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virginreprise · 4 months ago

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C A T C H ' A N D ' R E L E A S E ✧ . ┊ ⁭ ⁭ ⁭ ⁭

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 𝐢 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 ✧. ┊ ⁭

┊ ┊ ┊. ➶ ˚ jackson!joel miller x reader

✧ . ddlg dynamics, toxic!joel, smut, angst, arguing, mean!joel, he's a little more dark in this one, unspecified age gap, manipulation, daddy kink, breeding kink is heavy in this one, established relationship, pussy spanking, joel slaps you twice, light bondage, sarah and ellie are dead because i don't give joel a break ever, joel is a whole ass oxymoron in this thing, joel also cums fast, and then there is also cum play because i am disgusting, this is probably the craziest thing I've ever written

words: 15.5k

┊┊. AO3 LINK

It started with an eye roll. A simple action, buried in petulance and arrogance that he had taught vehemently was wrong. That he had conditioned you to believe would have dire consequences.

"Don't talk back," he'd said sternly one day when you'd become too whiny, refusing to help him clean the dishes with the simple excuse that you didn't feel like it. And to your credit, you were quick to learn, quick to decipher his warning glances and become the perfect little girl he had taught you to be.

Rules had been implemented and subsequently followed. Praises had been uttered and kept you good. Little rituals that you followed with the sole reason of making him happy.

So when you woke up pouting, groaning as he leaned in for a good morning kiss and complaining about having to stay in the house all day and wait for him to get home, he knew something must have been wrong.

He'd mulled it over on a particularly boring patrol, knowing that if he was lucky he'd be back to you by before four o'clock. He'd wondered what on earth could've caused you to act in such a way towards him, focusing on the last thing he'd seen you do before he'd walked out the door.

You'd rolled your eyes at him.

He'd told you as softly as he could despite his growing irritation, to have a good day, to enjoy yourself and that he'd be back as soon as possible.

And you had rolled your damn eyes.

At the time, he'd been too astonished to reprimand you, too late already on account of your abhorrent mood to do anything but stare in bewilderment and walk out the door whilst shaking his head.

This was not the good girl he'd trained, this was not the girl who did everything so willingly—gave yourself to him as easily and as naturally as it felt to slip a gun in Joel's palm and shoot. It had been eating at him the entire time he was riding alongside Jesse who hadn't dared speak up and ask him what was wrong; fearful of the perpetual scowl on his patrol partner's face that remained the entire time they were working.

As Joel walked around the corner, his house and its glowing windows falling into his vision, he wondered if the boy thought he'd gone mad. Perhaps he'd apologise to him at another time, although he probably wouldn't. He'd never exactly been one to apologise: prideful and stubborn even when he knew he was in the wrong.

But, goddamn, you had left him mad. You had left him furious and he had no choice but to think profusely about why you'd switched so suddenly. You had been perfect for him the night before, sitting between his legs patiently whilst he'd finished the chapter of his book, scurrying upstairs when he'd informed you it was bathtime and getting straight into bed when he'd asked you to. Hell, you'd even had his cock in your mouth and smiled about it like it was a privilege you didn't get to experience so often.

You hadn't woken up on the wrong side of the bed. He would know because he woke up on his preferred right side and you (unusually) far away from him on the left. It had been the first warning sign, the first indicator that he was in for an awful day of work and an even worse night when he stepped into the house and tried to gauge whether your mood had improved any or not.

When he finally made it home, hoping to be greeted by your soft kisses and pretty smiles, he realised that the house was not bustling with your hurried steps, arms flung wide open to greet him. It was instead, eerily quiet. The fire that he'd lain that morning was reduced to glowing coals, the wood piled in the basket beside it barely touched and the blanket on the couch tousled and creased—like you'd peeled it off in a hurry once you'd built up the courage to do what he'd suspected you'd done.

"Baby," he called into the nothing, irritation seeping into the floorboards as he slipped off his coat and shoes—the gun that he insisted he keep in the house despite Maria's passionate objections, placed against the wall where it would temporarily stay until the both of you went to bed and Joel would keep it just within reach. "Baby!" he repeated, louder this time in case you were listening to his CDs again.

Still, he did not hear a thing. Not a creak of the floorboards, or the light rain song of the shower. Not even a sigh. Deadly silent. And when his eyes flicked to the array of shoes parked near the door, he noticed the space the size of your feet—wood where your shoes should rest. Shoes you rarely ever use nowadays since he'd got you being his pretty little housewife.

He was back outside before he could bother to check if his suspicions were accurate, laces loose and coat unbuttoned, not feeling the biting cold that lingered amongst the setting sun. His sights were set on the house a short walk away, decorated in yarrow and anemone. The house that sheltered the reason he had met you at all.

"Tommy!" he banged on the red wood, chest heaving, rage overtaking him. How on earth could you just run like that? Why would you even think of leaving the house without him, never mind leaving without at least telling him beforehand? This behaviour was so unusual, so unlike you that it scared him. If he were to lose you…God, he didn't even want to think about it. The warmth of you, the sweetness that cut straight through the bitter nature that he had succumbed to ever since the world had become trapped in a cataclysmic nuclear winter. He could not let it go. Would never let you go, no matter how much you begged.

The question was falling from his lips as soon as the red was replaced with the face he would recognise even on the foggiest of nights.

"Where is she?"

