga in the middle of an artistic dance routine. The baritone of his voice cracking so uncharacteristically as he responds with, “Wh-why do you ask, princess?”

“Because.” you roll your eyes. “In four days m’gonna be marrying, and it might just be your king. Yet, I don’t even know his attendant’s eye color - what type of good queen would I be then?”

You knew it was a flimsy excuse, truthfully you just wanted to see Satoru. All of Satoru.

“Not many have wanted to look into my eyes”

You tilt your head, “How come?”

“Well, I can assure you that they aren’t half as alluring as yours.” Satoru pushes back your tiara ever-so-slightly to reveal your face to him better, fingers dancing down to fiddle with your pendant. “You’re a strange one, aren’t ya, flower?” he chuckles, face inching closer to yours - and for a moment, you think he might do something else. “Tell me, how are the wedding preparations going?”

Ah, right - the wedding preparations. Your wedding preparations, to someone else.

Did you want him to do something else?

“W-well-” you pull back from his hypnotic presence. Heart lurching, necklace burning cold into your skin. “Sukuna keeps trying to teach me his very particular diet, I swear I’ve spent much more time with Uraume learning it than with him- they’re a sweetheart though, I can’t complain.” Eyes trying to avoid the intensity of his gaze, “Oh- and Naoya still talks about his weaponry, however, I think his Zenin elders had a word with him because he asked to meet me in the gardens tomorrow evening to actually get to know me for once.”

You brave to take a look at Satoru at the end of his spiel - only to be met with a face you never thought you’d see. His mouth a tight gash, jaw ticking, and you could almost hear the grinding of his teeth.

Terrifying. Magnetic.

Powerful.

The library was always cold - but you fail to suppress a shiver at the sudden grip in the air. “S-Satoru?”

And suddenly, at the mere sound of your voice, everything clicks back to normalcy. You’re staring that familiar grin painted onto his face again, musing slyly, “How much d’you wanna bet he’ll ask about your weaponry instead?”

“Oh, shut up.”

It’s only much, much later at night when you’re forced to retire early - Satoru slipping past the library earlier than usual with groans of his “attendant duties” that you realize - he didn’t answer your question.

---

“P-princess, will you be alright going alone? I don’t think-”

“It’ll be alright, Ichiji, I’m just meeting Lord Naoya.” you wave off the stammering man. Tugging your velvety coat snugly around your body, “Honestly, you act like I haven’t been out in the gardens alone before.”

And it was true, since returning from his little meeting with the Kashimo court, your jumpy attendant seemed even more so - and you didn’t even know that was even impossible. Always peeking cautiously behind corners of the winding hallways, always hovering close by you even when his duty didn’t require it.

He’d told you - in that quiet, shaky voice of his - that Kashimo was well, and headed straight for his kingdom to fulfill emergency duties. To which you’d accepted - you understood the gravity of responsibility, after all.

“But- but, your highness!” he gasps, pulling you out of your little reverie. “I don’t think- with the way he-”

A spine-chilling breeze rustles the nearby tree, sending shivers down your spine. Howling in your ears. You squint your eyes against the cold, “Sorry, what was that, Ichiji?”

But the man in front doesn’t speak - fuck, you didn’t even know if he was breathing. Face a sickly pallor, mouth gaping open and shut like he wanted to say something - he needed to say something. Yet, he wasn’t even looking at you, wide eyes locked on something over your shoulder.

“Are you-” Your body holds you back, feeling two burning eyes on you - and you have to force yourself to look over your shoulder. Only to see- nothing? “-are you alright?”

Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, you’re turning back to face your attendant - only to see him sprinting back down the entrance as fast as his knobbly legs could carry him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then!” you call, hoping it echoed far enough to be heard.

Strange.

It’s all you can think about for the next half an hour you’re seated on that dainty, painted bench in the middle of the palace gardens, waiting for your potential future husband. And for the next hour. And the next.

It’s by the time the sun has fully set, when twinkling stars are dotting the night sky that you settle with the conclusion that yes, it seems that Naoya has already made his decision about the marriage. And no it doesn’t end with a wedding.

“Dammit.” you spit, running a hand through the hair you had Nobara fuss about with. “S’not like I wanted to marry you anyway, bastard.”

And you didn’t - you really didn’t. Whenever you dared to imagine walking down that decorated aisle, Naoya was the last person you saw.

But seated alone and abandoned, trying to cover yourself from the biting chill of the night, you never felt more like an unworthy heir. Fuck, if no one wanted to marry you how would you even dare to think of taking over the throne?

Maybe you should just-

“We have got to stop meeting like this, flower. S’like you’re haunting me.”

“Satoru!” you gasp, throwing yourself into his embrace. You’re reaching up to loop two arms around his neck, “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it. That asshole had the audacity to stand me up.” Pulling back so your face ghosts his, “I got all dolled up just for him to leave me like this. As if I wanted to be with him, I was just trying to be a good- a good h-host and-”

Suddenly, you’re struck with the realization of how close you two actually are. You could count every crease on his blindfold, pinpoint exactly where every dimple at the corner of his grin was.

Your hands slide their way down to his sculpted chest, pushing slightly. “-I apologize, this was forward of me.”

But his arms only tighten around your waist - when did they even get there? Large and steady, pulling you back to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, your racing pulse. “Stay.” he groans, and he sounds slightly out-of-breath, heavy exhales tickling your ear.

“We can’t be caught like this, Satoru.” you breathe, but that familiar little tug has you shuffling closer. Breathing in that familiar metallic sweet scent you’ve grown to love, “I- I’m getting-” Bile creeps up at the back of your throat, and you laugh bitterly. “I think I’m getting married in three days, y’know? To Lord Sukuna, I assume, since two of my suitors ah- ran away and the other refuses to even see my face.”

His thick fingers dig deeper into the extravagant corset at your waist, “I know. Fuck- don’t I know.”

It’s a steady beat of silence, so still. So tense you could hear every stuttering heartbeat of yours, and strangely enough, you had the nagging feeling that he could, too.

“You could just marry me.” Satoru’s abrupt confession breaks the silence, and you find yourself sinking deeper into his soft coat. Wrapping yourself up in his heady presence. “Be my queen. You wouldn’t have to worry about duties or elders or- or vampires.”

And the night was still. So still.

Despite the way your heart races, eyes blinking up in disbelief, you find it in yourself to deadpan, “F-funny. Do I have to give you my soul for that as well?” Oh, some stupid little part of you think you might just have.

And you’d expected Satoru to crack a laugh, to give you a teasing smile while he carried on that little inside joke between the two of you. You’d expected him to no sooner shove you off and talk about it being late. Hell, a part of you even expected this to be some elaborate set-up from the elders to get you caught in such a compromising position with the no-longer stranger from the Northern kingdom.

But, no. It’s anything but that - everything but that.

Because the taller man only rasps, nose-to-nose now, “No.” Sounding like his sanity was slipping away from him with every breath, fingers making their dance down to twirl your sapphire pendant between them. “I’d give you mine.”

You can feel his breath fanning your cheeks, head dipping slowly - so torturously slowly. As if he was giving you ample opportunity to run away if you wanted to. But you don’t think you could move for the life of you.

Instead, you’re dipping closer, gliding the tip of your thumb over his defined cheekbone. Mere millimeters away - just one push. Another hand of yours steadies at the back of his neck, feeling those snowing locks under your fingers.

One.

Your thumb dips just under the seam of his blindfold - unwillingly.

“Your highness.” Satoru’s voice is cold, his fingers lacing with your own even colder. Something eerie. And even with the delicate touch you could feel the power thrumming through Satoru’s body. “This is for you.”

You can only stand there in shocked silence as the moment shatters, and he produces a wild rose as if out of thin air. “Consider it from King Gojo.” Touch searing against yours when he hands it to you, you feel drunk off of him “Perhaps the night is late now.”

Right. The king.

When you’re walking back in the directions of the palace’s warm lights, you don’t think you’ve ever felt safer. Strangely enough.

“Satoru.”

“Yes?”

“I’m onto you.”

“You’re onto me.” he’s tucking the bloom over your ear. Before stepping back into the inky pool of shadows beside the entrance you came from. “Sweet dreams, flower.”

That night, when you tuck yourself into bed, you swear you hear a faint whisper of those same three words lulling you to sleep. Over and over.

Sweet.

Dreams.

Flower.

---

Floral preservation was one of the lessons you’d been forced to attend growing up in the palace, but even you didn’t know how that wild rose Satoru gifted you hadn’t wilted yet.

It remained as fresh and prim as the night it was picked, bluish pink petals never fading. You didn’t keep it safely in a bowl of water amongst the other plants and flowers in your bedroom. Somehow, never out of place, always tucked safely behind your ear in the days that followed. Perhaps it was improper to keep it on you even when you were being fitted into an engagement gown to be promised off to another man. But Satoru didn’t complain, and you didn’t either.

With Kashimo departing for his kingdom early, and Naoya apparently following in his footsteps due to “irrevocable differences”, it was now almost confirmed that the future king was to be Lord Sukuna. Not like King Gojo had made any effort to reach out - and Satoru hadn’t mentioned it either.

Satoru.

Things were…the same after that night, and you didn’t know what to make of it.

It must be done, you sigh, wincing at the pinch of the flowing white dress being suited onto you by the bustling tailor. At least it could be worse, even if you’d rather…

“Honestly, young people these days.” Yaga speaks up from where he was fussing with the silken hem of your gown for tomorrow. “I heard of that Naoya brat leaving out of nowhere, princess. My condolences.”

“Ah-” you startle, not expecting to be addressed. “It’s not your fault, we likely didn’t mesh all that well. I just wish he left a note- Honestly, I’m lucky to even have a suitor left after these six days.”

Another grimace leaves you when you feel another tweak of pins pricking at your skin. The other man hums lowly, “Don’t say that, anyone would be lucky to have you. Anyway-” He gets up from his position kneeling, towering over you to admire his own work. “How do you like it, your highness?”

You let out a gasp when you face the floor-length mirror, “Oh my god, it’s perfect.” The dress was regal, decadent. With flowing tresses resembling a petals, and gilded gold and blue weaved into the fabric.

Blue.

“I fashioned it after that necklace and flower of yours.” You unwittingly reach for that familiar pendant, “I ah- forgive the assumption, but I assumed you would be wearing them both at the betrothal ceremony tomorrow, princess?”

Taking another long look in the mirror, you nod, “Yeah. I will.”

---

“I knew it.” he laughs shrilly. “I fuckin’ knew there was something wrong with you. As soon as I saw you butterin’ the princess up in the library, I knew you were a fuckin’ freak.”

The other man only responds with ominous silence, letting labored breathing cut through the bone-chilling air. Clearly unsatisfied, “What? Not gonna talk now? Aren’t ya just in it for the crown like me? Have the bitch, just give me the crown.” Goading now, “I bet you’re not even an attendant are ya- I know what you are-”

His words are cut off with another choked-up gasp, followed shortly by a strained growl. “I know- what you are-”

Red stains the marble floor - a problem for later.

“I know, King Gojo.” And it’s the last thing he sees. “And you’ll reap what you sow, she’ll never love you.”

Blue.

“You’ve haunted me too long, flower.”

“Satoru–!” you scream, throwing your soft bed sheets off your body.

It was burning - you were burning, gasping for the cold lungfuls of air that filled your empty bedroom. Mind bleary, distantly, you register that it’s around daybreak - tiny fingers of golden sunlight just barely dipping through your window - your open window.

Hastily, you’re tumbling out of bed to slam it shut. Heart still pounding when you take in the mess of flower petals from those congratulatory bouquets you’d gotten. Ruined. Only the stems left in the vases after that sudden, chilling wind.

“What-” Your eyes dart around to look over your dresser, where you always kept Satoru’s wild rose. And a shiver creeps down your spine when you realize it lay snug tucked behind your ear, safe and sound. Exactly where you didn’t keep it. “-happened?”

