#Branch has a child au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ienjoywritingfilth · 5 months ago

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teach me, general

hi: i wrote this because general acacius is still making me feel hornee things®. I don't know shit about roman gladiator times, about the language, about a n y t h i n g this is just a debauched excuse to think of this man naked and fucking.

You've been promised to another man to save Rome, but you have no desire to become his wife. Marcus Acacius has been assigned to ensure you do not flee before your wedding. Things happen.

trope: enemies to lovers

pedro character: Marcus Acacius x female reader (you)

warnings: innocence kink, age gap (not specified, but he an old peepaw just how we like him) , Marcus tries to be good but we like him bad, AU as fuck because i have no idea what happens in the movie, virgin bullshit, eating out, allusions (are what whores do for money or candy) to other sex, , i think that's everything.

RATED 18+

wanna see my other stuff?

"I will not play nursemaid to a spoiled child."

Marcus sweeps the scroll from the desk angrily, standing and stalking to the window, his cape fluttering behind him.

Commander Cassius, an older man and one of The emperor's most trusted advisors stands in the corner, his gnarled hands folded in front of him.

"She has not been a child for quite some time, General Acacius," the commander replies, a smirk crossing his lined mouth.

Marcus only makes a scoffing noise at that, refusing to turn around and give the older man the respect he thinks he deserves.

"She is desperate." the commander adds, walking in Marcus direction. "She is to be wed tomorrow."

"The city talks of nothing else."

Marcus is sick to death with talk of your marriage to a neighbouring royal family. The marriage means bountiful coin and harvest for Rome. It's a step towards unification and the future.

But for the last several months it's all he's heard of between battles. The dress, the food, the entertainment. It's all so grating to hear about when he throws himself into daily combats.

"She has made her feelings on the matter quite clear," the commander says with a gentle exhalation. "There is concern she will flee in the night."

"Why?"

"She has no desire to marry. No interest in continuing the bloodline."

There are rumors of course. That the Prince you've been promised to is dim, that he drinks too much, that he has an eye only for men. It's no wonder you don't look forward to such a union.

"She says she will study at the universities instead," Cassius chuckles. "A silly fantasy. She is a woman after all."

Marcus is quiet with contemplation. He'd just returned from battle days ago. He was still weary, his patience thin. The poor reception home from his family adds to his bitter mood.

"But she is wise beyond her years," the commander says. "She has managed escape more than once, as you well know. It was you yourself who retrieved her the night of her eighteenth birthday in the olive grove was it not?"

Marcus rolls his eyes recalling how you screamed and punched his armour as he dragged you down from the branches, throwing you over his shoulder. You screamed until your voice was hoarse as he carried you home that evening, shouting obscenities in his ear the entire way.

All because you'd wanted a chance to see the Gladiators. You'd begged your parents and they'd been quite clear that it was no place for you. You'd snuck out anyway, caught by Marcus before you could even get to the Coliseum.

When he does not reply the older commander stepped forward, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"You have your orders from the Emperor."

Marcus shrugs off the older man's touch, his dark eyes sharp.

"And why must it be me?'

'"Because, General Acacius, you are the one man that cannot be fooled by her."

The slave is at the door when Marcus knocks at your bedroom. Their face is covered; their stance cowered when they open the door widely.

"General Acacius," the quiet voice observes eyes on the ground. Marcus is grim-faced, entering into the room.

"I have been instructed by the Emperor to keep watch tonight."

"I see," the woman nods, her face still tilted respectfully to the floor. "I was just about to fetch her dinner."

Marcus steps further into the lavish room with its bright, white walls and smooth marble floors.

"Where is she?"

"She is in her bed," the slave replies bowing even more lowly.

Marcus' dark eyes move to the bed, seeing the sleeping figure's chest rise and fall through the gauzy curtains that hang on all sides.

"The sun is not yet set."

"She is overcome. Her wishes for the marriage to be called off have been ignored."

Marcus nods, watching as the slave goes to move past him. Her feet slap the floor slowly, everything in her body suggesting an unhurried dedication to her position.

She brushes Marcus' sleeve and he sniffs the air, a familiar scent wafting over him. Roses.

Without warning his large hand darts out, grabbing the slave by the arm and dragging her back into the room before she can leave. The door is slammed shut, her exit blocked.

"General-"

Marcus says nothing; he simply rips the veil from the woman's face, shaking his head in frustration as your uncovered visage stares unblinking back at him.

He watches as you sneer, your irritation clear.

"How did you know?"

"Rosewater," he replies in a husky murmur. "No slave could afford to bathe in such luxury."

You pull your elbow from his grasp, furious at being caught. You call out to the girl in your bed.

"Amilius you are released."

A taller woman a haggard face and wild hair rolls out of the bed. She is clearly a slave but wears an embroidered toga meant for royalty.

"You will still be paid," you assure her as she approaches you both, her eyes on the floor. You retrieve the pouch of clattering coin from your locked cabinet, placing its heavy bundle into her shocked hands.

"It is too much."

"Not at all," you insist. "I thank you for trying. You may keep the clothing as well."

"You are most welcome."

The smile the two of you exchange is sweet and Marcus is furious at the sight of it. How dare you think up this scheme and how dare this slave go along with it?

"You are bold," he says, stepping towards her. "To defy the word of your Emperor and not expect retaliation."

"She did it only to defend me," you break in, stepping between Marcus and the girl. "To give me a chance at escape."

"Treason," Marcus snarls, his eyes still on the girl behind you. "You will be put on trial."

Amilius shrinks back, her eyes wide. The thought of punishment like this never occurred to her. She simply follows what you tell her, as she always has.

"I will say I drugged her," you shoot back. "I will be put on trial. I will be sentenced to death. I choose that. Anything is better than a marriage to that self important caenum!"

Your chest heaves with untapped anger. Marcus knows that this is true. You are just stubborn enough to choose death but it would mean only calamity for Rome.

"Leave us."

Amilius nods and shuffles from the room, closing the door behind her. You watch as Marcus locks it before coming back to you.

"So they sent the General," you say with a laugh as you remove the slave’s cloak you were wearing. You drop it into a chair before looking at him. "How fearsome a creature I must be if the strongest General in the army is sent to watch me."

"Fearsome I think not. An annoyance to be sure."

You roll your eyes, going to the table that holds the wine and other spirits. Several chalices are there, empty and ready to be filled.

"Some wine, General?"

Marcus shakes his head. He would never drink when on such a job. He doesn't trust you. You shrug, pouring two glasses anyway.

Marcus is surveying your room, quietly taking in all the personal touches. He notices you position your writing desk to the east, to enjoy the midday sun. Your bed is soft and layered with furs to keep away the chill.

You walk back over to him, holding out the larger chalice to your guest.

"Here."

You watch as Marcus takes both chalices in hand, swapping the one you poured for him with yours. You go to deny him this but he's already taken a deep pull from his glass, smiling at you when you make no move to do the same.

"None for you?"

You try to keep your voice even, not wishing to show your hand.

"I find my thirst rather quenched."

"Is that so? Or is it that I caught onto your pathetic ploy to drug my wine?" Marcus smirks, taking a deep sip.

You say nothing; you bite the inside of your cheek instead. Marcus digs the blade in a little deeper.

"The vial made a rather obvious noise when it hit the rim of the chalice."

You bite so harshly you draw blood.

Its hours later and the fire has been cracking for the better part of the evening since the sun went down.

Marcus sits on an ornate chair before the fire, his body stoic and broad and strangely intimidating despite his continued silence. He has the chair facing you, not letting you out of his sight for even a moment.

You sit at your writing desk, hunched over parchment as you write hurriedly. The scratch of the stylus is the only sound in the bedroom.

Marcus exhales slowly, irritated at needing to be here at all. Knowing his luck, he'll also be forced to be at the royal wedding as well.

You stand and take a stretch, cracking your back as you arch your spine. The flowing fabric drifts over your body pooling at your feet. Marcus takes note of your head tilted back, eyes closed. He doesn't remember your profile being this striking. He muses it is one that should be etched onto roman coins, remembered by those to come forever after.

You walk over to him with a tired look in your eyes.

"It is late," you tell Marcus.

Marcus doesn't reply. He simply sits there, waiting for you to tire of whatever game you've begun.

"I thank you for the fire, General."

"You are most welcome."

He isn't expecting you to walk behind him pretending to stoke the fire. And he can only blame his lack of focus on his extreme lack of sleep. He'd managed none during battle and at home it seemed he was more than a little restless.

He feels your hand slide the dagger from his hip, realizing too late. You go streaming across the room, your eyes wild when he races after you.

"Impudice fur!"

"I have stolen nothing," you shoot back at the insult.

The two of you circle what another in the room like your own miniaturized version of the Gladiator pit.

"You have stolen years off my life," Marcus growls. "You have turned my hair silver."

You look at the dark hair threaded with grey in parts.

"You have done that yourself, General, thanks to your love of bloodshed and the battlefield."

Marcus rolls his eyes. "Only a stulte would think my strategy anything other than necessary."

"If you insist," you say rolling your eyes, clearly disbelieving.

"Return the weapon."

Marcus is strong, he is quick and you will have to submit to him. There is little else to do, aside from throwing yourself out the window behind you. The thought of that horrible childish man being your husband makes you seriously consider it.

You can't help it, thoughts of being his wife, of being tethered to such a man disgusts you. You would more readily marry Marcus Acacius if you had to. At least the man had honour and dignity.

And then all at once the answer is clear to you. You drop the knife onto the floor, hearing it clatter as you spin and throw yourself towards the large open window.

Your feet slap against the stone floor as you fling yourself towards the open air. The realization that before you die you will know what it is to fly.

Marcus is on you almost immediately, grabbing you around the middle before you can tumble to outside. He yanks you back, tackling your unwilling body to the ground. He pins your hands to the ground. You attempt to wrench from his grip, squirming under him.

"Stop these foolish games."

"It is no game," you shout. "It is my life! I will choose if I live or die!"

All at once Marcus is very aware that you are not the child he once saw in the halls or at events. The child and then teenager he found so grating with her questions that he took to ignoring her.

"Still yourself."

You wriggle in his grip like a worm. As you do your hips graze his cock and he's shocked to find a stab of arousal hit him.

It's as if for the first time he sees that you've become a woman. A beautiful one at that, all soft curves and kissable mouth. He stares at the damp plump of your lips and realizes that he's growing hard under his toga.

He throws himself off of you, hunched over until he gets to the window. You're rubbing your wrists, completely unaware of what happened as you stand, glaring at him.

"It is what is fated," Marcus barks at you.

"How easy for you to say!" You scoff disgusted. "Tomorrow I will be the wife of a childish boor who would rather chase cock than spend a moment with me. Rome will be safe for a time, yes, but at the cost of my entire being. And you, General Acacius, will go on living your life free of restraint."

"I come with my own shackles, believe me."

"And what is that? Too much coin for wine? Too many prostrating followers who blindly obey you?"

"A wife who married me for my title. Two stepsons with the combined intelligence of a pomegranate seed.” Marcus shakes his head. "You act as if everyone may rule their destiny but true freedom is granted to only the few."

He can see the fight leave your body.

But he knows you’re still upset. He moves over to your desk, needing a break from your smoldering glare. The parchment you were working on earlier sits there, writing unfinished. Marcus takes a scroll in hand, squinting down at it.

"What are these?"

You rush over, your face red as you rip the scroll from his hands.

"Nothing!"

Seeing your weakness Marcus holds it up out of reach, a childish grin on his face as you leap up, trying to grasp them. But it's no use, he's taller, stronger and you fall back, defeated.

“Tell me and I will return it to you.”

"They are poems," you mutter exasperatedly, feeling shy.

"Your own?"

"Yes."

"I wonder what about," Marcus says and he reaches into the desk to find several more scrolls. "What dress to wear to the market? How best to complain about having everything?"

Marcus takes them in hand, a sneer evident in his face as you reach for them again.

“You promised!”

“As you promised your fidelity to the prince.”

“My father promised him. I promised him nothing.”

Marcus lets out a small huff before turning his back to you. You can see him unrolling the scroll, beginning to read. You watch him, feeling both furious and anxious. These are some of your innermost thoughts that he’s reading.

There is a long bout of silence. You watch his broad shoulders sag, his hand flipping the page over and continuing to read. He does this through several sheets until you can't stand it anymore.

"Give it here!"

You pause with your hand on his elbow. He's solemn, but that's not what shocks you. It's the tears that he wipes quickly away with his free hand.

"Are you---"

"No."

You step backwards, your hands falling to your sides. You have known the general since you were a child of thirteen. Over ten years you have been in his company and only now have you seen him lose his composure.

As a child you were convinced he didn't feel true emotions. He was always this tall, impressively stoic figure. You never spoke to him outside of your father's company. You only heard everyone talk of his skills on the battlefield, of his keen mind. The only time he truly emoted in front of you was when he ripped you from the warm embrace of the olive tree, forcing you back to your boring life. Hissing at you that you were ungrateful for all you'd been given.

"This is very beautiful," he admits in a voice dragged over sand. "The way you describe death is very," he searches for the word. "Vivid."

"Thank you," you reply dumbstruck.

You've never received praise for you writing outside your friends. So to receive it in the form of your current enemy is more than a little shocking. Marcus has no allegiance to you, in fact, his response is so genuine because you know he's fighting against his inner desire to chastise or condemn.

Seeing this hulk of a man with tears still damp along his waterline has you softening everywhere. He's looking at the pages and then back at you.

"Have you any others?"

"Yes," you nod.

"All on the same theme?"

"A variety."

"May I see?"

You walk to your writing table, pulling out the parchment you hide from prying eyes and pass them into his outstretched hands. You wait with your lower lip lodged under your top teeth, your fingers twisting together. You don't know why but you crave to know what he's thinking.

You don't need to wait very long.

"It is clear there are limitations to your skills."

He has the familiar arrogant expression on his face as he says this. You bristle sharply at his words and he notices.

"You write of death, you write of jealousy, you write of fear,"' he says. "All of these you compose with obvious talent, with a voice I feel here."

He taps the centre of his chest before he holds up some of the pages you laboured on.

"But these? The poems of love, of desire? They feel false."

You take a moment to digest what he's saying. He's treating you like an equal, as if you're someone who can take the criticism. It propels you to explain instead of running away in embarrassment.

"People want poetry to transcend them, to deliver them somewhere beautiful. How else to do that other than with poems on such topics?"

He holds up the pages.

"It clearly does not come naturally."

"It is a challenge at times."

"You write of loss with such acuity," Marcus explains. "Why then do you describe the action between a man and woman so stiffly?"

"I have experience with loss."

Marcus stares at you, surprised.

As the daughter of the emperor he'd just assumed you'd have your fair share of romances. You're a beautiful woman and if you were anyone else but the Emperor's daughter he might have pursued you himself.

You feel his gaze trained on you and you walk to the fire. The flames reflect in your eyes as Marcus continues to watch you. You swallow your embarrassment and look over your shoulder at him.

"Will you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"What I am to expect on my wedding night."

Marcus lets the scroll fall from his hand onto the stone floor. At the sound of its contact he shakes himself, retrieving them and placing them on your desk.

"You have not known the touch of a man?"

With cheeks stained in embarrassment you shake your head.

"I have not. The life of the privileged daughter isn't one that allows for entanglements," you sigh. "I fear for what awaits me."

Marcus thinks of your future husband, a man who doesn't want any part of you. You'll wither on the vine, ripened and juicy and waiting.

What a waste.

"I cannot," Marcus says. "I am simply here to ensure you do not flee."

"Perhaps I will not flee if I know what is to occur."

Marcus sighs and strides towards you. You watch as he pulls over one of the chairs you had at the window, placing it across from the chair you sit in before the fire.

"You will be wed; there will be the wedding celebration with most of Rome at your unity. Then he will take you to his chamber."

You lick your suddenly dry lips.

"I am no fool. I know what the day’s events will be, General. I want to know what happens in consummation."

Marcus inhales deeply. He can feel himself growing stiff. You are a delectable thing, forbidden in so many ways. He itches to touch your skin and taste your cunt.

"He will, he will press his mouth to yours."

"Show me."

"No."

"Please," you beg, coming to stand closer to him. "Once I know what is to come I will feel more able to conquer this fear I feel."

Marcus debates this as he stares at you. And it's his cock that does the thinking for him when he steps closer to you.

Marcus sighs heavily through his aquiline nose. You hold your breath as he grips the back of your neck, like you're a bothersome kitten. Holding you there he lowers his face to yours, grazing your lips with his.

You coo gently at the sensation, your nipples hardening as he wraps his arms around you. He's so broad, so muscular, you feel so vulnerable and yet safe in his arms.

You cling to him, body immediately wrapping around his, pressing so tightly to him that you feel everything. Your hips roll against his and you shudder pleasantly when you feel his breathing hitch.

"More," you beg. Marcus groans, his large hands coming to cup and knead your breasts as his tongue invades your mouth.

He's murdered men, he's plotted army overtaking, and he’s attacked the unarmed, but touching and kissing the virgin daughter of the emperor? This is the most corrupt thing he's ever done.

And you're so desperate for him, no hesitation in any part of you. You just allow him to plunder your body, his mouth moving down your jaw to your neck and then the barely concealed valley of your breasts.

His hands move around your body, pressing and caressing and skimming until they land at your backside. You kiss him fervently, feeling his palms tug you against his hard cock.

You whimper, eyes rolling back as the two of you grind against one another. It feels so sinfully good to do such a thing.

"That is enough," Marcus says stiffly, pulling back from you when you make that sound. He looks at your swollen lips and dazed expression.

"Please, show me everything," you whisper. "Teach me."

Marcus has a fairly good idea that your wedding night is going to be brief and awful. The least he could do is give you some pleasure before you're thrust into a lifetime of timid touches and non-existent intimacy.

Just once, a sinful voice whispers. Fuck her just once to see how it feels.

"I cannot."

You feel insecurity wind its way around your ribs before tugging brutally. Its clear Marcus does not find you handsome enough to tempt him or he still sees you as a child. In humiliation you turn from him and take a seat before the fire once more. Your shoulder sag as you gaze down at your clasped fingers on your lap.

You hear Marcus sigh from the window before you sense his approach. He comes to sit in the chair opposite you, his gaze so serious.

"It would be wrong."

"But I desire it."

"It would be dishonourable."

"Please," you beg him again, finally raising your head. "My entire life you have been there for me, coming to my aid. And now I turn to you for the final time, General. Please help me."

"I cannot do it."

"But why?" You demand now, knowing that your patience is wearing thin. "Give me one true reason."

He lifts his muscular frame out of the chair, crossing until he gets to you. You gaze up the length of him, not flinching when he drops to his knees between your parted thighs.

Marcus tilts forward until his body nears yours, his hands on either side of your chair arms. His body is so warm, so broad. You fight the urge to touch his chest as his swollen mouth brushes your ear.

"Because if I were to start, it would take the entirety of the Emperor's army to stop."

You blink slowly, your eyes trailing over his face and body. Your entire body is fizzy, like lightning is coursing through your veins instead of blood.

"I would pull you apart," Marcus hums against your skin. "I would draw noises from you that you cannot begin to imagine. I would have you shaking and begging for more and I would continue."

You can't breathe.

“I would fill you with my seed, marking your womb as mine. I would do it over and over until I was spent, only to do it all again at dawn."

Marcus groans softly, his dark eyes scanning down your toga to the swell of your breasts.

"And even then I would not be able to cease," Marcus says as he squeezes your breasts through your toga. "I would train your mouth, your cunt, every hole you possess in the ways of pleasure. All would be mine, nothing left for another."

You stare at him, unblinking.

"And so you see why I must refrain," he finishes huskily. "Why I cannot give you what you believe you desire."

When did he go from the scowling general to a real man with such a filthy mouth? You’re quivering all over, desperate for him to be even closer. Your eyes drop to his full mouth, aching to feel it again.

"What if that is what I crave? What if I have no desire for you to cease?"

Your fingers go to his, pulling one hand under your toga, leading him up between your silken thighs. Marcus allows it, eyes on you but his hand inching towards your centre.

"You do not know what you ask."

"Show me, Marcus," you whisper, your mouth nearing his. "Make me yours if only for tonight."

Your lips slot between his, kissing with uncertainty as your hands go to the buttons at his shoulder. His fingers are slowly teasing your entrance as he stares at you.

You arch as his thumb begins to circle your clit, his long fingers starting to nudge your liquid heat.

Marcus knows that every inch of you he touches is another year in the pit if he's discovered. You are the most forbidden fruit in Rome. Yet he continues to slide two fingers to the knuckle into your core, curling them as you cry out for him.

At the sharp sound of your cry he withdraws his fingers, glossy with slick. He stands, needing to clear his head. He feels your confused gaze on his back.

"I cannot defile you before your wedding," he explains. "Your chastity is of the utmost importance."

"The slaves tell me of ways to circumvent such an issue," you tell him as the cape he wears falls to the ground.

He watches you untie his toga, urging it from his body until he stands there in nothing but his gladiator sandals.

He is truly a sight to behold. Golden, muscled, captivating in the same way blood along knuckles shine in sunlight. You take your time to walk around him, admiring the tight taut of his ass, the breadth of his wide shoulders littered with scars and the curls that tease the bottom of his neck.

You save his front for last, taking your time to watch the trail of hair move from his navel downward.

His cock is hard, thick and heavy. It weeps at the tip, already so eager. It hangs there; too large for you to imagine entering you as you reach out and touch it. He hisses at the first point of contact.

He watches as you carefully touch him, marvelling at the iron of his cock until the silk of his skin. You trace the vein on the underside, trailing it from the base to just below the mushroom head.

You slide down to your knees, fascinated. Amilius has spoken to you of men when you’ve asked. She has been married and has a child. You know a bit of what men like but only in theory. You lift your eyes up to see Marcus staring down at you with a heated gaze. Your hands go to his thighs, gently resting there.

You grin before leaning forward and placing the sweetest peck to the tip of his manhood.

Marcus growls softly in the back of his throat. His eyes close briefly before opening, looking darker than before. You watch as he takes his cock in hand, gripping it by the base and pulling it towards you.

You part your lips, ready to take him on your tongue and are surprised when instead he drags the tip along your bottom lip, leaving a trail off pre-cum there. You lick the remnants, curious at the salty taste. He watches you with increasing interest.

"Irrumabo," Marcus murmurs, his cock tapping against the full of your bottom lip. "Yes?"

You nod, opening your jaw. Marcus smiles, thumb tracing the curve of your mouth.

"Not tonight," Marcus says as he shakes his head, bringing you to a gentle stand. "Tonight is your pleasure."

He tugs the gown from your body, letting the silk pool on the ground beside you. You shiver under his gaze, noticing his length which twitches.

Marcus feels his breath leave him as your nude body is bared to him. You look so innocent there, waiting for him, gazing nervously at him through your lashes.

"Goddess," Marcus hisses, his hands coming to cup your breasts. "I am a condemned man for even looking at you."

He lowers his head eagerly, nipping and licking your nipples as you cling to him, urging him to take more as you arch your spine.

"Marcus, please more," you moan.

Unceremoniously he pushes you back to sit in your chair, your legs splayed in surprise. He drops to his knees, moving your legs to hook over his wide shoulders. You allow this, your body limp and eager to be posed by his strong arms and hands.

He looks up to see you panting, staring down the length of your body at his face between your legs. Without breaking eye contact Marcus dips forward and licks a stripe up the centre of your sex.

Your eyes immediately shut as pleasure ripples through you. His wide hands grip your creamy thighs, holding them in place as he continues to probe his tongue deeper into your channel.

Your hands grope the air around you fruitlessly. You don't know what to do with them. Marcus notices and he takes your wrists between his grips, forcing them to card through his hair.

He goes back to sucking your clit and you feel your hips buck. Your fingers dig into his skull, holding the curls and you understand why he placed them there.

"Harder," he tells you sharply as he peppers your inner thighs with sweet kisses. You tug harder on his curls and he groans softly in approval.

You make a shuddering noise of pleasure and it dies in your throat as he pulls back from you. His eyes are stormy as he looks up the length of you to give you a disapproving shake of his head.

"Silence, cherub. We do not need the guards coming to investigate your shrieks."

You nod breathlessly, clapping a hand over your mouth as he continues. The sounds are muffled against your palm as he brings his hands to slide under your ass, pulling your sex deeper into his mouth as he consumes you, groaning into your cunt when you cum.

"Marcus!"

"Quiet," he reminds you between licks.

As you sit there in the chair he brings you to a second steady orgasm, revelling in the muffled yips you make when you begin to writhe against his face, coating him in your essence. When your shuddering ends Marcus slowly withdraws his tongue from your cunt, gazing up at you with a dazed look.

"My husband will do this to me?" You pant; your body shiny with perspiration. "It was so pleasant. I felt the sun within my body."

Marcus remains on his knees, his mouth glistening with your arousal. He gives you a pitying look, knowing full well that your husband to be likely won't see you past your wedding night.

The thought enrages him as he sits there, cheek against your thigh as you give him that hopeful expression.

"No," Marcus finally admits. "I believe his actions will be more perfunctory."

You frown.

"How? Show me."

"You ask too much."

"Yes, I do," you admit with no hesitation or embarrassment.

Marcus gives you a calculating look before standing. You sigh, waiting for him to leave when he crouches down beside your chair, sliding his hands behind your back and under your knees and hoists you into his arms.

"I will give you what you desire," he tells you gently. "I can deny you nothing."

"You have denied me much over the years," you remind him with mirth. "When I tried to see the Gladiators fight and you pulled me from that olive tree?"

"And I never heard the end of it. Imagine denying this request? You'd have me hanged."

You give a shy giggle before lacing your fingers behind his neck, your mouth finding his with ease as he carries you to the bed.

The two of you lay in the twisted blankets of the bed, bodies gleaming with sweat. Marcus did exactly as he promised. For hours he took you apart, forcing you to come on his fingers, his mouth, his cock. You took him at every turn, eyes shut and your mouth covered by his palm or his lips.

And now that the dreamy haze bleeds into reality you find yourself frowning. Marcus, with his arms holding your body to his notices immediately.

"What troubles you?"

“Tomorrow I will be another man's wife," you say with tears in your eyes. "Rome will be saved for a time but at what cost? I'll never feel pleasure like this again. I'll never have you in my bed again."

Marcus feels a pull behind his ribs, and he leans forward to kiss you gently. You respond, your tears damp on his cheeks.

"Your lessons will continue," Marcus promises, kissing behind your ear. "I will make sure of it."

"My husband--"

"Will be thankful when you are with child," Marcus tells you in a hush, his hand curving over your stomach. "My child."

Your eyes are luminous.

"After your wedding night he will not come to your chambers," he promises. "But I will. I will drink the nectar between your legs and I will spill myself down your throat. I will have you everywhere and when we pass in public although there are no words to be uttered you will know I think only of you. That I am yours and you are mine."

He wipes away your tears with his large thumbs before pulling your mouth to his. You fall asleep in his arms, the sensation of his body there to protect you through the night.

Marcus stirs the next morning to the sound of birds outside the window; it's cheerful and bright as the sun that hangs high in the sky.

It feels right that your wedding day should be beautiful when you yourself are so exquisite.

Marcus feels his cock hardening immediately at memories of last night. Of the sounds you made and the way you felt. He looks forward to a life with you, even if it must be in secret. You are something special, something like freedom.

He cracks open his eye to take in your sleeping face, but your side of the bed is empty. A scroll is there beside him in the empty bed instead, his name written. With a panic in his heart he unrolls it, finding a lock of your hair tied with a ribbon inside. He takes it, pressing his lips against it as he reads the words from your hand.

Carissamus General. I know that as you read this you will think me a villain, but I promise that my words were true and my body forever yours. Please understand why I could not possibly allow another to touch me. Freedom is for those who take it. I leave you a piece of me in exchange for the piece of you I will carry in my heart. I owe you everything and perhaps in the next life we will have the future you dream of. Until then I wish you the same joy and pleasure you gave me. With all my love, and all that I am.

Marcus reads the beautiful words over and over. They spin around his skull as he dresses, pulling on his toga and cloak. But instead of anger in his expression he smiles serenely.

He's always enjoys a good chase.

#marcus acacius aesthetic #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #gladiator2 #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal fanfiction #smut #pedro pascal smut

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sunnystrollblog · 8 months ago

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👀

familiar faces -

#the cursed child trolls au #oc trolls felicity #oc trolls vincenze #dreamworks trolls #trolls branch #creek has a son and he likes felicity #that's a big problem for branch.#broppy fankid #creek fankid #branch fanart #branch is about to freak out big time

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alygator77 · 2 days ago

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.˚✶˚. motherhood and matrimony ・❥・ wrapped in love .˚✶˚.

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ series summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ chapter summary. christmas morning at the gojo estate has always been a display of elegant grandeur—but this year, the true magic is found in the quiet, heartfelt moments shared with you. for satoru, it’s a holiday that finally feels like home.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. pure tooth rotting fluff. satoru being the best step dad. lots of domesticity. it does get a bit suggestive at times.

ꨄ words: 12.6k

ꨄ a/n. this is a part of my series motherhood and matrimony, however it can also be read as a fluffy holiday oneshot (you'll probably appreciate some of the references more if you've read the series though!) this entire ch is written from satoru's perspective! also, for those that have read the series, i would definitely read this after ch 7 ♡

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

♬ playlist ꨄ series masterlist ꨄ

side ch // wrapped in love

Christmas had always been a spectacle at the Gojo estate. Extravagant decorations that seemed to glisten with the weight of their price tags, a towering tree so grand it nearly grazed the vaulted ceilings, and a meticulously curated guest list for the Gojo’s annual holiday gala.

Business, wrapped in tinsel—topped with a bow.

Yes, for Satoru Gojo, Christmas always felt cold. Not the kind of cold that nipped at your nose or made you long for a crackling fireplace—it was the emptiness of grandeur.

Growing up in the Gojo estate, Christmas wasn’t a celebration; it was a stage. Takemi Gojo orchestrated the performance with precision, weaving an illusion of family warmth while the frigid reality of their relationship sat heavy within the corners of the mansion.

Twinkling lights adorned every surface, crystal ornaments shimmered under the tree’s glow, and tables overflowed with feasts meant to impress, not to savor.

His father had called it tradition. Satoru had called it lonely.

And from a young age, Satoru had learned that gifts were currency, not sentiment—the meaning of the season buried beneath layers of duty and pretense.

But this year… something was different.

Satoru lounges on the couch, long legs sprawled out as he watches you and Haru at the tree. You crouch low, holding an ornament in your hand, gently guiding Haru as she reaches up to find the perfect spot.

Her giggles fill the room like the sound of bells, bright and contagious, and she claps her tiny hands when the ornament finally stays.

Turning to her, your smile and the warmth in your expression is enough to melt something in Satoru’s chest.

It’s a feeling he can’t quite name—foreign, yet achingly familiar. Like standing outside during the first snowfall—the cold biting at your cheeks, but the beauty of it stealing your breath.

For the first time, Christmas doesn’t feel like an obligation. It feels like… home.

But it isn’t the decorations, nor the estate’s grandeur—it’s you. It’s Haru. It’s the way you’ve taken this cold, hollow place and filled it with laughter, warmth, and life. It’s the way you’ve turned this house into a home—a home he doesn’t want to leave.

“What do you think, Satoru?”

He blinks, glancing up at you—your voice pulling him out of his reverie. You were holding up two ornaments, one red and one blue, with a quirked brow and a soft smile.

Haru, meanwhile, was standing on her tippy toes, trying to reach the highest branch she could manage.

“Oh, uh… hmm?”

You roll your eyes with mock exasperation, shaking the ornaments for emphasis.

“Red or blue? We can’t have both; it’ll clash. Focus, Gojo.”

His lips twitch into a lazy grin as he leans back, folding his arms behind his head.

“Oh, definitely blue,” he says with a teasing lilt. “It matches my vibe better. Don’tcha think?”

You snort, rolling your eyes with a grin—muttering something about his ego—and as you turn back to Haru, Satoru takes the opportunity to watch you again.

The sight of you—your hair falling loose over your shoulders, the way your smile makes even your oversized sweater seem elegant—It isn’t just the room you light up. It’s him.

‘Gifts are just another transaction, Satoru. A display of wealth and power.’

His father’s voice lingers in his mind, sharp and cold as ever. But you—you’ve shown him a different kind of wealth. One that can’t be bought, or wrapped in shiny paper.

And for the first time, he feels it. Not the chill of the season, but… the warmth of belonging.

But with that warmth comes something else—something he’s not used to.

Panic.

Christmas is just days away, and for the life of him, he has no idea what to give you.

He’s Satoru Gojo. He could buy you anything. Diamonds. Designer clothes. Hell, an entire island, if he felt like it. Money has never been an obstacle—it’s always been a solution.

But when it comes to you, every option feels… wrong.

You—who sighs in exasperation at the estate’s staff, grumbling about how you’re perfectly capable of pouring your own glass of water, thank you very much.

You—who pokes at the extravagant feasts from world-class chefs, saying they could feed an entire village, yet they still couldn’t make your favorite comfort food the way you liked it.

You—who wrinkles your nose at his pretentious lifestyle, rolling your eyes every time he casually mentions the price of something without even realizing.

A necklace dripping in diamonds? You’d probably say it was heavy to wear. A vacation to a private island? You’d tell him you’d rather spend the time with Haru in the backyard, making snow angels.

A car? A house? Exquisite art? Fuck, a horse?

None of it feels enough.

He groans quietly, running a hand through his hair, cursing himself under his breath.

When did this happen? When did he get so comfortable letting his guard down around you, so at ease that now, sitting in his own home, he feels utterly vulnerable? Utterly lost?

And worse, he knows you can probably sense it.

“Satoru.”

Your voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, drawing his attention back to you.

Standing a few feet away, the soft glow from the Christmas tree casts a gentle light on your features—a slight furrow to your brow as you tilt your head, holding a new ornament in your hand.

“Are… you okay? You look like you’re plotting something.”

He straightens instantly, schooling his features into an easy grin, but it’s a little too late for that—you’re watching him too closely, as if trying to unravel the puzzle in his head.

“Me? Plotting? Never.” He leans back, resting an arm across the top of the couch. “Just wondering if we need a bigger tree. This one’s lookin’ a little small.”

Your eyes narrow suspiciously, and for a moment, he wonders if you can see straight through him.

You always do.

“Satoru,” you deadpan, and fuck—he knows he’s lost. “This tree is ten feet tall.”

He shrugs, as though you’ve just proven his point.

“Yeah… but like… wouldn’t fifteen feet look better? That’d be a real statement.”

Your groan comes with a roll of your eyes, but it’s paired with the grin he was hoping for.

“Sure, let’s just knock down the ceiling while we’re at it. Maybe put the Empire State Building in here for good measure.”

He chuckles, relieved by your sarcasm, and for a moment, his deflection works—you turn away, back to the tree. He watches you carefully loop another ornament onto a branch while Haru tugs at your sweater, babbling about a penguin ornament.

But as soon as your attention has shifted, it’s back—that gnawing uncertainty, that quiet panic clawing at the edges of his mind.

Good lord, when did this get so hard?

He’s Satoru Gojo. He can charm his way through anything, pull the strings of the world’s most powerful people, and yet he’s paralyzed by the thought of picking out a gift for you.