Joel could've smacked his brother's oblivious look off his face and was seriously considering acting on his thoughts when he opened his mouth.

"Where's who?"

"Goddamnit, Tommy," he groaned, his face the picture of madness—his carefully concealed insanity shining brightly in the face of his loss, your name harsh on his lips when he clarified for his dumb hunk of a brother who exactly he was talking about. As if he would ever be talking about anyone else.

"Hell, brother, I don't know," Tommy exclaimed, perturbed by his brother's attitude, eyes narrowing at the sickness that clouded the man in front of him. "Wherever she is, she ain't gone far. She'll be safe, Joel," he tried to appease but Joel offered nothing in reply except a grumbled disapproval, complaining that his brother just didn't understand, and was off the porch and heading towards the centre of town before Tommy could get another word in.

Joel was steaming. Joel was so desperately, so disgustingly mad at you that he could hardly see any other colour except red. Just a complex, jumbled mess of feelings that he couldn't even begin to decipher as he stomped in the snow and thought of what he would do when he found you—if he would find you at all. God, you were probably dead. Probably buried in a ditch courtesy of whoever in Jackson he did not trust which had, for the past five years, remained pretty much no one. People had tried, with a smile or a home-baked good but it never ameliorated the lingering distrust that Joel had for everyone except those he was closest to. God, he was convinced half the men in Jackson were out to take you away from him and you weren't safe unless you were in the house, in his bed, and waiting for him to rock you to sleep.

If you had ventured any further than the front porch…if you were anywhere near anyone.

He felt fucking insane: raging around town with his boots laced loose and his shirt flying untucked, looking for the object of his affection—the girl he would fall to his feet for. He had devoted so much time to making you perfect. This obedient little thing who did everything he asked and made him feel an amalgamation of jolting, sickening guilt and simultaneous euphoric bliss at the prospect of what could be. He was going to marry you one day. Damn, he was going to give you a kid while he was at it. Just to keep you close.

Joel knew, he knew completely how awful his tendencies were—how they would break you until you were afraid of him. In times like these, he thought of Tommy and how terrified he had been of what Joel would do to you. Nighttime conversations between two tipsy brothers, the drink making the younger sibling sentimental and the older too defensive to talk straight with. Joel had promised him under the low glow of a dying oil lamp, that he would do nothing to you. That, yes, you were young, but he would not treat you any differently because of it.

Both Tommy and Joel had known it was a bunch of bullshit. He'd lost too many people, and seen too many things that he could hardly comprehend. It started with blood-stained blonde and then blood all over the surgery floor when he couldn't get her out of that damn hospital on time. When Joel had come riding back to Jackson with her limp body—gunshot from where a stupid fucking firefly had accidentally hit—and a strong feeling that he had failed. Again.

By God, he would not do it again.

So, marching into the Tipsy Bison with a furious look in his eyes, he could hardly care about the stares; what he knew everyone was thinking when he zeroed in on you talking to Gus—a kind old man who ran the library a street down from the bar and posed no real threat—with bright eyes and a wide smile.

A smile that teetered off the edge when the wind picked up against your face and fell away again—door slamming closed to see him huffing in the lamplight. There was a split second where they all looked, head snapping in the direction of your damnation and then, turned away—afraid of what Joel would do if they looked too close. They parted like the red sea when he advanced, guided by his small "'Scuse me," and his twitching hands as he reached for you.

Your name was harsh on his lips, Gus' words trailing as he looked at the man practically steaming with anger.

You looked terrified in the most delightful way. There was still a hint of defiance lingering in your stare—a brattiness in the pout as he reached for your forearm.

"C'mon we're goin' home," he announced, already dragging you away from the confused young man you had been accompanying.

"But I'm talking to Gus."

The disobedience was instant and he couldn't decide whether your attitude was on purpose, whether you just wanted to be a brat deliberately, or if there was something deeper. Some other issue you'd discovered in the middle of the night when you should've been sleeping. Joel remembered brief images of you slipping from his hold to go to the bathroom but he had been too exhausted to decide whether it had been a dream or not. Maybe it was then. Maybe it had been the hours of the sun's rest when you decided you didn't want him anymore.

"I said, we're goin' home, you've had your fun." His voice was low—warning. He didn't want to make a scene. He didn't want anyone to be looking at you at all, especially when you were in a mood that he couldn't fix by putting you over his knee. If he wanted to show you off at all, he'd want to show how much of a good girl you could be. How well mannered, how sweet and considerate. Not this unrecognisable personality you'd acquired whilst he'd been gone.

"I wanna stay." You were whining. He fucking hated it when you whined.

"We're goin'."

"I'm not—"

Your name came soft from Gus' lips then, a sweet hand on the small of your back that had Joel's fist clenching. "It's okay, Darlin'. You don't have to stay for me, I'll be just fine by myself."

The way you looked at him then, the softness in your eyes as you mouthed a small sorry—throat too dry to produce a sound, was infuriating. If he wasn't angry before, he sure as hell was now, his grip on your arm tightening as he began pulling you out of the bar.

"Joel," you called with a whimper as he guided you through the crowd. "Joel, it hurts." Your fingers were pulling at his, trying as hard as you could to pry him off you, but he refused to let go. He'd keep you tied to the bed if it meant you wouldn't pull a stunt like this again.