You couldn’t settle back into bed after that - couldn’t even think about it. So you find yourself reaching for your wardrobe of dresses, running your fingers along the intricate gown made for your engagement ball tonight. Your engagement to Sukuna.

If this was the nightmare, and tonight was to be the dream - why did your stomach turn so?

---

It was difficult convincing Nobara to let you keep the wild rose on after getting ready.

“But that’s so last season.” she bemoans. “No offense, your highness, but even old lady Ogami wouldn’t be caught dead wearing flowers in her hair these days.”

You’re giving her your best puppy dog eyes, “Please, Nobara?”

“No.”

“I’ll let you raid my exclusive wardrobe the next time you want to play dress-up?”

“...”

Which was how you found yourself shoved into a dress that was way too gorgeously palatial, barely even having the time to admire the lush gold and blue decorations around the sparkling ballroom before you were being ushered next to your father on his throne.

You fiddle with your ringed fingers, feeling more and more like a lamb sent to slaughter - a very opulent slaughter - with each step.

“I am so proud of you for this week, and you look absolutely divine, my love.” your father whispers into your ear once you’re up on the crushed velvet platform. “I hear from Ichiji that you know, I apologize we couldn’t go through with this marriage under better circumstances.”

You shake your head, giving him a calm smile - you’d already forgiven him, sometimes there was duty far greater than any man.

“My people, as promised, we are gathered once more to celebrate the joining of two hands - and two kingdoms.” The king projects his voice out to the eager crowd, “Together, these two young loves will face their duty. They will face the dangers. They will face our future.”

The thought had you clenching your fist into the soft fabric of your gown, looking down at your feet in a bow.

“As I did with my father before me - God rest his soul - the future king and queen will oversee their responsibilities to protect our people from those treacherous vampires. The elders-” he stops short, eyes widening at the empty seats on the balcony - where the table of elders always sat. Abandoned. Chilling. “...have decreed, in accordance with our princess, to introduce my daughter to you all as our future queen-”

Your father gestures a hand your way, and you step forwards to cheers, still not daring to look up. And all you could see were two, gold-toed boots stepping into your field of vision.

“-and our future king!”

“Look up, flower, this is the best part.”

Gasping, you raise your head - Satoru.

“Y-you?”

He smiles that pearly smile at you, one that makes your knees weaken, “Me.” Before leaning down conspiratorially, “Better get moving now, the king just declared that the big bad Northern king and the precious princess will have their first dance as a couple.”

It felt like you were moving through a dream as you slip your hand into his, flinching at the feeling of his cold lips meeting the back of your hand.

The crowd of whispering nobles part to make a path for the two of you, and Satoru is so gentle when he leads you into the middle of the dance floor. Weightless on his feet, swiftly placing a burning hand on your waist - just below where the elders would consider proper.

The other intertwining with yours, you barely even register the slow, romantic tune playing from the orchestra.

“I bet you have questions.” he whispers, breath fanning your cheeks.

You take in his tall figure, the rows of medals, gleaming only half as bright as the smile that makes its way onto your face. Hissing, “That doesn’t cover the half of it, King Gojo.”

“I-I apologize. I can’t apologize enough but-”

“Though, I did have a nagging feeling about the fifth time you talked yourself up.” you smirk.

Satoru throws his head back in a loud cackle, echoing through the hushed crowds - no doubt gossiping about this being the Northern king, that fearful beast that ruled over the Gojo family. “I know.” His hand comes up momentarily to brush over your sapphire necklace, “And I’ll spend our entire lives making it up to you, flower.”

Goosebumps dance down your arm, your spine, right down to where Satoru held a firm grip on your hip. You two waltz around the edge of the dance floor, perfectly in time. Through the crowd of grumbling lords, the orchestra, past the table of foods.

“And exactly how long would the rest of our lives be, Satoru?”

Slowing right in front of that huge, reflective wall.

You couldn’t see his eyes, but his biting gaze was all you could feel.

Lingering on the blue pendant nestled at your chest, the everlasting wild rose tucked behind your ear, the mirror to your right - where the twin image of you shone. Powerful, gorgeous, everything that a monster like him could never have because he wasn’t standing there right next to you. His kind never could.

In the back of your mind, you registered collective gasps sounding all around you - the rest of the ball attendees that’d also taken note of the lack of Satoru’s reflection. But your eyes stay locked on him.

A thumb hooks under his blindfold, and he grimaces. “You really were onto me, huh, flower?”

Tugging.

Your fingers tighten around his, unable to let the most fearsome of creatures escape from your grasp. “You must’ve been onto me, too, Satoru.”

Pulling.

All you see is a flash of a regal nose bridge, and the flutter of thick white lashes - before every single chandelier in the ballroom snuffs out at once. Cloaking the room in unnatural darkness, it sends every single knight and noble into a frenzy.

And then, he opens his eyes.

“IT’S HIM-”

“A body! A BODY FOUND IN THE ROYAL GUEST SUITE–

“VAMPIRE! STAY BACK-“

Oh, it’s blue.

That crystal blue.

And then it’s black.

---

SLAM!

“If you must kill me.” Satoru’s voice sounds from somewhere above you. You blink away the darkness, feeling your bleary gaze try and adjust to that unfamiliar high ceiling, the outlines of hauntingly beautiful paintings on it. His ragged breaths cut through your thoughts once more, hastily folding your hand to grip your pendant. “If you must kill me, then I prefer you do it with your own hands, princess.”

You can’t tell whose hand is trembling more - yours or his. Distantly, you realize you’re being pushed up against a luxuriously padded wall, one you’d never seen before in your life.

Where were you?

“The Gojo palace- Please-” he reads your mind, voice breaking at the end of his plea. Gasping - and you can discern two elongated teeth at his canines. Fangs, you realize with a shiver. “You may leave if you want to, you may kill me for what I’ve done. My life is in your hands.”

“Satoru.” you soothe in a hushed voice, despite the way your head was reeling. The Gojo palace? “I won’t kill you.”

“But-”

“Satoru, what does this necklace mean?” You beg, and at this point, you’re not surprised that the necklace is from him - because it was an exact replica of the two burning eyes staring back at you. The only source of light right now, glowing a blue you’d finally found after a lifetime. “Why did you-” you gulp, heart lurching. “Why did you hand me your…life?”

Soft lips play right over your rapid pulse, murmuring into your skin, “S’my soul.” A long, pale index of his plays with the pendant. “The only part of my soul that’s living, gilded into a necklace to be kept in the safest place I know. You.”

“But-” you cry out, trying to get another look at his eyes - but your fiancé only kisses deeper at your neck. Nibbling at the thundering beat just below. “But why did you give it to me?”

“Who else would I give it to, if not for my mate?”

Mates - there were a thousand and one books and official documents detailing everything from a vampire’s killing pattern to the aphrodisiac toxins found in their blood. But the research on a vampire’s mate was far and few between.

Perhaps owing to the lack of willing mates that can come out without persecution, or perhaps due to the vampires’ intense rumored mating rituals. But it didn’t go without its own gossip, you were no stranger to the ladies of the court tittering about how morbidly “romantic” it was that mates were akin to soulmates - how it was an invisible string connecting two people to share a life, a soul.

A vampire’s one and only mate.

Satoru was pinning you harder to the wall now, his pink tongue darting out to lick over your pulse. The fingers holding onto the necklace were now tilting your chin up at him, “Speak to me, flower.”

“I’m your mate?” you whimper, your lips ghosting over his. Already knowing the answer, but fuck you needed to hear it from him. “What does that mean exactly?”

He lets out a pained grunt, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “It means you’re the other half of my soul. My only one, I was born for you.” Pressing a chaste peck on there - and you swear you could feel the nip of two sharp canines against your skin. “The one I’ll fight heaven and hell for, until the very last beat of my cold, dead heart.” Your fingers curl at his shoulders when his mouth moves to the shell of your ear. “The one I’ll kill for, take out every measly scum that thinks they can get with my mate.”

He huffs out a burst of cold laughter when your breath hitches, probably reading over the thoughts running through your mind - Satoru killed them. The guards, Kashimo, Naoya- fuck, maybe even Sukuna. He killed them. He killed them. He killed them. He killed them.

You shiver, “A-and all the wind? The whispers? I thought it was just you these past week b-but- All my life, that was you?”

You know. You knew.

Another kiss - this time to the corner of your eye, and Satoru licks a long, content stripe up the big fat tears unwillingly welling up behind your eyes. He groans at the salty taste of you, taking in a long, drawn-out breath. “Yes.”

All it takes is that single word for your entire body to collapse, thankfully onto an awaiting Satoru. He holds your entire body weight with one hand around your waist, the other coming up to swipe his thumb under those tears rolling down your cheeks now.

He kisses your cheek, “All your life.” The corner of your lips, “And all of mine.”

Run away run away run away run away-

But you can’t - you don’t want to.

Your lips wobble when he nuzzles down your face, leaving a trail of hot kisses with his cold, cold mouth. “As soon as I learned to use my powers - was just a brat you see - I just had to see my mate. To smell her scent.” He’s inhaling deeply again, hands groping over your engagement gown. “Lo and behold, there was you. A cute lil’ princess around my age, tuckered out and fast asleep.” Lingering at your jaw, the hand tight around your waist pulls you painfully closer. Satoru’s knee wedging itself between your trembling thighs, “Imagine my surprise when she took one look at me and cried. Scared me enough to teleport outta there as soon as you opened that smart mouth, flower.”

And the thought of Satoru - tiny and determined - teleporting halfway across the land only to be yelled at by you has you huffing out a shock of laughter.

“So when I heard through the grapevine about your potential engagement, fuck- I couldn’t have ran out of this palace faster. Was so excited I fuckin’ forgot to teleport, too. Even if you were afraid of the ‘cruel Northern king.’”

Fuck - that’s right. He must’ve heard your thoughts that time you met him in the library.

Satoru’s tone drops to a low simper, so close now that you could feel every slight curve of his grin. Every twitch of his fingers sweeping up and down your exposed skin, feeling the delicious thrum of your veins. He could bite you right now - easily. “And luckily, as I grew up, so did my ability to blend in with the darkness.” Eyes boring into yours, something so vulnerable in them now. “But you found me, you always did.”

“Satoru.” you angle your head upwards. “Kiss me.”

And how could he ever deny you?

You wince at the slight pinch of Satoru’s teeth - his fangs - as he crashes his lips into yours in a greedy kiss. Sliding his tongue over to taste those candied lips he’s been dreaming of for years.

“Fuck-” he breathes out through his nose, jaw sagging open further to kiss you deeper. “Fuck, princess.”

Strong arms pin you harder against the wall, and you’re blindly reaching out to reciprocate even a fraction of Satoru’s neediness. Just dragging your hips up and down his muscled thighs. Sinful.

Shit, it was so endearing to him seeing you struggle to touch him this way. And with a flick of a wrist, the candle chandeliers hung high above your heads are lighting up at once. “S’that better, flower?”

It takes every bit of will in you to manage to pull away, yet the thought of seeing Satoru - of really seeing Satoru is what spurs you to break the kiss. Delicate strings of saturated spit snapping in the non-existent air between you two, you take a long look at your new husband.

Fuck, he was so pretty.

You always knew he was.

But even with his face tilted downwards, within the soft light tinting those snowy strands a sunset yellow - you could make out the pretty pink flush all the way from his glossy, ravaged lips, up, up, up to his delicate cheeks - he looked like the last thing from a monster.

“No you’re pretty.” he hums, and you’re still not used to him reading your mind. Head nodding downwards, “Just look, grinding on my thigh like such a slut.”

What met you was a dark pool of slick saturating his trousers, just peeking out over the hem of your dress. It makes you give another lingering, experimental grind.

“Satoru—” you’re letting out a honeyed drag of his name, reveling in the way it makes him swallow heavily. “You can hear my thoughts, right?” Look at me.