The longer he thinks about it, the worse it gets. You deserve something perfect—something thoughtful. But what does perfect even look like?

What do you give someone who doesn’t want anything money can buy? How does he give you a gift that carries the weight of what you’ve given him?

“Santa’s gonna like our tree, right, Mama?”

Haru’s voice rings up like a bright chime, tugging him back to the room—to reality.

He watches as you glance down, and a soft smile blooms across your lips as you tuck a loose strand of hair behind Haru’s ear. That look—the one you reserve for her, the kind that could thaw glaciers—hits him squarely in the chest.

“He’ll love it, sweetheart.”

Your voice is as light and sure as the snow falling gently outside the frosted windows, and Haru grins, pivoting to Satoru now.

“’toru!” her face lights up like the tree behind her, “Santa’s coming! He’s gonna bring presents, and cookies, and he loves hot cocoa!”

Raising a brow, Satoru slouches further back into the couch with that practiced ease—masking the chaos still whirling behind his nonchalant façade.

“Hot cocoa, huh? With marshmallows?”

Haru nods so hard, her little curls bounce and her entire being vibrates with conviction.

“He loves marshmallows! And cookies. And maybe waffles too.”

Satoru huffs out a soft laugh, his smile easing.

“That’s a pretty sweet deal for Santa,” he murmurs.

With all the grace of a puppy on ice, Haru scrambles up onto the couch cushion beside him, wiggling her way into place. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, though it’s far from quiet.

“Mama makes the best hot cocoa. We should have some.”

The confidence in her tone makes him snort quietly, and he raises a brow—playing along.

“The best, huh? Mmm.. I dunno. That’s a pretty big claim, kid.”

“It’s true!” she insists.

And then there’s your laughter—soft, light, and entirely unguarded as it floats from behind him. It’s a sound he’s learned to treasure, one he’d bottle up if he could, a warmth that sinks beneath his skin and quiets everything else.

He swears it’s one of his favorite sounds.

“You know what? That’s a good idea,” you say, ruffling Haru’s hair as you step behind the couch.

But then, you pause beside him, leaning down to press the faintest kiss to his temple—a feather-light touch, and it strikes him like a match catching fire, warmth unfurling from that single point of contact.

Oh, how he loves the touch of your lips.

“I’m gonna grab some hot chocolate—with marshmallows, of course,” your hand brushes briefly through his hair before pulling away. “Watch Haru real quick, yeah?”

Tilting his head back to look at you, he swallows down the tightness in his chest, masking it all with another lazy smirk—because he doesn’t know how to show you just how much that tenderness means to him. How much he loves when you touch him like that, so unthinking, like it’s natural.

And for Satoru, masking it is second nature—it always has been.

“Yeah, yeah… I’ve got it covered,” he waves you off with a dramatic flick of his hand.

You roll your eyes with an affectionate huff, and he lets himself watch you for a moment longer as you disappear into the kitchen, your humming trailing softly behind you like a ribbon that tethers him to you.

And then, silence.

The moment the door swings shut, he lets out a slow, quiet exhale, the tension uncoiling from his shoulders as if he’s been holding himself together for too long.

He slumps back against the couch, his head tipping against the cushion, feeling the ghost of your touch where your fingers had been in his hair. With a sigh, he runs a hand through the same spot, smoothing the strands down absently as if he can capture what’s already gone.

It’s ridiculous how much you’ve undone him. How a single kiss, a fleeting touch, can dismantle the person he’s spent so long pretending to be.

Because in those fleeting moments, when it’s just him and the lingering warmth of you, Satoru Gojo—the man who never lets his mask slip—realizes just how tightly wound he’s become. Just how much of himself he’s spent trying to hold it all together when, in moments like that, you make it so damn easy for him to fall apart.

He closes his eyes for just a breath, letting himself feel it—the calm, the weight of it all, the way his heart stirs.

But then—

A sudden rustling sound shatters the quiet, pulling him sharply from his thoughts. One eye cracks open, blinking lazily as he scans the room.

His gaze lands on Haru, and the breath leaves his chest in a sigh that’s somewhere between disbelief and resignation.

There she is—somehow, in the span of seconds—teetering precariously on the armrest of the couch, her tiny arms outstretched like she’s on a tightrope, her face scrunched in determination.

Satoru stares at her for a beat, utterly disheveled and utterly defeated. His head tilts lazily to the side as he watches her.

“Oi,” he drawls, dragging a hand down his face with a groan that’s more exasperation than anything. “Munchkin. What do you think you’re doing?”

Haru doesn’t even flinch. She grins, wide and triumphant, wobbling dangerously like a baby deer.

“I’m tall, ‘toru!”

He blinks at her, deadpan, before letting his hand fall limply to his lap.

“Yeah? Well, you’re also gonna fall on your face.”

“Nu-uh!” she insists, wiggling her feet against the cushion for emphasis.

“Kid…” He straightens with a reluctant sigh, reaching out with one hand, just in case she topples over. “You’re gonna get me in trouble. You do realize your mom’ll murder me if she catches you pulling stunts like this, right?”

Haru giggles—loud, unbothered, entirely unfazed.

“It’s okay. I’m good!” she declares proudly, as if she’s just conquered Mount Everest.

“You sure about that?” Satoru raises a brow, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. “Because… you’re about two seconds away from face-planting into the tree. And I’ll tell ya right now—Santa’s not gonna bring you anything if you wreck his setup.”

Haru freezes, her expression suddenly serious.

“He won’t?”

Satoru shrugs, as casual as ever, though there’s a sly gleam in his eye.

“Nope. Santa’s big on the whole naughty or nice thing, you know? Pretty sure ‘tree-destroyer’ lands you on the naughty list.”

Haru’s jaw drops like he’s just shattered her entire world.

“But I’m nice!”

“Yeah, well…” he sighs dramatically, “You’re not exactly convincing me right now, short stack.”

She gasps—a flurry of tiny limbs as she clambers down from the armrest in a dramatic tumble onto the cushions.

“I’m nice!” she insists again, louder this time, as if sheer volume might make it more convincing.

Satoru huffs out a laugh, ruffling her hair in an act of surrender.

“Yeah, yeah… crisis averted, princess. You’re nice. I’ll put in a good word for you with the big guy. Just… no more stunts, kay? Santa’s watching.”

She squints at him suspiciously, like she’s testing the limits of his authority over Santa Claus, before finally settling back with a small huff.

But then, Haru shifts entirely to look at him—her brows pinching together, her tiny face suddenly serious.

The shift catches him off guard—how a two-year-old can go from giggling chaos to this kind of weighty focus will always baffle him.

“‘toru.”

He quirks a brow, leaning an elbow against the back of the couch.

“…yeah?”

“You hafta tell Santa to get Mama something.”

The words catch him off guard. His grin falters just a fraction as he blinks, straightening a little to study her tiny, earnest face.

How the hell does this kid always seem to know exactly what’s on his mind?

“Oh yeah? Something for your mom, huh?”

Haru nods solemnly, as if she’s just handed him the most important mission of his life.

“Mhmm. Santa forgot last year.”

At that, his heart stumbles, the smile fading from his face.

“W-What? He… forgot?”

“Uh-huh.” Haru props herself on her elbows, swinging her feet idly against the couch. “Mama didn’t get a present.”

The simplicity of her words hits him like a punch to the gut. Innocent and unassuming, but full of a truth she doesn’t fully understand.

Satoru doesn’t respond right away, his mind suddenly swirling.

That unsettles him. The fact that no one thought to bring you anything at all?

You—who pours so much of yourself into others, who has brought a warmth into his life he didn’t think he deserved—spent last Christmas with nothing?

No gifts. No family. No one?

He hates the thought. He knows it shouldn’t surprise him though... you’ve never asked for anything, and it’s not hard to fill in the blanks.

You don’t talk much about your family—he knows there’s distance there, silence where there should be connection—and Naoya, well… he was never part of the picture. But still, the realization knocks something loose in Satoru, a quiet ache settling into the spaces he didn’t know could hurt.

“It’s no fair, ‘toru. Mama’s nice too!”

Satoru swallows hard, dragging a hand through his hair as he forces a smile back onto his face.

“Yeah… you’re right, kid…” he murmurs quietly. “Your mom’s on the very top of the nice list.”

Haru beams, her hands clasping together like she’s already imagining the magic of Christmas morning.

“Tell Santa, ’kay? Mama needs something really nice.”

The simplicity of her words hits him like a sledgehammer.

Something really nice.

As if it’s that easy, as if fixing the pieces of your world can be done with one perfect gift. But to Haru, it is that easy. Because to her, Santa fixes things.

And for the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo feels the weight of expectation—not from a boardroom, or a title, or the world that demands he be untouchable—but from a tiny girl who trusts him implicitly to fix the one thing he’s been so afraid to get right.

Fucking hell. Now he’s back to square one. What the hell is he going to get you?

He leans back into the couch, one arm draped lazily along the back, but his mind is already turning—the gears clicking into place.

“Something… nice, huh?” he says softly, more to himself than to her.

Haru beams, her little legs kicking against the cushion again as she settles back, satisfied that her request has been heard.

“Yup!”

Satoru tilts his head toward her, studying her with a thoughtful squint. Kids always seem to know the answers to things grown-ups can’t figure out. She’s managed to pry into his thoughts with frightening accuracy already, so maybe—just maybe—she’s his best shot at figuring this out.

After all, who knows you better than Haru?

“Well…” he says after a beat, angling a glance toward her, “what do you think Santa should bring your mom then?”

Haru gasps—like this is the most important question she’s ever been asked—and sits up straight, her little face lighting up.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” He flicks her nose lightly, earning a squeak and a giggle. “You know your mom better than anyone, right? So… what do you think she wants for Christmas?”

Haru’s brows furrow as she thinks very hard, her tiny hands tapping against her chin for emphasis. Satoru watches her expectantly, the smallest spark of hope flickering to life in his chest.

“Well…” she starts slowly, drawing the word out as though she’s stalling for time. “Mama likes cookies.”

Satoru blinks. “Uh… cookies?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods solemnly, as if this is the most serious answer in the world. “Chocolate cookies. With milk. I like them too.”

Ah… right. To Haru, the solution is simple—because to a two-year-old, happiness is simple. And for a moment, Satoru envies her for it.

Satoru exhales sharply through his nose, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he humors her.

“Of course you do, princess. Alright. Noted. So Santa’s supposed to bring your mom cookies. What else?”

Haru’s face lights up as another thought strikes her, and she bounces slightly in place.

“Oh! A teddy bear!”

“A teddy bear?” Satoru quirks a brow, half-amused, half-resigned.

“Yeah!” Haru stretches her arms out as wide as they’ll go, as if trying to contain the sheer size of her vision. “A big one. Pink! Really fluffy. Mama can hug it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. So much for getting a serious answer out of her.

“Okay... so cookies and a big pink bear… anything else?”

Haru pauses again, tapping her chin with her finger like she’s pondering the great mysteries of the cosmos. Then—her eyes go wide, and she gasps, louder this time.

“A pony!”

Satoru stares at her, deadpan. “Really? A pony.”

“Uh-huh!” Haru nods emphatically, little curls bouncing with enthusiasm. “Pink! With sparkles.”

“A… sparkly pink pony?”

“Yes!” She beams, practically vibrating with excitement. “Mama can ride it. I can ride it too. And—and we can give it cookies!”

That does it.

A sharp bark of laughter escapes him before he can stop it, his shoulders shaking as he slumps back against the couch.

With a deep groan, he drags a hand down his face like she’s aged him ten years in two minutes.

He’s getting nowhere.

“Kid… you’re killing me here. Cookies, a teddy bear, and a pony? You’re just listing stuff you want.”

Haru puffs out her cheeks, crossing her arms in protest.

“Nuh-uh! Mama likes ponies. And cookies. And bears.”

Satoru sighs again, tilting his head back against the couch with an exaggerated groan.

This kid.

Her world is so simple—so bright and innocent. Cookies, teddy bears, and ponies.

Haru doesn’t overthink it. She doesn’t make it complicated. To her, happiness is just that—simple.

And maybe… that’s what he needs to remember.

They’re terrible suggestions, but she’s right about one thing: you deserve something really nice. Something that makes you smile—something that feels as bright and simple and warm as Haru’s world.

And if Santa won’t fix it, then damnit, he will.

“Everything okay in here?”

Your voice calls out lightly, followed by the soft clink of mugs. The moment Satoru hears you; he straightens a little, his casual mask snapping back into place.

Stepping in, a tray balances carefully in your hands, three steaming mugs of hot chocolate wobbling precariously as you nudge the door shut with your hip.

The smell hits the room before you do—sweet, rich cocoa laced with the sugary promise of marshmallows—and Satoru thinks that it might as well be magic, with how Haru perks up.

“Mama!” she bounces on her knees so enthusiastically; Satoru thinks it’s a miracle the couch doesn’t catapult her into orbit. “Yay!! Hot cocoa!”

“Mhmm. Hot chocolate delivery!” you announce proudly, lowering the tray onto the coffee table with a dramatic flourish and a smile of pure satisfaction. “Marshmallows included, as requested.”

The soft glow of the Christmas tree dances in your eyes as you kneel in front of Haru, carefully handing her a small mug.

“Two hands, Haru. It’s hot, okay?”

Haru nods solemnly, as if you’ve just bestowed upon her the Holy Grail itself. Her little fingers curl reverently around the mug, and she murmurs softly, “’kay.”

Rising, you hand Satoru his mug next, and he clears his throat—mumbling a quiet “thanks.” When you settle on the couch beside him, he doesn’t miss the way your shoulder brushes against his—your own mug cradled in your hands.

For a moment, it’s calm. The Christmas lights flicker across the room like soft, lazy stars, the cocoa steaming faintly in the air, and Satoru almost lets himself believe this is pure perfection.

But then you ask it.

“And what were you two talking about?” you peer between the two of them with a teasing smile. “I heard lots of giggling.”

Satoru freezes, his mug halfway to his mouth. He’s ready to spin some ridiculous excuse—he’s a master at bullshit, after all—but before he can get the words out, Haru beats him to it.

“We were talking about presents!” Haru announces proudly.

Fuck. That tiny traitor.

Satoru schools his expression, plastering on his best lazy grin as if Haru hasn’t just sold him out for free. He doesn’t need you catching on to the fact that he’s been silently losing his mind trying to figure out what to get you for Christmas.

You arch a brow, amused as you blow lightly on your cocoa.

“Presents, huh? What about presents?”

Haru doesn’t even hesitate. She launches into her list like a kid on a mission.

“Mama, ‘toru is gonna tell Santa we need cookies. And a big pink bear. And a pony!”

Satoru lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relaxing fractionally against the cushions. Of course. The kid’s list is nonsense—pure, two-year-old chaos—and she’s so earnest about it that you’ll never suspect Satoru was fishing for information.

He’s safe.

“Uh-huh,” you hum, nodding indulgently as you sip your drink. “Sounds like quite the Christmas list, sweetheart. Anything else?”

Satoru almost smiles into his mug. It’s ridiculous how close he was to panicking—there’s no need.

But as Haru stops, her face scrunches in concentration before it lights up again. She looks straight at you, eyes wide and earnest, as she adds brightly:

“And I want a little brother!”

Oh, shit.

Satoru chokes—actually chokes—mid-sip, sputtering and coughing like he’s forgotten how to drink liquid. You don’t fare much better, nearly inhaling your cocoa as your head jerks up, eyes wide as saucers.

“A—what?” you croak.

Satoru’s shoulders shake, one arm flung over his face as he tries to muffle his laughter. It’s no use—his wheezing breaths betray him, and he can’t help but grin through his coughs.

“Haru, kid—”

“A little brother!” Haru repeats, utterly unfazed by the chaos she’s unleashed. Her tiny hands still cradle her mug, looking up at you with innocent conviction. “Santa can bring one. Like how he brings the toys.”

Satoru peeks out from behind his hand, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as his laughter tumbles out in unfiltered bursts.

Oh, this is gold. Pure gold.

You whip your head toward him so fast he thinks you might pull something. Your cheeks are flushed—whether from the cocoa or mortification, he’s not sure—and your glare could cut steel. It would have him worried for his life if it weren’t so damn funny.

“Satoru Gojo, what did you say to her?”

“Me?!” he splutters, desperately trying to get his composure back. He throws his hands up in mock innocence, laughter shaking in his shoulders. “Hey, don’t look at me! That’s all her!”

Haru blinks at the two of you, her expression perfectly innocent.

“Santa brings presents, right? So he can bring a brother. A nice one. And he’ll ride the pony with me.”

Your hand flies to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose as you shake your head, biting back the laughter threatening to spill out.

“Haru… sweetheart, that’s… not how it works.”

“Why not?” she asks, and it’s like she genuinely can’t fathom why Santa wouldn’t pull through on such a reasonable request.

Satoru, finally breathing normally again, leans forward with his elbows on his knees—the smirk on his face nothing short of diabolical.

“Yeah, Mama,” he drawls, dripping with mischief. “Why not?”

Your glare sharpens as you turn toward him. “Do not encourage her.”

“Hey,” he’s utterly unrepentant as he leans back lazily, one arm draped over the back of the couch. “I’m just saying—if Santa’s listening, we wouldn’t want Haru to be disappointed, right?” Tilting his head, he smirks at you. “Looks like Santa’s got his work cut out for him this year.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands as Satoru lets his laughter spill out again, unbothered and thoroughly entertained.

Meanwhile, Haru hums to herself, swinging her legs and sipping her hot chocolate contentedly.

“It’s okay, Mama,” she assures you with a confident nod. “Santa’s magic. He can do it.”

ꨄ

The past few days had been a blur of snow, laughter, and tiny hands tugging Satoru in every direction.

If someone had told Satoru Gojo that he’d spend his holiday season wrangling a two-year-old in the snow and actually enjoying himself, he would’ve laughed them out of the room. But here he was, standing knee-deep in the white fluff while Haru shrieked with glee, launching another snowball his way.

“Take this, ‘Toru!” she cried.

The kid’s aim was absolute trash, her snowballs missing him by a mile, but the way she shrieked with delight when Satoru “pretended” to get hit—well, it made it impossible for him not to play along.

“Kid, you’re ruthless,” he’d groaned dramatically after she tackled him into the snow for the third time.

And then there was you. You—standing off to the side like some winter painting coming to life—warm coffee in hand, wearing that smug smile he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss or wipe clean with a snowball.

He swore you’d been the one to tip Haru off about aiming for his knees. Traitor.

The snow had been Haru’s personal playground—and, by extension, his. For days now, his life had been an endless stream of winter chaos: sledding trips that left his muscles aching (Haru’s favorite phrase seemed to be “One more time!”).

Oh, and inside the Gojo estate? More chaos, pure and simple.

Haru’s Christmas cookie baking turned into an all-out war zone—flour dusting the countertops, chocolate chips mysteriously vanishing before they made it into the dough (a crime Satoru was not-so-secretly guilty of), and Haru wearing more icing than she’d used.

Still, the chaos didn’t bother him. He was struck, again and again, by the realization that this—this messy, chaotic, perfect life—was because of you.

And the high-end galas you’d been forced to attend as the faces of the Gojo Corporation—the press, the flashing lights, the constant conversations—all of it felt easier with you beside him.

And you? Well… you carried yourself with a poise that Satoru was genuinely impressed with. But beneath that, he could tell that these past few weeks had taken a toll on you.

You were exhausted.

The late nights catching up on work, the charity events, the endless holiday prep—you hid it well, but Satoru noticed the way your shoulders slumped when you thought no one was looking. The way you sighed as you kicked off your heels by the door.

And it bothered him more than he cared to admit.

It wasn’t just the exhaustion, though. It was this look in your eyes—something wistful, like you were watching all the joy and chaos around you, but holding yourself at a distance.

Satoru didn’t like that. Not one bit.

And still, despite everything, he hadn’t figured out what the hell to get you for Christmas.

The frustration simmered under his skin, gnawing at him whenever he thought about it. You deserved something perfect—something that would remind you how much you were loved. But every time he thought he had it, every idea felt wrong.

Too extravagant, too impersonal, too damn meaningless.

And now, tonight, as he sits at the kitchen table pretending to sip his hot chocolate (while sneaking glances at you sorting through Christmas cards), the idea struck him like a light bulb flickering on.

If he couldn’t figure out the gift just yet, there was one thing he could do.

He could give you a moment. Just one night to breathe—to feel cared for.

Leaning back in his chair, his legs stretch out underneath the table as he watches you—that little furrow of concentration in your brow. You aren’t even faintly aware of how tired you look, or notice when his voice breaks the quiet silence.

“Hey.”

You hum absently, still focused.

“Tomorrow night, don’t make any plans.”

Your gaze lifts, brows raising slightly as suspicion flickers across your face.

“Okay… why?”

“Mmm… ‘cause I’m kidnapping you,” he teases, folding his arms behind his head. “Just dress warm. It’s a surprise.”

That earns him a proper look—you eyeing him skeptically, your lips twitching like you were already fighting back a smile.

Bingo. That’s the look he lives for.

ꨄ

The night air is crisp, biting at his cheeks in a way that’s sharp but oddly pleasant, like winter itself is showing off. Snowflakes drift lazily from the dark sky, glowing gold as they pass through the light of the estate’s lanterns, and the world is blanketed in that perfect kind of quiet—soft, still, almost fragile. A nice kind of quiet.

It’d be perfect, really, if not for the sound of your increasingly dramatic sighs cutting through it.

Satoru tugs his scarf higher around his neck, not because he’s cold—he never seems to feel the cold—but because he’s trying to hide the grin pulling at his lips. He glances over his shoulder to find you trudging through the snow like a grumpy little marshmallow, bundled so thoroughly in your coat and scarf that you look like you’re about to tip over.

“You’re gonna freeze to death if you keep trudging like that,” he calls easily over the snow, making no effort to hide the amusement in his tone.

“I wouldn’t have to trudge if you’d slow down, Gojo,” you snap back, and your exasperation is muffled slightly by the scarf wrapped around your face. “Not everyone has legs like a damn giraffe.”

The laugh he lets out is rich and unbothered, a puff of white against the dark sky. Deliberately, he slows his steps to a near-comical saunter, his boots sinking into the snow with every exaggerated step.

“Better, princess?”

“Barely…” You catch up, though you don’t look particularly grateful about it. “I swear, if you keep dragging me through the Arctic tundra—”

“Oh, come on,” he interrupts, stopping in his tracks. His grin is pure mischief, bright even in the dark. “Where’s your holiday spirit?”

“It died about twenty feet ago,” you mutter, shoulders hunching as you try to burrow deeper into your coat.

He holds out his hand to you with a dramatic flourish, fingers wiggling like he’s offering you salvation itself.

“Here,” his sighs affectionately. “Before you collapse and I have to carry you.”

You stare at his hand for a long moment, clearly torn between taking it and smacking it away. The tension only makes his grin widen.

“C’mon now… you’ll bruise my ego if you say no.”

With a sigh that sounds like a thousand reluctant decisions being made at once, you slip your gloved hand into his. It’s small and warm, even through the layers, and Satoru’s grin falters for just a second when he feels your fingers curl around his.

Did he just get butterflies? That’s dangerous. He’s gotta keep it together.

“Atta girl…” he says softly, a bit too softly for his own comfort. But he covers it up with a gentle tug, pulling you closer as the two of you trudge forward.

The path winds through the trees, the branches drooping under layers of snow. Some of them stretch over the walkway, woven with twinkling lights, so it feels like you’re walking through some kind of enchanted tunnel.

It’s the kind of thing that could make anyone believe in magic, and Satoru would probably be soaking it all in… if he wasn’t so preoccupied with watching you out of the corner of his eye.

Your nose is pink, your cheeks dusted with color from the cold, and there’s a light in your eyes that makes something stir in his chest. He tugs his scarf a little higher, like that’ll help somehow.

Then, just ahead, golden light spills onto the snow. A sleigh comes into view, and Satoru slows his steps as you round the corner and see it.

It’s impressive, even he has to admit. The carriage looks straight out of some over-the-top fairytale, polished black and draped with garlands of evergreen—dusted in fresh snow. Strings of soft golden lights wind along the edges, glowing warmly in the dark.

The horses, two massive creatures with sleek dark coats, stand tall and still, their breath misting in the air. Tiny bells dangle from their bridles, giving a soft jingle every time they shift.

It’s almost too picturesque, like something out of one of those cheesy Christmas movies Satoru always pretends to hate.

He doesn’t look at the sleigh, though. He looks at you.

Your eyes go wide, your mouth parting slightly in surprise, and for a moment, you’re so still he wonders if the cold finally got to you. The snowflakes catch in your hair, the glow of the lights reflecting in your wide-eyed expression, and there it is again—that quiet spark that makes his chest tighten.

“Well?” he breaks the silence with a quiet murmur. “Was it… worth the trek through the Arctic tundra?”

You blink, dragging your gaze away from the sleigh to look at him. There’s something different in your expression now—softer, quieter.

“You did all this?”

He shrugs, slipping his free hand into his coat pocket and forcing a grin onto his face.

“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

“Ridiculous…” you murmur, shaking your head with a faint smile, but there’s no edge to your words. Just that quiet disbelief, like you’re still trying to figure him out.

He gestures to the sleigh with an exaggerated sweep of his hand.

“Well? You gonna stand there and let the snow bury you, or are you getting in?”

The driver steps aside with a polite nod, and Satoru’s already moving to help you—steadying you as you step up into the sleigh, his hand lingering at your waist.

When you settle into the plush seat with a quiet exhale, Satoru’s brain takes a quick pause to tell himself that he’s absolutely screwed.

Because if Satoru thought walking through the snow with your hand in his was dangerous, this is a death blow.

But he still climbs in beside you, moments later—tugging the blanket over your laps as the sleigh jolts softly forward.

The bells chime faintly as the horses’ hooves crunch against the snow. They carry you both down the path, allowing the forest to melt away completely as the sleigh crests a small hill, and suddenly, the town comes into view—a world awash in color and magic.

Lights shimmer from every surface—woven through trees, strung like ribbons between lamp posts, wrapped snug around shopfronts as though the entire place has been dipped in starlight.

Shop windows gleam with warmth, framed by wreaths and garlands dusted with frost, while displays of tiny trains, glowing reindeer, and spinning nutcrackers turn slowly behind the glass.

As the sleigh turns fully onto the main street, Satoru glances at you, and predictably, you’re completely mesmerized.

He knows, because you’ve gone completely still beside him—your breath visible in the cold as you take it all in—and he doesn’t even bother to look at the lights anymore, not when you’re staring at them like you’ve stumbled into a dream.

That glow in your expression—soft and open—that’s what mesmerizes him. And the reflection of the lights in your wide eyes gives him the urge to bottle this moment—keep it tucked in his coat pocket forever, so he can pull it out and look at it whenever the world gets too loud.

The bells from the horses chime softly, blending seamlessly with the hum of life ahead—children laughing, carols echoing, the soft crunch of fresh snow.

But Satoru can’t focus on any of that.

Snowflakes have caught in your hair, little flecks of white like frost spun from the lights above. Your lips, soft and faintly parted, are far too close to his line of sight, and his gaze catches there for longer than it should.

Satoru’s brain is short-circuiting.

He’s never been good at this. Restraint. Holding back. Not when it comes to things he wants, things he craves—and God, does he crave your lips so badly.

You shift slightly, burrowing deeper into his side with a soft hum of contentment that nearly knocks the wind out of him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” you murmur suddenly, as soft as the snow.

He clears his throat lightly, tipping his head back in a lazy attempt at distraction—trying to focus on literally anything else.

“Yeah… not bad,” his voice carries the faintest edge of smugness. “Bet you’re glad I dragged you out here now.”

You hum softly, a little laugh under your breath.

“Yeah… guess I’ll give you this one.”

But as you shift slightly again, your head tilts, and your gaze lingers on something ahead.

In the square below, a father spins his daughter in his arms as she shrieks with laughter—bright red mittens flailing in the air. The mother stands beside then with a warm soft smile, brushing the snowflakes gently out of the little girl’s hair as she settles still.

It’s simple—a fleeting moment of joy—but Satoru notices the way your expression changes. The glow in your eyes dim, just slightly, fading into something distant, something far away.

He doesn’t like it.

It’s not the first time he’s seen that look either. It’s lingered in your eyes at odd moments during the month when you think he isn’t watching.

“Hey… you okay?”

The question snaps you from whatever memory you’ve fallen into. You blink quickly, turning to him with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“What? Oh… yeah. I’m fine.”

It’s a lie. A bad one.

Satoru knows it instantly because your voice wavers, just slightly, and your hands fidget under the blanket like they’re looking for something to hold onto.

He doesn’t push right away. Satoru isn’t great at handling fragile things—he’s all big, teasing words and careless confidence—but seeing this?

You—retreating into yourself, suddenly quiet? Yeah… it never really sits right with him.

“You know…” he starts carefully, voice softening as he watches you, “you’ve already heard all about my old man. But you… you don’t really talk about your family much. What was Christmas like for you growing up?”

The words settle like snow between you—soft, quiet, but heavy. You stiffen slightly.

Fuck. Maybe he’s said too much. Regret flickers in the back of his mind. He’s half-expecting you to deflect.

You hesitate, staring at the lights again as though they’ll save you from answering, and for the first time, Satoru curses those damn Christmas lights. They feel like they’re pulling you away from him.

But then you sigh, and the sound makes something twist low in his chest. It’s too careful. Too practiced.

“Mmm… there’s not much to talk about,” you admit quietly. “My parents weren’t exactly… involved, so Christmas wasn’t really a thing for us.”

Satoru doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting. He knows there’s more, and he’s careful not to push, not yet.

“I used to watch all the Christmas movies, though,” a faint wistful smile tugs at your lips. “The ones where families sat by the fire… wrapping gifts and baking cookies, singing carols together. It felt… magical. Safe. Like they belonged there.”

The smile slips slightly, and Satoru sees the moment the words shift—when they stop being a memory and start being something else entirely.

“But…” your voice dips to a whisper, “Honestly it was like watching through a window. I felt like a spectator. Always outside looking in.”

There it is.

The words hit him square in the chest, sharp and unrelenting, and Satoru hates it. Hates how small you sound when you say it, like you don’t realize how wrong it is for someone like you—you—to feel that way. It makes his jaw tighten, his fingers twitching faintly under the blanket.

“That’s not fair,” he blurts out, faster than he means to. The sharp edge in his voice surprises even him, but he doesn’t care. “I hate it. It’s not right. You shouldn’t have had to feel like that.”

Your head turns slightly, your eyes flicking back to him, startled.

“Satoru—”

“It’s not fair,” he repeats, reining it in slightly this time. He shakes his head, turning to look at you fully now. “And you know what? It’s not like that now. You’ve done the exact opposite.”

You blink again, your brows furrowing faintly.

“What do you mean?”

The surprise on your face makes him huff a quiet laugh. He can’t believe you don’t see it.

“C’mon now sweetheart… I mean, look at Haru.”

Your expression softens at the mention of her, and Satoru feels that familiar twist in his chest—this inexplicable warmth that’s only grown stronger since you and Haru came crashing into his life.

“She’s a happy kid,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve made her a happy kid. Kind of a little terror sometimes—definitely gets that from you—but happy nonetheless.”

You roll your eyes faintly, but there’s a tug at the corner of your mouth that you can’t quite hide.

“Seriously,” he continues, a smirk teasing at his lips now. “That kid lights up at the dumbest stuff—like that ornament she found with the penguin in a Santa hat. You’d think she struck gold. She made me stare at that thing for ten minutes straight.”

You groan, pressing a gloved hand to your face, but there’s a small laugh behind it now.

“She did the same to me.”

Satoru chuckles, low and easy, though his expression softens as he looks at you.

“Because to her, it is magic. You made that happen. You gave her something real, something she’ll hold onto forever. The kind of magic you didn’t have.”

You open your mouth like you want to say something but can’t quite get there yet, and he leans in closer.

“And it’s not just her…” he murmurs hesitantly. “You’ve done that for me too.”

His blue eyes fix on yours with a quiet vulnerability, and your brows furrow faintly as you stare at him.

“What? Really?”

For a moment, Satoru freezes.

Vulnerability isn’t something he’s good at—it doesn’t come naturally to him; he’s always kept people at arm’s length. But somehow, around you, it slips out easier than he expects. Like you’ve managed to dismantle his walls one smile, one moment at a time.

Around you, he doesn’t have to try so hard. And it’s fucking terrifying.

His throat tightens, but he shrugs, playing it off like it’s nothing—even though he knows it’s everything.

“Look… I used to sit in these massive rooms my dad filled with people. All the decorations, all the noise—he made sure it looked perfect. Trees the size of small buildings, tables stacked with enough food to feed an army.”

Satoru pauses, his blue gaze flickering to the snow-dusted path ahead before settling back on you.

“But… none of it mattered. I’d sit there, surrounded by hundreds of people, and still felt so damn alone. Like I wasn’t really there, y’know?”

Your face softens, and he feels it again—that warmth that only seems to exist when you’re looking at him like this, like you can see straight through him. You always do.

“But now?” he exhales, breath curling into the cold air like smoke—his eyes meeting yours fully. “Christmas feels… different. Doesn’t feel so empty anymore.”

“…yeah?”

“Yup…” he shakes off the tension with a sigh, and smugly adds, “You’ve officially ruined Christmas for me, sweetheart. Thanks a lot. Can’t have it any other way now.”

Your laughter comes quietly, and God, there’s that sound that he loves again. Your gloved hand finds his underneath the blanket.

“Well…” your fingers curl around his. “Thanks to you, I finally don’t feel like a spectator anymore… ‘cause you’re in my life.”

Shit.

Satoru swears his heart trips over itself. For a guy who never feels the cold, he’s never felt this warm.

The sleigh jolts suddenly, rolling over a bump in the snow, and the movement sends you swaying against him with a soft gasp.

You’re so close—close enough that he can see the faint blush on your cheeks, the soft part of your lips as you glance up at him.

Your gaze flickers—just once—down to his mouth.

That’s it.

He leans in, his hand slipping out from under the blanket to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly along your skin as he kisses you.

The first press of his lips against yours is careful, tentative, but then you sigh softly, tilting your head slightly, and Satoru’s restraint snaps like a wire pulled too tight.

The kiss deepens, slow but deliberate, as Satoru tilts your face up to meet him properly. His other hand finds your waist, the curve of it fitting perfectly under his palm as he pulls you closer—closer, because he needs you like he needs to breathe.

He swears he’s losing his mind.

You respond just as eagerly, your fingers curling into the front of his coat, and Satoru groans softly against your mouth—equal parts relief and desperation.

He’s screwed. Utterly, completely screwed.

Because now that he’s kissed you, he doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to stop. All he can think about—all he wants—is to pull you into his lap right here on this stupid sleigh and kiss you until the world stops spinning.

His mind betrays him, flooding with images he has no business thinking about right now. Your legs straddling his hips, your coat slipping off one shoulder, coaxing sounds from you that he’s dying to hear—fuck he’s losing himself completely.

He wants to take you—away from the prying world, away from everyone—somewhere that’s just the two of you—home.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only because even Satoru Gojo can’t survive without air forever. But he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests gently against yours and his thumb brushes softly along your jaw.