Your pleas fell on deaf ears, to Joel and those around you who didn't care enough to involve themselves in your proclivities and the cold was hitting your warm cheeks before you could apologise for bumping into John standing by the door.

"Joel," you said, firmer this time and it seemed to bring his attention back to you—away from the wild rage clouding his head.

He was too angry to speak but his eyes portrayed every word. They pierced you, right through the heart and froze your bones as you stood with the snow falling and the sun setting.

"We're goin' home," was all he managed to spit out and he had no idea what possessed you, where you found the goddamn nerve, but your mouth was opening before he could give you another warning glance—a promise that it wasn't going to end well if you kept up the bullshit.

"It's not my home." There was venom in your voice, a genuine, deep distaste that left him feeling shot in the heart. "I'm not going back there."

"Who do you think you're talkin' to?" He scolded, and he mirrored your scowl with a fire—a heat that blazed and coiled in his stomach. "Huh?" he questioned your lack of answer, disappointment mingled with fury in his eyes.

The snow dampened the silence as you heaved, chest rising and falling in succession with the quick, fateful breaths that passed your lips and danced in the air before falling softly to your feet. There was no reply amalgamated with that dance and he shook his head with a clenched jaw.

"We are goin' home, and we are gonna talk about…" he gestured between the two of you, looking frantically for the words to describe his predicament. "...whatever this is. I ain't dealin' with this out in the snow when all of them are in there-"

"They don't even know me!" you suddenly exclaimed, lip quivering no matter how many times you bit the shake away. "I feel like all of Jackson has tripled the months that I've been with you, I'm sorry that I wanted to familiarise myself." There was a crack in your voice at the end of your sentence, biting back a sob as all the emotions came falling on your head all out at once, dropping bricks from the sky and smothering you under the debris.

Joel had no sympathy. He refused to be deterred by your tears that melted the snow as they touched the ground, nor the delicate pout on your lips that was pushing him to a point of madness unknown.

"You complain' now, huh?" he asked exasperatedly, chin held high, jaw taut with the exertion of his anger. "What more do you want from me? You sayin' I don't spoil you enough? That I don't go out there every week just to keep you and your precious little prissiness safe?"

The door swung open then, hinges creaking as Walt—eyes glazed from the alcohol—looked between the two of you once, afraid of Joel's stare that pierced holes through his head, and scurried away—casting one sympathetic glance to your glistening tears. A pause. The man had interrupted the flow of the argument, emotions now contemplated and swallowed away.

Before Joel knew it, you were running—fast little feet on the move, hurtling through the thoroughfare.

He was chasing you before he could think twice. In truth, he could not think of anything except your pretty little skirt swishing in the wind as you sprinted past Tommy's house and turned right. The opposite way to home.

Joel called your name in the wind, old bones desperate for some relief as his long strides turned into a light jog, then a full sprint as your legs whipped around the corner and into a little alleyway. He knew you had no idea where you were going. He knew that you had barely been in Jackson three months before he'd picked you up and trapped you. Made you play house with his little fantasies that disgusted him in the depths of twilight when he gripped his rifle as tight as possible.

Joel also knew that in a few seconds, you would be faced with a dead end, and as he rounded the corner and cast his eyes on your shuddering frame, the apologies came swiftly from your lips.

"Daddy, I'm sorry."

God, it was so sweet. It itched every scratch, warmed his stomach like a kiss of sunlight and eased the ache in his jaw from his perpetual clenching.

"I-I'm sorry, I don't…" you paused to sniffle, blubbering little thing that you were and he could hardly keep up the bad guy act as he took careful steps through the alley's sludge and planted himself a few feet away from you. "I don't like it when you're mean, I just- just-"

He held his hand up to shush you, shaking his head.

"I don't wanna hear excuses." He truthfully didn't want to hear you blubbering your way through reasons why. He didn't want to hear you blaming it on anyone else except yourself. He did want an answer as to why you'd acted out so deliberately but what he did not want was lies. He knew how to calm you down, he just needed to get you so afraid of him that you'd let him leash you and drag you back home—no matter who saw the depravity.

"I know," you whimpered. "I know daddy, I'm sorry-"

"Stop." He said a measured tone that mirrored the imperceptible look on his face. "I don't need to hear you apologise, not when you don't mean it."

"I do mean it!" you protested. "Please!"

You were silenced by his stare, the creases by his eyes as he squinted and jerked his head behind him—looking briefly, then turning his attention back to you. His next words were simple, almost soft as they fell from his lips, but laced with poison invisible through your silver tears.

"You ain't sorry until I make you sorry." There was a growl in his throat, a twitch of his fingers and then the fire in his eyes dampened to a simmer of coal as he spoke again. "Baby, you know how this goes. You know I can't let something like this go just because you say a few words you don't mean yet."

You had nothing to say in reply then, nothing to indicate you were sorry at all with the way your breaths came heavy and your eyes spilt over with salt that stung the open wounds on your chest. There was a tension, meandering between the two of you, pacing up and down the length of your bodies and colliding in the middle of your union—a heat searing its skin until it crumpled and fell in a heap as you sank to your knees.

He watched you go: down and down and down. Your pretty eyes gazed up at him in wonder, conveying so much with a single simper as you shuffled your way towards him and hesitantly placed your hands on his thighs.

All he did was watch.

He said nothing, reacted to nothing, knowing that all you wanted as you wrapped your arms around his right leg and nuzzled, was his affection.