Slowly - but surely - familiar blue meets yours. Half-lidded, pupils blown, and if you didn’t know any better you’d have said there were tiny sparks of lightning at the corners of his long white lashes.

You’ve been haunting me my whole life, Toru.

And it was an accident - it really was, your freshly kissed brain too hazy to slur out Satoru’s full name. But the impromptu little nickname has him dragging forwards like he was magnetized.

A low growl escaping when he’s kissing you again. And again. And again and again and-

“Say it-” Two hands are tugging at those tedious ribbons tying your decadent gown together. Pulling. “Say it again f’me.” Ripping.

The more his lips are assaulting yours, the more the dress slips further and further down your shoulders. Tattered. The soft satin leaving goosebumps down your spine as it reveals your neckline - all that skin for him to ruin. To mark.

“Oh-” you’re squealing when one of Satoru’s fangs prick a bit too hard at your lip. Feeling a hot flow of crimson bleed out, the feeling has you so weak. So drunk. “Quite eager, aren’t ya?”

“You have no idea.” he groans again. Soft tongue moving from swirling around your own to lazily pool your blood on it. And you can’t imagine what about the metallic taste would be so euphoric, but he’s letting out his loudest drag of your name yet. Eyes rolling to the back of his head like he’s just tasted a personal slice of heaven. “Fuck- fuck you have no idea.”

You moan into the kiss when he bites down again on your already-bruised lower lip, “I’ve always wanted to do this-” Slow, slow hands kneading up your waist, at a dizzying tempo matching his mouth down your jaw, your neck. Hips bucking, you feel the outline of something so hard between his legs. “-to kiss you. To-” Tethering on the sensitive area of your pulse, “-bite.”

In a split-second, you’re sinking down into plush silk sheets, swallowing you whole in a king-sized bed you didn’t even realize was in the room before.

“S-Satoru, did you teleport us again?” you gasp, eyes adjusting to the intricate paintings on the ceiling that you hadn’t gotten to admire before. Of white-haired youths and roses, of cold, dark palaces and- and you.

You - when you were younger, sleeping peacefully while a little boy watches intrigued from the corner. You - passed out in the library after a long night of reading, two pale hands wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. You - your brows furrowed, head cocked while you pushed past nobles to search for that flash of his blue. You, you, you.

You.

“I can hear the gears in that pretty head turning.” Satoru grins, still kissing you in a languid graze of lips. “And as much as I love it when you hah- admire my lonely paintings, I’d rather you pay attention to-” A low groan curdles at the back of his throat when he’s grinding his massive clothed erection against the syrupy spot at your core. “-me.”

There’s a dark little huff of laughter and with one last bite at the side of your neck, Satoru’s unapologetically tearing right through the middle of your gown.

And you know it’s made with the finest fabrics the country has to offer, you know that no normal man should be able to even rip a tiny shred through your dress - but Satoru is no ordinary man.

Your spike of disappointment is quickly overshadowed by cold breath hovering over your exposed tits. “Oh, so perfect f’me.” he’s groaning, deep and primal. Biting down on your hardened nipple, “Ya think those uptight elders your court has- ah, had would appreciate me desecrating their precious princess before marriage?”

Through gasps, you peek down at his wicked tongue, swirling around the sensitive spots of your areola. “Who- who gives a shit.”

“So feisty.” The peaks of your tits are left coated in him as Satoru pulls away. “So addictive.” Pinching your soft flesh between his teeth - just hard enough that you worry he’s out to draw blood again. “So- so-”

Words are failing Satoru’s sharp mouth as he kisses his way down your body. The valley of your chest, your stomach, your hips.

Down, down, down-

“Fuck, Satoru-” you’re hissing when he easily pulls the pathetic remains of your dress off and onto the floor. The rest of your inner skirts easily following afterwards. “Are you gonna…”

“M’afraid not.” he licks sloppy circles at the skin of your thighs. Tasting, nipping, leaving little marks with his fangs for later. Sloppily soothing his tongue over the tiny droplets of blood beading from the bites, he murmurs stubbornly, “Not until you address me correctly.”

Hesitantly, you reach out a limp hand to thread through his dampening white tresses. Tugging softly to lock those devouring blue eyes with yours, “Please, Toru?”

You get absolutely no warning when he kisses right through that flimsy excuse of your drenched panties to slide his tongue up and down your sopping wet slit. Up and down up and down up and-

“Sh-shit, Toru-” you moan when he’s just dipping the very tip barely past your puffy folds. The fabric of your underwear still sticking to you, “Stop being such a tease, goddammit ngh-”

“Why?” Of course, he toys with your patience even now, addicted to those needy whines falling from your lips. “I jus’ wanna play with my princess’s pretty pussy. What am I getting out of it?”

You smirk, not even having to move your pretty mouth to know you had him in the palm of your hand already. I’d be your mate for life.

It’s all you can do to watch with satisfaction as the great Gojo Satoru gasps - gasps. Slick-glossed lips falling into a soft oh! Hazy eyes widening almost-comically, and at full heady attention while he takes a few seconds to mull over your words.

RIP!

In an instant, your soaked underwear is ripped clean off to bare your dripping cunt for him, wrapped tightly around Satoru’s fingers and disappearing down below to where your imagination couldn’t handle.

“Oh, such a pretty pussy.” he coos, thumbing apart your puffy folds to admire your lewdly winking cunt. Glistening and so so needy, you jolt when he bullies two long fingers past your sloppy entrance. With your greedy hole swallowing every slender inch of Satoru’s fingers easily, “So needy too. This all f’me?”

As if to prove his point, his pink lips wrap around your throbbing clit, grinding his tongue over the ravaged tip. The harsh texture of his tastebuds rolling over every inch of you he could reach.

“Y-yes-” you squeal, hips bucking down mindlessly to try and match his relentless tempo. “S’only for you.”

“Tha’s what I love to hear-” Satoru’s cheeks hollow when he sucks on your sensitive little nub - hard. “Sweeter than I even imagined, shit-”

Every pump of his merciless fingers in and out of your cunt drags along your gummy walls. Deftly curling to prey at those hidden sweet spots of yours he just knew would wrench out such throaty moans from you - and fuck, Satoru thinks- no, he knows that the sound is is favorite song.

“You��re makin’ me- hah making me fall in love all over again.” he gruffs out into your cunt. The pads of his fingers pressing into the cushiony ends of your pussy. “Because look how messy you are- how loud.”

You didn’t know if he had mind-control powers on top of mind-reading, because it’s as if you’re on auto-pilot when your lolling head is whirling down to look at the absolute sin made of you below. Satoru - running his mouth a mile a minute to send white-hot vibrations along your clit. His milky fingers buried knuckle-deep to stretch out your poor cunt. Your sweet sweet juices drooling all over them in such an obscene sheen down his palm, his wrist.

He whines, “Makin’ me wanna-” You jolt when he’s biting down so dangerously around your clit. “Wanna-”

Satoru doesn’t end up finishing his sentence - and he doesn’t have to.

Because he’s pausing his make-out with your clit to spit once. Twice. A thick thumb swiping at the intentional splatter of saliva marking your skin, before surging forwards even deeper - you didn’t even think that was possible. But Satoru has the tip of his nose rubbing methodical circles against your clit, jaw grinding at the base of your pussy, tongue flattening out your pussy lips.

Messy. Harsh.

“Oh- oh my god, Toru-” you’re keening at the feeling of his wet muscle trying to squeeze in past the fingers still continuing their assault on your entrance. “It- it won’t fit–”

“Shhh shhh, s’okay, princess.” he hushes, letting another round glob of spit wet your clingy pussy. “You can take it. You will - otherwise how are you gonna take your husband, hm?”

That little comment has connotations that make your plushy walls clamp down vice-like around his fingers - his tongue. And you’re angling your head just right, blinking away the lustful haze in your eyes to spy down at the rapid, jerky movements of his other hand. Devouring gaze dropping down to-

Oh.

Oh fuck.

It was difficult to even look at the sight below - your panties, soaked and completely see-through with slick and precum, wrapped prettily around what you could make out to be Satoru’s aching cock. Standing proud, twitching wildly with every drag of his fist up and down his glistening length.

“Fuck-” he groans, taking the opportunity to devilishly slip his tongue past your feeble entrance. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- y’like this, huh?” Drawled out little praises now muffled as he fucks you on his tongue the way he wished he could with his cock. In and out in and out in and out. Pulling back to eye your gaping hole, “I can feel y’getting wetter for me is it because-” Before surging back forwards, as if he’s addicted. “Because-” Again.“Fuck don’t clench around me that way. Was hard enough trying not to fuck you stupid right there in the middle of the ballroom.”

You whine, tears flowing down freely at the sheer pleasure at this point. “Y-you-” you gasp, your five fingers splaying out over Satoru’s head. Pushing even harsher, “You hngh- talk too much- m’so close-”

Partially because you really needed those pretty lips back at your heated core, partially because every word tumbling from his mouth had you throbbing embarrassingly, your slick spreading a glossy sheen on the sheets underneath you.

“Oh yeah? Heh, anything for you, flower.” Satoru grins such a sly, sultry grin and you feel it against one set of your swollen lips. “Absolutely anything.”

In and out in and out. He has his brows furrowed now, concentrated on having every flick and divot of movement pushing you closer and closer towards the edge. Faster. Sloppier. You have half the mind to wonder whether it didn’t hurt - whether Satoru’s tongue wasn’t cramping up from how fast he was going, whether his fingers weren’t tired already.

Out of the corner of your spotty vision, you can see those stuttering squeezes of Satoru’s hand speed up. Trying desperately to match each bullying push of his tongue and his fingers into your overstuffed pussy.

The thought makes you whine, “Oh my god- Toru, m’gonna cum.” And shit, at this point it’s too much. You couldn’t think - you couldn’t even breathe. “M’so close please.” Barely able to even register anything but Satoru Satoru Satoru-

It’s why you don’t even realize at first when you’re finally cumming - Satoru does, though. He feels it in the way your heavenly walls are closing down on his fingers, clenching around him so tight that it was almost difficult to fuck you through your orgasm. Waves of electric pleasure crashing into you and you think you’re drowning.

“Tha’s it.” he rasps. “Cum f’me like that, tha’s it- thaaat’s it, such a good lil’ wife- a perfect mate.”

The fingers stuffed deep inside your pussy are being pulled out in a flash - not letting you waste a moment of your heady high before he’s toying ravenously with your swollen clit. Pinching, and rolling between two soft fingers.

“O-oh fuck, m’-cumming? M’cumming m’cumming-” you moan deliriously, mind just now catching up. Your hips drag your sloppy pussy all over Satoru’s pretty face. Just drenching his noble features with your gushing mess. “Feels too ah- good, Toru.”

And he takes it like it’s everything he needs - everything he’s ever wanted.

Jaw falling slack to let your juices slide down his throat, tongue lolling out flick your spasming cunt through your high. Unstopping. Unwavering.

Even when your vision stops tingeing with black at the edges, even when you think you’re sane enough to form a coherent thought. Even when your climax is bating enough that every flick of Satoru’s tongue only sends almost painful thrums of pleasure down your spine.

“W-wait m’done-” you sob, tasting the salty stream of tears splashing down your face now. “S’too sensitive- ngh-”

When he doesn’t show any signs of stopping anytime soon, you try again - this time thinking the embarrassing thought out loud. I…I really want you inside me now, Toru. Please?

And he pauses - jolting, as if some dark, primal part of him had just been called back to life. Tongue still hot on your cunt, fist still greedy around his rock-hard shaft.

“F-fuck you’re gonna be the death of me, flower.”

And before, you couldn’t get enough of those striking blue eyes, but now you couldn’t escape them.

With inhuman speed, he’s shuffling up the soaked sheets. “An absolute fuckin-” Slick-glossed lips meet yours, smearing along the combination of juices till the lower half of your face was as dripping wet as Satoru’s. “-minx, y’know that?”