The corner of your mouth curves faintly and your eyes linger on him—just enough to make his heart skip like it’s forgotten how to work.

It’s torture. Absolute, pure, devastating torture.

His thumb drifts lower along your jaw, reverently tracing the soft line of it. He could stay here forever, just like this—your breath mixing with his in the cold air, your lips pink and kiss-bruised from him.

God, you’ve never looked more beautiful. He wants more.

Shifting slightly, his breath fans across your lips as he murmurs, “You’re so perfect… you’re making this really hard for me, y’know that?”

Blinking up at him, your lips tug into a soft, teasing smile. “Oh?” you murmur, breathlessly. “And what exactly am I making hard, Satoru?”

His breath hitches. Shit. You’re going to be the death of him. He chuckles softly—strained and fraying like his self-control.

“Careful, sweetheart. Keep asking questions like that, and I might just take you home right now.”

Tilting your head, your voice lowers—a quiet challenge.

“…why don’t you, then?”

God, what the fuck are you doing to him?

For a moment, he wants to say screw it. Forget the stupid sleigh, the town, his plans. Forget the world and take you straight to bed where he doesn’t have to hold back anymore.

Take her. Have her all to yourself.

But then your wide, daring eyes lock onto his, and it hits him—you’re playing him—you’re winning. And Satoru Gojo does not lose.

With a slow, shaky breath, he pulls back just slightly. The smirk curling at his lips is lazy, practiced—masking the fact that he’s literally about five seconds from falling apart.

“Mmm… tempting,” he drawls, brushing the pad of his gloved thumb against your bottom lip. “But I’m not that easy to break, sweetheart. Besides, we’ve got more to explore.”

Your eyes narrow faintly, suspicion flickering beneath the teasing curve of your lips.

“You’re unbelievable…”

“Mm, you say that now,” he sighs, “But you’ll thank me later.”

You scoff quietly, rolling your eyes as you lean back just an inch.

“More to explore, huh?”

“Yeah.” His grin widens, lazy and lopsided. “And if you’re good, I might even let you hold my hand the whole time.”

ꨄ

“You’re going to rot your teeth, you know,” you say, watching as Satoru unwraps yet another snickerdoodle cookie—his fifth, by your count.

“Excuse you.” He pauses dramatically, holding the cookie up like it’s a priceless artifact. “I’m single-handedly funding this poor vendor’s retirement. Call me generous.”

You snort into your hot chocolate.

“More like you’re single-handedly making sure they run out of stock before dinner.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He takes a slow, deliberate, obnoxiously loud bite, eyes locked on you the whole time. “I’m boosting the economy, sweetheart.”

“You’re boosting your dentist’s next paycheck, honey.”

Satoru groans, tossing his head back like you’ve just deeply insulted his honor.

“You wouldn’t understand. You don’t appreciate the artistry of sweets like I do.”

“Oh, I appreciate them,” you retort smugly, tugging him away by his coat sleeve before he can eye the next vendor’s table. “I just don’t inhale sugar like I’m storing it for winter.”

“Amateur,” Satoru quips, biting into the cookie with dramatic flair. “You’ll learn.”

“Yeah yeah… I’m cutting you off before you go into a sugar coma.”

“Cutting me off?” He presses a hand to his chest like you’ve insulted his entire existence. “Sweetheart, you wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would,” You grin victoriously, striding ahead of him through the snow-dappled streets.

“Cold. Heartless. A tyrant, really.” Satoru’s voice follows dramatically as he trudges after you, shoving the final bite into his mouth with zero shame. “This is abuse, I tell you.”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely.”

The two of you wander together through the town, your shoulders brushing every so often as you pass small stalls and shops.

The shop windows glow faintly, wreaths and garlands framing every corner, and the air smells of roasted chestnuts and warm cinnamon.

You stop suddenly ahead of him, your steps faltering as your gaze locks onto the massive Christmas tree at the center of the square.

Satoru follows your gaze, and the thing is ridiculous—exactly the kind of over-the-top nonsense Satoru’s father would brag about back in the day. Towering, glittering, competing with the stars like it thinks it has a chance.

But for once, Satoru doesn’t care about the ridiculousness. He only cares about you.

You stand perfectly still, staring up at the tree with something quiet and awed in your expression, like you’ve forgotten the rest of the world exists.

The golden lights catch in your eyes, snowflakes drifting lazily into your hair, and the faintest pink lingers across your cheeks from the cold. You’re glowing—and maybe it’s the lights, or maybe it’s just you.

You look perfect. You look his.

There’s that urge again—capturing this moment, bottling in up, keeping it for himself.

The feeling is so sudden, and before he can second-guess it, his hand slips into his coat pocket, pulling out his phone.

The shutter clicks.

Your head whips around instantly, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Did you just take a picture of me?”

Satoru freezes, phone still half-raised, trying to look as nonchalant as a man caught red-handed can. “Nope.”

Your eyes narrow further, shifting on your feet. “Satoru.”

“I was… texting someone,” he says weakly, his grin betraying him.

“Texting who?” you press, eyebrow arching.

“Santa,” he deadpans. “Telling him you’re being mean to me. Again.”

The flat look you give him is priceless. “Good lord. You’re impossible.”

Satoru grins triumphantly, twirling the phone between his fingers like a magician showing off a trick. “Fine, fine. You caught me. I couldn’t help it. You looked cute.”

The faint flush of your cheeks deepens slightly—probably the cold, he tells himself, but he’ll take it anyway.

“Let me see it.”

“Not a chance.”

Your glare sharpens, and Satoru swears you’re plotting his demise. “Satoru. Hand it over.”

He snorts, immediately shoving the phone into his coat pocket. “You’re cute when you’re bossy, you know that?”

You step closer, determination lighting your expression. “I will fight you.”

“You wanna wrestle me in the middle of town?” Satoru raises a smug brow, delighting in the way you’re glaring up at him. “With kids around? Heartless, sweetheart. Absolutely heartless.”

Before you try to snatch his phone from his coat pocket, he moves faster—his arm looping lazily around your waist, tugging you into his side with practiced ease.

The suddenness knocks you off balance for a moment, and you let out a soft, startled laugh. Satoru can’t help but grin, using the moment to pull you even closer.

“Alright, alright…” he murmurs, pulling out his phone. “Here. Let’s take one together. Our first real photo together—no work, no press. Just you and me.”

You blink, your eyes flickering up to meet his, the faintest surprise crossing your face. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, though the warmth in his voice gives him away. “Gotta document the occasion. Might be the only proof I have that you tolerate me. C’mon, lean in.”

You roll your eyes, though there’s no hiding your smile as you let him pull you closer. He adjusts the camera, keeping his arm secure around you.

“Alright,” he says, angling the phone just right. “Say ‘Gojo Satoru’s the love of my life.’”

You snort, laughing as you nudge him. “I’m not saying that.”

“Mmm… I’ll wait.”

Your laughter bursts through the square, bright and unrestrained, just as the shutter clicks. Before you can recover, Satoru leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as he steals another shot—your laughter caught mid-breath.

“Hey!” you yelp, pulling back to glare at him, but you’re still smiling.

Satoru grins down at the photo as he flips the screen to show you. “Look at that. Photographic evidence that you adore me.”

You gape at him, incredulous. “Adore you?”

“Yep.” He winks, tucking his phone back into his pocket before you can swipe it, catching your hand instead. “Captured for infinity. You’re welcome.”

Your grip tightens on instinct, and you open your mouth to argue, but Satoru beats you to it.

“C’mon,” he swings your hand lightly as he starts pulling you forward again. “The candy stall up ahead has fudge.”

ꨄ

The two of you wander back through the streets, hand in hand as the shops blur by in warm, golden streaks of light.

Satoru doesn’t mind wandering—especially when it means you tugging him along by the hand, pausing every so often to peer into window displays. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you light up at the smallest things.

But then you stop abruptly in front of one shop in particular.

It’s so sudden that Satoru nearly keeps walking, your hand tugging him gently to a halt. When he glances over, he follows your gaze straight to the window of an antique shop tucked snug between two cafes.

And there it is. The locket.

It rests beneath a glass dome, perched on velvet as though it’s worth more than the shop itself. The silver surface gleams faintly under the soft, golden light, delicate and timeless, and engraved across the front is an infinity symbol—curved and flowing endlessly into itself.

Satoru tilts his head slightly, his brows lifting in quiet curiosity as he watches you stare at it—as if that locket holds the entire universe within it.

“See something you like?” he murmurs, looping his arms around your waist and pulling you gently into his chest.

He feels the way you relax into him almost immediately, your hands curling lightly around his forearms.

“Infinity…” you whisper.

He hums, burying his face into the curve of your neck, nuzzling there like he’s trying to steal the warmth of you.

“Hmm?”

You don’t answer right away, your gaze still locked on the locket. Satoru takes the opportunity to press a lazy kiss against the soft skin of your neck, his lips curving into a grin when he feels you shiver slightly beneath him.

“What’s got you so lost in there, huh?” he teases.

“Hmm? Oh…” You blink, your cheeks tinged faintly pink as you glance back at him. “I was just thinking about what you said. About infinity.”

He raises a brow now, a slow grin spreading across his face as he straightens just enough to nudge his chin toward the locket.

“Yeah? You been pondering the mysteries of the universe without me?”

You turn slightly in his arms, your gaze lifting to meet his, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you.

“Well,” you begin, smiling faintly, “I’ve been thinking… you’re… well, you’re kind of like infinity, aren’t you?”

Satoru blinks, his grin faltering for a split second.

“Me?”

“Yeah… you’re always moving, always bigger than life, like there’s no end to who you are. You don’t stop—don’t ever really slow down. You’re... limitless.”

For once, Satoru’s brain stalls. Completely. He’s torn between a smug She thinks about me like that? and the sudden ache in his chest that he doesn’t know what to do with.

He sees the way you’re looking at him—soft, honest, like you’re laying something fragile and important at his feet—and it hits him harder than anything he’s prepared for.

Satoru tightens his hold on you, pulling you closer as though that’ll somehow ground him.

“You really think that?” A softness creeps into his voice. “That I remind you of infinity?”

You nod slowly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. Your gaze drops for a moment before lifting again, steady this time.

“Yeah… because no matter what... you’ll always protect me. You’ll always be here, won’t you? Like infinity. Always.”

Satoru’s breath catches. For once, he doesn’t have a clever comeback. He doesn’t have anything except this overwhelming, all-consuming feeling swelling in his chest.

He dips his head, brushing his lips softly against your forehead. It’s the only answer he has.

“Mhmm,” he murmurs quietly. “Always.”

For a moment, he lingers there, his forehead pressed to yours, your breath mingling in the cold. Then, with a small grin tugging at his lips, he pulls back slightly, arms still secure around you.

“C’mon,” he sighs affectionately. “There’s still fudge with my name on it.”

You let out a soft laugh, your hand slipping back into his as he tugs you gently forward. But as you fall into step beside him, Satoru’s gaze drifts back to the shop window, to the locket resting beneath the glass.

Infinity, huh?

The faintest smile plays on his lips as he squeezes your hand lightly. He finally knows what he’s getting you for Christmas.

ꨄ

For Satoru, Christmas morning felt… surreal.

The Gojo estate, usually silent and polished like a showroom, had transformed into something far more, filled with a warmth—Haru’s delighted squeals echoing down the halls, filling the empty spaces with pure, unfiltered joy.

“Mama! ‘Toru! Wake up! Hurry, hurry!”

Her voice carries like a one-person parade, punctuated by the rapid thump of her tiny feet sprinting towards the tree, and Satoru groans into his pillow—dragging a hand over his face as if that would erase the early hour.

The sun wasn’t even properly up yet, and here he was, reluctantly dragged from the cocoon of his bed by the infectious energy of a two-year-old.

He shuffled down the hall in his pajama pants and hoodie, stifling a yawn as he dragged a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

Rounding the corner, he caught sight of Haru—a blur of bedhead and reindeer pajamas, arms flailing as she skidded to a halt in front of the Christmas tree. Her tiny hands clapped together as her wide eyes took in the mountain of carefully wrapped presents beneath it, glittering under the soft glow of twinkling lights.

“Mama! ‘Toru! Look! Presents!!” she squeals, bouncing on her toes, so full of excitement that Satoru half-expects her to rocket straight into the air.

He leans lazily against the doorframe, watching her with an amused grin. This kid… she was like a wound-up toy, running purely on joy and Christmas spirit. It tugged at something in him—a place he didn’t even realize had been empty until now.

“How does she have this much energy so early in the morning?” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder just as you appeared behind him.

You looked impossibly cozy—wrapped in your pajamas, your hair tousled from sleep. In your hands were two steaming mugs of coffee, one of which you handed to him without a word.

“She’s almost three,” you say simply, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “And it’s Christmas. Welcome to parenthood. This is her prime time.”

“Prime time for chaos,” he quips, taking a careful sip of his coffee.

He shoots Haru a mock-suspicious glance as she darts around the tree—tiny hands hovering over the presents like she’s trying to decide where to start.

“You sure Santa didn’t slip her a double espresso in her stocking?”

Your laugh is quiet and warm, the kind that made the corners of his mouth tug upward instinctively, and he couldn’t help but think how ridiculously domestic this all felt—Haru bouncing by the tree, you standing beside him with that soft, sleepy glow.

It was almost unsettling how much he liked it… how much he cherished it.

His gaze shifts back to Haru, who was now crouched in front of the tree, examining the tags on the presents like a tiny detective—a kind of joy so radiant it made something tighten in Satoru’s chest.

It hit him then—here he was, watching Haru’s eyes light up with the same wonder he never got to feel growing up. His Christmases had always been all flash and no magic. Gilded parties, perfectly wrapped gifts that lacked thought, and a cold sort of extravagance that filled rooms but never hearts.

But this?

This was different. Seeing Haru’s excitement now felt like reclaiming something he didn’t even know he’d lost.

“Mama! ‘Toru!” Haru’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts as she holds up a box triumphantly. “Look! Look! For me!”

“Man, Santa really outdid himself this year,” Satoru drawls, stretching an arms over his head as he plops onto the couch beside you.

He made a show of sipping his coffee like he hadn’t been the one painstakingly arranging the presents under the tree just hours earlier.

You’d handed him ribbons to tie, smirking as he fumbled with the tape, and rolled your eyes as he huffed about how ‘unnecessarily complicated’ wrapping paper was.

And then there’d been the cookies and hot chocolate Haru had left out for Santa, which he devoured with exaggerated flair. You’d caught him red-handed, crumbs still on his face, and he grinned sheepishly, muttering something about how Santa worked hard and deserved a snack.

It had been... nice. Warm. Like stepping into a life he always thought was meant for other people, not him.

But Haru?

She didn’t care about Satoru’s epiphanies. She was too busy shredding wrapping paper like her life depended on it.

The morning quickly descended into a delightful chaos—a whirlwind of torn ribbons, squeals of delight, and an ever-growing pile of toys. Haru didn’t just open her gifts; she paraded each one around the room like a prized trophy.

A dollhouse, a pink fluffy stuffed bear (that was for you, right?), and a set of art supplies. Every present came with an enthusiastic ‘Mama, look!’, making you laugh while Satoru grinned like an idiot.

And his attention… well, it kept drifting back to you.

The way you tucked your legs beneath yourself on the couch, leaning slightly into his shoulder as you sipped your coffee. The way your eyes softened whenever Haru ran to you, clutching another gift—her excitement bubbling over.

The way the light from the tree caught in your hair, making you look like you belonged in this moment… more than anything else ever had.

“Mama, look!” Haru gasps yet again, holding up a small box wrapped in gold paper. “Santa didn’t forget you!”

You blink, momentarily startled, as she thrusts the box into your hands before darting back to the tree—already rummaging for her next gift with boundless energy. Your gaze, however, shifts toward Satoru, narrowing with playful suspicion.

“Oh really?” you arch an eyebrow, grinning.

Satoru scratches the back of his head, feigning nonchalance even as a smug grin begins to tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t look at me,” he shrugs. “That’s between you and Santa. Guy’s always been a softie for you.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn your attention to the package, peeling back the carefully wrapped paper to reveal a small rosewood box.

The craftsmanship immediately catches your eye—with rich, dark wood, smooth to the touch. Two turtle doves are etched with breathtaking detail across the lid—wings entwined in a delicate dance of devotion. As you trace the design with your fingertips, the doves seem to almost flutter underneath—a stunning work of art.

And as you lift the lid, your breath hitches.

Nestled inside is the platinum heart-shaped locket, glinting under the soft glow of the Christmas tree. Encircling the heart is a delicate band of diamonds, each stone catching light like tiny frozen stars. And there, at the center of the locket’s face, is that infinity emblem you know so well—etched with graceful precision.

Your breath catches—your chest tightening as you carefully lift the locket from its velvet cradle. The weight of it is delicate yet grounding in your palm.

“Satoru…” you murmur in awe.

Beside you, he nudges your shoulder gently—his grin softening into something quieter, something more vulnerable.

“Open it.”

With careful fingers, you undo the clasp, and the locket falls open, revealing the secret it holds.

On one side was the photo he’d snapped of the two of you in the town square—you laughing, your cheeks pink from the cold, while he pressed a kiss to your cheek with that obnoxiously smug grin.

On the other side was another photo—one you hadn’t even known he’d taken—a candid shot of you and Haru in the kitchen, flour dusting your nose as you helped her decorate cookies.

Your smiles were radiant, unguarded, and completely at ease.

For a moment, you just stare, your lips parting slightly as you tried to form words. Satoru leans closer, his hand brushing lightly over your shoulder.

“You said… infinity reminded you of me,” he says quietly. “So… I thought maybe this could remind you of us.”

Your eyes lift to meet his, shimmering with an emotion so raw and overwhelming it makes him hold his breath. Then, without a word, you reach up, cup his face with both hands, and kiss him.

It’s soft, deliberate, and unhurried—the kind of kiss that makes him feel like maybe the universe doesn’t have to be so vast and infinite. Not when it can be filled with moments like this.

Before he can fully bask in the moment, Haru’s delighted squeal cuts through the air like a firework.

“Mama! Look! A big one!”

Satoru turns to see her tiny hands tugging at a large, carefully wrapped box partially hidden behind the tree. She tries to drag it forward, but honestly the box is way bigger than her.

You laugh softly, already stepping up from your seat to guide her hands away.

“Oh… that one’s not for you, sweetheart. It’s for Satoru.”

Satoru blinks, caught off guard. For him?

He doesn’t even have time to process it before Haru’s face twists into the most dramatic pout he’s ever seen—complete with trembling lips and misty eyes. She crosses her arms like she’s about to stage a sit-in protest right then and there.

“What? No fair!”

Satoru chuckles, setting his coffee mug aside as he pushes himself up from the couch with an exaggerated groan.

“Alright, alright,” he ruffles Haru’s hair as he crouches beside her. “How about this? You help me open it, and I’ll share whatever’s inside. Deal?”

Haru’s pout vanishes like snow in the sun, replaced by a radiant grin as she nods enthusiastically.

“Okay!”

With Haru leading the charge, they attack the wrapping paper like a two-person wrecking crew. Satoru makes a big show of struggling with the ribbon, grunting and pretending to pull with all his strength. Haru giggles at his theatrics, and finally, the last shred of paper falls away.

As the box opens, Satoru stills.

Inside is a telescope—sleek and polished to perfection. His hand trails over the smooth surface, and suddenly he was eight years old again, lying on his back in the garden with a telescope propped on the grass, mapping constellations under a vast, endless sky.

But then, his eyes widen as his fingers brush across something etched on its side. Engraved with precision, is the constellation Lyra—the harp.

Satoru knows enough about stars to understand its meaning. Lyra represents love, devotion, and music. It’s the constellation of Orpheus and Eurydice—a love story as infinite as the stars themselves.

For a long moment, all he can do is stare, his thumb brushing lightly over the engraving as if to ground himself. He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until your voice pulls him back.

“You recognize it?” you ask softly.

He glances up at you, the grin on his face softening into something quieter, something real.

“Mhmm... It’s Lyra.”

You step closer, the faintest hint of nerves in the way you tug at the hem of your pajama sleeve.

“I thought… I thought you’d like an upgrade…” you say shyly, “You love the stars, and I thought you deserved something that made you feel… closer to them.”

Satoru’s throat tightens, and he can’t speak right away, but before he even has the chance to, Haru tugs at his sleeve impatiently, breaking the moment.

“What is it? What is it?” she demands, eyes wide with curiosity.

Satoru lets out a breathless laugh, pulling her onto his lap as he turns the telescope slightly so she can see.

“This, my little star, is how we can see the sky up close. The stars, the moon, even planets if we’re lucky.”

Her eyes widen. “The stars? I wanna see the stars ‘toru!”

“Okay, princess. Tonight, I’ll show you the whole sky.”

“Yay!!” Haru gleams, bouncing on his lap.

Satoru chuckles, steadying her with one arm, but as Haru chatters away, his gaze drifts back to you.

You’re standing quietly a few steps away, watching the scene unfold with that soft, knowing smile that always makes his heart trip over itself. The glow of the Christmas tree casts a faint halo around you, and for a moment, Satoru wonders how he ever existed without this—without you.

Wordlessly, he tilts his head, beckoning you closer. When you step forward, his free arm slips around your waist, pulling you gently down to sit next to him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips—slow, unhurried, and laced with everything he can’t quite put into words.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

It’s not just for the telescope. It’s for this moment, for this morning, for you. Your fingers trail softly over his cheek, and he swears you’re glowing.

“Merry Christmas, Satoru…” you murmur quietly.

“Merry Christmas… sweetheart.”

There’s a warmth in your eyes that feels like home, and for the first time in his life, he understands what it means to be content.

This—this moment, this family, this love—it’s everything. It’s infinite.

And as the three of you sit there, bathed in the glow of the Christmas tree, Satoru realizes something he’s never dared to believe.

He finally belongs.

a/n. i got in my feels writing this. as someone who struggles around the holidays, this was real cathartic to write. hope you guys have an incredible holiday season with the ones you love—thanks for reading, sending hugs! ♡

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @acowboykisser @mikyapixie @rosso-seta

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christiancj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys @k1ttybean

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer @elliesndg

@maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @illianasa @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

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saintobio · 11 months ago

Text

sincerely yours. (9)

↳ gojou satoru/reader

when a twist of fate led their marriage to the path of a quintessential tragic romance, two past lovers go through another series of experiences on love, heartbreak, identity, illness, and trauma along the road to a happily ever after.

genre. heavy angst, amnesia, modern au, 18+

tags/warnings. profanity, usage of alcohol, mentions of cheating, implied suicide attempt, toxic relationship, explicit smut

series masterlist -> episode ten

Satoru had a major problem.

And it was his self-control. His lack of self-control was the reason he had engaged himself in an adulterous relationship back when he was married. His lack of self-control was the reason why you had become the recipient of his unreasonable anger in the early stages of your marriage. His lack of self-control was the reason why, out of all the women in the world, he was now sleeping with a friend of yours. For God’s sake, his lack of self-control was probably the reason why you were also pushed to your limits, choosing to cut your marital ties with him and leaving only the scraps of his role as a parent to Sachiro.

Back when he was attending his weekly therapy sessions, his therapist told him that part of what he needed to learn was to control his impulses, resist temptations, and actively exercise his willpower. They were easier to achieve then than now, since he was the loneliest man at the time with no friends, no wife, no son, and no bustling company to run. His decisions remained untainted, his temptations unchallenged, his emotions uninfluenced—a solitary journey at its finest. He was all by himself. How come? It was because he was sent by his mom to Osaka to temporarily seclude him from his harrowing memories in Tokyo, compelling him to sever ties with the outside world and immerse solely in personal convalescence. Reflecting now, it felt no different than being sent to a psychiatric hospital.

He could say it worked at the time. He learned how to keep his emotions at bay. He learned how to control his thoughts, throwing away the bad and keeping only the good. He was a new man by the time he returned to Tokyo, prepared as ever to take on his role as the Chairman of the Gojou Group, ready to once again try and live a normal life. But the moment news had spread about his ex-wife's marriage to his business rival, all the self-control he had painstakingly cultivated seemed to have evaporated in an instant.

Everything also went downhill after that.

He wasn’t going to list down all of the things that happened nor the impact it had on him since you yourself were a witness to them. But if he was going to look at the way your return has changed the trajectory of his life 3 years after you first left, he would still at a hundred percent put all the blame on his shoulders. None of this domino effect would end up like this if he had been a faithful and loving husband in the first place. The pressure from his father was not the only root of all this, the branches also extended to his corporate greed which ultimately ruined his chance at a fruitful marriage with you.

But at least, the chaos should have settled by now. You chose to move forward and he decided to respect your decision by finding his way to another. This should free you both from the emotional torture that had you imprisoned in each other's cage for the longest time. He would still be there for you as the father of your child, but otherwise, he was happy that you had Toji Zen’in by your side to fill in the marital gaps that he had failed to complete.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips. The warm water fell on his body in rivulets, soaking him completely so early in the morning as he decided to take a long shower. For how long? He couldn’t tell. He could stay there for hours if need be. He had to let his mind wander on its own, with a hand pressed against the wall, and another stroking his white hair back. Despite accepting the fact that Toji now owned your love and affection… well, wasn’t that son of a gun too lucky? Did he even realize that the woman he would marry was once Satoru’s entire universe?

Ah, but who cares? Satoru scoffed inwardly, leaning his head back to let the water hit his face. He had Akemi, so why did it matter if you had Toji? He wasn’t bitter. He was just trying to reason with himself that you deserved to be with someone you really, truthfully loved. And he deserved that, too. Maybe not now, but at the perfect time, he could relive the life of a married man after learning from his mistakes the hard way. A much better one. A married man who would never in his life betray, hurt, or ruin his partner. A doting husband who would offer his whole life just to make her happy. He promised to himself that Akemi should have that kind of man from him.

Though, he could ask himself, how far was he from achieving that? He did practice his self-control last night when joined you in the pool—his face, inches away from you. Hand gripping your hip. Eye-to-eye. Skin-to-skin. Your warm breath fanning his cheek. Just another step forward and your lips would touch. But he didn’t let that happen. He mustered all of his power to pull back from the gravity that was drawing him closer to you. Still, he couldn’t deny that you looked absolutely gorgeous last night. As the moonlight illuminated your face, he could swear that the stars also sparkled on your eyes. They must be from the tears you were desperately holding back, but either way, you were still so goddamn beautiful. He almost couldn’t keep his eyes off you last night and had to distract himself from looking at your lips, your collarbone, your chest, your curves…

“Fuck.”

Talk about self-control.

Satoru had none of that right now. His body reacted involuntarily to the thought of you last night. The sensual thought of you. The what-ifs.

What if he had wrapped your legs around his waist and enveloped your lips into a passionate kiss?

He took a deep breath, still holding onto the wall as his other hand traveled to his growing member.

What if he had carried you all the way into the living room and laid you naked on the couch?

Closing his eyes, his hand started moving on its own, stroking his hardened cock and feeling every ridge as he pleasured himself.

What if you had let him devour you? Let him roll his tongue on your entrance and taste your sweet, sweet flesh?

Gojou let out a moan. A quiet yet desperate moan when he continued to jerk himself off faster and rougher. Damn it. He had to keep it low and he better not be heard committing such a sin in the bathroom. Although, he was confident that you were still sound asleep next to Sachiro in your bedroom, so he didn't think you would hear the noise he was making.

After all, it was shameless to know what was driving his feral thoughts right now. Thoughts of you letting him slide his tip along your entrance. Thoughts of him ramming his cock inside your tight cunt, being squeezed by your soft, velvet walls. Thoughts of your breasts bouncing wildly as he continued to hit your most sensitive spot. Fuck. Faster. He would have taken you on all fours, too. He would have let you ride his hardened shaft. He would have pressed you against the sofa and put your legs above his shoulders, letting you milk his cock with the tightness of your cunt. Satoru would release his warm seed into you in every position. He would shoot every drop of his cum straight to your womb, no doubt impregnating you for the second time around. He would absolutely love that. He would love seeing the residues of his wanton desire for you seeping out of your pussy. He would be at bliss watching your belly grow a few months after that, knowing that he had created yet another beautiful life inside of you.

“Y/N…”

Awakened by his senses, Satoru opened his eyes and saw the sticky white mess on his hand and on the wall. What the hell did he just do? More importantly, what the hell was he thinking of?

No one should know about that. Not you, not even Akemi. He didn’t cheat on her, no. He didn’t do anything with you. That shouldn’t be counted as cheating. He didn’t even touch you. And he wasn't even officially dating Akemi.

No, no…

Absolutely not.

Drowning into a pool of guilt, the first thing he did after that sinful shower session was to contact his supposed girlfriend not-girlfiend. And to make things even more awkward, you entered the kitchen in silence at the right time, carrying a sleepy Sachiro in your arms, unaware of the dilemma that was sending your ex-lover into a spiral.

“Morning,” he greeted almost inaudibly, clearing his throat and taking a sip of coffee afterwards. He had to think straight.

“Morning,” was your simple and oblivious reply as you went about your daily morning routine.

Gojou, on the other hand, was typing on his phone because Akemi wasn’t answering his FaceTime calls. He had completely forgotten to update her all day because he had been a little bit too occupied the moment he landed in America. She must be overthinking why he hadn’t reached out to her until now, and he felt extremely awful and responsible for that, but she couldn’t be fast asleep that early, right? It was 7:00 a.m. in New York, so that meant it was only 9:00 p.m. back home.

He nervously rang her number once more, mumbling a ‘please answer’ as he watched her caller ID appear on the screen.

“Dada,” called Sachiro, looking at him as his mother sat him on the high chair to prepare his breakfast.

Still holding his phone, Satoru walked to his son and placed a gentle kiss on his tiny forehead. “Morning, Sachi. Did you sleep well?”

The toddler nodded at him, drinking milk from the baby bottle that he was holding with both hands. His eyes were wide and blue—quite the same hues of blue that would remind you of a clear sky. Satoru couldn’t help but pinch his adorable son’s cheeks.

And while you were busy picking out food from the pantry, Akemi finally answered his call after the fourth attempt and showed her beautiful, soft features on the screen. His eyes immediately lit up at the sight of her. “Hey, how are you?”

He could tell she was still a bit distant and upset because of what happened two weeks ago, when she claimed to have heard him say your name during his sleep. He already made an excuse for it as he also didn’t know why he even did it in the first place, but Akemi was still understandably hurt. He couldn’t blame her.

“I’m fine, how are you?” she tiredly asked, seemingly heading towards her bed. “I just got home from work, that's why I wasn’t answering.”

He could see, in the corner of his eyes, that you were glancing at him but he didn’t return it. All of his focus was on Akemi, feeling bad that he hadn’t exactly been a good partner for her lately. Especially after the shit he just did in the shower this morning, but that was a secret that was meant to be buried. “Alright, did you have dinner already? It’s morning here so I’m having breakfast.”

She offered a small smile albeit the visible exhaustion on her eyes. “I did. How’s Sachiro doing?”

“You wanna see him?” He walked closer to his son, showing him on the screen as his big blue eyes stared at the woman on the other end of the line. “Sachi, say hi to Auntie ‘Kemi.”

“Hiii~” Sachiro happily greeted Akemi, while the latter cooed at the sight of his son. She spoke to him with a gentle and motherly tone, weaving warmth and love into her words. It made his heart full knowing that Akemi would wholeheartedly treat his child as her own, because if there was a slight possibility that she wouldn’t, she knew that Satoru would rather let her go. His child was still more important than any other woman. And so if his future partner couldn’t accept the fact that he had a child with his ex-wife, then they shouldn’t be in his life after all. The case was different with Akemi because she was already your friend and she had the chance to see Sachiro grow up before Gojou even knew his son existed at all. It was a bit complicated, but things turned out to be easier on the part of acceptance.

The only problem was you.

Because by the time the call ended, Satoru could tell that you weren’t in the best mood as you ate breakfast next to Sachiro in complete silence. Your eyebrows were curled into annoyance, and yet your eyes held sadness in them, an expression that had become difficult for him to fathom. Were you jealous of Akemi? He assumed you would say no, but your expressions showed otherwise.

“Y/N,” he called for your attention, hoping that you would look into his eyes for a little bit. Yet, not a chance did you do. “What’s our agenda for today?”

You seemed irritated, if anything. You refused to look at him as you gave a curt reply. “I communicated everything you needed to know via email. You should have checked it instead of letting Miwa do everything for you.”

Jeez. You were definitely angry. “Okay.” He cleared his throat once more. “I just asked in case there was a last minute change.”

“There isn’t. I would have said so if there is.”

“Right.”

Satoru didn’t know how to act in front of his ex-wife anymore. Now that he had seemed to ignite your pique, he chose not to say anything else further as you two finished your meals and cleaned up after yourselves. The only time he spoke again was when he offered to bathe Sachiro so that you could focus on yourself.

You agreed.

And he did his part.

It was simple give-and-take. A transactional relationship, if you must. Nothing else would blossom from that except your responsibilities as parents for Sachiro.

——

The New York trip was already as awkward as it was. And it only just started.

To be fair, it wouldn’t have been as uncomfortable if only Gojou had not decided to make it so. He was the one that made the atmosphere unpleasant by trying to savor every inch of closeness he could get to your skin, only to pull away as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t care about how it made you feel. He even had the audacity to lecture you on how to go about being good parents and setting a good example to Sachiro. Then suddenly, the next morning, he would act like such a loyal and caring partner to Akemi.

The thought of his loyalty made you scoff on the inside. He should be the absolute last one to be saying that. He should be the last one to profess how much of a loyal man he was trying to be to his new girl.

Besides, even before this trip was arranged, you had already made it clear on your mind that the sole purpose of going to New York was for Sachiro's sake. Any interaction outside the need to be there for your son would be unnecessary. He wasn’t someone you still needed in your own personal life nor did he need you in his. Your past relationship no longer mattered in this situation and all that was left was for it to be forgotten. But even with your resistance to be anything more than a parent to your son, Satoru still respected you. He still showed, even in little ways, that he cared about your comfort throughout the trip.

Five days had gone by, and everything you did in New York had been smooth sailing, all thanks to his grand number of connections across the USA. In a short amount of time, Sachiro’s surname had been legally changed, and everything else concerning his birth certificate had been corrected. The only issue left to address was your son’s nationality since Japan doesn’t permit dual citizenship and Sachiro would have to carry a Japanese citizenship and the Gojou name to be able to inherit his father’s assets and multinational conglomerate. You would leave that one up for Satoru to deal with, but everything else had been settled on your end.

Although this trip wasn’t exactly a vacation, Gojou insisted that you two still take Sachiro out to explore the city he grew up in. And you did so by going to Central Park, telling your ex-husband stories of how you used to bring Sachiro there in a stroller when he was still a little baby and that plenty of strangers, both locals or tourists, would coo at him the minute they took a peek at his adorable face. You also took him to the Empire State Building to get the best view of the entire New York City, and Satoru being Satoru couldn’t leave without taking a family photo with you and your son, capturing the beautiful urban cityscape behind you. You could see it in his eyes that even though he was happy to be there, he was also melancholic at the same time. Almost three years of his son’s life were spent in this famous city, without him, and it was as though the bitter memories of those three years for him were haunting him back. Sadness was reflecting off of his crystal blue eyes as he took a minute staring at the view of the city, reminding you that you were the reason why he had missed out on his baby’s first memories.