"I'll be good, Daddy," you whispered into his leg. "I promise."

His head fell back at your words, eyes squeezing shut as he tried not to succumb to your angelic nature—all soft and willing and obedient. He took pride in knowing that he had made you that way; that he was the reason you were willing to ruin your pretty little tights and hurt your delicate knees.

Hands fell to your head in surrender, brushing through your hair as he stared down at you, enamoured by the way you submitted to him.

"I know you will, honey," he reassured. "I know. You're my good girl, yeah? My perfect angel. Sometimes you just make mistakes, don't ya?"

You nodded into his thigh, muffled words he couldn't decipher and he pulled you back by the hair so he could hear you properly.

"Speak up."

Your reply was immediate.

"Yeah, just a mistake, daddy."

He smiled a little at that, a scoff pulled from his throat as he let your hair go and held out his hand. Your fingers were so cold when you placed them in his palm, your whole body shivering as he pulled you up from your position and dragged you tight to his chest.

"Now," he sighed. "We're gonna go home, ain't we? And I'm gonna be honest, babydoll, you ain't gonna like what I do when we get home but it needs to happen, yeah?"

"But-"

"Sh sh sh." He held your hands to his chest, not one to deny you the tiniest bit of comfort when he was being perhaps a little too harsh on you. Either way, you had worried him sick and he wasn't about to let his relief at your subservience show just yet. He needed to make sure that you were entirely with him, that this was just a one-off and that you wouldn't be running away again next month when you got scared. "It needs to happen. Don't it?"

Your eyes were hesitant, wide, angel-eyes—wings clipped as he held you as close as he could get you without displaying too much desire. Then, a nod.

"Yes, daddy."

Relief washed over him, bathed him in holy water and guided the spirit from heaven to its space above his head. He was revered by your spirit, enamoured by your waiting hands as he let them fall to your sides, eyes cold and not displaying his true feelings at your exhibition of devotion, and turned on his heel to walk back to the house.

"C'mon then," he called after you like you were a dog, snapping his fingers as his long strides and heavy footfalls made a guiding path in the snow.

At your confusion, the furrow of your brows as you looked longingly at his hands, he barked a short "Hey! Keep up," and fought every urge to keep you as close as possible on the roads. Every single time he took you past the threshold of the front porch—which wasn't an awful lot in truth—he would grasp your hand in his, guide you around every corner and past every wandering eye. He would never let go.

Joel could tell the separation had broken something inside you, snapping the strings of your heart and breaking open your chest as you trudged on behind him—slowly shuffling through the snow that seeped into your shoes.

There was little encouragement as the sunset bled across the sky, no words of praise passing his lips as you walked behind him like a sad little puppy, head down and playing with your fingers. You were anxious, he could tell. Anxious and curious and desperate all at once.

You always did look pretty with a pout.

Once he'd rounded the corner to the house, he paused at the steps, looking back at you with an expression indiscernible. No smiles or scowls, just a set stare that kept you on your knees. You paused with him and he couldn't help the thrum of approval that coursed through him at your fear. He shouldn't like it. He knew full well that he shouldn't, but being scared was better than being comfortable. He had learned, too many times, that getting comfortable amounted to pain. You needed to be different. The possessiveness was just a response to a need to protect; every possibility whispered to him through the wind.

It was all part of his need to defend and protect.

"C'mon, honey, up the steps," he encouraged, watching you waiting for his next instruction—his approval.

Obediently, you stepped past him, Joel briefly glancing at the wet dirt at your knees, the notion that it symbolised and huffed a breath of harsh, winter air as he grabbed your wrist before you could reach the incline. He leant in close, lips ghosting the side of your face, a tightness in his chest at the way you stared straight ahead: unmoving.

"I'm gon' give you a headstart," he muttered. "'Cause your old man needs a drink on account of all the runnin' around you been makin' me do."

"I'm-"

"Don't start." He gripped your wrist tighter, shaking his head softly as your eyes met his. "When I get upstairs, you better be waitin' for me how I like you, yeah?"

You narrowed your eyes slightly, a hint of defiance in your eyes that he shut down with a simple tilt of his head—just a flavour of his disapproval of your attitude. He didn't mind you being a brat, not when it was innocent fun in the comfort of your home, spurred on only by his teasing promise of a little harsh treatment that night. But this…he couldn't deal with the disobedience when it ran this deep.

"Yeah, okay, Daddy," you murmured, and you escaped his grasp before he could reprimand the attitude—up the steps as quick as your feet could carry you, and through the front door.

Joel watched you through the frame for a small second, seeing you disappear up to the second floor and he tried not to let himself get too carried away with the image of you stripping your clothes off and settling on your knees beside the armchair that nestled in the corner of his room. Patiently waiting.

He took his time getting inside, treating the occasion as normal as he could: shoes kicked off near the door, coat hung up next to yours, venturing into the living room to stoke the fire and try and revive the flame you had killed, and turn into the dining room to pick a whiskey from the alcohol collection he'd been adding to since he found a bottle of unopened, aged red wine near the old farmhouse near Flat Creek.

Scanning the bottles, his eyes landed on the Whiskey you'd got him for his birthday, the days when you were still allowed on patrol and had been searching for something special for him to commemorate the soft beginnings of your blossoming relationship. You'd told him of the glint under the dried leaves, the rotting wood sign that marked a lost general store, and the brown liquid sloshing near the brim when you'd picked it up.