“Wh-what can I say?” you tilt your head with a smirk, lips a bit too loose than you’d like - but it didn’t matter anyway, he was in your thoughts. Your mind. “I’m your mate, after all.”

He falls back onto his knees at that sinful little sentence of yours, throwing his head back in a guttural groan. “Fuck- you’re mine alright. See what you hah- do to me? See how this is all your fault?”

If Satoru expected an answer, then he doesn’t receive it. Because every snippy little retort on the tip of your tongue melts when you get a long, hard look at the angry shaft in his hand. So red and angry. Thick enough that you felt your cunt quiver already.

Delicate with prominent veins that glistened and throbbed down his long, long length with each slew of his vigorous fist. And his tip- fuck, blushed your favorite shade of weepy pink, slobbering a sheen of precum all down his wrist, his tufts of cloudy white.

And you realize with a jolt that he still had your panties wrapped around him - looking so tiny around Satoru’s massive cock.

Wordlessly, your hand replaces his.

“W-woah- fuck-” His toned waist flexes with the effort to fuck up into the soft cushion of your palm. “How the- ngh how the fuck does your fuckin’ hand feel this good?”

“You’re so big- fuck, don’t know how I’d- Wait you never imagined this?” you bat your eyes up with faux innocence. A thumb gliding over that deep divot on the very tip of his fat head. “Because I sure have, Toru.”

Satoru’s heavy balls smack against your arm when he shuffles down his pants even further, now fully letting you go ahead with your agonizing torture. “Shit-” he yelps, eyes screwing shut at the image. “Don’t- don’t say that, holy shit.”

You toy with your scrap of panties, massaging every ridge and curve with it. Just dragging your hand up and down. “Would you rather I think it instead?”

Within milliseconds, two sharp fangs are poised right above your rapid pulse, a hand around your throat. “No- no no no no-” Satoru gasps, sounding like he was at the end of his rope. And it takes him a few blinks to realize his position, immediately moving his lips up to nip at your jaw. “Fuckin’ no.” Hard enough that another red pearl of blood drips out, instantly being sucked up greedily by your fiancé. “Gonna make me lose it before I-I ngh-”

With a pained growl, he suddenly has you sitting so prettily on his muscular lap. Your legs splayed out like such a slut, needy cunt slobbering all over where you were sat right on his demanding erection.

By the time you’re realizing your helpless position, it’s too late - and Satoru’s already shrugging off the rest of his pants. Buttons hitting the floor when he just tears his flowing dress shirt off.

“Sh-show off.” you breathe, hands mapping out every dip and curve of the plane of defined muscles displayed before you. So mouthwatering.

“Can tell that you- ngh think m’mouthwatering, flower.” he grins. One hand kneading and groping the flesh of your ass to steady your drooling cunt to kiss at his thick tip. The other keeping one of your palms stuck to his washboard abs, up, up, up to press at his sculpted left pec. “N’ I know m’heart’s not beating, but I’m much the same. Very- much the- same.”

And Satoru’s spent years waiting, yearning - so he doesn’t waste even a second more when stuffing his cock inside your snug cunt.

“O-oh. Satoru- Satoru please oh-”

The stretch - fuck, the stretch. The stretch is so much that it feels like you’re being split apart. Just the bare tip of his fat cock being bullied in short, determined half-thrusts.

And it takes only one, lucky collision into the bullseye of your g-spot and you’re already falling apart.

“Wait- wait wait wait m’gonna-” you gasp, your nails running down his broad, milky back in jagged red lines when you’re cumming once more. Toes curling, hips convulsing wildly on top of a smug Satoru. “Oh my god, ngh- what’ve you done to me, Toru?”

“Now, let me ngh- let me tell you a little secret, hah- princess.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, gifting a sweet kiss on your swollen lips. “The best thing about mates?” Sharp fangs catch onto your delicate skin, “They feel sex on a whole other level.”

And then he’s bringing down both hands to spread apart the globes of your ass. Your puffy folds are stretched to their limits when he thrusts up once. Muscled thighs flexing underneath yours. Harsh.

Ignoring your pleading keens and the slight resistance at the intrusion of his intimidating size, “Hold on, princess- hold- fuuuuck.” Lips latch onto yours, drinking up every heady whine when your poor cunt is being fed every inch by fucking inch. “You’re taking me so well.”

And that you were - your pussy lips bulging and struggling to accommodate Satoru’s monstrous size, but still taking him in so greedily.

“There we go.” he grunts out, punctuated with heavy rams of hips. Up, up, up until you could feel Satoru’s sobbing tip graze against your cervix - your lungs. “Theeere we fuckin’-” Pushing and pushing until there was no more, until your neglected clit was scratching against his snowy pubic hair. Ass coming to rest at his twitching balls. “-go.”

“You’re in so deep-” you’re blabbering, cockdrunk already. The last few dredges of your high still not wearing off, it takes you a few seconds of Satoru still trying to squeeze his cock even deeper to manage to raise a hand about midway up your stomach. Feeling for that vertical bulge that was him, “-can feel you right here.”

“Oh yeah?”

And like he was testing your theory, Satoru fucks up into your gummy hole in another bullying slam. Watching in wonder at the way that little divot in your stomach crashes around the same spongy cervix he was.

“Fuck- you’re right.” he hisses. Addicted now. Immediately rocking into you with reeling, long rolls of his hips. “You’re so- fuckin’ right.”

You can’t find the energy in yourself to even yelp in surprise when Satoru immediately changes your positions so that you’re now laying fucked-out on the mattress. His domineering hips pinning you down to use you like some little cocksleeve.

“God-” he pants into your open mouth, tongue swirling with your weighty one. “God- fuck fuck fuck if heaven is real then this is it.” Each little profanity is decorated with a smoldering crash of his tip into your sweet spot. “You’re the heaven I don’t ngh- deserve, flower.”

That neat bitemark on your thigh is being jostled with the amount of ragged movement, and you wince with pain when it starts flowing again.

“Oh- oh.”

Satoru’s like a predator that has cornered his prey, and is spending hours tediously unraveling every single bit of you.

Sliding two smooth palms underneath your legs, they’re urgently thrown over his large shoulders to fold you down, down, down into the meanest mating press you think you could handle - handle without fucking breaking, that is.

“So good t’me.” he breathes, long tongue easily licking up that sweet nectar of your blood. “Y’know your cute lil’ brain s’too scrambled to even read right now.”

“H-how can I think when you’re ah! Like- like this, Toru?”

The sudden change in angle makes you scream. It makes you clamor for the headboard, the sheets, your husband when that obscenely perfect upwards curve of his dick is massaging every nook and cranny of your cunt.

“Yeah? Feels good? Now now- don’t run- away” he’s dragging you down those drenched sheets by the legs like some ragdoll, stuffing you more and more with his painful cock. Fucking you so relentless, like he was trying to worship every little hidden sweet spot inside your dripping cunt. “Say it- no no no, not in your head. Say it.”

And you do - a little over fifteen times when his thick hilt pecks your pussy lips over and over with each thrust when Satoru bottoms out, hitting all the way into the back of your cunt - your cervix, your g-spot - like he couldn’t decide which one to bruise more.

“S’too good-” you’re gasping. Your overstimulated pussy being molded like clay to the girthy shaft kissing down your cunt. Stretching out your elastic walls until you could almost feel them take shape to his swollen cock. Feel every sensitive spot inside you being overstimulated at once with every burning massage against them. “You’re fuckin’ me way too- too good- ngh- can’t even think.”

But that wasn’t enough for him.

Dipping a thumb down to circle around your clit, white-hot pleasure shoots up your spine when he lets out a deep rumble, “Think I fell in love with you when I- fuck, right then and there when I first- hah saw you all those years back.” speeding up with the sloppy staccato of his rude cock. Satoru’s words slurring now, messed up and half-prepared like the accelerating half-thrusts being bestowed upon your ravaged cunt. Like he couldn’t bear to pull out completely. “The first time you saw me, you were so afraid. Look at you- fuck, jus’ look at you now, princess.”

Each word is like a brand onto your sticky skin, accompanied by harsh smacks of Satoru’s balls against your ass, his sharp hip bones digging into your thighs. Him.

“Toru–” is all you can manage to whine out, a limp hand pulling his face closer to yours. You’re jumping with each swipe at your poor clit. “Toru m’here.”

“And- and yet-” he’s still blabbering, still pussydrunk while he fucks you so menacingly. Fingers sopping wet with their assault on your sensitive nub, “And yet I just- fuck-” He cuts himself off to give your messy hole another thick stream of spit. Coating his long, raw shaft - rubbed red with the way your gripping walls were massaging him so right - making it easier to slide in and out. “And yet, I just had to see you, to see the gorgeous mate I don’t deserve. I couldn’t live without you.”

A single overstimulated tear glistens a track down Satoru’s pretty face - one you kiss away as quickly as it appeared. Nudging open those teary, blue gaze to bore down on you.

Oh, he looked an absolute wreck - white hair mussed up, stray strands sticking to his forehead. Glossy lips parted, drool pooling at the corner, broken grunts leaving him with each smash of his tip back into your cunt. So blissed out.

Jolting at your eyes on him, Satoru feels his balls tighten so painfully. Abs burning when his pace stutters with need.

“You’re haunting me, just as much as I was haunting you, Toru.”

The candles go out. Instantly.

And shit you’re feeling it first when when hé’s cumming and cumming so hard that it almost hurts. Flashes of white startling behind his closed, glassy eyes. “Shit- shit shit shit shit-” Hairs on your body raising as Satoru’s fingers draw circles on your clit so aggressively. Dragging out your high. Forcing it. “Take it- take it all, my flower. Let me paint this pretty pussy all white.” Violent, almost.

So, really, it makes sense that your third orgasm of the night was the same.

Just shivering, sinful tingles running from your overstimulated mind right down to where Satoru was stuffing thick white ropes of potent seed deeper and deeper down your tight channel.

Overspilling with each calculated ram, his cum is oozing out of the corners of your puffy lips with each furious clench of his balls. Too much.

And it’s all you can do to sit there and take it, feeling the sloppy dredges of cum make a mess slobbering down your thighs and his. Starting up blearily at the blurry paintings on the ceilings. The paintings of you - of a still Satoru that looked down at you with only half as much intensity and pure swirling emotion as he was right now.

Something that couldn’t be painted - but would make such a pretty picture, when his fangs bite into that racing junction at your neck.

You scream a soundless scream of his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head as something warm fills your entire body.

Leaving your words unheard, your ravaged hole loose to let out slobbering squelches of Satoru’s cum. Blood racing and flowing right into Satoru’s greedy mouth.

“Princess-” he gulps. Tongue licking up every crimson bead his crazed eyes could spot, body aching when he dares pull away from that heavenly taste. More. “Princess princess princess- you- hngh you’re mine. All mine now.”

And he’s letting out more thick globs of cum straight into your waiting cunt. Body bowing even harder to let it seep into your elastic walls, your womb. So much more than you can take and he just keeps giving.

It seems like forever when Satoru finally pulls away - and within the glowing blue of his eyes, you can see the red staining his lips, dripping down those fangs, his chin. Staining the silk sheets below - staining you with so much more.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching up to catch his lips in a bloodied kiss. Your own elongated canines catching amateurishly on his lips.

Satoru hisses - but he likes it. And you can tell.

You can read every single hypnotizing thought whirling behind those crystal blue eyes - how he wants to ravish you again, how he wants to worship you. To make you his all over, to have you make him yours. The thought makes you smile as you whisper, “I’m onto you, Toru.”

“You’re onto me, flower.” Catching your lips in a sweet, sweet red kiss. “Forever.”

A/N. This was SOOO fun to write omg y’all have no idea. If you made it this far then you get a sloppy smooch from me mwahhhh.