If guilt could literally eat you alive, you would have been devoured.

“Ready to go, Sachi?” Satoru asked your son, tucking his phone away after having (seemingly) sent Akemi a text message, probably updating her of where he was and what he was doing. In fact, he had been texting and calling her every now and then, as if he was doing his best to reassure her that he wasn’t doing any funny business with you. Has Akemi always been a possessive partner? Even with your years of friendship with her, she had never acted that way in her past relationship. So, was she only like that to Satoru specifically? You wondered if she would go nuts had she heard Satoru tell you how badly he wanted to make more babies with you on your first night here.

Sachiro nodded, clinging to your hand while reaching for his father’s. “Dada, hand pwease!”

Satoru did offer his hand, but mirrored the surprise on your face when your son tried to link your fingers together, urging you to hold each other's hands like a couple. You didn’t want to get too offended by it, but your ex-husband was the first one to pull away. “I, uh, made a reservation for us in Carbone,” he said, unable to exchange eye-contact, “Yuuta will meet us there.”

“Oh, he’s in New York?” you asked, pretending you didn’t notice how he acted allergic to your touch and redirected your attention to your son. “Did you hear that, Sachi? Uncle Yuuta will come and see you.”

Your little one was oblivious to the world, too distracted by the throng of people surrounding the place that he didn’t even notice how his parents were uneasy with each other. To say that you didn’t feel bad for your son was a lie, because it actually broke your heart. Even if you and Satoru were working on co-parenting and making sure Sachiro wouldn’t feel the gravity of a broken household, you knew that when he reached the right age, all of this would still have an effect on him. One day, he would still be asking questions about his parents. Questions about why you separated, why your marriage failed, and why you had to move to New York while his father stayed behind. It hurt. Deep inside, it hurt so much to know that your only son wasn’t given the chance to have a complete family and it felt like a failure on your part as his parent.

You were sure that was what Yuuta thought, too. As you met with him at a fancy restaurant in the city, you could see how his face lightened up seeing his nephew bonding with his parents as if it were a family vacation. He must have known what it was like to have a broken household. In fact, he had lived in a toxic one before, but he still grew up to be a mature and dignified young man who never let the horrors of his family’s actions affect his rational thinking. So if there was anyone in the world who would sympathize the most with Sachiro, it would be Yuuta.

“Sachi,” he spoke to your son fondly, wiping the sauce on the toddler’s chin. Yuuta chuckled as he watched the little boy's grimace after being given a small piece of broccoli. “You don’t like vegetables?”

You fixed the bib on your son’s neck. “He does, but he’s very picky with it,” you tell Yuuta, glancing at Satoru who was busy speaking on the phone with Nanami about what appeared to be matters concerning the company. “Wonder where he got it from.”

“Right.” Yuuta’s eyes turned into moon crescents as he smiled. “I remember nii-san being a little picky.”

“You hear that Sachi?” you teased your son, who looked at you with his cute puppy eyes. You knew that if you had the ability to peak through his toddler mind, it would actually be full of fried chicken. The thought made you laugh. “Don’t be like daddy, okay? Sachi needs to have his veggies so he’ll be strong when he grows up.”

“But…” Sachiro pointed to his father. “Dada is stwong.”

Satoru chimed in at the conversation after having finished the call, “That’s right, Dada’s strong. Mommy could barely even handle me.”

“Do you even know what we’re talking about?” You rolled your eyes, while Yuuta wanted to giggle, but chose to hold it back seeing the awkwardness of the situation.

Satoru shrugged and sat on his chair, eyeing the scrumptious dishes that were served to your table. He was acting like he hadn't been served more expensive meals before. “Have you tried the spicy rigatoni before? I heard it’s famous here.”

You casually answered. “Yes. Toji used to bring me here every time he visited.”

Look, you didn’t mean to overshare nor did you mean to make things even more awkward. You also didn’t mean to slap it in his face about how you were spending your years in New York with Toji. But Satoru, with his pride, took it resentfully.

“Oh, really?” His words were the opposite of his voice. He was mirthless and full of unenthusiasm before changing the topic, redirecting his attention to his step-brother instead. “How’s Harvard?”

Yuuta eased the tension by making small talk, sharing details about his university life, and making sure he didn’t contribute to the growing tension. “I’m really just trying to survive this semester so I can go back home as soon as I graduate.” After taking a sip of his Cabernet Blend, he continued, “Like I promised, I’ll help you with the company.”

You were happy, at least, to know that Satoru and Yuuta had fixed their relationship as step-brothers even after the whole incident with Nana, Eula, and their father. What used to be a relationship full of envy and competition finally became one that was full of mutual trust and support. Yuuta deserved that since he never once wished for his brother’s downfall, while Satoru also deserved to have a family member that had his back and helped him with the business without constantly fighting about inheritance. Because technically, Satoru was the sole heir of the Gojou family, and his dad only made it seem as though he would give it to Yuuta to make his own son comply with his orders. Satoru’s dad was controlling in that sense, and that was what led to all of this.

But the present was more important. Things have changed and mistakes have been learned. It was all up to you on how you were going to manage your new life moving forward.

Only, if only things were a little bit different on his side.

——

You had raised your son all by yourself for the last 3 years, so the presence of his father wasn’t really something you were used to for the longest time. How Sachiro acted around other people was solely a reflection of your teachings, discipline, and guidance as his mother. He didn’t really have a paternal figure up until now, and even if Toji was there to support your journey to motherhood, he never fully meddled with your mother-son relationship nor did he act like a replacement to Sachiro’s biological father. He loved him like his own, but respected the fact that the spot was reserved for Satoru. He knew that. He understood that, because he himself experienced raising a child alone without the presence of a mother. And if you asked him, he, too, would not want Megumi to replace the very love that he was supposed to have for his biological mom. Sure, Megumi could love and respect you, but Toji would still want him to save an unnegotiable spot for his mother in his heart. After all, she had birthed him. And in that same way, you had birthed Sachiro and created him with Satoru during your marriage. If there was anyone Sachiro should look up to, it had to be his father.

And quite frankly, the father himself was doing an excellent job.

But then again, remembering how hands-on Satoru was to you during your pregnancy, you never doubted that he would be a good parent. He may not be a perfect husband, but he loved his child with all of his heart and soul, and he would risk it all just to keep him happy.

It was new to you how, throughout the trip, you didn’t have to take care of Sachiro alone. You and Satoru helped each other harmoniously, attending to your toddler’s needs and making sure he was being prioritized. You were glad. Truly. You were grateful to see that he wasn’t an absent father and that his words weren’t empty when he promised you that he would be a responsible dad to him.

Though, at the back of your mind, you couldn't help but wonder what would happen if he welcomed another child in this world? A child that didn’t come from you? Deep inside, it hurt you to imagine him neglecting Sachiro on the side the minute he welcomed a new baby with Akemi. The reality was, the father would always prioritize the child of the current wife, not the child of the ex-wife. He would still support him, sure. But would he still pay the same level of attention that he was giving Sachiro now? You would probably break in half if Sachiro was thrown to the agonizing realm of feeling like an outsider in his own family because no child deserved that. If Satoru had that experience first-hand, he should not subject his own son to that same feeling.

You would be selfish to say this, but you wanted to seize the opportunity while Sachiro was still his only son. Hiding him from his father was your fault—you had gone through that a million times and you weren’t shy at holding yourself accountable through that mistake. However, you were already doing your best to make amends and make up for the years Sachiro had missed around his father. He was Satoru’s first and only child, and therefore he should never fight for his father’s affection. You weren’t sure what Satoru’s long term plans with Akemi were, but if they were considering having their own children someday, you would never allow your son to be pushed back at the bottom of the family tree.

Sachiro was the true first-born son of Satoru. He should never have to fight for his position in his father's eyes.

And so on the night of your flight back to Japan, when Satoru asked if he could take Sachiro with him for the rest of the week, you had no problems in saying yes. Your only wish right now was for them to spend as much time together as possible.

“Where are you taking him?” you did ask in spite of your leniency to send your son away, waiting inside the car as the pilot and crew prepared the private jet. “Please send me the full address. I need to know where he’s gonna stay and—”

“You’ll get the details from Miwa,” he casually said, rubbing Sachiro’s back as the little boy slept on his chest. He didn’t bother meeting your eyes as he talked. “I’m just taking him to my vacation home in Osaka.”

Osaka…

That was where his mother isolated him from the rest of the world when he was having terrible episodes. Episodes that worsened after he had found out that you ‘terminated’ his child and abandoned him for good. Shoko once said that they felt like Gojou disappeared from their lives while he was there, because nobody else could reach out to him. They couldn’t visit him nor could they contact him for a year or so until he was mentally ready to come back to Tokyo.

You didn’t want to pry on matters that were sensitive to him, so you chose not to say anything concerning his decision to take Sachiro to Osaka. He must have wanted to reflect on his past experiences, allowing him to heal from them as it brought him to the incommutable life he had now—life knowing that Sachiro actually existed after everything that he was made to believe.

“Please take good care of him, okay?” It was only a reminder, nothing else.

Satoru kept a straight face, nodding before he planted a kiss on his son’s forehead. “I got it from here.”

After a minute of silence, you both got out of the car and you watched him carry the peaceful Sachiro in his arms. You left the sleeping toddler a tender kiss on the cheek before parting ways. “I love you, my baby.” Stroking his hair, you kissed his tiny nose. “Mommy will see you soon.”

Satoru knew that you were staying behind. You had informed him of your plans before you even came here to the airport with him, explaining that Toji would be in Miami and that you had made arrangements to meet with your fiancé there. Satoru didn’t say anything much about it either, simply nodding his head at your decision and telling you to ‘do whatever’ because he was no longer a husband you should report your plans to. There was no hint of jealousy in his stance, but you couldn't miss the flicker of bitterness that did appear on his eyes for a millisecond.

You didn’t even say goodbye to each other as you watched them board the plane. And he didn’t even bother looking back at you to tell you to take care of yourself. Not that you expected anything from him, but a quick goodbye would have been nice since you did spend the last couple of days together. Or perhaps, he was upset about the fact that you were staying behind to meet Toji?

Either way, you were on your own now.

It took some time for you to reach Toji in Miami. He had insisted on meeting you at the airport, but because he had to meet with a foreign investor, you headed straight to the hotel he was staying at. Funny enough, you couldn’t help but compare how different it was to stay in the same accommodation as your fiancé vs with your ex-husband and son. With Toji, nothing felt uncomfortable and sharing a room as a couple was as normal as it should be, but things did feel too formal and too forced. With Satoru, it felt awkward to share the same space with him, but since your son was there, it felt like home. It felt strangely close to home, like it was only right. That staying together as a family was what your heart wanted.

Ever since Satoru went back to Japan with Sachiro, you had been feeling a wave of separation anxiety. Your mind was always left wandering towards them; how they were doing, where they were, what they had for dinner. You wondered if Sachiro was giving his father a headache. Smiling at the thought, perhaps he was giving Satoru a hard time changing his diapers.

“Everything okay?” Toji, noticing your trance, put an arm around you as you two sat at the VIP lounge of the Miami Grand Prix. This was Toji’s scene. If Satoru was a fan of horseback riding and polo, Toji preferred big time F1 races. He even personally knew the racers, the type of cars they were driving, and everything a huge fan had to know. You weren’t all that familiar with these things, so it was a little hard to keep up with his lifestyle.

“Y-Yeah, sorry,” you stammered, realizing how distracted you had been all this time. “What were you saying?”

He drank from his glass of 30 year-old Macallan, downing the liquor like it was mere water. A cloud of disappointment settled over his features. “Not interesting to you, huh?”

“No, I…” You made an effort to place a hand on his nape, giving him an apologetic peck on the lips. “I’m really sorry for zoning out. I was just… I guess I was just a little tired from New York.”

Toji placed a hand on your knee, sighing. “It’s fine. I was just trying to introduce the guys to you,” he said, scooting closer as he pointed to the racers. “You know that guy? Lewis Hamilton. He’s quite popular with the ladies,” then he moved his finger towards the other drivers, “And we got here for Ferrari, Carlos Sainz and Charles Leclerc, also fan favorites.”

Your eyes suddenly caught sight of Gojou’s favorite car brand. “Um, how about McLaren? Who drives for them?”

Unsure if Toji caught on or not, he did take a minute before feeding into your curiosity. “Norris and Piastri.”

You wished you had any idea about F1 so that you could be as enthusiastic as Toji was at this event. He was at his happiest right now and you didn’t want to ruin it by being a boring, uncultured fiancé, because frankly, all these women around would have done a better job at entertaining him. Toji was very eye-candy and you couldn’t blame these models from glancing up at him, especially with how manly and suave he was, dressed like a picture perfect example of an old money businessman. The likes of him were the prey of these desperate influencers, willing to sell their bodies in exchange for a night with him. But truth be told, that was their way of living and you could never find it in yourself to insult them. You didn’t want to shame them for attempting to climb the social ladder because that was how they view money and success, or at least a faster ticket to it.

As long as they didn’t try to make moves on your fiancé while you were around, you wouldn’t be so bothered by a few stares here and there.

Neither was Toji. He must have experienced being stared at during these events plenty of times before, and he probably even sent women home crying because of rejection or worse, humiliation. Now that you think of it, how did Megumi feel when his father was being hit on while watching the Grand Prix? Most importantly, why was the teenage son absent at this current event?

“Love, why didn’t you bring Megumi with you?” you inquired out of a sudden curiosity, knowing that Megumi was always present next to his father during F1 events.

Toji took a sip of the hard liquor once more. “He didn’t wanna go. He was giving me the silent treatment before I left for the US.”

Confusion further blanketed your eyes. “Did something happen back home?”

He let out a deep breath, his face signaling that he was deep in dilemma. “The Zen’in elders want to set him up for an arranged marriage,” he revealed, much to your surprise, “They wanna make sure he’s not gonna end up like me, married to someone who wasn’t ‘qualified’ to be my wife.”

At first you were confused if he was referring to you, but you realized that he was describing his late wife. Megumi’s own mother, the only woman Toji had ever loved by a mile. He fought everyone for her, even turned his back on his own family for her, but claimed that he also ultimately led her to her demise because the elders of his family harassed her until the day she died. It was a tragic love, perhaps even more tragic than yours, so you somehow understood why Toji was conflicted about Megumi’s personal life.

But you? You were strongly against it. “I don’t support arranged marriages, you know that,” you told him with conviction, sympathizing for the poor boy, “It’s not gonna end well. You know what happened to me…”

“I know.” Toji’s eyes were filled with regret. “I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it unless Megumi himself tells me he has someone he loves.”

“Did you ask?”

“He’s tight-lipped about it.”

You sighed. “Well, he’s a teenager. They get pretty shy about these things.”

Forcing a marriage was never a good thing. You couldn’t understand why the concept even existed because it didn’t benefit anyone aside from the people around the married couple. That was why they called it a marriage of convenience. They were married for everyone’s sake but themselves; family name, status, business… You have had enough of it. If only you realized it from the very beginning, you never would have subjected yourself to a loveless marriage with Satoru. Even if your love did grow eventually, things still didn’t work out for the best, and now your life was a mess. A divorced couple co-parenting their only son? There was obviously no convenience gained in that false marriage.

Megumi would just be wasting years of his life tied to a person he didn’t love and so you were hoping that Toji would fight for his son’s right. Because if he truly understood you, he would not subject his son to the same suffering you went through.

“I wish my wife was here,” mumbled Toji, forlornly, “She’d know how to handle these things better than I do.”

Were you not there for him? You swallowed your pride, hiding the pain in your voice. “Right…” A smile was all that you could offer. “I’m sure she would.”

——

Something was different about Toji and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

It wasn’t his appearance, and neither was it the way he spoke to you. He was all the same except for one thing; the look in his eyes.

He had told you this before. He said that the eyes carry the most truthful and raw emotion that you can see on someone. The presence of love would be visible in someone’s eyes just as you would see stars on a clear, night sky. The lack, however, would mean that the eyes are blank and empty like the dark void in the expanse of the universe. You didn’t have to be poetic to be able to discern the way his eyes communicated his most solemn feelings in spite of trying to show otherwise.

He must have been tired. Being caught up in your back-and-forths with your ex-husband, having to put up with your pretentious co-parenting situation, and the never ending need to keep an open mind about your situation with the same man who had ruined you. When your heart was in pieces, wasn’t he the one who tried to fix it? Wasn’t he the one who remained by your side during your darkest times?

Whether that may be true, whether he truly ever loved you, you could recognize the stark difference of the Toji that genuinely cared for you to the Toji that was only actively trying to be there for you. What had changed him all of a sudden?

“Toji, you drank a little too much.” A weary sigh escaped your lips, pulling all your might to drag your fiancé to lie comfortably in your shared bed later that night. At least, on the way to the hotel room, you had his bodyguards to thank for. They were there to haul him while he was in his drunken stupor, letting you lead the way, and dumping him carefully to his bed because there was no way you would be able to carry such a muscular man all by yourself. Now that you were alone with him, you decided to care for him the same way you used to do when Gojou was coming home drunk at night. Starting with his shoes that you took off, his shirt that you unbuttoned, his pants that you unzipped. “Come on, love. I’ll get you changed.”

The verdant hues of his eyes weren’t present. They were hiding behind his lids, refusing to meet your gaze. But if anything, he did open his mouth to speak, “...You. You wanna know a secret?”

Drunken words are sober thoughts, you reminded yourself. Of the numerous times Satoru had gotten drunk during the early stages of your marriage, it was how you found out that deep inside him, he did care for you. That in spite of his ill-tempered exterior, he was a man deprived of parental love and support. What would be the case for Toji, then?

“Yeah?” You waited for his answer, slipping his shirt off and revealing his toned body.

The scar on his mouth moved when he displayed a mirthless smile. He was as drunk as an alcoholic would be. “I don’t… think… I can love you the same way I loved my first wife.”

Your heart paused. In fact, every heartbeat became heavy. You knew how he felt, but didn’t expect him to say that out loud. “I-Is that so…?”

“Absolutely,” he mumbled, chuckling inaudibly. He was at a point where he was too far gone to realize the magnitude of the words he was saying to you. “Even if you try your best, she was everything I wanted in life and the only woman I could ever offer my heart to. She’s irreplaceable, and I don’t feel guilty about it... because I know you’re still into Satoru, too.”

“That’s…” You held your breath, holding back the sudden tears that formed in your eyes. “That’s not true.”

Toji wasn’t done yet, however. He still went on with his drunken speech like he was finally pouring out raw, yet hurtful words out of the bottle. “Who knows? You would’ve had him touch you back in New York if you didn’t have me. You would’ve had him impregnate you, have his second child with you, and guess what? He still won’t be loyal to you.”

The pain in your heart increased tenfold. Everything went still and every minute felt like a stab to your soul. Should you say something? Should you get angry at him? No, no you couldn’t. Your chest was tightening and you knew it was smart not to let such negative emotions overpower you. His words were just a little difficult to grasp because Toji never in his life had been callous with his words to you. The tears that fell from your eyes were from the betrayal that you felt after hearing the cruel words he had uttered. And yet, you tried to hold on to that thin string of hope that Toji’s words didn’t come from a place of truth.

“That’s enough, Toji. Go to sleep.” You pulled away, swallowing the bitter taste of weakness in your voice.

He hummed, unaware of the pain he had put you through. “The more I look at you, the more I realize how much I actually don’t want to spend my whole life with you,” he admitted, with little to no regard for your current feelings, “I can’t fill this emptiness by being with another empty soul. And if there’s one thing I’m most grateful for, it’s that I let you run away that day before I fulfilled my vows with you—”

“Enough!” You shot up from bed and wiped the flood of tears on your eyes. “Enough! I’ve heard everything you wanted me to hear, okay?! Enough!” you raised your voice in despair, almost begging for him to stop tearing your heart asunder. “I get it! I fucking get it… so enough. Please, Toji.”

Drunken words are sober thoughts.

A drunk mind speaks a sober heart.

Alcohol is a truth serum.

The revelation of Toji’s true feelings that night was a reminder to you that he was just like any other man. That you should have never put him in such a high regard, thinking that he would be the prince charming that would save the poor damsel in distress. Why? What would he benefit from someone like you? You only deluded yourself into thinking that a man like him would take a single mother so seriously. You were only meant to be a placeholder for his dead wife after all.

A placeholder, certainly. Not even deserving to have the title of a wife.

——

There was a huge contrast between being with you and Sachiro in New York vs being with Akemi and Sachiro in Osaka. The difference? There was no awkward air between Akemi and him. They were free to do things as they will—no restrictions, no certain do’s and don’ts. They were happy to have each other’s company, minus the guilt nor the unease of being by each other’s side. If anything, Satoru bitterly assumed that you were having the time of your life in Miami with Toji. You were so keen to see the man back there before parting ways with your ex-husband and son like you were simply discarding them to the side.

If so be it, then fine. Satoru had all the right to have his son all to himself while you were gone. Besides, Akemi was just one call away and she was everything he could ever ask for. She cared for Sachiro as if she was his own mother and Satoru couldn’t be more grateful that he didn’t need to work on building a bond between her and his son.

In fact, Akemi very much knew how to win Sachiro’s heart. As they took his adorable son to Universal Studios that day, she was nothing short of a caring mother. She had acted as a guardian to his son throughout the rides, letting the toddler enjoy his time at all the wonderful attractions that the theme park had to offer. Not once did his son cry too, so that only meant that they were doing a great job at taking care of him.

Of course, it was a different story in the afternoon. After having spent all of his energy during the day, Sachiro had become tired and hungry by dinner time. But he wasn’t such a difficult kid to tend to, so Satoru was proud that his son still wasn’t throwing a tantrum even after a whole day of not having you around.

“We’re gonna get Sachi fried chicken,” he enticed the pouting toddler, kissing his forehead while Akemi carried him in her arms. “Is that what you want?”

Sachiro nodded and wrapped his little arms around his auntie’s neck. “Chicken, dada.”

Akemi smiled at the child’s gesture, tempting her to also place a kiss on his cheek. “You’re so cute and well-behaved, Sachi.”

“—Satoru?”

At the familiar voice, all three of them turned to the woman standing behind like a deer caught in the headlines. She was tall for a woman, slender, and had long, auburn hair, rosy cheeks, and ivory skin. Next to her was a tattooed man with salmon pink hair, a piercing on his ear, and a very defensive stance. Ah… How timely.

Sera and Sukuna.

Satoru wasn’t sure if he should openly greet them, after all, they weren’t acquaintances. And it was only recent that he got his memories back, triggered by Sera's presence at the expo. Other than that, he had no business with the two of them. Sukuna wasn’t a business partner of his, so him and Satoru had no formal connection towards each other. As for Sera, she might be his ex-girlfriend, but they didn’t exactly have the healthiest relationship to begin with, so…

“Of all the places,” she mumbled, almost gaping at the sight of him. Her eyes then trailed off to Akemi and Sachiro, with which her expressions shifted to guilt. Did she recognize his son? Did she remember the horrible attempt she did to harm his child during his ex-wife’s pregnancy? The memory was flooding Satoru’s brain like a tsunami. Yeah, in that case, Sera should definitely be filled with guilt. She tried to kill this harmless child.

He cleared his throat, now becoming protective over his son at the presence of his ex. “We gotta go—”

“I guess it’s true,” Sera spoke again, this time redirecting her attention to Akemi. “The rumors, I mean. It’s all just surprising to me considering how obsessive Satoru was to Y/N.” She paused, seemingly wanting to comment at her ex-boyfriend’s current relationship in a mocking way. She kept her eyes on Akemi only, while Satoru was left wondering why Sera was acting hostile towards her. What was her deal now? She wasn't in the position to be acting all entitled to Gojou anymore, but here she was, talking to Akemi like she had met her before. “Did you know? He sacrificed everything for her. No one else made him beg on his knees the same way Y/N did.”

He couldn’t even tell how Akemi felt while Sera was clearly taunting her with her words, but she still managed to smile and excuse herself, keeping Sachiro away from an environment that should only be between adults. It was ridiculous, surely. What was Sera thinking trying to subject his son around that kind of hostility? Balling his fists, Satoru turned to Sukuna and spoke to him man-to-man. “You’d better keep your woman entertained so she’ll stop meddling into other people’s business.”

Sukuna, however, found the situation equally humorous. “Don’t worry. We both are entertained.”

Making a spectacle of Satoru’s personal life? No wonder they ended up together. They were both pieces of shit.

Before Satoru turned on his heels to follow Akemi, Sera still had one last thing to say to him. This time, she was more calm and less malicious—her eyes following Akemi’s trail before looking back at him, “Satoru, if you have truly grown as a man, you won’t do this to Y/N.”

——

Sachiro was fast asleep when they returned to the Gojou clan's vacation home.

Meanwhile, since the night was young for the two adults in that house, Akemi and Satoru shared a passionate session in the living room downstairs, letting her ride him as he placed soft kisses on her collarbone. They tried to keep quiet, obviously, and all the lights were turned off, leaving only the moonlight illuminating their view. After a few more minutes into their lovemaking, they eventually met their climax and tried to catch each other’s breath, embracing her in his arms as she fell limp against him.

“Satoru, I missed you a lot while you were gone.”

“...Same.”

Silence engulfed them for some time until she let out an exasperated sigh. It was clear in her facial expressions alone that she was pondering about the whole scene with Sera earlier. “That girl earlier, Sera, she—”

“Don’t mind her.” Gojou closed his eyes and leaned his head against the backrest. He knew he had to clear things up straightforwardly, leaving no room for any misunderstandings. “She just loves riling people up. It’s ironic she’s coming at Y/N’s defense now like she didn’t torment her back then. She’s not worth paying attention to.”

“Okay.” Akemi pulled away, cupping his face and stroking his cheek. She also offered him an angelic smile while doing so. “But you don’t feel that way anymore, right? For Y/N?”

Satoru took a deep breath, but steadied the movements of his chest. He felt defensive all of a sudden. “No.”

Her smile grew more relaxed as she pressed a light peck on his lips. “Right.” And for a while, they both stayed silent. His thoughts ran straight to you, while hers was quite on a different route. “Earlier when I put Sachiro to bed, he called me his mama.”

His eyes widened. “Oh… he did?”

She answered with a nod. “I don’t know if he’s just half asleep calling for his real mommy, but… At that moment, it made me realize how much I want to have my own,” she hinted at him, wistfully staring at his blue eyes with her shining ones, “with you.”

——

You didn’t take the flight back to Tokyo.

What you took was an immediate flight straight to Osaka where you knew your son and your ex-husband would be. You weren’t sure if it was due to the height of your emotions, but you surely let your impulse win the best of you this time.

You just wanted to escape. It was for the first time in your life where you were dying to set yourself free from Toji’s presence, the very same person who you once likened to a buoy in an open sea. Now he was no longer that. He was far from that. He was an anchor pulling you down at the deepest part of the ocean. Needless to say, the pain was still fresh from your heart when you took the earliest flight back home after his drunken confession to you.

Despite the many missed calls and texts and emails he had sent you, none of them were returned. None of them were seen, or read, or had been replied to.

All you wanted to do was get to your son. Your son. Your only comfort from all the painful things that the world has thrown at you. If not for Sachiro, you would have long ended yourself. But because he was born in this world, because he relied on his mother for love and guidance, you had to be strong and you had to seek the comfort in your heart from him.

They could all turn their backs on you, but never will your son do.

And so, after a few back-and-forth emails with Miwa to confirm the address of Satoru’s residence in Osaka, you ignored the jetlag that was hitting your body and traveled straight to his place without a wink of decent sleep. Sachiro. Sachiro was all you ever thought of when you asked your driver to drop you off the park nearby the Gojou clan's residence as soon as you spotted your son's mop of white hair, him running across the small bridge and pointing towards a fish in the pond. Your son was happily calling all the fishes, gushing about them to Satoru who stood next to him.

You didn’t even care at how you looked during that moment. You just wanted to get to your son and embrace him in your arms. He had been away from you for way too long and you had already grown pale and sick from the separation anxiety that engulfed your heart and mind.

You had to have your son. You had to hold him.

“Sachi!” you called out, a smile present on your face as you made your desperate way towards the bridge. Your son looked at you the moment he had heard your voice, and was already skipping towards you with a bright smile on his face. “My baby!”

Satoru’s face, on the other hand, turned pallid. His eyes were full of surprise, unable to believe that you were actually right in front of him. It was like he had seen a ghost. No, worse than a ghost. Why? Did he not expect you to come when he had let Miwa send the address to you? Were you not welcome to visit your own son?

“Mamaaa!” Sachiro hugged you tightly, allowing you to attack his cute face with kisses all over.

“Mommy missed you so much, my baby.” You could almost cry. As young as he was, he had no idea how much comfort he was bringing into your heart. Just to be able to see him, hold him, kiss him was enough for you to feel complete again. It was at your brokenness did you realize how much Sachiro could fix you whole.

“Y/N, I thought you…” Satoru paused, confusion seemed to be settling on his features as you looked up at him. “You’re supposed to be back by Monday.”

For a moment, you were reminded of the reason you came home earlier than intended and it stung your heart to think about. “Change of plans.”

A small scoff left his lips. “Don’t tell me you left Toji back there.”

I did, you wanted to say. Satoru had no single idea how true his words were, but that was none of his business and you had no plans of confiding in him about what had happened. You may be angry with Toji now, but you still respected him enough not to do terrible things behind his back.

“I had to see my son,” you lied, although it wasn’t exactly one, and got up while holding your toddler’s hand. “Are you ready to go home with mommy, Sachi?”

Reluctance clouded your son’s face, and he became more resolute at shaking his head the moment a woman’s voice called for him from afar. A woman, a very, painfully familiar woman came into view a few meters away from you. Standing there was your best friend, Akemi Hirai, looking at you with wide, mortified eyes as soon as she saw your presence.

And in a snap, Sachiro ran to her. Your son ran straight to her, joyfully and excitedly as if she was his real mother.

How many more heartbreaks do you have to go through?

How many more tears do you have to hold back?

“I…” Your hands were shaking. Your entire body was on the verge of breaking down. All this time, your son had been in this vacation home living like a happy little family with your ex-husband and best friend.

Now, he even refused to go home with you.

Gojou scanned through the look on your eyes as though he was reading your emotions, but you showed none of it. Not a single emotion could be seen on your face. Not an ounce of pain shown, despite seeing how your son immediately forgot about you and headed straight to another woman. How excited he was to spend more time with his dad and his new girlfriend. How, much to your discomfort, he refused to go back to Tokyo with you. You saw the future family Sachiro was about to have without you in the picture, and damn did it hit you like a truck.

Why, why did everyone in your life choose others before you?

“I’m sorry. I’ll bring him to your house Monday morning,” said your ex-husband in a soft, delicate voice, almost as if he was being careful with you. “We’ll take care of him.”

You could simply nod, avoiding eye-contact with anyone in the vicinity except for Satoru. “Okay...” you struggled with words. Your entire body was shaking. The last thing you wanted was to sound like a selfish mother, but frankly, you were about to self-destruct. “Just keep him happy… that's all I ask.”

Behind your mask of indifference, Satoru knew what right words had to be said. You needed reassurance, and that was exactly what he gave you. “I won’t ever take him away from you, Y/N. I promise.”

You watched them walk away, leaving you alone with a look of sympathy that you didn’t need. Sympathy that you despised having received. This should serve as a wake up call to you that no one in this world would ever love you. That even your own child would, one day, abandon you.

As tears fell from your eyes, you felt a certain pang on your chest that hurt worse than every other pain combined. “You know you’re not so good with promises, Satoru.”

#series: sincerely yours #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo angst #jjk angst #gojo satoru angst #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x yn

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vivalabunbun · 1 year ago

Text

When It Rains, Why Does It Pour?

Summary: Sand is quite a nuisance, it creeps into every crevice and no amount of dusting can free oneself from its stubborn hold. Yet, the tide still greets the shore.

Word Count: 8.8k (oh no...)

Tags: Neuvillette x GN!Reader, human!reader, SFW, fluff, childhood friends AU, Slow Burn, Slow Fic, Angst, Hurt with Comfort, themes about reincarnation, TW: Themes about death and loss, themes about aging, immortal x mortal AU, not lore accurate, reader is an attendant, human prejudice, Spoilers Warning: His story quest and archon quests, speculations about his past in Fontaine, why is he so mysterious

Authors Note: This was a challenge trying to write from the POV of a man you don't even know the name of, but I just had to write something for him. A character study of Neuvillette. Enjoy!

How long has it been since he first arrived here? One month? Two? Or perhaps it has already been a year? The young dragon wasn’t too sure.

The days seem to blend together when one only eats, studies, and sleeps all on repeat. A cruel trait of time. The weather outside the glass windows didn’t provide any hints either.

However, he himself is to blame.

A gray haze concealed azure skies as rhythmic drops of rain hit the earth. Blocking out the all-seeing sun and nurturing moon, the murky clouds above even hinder the stars from accompanying him.

A true reflection of his current solitude.

The young dragon arrived in the human world, brought over by the lord of Fontaine. Due to the nature of his arrival to this nation, he was given status and importance in the eyes of the citizens. However, he has yet to receive acceptance.

The grand estate in which he resides was staffed with countless butlers and maids, renowned chefs, and skilled tutors. He was wanting of nothing, yet still impoverished.

He could see it in their mortal eyes, he could sense it in the tangible silence of the halls, he could tell from the distance each mortal put between themselves and him.

Much like the towering stone walls which surrounded his private residence.

Was it to separate themselves from him or himself from them?

A question he entertains as lilac eyes scan over the aforementioned wall. Its gray stones are a welcomed change from the dry parchment with even drier content.

As he observes the drab stones contrast against a dreary sky, a small flash of white cuts through the somber composition.

Catching his lilac eyes as they follow the strange shape, it drifts through the capricious wind before the breeze grew bored and tossed it to the ground.

Studying it a bit further, the young dragon identifies the object as a simple pillowcase. Nothing more than a scrap of fabric.

He reasons that the wind must’ve stolen it from some clothesline. Just when he was about to return to the legal ledgers a rustling came from the bushes lining the bottom of the wall.

A small frame pushes apart the thick vegetation, creating enough space to finally free themselves from the entangled mess of branches.

The towering wall, the one meant to separate him from the mortals, was defeated by a mere child.

A child who’s clumsy brushing the twigs from their garments and shaking a few raindrops from their hair. He watches as the small human trots toward the discarded pillowcase, a pout forming on their lips as they observe the mud that had seeped into the silk.

Judging by the simple attire they don, they must be the child of a maid.

Ah humans, fickle and temperamental creatures created by the usurpers. It took a conscious effort on his part to stop the frown threatening to appear on his lips.

Seems like he still needs to get used to their presence.

It was as if the child sensed the bitterness in his thoughts because soon a pair of wide eyes connected with lilac. Even with the sun hiding behind dreary clouds, there was a light that twinkled in their irises.

It was only for a minute, no, even less than that. But a young dragon and a young human held each other’s gaze.

The child’s shoulders jolt as they turn their head back toward the wall, as if a voice called for them. Casting one last glance toward the young dragon, the child trots back toward the wall, disappearing within the murky viridescent.

And that was the end, like the breeze that littered a scrap of fabric among the grass, the small human came and went.