Joel hadn't the heart to tell you on September twenty-sixth why he had not accepted the gift with gratitude, why he had angrily asked you how you'd found out that it was his birthday and why he'd gone storming off to Tommy's with rage in his eyes when you'd said his little brother had mentioned it in passing.

He'd been drunk from that birthday present when he told you about Sarah and Ellie, and he'd never mentioned them again after the fact. You had not pried, and he had not touched the whiskey since. But, today, it seemed commemorative to pour himself a measure, find some courage in his cowardice and he wondered if the curse of the drink would prevail today when he asked you why you were pulling away.

Maybe, it would be he, who pulled away instead. He was hardly one to care as he took a sip and glanced to the stairway, another sip and a gulp as he began advancing.

It was cold when he got to the landing. The heat had not travelled far yet and any heat from the fire he'd started this morning had dissipated. You'd probably be shivering. Poor thing. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the framed picture of the two of you, the blurry Polaroid you'd forced him to take in late May when you were more friendly with him in the month you'd known him than anyone else in Jackson.

He remembered your soft giggle as you told him to smile, the scent of your hair when you leaned in close and pushed the camera in his face. You'd been disappointed with how it turned out but had given it to him all the same—your initials scratched in marker on the white border and little heart that seemed as hesitant as you always were.

With another sip, he pushed the picture face-down, obscuring your faces from view and turning his back on the memory of your independence with a sigh.

You were cold. You must be and he couldn't wait a minute longer with the image of you shivering. He was cruel but he was not that cruel. All he wanted now was the truth, and if you were to give it to him if you were to submit yourself to him fully, he would pack up everything in the house and move you two far away.

Joel slinked into the bedroom with soft pads against the floor, your shaking body jumping when you heard the creak that gave away his silent position.

God, you were perfect, facing the chair on your knees, frame tensing as he stepped towards you and sat down; legs spread wide. You knew what it meant, knew the implication and you shuffled in between his strong thighs—hands scratching at his jeans to steady yourself.

Silently, he held out his drink to you, gesturing with a soft nod for you to take it.

"Just a little sip," he murmured, desperate to sing some praise, some words of comfort to you, but found that his throat was dry and he could barely speak the words he had just uttered. He coughed before he spoke again. "You're gonna need it."

You looked skeptically. He never let you drink. He'd said that it wasn't good for you and you hadn't known how serious he was about it until two months into the relationship when he'd seen you curled up on his couch with his wine. He'd taught you the best lesson he knew that day and you had not touched the stuff since. You knew you'd never get away with it and he prided himself on the fact that you would never even try.

"Daddy, I—"

"Just take a sip." You flinched at the irritation in his tone and grasped the glass with two hands to hopefully appease him. Just a simple sip, barely anything except a coat of liquid on your lips and you licked it away with a grimace, handing it back to him with wide, hopeful eyes.

He did not offer you what he knew you were asking for, those words of affirmation that always made you light up in the most delightful way. Instead, his voice was flat as he told you to put his drink on the side and he could tell by the quiver of your lip that you didn't like his behaviour one bit.

"Look at me," he instructed and you did as he asked in a heartbeat. His lips twitched as he almost reflexively told you how good you were, how proud he was as you, but he swallowed it down with his simmering anger—his desire for the truth. However, he did allow you a modicum of comfort as his hand came to the side of your face, cupping your cheek with warmth and rubbing your cheekbone with his thumb. You nuzzled into him like a goddamn cat, desperate for his touch. "I need to know the truth," he said measuredly. "I need you to tell what's got that head of yours thinkin' so hard."

You looked away, ashamedly, bottom lip jutting out in a pout and back hunching as you tried to curl in on yourself. His grip tightened at that, thumb and forefinger travelling to your chin to force your eyes to his.

"Baby, I'm givin' you a chance here—"

"Okay!" you exclaimed suddenly, chest heaving like you were about to start hyperventilating—chin wobbling in his hand as you bit back the tears. "You just gotta promise me you won't leave me. All of this, I- I promise I didn't mean it."

Joel shook his head, grip loosening and thumb stroking along your bottom lip in comfort.

"I just wanna know, honey. Whatever it is."

You contemplated for a moment with your eyes on his, blinking away the glisten before averting your gaze to his lap. He allowed it whilst you thought, knowing that his gentle harshness was the oxymoron that ruled your life.

"Yesterday," you began, and he was surprised at the thickness in your voice. There was no whine, no hesitancy: you sounded like you used to. He reached for his drink to expel the fear. "You were gone. You were working."

The curl of your fingers in his jeans was the only sign of the girl he had turned you into. Even on your knees, naked, there was the shadow of who you were before, a looming figure behind you that grew closer the more you spoke.

"I was doing my chores, just…minding my own business like you always tell me to and you'd barely been gone an hour before someone knocked at the door and I know I'm not supposed to answer the door to anyone, I know." You were rambling. You grounded yourself again by taking a breath, glancing up at him and wondering if he was going to say something, but found that his mouth was sealed—his jaw solid and tense. There was a sigh before you spoke the words that had his simmering rage burning in blue flames to the surface.