Plagiarism of work not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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kathaelipwse · 18 days ago

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The Fine Print || J.Wonwoo

Pairing: CEO!Wonwoo × Fashion Mogul(CEO Of A Fashion Line)!Fem Reader

Trope: Enemies to Lovers | Fake Dating | Revenge Pact | Forced Marriage Fallout

Warnings: Mentions of material coercion, non-consensual marriage, sexual assault (not with wonwoo), trauma (not with wonwoo), alcohol, revenge, corporate manipulation, and emotional healing, WORK OF FICTION, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Word Count: 9525 words ; Reading Time: 35-ish mins

Synopsis: In a world driven by power and appearances, a successful fashion CEO finds herself trapped in a toxic, loveless marriage for the sake of reputation. After discovering her infertility and surviving the cruelty of her husband, she walks out—scorched but not shattered. To destroy him completely, she calls on her old university rival, Jeon Wonwoo—now a ruthless tech tycoon and her biggest critic. His help comes with a condition: pretend to be his girlfriend. What begins as public spectacle spirals into nights of vulnerability, unspoken truths, and a romance neither saw coming. Because sometimes… even the coldest rivals can burn the brightest together.

Author’s Note: Writing this helped me cope with the reality that Wonwoo’s enlistment in the military hasn’t given me an ounce of peace. Instead, I poured my delusions into this fierce, messy, powerful enemies-to-lovers fic to survive the drought. To everyone else feeling the same? This one’s for us.

Request's are closed <3 I will be working on the requests I have got in my inbox!!

The weight of the midnight blue silk dress felt like a cruel mockery against your skin. It was the centerpiece of your latest collection, a flowing testament to the fierce, independent spirit you poured into every design, every meticulously stitched seam of your burgeoning fashion empire.

Yet, tonight, the luxurious fabric felt less like the armor of a CEO and more like the suffocating drapery of a gilded cage. You stared at your reflection in the antique, gold-framed mirror of the ballroom’s powder room, the soft, strategically placed lighting doing little to mask the subtle shadows of exhaustion that clung to the corners of your eyes. (Y/N), CEO of a fashion house whose innovative designs were rapidly gaining global recognition, your name a whisper of power and creative vision – a stark and bitter contrast to the carefully constructed role you were forced to inhabit within the confines of your marriage.

Your husband, Julian Thorne, the formidable CEO of OmniTech Industries, a colossus straddling the international tech landscape, was the architect of this elaborate charade. Your marriage, a highly publicized union touted as a groundbreaking synergy of fashion and technology, had been conceived in the sterile environment of boardrooms, fueled by ambition and sealed with a handshake that felt colder than any winter frost.

Your father, a man whose own dreams for your fashion legacy had become intertwined with the allure of Thorne’s immense technological might, had championed the union with a relentless enthusiasm that still left a bitter taste in your mouth. He had seen potential, synergy, an elevation of your brand to unprecedented heights. He had failed to see the steel in Julian’s gaze, the calculating glint that spoke of acquisition rather than partnership.

Julian was a man sculpted from ambition and devoid of genuine warmth. His interactions were precise, his words measured, and his affection, if it could even be dignified with such a term, was strictly conditional, tethered to his almost obsessive desire for an heir. He spoke of children with a possessive gleam in his steely blue eyes, viewing them as another meticulously planned acquisition, another crucial element in securing his legacy, a tangible extension of his power.

You, on the other hand, felt a cold dread coil in your stomach every time the topic surfaced. Your energy, your passion, your very being was poured into your company, into the tangible beauty you created from sketches and swatches. Motherhood, especially under Julian’s cold, controlling gaze, felt like a distant, blurry concept, a role you were profoundly unprepared and unwilling to embrace, not with him, not yet.

The memory of that night, months prior, still had the power to send icy tendrils of fear snaking through your veins. It was a violation that had stripped you bare, leaving you feeling hollowed out and irrevocably tainted. The forced intimacy, his relentless insistence despite your whispered protests, the chilling certainty in his eyes that your body was his to command – it was a deep, festering wound that no amount of time seemed capable of fully healing. He wanted a child so desperately, the cruel thought would surface unbidden, a bitter reminder of your powerlessness, he didn’t care about you, only the outcome.

The subsequent months crawled by with agonizing slowness, each one marked by Julian’s increasingly impatient inquiries, his subtle pressure escalating into thinly veiled accusations. The hopeful anticipation that had initially laced his voice slowly curdled into suspicion, then resentment, and finally, outright hostility.

The air in your shared penthouse apartment grew thick with unspoken tension, punctuated by his sharp demands and your increasingly strained silences. Finally, the sterile, impersonal environment of the doctor’s office confirmed your deepest anxieties, though the revelation was far more complex and devastating than you had ever imagined. You were infertile.

The diagnosis, delivered with a clinical detachment that mirrored Julian’s own emotional landscape, landed like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs. But the true agony wasn’t the medical pronouncement itself; it was the volcanic eruption of Julian’s rage that followed.

His disappointment twisted into a venomous fury, his words sharp and cruel, like shards of glass tearing at your already fragile sense of self-worth. “Useless,” he had spat, his face contorted with contempt, his eyes devoid of any semblance of human compassion. “Barren. You can’t even fulfill the one fundamental purpose of a wife. You’ve failed me.”

Those brutal, unfair words, delivered with such cold conviction, finally shattered the last vestiges of your carefully constructed composure. The fear that had kept you compliant, the ingrained obligation you felt towards your family’s carefully laid plans, all crumbled into dust under the crushing weight of his unfeeling cruelty. That night, as Julian slept in the master bedroom, oblivious to the seismic shift within you, you had quietly contacted your most trusted legal counsel. The divorce papers were drafted with swift, efficient precision, a silent declaration of war, a decisive act of rebellion against the suffocating confines of the gilded cage you had allowed yourself to be trapped within.

Now, standing amidst the opulent yet suffocating atmosphere of the farewell party your parents had insisted on hosting – a final, polite, and utterly insincere nod to the spectacular failure of your “strategic alliance” – you felt a strange, unsettling mix of liberation and lingering pain.

The forced smiles and empty congratulations of the guests felt like a surreal performance, a final act in a play you were desperate to escape. You were bruised, emotionally and mentally battered by the relentless onslaught of the past months, but beneath the surface, a core of resilience remained unbroken. The chains, though they had left their mark, were finally, irrevocably severed.

As the polite chatter and forced pleasantries of the departing guests swirled around you, a sense of profound isolation settled in your chest. You longed for the quiet solitude of your own space, away from the judging eyes and hushed whispers. Your fingers instinctively brushed against the small, unassuming business card you had almost forgotten, tucked away in a seldom-used compartment of your elegant clutch. The stark black ink on the crisp white paper was a stark contrast to the pastel hues of the ballroom.

“Jeon Wonwoo – CEO, Stellaris Technologies.” A ghost of a wry, almost cynical smile touched your lips. Wonwoo. Your intellectual sparring partner from university, the infuriatingly brilliant mind who had challenged your every assumption, whose sharp wit and relentless drive had both exasperated and secretly impressed you. Your rivalry had been legendary, a constant clash of intellect and ambition across lecture halls and late-night study sessions. He was, without a doubt, the last person on earth you would ever have considered turning to for help.

But as you looked down at that simple card, a flicker of a desperate, audacious idea began to take root in the barren landscape of your despair. He was ruthless, undeniably brilliant, and possessed a strategic mind capable of dissecting complex systems and exploiting their weaknesses with surgical precision.

He was also, you vaguely recalled, known for his…unconventional methods. And right now, dismantling Julian Thorne’s smug, self-satisfied world, piece by calculated piece, was the only prospect that offered you even a sliver of the peace you so desperately craved.

With a newfound resolve hardening your gaze, a spark of something akin to grim determination igniting within you, you slipped the card into the deeper recesses of your pocket. The cool, smooth edge against your fingertips felt like a promise of a different kind of power – the power of retribution, wielded not through tears and pleas, but through strategy and calculated moves.

The chapter of forced obedience and silent suffering was finally, irrevocably closed. The next chapter, you vowed, would be written entirely on your own terms, even if it meant forging an alliance with your most formidable adversary.

The phone felt heavy in your hand, the polished glass a stark contrast to the nervous tremor that ran through your fingers. You stared at the contact name displayed on the screen: "Jeon Wonwoo." It was a name that had been relegated to the dusty corners of your memory, a relic of late-night study sessions fueled by lukewarm coffee and the adrenaline of looming deadlines, heated debates that often devolved into playful (and sometimes not-so-playful) intellectual sparring matches, and a rivalry that had defined your university years.

You hadn't spoken to him in years, not since the somewhat stiff and formal handshake at graduation, when your paths had diverged with a palpable sense of finality, his towards the fiercely competitive world of tech startups and venture capital, yours towards the intricate and equally demanding tapestry of the fashion industry, a world of silk and strategy, of aesthetics and sharp business acumen.

Taking a deep breath, a conscious effort to steady the frantic rhythm of your heart, you pressed the call button. The line rang, each electronic pulse echoing the profound uncertainty that gnawed at your resolve. Finally, after what felt like an agonizingly long wait, a voice, smooth as polished steel and laced with a familiar, almost infuriating hint of intellectual arrogance, answered. "Jeon Wonwoo speaking."

"Wonwoo," you began, your voice surprisingly steady, a testament to years of projecting confidence in high-stakes negotiations, despite the tempest of raw emotion churning within. "It's (Y/N)."

There was a brief pause, a beat of stunned silence that stretched into an unnerving eternity. You could almost hear the gears whirring in his sharp mind, processing the unexpectedness of your call. "Well, this is…unexpected, (Y/N). Haven't heard your voice in…what, five years now? To what do I owe this sudden, nostalgic outreach? Did you finally realize my thesis on neural networks was superior?" His tone was carefully neutral, betraying little, but you could detect a subtle undercurrent of amusement, a ghost of the old competitive spark that had always simmered between you.

You ignored his characteristic jab. "I need your help, Wonwoo." The words felt foreign on your tongue, a humbling admission to the one person who had consistently pushed you to your limits, the one person you had always strived to outsmart.

Another pause, this one heavier, laced with a newfound seriousness. "Help with what, (Y/N)?" His voice lost its playful edge, replaced by a cautious curiosity.

You laid out your proposition, the words tumbling out in a rush, a torrent of pent-up anger, pain, and a desperate need for retribution. You spoke of the calculated betrayal of your marriage to Julian, the cold, clinical nature of your interactions, the forced intimacy that still haunted your sleep, leaving you feeling violated and irrevocably scarred. You detailed the casual cruelty that had chipped away at your self-worth, the subtle manipulations and outright lies that had become the foundation of your life with him.

You then moved on to OmniTech, the seemingly impenetrable fortress of his success, hinting at the intricate web of lies and deceit, the carefully constructed facade of ethical business practices that underpinned its flawless reputation, the whispers you had overheard in hushed boardrooms, the inconsistencies you had noticed but, in your naivete, had dismissed. And then, you made your request, blunt and direct, stripping away any remaining pretense. "I need your help to destroy him, Wonwoo. I need you to dismantle OmniTech, piece by agonizing piece."

There was a longer silence this time, heavy with unspoken implications, the digital connection crackling faintly in your ear. You could almost hear the intricate cogs turning in his brilliant, ruthlessly calculating mind, analyzing the situation, weighing the potential benefits and drawbacks, assessing the sheer audacity of your request. "And why me, (Y/N)?" he finally asked, his voice low and dangerous, a silken threat that sent a shiver down your spine despite the distance. "Why come crawling to your sworn enemy for help? Surely, a woman of your considerable resources has other avenues she could explore. High-powered lawyers, disgruntled former employees…"

"Because you're the only one who can do it effectively," you admitted, the stark truth echoing in the tense silence of your apartment. "You have the specific skills, the intricate network within the tech world, the understanding of how these corporations truly operate. You have the resources, the intelligence, and the…the ruthlessness necessary to pull something like this off. You understand the intricacies of the tech world in a way I never will, and frankly, in a way that would take me years to even begin to grasp."