Such fickle creatures, the young dragon gives it one last thought before returning his attention back to a cluttered desk.

–

Amongst the soft drumming of droplets came a tap against the glass too sharp to be caused by the gentle rain. Causing the young dragon to turn away from the stacks of books laid out before him.

The wet glass obscured a small flicker of an orange glow, thus he walked closer to investigate. With each step, the figure outside the window became undeciphered.

That small human again.

Locking eyes with the human outside the glass, the fickle creature’s lips curl up, the glow of their lamp illuminating the curiosity behind their gaze.

A human child doesn’t have the potential to cause much if any harm to him. Thus, he releases the lock, removing the glass barrier separating two breathes.

“Hello! What is uh… your name?” They chirp out.

His sharp ears picked up the clumsiness in their speech, the subtle unfamiliarity of the words they spoke. Distinct signs that you were still learning the language of Fontaine, much like him.

Although he understood your question, he was too distracted to answer. Lilac eyes wandering off toward the stone wall. Within the entangled mess of twigs, there was a small parting.

A part just wide enough to reveal the secret the bushes desperately tried to hide: A small hole along the bottom of the stone barrier. Just enough for a small creature to slip through.

Discovering the truth behind how a small human was able to defeat such a seemingly impenetrable wall.

The pattering of the rain was interrupted by the rustling of fabric, drawing his attention back to the small human in front of him.

The child rummages through their pockets before pulling out a lump covered by a handkerchief. Peeling back the layer of fabric to reveal some conch madeleines, presenting fragmented sweets before the young dragon.

“It tastes good, I promise.” A small hand extends itself further through the open window.

Observing the crumbly sweets laid out upon a handkerchief, the young dragon halted the rejection that almost escaped his lips. Remembering the concepts he had just been reading before this.

Humans tend to follow a set of unwritten rules, principles they like to call ‘manners’. There weren’t any punishments issued by law if those rules were broken, no imprisonment or fines.

However, narrow-eye stares and whispers behind backs were the punishments issued to transgressors by society.

So, he accepts a piece, trying to ignore the sand-like sensation against his tongue. As he chewed, the grin on the human’s face only got wider.

“Now that you’ve taken one, you have to give me your name, it’s only uh… fair!”

Ah, it looks like he’s been tricked. Falling into the clumsy sugar-coated trap only a child could come up with. Yet, as his lilac gaze caught the twinkle still ever so bright in their eyes, he didn’t have the strength to form a frown.

Just a curious human child, only as dangerous as a firefly buzzing in his ear. There shouldn’t be any harm in disclosing the surname bestowed upon him by this nation.

“Neuvillette.” He finally said his first words to you.

A peculiar pattern is recurring. That rainy night when Neuvillette opened those windows, it looked like he welcomed a phenomenon in as well.

Even in his current state, a small human like you could pose no possible threat to him. Thus, whenever a certain tap was placed against the glass. He saw no reason to turn away the visitor. Allowing you to climb in through his window time and time again.

It would’ve been better if you used the door. However, he’s aware of the complications such a request would bring.

Perhaps it’s because he’s currently in the form of a young child, sharing a similar stature to yours. From his observations, humans do have a tendency to gravitate toward those with similar traits. Or perhaps, you’re just exceptionally brazen.

Neuvillette glances up from his book, thick with endless sentences describing obscure and frivolous laws, landing on your frame lazing around upon a rug.

One hand holds onto a collection of fables, pages illuminated by the gentle rays of a star. While the other periodically reaches out toward a pile of conch madeleine.

A sight he’s come to expect now.

Lavender eyes follow your hand as it brings another one of the crumbly sweets to your mouth again. You brought them over under the pretense of sharing them with him, yet they’re already half gone. The only hand reaching for the sweets being yours.

Just like how it was last time, and the time before that, and the one before that as well.

If you felt this complacent in his presence now, then perhaps he can be more candid with you. As is common practice among humans to present a polite front that gradually wears away each recurring meeting.

“You do not have to bring over any more conch madeleine.”

The moment those words left his lips the motion of your hand halted, looking up to connect your sight with his, confusion pinching together your brows.

“Oh? Why so suddenly?” The collection of fables now resting on the rug.

It’s already been done, the first ripple in the frangible water between you and him. There is nothing that can cease the waves that accompany the first breach. He might as well say the whole truth.

“They are dry, I cannot fathom how you can bring yourself to eat them.” Prescriptive eyes caught a faint flinch as you processed his edict.

“They taste fine to me…” You mutter, picking another one up.

This time you chewed slower. The pinch between your brow only grew as you tasted the sweet again, searching for the perceived flaw.

As you met his gaze once more, he could tell your search brought forth no fruitful conclusions. Thus you asked another question in response.

“Then what do you like?”

Besides the pleasantries commonly exchanged between humans in Fontaine, Neuvillette recognizes he lacks the talent for small talk.

The room usually filled with your grievances about whichever tedious task you were assigned before you slipped away behind a wall and into his private residence. Ambient noise which accompanied each flip of a law book.

It is long overdue for him to pull his weight in a conversation.

“Water, spring water.”

“Huh?”

Neuvillette repeats his sentence but the scrunch of your brows doesn’t ease up, he couldn’t fight the urge to draw in a deep breath. So this is the limitation of the human palate, how regrettable.

“Perhaps you are still too simple to appreciate the qualities of water.”

The pout upon your crumb-covered lips morphs into a tight line, sealing away your voice. The brightly printed cover of a storybook was shut as the last few remaining treats were bundled away in a napkin.

Your tea break ended early today, impassive eyes following your figure as it disappeared among the thick vegetation beside a stone barrier.

It was quiet today, not even a single parting uttered past your sealed lips. Therefore leaving the conversation unfinished.

But that is today, you’ll have another tea break tomorrow, and you’ll come to him with your grievances about chores tomorrow as well.

The young dragon returns his focus to the text in front of him.

–

The soft hymn of raindrops against a glass window reverbed through the solitary study, providing a melody for the periodic flips of paper. But the melody was hollow, incomplete.

Shifting his body to look behind himself at the vacant rug, Neuvillette deduces why. The accompaniment was missing.

That tomorrow he had come to expect never came.

Had he committed a transgression? Overstep a line outside his place? Food is a point of pride for many humans, one oddity he’s yet to grasp.

These temperamental creatures tend to lash out when their pride is wounded, much like how a beast reacts to an unhealed cut.

Neuvillette was curious as to whether this was an inherent trait of humanity or a learned by-product of the fickle principles imposed on themselves.

However, observing the abandoned storybook tucked away, the young dragon is leaning towards the former.

Turning back to face his desk, his eyes could only glaze over the monotonous scribbles. Perhaps the cause of his spiritless attitude was disappointment, disappointment in himself.

It looks like he was careless, deluding himself with the misconception that you and him were alike. Two outsiders who found solace in each other’s presence.

However, this was false. You were an outsider to Fontaine, but he was an outsider to this world where humans walked.

He’s still too naive.

Fickle and temperamental creatures spoiled by the usurpers at the expense of his ancestors.

Why did he even entertain the thought that you and him could ever be alike?

Something stirred from within, like when pebbles were thrown into still water, but what were those pebbles? As Neuvillette ponders this conundrum, the drumming of the rain grows louder.

However, it wasn’t loud enough to swallow up the sharp set of taps which interrupted his somber reflection. Jolting him from his thoughts, snapping his attention to the source of the noise.

There stood a figure distorted by the wet glass as another set of sharp taps sounded through the room.

Before Neuvillette could even process it, his body moved without his command. Unlatching the lock and setting the window free from its frame.

Not sparing another second to the raindrops soaking into their cloak, the figure clambers through the window with practiced proficiency.

Without uttering a single greeting, not even one pleasantry, you situated yourself on his floor. Melting into an undignified lump on the pristine tiles as bewildered eyes watched you.

After catching a few breaths, an explanation finally makes its way to his ears.

“T-they… they patched… up the hole,” you huffed out between short breaths.

Ah, the small cavity in the stone wall that you used to escape from chores. Looks like the security at the estate finally noticed.

Gauging the height of the wall from his place by the window, he’s aware of how it towers over both him and you the same.

This brings up another question as he returns to observe your frame, still trying to catch the breaths that evade you.

“I… ran… through the gates… before the… Gardes noticed…” Exhaustion evident in your eyes as pants break up your sentence.

Ah, looks like his question was answered before he even inquired. To be puzzled or amazed, he wasn’t too sure how to categorize this ripple inside him.

The tomorrow that’s been missing for a little more than two weeks, is now right in front of him.

Panting and leaving a few muddy traces along the marble floor, but here nonetheless.

With one deep motion of your lungs, you pushed your body up, finally getting ahold of your breath. The familiar rustle of your pocket, the audio cue for a certain dry sweet to appear. Neuvillette didn’t mind in the least.

Perhaps, he can bear the sandy sensation just for today. But tomorrow is always filled up with surprises, a glass bottle finding its way out of your pocket instead of sugary treats.

“What is that?” An obvious question, but his voice found its way out of his mouth.

“Water, water from the servant’s well, I bottled it myself.” A small hand holds the bottle out more.

“Thank you,” Neuvillette accepts it into his hands.

He should really acquire some glasses to pour the water out into, it’s improper and bad manners to drink from the bottle.

However, his curiosity was greater. Or maybe, he didn’t realize just how parched he had become from waiting for tomorrow.

Uncapping the clumsily packaged water, he takes a generous sip.

“It’s sweet.” His tongue picking up on a subtle saccharine undertone.

“Really?” Your hand reaches up as that familiar shine illuminates your eyes.

Taking a sip from the bottle passed back into your grasp, your brows furrowing in concentration. Another sip was taken from the bottle as you continued to search for the sweetness in the water you’ve always drank.

A sight that tugged up at the lips of a boy still studying the shape of your quirked brows.

Humans, fickle, perplexing, yet astoundingly curious creatures from the very beginning.

If he is to walk amongst the human world, then it’s best for him to be equally curious. To try and search for the harmony between two different breaths.

A child of a maid far from their homeland. A status too insignificant to warrant the attention of Fontaine's factions, freeing you from their prying eyes and entanglements.

Therefore, it should be alright for him to continue observing you, no?

“Ahh… The rain is so unpredictable here in Fontaine, trying to hang out the wash here is always a gamble.” You sink further into the plush cushions of his settee.

As the sun rose and fell, as the leaves grew green then gold, as the ground froze and thawed.

One thing remained unchanged throughout these cycles even as they repeated: your grievances over chores.

The frequency of these complaints reaching his ears has increased, on the part that you now took over more of your mother’s responsibilities in managing the laundry of this estate.

Besides your habitual complaints of the weather, one detail didn’t escape Neuvillette’s hearing: your proficiency in the Fontainian language has increased significantly.

Words no longer spoken clumsily or with unfamiliarity. Accent nearly indistinguishable from a native speaker.

“The people here are fond of creating strange machinery, why can’t they make something to dry clothes?” You resume.

The quill in his hand stops as he pauses in the middle of a sentence, glancing over his shoulder toward your slouching figure making yourself comfortable in the sofa that’s more familiar with your shape than his.

“Perhaps you should be the one to create it, studying might do you some good as well,” came his curt response.

His candid advice makes you sink further into the cushions with a groan.

“I’d rather travel than study those jumbled-up books about machinery or whatever, in fact, I want to visit my homeland as soon as I can,” you grumble aloud.

Ah, that’s right, you’re approaching the age where you could travel freely.

By law, you won’t be bound to the side of your mother, not needing any permission to come to and fro however you wish. No longer kept at this estate washing and folding sheets.

Indeed, you and him found yourselves in similar situations: on the cusp of freedom from this estate.

While he was deep in thought, you filled the silence left behind by posing a question to him.

“Do you plan on visiting your homeland anytime soon, Neuvi?”

By now, the young dragon had stopped expending the effort to try and correct you in your butchering of his surname. Your reason being ‘it’s too long’.

Alongside you, he has grown in stature as well, elapsing you some time ago much to your dismay. If he wished to travel, not much would pose a problem to the young dragon.

However… where could he return to? A homeland… was there a section of his homeland untouched by the usurpers? If he were to go, would he ever want to return to this world?

Sensing the change in the air, dreary clouds blocking the sun’s rays from your skin, you were perceptive enough to ramble about a different matter.

Namely, how the chef of the estate recently changed the type of flour used in the kitchens, resulting in pastries and sweets that were less airy but more flavorful.

Explaining to him the subtle improvements and deterioration in the quality of some baked goods. Filling the air of the study with bright-eyed ramblings until rays of light peek out from waning clouds.

–

“Monsieur Neuvillette! It’s been a while since you’ve visited!” Soft patters of skipping steps made their way to the tall man.

Tilting his sights down, Neuvillette greets the cheery melusine with a gentle smile which she returned with an equally bright grin.

While on a routine stroll along the riverbanks to stretch his legs after a long day, he found himself at the entrance of Merusea Village.

He wonders if it's his body’s natural response to get away from the Palais Mermonia and Opera Epiclese.

Carrying him toward the direction of a secluded reprieve he discovered far away from the suspicious eyes of weary humans.

Condemnatory eyes were constantly pinned to the back of the young dragon who had recently emerged from a sheltered estate to sit in the grand seat of a Chief Justice.

Days filled with nothing but a cacophony of voices echoing off the opera house walls. Screams from the accused and the eager murmurs of spectators blended into nothing more than a chaotic din in his ears.

Gazing deeper into the small lake, the unsuspecting entrance to a hidden haven that the Melusines called home.

It would only take a moment, just one dip into the pristine water for him to disappear from the clamorous mortal realm.

Abandoning the overly grand seat of his post as easily as it would take for his head to vanish under the tranquil tide.

How great would it be to exist in the presence of creatures who could resonate with his own adriftness?

Maybe, he could finally discover the purpose of his current form and longevity in their company. Yes, that sounds about right.

Just as the water wet the tip of his overly ornate shoe, all motion his body stills at a familiar call.

“NEUVI!” Came a voice from just over the beaten path.

Soon your silhouette follows the echo of your call, steps hurried yet worn.

When the young dragon departed from his temporary estate and into the Palais Mermonia, a certain specter followed him as well.

The same specter who’s currently huffing to catch their breath after such a rush. Trying to gather enough air to form their next sentence.

“There you are! The grand tailor sent me to fetch you because you’re almost an hour late to the fitting of your new robe, they need to make sure the measurements are correct,” you chide.

The exasperation of your words was most definitely caused by the fact you had to physically exert yourself in your search for the wandering Chief Justice. Evident by the pout on your lips and scrunched nose.

His attention was quickly torn away from your recuperating figure by a faint tug of his slacks.

The Melusine had hidden herself behind his legs, creating a barrier between her and the strange mortal who seemingly appeared from the blue.

Her sudden movement caught your attention as well.

Ah, that’s right. The Melusines have yet to be acquainted with humans, and humans with Melusines.

Two different species, two different breaths, and two different sets of eyes that can’t seem to see directly into each other.

If his time within the wall of the estate and Palais Mermonia had proven anything, it would be the natural adversity humans had to differences.

Neuvillete certainly wasn’t prepared for such an event, nor was he sure how to handle it.

In the midst of his inaction, your hand reached into your pocket, fumbling around before pulling out a handkerchief-covered lump.

Despite the soreness in your legs, you lowered your body until you were at eye level with the shorter Melusine.

“Hello there, would you like some conch madeleines?” Unraveling the fabric to reveal the sweets which you seem to have an abundant supply of.

The grip on his slacks tightened as she glanced up at him, lilac eyes catching the hesitance in her irises. Neuvillette gives a subtle nod, giving just enough reassurance for the small creature to release his pant leg.

Reaching a mitten-like hand toward the golden sweets, it only took one bite for the hesitance in her eyes to be replaced by a bright twinkle.

“It’s tasty isn’t it?” Your lips formed a wider grin.

The Melusine responds with an eager nod, too occupied with bringing more of the buttery treat into her mouth.

At the sight of her restless chewing covering her cheeks with faint crumbs, you let out a giggle.

“I’ll give you the rest of the sweets if you tell me your name,” you offered.

After a few moments of the Melusine finishing her previous bite, she falls for the same trap he had many years ago.

“My name is Carole!” She chirps.

“What a wonderful name.” Your gaze softened further as you held out the treats, keeping your promise.

As Carole reaches for more, she glances back up. Wide eyes twinkling as she inquires him with the one thought currently on her mind.

“Monsieur Neuvillette, does the human world have more treats as delicious as these?”

Ah, it looks like the stroll Neuvillette took today to relieve himself of mounting troubles only led him to more.

The skies over the Court of Fontaine have been in a pensive stalemate, all too familiar clouds blocking azure hues. However, rain has yet to patter on the ground, as if the weather was unsure of itself.

A feeling shared by the Chief Justice currently sitting at his desk, reviewing the details of the day’s trials. Albeit, half heartily.

Much like the skies crowded with clouds, in the solitude of his office, his mind rang loud with thoughts. Neuvillette only had himself to blame for the current silence of his office, it’s been this way for around a week going on two now.

Lilac eyes peered over the tops of the papers toward the shut doors, concealing him away. There hasn’t been a knock on those doors for some time now, due to the diligent Melusines who followed his request.

Turning away potential visitors with crafted excuses of ‘The Chief Justice is handling a very important case’ or ‘My apologies, but the Chief Justice is very busy’.

Neuvillette recognizes that he’s currently no different than a child hiding away from the consequences of a broken vase.

How childish, he chides himself as he returns back to his responsibilities. How would the citizens of Fontaine react to their Chief Justice conducting himself in such a manner?

He’s sure if Lady Furina were to catch wind of his behavior, she’d be greatly entertained.

As if the mere mention of the nation’s archon presented a bad omen, the sturdy doors of his office swung open, revealing the face of a familiar visitor who’s been turned away one too many times.

“My my, it’s been quite some time since I’ve seen the inside of this office, I almost forgot what it looks like,” you remark as your eyes hone in on him.

The child’s hiding place under the bed has been exposed.

“Good afternoon, I was not made aware you had any appointments with me.” Neuvillette’s own eyes trail past yours.

From behind the door frames the figures of two Melusines quickly dodged away from his sight. A silent admission of guilt on their part, and Neuvillette didn’t have to look hard to deduce the crime they’ve committed: Accepting bribes.

The evidence was right there in the form of buttery crumbs left on the corner of their mouths. Ah, you and with those conch madeleines of yours.

It’d be best for him to finally handle the situation at hand, one he’s been trying to maneuver out of.

“If I recall correctly, you were granted a vacation, why not take this chance to travel? It certainly is a prime opportunity-”

“Why have you been avoiding me, Monsieur?” you cut through the long-winded pleasantries and excuses.

His lips press together, by now he’s well accustomed to your brazenness. However, the absence of a familiar name only said in your voice made the guilt weigh heavier on his shoulders.

Guilt which originated a few weeks prior.

—

On a secluded riverbank, a routine walk under clear skies was halted. You were knelt down on the ground, uncaring of the sand sticking to the fabric of your clothes, as you held a Melusine between your arms. Two mittened hands clung to you as she soaked your shoulder with tears.

“W-why? Why did he have to go?” Her sobs interrupted by sudden hiccups.

As you rubbed circles into her back, something he saw humans do to soothe their crying young, Neuvillette watched from the side. Much like how he would observe those performances within the Opera Epiclese.

Liath is her name, a diligent Melusine who patrolled the grounds of the Palais Mermonia. By her side, there would be a guard poodle who’d matched her skips with his prances. An inseparable duo, or it’d be more accurate to say, they were once an inseparable duo.

Dogs are a species domesticated by humans, some might argue that they were created by humanity through generations of selection. So it stands to reason that they too would have a limited lifespan.

In fact, they have a lifespan even more restricted than that of the mortals who tamed them.

The Melusines have just begun walking amongst humans, there were still many aspects their sheltered minds have yet to grasp. The fleetingness of mortality is one of them.

Thus, Neuvillette did his best to caution them.

However, just like how laws can’t completely stop crimes, his words can’t completely prevent such tragedies. All he could do was try.

“I’m sorry for your grief, this was the very reason why I cautioned you against getting too attached to him… A dog’s life is brief-”

“Monsieur Neuvillette.”

The sentence died at the tip of his tongue as his eyes met yours. Gaze narrowed and brows furrowed, not even the Chief Justice dared to interject any further.

After you silenced him, your focus returned back to the grieving Melusine.

Slowly standing back up from the ground, her frame cradled in your arms as her sobs continued.

“I know it hurts,” you whispered, one hand patting her back, setting a steady rhythm reminding her to breathe.

“B-but why? W-why is it so sad?” she hiccuped.

You hummed, beginning to bounce her a bit within your hold.

“Wouldn’t it be sadder if you never met him?”

At your question, the Melusine stares at you through teary eyes. Expression lined with confusion.

“To have loved him, and for him to have loved you in return…isn’t that enough?” You cooed, taking steps away from the riverbank.

Still frozen in his place, the dragon could only stare at your back as it grew further and further away, soon disappearing from his view.

He had misspoke.

Neuvillette recalled last Autumn. As the vivid hues of the foliage shriveled up to nothing more than a shadow of their former beauty, you laid your mother to rest. Burying her in a cemetery which overlooked the direction of your homeland.

His unsolicited reprimand must have been throwing salt into a wound that still bled. He had overstepped his authority.

Murky clouds congregated in the once clear sky.

—

Those were the events that transpired, events that have led to the current stalemate happening in his office. Lilac eyes couldn’t seem to find the courage to connect with yours. Another excuse finding its way to his tongue.

“Didn’t you want to visit your homeland?”

“Oh?” Your brow quirks up, as your hands find their way to your hips.

“And then who’d be here to repair the tears in your robe when you inevitably step on them?” Obviously unimpressed by his suggestion.

“Surely there are other talented tailors here that can handle the task,” he rebukes.

“Oh? Will they also untangle your hair from the ornamentation of chairs?” You press on.

“I can manage.”

“Then can the Chief Justice also manage all the uniforms for the Melusines? Can he sew every button and ensure they fit correctly?”

Ah, with your last statement, Neuvillette concedes. A hush fills the room.

The Melusines are still new to walking amongst humans, not many were willing to tailor specialized uniforms for their short stature. Thus, you took up the mantle.

Perhaps out of a sense of responsibility, it was you who stirred their curiosity with those sweets of yours.

It seems responsibilities tethered you to the Court of Fontaine, much like they did to him. After a few breaths, as always, your voice shatters the stalemate.

“I’m not upset, Neuvi.”

With those words, his lilac eyes finally connect with yours. Finally able to see the soft curls at the corners of your lips.

It indeed has been a while since he last saw such a sight.

This time instead of replying with an excuse, he responds with a gentle hum.

“Ugh, why are your curtains so dusty? When was the last time you went outside?” It wasn’t long before your attention returned to the state of his office.

Strolling past his desk, your hands began to fuss with the thick drapes. Pouting at the dust that coated the lush fabrics.

All Neuvillette could do was follow with his gaze, papers long pushed to the side as for the first time in a while, an azure hue was seen peeking through the clouds.

From his observations, it’s instinctive for humans to avoid pain. However, it’d be hypocritical of him to judge mortals for actions he’s been guilty of.

“If I knew I had to work this hard now, I would’ve skipped more chores back at the estate,” you chuckle, pulling back the drapes to allow gold to illuminate his office.

To have loved and have been loved in return.

Was this the human rationale behind taming a dog? Having the reality of the future constantly lurking over each happy moment as the hands of time tick forward.

Why do humans dote on pets? Creatures that only live a fraction of a mortal life?

Are happy memories a fair exchange for bitter grief, or are they the cure?

As Neuvillette counts the strands of peeking silver that mingle within your lush locks, he prays he finds the answer soon.

The clacks of ornate shoes reverberate down once unfamiliar halls, a towering figure lurks past bustling nurses who bow their heads at the sight of the Chief Justice as he passes by.

With a body like his, there is no reason for him to wander among these halls. Or more accurately, there once was no reason.

The taps of his soles slowed as a familiar door came into view, the only detail which differentiated it from the rest of the hall being the brass numbers displayed. Bringing up a glove-clothed knuckle, delicate taps were placed against the wood.

Almost immediately, a muffled ‘come in’ resounded behind the frame. Granting the Iudex permission to turn the polished knob, allowing him entry as the hinges sang their welcome.

“My, my, if it isn’t Monsieur Neuvillette, to whom do I owe the pleasure?” A grin spreads across your face, crinkling the corners of your eyes.

Instantly his frame stiffens in the midst of returning the door to its frame. Bringing his free hand up to his face, Neuvillette coughs as to compose himself once more.

“Please, forgo the formalities.”

Though your eyes might not be as sharp as they once were, the delicate dusting of pink along his pointed ears couldn’t escape their sight. Making your eyes crinkle more.

Feeling entertained enough, you cease your teasing and gesture toward the vacant chair beside your bed.

Obediently, his towering figure strides up to the seat, the wood squeaking under his weight as he settles onto it.

By now, the dragon has grown accustomed the structure of greetings, beginning with a layer of pleasantries.

“How have you been fairing?” Lavender eyes scrutinize the sheets and pillows, searching for any unapparent flaws.

“It’s just a mild case of pneumonia,” you muse aloud.

Momentarily resting his eyes behind a slow blink, all he could do was sigh at your brazen nonchalantness. Yet with a ghost of a smile on the same lips that sighed.

It was a mild case of pneumonia, a common ailment during the frosty months. For someone as steadfast as you, such an illness might’ve surrendered to your stubbornness.

It might've surrendered… if your body had remained as it once was.

How unfortunate it all is, that time is so cruel to mortal creatures.

Attentive eyes detailing each crease that settled by your lips, remnants of the many grins and laughs that stretched your face.

The basking light of a selfish star catches in your hair, lush hues that have faded to brilliant ivory. A shade that you often compare to his while jesting, ‘We match now’.

However, Neuvillette begs to differ, the sunlight is much more luminous in your tresses.

Trailing his sights back to your gaze. Deep lines formed by countless dynamic expressions drew attention to the glimmer forever present in your irises. Like paths on a map that led lilac eyes to yours.

“How are you finding your stay?” At times, Neuvillette found himself wondering how the azure tides appeared from your view.

“Mm, quite uneventful, eating, staring out a window, sleeping.”

He hums in response, contemplating if he should inquire you about such subjects. As you ramble, perhaps the dragon could grasp onto an inkling of understanding.

“Well, at least I can say that my stay has been anything but lonely.” Your eyes motioning toward a corner.

The bland, sterile wall overshadowed by a mass comprised of trinkets ranging from local flowers to any object whose surface catches light.

The heap grows day by day as each Melusine continues to bring their earnest gratitude to the human who sew each stitch of their coats. A sight that could stir even the most placid lake.

“They’re such sweethearts.” Each one of your words coated with endearment.

Once more, all the dragon could respond with was a mellow hum. Slow breaths fill the complacent silence between two species, one blessed by time and one shunned by it.

Neuvillette has grown accustomed to the structure of conversations but, alas, he still has no talent for small talk.

In the absence of dialogue, the layer of short pleasantries long dissolving, Neuvillette is left with nothing but his inquiries. It was all he had left, and so it was all he could offer.

“Are there any regrets you hold?”

“Oh oh? Getting sentimental so out of the blue, Neuvi?” A familiar quirk graces your brow.

“It’s nothing of the sort, just a musing that drifted in my mind during a stroll, I wish to know your thoughts on the matter.”

“Mmm… I don’t feel that I have any regrets, living an honest life and having the fortune to never have stepped foot in the Fortress of Meropide.”

“Is that really all? You never did get to travel like you dreamed of back at the estate.”

“Haha, trying to stump me with that, Neuvi?” you chuckle.

Relaxing more into the pillows which propped up your weary frame, you trail your sights toward the window.

“Didn’t I tell you already? I’ll have plenty of time to travel once I become a cloud, I can go everywhere the sky can reach.” Smile softening on your lips.

Neuvillette’s folded hands grasp one another tighter on his lap, his own lips pressing each other into a thin line.

The conversation was teetering closer and closer to the unspoken reality looming like a shadow in the room.

He wasn’t sure when it started, maybe when the first silver strands appeared in your hair or when you discovered his skin won’t wrinkle along with you.

He wasn’t sure when your adamant belief of becoming a cloud once the shadow came to claim you started.

Neuvillette wonders if this daydream was the product of those fables you browsed when you laid upon a plush rug.

Or was it your personally crafted fable to explain the incomprehensible to a creature who couldn’t fully grasp it?

A creature whose skin didn’t wrinkle, whose bones didn’t grow brittle. A creature seemingly untouched by time.

Fairytales do serve this purpose for children, magical fantasies to make uncomfortable realities palatable to naive minds.

“...vi?... Ne…?... Neuvi.”

A hand marred with age takes hold of one glove-clad hand, and a pleasant heat radiates through the leather. Coaxing Neuvillette’s attention back from its escapade.

“My apologies, I was lost in thought for a moment.” He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

But the frown weighing down on your lips didn’t disappear, much like how retreating into musings couldn’t wash away any shadows.

Your chest moves with a deep inhale.

“Maybe I do have one regret,” you began.

Readjusting your ailing fingers in his hold so that he could hold them with equal endearment, his ears concentrate on your voice.

“Actually, I have many,” you sigh.

Before he could formulate a response, you continued.

“I wish I could have shoulder the burdens you carry. I wish you would’ve shared them with me. And I wish I could even understand them, then maybe I could have understood you more.” Turning to face him, your disheartened eyes center on his frame.

A child born from a maid, a maid who traveled to Fontaine in hopes of a better future for her child. That was your origin, an outsider with neither fame nor fortune.

Thus, even as you followed him from a secluded estate to the grand Palais Mermonia, you could never follow him in status nor influence.

As unrest grew, as injustices mounted, and as tragedies took away friends.

All you could do was repair tears, sew buttons, and pour him a crisp glass of spring water as you waited for the storm to wash despair away.

That was how you saw it. But Neuvillette rebukes that notion.

The dignity of a newly established Chief Justice, who kept stepping on his overly ornate robes, was carefully maintained by you.

The Melusine’s uniforms, which solidified their presence in the human world, were crafted by you.

The patient hand that always offered silent comfort in the suffocating courts was yours.

Standing by his side, even as your bones grew to ache, to ensure the storm would pass and the sun emerge once more.

“You’ve done more than enough.” He states the truth, grasping your hand just a bit tighter.

“Are you sure?” Those airy chuckles of yours made their appearance again.

“I never even learned your real name,” you interject.

A knife, red hot and fresh from the forge, would have hurt less than the guilt which tore through him at that moment.

The Chief Justice, the symbol of honesty and conviction, is unable to tell the simplest truth.

What shall he do now?

The power of a name is often underestimated, the exchanging of names signifying the forging of a bond. One that would forever tether him to you and you to him.

Oh, what shall he do now?

Before his hesitant lips could take action, they were halted by a squeeze from your ailing grasp. Firm and warm, like a light that guides him up from the bottom of a turbulent ocean.

“You don’t have to tell me now, Neuvi, tell me when I come back from my trip.” Those gentle eyes of yours smile at him.

Reeling his hand in closer to you with your own, until the softness of your lips was felt along covered knuckles.

A common practice in Fontaine, one Neuvillette had witnessed time and time again as he passed the lovers who congregated by the Fountain of Leucine. Actions that dedicated promises to one another.

“I swear, once I’ve traveled enough, once I grow bored of foreign scenery, I’ll fall back down like rain to your side.” You whisper into the kiss.

It was his turn now, and he shall honor this ritual. Tenderly bringing in your hand to him, Neuvillette places his oath.

“Then I swear, when you return, I’ll tell you my name.” He whispers in the kiss.

The sterile rooms echo your airy chuckles as he keeps your hand close to himself for just a bit longer.

“Mmm… Where I should go first? Maybe I’ll just amble about,” you ponder aloud.

Gracing him with a smile which stretched your face and brought that familiar glimmer into your eyes.

“I wish you well on your travels.” Neuvillette presses another kiss into your knuckles.

–

Spring was always the rainy season for Fontaine, with gentle temperate showers to welcome the budding blooms back from their Winter sleep.

However, this year the torrential downpour was anything but gentle.

Planned trips canceled for the season, clothes remaining damp in baskets, and streets empty of their vigor. Even the Melusines couldn’t bring a skip to their steps.

It was as if time itself was slowed by the burdensome downpour.

The cawing of crows as their wings beat against the dreary winds adds to the lonely hymn sung by the raindrops.

At once the cadence of the rain increased, the downpour growing heavier, and the violent pattering grew deafening. As if the sky was now belting out their sorrowful ballad.

The rain could try. The skies can cry all they would like. But time, a cruel and unforgiving mistress, won’t ever stop.

To have loved and been loved, was it truly enough?

In Neuvillete’s eyes, he was the tide and you were the shore. The ebb and flow of water as the tide and shore met, time and time again.

Each crash into the shore stirred up something perplexing and disorderly within the tide, irritating like the sand that mixed into the pristine waves.

So the tide tried to retreat into the lonesome ocean.

Each time, the shore followed through grains of sand which the tide couldn’t ever seem to purge himself of.

Each time, the shore beckoned the tide to return to the sandy beaches of humanity filled with perplexities and disorder.

And each time, the tide surrendered to the call of the shore, lured in by its warmth.

But now, the shore has eroded away.

Where does the tide go now?

Drifting now in the vastness of a lonesome ocean, carrying nothing but grains of sand. What shall the tide do now?

Neuvillette still has a lot to learn, for he couldn’t answer this riddle conjured by his own mind.

Unable to stop himself, the lone dragon stares off into the rain.

Eyes honing in the direction of a peaceful hill, one where a mother and child were laid to rest side by side overlooking a homeland they never got to visit.

Maybe that was the first destination of your journey.

During these past short years spent in this land, the young successor of the dragons has gained traitorous knowledge. One that undermines his preconceived purpose.

Neuvillette feels he’s grasped onto the faintest inkling of why humans, as fickle, perplexing, and fleeting as they are, were still the most beloved creatures of the gods.

Perhaps, he even understands now why those usurpers were willing to uproot the earth just for those beloved creatures.

The wet season transitions into the dry season, then the dry season will transition into another wet season. Again and again, on and on as the hands of a clock ticks forward.

Each new tick signifies another step forward in the march of time.

Each step brings change and each step pulls the present away from the past.

The rainy season of Spring was no longer as troublesome as it once was, as there was now a machine on the market that could dry clothes without the help of a bright star.

Melusines skip along down the paved paths of the Court of Fontaine as humans turn to greet them with endearing smiles.

New cafes line bustling streets as Clockwork Mekas make their evening patrols.

A great many changes have come to Fontaine, Neuvillette witnessed them all from his office at the Palais Mermonia.

A great many changes, yet some things are bound to stay the same. For example, the Chief Justice’s fondness for strolls along vacant riverbanks.

The gentle patters of raindrops lull the chaotic sympathy of trials, paperwork, and duties to a standstill. Reaching a hand out in front of him, Neuvillette catches a few drops in the palm of his gloved hand.

Lilac eyes examine the diminutive puddle in his hand before ultimately releasing the water back to the earth.

He supposes he’s been feeling a bit nostalgic as of late, like a child recalling a story which once soothed them to a peaceful slumber. How childish it was for him to believe he could somehow catch a certain raindrop in his hands.