"But it was only Maria, and I didn't think you'd mind…"

Your voice trailed off, his ears ringing as it all settled into place and it was undeniable that in that moment, he was taken by clarity—swept from the ground by a shuddering realisation. He was not angry with Maria. He was not angry with you. That fog had cleared, had disappeared right before his eyes and he was already formulating future conversations in his head. Plans that had been so hazy before when he rode past the lone structure that housed images that, at the time, seemed profoundly unreachable.

They seemed close now and he was shushing you with a hand in your hair before you could begin relaying what his sister-in-law had said. He already knew and he was almost grateful. Joel knew now that things would be good when he got you out of here.

"You don't gotta say nothin' else, baby," he said, softer than he had said anything today.

Your voice trailed off, staring at him with confusion—questioning with a furrow of your brow.

"You're not mad at me?" you asked. "You're not mad at Maria?"

Truthfully, Joel found it endearing how willing you were to defend his sister-in-law, how desperate you were to be his good girl again. The act of defiance…you could never keep it up for long. He'd moulded you so perfectly that you could hardly live without his praise and affection. Sometimes, it scared him. If he were to die next week, if he were to die tomorrow, what would you do with yourself? He'd spent hours pondering the likely situation, the number of close calls he'd been having out on patrol nowadays too frequent for him to believe he'd be living long enough to see you mature out of him. Right through his skin like a parasite, ripping through the flesh and leaving him bleeding with a broken knee.

He'd tried writing letters, feeling stupid when he put pen to paper and flinging them back into his drawer with the lock on it and promising that he'd try again tomorrow—just so you had a piece of him when he eventually left you. He'd try again tonight when he got you to sleep, although he knew that it would amount to nothing.

All he could give you was what he had right now and his grip on your face grew soft as he realised he could waste no time being mean to you. Not when you liked the pain so much.

"I'm not mad at you," he sighed, shaking his head and leaning back in the chair. "It's okay, baby." The rest of what he said became absent-minded mutters, not really meant for you to hear but you were on your knees and you looked so pretty. Just a little angel in his when he brought your head down to his thigh, feeling you nuzzle into the denim. "I'm gonna take you away from this soon. Gonna give you everything you want. Just you and me."

You were gazing up at him with wide, glazed eyes, remnants of bitten-back tears washing down the side of your face, traversing to your nose where they dropped off onto his thigh—nestling into the fibres of the fabric and drowning against his skin.

"C'mon," he murmured then because he could not bear to see the watercolour, the wetness that stung his soul as much as it stung your pretty eyes. The colour of the iris burned into the backs of his eyelids, the wideness of the pupils when you looked at him expanding in his dreams until all he saw was black and the call of your sweet voice lulling him deeper into his derangement. "Up you come, honey," he encouraged as you clambered into his arms and bracketed his thighs��arms circling his neck as he nestled you against him.

It was the clam before the storm—the sun before the snow.

Joel comforted you for as long as he would allow his brain to feel the clarity; the blissfulness of what the next stage for the two of you was going to be. He would talk to Maria tomorrow, tell her that you were on board and put the plans into place with a soft smirk as he stared at the black hole of delusion that had been sucking him in ever since there was blood in the blonde and auburn.

You were heavy against him, his hands gently stroking along your spine, beginning to bounce his knee a little just to keep you awake, and letting the scent of roses and thyme envelope the space. You were his baby. All his and he held you a little tighter when his hips caught the heat of you and your breath blew sharp from your throat.

It was slow, the way you started to rock and cry into his neck. He could feel the wetness, the deepness of your essence bleeding into him when you settled yourself over his thigh and pressed yourself to him so tight he could hardly breathe with the perfume of you suffocating him.

"That's it," he choked out when you sobbed. Heat against heat, friction burning between your thighs as you gripped his hair and tried regulating your breathing.

You did not call his name as you usually did, you just cried and rocked against him, spurred by his guiding hands and delicate kisses. Joel could barely stand the silence, and could hardly take the muffled crying as you rubbed yourself against his leg. Joel didn't like the way it was transpiring—not with the crystal ball in your court and his fate in your hands.

The hand in your hair tightened, dragging you from his neck and forcing your face to his. He licked away your tears with fervour, roughly pulling you to him, letting him drink from the salt of you and then forcing you back so your eyes bore into his.

"Don't make me hurt you, angel," he said through a scowl, and it sounded so dark coming from his lips that all he could see was the red of your eyes and the red of her blood. There was black on his soul, filth and rotting flesh, infested with maggots that buried themselves right to his core. Sometimes, he was convinced that your soul was made from daisies and angel feathers. Amalgamated, he sullied the freshness. Separated, there remained a hole ripped from the middle of both entities—only healed when he was here with you. Keeping you in place. "You want me to hurt you?"

When you nodded he almost greeted death like a friend. Take the hand of that phantom cloaked in black and drag him from his bloodied existence. But you were muttering, still rocking and muttering and he couldn't leave you as you were. So broken and desperate.

"Want you to hurt me, Daddy." The tears were streaming and they called to his tongue, dehydrated from the salt but greedy for the taste. His greed overcame his rationality in the end. After rationale was no longer needed and he could be safely trapped inside the gates—let out only when the full moon rose and the sun died.

He lapped up the wetness on your cheeks, pressing kisses to the skin, digging himself into you as he felt you seep into his tongue. The sweetness warmed his belly and made him drunk with the feeling—drunk and violent.

"That right?" he questioned with a barely-constrained growl. "Want daddy to hurt you?"