Wonwoo chuckled, a low, sardonic sound that sent a different kind of shiver down your spine this time, a prickle of something akin to reluctant admiration mixed with apprehension. "Ruthlessness? You wound me, (Y/N). I prefer to think of it as…strategic efficiency. But I digress. Even if I were inclined to indulge your…vendetta, what makes you think I would risk my own reputation, my own company, to take down a behemoth like OmniTech? What's in it for me? What could you possibly offer that would make it worth my while to go to war with a company the size and influence of Julian Thorne's?"

You had anticipated this, of course. You had spent hours crafting your counter-offer, trying to anticipate his motivations, what could possibly tempt a man who already possessed considerable wealth and power. You offered him a significant percentage of your company's shares, a stake in your rapidly expanding fashion empire. You proposed a substantial sum of money, an amount that would likely raise even his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. You even dangled the prospect of exclusive partnerships and collaborations within the high-stakes world of luxury fashion, connections that could open doors to a different kind of influence, a world beyond algorithms and microprocessors. He listened patiently, a faint air of detached amusement in his tone, and then dismissed each offer with a dismissive wave of his metaphorical hand, a slight curl of his lip indicating his utter disinterest. "I don't need your money, (Y/N). And I certainly don't need a piece of your empire. I have my own, and it's doing quite well, thank you. As for fashion…let's just say my aesthetic leans more towards functional than flamboyant."

There was a beat of silence, the weight of his rejection hanging in the air. You had played your strongest cards, and they had fallen flat. Desperation began to gnaw at the edges of your resolve. "Then what, Wonwoo? What do you want?"

He paused, the silence on the other end of the line stretching taut. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped to a low, almost conspiratorial murmur. "I want something else, (Y/N). Something…more interesting. Something that appeals to my…sense of the dramatic."

You waited, your breath held captive in your chest.

"I want you to be my fake girlfriend, (Y/N)."

The words hit you like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. You could only manage a stunned, disbelieving whisper. "What?"

He chuckled softly, a low, knowing sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "A mutually beneficial arrangement," he explained, the smirk practically audible in his tone. "We play the part. Public appearances, carefully staged dinners, strategically leaked photos at clubs, the whole glamorous, scandalous shebang. It'll give me a certain kind of leverage in some…ongoing business dealings that require a certain…public image. And it'll give you the perfect, utterly believable cover to execute your…plans without raising suspicion. Everyone will be far too busy dissecting our 'relationship,' speculating on the salacious details, to notice what you're really up to."

You hesitated, the sheer audacity of his proposal leaving you reeling. It was outrageous, bordering on insane. But as the initial shock wore off, a strange, unsettling intrigue began to take hold. It was undeniably clever, a high-stakes gamble that played perfectly into the public's insatiable appetite for scandal. It was a dance with the devil himself, a pact forged in mutual need and a shared, albeit unspoken, desire for…something beyond mere revenge. "And what exactly happens when this…arrangement is over, Wonwoo?" you asked, your voice tight with a mixture of apprehension and a flicker of something akin to reckless excitement.

"We go our separate ways," he said, his dark eyes, you imagined, glittering with an unreadable emotion, a flicker of something that might have been amusement, or perhaps something far more complex. "No strings attached. No lingering expectations. It's purely business, (Y/N). A transaction of appearances. Think of it as…mutually assured destruction for our public images, if either of us deviates from the script."

You considered his offer, the chaotic whirlwind of the past few months suddenly focusing into this one, bizarre, yet undeniably compelling proposition. The thought of Julian's smug downfall, the sweet, intoxicating taste of revenge, was a powerful lure, almost impossible to resist, especially now that a viable, albeit unconventional, path had presented itself. "Fine," you said, your voice firm, a newfound resolve hardening your tone. "Deal."

"Pleasure doing business with you, (Y/N)," Wonwoo's voice held a distinct note of satisfaction. "I'll have my people coordinate our first 'public outing' by the end of the week. Be prepared for the paparazzi."

The line went dead, leaving you staring at the silent phone in your hand. You had just made a deal with your greatest rival, agreeing to a fake relationship as a means to orchestrate the downfall of your ex-husband. The sheer absurdity of it all almost made you laugh. But beneath the surface of the shock and the swirling uncertainty, a seed of grim determination had been planted. The game had begun.

The week that followed your phone call with Wonwoo felt like stepping onto a brightly lit stage, the spotlight unforgiving and every move scrutinized. His "people" – a slick, efficient team you only interacted with via email and carefully scheduled phone briefings – orchestrated your public debut with the precision of a military operation. The first "sighting" was at a newly opened, ultra-exclusive restaurant, the kind where reservations were booked months in advance and privacy was a myth. You arrived separately, a deliberate tactic, only to "coincidentally" meet near the maître d's stand, the ensuing conversation captured by strategically placed paparazzi.

The photos the next morning were exactly as predicted: you, looking stunningly composed in a sleek black dress, a hint of a smile playing on your lips as you spoke to Wonwoo, who exuded an effortless charm in a tailored suit. The accompanying headlines screamed: "Fashion Mogul Finds New Flame?" and "Tech Titan and Style Queen Spark Romance!" The internet buzzed with speculation, your past marriage relegated to a footnote as everyone focused on this unexpected pairing.

Over the next few weeks, the carefully constructed narrative continued to unfold. There were "intimate" dinners where you and Wonwoo were photographed laughing, a shared box at the opera where his hand briefly rested on your back, a late-night exit from a trendy club, looking slightly disheveled but undeniably together. Each carefully curated appearance fueled the fire, pushing your "relationship" into the realm of scandalous obsession. Julian's name rarely surfaced in the gossip columns anymore, his downfall seemingly old news compared to the sizzling chemistry between you and Wonwoo.

Beneath the veneer of public affection, your interactions with Wonwoo remained strictly business. You met occasionally in neutral locations, his penthouse office a stark, minimalist space overlooking the city, or a quiet corner of a high-end hotel bar. Your conversations were clipped, focused on strategy. He provided you with information, subtle hints of the rot within OmniTech that his own sources had unearthed. You, in turn, played your part flawlessly, the sophisticated and alluring woman captivated by his intellect and power.

Then came the evening at the secluded Italian restaurant, the air thick with the aroma of truffle oil and hushed conversations. You had just returned from a particularly grueling photoshoot, the weight of the public charade beginning to feel heavy. Wonwoo was already seated at your usual table, a glass of amber liquid swirling in his hand. He looked up as you approached, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes.

After the initial pleasantries, a comfortable silence settled between you, a byproduct of the weeks spent navigating this bizarre performance. Then, Wonwoo reached inside his jacket and slid a thin, folded piece of expensive, textured paper across the polished mahogany table. "I've been working on something," he said, his voice low and smug, a hint of predatory satisfaction in his tone. "A little…expose. Something I think you'll find…amusing."

You unfolded the paper he had passed, the crispness of it a stark contrast to the damning content it held. It was the draft of an anonymous article, the prose sharp and incisive, meticulously detailing the shady business practices and deeply unethical dealings that had become the bedrock of OmniTech's success. It spoke of manipulated quarterly reports that had artificially inflated the company's stock price, of aggressive and often illegal tactics used to stifle competition, of the exploitation of overseas labor masked by glossy corporate social responsibility campaigns, and of a series of suspiciously lucrative government contracts secured through means that were, to put it mildly, ethically dubious. The article even hinted at a culture of intimidation within OmniTech, where dissenting voices were swiftly silenced. It painted a devastating portrait of Julian Thorne, not as the visionary leader the public admired, but as a ruthless and manipulative businessman who had built his empire on a foundation of lies and exploitation.

As you read, a cold satisfaction bloomed in your chest. This was more than you had even hoped for. "This is…thorough," you commented, your voice low.

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, a knowing smirk playing on his perfectly sculpted lips. "I pride myself on my thoroughness, (Y/N). Especially when it comes to dismantling my competition…or in this case, yours."

"And the anonymity?" you asked, your eyes scanning the carefully worded paragraphs.

"Crucial," he replied, taking a sip of his drink. "It lends credibility, makes it harder to trace back to a single source. It will plant seeds of doubt, create a groundswell of suspicion that Julian won't be able to easily control." He tapped the paper with a manicured finger. "I'm publishing it online anonymously tomorrow morning, through a source with a decent following and a reputation for investigative journalism. Consider it…the opening salvo in our little war."

The next day, the internet exploded. The anonymous article detonated like a carefully planted bomb, its shockwaves rippling through the financial markets and the court of public opinion. OmniTech's stock plummeted, the red numbers on the ticker screens a stark visual representation of Julian's crumbling empire. Investors, suddenly wary of the exposed underbelly of the company, began to pull out en masse. News outlets, initially hesitant due to OmniTech's powerful legal team, soon picked up the story, the anonymous claims gaining traction as more sources began to corroborate the information. Julian's carefully cultivated reputation, once gleaming and seemingly untouchable, was dragged through the mud of public scrutiny, his denials ringing hollow against the detailed accusations.

You watched the unfolding chaos from the cool, detached distance of your own office, a sense of grim satisfaction washing over you. It was a start, a significant blow that had clearly rattled Julian. That evening, you found yourself back at the same Italian restaurant, the atmosphere subtly different, charged with an unspoken energy.

Wonwoo raised his glass of deep crimson wine as you settled into your seat, the candlelight reflecting in his dark eyes. "To beginnings," he murmured, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

You met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between you. You lifted your own glass, the rich color mirroring the burning desire for justice that still simmered within you. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips.

One down, you thought, the taste of revenge, sharp and intoxicating, sweet on your tongue. More to go.

A week after the digital bomb of the anonymous article detonated across Julian's carefully constructed empire, the tension between you and Wonwoo had shifted, a subtle undercurrent of something volatile simmering beneath the surface of your strategic alliance. His text that evening was curt, demanding: "Zenith. Now." The possessiveness, however implied, sent a shiver of something akin to anticipation down your spine.

Club Zenith was a decadent assault on the senses. The bass vibrated through your stilettos, the air thick with the mingled scents of expensive liquor and raw desire, the flashing lights painting the gyrating bodies in fleeting, lurid hues. You spotted Wonwoo in the VIP section, a figure of dark, controlled elegance amidst the vibrant chaos. His gaze, sharp and possessive, locked onto yours as you navigated the crowded space, a silent acknowledgment of your arrival.

The initial conversation was a cool dissection of OmniTech's rapidly unraveling state, a strategic mapping of the next phase of your calculated takedown. But the celebratory edge you had anticipated was absent, replaced by a palpable tension that mirrored the knot in your own stomach. As the night wore on, and the champagne flowed freely, its bubbles mirroring the dizzying swirl of emotions within you, the carefully constructed dam of your composure began to show cracks.

You found yourself leaning closer to Wonwoo, your laughter a little too loud, a little too brittle. The world around you seemed to soften at the edges, the faces in the crowd blurring into indistinct shapes. You knew you were dangerously close to the edge of coherent thought, a state you rarely, if ever, allowed yourself. "I'm perfectly alright," you insisted, your voice carrying a playful slur as Wonwoo's dark eyes narrowed with a hint of concern when you stumbled against his arm. "Just…celebrating our little victory."

Later, the music a primal pulse against your skin, the weight of the past week and the strange intimacy of your current arrangement with Wonwoo coalesced into a potent cocktail of vulnerability and reckless abandon. The memory of Julian's violation, the cold, dehumanizing act that still haunted your quiet moments, resurfaced with brutal clarity, a wave of pain and fury threatening to overwhelm you.

You reached out, your hand finding the smooth, cool silk of Wonwoo's shirt, your fingers clenching, a desperate need for physical connection overriding your usual reserve. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his face. You leaned close, your voice a broken whisper against his ear, the confession raw and laced with unshed tears. "He…he forced himself on me, Wonnie," you choked out, the shame and lingering trauma a bitter taste on your tongue. "He just…took what he wanted. Like I was his property."