Turning up toward the drab sky, he searches through the endless and identical droplets that fall down and leave trails along his face.

No, not yet. Perhaps they have yet to see all that the sky has to offer.

Neuvillette returns his focus to the path in front of him. The rhythmic clacks of his shoes match with the soft drumming of the rain, and in the midst of this harmony a voice sings out:

“Hydro dragon… uh… Hydro dragon, don’t cry.”

Halting his stride. Judging by the unfamiliarity of their tongue pronouncing the lullaby, Neuvillette deduces they must be a visitor to Fontaine.

Ah that local legend, just how far has it spread? Nevertheless, an unfortunate traveler who’s unfamiliar with Fontaine’s seasons is now caught in this rain.

It would only be polite to offer them some assistance as the Iudex of this nation. Thus, he turns in the direction of the call.

His suspicions were confirmed once his gaze landed on a distressed frame, their face obscured by the jacket they held over their head in a makeshift umbrella.

It only took a few steps for the towering man to make it to their side.

“There is a tree you can take shelter under just ahead,” he advises the lost traveler.

Now aware of his presence in front of them, they lifted the jacket from their line of sight to peer up at him. Revealing the details of their face to lilac eyes for the first time.

That was all it took for the symphony of rain to come to an end.

Soft drumming decrescendos into tranquility. It seems as if there will be an earlier welcome of flowers.

“Oh?” You gaze up at the azure hue now peeking out from receding gray, astonishment reflected in the glimmer of your eyes.

You’ve only heard of a local Fontainian legend from a guide pamphlet offered to tourists as you awaited the Aquabus.

When the rain suddenly began to pour as you ambled about a riverside, in a moment of desperation as you scrambled for shelter under a thin jacket you uttered the phrase.

You weren’t sure if the hydro dragon could understand your botched pronunciation, but it looks like he did.

Turning back to face the kind stranger, you wanted to convey your amazement to him. But the words fade just off the tip of your tongue when you peek back at the towering man.

Your eyebrows scrunch together as dumbstruck eyes widen at the sight of the drenched man.

“Mister?… Are you alright?” You scan over him, turning your attention away to sift through your pockets.

How bewildering it must be for you to witness a well-dressed and noble figure drenched to the bone. However, Neuvillette made no attempt to stop the rivulets rolling down his cheeks, a parting gift from the Spring showers.

He wonders as his gaze never left your frame, were tears perhaps this warm too?

“Here.” Your concern-ridden hand offers up a neatly folded handkerchief to the drenched man.

As your eyes connect with his, a strange sensation tickled the back of your mind. As if it was trying to recall where you’ve seen the familiar lavender hue.

Maybe they matched the shade of a flower field you stumbled upon during your travels, or maybe that lilac luster was revealed to you in a dream.

A strange familiarity you couldn’t name.

“Thank you very much.” He accepts the simple piece of cloth with tenderness rivaling that of conservators handing the renowned paintings of old masters.

The clouds were long gone by now, perhaps they felt that their purpose had long been fulfilled. The golden rays of a lone star shone with all their brilliance, finally free from behind their blanket of drap clouds.

It was only now that Neuvillette found out. The rain he had been yearning for all these years did in fact see all that the sky had to offer.

They had grown bored of drifting over vast plains, missing the picturesque countryside of Fontaine. Or perhaps their curiosity grew too great, wishing to finally hear a truth that was kept from them.

So much so, they quietly fell down from the sky, to return to his side again.

Much like the hands in a clock, the cycle of water and earth follows a similar circular path.

The rain had eroded away stubborn earth with its diligent drumming over the years.

Bit by bit and piece by piece until stone fractures into bits of sand. Over and over until a sandy beach was formed by the side of a patient sea.

Then the tide will reunite with its long-awaited shore, to return the sand and promise it cradled within its waves for so long.

~Fin

#vivalabunbunfics #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x you #neuvillette #genshin impact x reader #genshin angst #genshin fluff #genshin x y/n #genshin x you #neuvillete x reader #neuvilette x reader #neuvillette fluff #neuvillette angst #genshin impact x you #genshin x reader #neuvillette headcanons #neuvillette x y/n #neuvilette x you

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randomnameless · 11 months ago

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TBH,

Nopes has Rhea give the very unconclusive "we shared blood a long time ago" when Flayn mentions how it's ironic that the descendants of the ones who founded the Empire are now attacking them - does she mean "shared blood" in "blood transfusions" or a more hereditary sense ?

Emperor Wilhelm, in Hopes, had a son - Lycaon 1 who was suceeded by the Emperor who accepted a duel with an Aegir to determine who was going to sit on the throne (Ferdie and Edel's support in FE16).

So, canon wise we just have :

Rhea "shared blood" with Hresvelgs from whom Edel descends

Wilhelm had at least one son, Lycaon (we don't know if he had other children bar Lycaon, or if the Emperor who succeeded Lycaon was one of Wilhelm's other children, a grandchild, or Lycaon's own child) - who died "young" from a "sudden illness"

Wilhelm ditched Adrestia after Lycaon's death - and the War of Heroes officialy ended even if at that point Seiros didn't recover every relic since Maurice is still around 1k years later with Blutgang embedded in his skull and Rhea works on building Garreg Mach

While the world at large believes they were a couple, explaing why the Hresvelgs have a Crest of Seiros, Rhear herself is very fond of Wilhelm himself even 1k years after his death

Nopes canonified (as much as it can make canon anything, I mean, in Nopes, Magic tomes exist when they don't in FE16...) Rhea being super fond of Wilhelm (giving him Seteth's shield, calling him the only "great" emperor who ever existed, missing him and wishing he was alive 1k years after his death...) and Wilhelm meeting Rhea and Indech after the War : while it's not enough to say they fucked, it's imo enough to throw a wrench in the "Willy's sekrit History" nonsense that is fed to the player in CF -> Wilhelm was on amiable terms with the Nabateans and left Adrestia, so whoever passed on the story Edel parrots... wasn't Wilhelm himself.

That's all we have in canon, without the 10k years of lore.

Trying to work around it (and trying to make some sense of those events) is only headcanon/fanfic territory...

Rhea's related to Edelgard?

Houses teased it, but Hopes made it canon (I think? I honestly almost never pay attention to dragon lore in these games because I find it rather dull) that Rhea and Wilhelm had a fling. Conservation of narrative detail being what it is, that makes Rhea Edelgard's very distant ancestor.

Not that either game ever does anything with this.

#gascon-en-exil #i didn't know that conservation of detail theory #FE16 #3 Nopes #nothing's definite and avatar/player pandering being what it is #the S Support 'alone since zanado b4 u' erases any possibility of Rhea having a former partner/family/kid if she has to be so alone #so that only the player's love can save her #maybe it has something to do with sexism since no man says this to Female Billy when she romances them #would Rhea be 'used goods' if she had a husband and at least 1 kid before the story that would make her #unappealing to the targeted player gunning for her S support? idk #i confess I thought a lot about this AU in general #not only because Edel being half lizard when she's so racist against them would be hilarious #but because it gives perfect answers to explain some events in the game or at least to have those events make sense #like why Lycaon died to a sudden illness when Rhea with her magic blood was around #successions issues from a branch line trying to get the title or Thales wondering if Lycaon could be turned in a pair of daggers?#Fodlan gives us people who live up to 300 years and we're supposed to believe they had no bastard lines? Or only had 1 child???#Come on #fodlan AU #Is it the Wilhelm hour?

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fuckyeahisawthat · 1 day ago

Text

So OBVIOUSLY Jayce is as smart as Viktor; I don't think Viktor would give him the time of day if he wasn't. But I think he does have a bit of the Elle Woods "What, like it's hard?" about his weird freak genius brain in that he doesn't realized quite how much of an outlier he is.

Like it seems from Jayce and Viktor's chalkboards and also the scenes of Ekko, AU Powder and Heimerdinger building the Z drive that there is actual rune math involved, in that runes have mathematical properties and you can do equations with them. And I think it's highly unlikely anyone in Piltover formally teaches this branch of mathematics because no one believes magic can be accessed in this way, and also it's not like Jayce is gonna be requesting an elective to learn the stuff needed for his illegal science project. So I'm guessing Jayce was teaching himself an entirely new branch of mathematics probably out of some weird old books imported through slightly irregular means, on top of all his regular coursework/research. Hell, he was probably inventing/discovering new rune math in the process of creating Hextech; by the time the Hexgates are open he could probably write the textbook on it.

With Viktor, I actually think the element he would think was no big deal is his engineering skill. Zaun is absolutely full of crazy tinkerers building shit out of nothing and jerry-rigging solutions to problems and keeping things working with spit, rubber bands and ingenuity. They have advanced prosthetics and body mods (I am sure Viktor's back brace is an Undercity creation; no one in Piltover knows how to make that stuff because no one needs it); they have "potions" that heal serious wounds quickly; even the Firelights' hoverboards are a technology we don't see in Piltover. Jinx and Ekko both figure out how to make usable Hextech artifacts with way fewer resources than anyone in Piltover has; Ekko and AU Powder invent fucking time travel when they have a bit of time to mess around with things.

And when it comes to book learning I'm guessing Viktor had no one to compare himself with as a child, so he's teaching himself calculus at age ten out of a book he stole out of some rich Piltie kid's backpack and thinking this is probably how everyone learns topside. He probably ran circles around his fellow Academy students when it came to formal classwork but he barely pays attention to that because it's not discovery; it's just demonstrating that you know the material and he already knows that he knows it. He spends one evening reading Jayce's notebook and is able to understand enough to know the science is solid and contribute to advancing it. (And how much do I love the idea that he fell for Jayce's brain, as seen through his research notes, before any other part of him.) Viktor builds what's essentially a magical AI (the Hexcore) which no one even knew could be done and is still frustrated that he's not figuring out how it works fast enough.

Tl;dr these guys match each other's freak on a brain level instantly and like no one else around them and that would already be some soulmate-level shit no matter what else you think is going on.

#they're both such fucking NERDS and it's GREAT #arcane #jayce talis #viktor arcane #jayvik

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toon-tales · 4 months ago

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Finally built up enough courage to post my 'Branch has a child' au on ao3!

#Trolls #Trolls fanfiction #Branch Trolls #Trolls au #Branch has a child au

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amuromi · 1 year ago

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★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ, 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.8k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! college!au, minor illness/sickness (heatstroke), semi-established relationship (poly), hurt-comfort, feelings of inadequacy, pet names (baby, baby girl, honey), fingering, oral (m & f!receiving), safe word (not used, just mentioned)

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ It’s kinda crazy that Gojo, Geto, and Shoko ended up in the same class because how did jujutsu tech manage to find two special grade sorcerers and a reversed curse technique user all at once. Being in their class would’ve been like Destiny’s Child except everyone but you is Beyoncé.

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

A bird swoops lazily overhead. A black dot silhouetted against the white flame of the sun burning overhead. Sheets of heat shimmer off the pavement, tracing out rippling waves in the humid air that wane only in the shade of the trees. Still, spears of sunlight pierce through the leaves, each wavering beam feeling hot as cigarette burns even in the small halo of shadows cast by the outstretched branches. A breeze meanders through the courtyard, doing little to stave off the midsummer heat. Like tossing a single cup of water on a blazing inferno, the reprieve from the heat is only momentary.

If the oppressive heat bothers Shoko, she doesn’t show it. Her face is veiled in a grayish haze as she takes a drag of her cigarette, sinuous threads of smoke curling through the sweltering air. Another breeze limps past with a bit more force, enough to knock the smoldering ash from the end of Shoko’s butt. It lands in her lap, eating a black hole through the cloth of her skirt before she can dust the mess away. A dot of pale skin beams through the deep blue fabric, too big to be salvaged. Shoko gives you an unamused glower when she catches the edge of your stifled laughter, tossing away the remnants of her cigarette to look closely at the damage. She brushes away the last bits of ash before clicking her tongue, sulking over the destruction of a recent purchase.

“Maybe if you hadn’t been smoking on campus…” you hum with just enough amusement to earn you another side-eyed glare. Despite the heat you lean in closer, until your shoulders are touching, so you can whisper in her ear. “Do you want me to buy you a new skirt, honey?”

Shoko matches your sardonic tone, eyes curved into half moons as she mockingly hums. “Fuck off.”

She smells like cigarettes and melon shampoo as another gust of muggy air wafts past, stirring up sparkling particles of pollen that cling to the sheen of sweat shining on your skin. Everything is sticky and overwhelming, but the world shrinks to something more manageable as you tilt your head back, eyes closed to the pinholes of sunlight twinkling through the treetops. Bursts of red play behind your eyelids, vision going bright and hazy when your eyes finally open.

“I’m assuming you’re done for the day?” Shoko asks, nodding to your abandoned weapon as she fishes in her pocket for another cigarette. Yaga-sensei had recently granted you stewardship over a cursed tool from Jujutsu Tech’s extensive armory with explicit instructions to practice before taking the bow on any field missions. Gaudy and ornamental as it is–clearly a show of some past sorcerer’s craftsmanship–the bow carries the ability to hit any target the wielder can imagine. It’s why Yaga-sensei entrusted the weapon to you to begin with. Your infallible memory makes you the perfect user of such a cursed tool. Given enough practice.

It’s been a strenuous task and the courtyard is littered with the fruits of your labor, arrows imbued with trace amounts of cursed energy strewn across the ground.

“It’s better to start small,” is all the advice Yaga-sensei had to give on the matter. Practice, as per his instructions, has been little more than standing in one spot while Shoko went around campus naming off landmarks and collecting the arrows as they hit their target. The torii gate near the dorms, the old well behind the cafeteria, the broken statue near the track field. Your phone battery is nearly depleted from how long she’s been going around the school grounds, giving you new targets through the speaker. The soreness in your arm had been expected given that the bow was sized to someone larger than you, making the draw strength something difficult to contend with on the first few shots. It’s simmered to something tolerable but that still leaves the mental strain it takes to perfectly visualize each location. It’s taxing on the mind, and the beginnings of a headache that could be attributed to heat exhaustion is starting to drum up behind your eyes.

When you don’t offer an answer Shoko brushes her fingers across your forehead, outwardly it seems like she might be brushing the stray hair from your forehead but you recognize the trained calculation behind the simple touch. She wipes your sweat on her ruined skirt and purses her lips. No verbal admonishment comes, but you can tell by her expression exactly what she’s thinking. Estimations of your temperature as it correlates to your current state surely running through her head, but she’s never been one to nag you into submission. Shoko is nothing if not a watchful entity. Simply standing idly while people make decisions, only giving input when asked. Which you haven’t because you can expect a barrage of “I told you so’s” for straining yourself to this point of exhaustion over simple practice. Not a mission, not even a precursor to an aptitude test. Just practice for the sake of honing your skills.

It’s that gnawing sense of perfectionism that has you standing despite Shoko’s skeptical glare. She won’t say it but the medical training in her is clearly showing on her face, frowning as she watches you collect your arrows. They’re still imbued with trace levels of your cursed energy but without the bow they’re only going as far as a normal arrow. The sun beats down on your back, singeing your skin even through the fabric of your shirt every time you stoop over to pick up another arrow. Shoko sighs, muttering something about “always so damn stubborn.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to take a break.” She says. More directly this time. Combat has never been Shoko’s strong suit. Her reversed cursed technique being far more suited to the walls of an infirmary than any active battle. Practice for her is suturing and sterilizing. Nothing like the grueling physical feats you’re expected to endure for the sake of honing your craft. But even still she’s one of the few marvels attending Jujutsu Tech because no one seems to have a stronger aptitude for reversed curse techniques than Shoko. It’s truly unfair that of your four-student class, you’re the least remarkable. It makes you want to work harder, twice as hard as anyone else, to prove you deserve your place here. So instead of slowing down and taking that recommended break, you roll your shoulders and force yourself to focus.

“I took a break.” You did. Because why else would you have been sitting around underneath a tree if not to take a break from the boiling heat that’s melting you down to a paste with the way you’re sweating. Your skin and brain feel like they’re about to liquify and evaporate. But you can’t relax. Even when you sat beside Shoko the feeling of peace was only momentary. The silence brought on by exhaustion only lasted until you gained a second wind strong enough to get you back on your feet, bow in hand despite the way your shooting arm is really starting to ache from the heavy draw weight. You had some experience with using a bow and arrow but it didn’t mean the strength needed to shoot such a massive weapon wasn’t laborious. Still, the dull throb in your arm gives you something to think about that isn’t them. The other two members of Yaga-sensei’s second year class.

Flashes of white and black cross your mind. Abstract, undefined. Not enough to draw your mind away from your next target: the dead tree in the far corner of the courtyard. Should you shoot facing away or try aiming upwards, towards the sky? An ordinary arrow would fly straight up, perhaps get snatched off course by the wind, but no matter the direction you shoot, an arrow shot from this bow will always hit its mark. You feel the cursed energy singing through your hand as you nock your arrow.

“That wasn’t a break. You sat down for two seconds.” Shoko rolls her eyes as she watches you draw the bow. “I know you said you’re fine, but–”

“I am!” You say too quickly. Shoko frowns at your insistence. “I just…” You struggle to come up with an explanation for your erratic behavior that doesn’t start and end with the anxiety burning like acid in your stomach. Stinging and simmering as it spreads through your nerves, leaving you with nothing to say in your defense. You hazard a shrug, hoping your indecision will mollify Shoko. It doesn’t and she levels you with an expectant tilt of her head.

“It’s stupid.” And it is. Because how can you explain that you feel like an imposter in a school with such a rigorous entrance exam? They wouldn’t have let you in if you weren’t worth the trouble of teaching and you know that, yet you still can’t shake the feelings of inadequacy. Not when you’re learning in the shadow of the two most promising sorcerers of the modern era. And it doesn’t help that in your bid to be more like them, you’ve gone and gotten yourself far too involved. What started out as you probably being a bit of a nuisance–always close, underfoot like a puppy–turned into them seeking out your company once you realized the desperation could be dialed back a bit. In trying to seem uninteresting after following them for so long, you made yourself easy to miss. Because, of course, they’d notice if the person always standing in their shadow up and disappeared.

Now, you’re tangled in a web of their making. A fly struggling beneath the watchful eyes of those spiders keeping you close. It feels suffocating, like chains tightening around you every moment you let yourself slip deeper into the oddity that is your relationship with the Special Grade sorcerers. Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru. Even thinking of their names has started to spike your pulse with anxiety. And “relationship” is too charitable a word for the arrangement you have with them, seeing as you’re little more than an accessory, something to be added and removed at a whim. A cage of your own making. It’s what you get for always trailing after them like their talents would pass through their air and cling to you, make you worth more than you are. Now you’re here. Always at an arm’s length. Never closer and never further, held firmly in a place they can always reach you regardless of your own conflicting feelings.

It had been fun at first, to know they wanted you in their lives, in their bed. Although, the newness of the physical arrangement wore off quickly. Now it feels like the tenuous bond has degraded beyond what it had been even when you were nothing more than a tenacious classmate. Before you’d been acquaintances, maybe even friends, but now it feels like you’re something less than even that. A person to pass in the halls and accompany on missions. It stings at your pride to know you only lasted a year. Chewed up and spit out now that your second year classes have reached the halfway mark, a break between semesters fast approaching.

“Can’t be that stupid if it’s bothering you,” Shoko says patiently, lighting up another cigarette. She takes a deep drag as she waits for you to shuffle through your thoughts, landing on the least offensive truth you can offer.

“I want to break up with Gojo and Geto.” It’s hard to break something that was built on shaky foundations to begin with, but it’s the best you can come up with without explaining the winding ins and outs of your strange situationship with the men in question. Because Shoko–hell, everyone–thinks the three of you are dating. Like a proper relationship. A happy crowd of three. Shoko blinks through the haze of smoke streaming from between her lips before nodding pensively.

“You can try.”

It’s something ominous, though Shoko looks a bit miffed about having to be the one to tell you. Like you should know better than to even consider something like that. The words settle like cold stones in your chest. Heavy and shivering despite the heat still bearing down through the clouds. She goes to sit back in the shade, pulling out her phone to text someone. You ignore the tap-tap-tapping of her keyboard in favor of pulling back your bow string again, aiming at a cloud passing overhead. The arrow shoots up, before winking out of sight with a faint glittering burst, like a flash of light off the edge of a blade. It lands in the trunk of the dead tree with a dull thud. And because you can and it’s something to cut through the cluttered thoughts, you keep shooting. Landing arrows around the courtyard because you’re too tired to go through the ordeal of hunting up every arrow if you go back to shooting them around campus.

“I think that’s enough for today.” A new voice rings through the courtyard, distinct enough to distract you. A face cropping up unbidden in your mind’s eye, thoughts of the people you’ve been spending your afternoon avoiding springing up like weeds in a garden. Blue eyes and dark bangs invade your thoughts and you lower the bow before you can send an arrow into someone’s head. If you lacked discipline, were more easily startled, you might’ve shot before your reflexes caught the mistake in your mental visualization. Gojo would be fine with his infinity but Geto has no such barriers protecting him from unforeseen projectiles. Red covers white and black as you imagine the arrow piercing through his skull.

“I’m fine.” It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself. Now that Geto is standing in front of you, your mind has turned to tangles once more. Your usually calm and collected thoughts knotting up on themselves. He and Gojo scramble your brain in a way no one should be able to, like a radio losing signal and turning to static. It makes you want to give up on the endeavor of loosening the mess with slow, careful consideration. Quicker to cut out the tangles and be done with it. White threads. Black threads. Snip them all and watch the tension unravel.

“You shouldn’t be practicing outside like this when it’s so hot. When’s the last time you took a break?”

“I took a break!” Shoko doesn’t offer support when you look to her to corroborate the half-truth. Instead the fledgling doctor shoves her phone in her bag and you realize the betrayal. It must’ve been Geto she was texting. Shoko isn’t the type to share anything she’s told in confidence, so there’s no worry that she mentioned anything you said to him, but she must’ve said something to raise a flag in his mind if he showed up so quickly. Shoko dusts the dirt from the back of her skirt before drifting past the two of you, murmuring about going home as she leaves you alone with your not-boyfriend.

For all her nonchalance, Shoko is quite perceptive. A trail of smoke follows after her as she retreats, effectively extracting herself from the equation before she becomes a factor in a fight. Because that’s all you and the boys seem to do anymore. Over nonsense. About you training too hard and them treating you like something that needs protection. Or perhaps it’s just you fighting. Spitting and clawing like a caged animal because that’s how they make you feel. Small and weak and trapped.

Even from a distance, Geto is overwhelming and it has your hackles raising before he says anything more.

“I took a break.” You bite out, hoping your attitude will ward him off. “Now let me practice.” Unfortunately, Geto won’t give you the satisfaction of being done with the conversation just because you’re feeling a bit angry.

“You’re going to hurt yourself.” There’s that edge of concern you’ve come to know so well. That softness in his voice that sounds almost patronizing, like you’re not aware of your own body’s limits. It makes you sink deeper into your irritation.

“Yeah,” you scoff, “because I’m some weak Grade One sorcerer.”

“I didn’t say that. Stop putting words in my mouth.” Quieter, to himself, he mutters about how you and Satoru are just alike, “so fucking stubborn.”

“If you overwork yourself you’ll get hurt. I’m just worried about you.” And there it is. He’s worried. Thinking about you in a way you’ve never had to think about them. As something weak and needing a watchful eye to keep them safe. Gojo and Geto are literally the strongest sorcerers of the new generation. No one has ever had to worry about them. And if they have–you have, though you’ll never admit it–it’s a wasted effort. They return from every mission almost completely unscathed. Only as ruffled as a few hairs out of place because Geto is lethal without having to manifest his collection of curses, and nothing can touch Gojo without his permission. The memories of him letting you go beyond that barrier of infinity crop up unbidden in your mind and it makes you fit another arrow on your bowstring. Burns are starting to form where the bow chafes at your fingers but you pull back the string again, deciding to shoot another arrow dead ahead with no other target in mind.

“Don’t worry about me.” The words sound empty even to your own ears. Because as much as you crave your own type of recognition, want to prove that you’re not the weakest–most useless–second year student, you like knowing that you have their attention. Something like if you can’t beat them, join them. You’ll never surpass Gojo or Geto’s abilities but you’ve still earned their approval in a way no one else has. Even if it’s all balanced on a precarious edge. So close but so far. They have each other, and then you. They could take it all away in a second and sometimes you wish they would. It would save you the ordeal of being seen as the bad guy for cutting ties with them when everyone knows how attached the three of you are. If you aren’t with Shoko you’re with them and seeing any of you alone is a rare occurrence. It’s something you’ll have to get used to because losing them might mean losing everyone. Shoko doesn’t seem to think it’s possible but what if you prove her wrong?

Another shot hits its target. What if you’re wrong?

Geto sighs, real loud like he has a right to be upset. Like his mind is anywhere near as hoarded yet empty as yours. The thought of leaving makes you feel light with released anxiety and heavy with the guilt of betrayal. All at once. Too many knots. Too many thoughts. The bow falls to the wayside as you press your hands to your head, trying to will away the pain stabbing behind your eyes. Headache–maybe heatstroke–made worse by all the stress Geto’s caused just by existing near you. You lean down, hands grabbing vaguely at the ground, smacking blindly across the pavement until you find your bow.

The sun is bleaching everything bright white and it’s hard to see even with your eyes squinted against the throbbing pain and stabbing light. The arrows are abandoned, far too many strewn about to be of concern at the moment. Right now, all you want to do is get away from Geto. Go somewhere where he isn’t and recollect your thoughts. Somewhere inside, with water and air conditioning. Your footsteps are staggered, legs feeling more like melting wax than anything solid beneath you.

Move, you try to say, go away. It’s a slurred groan but you shoulder past Geto anyway. Or, at least, you try to. Instead you bounce off of the solid planes of his body. It sends you stumbling in another direction, so quick that your vision begins to dip and swirl like looking through water. There’s the vague sound of something warped and panicked but mostly it sounds like you’re underwater. Everything is shimmering black and blue for a moment before even that fades to nothing.

It’s cold. Not a bitter kind of cold but something chilled and pleasant, made less frigid by a vague sort of warmth wrapped around you to stave off the biting edge of the water. Everything is tepid and dim as goosebumps prickle up your arms. The budding shivers are chased away by gentle hands soothing over your damp skin. It’s enough to shock you to full attention after lingering in the soft ether between sleep and wakefulness. Water sloshes around you, splashing over the side of the tub as you bolt upright, hands gripping the edge of the porcelain as you struggle to make sense of your surroundings. The last memories you have are steeped in searing heat and blinding light, pinched with pain as the sun leached away at you. The sun is gone now, replaced with the milky white light of the moon. It spills through the open window, highlighting the sharp edges of marble and chrome; the expensive appliances of a luxury apartment.

Hands tease at your waist, pulling softly to coax you back to where you’d been laying against their chest. You know Gojo just by touch. It’s a privilege few are afforded now that he��s developed a mastery of his infinity, yet here he is wrapping his arms over your stomach to keep you close to his chest. His heart beats steadily against your spine, a consistent metronome that clashes with the anxious skipping of your own pulse. The headache that had been pounding away at your skull like a hammer and chisel is gone, replaced with the sound of your blood rushing in your ear as each subtle touch of Gojo’s fingers tracing against your skin sends you reeling.

Lips find the tip of your ear, then the edge of your jaw before settling against your pulse fluttering in your throat. His silence is nearly as deafening as your racing heart. It’s so strange to find Gojo so quiet as he presses feather-light kisses into your skin. A damp hand presses into your forehead. There’s a faint hum and then a sigh before his slender fingers drift over your eyes. His lips are at your ear again, the feeling of his breath rushing over your skin making you shiver in his arms.

“Stop thinking.” His voice is unexpectedly harsh, like he’s angry with you, and it only makes you think harder. It’s obvious you’re in his apartment but the spaces in between point A and point B are blurred, a staccato rush of images flickering in and out of focus. You were at school and then suddenly you weren’t. Last you remember, you were with Geto. Near Geto. Trying to get away from him. And now you’re naked in a tub with Gojo, and he’s upset with you. He says it again, “Stop. Thinking.”

Because you value your sanity, or what little shred of it you have left, you really do try to calm your racing thoughts but it’s so hard with him so close. And he won’t let you go. His hand stays over your eyes, pinning your focus on him and him alone. His voice. His skin. His anger. Because no matter how much Gojo tries to mask his emotions with a veneer of humor it’s always painfully clear when he’s upset. At least to you. His voice gets lower and his smiles get tighter. Every word that comes off his tongue now is graveled with restraint and it only works to further scramble your mind. Makes you anxious at the unknown. The feeling of being caught in a web springs to life again as his fingertips dance over your stomach, slender fingers feeling like the legs of a spider tying you up in its web. It gets your breaths quickening until you can’t fill your lungs fast enough, heaving and gasping as you grab at the edge of the tub, trying to pull yourself away from him again.

Let go. Let go. Let. Go!

It’s a mantra marching through your head until he lets you free at last, so quickly that you go spilling over the side of the bathtub. The tiles are cold and unsympathetic and you yelp as your knees land hard against the marble. Gojo watches you, blue eyes almost glowing in the dimness of the moonlight. You scramble gracelessly to your feet, snatching up the first towel your hand touches as you rush to be away from him. Today was meant to be spent in seclusion. Away from Gojo. Away from Geto. Yet you’ve been pushed towards both of them like a compass leading you north because Geto is just beyond the bathroom door, on Gojo’s bed.

It’s brighter in the bedroom, lit by the bedside lamp as Geto looks up from his book. It’s set aside quickly in favor of moving towards you. With each step he takes you find yourself drifting towards the door. Your clothes are nowhere in sight and the towel you grabbed hardly offers enough coverage for you to flee back to your dorm in, but the alternative of staying here, with them, is wholly unappealing. Just the thought of spending another moment with them ties knots in your stomach.

Nervous. They make you so nervous. So anxious about every facet of your existence. They won’t say it but you can see it in the way they treat you like something left over. Something to dote on when they’re done focusing on each other. It was nice at the start because you could pretend you weren’t bothered, but now it’s all you see. A divided front. You. And them. With such an obvious split, it’s only fair that you should have the choice to break free completely. Screw what Shoko said. Of course, they’d let you go. They hardly have you to begin with. But all that bravery evaporates the second your back hits the wall, cornered under Geto’s watchful eyes.

“Back up,” you breathe, not daring to look him in the eyes. His hair is loose, sweeping over his shoulders to curtain your face as he leans his head against yours. All he says is, “no.”

“Please, back up, Geto.” He’s always preferred manners and you try to sound docile even as your voice starts to shake. You feel him shake his head. No, again.

“S’not my name.” His hands trace up your shoulders, thumbs brushing against your neck before hooking under your jaw to make you look at him. Slowly he asks, “What’s my name?”

“Suguru.” It’s something weak and scratchy as your throat tries to close around each syllable but he hums like it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. The meager croak is echoed as Gojo emerges from the bathroom with Geto’s name on his tongue. There’s a dozen unspoken thoughts in that single word, all of which Geto seems to recognize in an instant.

“She’s fine, I got her. Always.” Geto says like you’re a dog that tried to bolt the moment the front door was left open. And despite how insistent you’d been earlier, and how easily Geto said it now, you’re not fine. Truly, you’re the farthest thing from it, and their hovering is making it worse. They usher you towards the bed and you’re perched on the edge as they crowd in around you.

There’s too much skin involved. With your clothes missing you’re left in a towel, clutching it to your chest to lessen even a modicum of the vulnerability you feel with both men staring down at you. Geto reaches to brush a strand of hair away from your face and you shrink back. His hand falls away but it only leaves space for Gojo to come closer.

“Stop touching me.” Gojo hums like he didn’t hear you even as his lips find the furrowed space between your brows, lined taut with tension beneath the softness of his mouth.

“Stop touching me!” Your voice is cracked and edged with hysteria but it works well enough to get them to give you even just a moment to think. Steadying breaths rattle in your chest as you try to pluck up the courage to look at them. Geto catches your eye first because he’s the easiest to look at. His face has always been more guarded, more neutral, than the telegraphing billboard that is Gojo and his big blue eyes. Your thoughts are already so scattered and looking at him will only make it worse. Geto tilts his head as if he’s weighing each thought in his mind.

“What’s wrong?” His tone is cold. Stripped of that usual affection drawl, Geto’s voice sounds almost angry. Somehow it’s everything and nothing that you wanted to hear. Anger will make this easier. If they’re frustrated and bitter it will be easier to cut ties. Still, hearing how detached he sounds makes something inside you crack.

“Let’s break up.” In all your imaginings there was anger. Shouting and fighting, though never begging. You couldn’t imagine you’d be worth the loss of even a shred of dignity to them. Why would they lower themselves to beg you to stay? But instead of anger, your words are met with laughter.

Quiet at first and then louder as Gojo nearly doubles over with how hard he’s laughing. As if you weren’t even worth the effort to get upset. He couldn’t even muster a single harsh word. Instead he’s laughing and the familiar sound is like salt over soil, withering your resolve. The heat of your desperation simmers to something cold and shriveled in the wake of his poorly stifled amusement.

“Stop it!” It’s small and petulant but he quiets down almost instantly, as if he hadn’t been giggling just a moment before. All the mirth drains from his face and turns to something blank and menacing, blue eyes flashing in the low light. You say his name hesitantly, suddenly unsure of yourself, and his eyes narrow.

“Try again.” He’s as insistent as Geto that you call him by his given name. You’re far too close to be playing at calling them by their surnames, as if they’re just passing acquaintances and not your supposed partners.

Softly, you say his name, “Satoru.”

“That’s right, baby. You know my name. Tell me again. Say my name.” He’s getting in close again, face so close to yours that you can’t see anything but him. Pure white hair, clear blue eyes. He’s smiling again. Something coy and teasing as he waits for you to say what he wants to hear. He hears it once then says, “Again.” And again and again as he leans in closer with each murmur of his name until his lips are sealed over yours and his name is only a breath shared between shallow kisses.

“You know my name, baby,”–he spares another kiss–“so call me by it. I’m not some random guy for you to be calling Gojo. Never have been. Never will be.” The latter declaration sounds almost threatening, and it reminds you that you just tried to sever this bond of familiarity between the three of you. Yet here he is telling you it will never be that easy. Why can’t it be? How entrenched are you in their lives that you can’t walk out just as quickly as you came? Time spent with them is sparing between missions. Today has been a seldom quiet moment to yourself between field work and neither of them had come to see you until Shoko went and planted that seed of doubt with Geto.

“We’re not together now,” you try to insist upon your previous request. “It would be strange to call you by your name. We hardly see each other. Wouldn’t people think it’s weird if I addressed you so casually?”

“You know that’s not true.” Geto says, thumb pressed against his brow. A habit of his that spells out his frustration as clearly as any words could.

“Majority rules.” Gojo teases. “You’re not leaving us so you better quit bringing it up before we think you’re serious.”

“I am serious!” You feel Gojo laughing at you more than you hear it. The steady rumbling in his chest as he pulls you to lay beside him on the rumpled sheets. He kisses the tip of your nose and chuffs out an amused “nah,” as if his words are enough to void your own.