You nodded your head enthusiastically, sob wracking through your body as you clung to him, hips still rolling and rocking; wanting to take everything from him. He found it fascinating that you didn't know you already had. That you'd taken him, mind and soul, dipped them in formaldehyde and displayed them on your shelf—smiling at the collection of body parts until all that remained was his head, spurting blood from the harsh hacking of your heart.

"Goddman, baby." The name was muffled into your shoulder, biting down on your skin to restrain himself. Then, you called, begging him with pretty little whimpers not to be gentle with you. Words spill from your tongue like vomit, spraying him head to toe with your entrails and reminding him of his position. Your protector. Your daddy. Yours.

He would do whatever you wanted him to. He would move mountains, drain the sea and place the moon in your willing hands if it made you happy. He had realised long ago just how willing he was, how pathetic and liberated it made him feel to know that he would never let you go. Contradictory, in its base: he would do anything for you except let you go.

"You sure?" he murmured as he placed kisses along your neck, hands wrapped around your waist and guiding you back and forth over his thigh. "Don't want you runnin' off on me again when I get a little too mean."

"No," you choked out desperately, groaning softly as a sharp tick ran through you. "Never, Daddy."

Joel just kissed you through it all, unable to think of some clever remark or bite back with a teasing question. He just let you rock and wind your fingers into his hair, gripping so tight you were liable to break away with chunks of his skull. He would be nice for this moment, the short, lingering moment where he would let you go brainless with want, pretend that he was going to give you what you so desperately craved, and then strip it from you like Jesus refusing bread for the five thousand.

You were stuttering, hips losing their momentum, cute little whimpers falling from your lips in quick succession, toes curling—all indications. It would've done you better to restrain your noises, to keep rubbing your cute pussy over his leg in careful consideration. Maybe then you could've slipped through the cracks—deceived him into letting you cum.

However, you had not, and he was gripping your hips and ceasing the friction—speaking before you could start whining.

"If I hear one sound outta you, I'll tie you to that bed and leave you there." It was an idle threat considering how much he knew you'd enjoy such an activity. Unfortunately, you had never been bratty enough to warrant such a punishment and now, the sun was setting, the sky was getting dark and, if he was being honest with himself, he didn't have the patience to embark on something so arduous. It did not mean, however, that he wasn't going to hurt you, that he wasn't going to bruise that cute little ass of yours and brand your cheek with his handprint. You'd never want to leave the house again if you were all marked like that—the humiliation was just too much for your sweet soul.

But, you were pouting at his scolding, tingling from the rejected orgasm and he couldn't find it in him to be sympathetic.

He was dragging you to the bed before you could so much as beg him for reprieve. He'd pushed you off his lap with disdain, towering above you as he grabbed your upper arm and led you to the bed. The sheets were fresh, he realised, and it helped your cause just a little: the fact that even though you'd been bad, you'd still found it in you to keep up with your chores.

"Sit," he commanded sharply and you crawled onto the bed with a whimper, pressing your thighs together and curling your fists to stop yourself from touching any inch of you.

Obediently, you nestled on your knees in the middle of the bed, eyes wide and glistening, fingers fumbling as you tried to cease your anxiousness. You looked so breakable it made him sick. For some reason, today of all days he couldn't stop thinking about who you used to be: fierce, completely independent. God, he remembered the time when he tried to adjust your stance when you were sniping some stray runners and you'd scowled at him and told him with vigour that you could do it yourself. If you dared do something like that now…hell, if you even tried picking up a goddamn gun, you knew he'd have your neck.

He understood, completely, what he had done to you. How he had broken every little bone in your body until you were just a mass of flesh.

"Arms out, honey," he muttered suddenly, right hand pulling at his belt buckle and slipping the leather from its loops. He was desperate to get his jeans off, desperate to tie you up and keep you down as you held out your hands, palms up and shuddered as he folded his belt in half and watched it come hurtling down against your skin.

Almost immediately, a harsh red line blossomed along your hands, a tear slipping down your cheek as he shushed your whimpers and began wrapping the leather around your wrists. He tugged tight, pulling on the item to make sure it was secure and letting your hands fall to your lap.

He smiled when you looked up at him with bleary eyes, stepping back to go and sit back down on his chair.

Your tears filled with more tears at the disconnect, and he palmed his bulge with a soft grunt when you began whining.

"Daddy, what—"

"What did I say?" he interrupted harshly. "Huh?"

Your voice was quiet and cracked like a dropped porcelain doll when you answered.

"No more whining."

He sighed in gratitude at your response, settling down and letting his old bones relax after an awfully long day of worrying about your stupid fucking head.

"That's right," he muttered, gazing at you with soft eyes that glinted with licentiousness. He wanted to touch you. You knew it, God knew it, but he would not allow himself. Not for now. "I want you to touch yourself, baby?"

Your eyebrows shot up, back straightening and he hushed you when you began asking how.

"You'll figure it out, you're a big girl, ain't you? Now, I want you to touch yourself, and if you dare cum, I'll throw you outside in the snow just as you are."

You pouted and he twitched. It disappeared in an instant when you realised fully how willing he was to smack the expression off your face. With hesitant, bound hands, you began searching between your legs, restricted by the loss of movement in your wrists and fingers fumbling as you tried to gain all the friction you could.