Wonwoo went utterly still beside you, the sardonic mask he often wore dissolving, replaced by a stark, almost violent intensity. His jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek twitching rhythmically. The hand not cradling his drink clenched into a white-knuckled fist. He didn't speak, but the air around him vibrated with a silent, furious protectiveness that resonated deep within you.

He gently steered you away from the throng, his hand surprisingly firm on the small of your back, guiding you to a more secluded corner of the booth. He didn't offer empty platitudes. He simply sat beside you, his presence a dark, solid anchor in your swirling emotions. He didn't touch you further, but the heat of his gaze, the barely leashed anger radiating off him, felt strangely…cathartic.

Then, fueled by the alcohol and a sudden, audacious impulse, you turned to him, your hand finding the sharp angle of his jaw, your thumb tracing the faint stubble. You tilted his face towards yours, your gaze locking with his dark, unreadable eyes, and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of his lips. You lingered there for a breath, tasting the faint trace of whiskey, before trailing a languid series of kisses down the sensitive curve of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating blend of his expensive cologne and his own unique scent.

Finally, you reached his mouth, your lips parting slightly as you pressed against his, a silent invitation. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your own eyes heavy-lidded, a blatant challenge in their depths. "Kiss me back, Wonnie," you whispered, the alcohol stripping away every last vestige of your usual carefully constructed composure. "Show me what you really think when you look at me. Please."

For a heartbeat, he remained frozen, his expression a turbulent mix of surprise, something akin to reluctant desire warring with his usual guardedness. Then, with a low growl that seemed to emanate from deep within his chest, he gave in. His lips met yours, the initial contact hesitant, then deepening with a sudden, almost desperate intensity. His hand, which had been hovering near your waist, now snaked around your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The kiss was no longer tentative; it was charged, electric, a raw exploration of the unspoken tension that had been simmering between you. Your own hands found their way to his hair, your fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him closer, demanding more.

But just as the kiss threatened to escalate into something far more consuming, your eyelids grew heavy, the alcohol finally claiming its due. You mumbled something against his lips, a slurred, provocative whisper. "That…cocky look you get…" you murmured, your fingers tightening their grip on the fabric of his shirt, a sleepy, undeniably suggestive smile curving your lips. "It's…surprisingly…doing things to me…..like turning me on even while we are on the verge of a damn argument" And then, you were gone, your head lolling against his broad shoulder, the world fading into a soft, black oblivion, the taste of whiskey and Wonwoo lingering on your lips.

Wonwoo watched you, his expression a fascinating study in conflicting emotions – disbelief warring with a dark, possessive hunger, amusement battling a tenderness he likely wouldn't admit to. He carefully scooped you up in his arms, his movements surprisingly gentle despite his imposing frame. He navigated the crowded club with an air of quiet authority, the bouncers clearing a path with respectful nods.

He carried you to your apartment after driving there, the city lights a blurry kaleidoscope through your unconscious vision. He used the keycard you had somehow managed to produce, his movements surprisingly deft despite the late hour and your dead weight. He laid you gently on your bed, his gaze lingering on your flushed face, a strange possessiveness flickering in his dark eyes before he pulled the soft covers over you. As he turned to leave, a hand, surprisingly strong despite your inebriated state, snaked out and gripped his wrist, pulling him back with unexpected force.

You were barely conscious, your eyes fluttering open like a drowsy invitation, but your grip was surprisingly tenacious. You tugged, and he lost his balance, a surprised grunt escaping his lips as he tumbled onto the bed beside you. Before he could fully process the situation, you had instinctively curled into him, your limbs tangling together with a shocking intimacy. Your head nestled perfectly in the crook of his neck, your breath warm and soft against his skin, your body molding against his with a familiarity that belied the briefness of your…interactions.

He lay there for a long, suspended moment, stiff and utterly still, the unexpected intimacy a palpable force in the dimly lit room. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry a weight of both resignation and a dark, undeniable desire, he adjusted his position, his arm instinctively wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as if claiming you in your unconscious state.

The next morning, you woke slowly, a dull, insistent throb behind your eyes and fragmented, intensely mortifying memories of the previous night’s brazen behavior. You were tangled in the soft duvet, and something warm, solid, and undeniably masculine was pressed intimately against your back. You shifted slightly, a low, husky groan rumbling beside you.

Your eyes snapped open, your breath catching in your throat. Jeon Wonwoo was lying next to you, his dark hair adorably tousled against the pillow, his sharp features softened in sleep. His arm was draped possessively across your waist, his hand resting low on your hip, his fingers splayed intimately against your skin. Your leg was thrown casually over his, and your hand was buried in the soft fabric of his expensive shirt, dangerously close to his bare chest.

A gasp escaped your lips, and you instinctively tried to pull away, a wave of mortification washing over you, hot and suffocating. Wonwoo stirred, his dark eyes fluttering open, still clouded with sleep. "Don't move," he mumbled, his voice a low, delicious rasp that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. His grip on your waist tightened almost unconsciously, pulling you closer against his warm, undeniably hard body.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of your racing thoughts and the lingering sensations of his lips on yours, your hands on his body. The vivid memories of your drunken boldness, your blatant come-ons, flooded your consciousness. The intimacy of the present moment, the tangible evidence of your utterly uninhibited behavior, was overwhelming, mortifying, and yet…a tiny, rebellious part of you couldn't deny a flicker of something akin to…satisfaction?

Finally, Wonwoo's eyes fully focused, and a flicker of surprise, quickly masked by a cool, almost detached composure, crossed his face. He slowly, reluctantly, released his grip and backed away, creating a sudden, charged space between you. A strange tension, thick with unspoken words, lingering sensations, and the undeniable aftermath of your drunken boldness, filled the small room.

You scrambled out of bed, your cheeks burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the lingering effects of the alcohol. You mumbled a hasty, incoherent apology, avoiding his gaze, and practically fled to the sanctuary of the bathroom, the vivid image of his sleepy, rumpled form, the possessive way he had held you, and the memory of your own shockingly forward actions, seared into your mind.

When you finally emerged, dressed in a robe that felt more like a shield than clothing, the apartment was silent. Wonwoo was gone. On your bedside table, however, sat a tall glass of water, a blister pack of high-strength hangover relief tablets, and a small, folded note.

You picked it up, your fingers trembling slightly despite your attempts to appear composed. The handwriting was sharp and angular, undeniably his, and surprisingly elegant. It simply read: "Drink these. Don't mention last night, you talk a lot when you are drunk. - JW."

You stared at the stark black ink on the crisp white paper. A small, unexpected flutter stirred in your chest, a sensation entirely unfamiliar, a feeling that defied logic and your carefully constructed defenses. It was a confusing mix of embarrassment, a lingering thrill from your own boldness, and a surprising warmth directed towards the man who had witnessed your most vulnerable and perhaps most uninhibited self. Your heart, it seemed, had a penchant for the dramatic, capable of the most inconvenient and unexpected of reactions.

The following days were a blur of news reports and online outrage. A second anonymous article had dropped, this one far more insidious and personal. It detailed numerous previously unreported cases of harassment and discrimination within OmniTech, painting a toxic work environment fostered by Julian's own dismissive attitude towards employee well-being and, more damningly, implicating him directly in silencing several victims. The article included leaked internal emails and anonymous testimonies that painted a horrifying picture of fear and abuse.

The fallout was swift and brutal. Major deals that OmniTech had been on the verge of closing evaporated overnight. Investors, already skittish after the initial financial exposé, fled in droves. The carefully constructed image of a progressive, innovative tech giant shattered completely, revealing a rotten core of systemic abuse. Julian's public denials were weak and unconvincing against the weight of the mounting evidence. His empire, once seemingly invincible, was crumbling with terrifying speed.

That night, a frantic, insistent pounding echoed through your apartment. A hopeful smile touched your lips as you hurried to the door, your heart inexplicably lighter than it had been in months. You had grown accustomed to Wonwoo's unexpected appearances, his silent check-ins, the unspoken understanding that had developed between you. You peered through the peephole, your smile widening in anticipation… only to freeze, the blood turning to ice in your veins.

It wasn't Wonwoo. It was Julian. His face was contorted with a furious desperation, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Before you could react, before you could even think to lock the deadbolt, he was hammering on the door again, yelling your name, his voice laced with a manic edge.

Terror seized you. You stumbled back, your breath catching in your throat. He knew where you lived. He was here.

Suddenly, the flimsy barrier of the door shuddered under a violent kick. The lock splintered, and the door flew inward, crashing against the wall. Julian stood in the doorway, a dark, menacing figure silhouetted against the hallway light.

"You!" he roared, his eyes locking onto you with a venomous glare. "This is your fault! You and that…that snake Wonwoo!"

Before you could speak, before you could even scream, he lunged at you, his hands grasping your arms with brutal force. He shoved you back against the wall, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. His face was inches from yours, his breath hot and reeking of desperation and alcohol.

"You think you can ruin me?" he snarled, his grip tightening until you cried out in pain. "You think you can get away with this?"

Panic clawed at your throat. You struggled, kicking and pushing against him, but he was stronger, fueled by rage and a terrifying sense of entitlement. He pinned you against the wall, his body pressing against yours, the familiar, sickening feeling of violation washing over you.

"Please," you choked out, tears streaming down your face. "Just…leave me alone."

"Leave you alone?" he spat, his voice thick with fury. "You destroyed everything! You think you can just walk away after what you've done?" He leaned closer, his words a disgusting whisper against your ear. "You were always useless. Couldn't even give me a child. Now you'll pay for it."

His hands moved, and a fresh wave of terror washed over you. You screamed, a raw, desperate sound that tore through the quiet of your apartment building, you knew no matter how hard you tried its always a man's physical power winning against the women in most of the casses. "Help! Someone, please help!"

Just as his touch became unbearable, the doorframe behind him exploded inward with a deafening crash. A figure filled the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway light, radiating a raw, incandescent fury.

It was Wonwoo.

His eyes, dark and blazing, locked onto the scene before him. The carefully cultivated coolness he usually exuded was gone, replaced by a primal rage that was terrifying to behold. With a guttural roar, he launched himself at Julian, yanking him off you with a force that sent your ex-husband stumbling backward.

What followed was a brutal, visceral display of fury. Wonwoo, his face a mask of pure rage, rained down blows on Julian, each punch landing with sickening force. You watched in stunned silence, tears still streaming down your face, as your tormentor was finally met with a force that matched his own brutality. You had never seen Wonwoo like this, this raw, untamed fury a stark contrast to his usual controlled demeanor.

The sounds of the struggle were brutal – grunts, curses, the sickening thud of fists against flesh. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sounds subsided. Julian lay on the floor, bruised and bleeding, whimpering in pain. Wonwoo stood over him, his chest heaving, his knuckles raw.

The sound of sirens grew closer, their wail piercing the tense silence of your apartment. Moments later, the police burst through the shattered door, their weapons drawn. Wonwoo, his rage slowly receding, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

As the officers moved to apprehend Julian, Wonwoo turned to you, his eyes softening with a raw concern that mirrored your own shattered state. He rushed to you, his arms wrapping around you in a tight, protective embrace. You clung to him, your body trembling uncontrollably, the sobs finally wracking your frame.

"Why didn't you call me?" he murmured against your hair, his voice thick with a mixture of anger and worry. "I told you…you could always call me."

You buried your face in his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne a strange comfort amidst the lingering stench of Julian's desperation. "I…I thought it was you at the door," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper.

"Shhh," he soothed, holding you tighter. "It's over now. He can't hurt you anymore."

You clung to him, the reality of what had just happened slowly sinking in. Your body ached, your spirit bruised, but in Wonwoo's arms, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a fragile seed of safety began to sprout.