“What’s your safeword, baby?” Geto asks from the foot of the bed. The suddenness prompts you to answer quickly, an ingrained instinct drawing the word “cloudy” off your tongue. Geto hums and touches your ankle. His fingers aren’t as delicate as Gojo’s. There’s more weight behind even the lightest touch as his fingertips find the jut of your bone before drifting higher, raising goosebumps on your exposed legs. He climbs onto the bed, hand lingering on your skin as he looks down at you.

“What’s wrong, baby? The truth this time.”

“I want to break up. That’s all.” It feels like a lie when you’re confronted with Geto’s piercing gaze. Gojo scoffs from his place nuzzled against the column of your neck, lips pressing hot kisses against your fluttering pulse.

Geto presses further. “Why?”

Why? As if you had to justify your desire for distance when it’s all they’ve been treating you with. A constant reminder that you’re different, separate. They’re doing it even now, minimizing your words to nothing even as you try desperately to get them to understand that you’re serious. It’s like they’re keeping you on a leash and you’re tugging at your lead, begging to be set free.

“It’ll be easier for all of us.”

“Easier, how?” Gojo asks as he traces over the shape of your collarbones above the cover of your towel.

“No one will have to pretend anymore.”

“Who’s pretending? ’Cause it sure as hell ain’t me.” Gojo snaps, arms cinching tighter around your waist.

“You been lying to us, baby, is that it?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer. “Our girl’s been playing with our feelings, huh, Suguru?”

“That’s what I’m hearing.” Geto agrees.

That’s not true. If anyone’s been lying, it’s them. Treating you so sweet when it’s plain to see the only people that matter to them is each other. They’ve always been together until you stumbled along, weak and starry-eyed. Wholly intent on earning your place in a group of such skilled sorcerers. They doted on you, taught you, loved you, but how truthful can a love borne of pity be. You’re a kicked puppy limping along behind them and it’s taken you this long to realize how truly pathetic you’ve been. Training makes a sorcerer, not trailing behind in a race you’ll never win. Chasing the backs of two people you can never hope to reach. It’s cruel of them to pretend you were ever someone worthy of being beside them. It was never going to be you and it makes you wonder how long they planned to let you live in this delusion.

“I’m not the one lying.” It’s quiet, barely the wisp of a sound, but they hear it. Gojo sits up quickly, pulling you with him so that he and Geto can pin you between them once more.

“So it’s us?” Gojo bites, voice grated with anger. “You think we’re lying about our feelings. You think we don’t love you?” It’s better that you can’t see him as he kneels behind you, chin hooked over your shoulder, but there’s nothing shielding you from Geto’s endlessly dark glare. His head tilts, bangs sweeping over his eyes as he stares down at you with a harsh set to his lips.

“Who said that, baby? Who told you we didn’t love you?” When you shake your head, Geto scoffs.

“Don’t tell me you made up that lie yourself.” Gojo grunts. “You got lost in that pretty little head of yours and decided we don’t love you anymore, is that it?” His hand is over your eyes again, turning the world dark. It’s something he’s always done, covering your eyes like putting a blanket over a cage. It forces your mind to quiet, to focus on less. A habit you assume he developed as an extension of his own.

He dampens his Six Eyes with blindfolds and tinted glasses, so of course he’d know exactly how to quiet your mind when it starts to race out of control. Your hands lift towards your face, uncertain if you want to move his hand or hold it closer. Your fingertips rest against his skin, not pushing, not pulling, but without your arms against your sides the towel slowly comes loose to pool around your waist. Warm hands are quick to chase away the chill of the room as Geto’s fingers brush against your ribs, Gojo’s free hand settling lower on your waist. They both move in closer until you’re locked between their bodies. Gojo at your back and Geto against your chest. The latter lifts your hips, pushing the towel aside completely as he pulls you into his lap. You can’t see him through Gojo’s hand, but you’re sure Geto is staring at you, gaze likely steeped in disappointment.

It reminds you of what Shoko had said, “You can try.” And this is your reward for the effort. Trying suggests a margin of error for failure, and you’ve failed spectacularly. Undressed and caught between the two of them, feeling their hands against your naked body as they try to convince you to stay.

“You’re wrong, pretty girl,” Gojo hums, cheek pressed up against your ear as he leans over your shoulder. His voice comes from all around you. Humming through your spine and over your shoulders as the soft timbre comes up from his chest and settles as a low draw in his throat. You hear it nearly echoing in your ear as his mouth ghosts over your skin. He’s so close, hand still guarding your eyes from seeing anything beyond his skin. He’s got you surrounded and it’s only made more overwhelming as Geto moves in closer until you can feel his breath against your lips. His face is different from Gojo’s as he nuzzles against you. The white haired man is made up of straighter edges–a slim jaw and sharp nose–to match the deceptive softness he presents to the world, like a blade hidden in a sleeve. Geto is comparatively more broad, all brute strength and heavy hands as he presses his nose against yours.

They’re being gentle. You can feel it in the way their muscles move beneath their skin, tensing and curling with controlled strength. They’re so strong and you feel like a feather caught between two rocks as they press against you, woefully inferior and easily brushed aside. Still they don’t allow you to float away. Both of them press close to keep you exactly where they want you. Lips find your skin. Warmth blooms across the curve of your shoulders and up the column of your neck as soft pecks graze your parted lips. There’s nothing heady or frenzied about this moment. It’s less feverish than you’re used to, yet there’s no absence of emotion because being between them has always been fraught with passion. A hand trails across your chest, settling over the steadying thrum of your heartbeat, and you realize belatedly that they’re going slow for your sake. Just a moment ago you’d been overwrought with panic and each of their glancing touches works to bleed the tension out of your body.

“Still with us?” Geto asks. He and Gojo always seem to move in tandem. Geto’s hand has only just started to tip your head up to meet his gaze when Gojo’s hand finally slips away from your eyes. You must say something in the affirmative because Geto hums, thumb brushing over your lips before he looks over your shoulder at Gojo. Something unspoken passes between them in the briefest glance and then you’re moving, getting dragged into Gojo’s chest as he sits up against the headboard with you between his legs. His towel has been brushed aside as well, leaving only Geto clothed. He evens the odds a fraction by pulling his shirt off, ruffling his hair so it falls messily around his face. Pretty.

Geto scoff, “Now you have something nice to say, baby?” You hadn’t meant to say it out loud but they both seem amused if not a bit mollified by the slip of your tongue.

“Our boy is pretty, isn’t he?” Gojo asks, shifting his hips until you can feel the length of his approval pressed against the small of your back. Wet and hot, leaking and throbbing against the base of your spine as his hands press against your stomach to pull you impossibly closer.

“Gentle.” Geto reminds him, eyes fixed on the way Gojo’s fingers are making impressions in the softness of your skin. Any harder and he’d start to leave bruises but Gojo knows better. Geto wouldn’t let him hold you hard enough to break and Gojo himself is far too aware of his own strength to ever lose control like that.

“M’always gentle,” he says against the nape of your neck, the sentiment nearly lost as his teeth scrape across the sensitive skin. A shiver skitters down your spine, skin dotted with goosebumps as his tongue soothes the faint sting his teeth left behind.

“I know you are,” Geto agrees, reaching past your shoulder to touch Gojo. The man nearly purrs, a soft chuckling noise vibrating against your skin as his tongue tastes where your pulse is rushing in your throat.

“We’re always gentle with you, aren’t we, baby girl?” Geto’s eyes are on you now. The pitiful little “yeah,” you manage to squeeze out around the lump in your throat hardly qualifies as an answer. But they are, and isn’t that the worst part? They’re so gentle with you like they know you’re too weak to handle them unbridled, like you’re wrapped in caution tape and stamped with stickers marking you as fragile. Weak. It’s embarrassing that even in their most vulnerable state they’re more than you could ever hope to handle.

“Our girl.” Gojo sighs. The strongest sorcerer of the new generation and yet his touch is so gentle it seems almost hesitant as one hand moves away from your waist to dip between your legs. He echoes the whimpering sound you make as the pads of his fingers brush against your clit, seemingly reveling in the way your body tenses as he traces gentle shapes against the sensitive bud. His touches are fleeting, teasing, hardly enough as he pants against your shoulder. Geto’s hands smooth up the inside of your thighs, thumbing against the muscles as he spreads your legs wider for Gojo to touch. His second hand comes away from your waist to join the first, teasing at your fluttering heat before sinking a singular finger inside. He groans louder than you do, mumbling against your dampening skin about “so wet, baby,” as he works his finger inside you, adding another and another as he stretches you out with each curling thrust of his fingers.

Geto seems content to watch, thumbing soft circles against the shaking muscles of your thighs as Gojo takes his time loosening you around his fingers.

“You’re making a mess, baby girl.” Geto teases. You can feel it. Gojo is frustratingly good at everything he does and this is no exception. He’s winding you up tight as he hooks his fingers against that spot inside you that has you keening and arching away from his chest. There’s the faint sound of a protest, a groaning “no!” as Gojo’s body follows yours, not letting you put any distance between you.

“Be nice,” Geto laughs, pushing against your sternum until your back is against Gojo’s chest once more. Once you’re settled his hand trails to your nipple, brushing against the pert bud before the heat of his mouth swallows your breast. His tongue laves over your skin, leaving a glossy wet trail across your chest as he nips and licks at your breasts. It’s all overwhelming. The heat of two bodies against yours, reflecting the warmth of your own. Sweat gathers where Gojo is panting against your neck, lashes tickling your cheek as he looks down as where Geto is leaving faint marks against your skin. Your hips shift, trying to shy away from the mounting pleasure but Geto’s hold on your thigh is unflinching and only works to push you further into Gojo’s lap. You can feel the latter grinding against you, cock drooling against your skin as he grinds against your ass.

“Fuck, baby,” Gojo’s whining now, in that same breathy way he does whenever he’s at the edge of cumming. “You close, baby, gonna cum for me?” His fingers work faster inside you, rubbing real nice against your clit as he babbles a mantra of “cum, baby, please, please, cum,” in your ear. You do because they don’t give you much of a choice with the way they’re hitting all your weak spots at once. Just one of them is enough to override your senses, but together they all but melt your brain until your thighs are shaking and you’re staining the sheets with how hard you’re cumming. Gojo doesn’t let up on your clit but he pulls his fingers out of you with an embarrassingly slick sound to fumble for his cock. Geto helps, lifting you higher so Gojo can slot his cock against your pussy. He leans forward like he’s trying to wrap himself around you, rutting feverishly against your wet heat and whining when he doesn’t end up inside you. Geto seems to take pity on him, brushing Gojo’s hand aside to stroke his flushed cock soaked with a mix of both of you.

“I got you, baby.” Geto hums, leaning over to kiss Gojo. With the way they’re meeting in the middle, just over your shoulder, you can hear every sound they make with frustrating clarity. Every little groan Gojo makes as Geto kisses him. It’s loud and sloppy and you feel spit dappling your shoulder when they pull apart, joining the sweat already beading on your skin.

Geto murmurs, “You too, baby girl,” before enveloping you in a kiss of your own. His tongue finds yours easily, coaxing you into a deeper kiss as he groans against your mouth. He kisses you like he’s trying to swallow you whole, to consume every part of you. It’s startling and grounding all at once. A kiss like that can’t be fake. It eases a bit of tension from your body and Geto feels it, humming against your mouth as he pulls away, a faint smile on his lips. He kisses you again only briefly before moving lower, dappling your skin in warm kisses before he settles on his stomach with his head between your legs. He gives Gojo’s cock a few more teasing strokes before wrapping his lips around his swollen length. Behind you, Gojo keens, wrapping his arms tight around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. Geto’s eyes are on you as he swallows Gojo’s dick.

“Fuck,” Gojo shivers against your back. “Wish I could see him. Tell me what he looks like, baby. What does our boy look like between our legs?” It’s an odd request if only because Gojo can see so much. Yet here he is relying on your vision to tell him what he can’t see.

“S’pretty,” you tell him, “so pretty.”

“Yeah,” Gojo agrees instantly. “Yeah, our boy is so pretty. Fuck, Suguru!”

“He’s taking you so well.” Geto hums at the praise and Gojo whines behind you, hips jerking up. Geto’s hands settle on your thighs once more, gripping like he needs something to focus on while he’s taking Gojo’s cock to the hilt. You lay a shaking hand on his head, fingers carding through his soft hair, pulling it away from his face as he blinks up at you.

“So pretty, Suguru.” He pops off of Gojo’s dick at the sound of his name on your tongue, shifting forward until his lips are wrapped around your clit. Your hand tightens in his hair, unsure if you want to pull him away or guide him closer as the simmering sting of overstimulation slowly bleeds through your body. He decides for you, pulling away far too soon and dragging you up with him. You fall against his chest as he nods for Gojo to move. You’re laid out in the space he leaves as Geto shoves his pants down his thighs.

There’s a wet spot on the fabric from where his cock has been leaking in its confines, precum beading on the flushed head. Gojo is quick to clean up the mess, kissing the tip of Geto’s cock and taking him halfway down his throat. Geto groans, tossing his head back in a wave of glossy black hair as he takes Gojo’s mouth with a few short thrusts before pulling the blue eyed man off of him. He keeps his hand in Gojo’s hair, guiding him up to his knees to kiss him again. There’s a peek of tongue between their mouths and it has your thighs pressing together just watching them kneeling over you.

“Want you,” Geto breathes against Gojo’s lips, hardly parted from their kiss. “I don’t care how, jus’ want you.” An approving hum follows as Gojo lays himself on top of you, hips slotted against your.

“Lift up,” he murmurs, sliding a pillow under your hips as he grinds his throbbing cock against you. “Feels so good, baby.” He whines. When he leans in to kiss you, there’s desperation sparkling in his eyes. He’s kissing you hard enough to push your head back into the mattress, nipping and licking like he’s trying to pour everything he can into the press of your mouths. His body is pressed against yours in every way he can manage. Fingers threaded with yours as your hearts beat in feverish tandem, hips pressed flush as Gojo grinds against you. There’s the vague sound of a cap popping then a pitiful whine against your mouth as Geto’s hand finds Gojo’s hip, holding him still as he presses a lubed finger inside Gojo. He melts in an instant, squirming and whining as Geto keeps him steady with a hand on the small of his back. He takes his time with Gojo, letting him relax into the feeling and stalling when he whines about it being too much. By the time Geto is satisfied with how prepared Gojo is, the latter is stumbling over his words, babbling about “please, I want it, please, please!” with his hips caught between you and Geto. He can’t seem to decide exactly what he wants but Geto does it for him, leaning against his back as he strokes his dick.

“You want it?” Geto teases, nosing at the hollow behind Gojo’s ear. The white hair man nods, face drawn in desperation as he ruts into Geto’s fist. “What do you want, baby boy?” Geto asks as he drags the head of Gojo’s throbbing cock through your wet folds.

“Inside!” Gojo’s voice cracks with the volume of his desperation. Geto chuckles and kisses his shoulder.

“Whatever you want, baby.” He hums, guiding Gojo inside you. His shaking stills in an instant as he melts against you.

“Fuck, baby,” he whines. “It’s so warm inside. Squeezing me so tight, fuck!” His babbling only devolves further as Geto presses inside him, nearly incoherent as he writhes between your bodies. The strongest sorcerer reduced to a whimpering mess before you, because of you. There’s something reassuring about it as you brush Gojo’s damp hair away from his eyes, tasting the salt of his sweat as you kiss his forehead. He can barely return the affection, nuzzling against your cheek as Geto pulls back to start fucking him in earnest. Gojo finds his rhythm pinned between the two of you, rutting into you whenever Geto pulls away. His fingers are back on your clit, making a mess between your prone bodies as he tries to rush you towards the edge. He’s already shaking and whining, teetering on the edge of pleasure from all of Geto’s attention.

“Gonna cum, baby?” Geto huffs. There’s a nod and a litany of words spilling from Gojo’s lips that sound like “m’close,” as his hand grabs Geto’s thigh to pull him closer. Gojo grinds against his cock, fingers not letting up on your clit as he makes himself cum on Geto’s dick.

“Good boy.” Geto coos, hands soothing against Gojo’s waist as he shivers. He’s close, you can tell by the way his hips are stuttering, balls tightening as they smack against your skin. He cums hard, body going rigid as he spills inside you. Still, even when he’s finished he doesn’t stop moving his hips. Bright blue eyes stay locked on the frothy mess seeping out around his cock until Geto gets him to pull away. His cock is soft and flushed between his legs, strings of your shared arousal staining his skin as Geto lays him down beside you. Gojo is quick to cling, slinging an arm across your waist as his head settles against your shoulder like he can’t bear to part from you for even a moment. His hand seeks out yours, twining your fingers as Geto fills the space Gojo left inside you. He chuckles at the wet sound it makes as he sinks inside you, hair curtaining your face as he leans down to kiss you.

“Feel so good, baby girl. So fucking good. Can’t believe you wanted to take this away from us.” He groans as he sinks into your heat. Gojo had gotten you to the edge, wound you up near to snapping, and Geto doesn’t seem keen on giving you a moment to relax. His hips grind against yours with startling intensity, like he’s fucking all his anger into you.

“Tryin’ to leave us like we don’t fucking adore you. You don’t even realize how much we need you, do you?” He grits out. They need you? It sounds inconceivable, and yet here you are. In Gojo’s bed, with Geto losing himself inside you. Who else has been allowed to see them like this?

“You’re good, baby.” Gojo whispers. “So strong and so kind. We gotta be gentle with you, can’t let you get tarnished and jaded the way we have. Gotta keep our girl protected and happy for as long as we can.” He kisses your ear.

“We’ve seen so much,” Geto pants. “Can’t let you end up like us.” Somewhere in his soft groans there’s a promise, a vow to keep you away from the things they’ve seen. It makes something come loose in your chest, a tension unraveling at last as tears prick at the edge of your vision. It’s a sorcerer’s job to protect and they were protecting you. All this distance and turmoil you’ve been suffering because they want to protect you. Not because you’re weak but because they’re strong. You’ve heard whispers of the things that happened while they were in high school, things you’d never wish on your worst enemy. Gojo had died somewhere in their second year. Of course they want to keep you behind them, a wall between you and the cruelness of their world as Special Grades. Your vision swims with tears as you pull Geto into a kiss, mumbling out sniffling apologies.

“M’sorry, m’sorry! I just wanted you to take me seriously. It always feels like I’m an afterthought when it comes to missions.”

“Baby, you’re the only thought.” Gojo sighs. “You’re our soft place to land and we’d like to keep it that way. We like you soft. You can be strong all you want but when you’re with us, you gotta let us treat you nice, yeah?” You think you nod, babbling back an affirmative, but it’s hard to know as the head of Geto’s cock grinds against your sweet spot, his fingers rubbing over your messy clit. Gojo thumbs at your nipple and it’s the last bit you need to send you over the edge with a cracked shout.

“That’s right, baby, shit.” Geto groans as you clench around him. He presses in close, forehead against yours as he works himself to the edge. Each panting breath is shared between you as you rest the hand Gojo isn’t holding against the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly in his hair.

“Please, wanna feel you. Please cum, Suguru,” you whisper against his lips. He returns the coaxing with a soft “fuck,” pressing his weight against you as he cums with a graveled grunt of your name. You feel the mess leaking down your thighs, a mix of Gojo and Geto dripping out of your cunt as Geto pulls away with a few fluttering kisses.

“Thank you,” he says between each press of your lips. “Thank you for trusting us.” Belatedly, you realize you had trusted them. Implicitly. Geto had even gone as far as reminding you that you had an out, asking for your safe word even when you could tell he didn’t want you walking away from them. Even in your anger and panic you’d trusted them to treat you carefully, and they had. Gojo is still pressing soft kisses into your skin as he clings to you. His leg has found the space Geto left between yours, hooked over your thigh to keep you from squirming away from his sweaty embrace.

“Don’t get too comfortable.” Geto says as he runs his hand up Gojo’s thigh. “We all need a bath and I’ve gotta feed you two.”

“M’not hungry.” Gojo grouses, burying his face further in your neck.

“Don’t be a brat.” Geto groans. “And we definitely need to get some fluids in this one.” He says, wiping the sweat from your brow. “She was already dehydrated. We shouldn’t have tired her out like this.”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, really meaning it this time, but Geto brushes you off.

“You probably feel fine but you’ll be complaining about a headache in an hour tops, so up you go. Shower, then food. You can whine about how mean I’m being once you’ve gotten something to drink.” Gojo grumbles something that sounds faintly like “I’ll hold you to that,” as he gathers you into his arms and carries you to the bathroom. They argue about who gets to wash you and what food to order, falling into the familiar rhythm of push and pull between them with you as the mediator, gently guiding their petty arguments with a soft laugh. It’s a comfortable place to be, just one step behind them.

#gojo ★#geto ★#gojo smut #geto smut #gojo x reader smut #geto x reader smut #gojo x reader #geto x reader #satosugu x reader #jjk smut #★ mine!

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brucewaynehater101 · 5 months ago

Note

Have a Good(?) Mom Janet AU.

There is a cookbook in Drake Manor that no one but Tim and Janet are allowed to touch. There is also a shelf full of Spices that only they are allowed to touch. Every time Janet comes home, they both cook each other meals with the book and the spices. Tim makes himself food using the spices while she is gone. Janet makes sure to come home at least once a month so that they can cook together.

This cookbook has been passed down in Tim's family for many, many generations. To be taught from it and eventually gifted the book to add your own recipes to is seen as a sign of love and adoration. If a family has more than one child, a copy of the book is made so each child can have one, and if someone dies without any children to pass the book along to, their will always states for the book to be returned to a Drake. Sometimes branches of the family will get together to trade recipes that the later generations have come up with that aren't in their own books. It has been this way for well over 10 generations.

See, the special thing about this cook book? It doesn't have anything like Chili or Pasta or Candy or Cake or anything like that. No, this is a cookbook detailing things like how to brew a lovely tea made from Nightshade and Foxglove, how to milk a snake and then reduce it's venom down and which Spices to add in so that it can be used to coat a blade, and how to disguise the taste of bitter poison in sweet and savory foods.

It's a Cook Book of Poisons. Just like the shelf is full of things like arsenic, cyanide, dried poison dart frogs, hemlock, and so, so much more. If you can think of a poison, it's on the hidden shelf.

Tim is taught by his mother how to dose those he loves to over time make them immune to things, how to kill someone without leaving a trace, and how to tell poisons apart by taste, smell, and touch. Janet does this because she loves her son, just as Janet's mother did this for her because she loved Janet and on and on back in the family tree. She wants him to be safe and they are very rich and well known. She knows that this attracts Assassins. She can not protect him from Knives or bombs or guns, but she can protect him from this one thing. She will protect him because she loves him dearly.

Tim knows his mother loves him, why else would she always poison him? She explained to him when he was very little what she was doing and why and he believed her. He still does. Frankly, the partial immunity to basically all toxins has been really helpful as Robin. Plus he can use this to help the Bats! He can start micro dosing Bruce and Alfred and Dick right away by baking them cookies with poison! If they detect anything wrong, just tell them it's ok if they don't like the cookies he made while looking sad. They will cave instantly and eat anything he gives them, brushing Tim off as not a very good cook.

Tim also comes clean to his Mother (only her, not Jack. They don't have a bond like he and Janet do) about being Robin and honestly? She sags in relief and says she is so glad that someone is protecting him from the things she can not and teaching him how to defend against what nether can stop. There is a lot of crying and then Janet being Horrified when she finds out that Batman and Nightwing only have Average Gothemite Poison Resistance?? No special training??? Seems very, *very* stupid in their lie of work.

With this AU, Janet would be fine (or at least not dead) when she drinks the water. Jack may or may not have been fine as well (depends on if Janet was also microdosing Jack as well).

So, Tim's parents either die another way or just don't die. Maybe Jack still ends up dead (Boomerang and whatnot), but Janet lives.

Ooh! Feel free to contest, but this would also pave the way for some excellent Talia/Janet interactions (it could start out as enemies to lovers due to two of Talia's sons attacking Janet's son. Yet, Talia can't help but be intrigued by the Drake practice of poisons/venoms/resistance/immunity).

Anyways, Tim and Janet showing their love through cooking is precious. It'd also be hilarious if Janet, insulted by the Bats not being immune, tries to help Tim as well. She just constantly checks up with Tim's progress and offers any advice she needs to.

Damian and Jason probably have some resistance/immunity bulit up, but probably not to the extent the Drakes do in this AU. Cass is aware of what's going on and happily takes Tim's food every time (she can practically feel the love radiating off of the food).

#tim drake #janet drake #dc au #thank you for the ask!!!!

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esouliie · 10 months ago

Text

AN ANGEL FLUNG OUT OF SPACE

(natasha romanoff x fem! reader)

– synopsis | falling in love with your childhood bestfriend might have been one of the best yet scariest things to happen to you. but what happened in the summer of ‘97? what happened to your darling natalia?

– warnings | little fluff & a lot of angst, kind of au (no avengers), child abuse, mentions of: attempted suicide, self harm, body mutilation, burn marks, severe malnourishment (18+)

– notes | this was supposed to be a oneshot but, as usual, i spiralled out of control and now it has two chapters… potentially three? merci, mon alice, for the header @wandasgf ♡

[ word count: 4.4k ] Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

JULY 1992

The sun had begun to set and yet the warmth of the day still lingered. The glow of the street lamps cast an amber hue on the pavement, outlining the familiar houses that lined the quiet street. The air was filled with the scent of summer, a blend of fresh grass and the distant fragrance of blooming flowers. In one of the houses on the street, a family gathered in their backyard for a summer evening barbecue. The smell of sizzling burgers and sweet barbecue sauce wafted through the air, and the faint laughter of children chasing each other echoed, while the adults lounged and swapped stories.

Meanwhile, across the field, two girls were beneath the sprawling branches of a willow tree. A patchwork quilt, covering a section of flattened grass, held a tea set long forgotten as they had rounded the thick trunk, the littlest one already perched on the wooden swing.

“Push me higher, Natty!” You exclaimed, voice full of glee. You were only a small girl with wild hair and a toothy grin, but your spirit was boundless.

Natalia smiled brightly, her own eyes sparkling with joy at her friend's excitement. “You’re already so high you could see the Empire State Building.” She teased, her laughter blending with the sound of chirping crickets amongst the long grass in the distance.

“I know!” The wind whipped against your face, and you couldn’t help but let out a joyous laugh.

Inseparable since Natalia moved in next door, your friendship blossomed under the protective branches of the willow tree across the street, where a swing hung proudly in the breeze. Its gentle leaves whispered secrets that only the two of you could hear, dreams of the future etched upon its bark, as unadulterated laughter rang true with its sway.

She whistled as your head swung back, the carefree spirit of the summer evening enveloping her in its warm embrace. And as she gazed up at the tree’s opening, she found twinkling stars above and the imaginary distant silhouette of the Empire State Building visible on the horizon. She couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder at the vastness of the world she had yet to see.

"Whoa, this is amazing." You shouted, feeling your stomach drop with each swoop. "Let’s swing all the way to the moon!"

“Maybe not the moon,” She pushed harder, her hands gripping the thick plank of wood beneath you, “But let’s try for the stars."

You shouted with as much euphemism as your little body could handle as the swing reached its peak. Weightless under its motion, you were suspended between the sky and the ground.

An angel flung out of space.

"I can almost touch the stars!"

She smiled. Despite her hands being rubbed red raw from rope burn, she was happy. She was always happy to be with you. While she had her younger sister, Yelena, whom she cared for deeply, it wasn't the same as having you. A friendship of her own creation. She yearned for the summer days when she could run around like a child with you.

“That’s good, that means you’re almost home, little star.” She shouted, her accent slipping out ever so subtly.

Carefully, your hand stretched toward the night sky – a poor attempt to touch the boiling balls of gas above.

You both were happy.

It’s sad what became of you both.

All too soon, reality intruded once more. The distant sound of a heavy door opening cut through the air, a gentle reminder that all good things must come to an end. With a final push, Nat stepped back and held onto the plank, commanding it to a halt. She knew what was coming.

At first, you didn’t notice her disappear around the wide trunk. But the gentle clink of pottery against one another told you enough as you followed in her footsteps.

“Natalia,” You whined, hands on your waist at the sight of the older girl cleaning up. “No, it’s your turn to swing.”

A whistle pierced the air, its familiar shrill sound gaining both of your attention. The sound of home time. “Natalia, come. Time to go.” Her mother’s voice carried just as loud, urging the redhead to leave playtime behind.

She turned to you, her expression softening as she looked down at your smaller frame. With a mixture of reluctance and understanding, she pulled you into a tight embrace, the warmth of her arms wrapped around you, the gentle press of her lips against your forehead lingered for a moment before she released you and ran off into the gathering dusk.

Alone now, you watched as the field fell silent, the only sound being of the insects hidden in the dark. The swing on the other side croaked gently in response to the light breeze and the redhead’s swift departure. For a moment, you considered sitting on it, perhaps pushing yourself back and forth on the points of your feet. Instead, you find yourself standing there: the absence of your best friend ever so palpable, a void that sunk deep into your bones.

Without Natalia by your side, the swing held little allure, and you decided to make your way back home. With your large basket in hand, you reached your own doorstep and paused, casting one last glance towards the girl’s house. The lights were on inside, casting a warm glow against the darkness outside.

You almost missed it, but a glimpse of red hair appeared out the window, followed by a hand waving at you. As soon as you waved back, she was gone. Window shut. Curtains drawn.

You went to bed with a cheesy grin plastered on your face.

You’ll see her again tomorrow.

AUGUST 1997

“Natalia, stop fighting me on this. You look like a popsicle.” You laughed and shoved the girl playfully from where you were sitting against the willow tree.

“It's cool.” She defended, as her hand tugged at her blue-dyed ends.

The years had rolled by, but the memories of that swing under the willow tree lingered on in your heart. As the seasons changed, so did your life. You made new friends, explored different interests, and navigated the tumultuous journey of adolescence. Being older than you, Natalia was already in high school, but she didn’t go to any in the district, as she was home-schooled and sometimes had to leave for a while. She never really told you why.

Even so, your bond deepened and an unspoken connection developed between you both. Under the tree's comforting shade, you discovered a warmth in your heart that went beyond friendship. Those lazy summer afternoons spent laughing, dreaming, and sharing secrets created a bond that you wanted to explore further.

You’d never felt like this before for anyone.

Only Natalia.

Life as a pre-teen was so confusing.

You snorted, “Yeah, okay, you leave for a month and come back with half of your hair a different colour.”

But it wasn't just the hair colour that captivated you. It was the way she carried herself - a wisdom wise beyond her years. She was the same goofy redhead of course - her eyes sparkled with mischief when she laughed at you, her hand held the same warmth in yours as you walked together. But there was something else lurking beneath, a sadness more notable than her usual melancholy. You noticed the slight furrow in her brow, the way her fingers tapped nervously against each other.

Something was weighing on her mind, something significant. So, you asked, “What’s wrong?”

She let out such a soft sigh that you almost missed it.

“I’m leaving.”

Dread washed over you, and a knot formed in your stomach. "Again?"

She had just returned the other day. Your mind raced with questions and uncertainty and the tears already clustered your lash line. You, a child with no need to mask her emotions, no need to hide her soul, unlike Natalia, who always seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders, her laughter always accompanied by a subtle sadness, as if she were trying to conceal her true feelings behind a façade of cheerfulness. But today, as she sat you down with a gentle tug, her eyes betraying a mixture of resolve and sorrow, you sensed that she could no longer hide what she'd been keeping inside.

"It's for good this time," she murmured, her gaze fixed on the ground as if unable to meet your eyes. "My parents want to go back to Russia. They don’t like it here.”

Though unspoken, you sensed the weight of what she meant. They don't like you. It stung, a silent acknowledgement of the barriers you've fallen blind to. The odd glances from her mother, the subtle disapproval from her younger sister—all pieces of a puzzle you've tried to ignore.

Her admission hung heavy in the air, the reality of separation sinking in with each passing moment. She drew closer, her delicate fingers brushing away the tears that cascaded down your cheeks. You lifted your gaze to meet hers, noticing the weariness etched into her features, the telltale signs of tears already shed hours before.

“I’ll miss you.” She whispered, forehead flushed against yours, before leaning down to kiss the corner of your lips. An almost kiss. One of many shared underneath the cover of the willow tree.

You tasted saltiness and noticed the fresh tears that had now sprung from her eyes.

“I'll miss you too. Forever.”

The next morning, you stood outside her house, as the sun cast long shadows over their lawn. It was your last full day together so you arrived bright and early, not wanting to waste any time. You reached out to knock on the door, but your hand hovered, hesitant. The house remained still, as if holding its breath, waiting for something that would never come. You glanced around, searching for any sign of life, but the windows stared back at you blankly, revealing nothing but darkness within.

“Natty?”

Nothing.

A sinking feeling gnawed at your stomach as you realized they must've left in the night, slipping away like shadows fleeing from the dawn. The same way they joined this neighbourhood.

With a heavy heart, you turned away from the empty house, feeling as if a piece of your soul had been torn away with their departure. The world already seemed colder, lonelier, devoid of her warmth and laughter that once filled it.

In the days that followed, you found yourself drawn to the tree – yours and Natalia’s safe haven. You sat there, surrounded by memories, as the rope swayed in the wind - empty and forlorn. Though still magical, the willow tree could no longer shield you from the loneliness that settled in your heart, as the summer months stretched on endlessly, a blur of empty hours filled with longing and regret.

That night, you slept with a permanent frown, a puddle of tears staining your pillow.

You won’t see her again tomorrow.

APRIL 2001

From afar, she looked different. Almost unrecognisable.

Eighteen years old and she was here: barely an adult yet taller and slimmer, with a cascade of auburn curls framing her face that replaced the short blue hair you remembered. The years had engraved themselves onto her, carving the once-round face into a pointed visage that spoke of both experience and loss.

Just as beautiful as you remembered.

You sat on the swing under the tree with a book in hand, lost in its pages until light danced between the branches and a flicker of movement caught your attention. Glancing up, you froze as you saw her across the street.

Natalia?

Your heart quickened its pace, memories flooding back in a torrent. But this woman was different. She’d changed. She’d grown.

She noticed you too, her gaze locking onto yours for a moment. There's a flicker of recognition, a spark of something in those eyes. For a heartbeat, it feels like time hasn't passed, like you're still the same two little girls taking on the world together. But then, just as quickly as the connection formed, she averted her gaze, choosing instead to continue on her journey. She walked with purpose, footsteps marching in a steady rhythm that both connected and distanced her from you. She couldn’t get caught up with you. She had a job to do.

Realising she was going to walk away, you pushed yourself off the swing, a mix of hope and nerves swirling inside you as you discarded the book somewhere in the grass.

None of that mattered. Natalia was here. She was back.

“Hey, wait!” You shouted, practically running after her. You reached out to grab her wrist, but she jerked away, shoving you back a few steps with surprising force.

Up close, the difference was unquestionable.

The once soft and kind Natalia had evolved into a hardened version of herself, sharpened by strong fists. Her eyes once filled with innocence, now harbour shadows of pain and resilience. She exuded an aura of toughness, and a guarded silence had replaced the laughter that used to be a melody in her voice.

“Natalia? What are you doing here?” You inquired, tentatively closing the gap between you both. You watched as she winced at her name falling from your lips.

And yet, this time, she didn’t evade your touch. Her hand trembled slightly as it met yours, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. In that fleeting silence, you took in the toll life has taken on her. Her arms bear the marks of countless scars, remnants of battles fought in shadows, and bruises of varying hues.

“What happened to your arms?” Your voice is gentle, a soft inquiry borne out of concern.

But, the sudden confrontation had her retreating into herself, defences rising once more like impenetrable walls. You mustn’t know. She could never do that to you. “Let go.” She demanded sharply, her tone cutting through the air like a knife.

Caught off guard, you hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to proceed, but that’s long enough for her to decide to rip her hand out of yours, sharp and abrupt.

“Are you okay?” Your voice was barely a whisper as you watched her practically flee, disappearing around the corner of the street.

You don’t follow her.

OCTOBER 2012

Funny how throughout life, fate seemed to play a game with you, pulling Natalia in and out of your orbit like a cosmic dance.

At twenty-seven, you found yourself entrenched in the fast-paced world of trauma nursing. After the arduous journey through medical school, you packed your bags and set your sights on the East Coast. New York City welcomed you with open arms, its vibrant chaos becoming the backdrop to your new life. From your boss’s office window, the silhouette of the Empire State Building stood tall, a symbol of strength amidst the chaos below.

You thrived in this environment, relishing in the opportunity to connect with and assist people in their most vulnerable moments. The adrenaline rush of the emergency room, the delicate balance between life and death—it fuelled you in ways nothing else could. Not since that summer night. Not since you tried to touch the stars.

Today, however, the hospital was enveloped in an air of secrecy and quiet urgency. Paramedics had rushed in with a new patient a few hours ago, shrouded in mystery as they were rushed straight into surgery. Usually, you're first on-site with incoming patients but you had been busy working your rounds to be able to assist, and there were enough on the trauma team – with the security clearance - to handle such a situation.

Stopping by the bedside of your oldest patient, Mrs. Dinton, you smiled sweetly. “Hey, Mrs Dinton. How are we today?”

"Ah, there you are, dearie," she said, her voice crackling with age. "I was just telling Nurse Molly here about the delightful hospital pudding they serve on Wednesdays. It's simply divine, don't you think?"

You chuckled softly, waving a hello to your colleague. "I'm afraid I'm not much of a fan, Mrs. Dinton. But I'm glad to hear you're enjoying it."

She laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. "Oh, well, means more for me then."

Before you could continue the conversation – could reprimand the elderly woman about how she needs to watch her sugar intake - Dr. Cho appeared at your side, her expression serious. "Excuse me, ladies. But, Nurse Y/N, is needed elsewhere." She says kindly but with a hint of urgency, no room for questioning. You and Dr. Cho were great friends, having graduated med school together and now working at the same hospital.

“What is it, Helen?” You asked, following her footsteps out the ward, navigating the labyrinthine hallways of the hospital.

“I’ve been assigned postoperative care for the Jane Doe and I want you with me...” Your heart dropped at the mention of the mystery woman.

All day, the hushed tones and covert glances exchanged among your colleagues hinted at the gravity of the situation. Their whispers that followed you through the hospital corridors spoke of a failed suicide attempt. While the hospital had sadly seen its share of such cases, this one was different – a Jane Doe, requiring an unusual degree of privacy.

“…while I don’t know any more than you about what happened, I trust you the most to help me with her. So I got you clearance. Go grab us a pair of gloves, I’ll meet you inside.” Helen finished with a nod before entering the private wing.

You donned your own pair of latex and made your way back to the private wing, the click of your shoes echoing down the corridor. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation and concern. The weight of the unknown pressed upon you as you approached the room where the troubled soul awaited treatment. Few years being a trauma nurse, you had seen it all… but not a Jane Doe. Never a Jane Doe.

Upon entering, you found Helen already studying the patient's chart. The subdued lighting in the room cast a sombre mood, and the machines hummed softly in the background. The Jane Doe was laid on the hospital bed, head secured in a neck brace and a tube down her throat, a silent testament to the ordeal she had endured.

“Thanks,” Helen whispered, making her way over to retrieve her gloves. "I've gone through everything in the notes. The attempt was pretty severe."

You nodded, taking in the gravity of the situation. The silence was broken only by the soft beeping of the monitors as you both began your work. Each movement was deliberate, and each procedure executed with precision and empathy. You adjusted the IV drip, checked the vital signs, and made sure everything was in order.

Sometime later, Helen had left, her pager going off as her presence was needed with another incoming patient. The room seemed to hold its breath, but it was only you. The machine to your right, making sure the woman was still breathing.

You read over her notes once more.

“Female, 5’7…” You ramble aimlessly to no one as you find yourself unable to voice the rest.

The laceration on her neck caught your attention. The wound stretched across her delicate skin, a jagged seam where the surgeons' skilled hands had meticulously stitched the deep gash closed. The edges of the cut were puckered slightly, evidence of the trauma dealt with by the knife paramedics found next to her unconscious body. Judging by the shape, it seemed like she plunged rather than sliced, the offending weapon, then, pulled out instead of left inside. She was quite malnourished, her cheeks hollowed out, collarbone visible as the gown drowned her thin figure. She lacked a sufficient amount of muscle. You wondered how someone could go unnoticed without eating for several days. It was as if she had become a ghost, fading away in plain sight.

The woman looked ill - eyes sunken with abnormally pale skin. Drifting down her body, you noticed her legs. A horrified gasp threatened to leave your lips. Raised red lines covered the expanse of her legs, some scabbed up, some clear burn marks that had turned into blisters. Her arms were just as bad, marred with a history of wounds that ran from her wrists to her shoulders.

Behind all the equipment, her face was almost unrecognisable. Her hair was what stood out the most, the auburn curls matted with blood. A sense of familiarity washed over you, the red striking your curiosity.

You couldn't tear your gaze away as you watched her stir. Unsure if she was waking or simply moving unconsciously, you remained still, not wanting to startle her. But then her face contorted with pain, and her lashes began to flutter open.

The sheets rustled as she tried to turn, her discomfort evident from the way she struggled against the tubes and wires tethering her to the medical machinery. You couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her, lying there in such a vulnerable state. No identity. No family to be there for her.

"Stay still, please.” You whispered softly, stepping closer to her bedside. “You're in the hospital. You’re safe."

Her eyes, clouded with pain and confusion, met yours for a fleeting moment before flickering away. She seemed to be trying to process where she was and what had happened.

“Paramedics found you unconscious and rushed you in.” You explained gently, hoping to offer some semblance of clarity amidst the chaos of her thoughts. “You had a wound to the neck. We’ve managed to close it, so don’t move around too much. Otherwise, you might open the stitches.”

Her gaze drifted back to you, and for a moment there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes. It was fleeting, gone almost as quickly as it had appeared, but it was enough to make your heart skip a beat.

You saw as she went to speak, only to find pain and a heavy weight against her tongue. “Careful. You shouldn’t try to speak yet. We’re not sure how much damage has been done to your vocal cords.”

As if she didn’t hear you, she continued fidgeting, fighting against the intrusion in her mouth, panic overriding.

“Hey, listen to me,” you coaxed, voice soft but firm, your hand reaching out to settle over hers, the glove long forgotten. “I need you to calm down, please. You’re going to be okay. You just need to rest your voice.”

Her eyes darted to you, wide with fear and frustration, and you squeezed her hand gently, offering what little comfort you could.

“It’s going to be alright, just take slow breaths. Focus on that.” You started to breathe deeply, deliberately, hoping she'd follow your lead. Inhale... exhale... in a steady rhythm, like waves lapping against the shore

As you continued to focus on stabilising her breathing, your eyes inadvertently met hers, and in that moment, you were drawn into the depths of those vibrant green orbs. They held a world of pain, swirling like a tempestuous storm beneath the surface. Yet, amidst the turmoil, there's a glimmer of familiarity that tugged at the corners of your memory.

There’s something about her you can’t make sense of.

Why does she look so familiar? Who is she?

“Do I know you?” You almost asked, but then suddenly, the door to the waiting room clicked open, and Helen strode in, her expression wavering as she noticed the woman awake. “She’s awake already?!” Shock and bewilderment visible on her face.

She advanced, quickly spewing off questions in your direction, as her eyes narrowed in on the woman, assessing her condition with a quick, practised glance.

"She's awake, a little panicked about being in a hospital, but also a bit disoriented," you explained, voice calm despite the urgency of the situation. "Vitals are stable for now.”

With that, you stepped away, dropping her hand you had forgotten you were still holding, as Helen went to introduce herself. Your lunch break was coming up and before you could turn to leave the room, Helen stopped you. "Thank you for staying with her," she said softly, "There was a car accident. Two little girls rushed in for surgery. They needed me."

You nodded in understanding. You couldn’t fault her. Every day seemed to bring a new challenge, a new story, and today was no different. This Jane Doe was no different.

Before you could delve deeper into your thoughts, she interrupted, “Anyways, I’m here now and pager is off,” she drew your attention to the device in her pocket, “Boss’s order... now go take your lunch break.”

With a small smile, you left the room, the door softly closing behind you. Walking down the hallways, your mind buzzed with curiosity about the woman. Her face – those eyes - nagged at the edges of your memory, like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

Where do I know you from, Jane Doe?

#my fics! ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader

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mukimokai · 2 months ago

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okay no cuz why is every kinich ship valid smh

TW: LONG ASS RAMBLING BUT FUNNY SILLY CUTSIE I PROMISE

kinlani is kinlani. like omg have you seen them: sunshine social butterfly girlfriend and her introverted moon boyfriend that she loves unconditionally. And it's a new concept for her once abused boyfriend who thinks everything comes at a cost: who gets confused when Mualani just loves him without asking for anything in return and he just loves it so much it makes him weak for her; he'd do anything for her without asking for payment like he does with anyone else because she helped him heal and she's his darling little wife who he'd do anything for.

ajawnich (ajaw with the ability to go into human form because seriously. we NEED human ajaw in more ways than one) is your typical doomed mortal x immortal tragedy in which a dragon who is new to human emotions and thinks lowly of humans slowly starts to understand humanity over the years with his infuriating yet kind human companion. Both are emotionally constipated fools; Ajaw pining like a lovesick idiot because he's supposed to hate his companion and want him dead but when that day of death finally comes, Ajaw feels no joy or happiness: just empty as he looks himself in the mirror, touching his face, or, well, Kinich's face.

oronich (idk the ship name, but also it exists lol) is two characters who are seen somewhat as outsiders by their own tribes: Kinich, while loved by most of the children, has a negative reputation for his job while Ororon is seen as a problem child and cast out of society. The two ostracised characters coming together in a doomed "we're kinda similar, aren't we?" Eddie Munson and Chrissy Cunningham style (from stranger things, sorry chat) and forming an unexpected yet wholesome and definitely welcome bond with each other (they'd tend to their garden together).

lynich (a rarepair!! a popular rarepair is a miracle honestly) is two traumatized boys, the flirt and the flustered. One who speaks the truth outright, and one who's every word is a lie. One who thinks everything comes at a price, and one who thinks everything is a trick. When Lyney tells Kinich about his connections with the Fatui, Kinich isn't mad, surprised, but not mad. How could he be? When he knows why Lyney joined? He accepts him with open arms, Weighing the costs, befriending a member of the Fatui would most likely leave him out of their shadier affairs since Lyney would never harm him, right? Right. Even when Lyney succeeds Arlecchino, Even when he becomes a harbinger, even after everything: they're together, despite all the complications there are.

basically yeah. every kinich ship is valid rn. those are the popular ones at least-(ororon and kinich is not popular but it has more content than any others I've seen and ppl actually talked abt it at one point so it's being included)

citlali and kinich is being excluded bcz that's p3d0philia: fanbase, that was your lesson for shipping characters before we even know anything about them/before they're even released smh (/lh lololol)

to my unfortunate realization: kinlani is poppy and branch smh (singing killed his father and made his mother run away, okay). They're basically every cliche quiet boy and cliche loud girl duo ever in history and they have that absolutely based opposite aesthetic duo vibe going on and it's wonderful i love them to bits and pieces chat.

ajawnich is princess and the frog in which ajaw turns into a pixel dragon instead of a frog, or beauty and the beast in which ajaw's seal is the rose curse thingie, or both. or fluttercord, cant forget fluttercord. or billford, cant forget billford either. take your pick with them honestly.

oronich is chrissy and eddie, could also see it being christine and raoul from phantom of the opera in which ajaw is the phantom, kinich is christine, and ororon is raoul.

(wait that's genius, im a fucking genius chat. someone make that an AU and credit me right NEEEEOW.)

and lynich is kinda just there i dont really know anything else to compare it to but it's giving that one scene in tom and jerry where it's like: "I love you. *smothers in kisses* Why, you set my soul on fire. *smothers in kisses* It is not just a little spark. It is a flame; a big roaring flame. I can feel it now *smothers in kisses*" (the person doing the kissing and talking is lyney in case you couldn't tell LMAOOAO)

anyways yeah

basically kinich harem i guess

i love being a multishipper because i can collect ships like a bitch and fawn over so many a time whenever i want >:3

also i love the whiplash between some of these: like kinlani and oronich were so wholesome and then you have AUGHHGHG angst with lynich and ajawnich smh.

sorry for rambling lmao but yeah

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togenabi · 1 year ago

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the language of flowers

gojo satoru x reader (royalty au)

♡—All your life, you have been training for the role of Empress... But nothing could have prepared you to be Satoru's wife.

word count♡— 4.7k (I came back swinging y'all)

genre♡— fluff, royalty au

aged up characters♡— 18+

content notes♡— arranged marriage, romance, crown prince (maybe ooc) gojo, flowers, no use of y/n, afab!reader, ur a princess we're all princesses, minor chara oc's, mentions of my other au's, reader's father is a jerk, reader is tough but falls hard, not fully proofread

author's note♡— this took a while! september was ridiculously busy for me but I did my best with this to compensate! this is also very self indulgent, but I hope you enjoy it! xoxo, belle

As a child, you found out of your engagement to the Crown Prince by accident.

On a chilly winter's evening, you had been chasing the Royal Secretary's cat around the palace. Your father, the King, would frown upon you playing games at this hour. You should be writing essays, learning dance or banquet etiquette.

But all that can wait, you think. You've just spotted the end of a fluffy tail dart around the next corner.

When you catch up to it, the orange tabby is curiously peering into a room—whose grand double doors are slightly ajar. Eyes widening, you quicken your steps but make sure to minimize any sound. The last thing you needed was to be spotted skirting your duties right in front of the King's study.

You let out a huff of relief once you've gently picked up the cat, your arms hugging it to your chest.

Just as you're about to sneak away, however, you hear your name.

From the gap in the door, streams of golden light pour out; contrasting with the darkness of the hallway. The silhouettes of your father and his Secretary leave shadowed patterns on the floor.

You listen, as these silhouettes plan your future without you.

“Ha!” The King bellows. “My daughter. Empress. I never thought I'd see the day.”

Your heart stutters. What?

“When will you inform her, Your Majesty?”

The shadow on the painted tiles waves a hand dismissively as your father does.

“I'll leave that to you, Montgomery. Tell her that she should be honored.”

Heavy footsteps sound as he paces. “It was concerning to have a daughter as a firstborn. I knew she couldn't be made to rule what I've built, but I'll finally have a steady pawn in The Empire once she's sent away.”

Pain shoots into you. Your eyes begin to sting. You had always known your brother was the favorite despite all the hard work you've put in, but to be spoken of as a pawn... Could it be that you have not worked hard enough?

You suddenly remember where you are. Remember how slacking off brought you here. Heartbroken, you hug the cat tighter.

The words your father speak as you walk away deepens the dagger in your chest.

“Do not settle for anything less than perfect for her coursework. She's to be Empress, after all.”

On that chilly winter's evening, your heart froze over like the snow-covered branches looming outside.

...

Several years later.

The carriage goes over a bump in the road, but you do not show discomfort or act without grace. Your expression is controlled and your posture is correct as you balance yourself.

Across from you, Secretary Mont holds a newspaper up, the front page faces you as he reads. Large bold letters take up the entire upper half of the paper:

‘CITIZENS QUESTION IF EMPRESS-TO-BE IS WORTHY OF THE CROWN PRINCE’

You scoff. It makes Mont meet your gaze over the paper before flipping it; he frowns disapprovingly at the front-most article.

“Do not mind them, Your Highness.” He folds the paper and sets it aside—as if it would help prove his point. “The people are not used to your presence yet, but they will be. They will see how you are the perfect choice for Empress.”

The Princess is power hungry, someone who was interviewed had said. You wanted the Empire for yourself, apparently.

Jealous. Vain. Possessive. Dramatic.

Shifting your gaze to the window, you contemplate what you had done to garner such a negative image. Could you have done anything differently?

Your father's face appears in your mind's eye. That same ever-present scowl on his face as he says you should do better. You should be grateful. You should be nothing less than what you've been preparing all these years for. Everything must be perfect.

The Imperial Palace comes into view. It stands high and grand, shining under the bright midday sun. The cloudless blue sky above it makes the scene picturesque.

After the wedding in four months, it is to be your new home.

The Imperial Princess, your betrothed's younger sister, greets you when you arrive. You curtsy to each other, and she surprises you by reaching out to take your hands in hers. She gives them a firm yet friendly squeeze.

“I'm pleased to welcome you, my sister-to-be.” She beams, and you return the look with your own small, composed smile.

“I am honored to be here. Thank you for taking the time to receive me personally.” You gently lower your hands, letting her go.

She leads you inside, passing lines of palace staff as you enter.

“Congratulations on your own engagement, by the way.” You say honestly. After assessing her for a moment, you carefully remark, “I hear you and Prince Toge are quite happy.”

“We are.” She nods, smile glowing even more at the mention of her beloved. “Please allow me to say that I hope you and my brother find your own happiness, despite the ‘political arrangement’ of it all.”

“I thank you for your well-wishes.”

“Would you like an escort to your chambers?” The Princess offers once you reach a grand curving staircase.

“If you have other duties, I will not keep you.” You give her a bow, the ends of your dress brushing the polished marble flooring.

“Very well.” She nods. “A servant will inform you when dinner is ready.”

Gathering your skirt, you make your way up the steps to the east wing, where the guest chambers are.

Your eyes find the path to the west wing, where the royal families' rooms can be found. Soon enough, you would be heading there instead of east. Hopefully, the Prince will be amicable to live with.

The chambers reserved for you are exactly how you remember them. It's spotless and feels homey despite you only visiting a few times a year.

This is the only place you can be truly alone. Your father, try as he might, has no power here.

You step towards the balcony, opening the glass doors that lead outside. The wind caresses your skin like a soft kiss to your cheek, and you take a deep breath to savor it.

Four months.

That's all you have left. Four months of freedom here.

Another breeze passes. It carries with it a tiny dandelion wisp. Catching it almost feels like holding onto air, and yet it is there between your fingers. Small and weighing nothing, but there nonetheless.

For such a small thing, it strengthens your resolve.

You're not here for freedom. You're here to be Empress. And that's all that matters. You will not let anything get under your skin and interfere with your responsibilities.

...

So you said, only to find yourself in a very unexpected situation.

Dinner was uneventful, your only gripe was that your betrothed was not present. You had hoped to show everyone that you got along well... Even if you've only really spoken a handful of times.

However, once you returned to your chambers, you spot the balcony door open once more. Beyond it, looking out at the view of the city, was the Crown Prince himself.

You try not to let your unpreparedness get to you. Bowing respectfully, you greet him. “Good evening, Your Highness. May I ask what brings you here?”

The Prince turns to you, crossing one ankle over the other as he casually leans on the balcony.

“There you are.” Satoru says, his head tilting as he observes you.

You eye him warily, trying to decipher his intentions. If he wanted to see you, he could have simply shown up to dinner. “What are you doing?”

He steps forward. You step back. “Is it a crime to want time alone with my—”

Sighing, you should have expected him to want more time with the future—

“—wife?”

The word knocks the wind out of you.

Of all the names you have been called, ‘wife’ is a new addition to the list.

You are your parents' daughter, your country's princess, and are to be the Empire's most powerful woman.

And yet, to one person... to Satoru, you are to be his wife.

It's almost strange to think about. Your earliest memory of your betrothed is back when he was small and scrawny. It was difficult to take him seriously back then.

Now, something has changed in him. Or it could also be that he's always been like this, and this is a side to him he doesn't show to others that often.

Satoru watches you process the word, seeming to have something to say, but decides against it. You half expected him to tease you for being flabbergasted, but he patiently waits for you to speak first.

“Why are you here at this hour?”

He grins, eyes bringing shame to those distant stars hanging in the sky behind him.

“I didn't want our first meeting in ages to have so many spectators." Satoru explains. “If I had shown up earlier, the scribes would have taken note of how many times I blinked or how fast I chewed."

His jesting does not put you at ease at all. “I have a feeling you have something to say that should not be recorded or overheard.”

“That's true. However,” Satoru says pointedly, “The hour is far too late for all that I wish to say, so I will simply bid you goodnight with this...”

Out of nowhere, he pulls out a red flower with curling petals.

You keep your eyes on his as you reach for the flower's stem. Satoru watches you back, smiling softly. He's backing away before you can thank him, but he doesn't look like he minds. He seems to be happy you didn't reject it.

“Goodnight, my dear.” He bows, and makes his exit.

...Through the balcony. Again.

You step out and try to find where he disappeared to, but he's gone.

The moonlight out here allows you to get a better look at the flower. How curious. Usually, people in the Empire give roses, don't they?

The red carnation twirls between your fingers, and you think of how much more grand and tangible it is compared to the dandelion wisp that found you before dinner.

...

Carnations mean many different things, according to this book on the language of flowers you picked up. It all depends on the color.

Pink carnations symbolize fondness and remembrance. Some also consider it to mean not being able to forget someone.

White carnations mean purity, good luck, and new beginnings. It's a common way of wishing someone safe travels.

Yellow carnations have varying meanings. Sometimes, they are used for apologies. But most often they are given to express disdain, symbolizing a hopeless state of mind. You stare at the illustration next to the passage. The yellow watercolor is so bright and vibrant, it makes you wonder what it did to deserve such sad connotations.

Setting the book down for a moment, you rest your eyes by scanning the library. Countless shelves with even more countless books. A golden candlestick here. A priceless painting there. A stack of yesterday's newspaper lying a few tables away.

Something unpleasant settles in your chest. You ignore it and resume reading.

Naturally, as is the case for most red flowers, the red carnation means love. True, passionate love and affection.

You shut the book softly, tracing the embossed petals on the cover while thinking of the red carnation sitting on your bedside table.

Things could have gone worse, you suppose. At least Satoru didn't give you a striped carnation, which has no other meaning than rejection.

Secretary Mont enters the library before you could dwell more on that thought. He's arrived with several palace staff for additional wedding plans.

“Your Highness,” Only Mont greets you, but they all bow in unison.

You nod, and gesture to the table. “Be seated. Let's begin with the urgent concerns first.”

Apparently, the most urgent problem was that Satoru had not approved any of the table dressing color schemes. When you review the options, you think you can assume why. There can only be so many shades of white and cream and pearl.

“What shall we do, Your Highness?” One of the butlers ask.

“Give me a few samples, I'll talk to the Crown Prince myself.”

You almost regret saying that, because once you did, several staff began tripping over themselves, requesting you bring up other preparations with Satoru.

Secretary Mont asks if he should schedule an appointment with your betrothed, but you decline. Something tells you that he will show up again tonight.

And so, here you were after dinner in your chambers. A box of wedding planning materials rests next to you on the bed. You left the balcony doors open this time, and he shows up just as you predicted.

“Aw, were you expecting me?” He's smiling at you as he approaches, but it falters once he sees the box.

He lets out a loud breath before settling on your bed too, the box sits between you. “Alright, let's do this.”

“Start with these.” You hand him some fabric swatches, he looks at them in disdain.

“Pearl, then.” He says, barely even looking through all the options.

“Don't decide hastily.” You can't help but reprimand. “It's not just the color you have to consider, but the material as well.”

Satoru blinks, but presses his fingers to feel the texture of the fabric at your suggestion. “Is pearl not good then?”

“It's pretty, but it's too shiny.” You explain. “The sheen doesn't make it soft or comfortable to use.”

“Ah.” He breathes out, understanding what you mean.

You tell yourself your heart doesn't beat louder when he picks the one you had your eye on. Satoru holds the sample fabric up, the label attached reads ‘Snow’.

A clean, classic sort of white. Soft to the touch, almost fluffy. You don't have to tell him that you agree, he can already guess from the way you glance at him.

He doesn't need to know that your eyes strayed to his hair. Soft. Fluffy.

Clearing your throat, you change the subject by bringing out some tableware samples. “Shall we discuss these, next?”

An hour and thirty kinds of invitation cards later, a short break is due. You're writing down your decisions when Satoru calls your name.

You've moved to your desk by now, since your bed has become some sort of wedding moodboard. Something clinking together reaches your ears, and you turn to find that Satoru had tea brought up. He pours you a cup and carefully hands it to you.

“Thank you.” You respond gratefully, taking a sip before turning back to the lists in front of you.

“Aren't you tired?” Satoru asks, reading your writing over your shoulder.

“This is actually quite easy for me.” You admit. “Wedding planning is unexpectedly... Pleasant.”

Satoru laughs softly. “You're probably the only one in this palace who thinks it's pleasant to work with me.”

After a moment, he continues. “I suppose... That's a good thing, if we're to be wed.”

His words make you pause writing. You suddenly feel shy, warmth spreading on your cheeks. The kind you're sure isn't from the flame crackling in the fireplace.

How silly that you're becoming bashful after being engaged to him since you were children. The thundering of your heart can wait.

“I agree.” You respond, not turning to face him. You will not allow him to see you uncomposed like you did the previous night. “I wasn't sure what to expect from our marriage, but I would appreciate it if we were companionable.”

The rest of the evening proceeds smoothly, though you do notice Satoru becoming more silent as the night goes on.

The next day, you spot Satoru speaking to foreign delegates. Something is different in the way he carries himself in front of them. His posture is that of a proper Emperor, not a cheeky prince that sneaks into your room at night.

... It's probably best that no one finds out about that, lest a scandal breaks before you even get married.

When the delegates leave, you're about to approach and greet Satoru when he, unmistakably meets your eyes, then walks in the opposite direction.

You're left there, confused and perhaps even a little hurt. But you stone your expression and carry on as if nothing has happened. Your lessons taught you to be graceful, even in times you feel anything but.

By late afternoon, it's painfully obvious that Satoru is ignoring you. When he rushes through his lunch and gets up right when you take your seat, you try your best to look unaffected.

Hopefully, you're the only one who's noticed so far. If word reaches Secretary Mont, word will reach your father... That troubles you more than you can put to words.

Satoru doesn't show up for your scheduled wedding planning session with the rest of the staff. You're careful not to say that you'll speak with your betrothed, and thankfully no one mentions it even if it shows they wish you did. You're not even sure if he'll show up at your balcony tonight.

When the hour turns ten, the time he's usually here, he isn't. You sigh and can't help feeling a little disappointed.

Perhaps you said something wrong last night. Maybe you should apologize for something. Or he could just be busy, you tell yourself. You can't expect the Crown Prince to always have time to sneak away to you, can't you?

Something taps against the glass of the balcony doors. It breaks your train of thought, and causes your heart to leap just a bit.

But when you go to check, no one's there. You open the doors to find a single red carnation, just like the one he gave the first night.

You're only barely successful at hiding your relief. You reach for it and glance around once more, just to make sure if he left any other trace of him. There are none, but after you lock the doors and turn in for the night, two carnations in a glass vase calm you in a way you hadn't let yourself feel in a long time.

...

A maid knocks at your door a tad earlier than you're used to. When you ask about what's going on, she says she has to prepare you for the Crown Prince's departure.

“He's leaving?” You ask as you rise from bed, already headed for the bathroom to clean up.

“Yes, Your Highness.” She sifts through your wardrobe for your clothes. “He is to go on a business trip to settle trade agreements.”

“How long will he be gone for?”

“I cannot say for certain, Your Highness.”

Pausing in thought, you look to the balcony doors.

A rush of determination fills you as you ask the maid, “Could you prepare something for me?”

The head butler said that he could be gone for two or three weeks. Weeks before you see that face of his, which has a surprisingly forlorn expression on it.

“Thank you for seeing me off.” Satoru acknowledges you with a smile, but his eyes reveal how tired and troubled he truly is.

You say nothing at first, silently taking steps closer to him. You could practically feel the air freeze over as everyone watching holds their breath. This is the closest the two of you have appeared in public.

You reveal a white carnation held in the hand you hid behind you. The stem is cut short, just enough so that it fits into the pocket on his coat.

“I will take care of things here while you're gone.” You assure him, taking a step back to admire how the white flower suits him.

Satoru seems to be at a loss for words, but his eyes regain their usual spark when he addresses you again. “It seems I have nothing to worry about, then.”

You feel stares at your back as the carriage departs, but pay them no mind. You intend to keep your word and perform your duties while the prince is gone.

On your way to the library, you overhear the Imperial Princess and Sir Nanami speaking to each other.

They're in the next hallway, and you were just about to turn to it when you hear your name spoken. You press your back to the wall and listen.

“I'm glad Her Highness seems to have liked my brother.” The princess says. “And of course, I know Satoru would have been over the moon because of that flower.”

Sir Nanami hums. “His concerns were nothing to be worried about after all.”

The princess laughs. “Oh, what was it again that he said? That she friendzoned him?”

“It was that she companion-zoned him.”

You huff quietly. So that's why Satoru had been ignoring you yesterday.

“I look forward to their blooming relationship. I'm sure Her Highness will come around.” Is the last you hear of their conversation as they continue on their way, their footsteps fading further into the hall.

Come around? To what?

A grandfather clock chimes to signal the change of the hour, and you realize you've dilly-dallied for long enough. The rest of your way to the library has no people whispering about you and your betrothed or the flower you sent him off with.

But you would be lying if you said you'd forgotten about what the princess said.

...

Ever since Satoru left, he's been writing you letters. He said his sister gave him the idea.

You've given up on replying on every letter he sends. It seems as though he writes to you daily, and you simply can't keep up. He insists on writing no matter how busy he gets.

His fifth letter is so short that it should be called a note:

‘The flowers here are lovely. I had a bookmark made for you.’

That same bookmark, a dried pink carnation, sits between the pages of the novel you're currently reading. It makes you consider pressing the red carnations Satoru had given you so that they're not just left to wilt.

You write back once a week. But what you lack in quantity of letters you make up with the number of pages you write, and you tell Satoru as such. There are many things you want to report, so you don't hold back on anything.

Well, perhaps you don't quite tell him that you can't fall asleep until you spot the moon through the balcony glass. Or that you think of him whenever you're not distracted enough.

In Satoru's fifteenth letter, he brings the unfortunate news that his return will be delayed. He will have been gone for four weeks before he comes home, and the journey back will take three days at the latest.

Unable to express your disappointment outright, you instead imply that he should make haste for the wedding preparations. That he shouldn't miss the food tasting or the floral arrangements.

‘I trust my wife to make all the right decisions. Even if you don't, I'll consider them right anyway.’

There he goes again, calling you wife when you haven't married yet. It also dawns on you that Satoru has only ever called you by name, or addressed you as his wife. He's probably the only person who hasn't referred to you as Empress-to-be.

You're quickly learning that with Satoru, you're finding yourself again. It's rare for you to feel more than just a princess or Empress in training, but he makes it effortless with just a few words.

...

You begin counting down the days when Satoru writes that trade negotiations have finally concluded. He should be home in four days, and you can hardly wait to see his face again.

But of course, Satoru finds a way to bewilder you by arriving home early. In the middle of the night, no less. And naturally, through the balcony.

Wiping the sleep from your eyes, you try to decipher if his visage is a dream or a trick or the light. But when he laughs, and tells you he missed you dearly, you need no further proof.

Satoru clasps your hands with his, running his thumbs over your fingers and knuckles. Your eyes travel down to his boots, which are filthy with dirt and grass. His hair is ruffled and windswept.

“Did you,” The word settles on your tongue when you pause. “...Rush here on horseback?” You ask incredulously.

Satoru laughs again, and wraps his arms around you. “Are you complaining?”

You blink, and tentatively wrap your arms around his middle. “No. I'm glad you're home.”

Satoru is so warm compared to the night air that surrounds you. You almost complain when he pulls back, but the serious look in his eye makes you keep your mouth shut.

He clears his throat and rubs your shoulders before taking your hands again. You're completely shocked when he sinks to one knee.

“I know that we're already engaged.” Satoru begins. “I know that we've been preparing for this for years, but I just wanted to ask you properly. Because you deserve it.”

He pulls out a ring, a diamond shines at its center.

“Marry me, and I shall spend every moment of my life proving my love for you.”

“Yes. I will.” You respond, and he slips the ring onto your finger. How does he keep getting more and more lovely?

You place your hands on the sides of his face, pulling him up to you. You kiss him, and the air ignites like a spark brought to life.

It's tender, and careful, and carries all the things you wish to say to him. How you missed him. How you love the flowers he gives you. How excited you are to have him by your side for forever.

When you break apart, he seems surprised to find you reflecting his happiness back at him. He's about to speak, but not before he can resist the urge to kisses you again.

You smile into the kiss, but place a hand on his chest, pushing him to ask, “You were about to say?”

“...I've always known I would treat you right when we got engaged. That was always a given.” Satoru cradles your face gently, making you feel like the most precious in the world to him. “You were chosen because you're smart, and you worked harder than anyone else.”

“...But I saw you one day, when we were kids.” He speaks carefully. “You were trying your best to impress your father, but not at all happy...”

“From then on, I decided to make it my mission to make you smile.” To prove his point, he places his thumbs at the corners of your mouth to drag them up playfully. You laugh and swat his hands away.

“A real smile, just like that! None of those diplomatic half-smiles you always throw out to please people. That won't work on me.”

“Before you are the Empress, you are my wife. And I will love and treasure you as such.”

...

He says those same words at the wedding. You jest that he has no originality, but it brings you to tears just the same.

The wedding happens in the palace gardens, surrounded by countless beautiful flowers that dance and sway under the sun when the wind blows. Everything is, in every sense of the word, perfect.

For this moment, you are not the Empress. Not yet. The world can wait a day, you decide. Everything else can wait while you bask in the glowing warmth this man offers you.

As you leave the ceremony behind with your arms linked together, Satoru leans into your ear so you can hear him over the cheering crowd. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Petals shower you both on your way, and you can't help but smile. “Just that we're perfect together.”

Satoru laughs in agreement. “Damn right we are.”

Several staff are positioned at the exit of the gardens, ready to escort you both to the carriages that will take you through the Empire to greet your subjects... But something makes you pause at the end of the aisle.

You pluck a red carnation from one of the floral displays before turning to your husband. You tuck the flower into the chest pocket of his suit, snug in front of his pocket square.

When you glance up to see his reaction, he's already beaming at you, looking indescribably happy.

“I love you too.” He says, taking your hand and pressing the softest of kisses on top of your wedding ring.

When you sent him away back then, you remember thinking how the white carnation matched well with him. Looking at him now, however, the red flower over his heart seems to overflow with all the love and all the words that need not be spoken. You like this one much better.

He leans down to pluck another identical flower, and gently tucks it behind your ear.

Satisfied, he holds your hand tight, leading you to the rest of your lives with the assurance that he will never let go.

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