"Thank you," you mumbled, the words inadequate to express the wave of gratitude and a burgeoning, unexpected emotion that washed over you. Your heart ached with the fresh trauma, but at the same time, a strange sense of healing had begun. You no longer saw Wonwoo as just an enemy, a rival, or a co-conspirator. You saw him as the man who had burst through the door, a furious protector, your rescuer in the darkest of moments.

Closing your eyes, you leaned further into his embrace, the steady beat of his heart a grounding rhythm against your ear. For the first time in a long time, surrounded by the wreckage of your shattered door and the lingering echoes of violence, you found a fleeting moment of fragile peace in the unexpected safety of Jeon Wonwoo's arms.

Three weeks had passed since the harrowing night at your apartment. The physical bruises had faded, but the emotional scars were still tender, a constant reminder of Julian's violation. Wonwoo had been a silent, steady presence in the aftermath. He hadn't pushed, hadn't pried, but he had been there, a quiet strength you found yourself increasingly relying on. The fake relationship had morphed into something…more. The lines between business and something far more personal had blurred, a consequence of shared trauma and unexpected acts of fierce protectiveness.

One afternoon, a text message from Wonwoo appeared on your phone: "Client meeting at the City Art Museum next Thursday. Accompany me?" It was phrased as a request, but there was an underlying expectation, a comfortable assumption that you would agree. And you did.

Thursday arrived, and you found yourself standing before the museum, the grand facade a stark contrast to the nervous flutter in your stomach. You had chosen a wine-red dress, the rich color a bold statement, the elegant cut accentuating your figure. You had taken extra care with your hair and makeup, a renewed sense of confidence blooming within you, a defiant refusal to let Julian's actions define you.

As you stepped inside, you spotted Wonwoo near a Rodin sculpture, engaged in conversation with a distinguished-looking older gentleman. He hadn't seen you yet. You took a moment to simply watch him, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the intensity in his gaze as he spoke, the subtle authority in his posture. A warmth spread through you, a feeling entirely new and unexpectedly tender.

Then, his eyes lifted, catching yours across the crowded gallery. A flicker of surprise, quickly followed by something that looked suspiciously like…awe, crossed his features. He literally paused mid-sentence, a slight choke in his voice as he finished his thought. He recovered quickly, a practiced coolness returning to his expression as he excused himself from his client and walked towards you.

"You look…" he began, his usual smooth delivery faltering for a fraction of a second, his eyes lingering on the curve of your neck exposed by the dress. He cleared his throat. "…appropriately dressed for an appreciation of fine art." It was a classic Wonwoo deflection, but you caught the genuine admiration that had flashed in his eyes.

As Wonwoo resumed his conversation with his client, you wandered through the museum, losing yourself in the brushstrokes of a Monet, the stark lines of a Picasso. You found a quiet corner admiring a collection of contemporary sculptures when a man approached you, his smile a little too wide, his eyes lingering a little too long.

He started a conversation, his tone overtly flirtatious, complimenting your dress, your eyes, his words dripping with a practiced charm that felt instantly insincere. You offered polite, brief responses, subtly trying to disengage, but he persisted, his compliments becoming increasingly bold. A familiar unease began to settle in your stomach.

Just as you were formulating a more direct way to excuse yourself, you felt a warm, possessive hand settle on your waist, pulling you gently against a familiar solid form. Wonwoo was suddenly beside you, his arm a firm, undeniable claim around your waist. He turned to the flustered man, his usual cool demeanor firmly in place, but with an underlying edge that sent a clear message. "Excuse us," he said, his voice smooth but with a hint of steel. "She's taken."

The man, clearly recognizing Wonwoo, stammered an apology and quickly retreated. You turned to Wonwoo, a teasing smile playing on your lips. "Possessive, are we?"

He shrugged, his arm still firmly around your waist, his gaze lingering on your face. "You looked…uncomfortable." His tone was casual, but the possessive grip on your waist spoke volumes. The air between you thickened, the unspoken tension simmering just beneath the surface.

The next eight months passed in a blur of shared moments, both public and private. The "fake relationship" had taken on a life of its own, evolving into something undeniably real. The tabloids still followed your every move, fascinated by the unlikely pairing, but the scrutiny felt less invasive now, more like background noise to the genuine connection that had blossomed between you and Wonwoo. You shared quiet dinners, late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours, comfortable silences that spoke volumes. He was still Wonwoo – brilliant, sharp-witted, occasionally infuriatingly cocky – but you had also seen his fierce protectiveness, his unexpected tenderness, the vulnerability he rarely showed.

The day of your Paris fashion show arrived, a culmination of months of relentless work. The Grand Palais buzzed with anticipation, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and nervous energy. You scanned the crowd from the stage, a familiar wave of pre-show jitters washing over you. You looked for Wonwoo, a small part of you hoping to catch his eye, even though he had explicitly told you that a crucial, unavoidable meeting would keep him away. A pang of disappointment, quickly masked by professional composure, tightened in your chest.

Your speech went smoothly, your voice confident as you presented your latest collection to the discerning eyes of the fashion world. The applause was enthusiastic, the reviews promising. But as you walked backstage, the adrenaline slowly fading, a wave of quiet disappointment washed over you. He hadn't been there.

Suddenly, as you turned a corner in the bustling backstage area, a hand clamped over your mouth, and another pinned your hands playfully above your head, effectively trapping you against the cool wall. A familiar, husky voice whispered in your ear, laced with a teasing arrogance that sent a thrill through you. "Someone missed me?"

Your heart leaped. You knew that voice. You smiled beneath his hand, relief and a surge of unexpected joy flooding through you. You nodded enthusiastically against his palm. His hands released yours, sliding down to cup your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. You turned in his arms, your gaze meeting his dark, smiling eyes. Without a word, you reached up and kissed him, a rush of pure happiness bubbling up inside you.

He grinned against your lips, a flash of his signature cockiness. "Missed me that much, huh?" He pulled back slightly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Be ready by seven tonight, ma créatrice." He winked, a promise of something special in his gaze, and then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he slipped away, leaving you breathless and grinning like a fool in the middle of the backstage chaos.

You shook your head fondly, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the Parisian air. Your earlier disappointment vanished, replaced by a giddy anticipation. Seven o'clock in Paris with Wonwoo? You had a feeling tonight would be anything but ordinary. You rushed to get ready, your mind already racing with possibilities.

A sleek, black car pulled up to your hotel, the Parisian twilight casting long shadows across the cobblestone street. The driver door opened, and Wonwoo emerged, looking impossibly handsome in a dark suit that accentuated his sharp features. His eyes held a playful glint as he approached you, a soft, silk blindfold dangling from his fingers.

"Ready for your Parisian adventure, ma belle?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine.

You raised a curious eyebrow. "Adventure? Or are you finally going to reveal your secret life as a notorious art thief?"

He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "Only one way to find out." He gently reached out, and you tilted your head, allowing him to tie the blindfold securely, plunging you into darkness.

As he guided you into the car, your playful banter continued. "You're not planning on taking me to some secret underground catacomb, are you? Because I am not dressed for subterranean exploration."

"Relax, mon amour," he replied, his voice laced with amusement. "Though the thought of you in the catacombs…intriguing. But tonight's destination is a little more…elevated."

The drive was filled with your teasing questions and his deliberately vague answers. "Are you going to kill me, Wonwoo? Is this some elaborate revenge plot for all those times I beat you in debate club?"

He squeezed your thigh reassuringly, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "Darling, if I were going to kill you, it would be far more creative than a simple car ride. Besides," his voice dropped to a husky whisper, "I have far more interesting plans for you tonight."

The squeeze on your thigh, however brief, sent a jolt of anticipation through you, effectively silencing your playful accusations. You settled back in your seat, a sense of excitement bubbling beneath the surface of your blindfolded anticipation.

The car finally came to a stop. You could hear the muffled sounds of the city, the distant hum of traffic, but there was a different quality to the air here, a sense of vastness. Wonwoo carefully guided you out of the car, his hand firm on your elbow. You could feel the cool night air against your skin, a gentle breeze whispering around you.

He led you slowly, the sound of your heels clicking softly on what felt like stone. You could sense a change in elevation, a gradual upward climb. "Wonwoo, where are we going?" you asked, your curiosity reaching its peak. "This is straight out of a horror movie. Are there chains involved?"

He chuckled again, a warm sound close to your ear. "Patience, mon cœur. The grand reveal is almost upon us."

The ascent continued, the air growing thinner, the city sounds fading into a distant murmur. Finally, Wonwoo stopped. "Alright, ma voleuse," he whispered, his breath warm against your temple. "Prepare to be amazed."

His fingers gently untied the knot of the blindfold. As the darkness receded, your eyes struggled to adjust to the breathtaking panorama that unfolded before you. You were high above the city, the sprawling lights of Paris twinkling like a million scattered diamonds. The Eiffel Tower stretched majestically above and below you, its intricate ironwork illuminated against the vibrant canvas of the sunset. Hues of fiery orange, soft pink, and deep violet painted the sky, a breathtaking masterpiece that stole your breath away.

You were speechless, your earlier playful banter completely forgotten. "Oh," was all you could manage, your voice filled with awe. "Oh, Wonwoo… it's… not murder, at least. It's beautiful."

There was no response. Confused, you turned to look at him, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. And there he was, bathed in the soft glow of the Parisian twilight, down on one knee. In his outstretched hand, a small, velvet box lay open, revealing a stunning platinum ring, a delicate yet substantial band set with a single, brilliant-cut diamond that caught the fading light.

Your breath hitched. You felt a wave of shock, disbelief, and an overwhelming surge of emotion wash over you. You could only stare, your mind struggling to process the reality of the moment.

Wonwoo's gaze was intense, his dark eyes filled with a vulnerability you had never seen before. He took a deep breath, his voice slightly husky as he began to speak. "From the moment I first saw you in that ridiculously oversized 'Intro to Philosophy' class, arguing passionately about existentialism… I was captivated. You were brilliant, fiery, infuriating… everything I never knew I wanted."

He continued, his voice gaining strength as he confessed the long-held secret of his heart. "All those years in university, the constant rivalry, the need to challenge you, to spar with you intellectually… it wasn't just competition, (Y/N). It was the only way I knew how to keep you close, to keep you talking to me. I was too arrogant, too afraid to admit how deeply I felt."

He paused, his eyes searching yours. "Even after… after your marriage to that… that man," his voice hardened with a flicker of the old fury, "I couldn't let go of the memory of you, the fire in your eyes. Pretending to just want to destroy him… it was partly true, but mostly it was about clearing the path back to you."

He took another deep breath, his gaze unwavering. "So, (Y/N) (Your Last Name), my brilliant, beautiful, fiercely independent thief… may I be yours completely? May I finally stop pretending and love you, truly and without reservation?"

"Thief?" you asked, a shaky laugh escaping your lips, tears welling in your eyes.

A genuine, heart-melting grin spread across his face. "Yeah. You stole my heart years ago, remember? You've been holding onto it ever since."

More tears spilled down your cheeks, but this time, they were tears of pure, unadulterated joy. You took a moment to gather yourself, your heart overflowing with a love you hadn't fully realized until this moment. "Fine," you managed, your voice thick with emotion. "Be my Mr. (Your Last Name)." You watched him, a playful glint in your tear-filled eyes.

He stood up, his gaze never leaving yours. "I don't mind having your last name," he shrugged, a hint of his old cockiness returning, but softened with pure adoration.

You giggled, wiping away a stray tear. "Though… I rather prefer yours after mine."

His grin widened, and he reached out, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. "Take whatever you want then… my thief."

And then, with the breathtaking panorama of the glowing city stretching out beneath them, Wonwoo kissed you deeply, a kiss that spoke of years of unspoken feelings, of shared battles and unexpected tenderness, of a future finally, beautifully, beginning. The cool Parisian air was filled with the warmth of their embrace, a promise of a love that had weathered storms and blossomed in the most unexpected of circumstances. Your heart, finally safe in his keeping, soared with a joy that illuminated the Parisian night even brighter than the city lights below.

-- The End <3

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