Your eyes bore into his, watching him watch you, stuttering softly when you managed to brush against your clit and fall back onto your elbows—spreading your legs to reach the sweet space between your thighs.

"There you go," he murmured, reaching for his whiskey. "You're so pretty when you listen."

You glared frustratedly, Joel knowing full well that you could barely get any kind of momentum with your hands bound in such a way.

"Don't look at me like that, you got all your fingers don't ya?" He shook his head as he took a sip of whiskey, the sweetness of honey dancing along his tongue as he honed in on your glistening pussy—unashamedly adjusting himself in his pants when you helplessly tried to find an angel that could give you the most pleasure.

After a few minutes of fumbling, a sob broke through your chest. Whining.

"I can't do it, Daddy!" you exclaimed. "It doesn't feel good, you're just being mean."

"Would you rather not get touched at all?" he asked with a bite, gnawing into your psyche, breaking you down until you could hardly think.

"No," you drawled out. "Just want to cum, daddy."

"Then keep goddam goin', little girl. One more word outta you and I'm leavin' and sleepin' on the couch." The look you gave him then was the cutest thing ever, laced with a need so deep. A need not just for the sex, but for the love—for the kiss of his skin against yours when you fell asleep with soft snores. For the vitality that permeated the connection, you shared when he held you close and told you of times long past, aired his grievances and then apologized when he realised a little girl like you shouldn't be burdened by his impediments.

You craved him and he could hardly contain his pride at the notion.

He mumbled a short, "That's what I thought," when you started trying to touch yourself again, hiding his smirk behind his glass and letting the warmth of the alcohol settle in his stomach.

Watching you struggle, watching you so desperate had always been his favourite thing—something that kept him sane during the dark winter nights when even the moon seemed to lose its light. The image of you, bound and wet glistened in the slight lamplight that expelled from the cracks in the walls.

And here you were. His naughty little girl with your wrists tied together and your tears streaming as you tried to get yourself off.

Disgruntled moans fell from your lips, eyes wide as you stared at him with meaning slathering your gaze. He gauged your silent words and he downed the rest of his drink before his instructions came.

"Come over here," he commanded, legs widening as he settled, no intentions of coddling you, rubbing away the sores on your wrists and telling you that you were his good girl again. You had not atoned yet, you had not fully experienced the judgement day that befell as soon as the thunderclouds had rolled in and clapped with an almighty roar above your head. He wanted to be revered, wanted you to look at him how you used to—like he was God himself.

You pathetically scrambled off the bed, your body trembling as your sweat began to dry in the cold chill of the winter air. You could shiver all you want. It was your fault it was cold in the first place.

When he witnessed you standing on two feet, ready to take a step, he shook his head.

"Hands and knees, honey, come on you gotta crawl."

"But, daddy, my hands—"

"I don't give a damn if you gotta army crawl, just get your ass over here."

He revelled in the way your lip quivered, the way you slowly genuflected at the altar of his cruel kindness and shuffled slowly to the crown of thorns he held between two calloused hands. When you nestled between him, he dug the thorns into the skin of your forehead and immortalised you with a bloody cross on your chest, giving so freely when he brushed his fingers through your hair to soothe the wounds.

You began apologising again, nuzzling into the feel of his hands against you, knees scraping against the floor as you pressed your face down against his thigh.

"Wanna make you feel good, Daddy," you whimpered. "Please, I'm sorry. Wanna let you hurt me."

Joel scoffed, smiling down at you as you leaned against him.

"You think you deserve Daddy's cock, huh?" he muttered. "Sometimes, I think the best way to make you listen is to make you go without. It ain't exactly a punishment when you like it so much, is it?"

You whined then, shaking your head and pressing your face fully against his crotch, no shame in the way you pawed at him, not heat to your cheeks when he went to grasp the sides of your face and pull your gaze to his.

"How do we ask?" he questioned with a tilt of his eyebrow, playing with the pout on your lips.

Your eyes went down at his tone, bottom lip jutting out even further as he brushed his thumb over it and words mumbled as you uttered the third rule on the ever-growing list stuck to the fridge.

"Can't hear you," he said, only catching the odd few words that you managed to enunciate properly.

"Ask like a polite young lady or I don't get what I want."

He sighed happily, nodding his head and tilting your head from side to side, admiring you from every angle before letting you go and muttering, "That's right." You basked in the minute praise, the implications of his words and his actions as he spread his legs a little wider with a silent command, and flicked his eyes to his crotch. "Ain't got all night," he uttered. "Already took the belt off for ya. Is a button too hard for ya?"

You shook your head vehemently, fingers clasped around the metal fly and tugged downward once you'd pushed the denim through the button. Reaching in with ardour, he settled into his chair, ready to watch you fumble with the size of him, your warm mouth encasing him whilst he gave no assistance or encouragement. The casualness of the licentiousness was always his favourite. Those moments on the couch when you were on his lap and he'd rub at your clit in soft circles—not intending to make you cum. If anything, it always made you sleepy, your body going heavy and slack against his as your eyes flickered.

It was the same now, with his face straight, reaching for the book that he'd left on the side table and opening up on the last page. In truth, he wasn't focused on the words. All he could think about was trying not to elicit a groan when your hand wrapped around him, a little too tight as if you were trying to get one back at him, and pressed a tentative kiss to the tip.

The feat became even more of a difficulty when you thanked him, all sweet and soft before taking him whole in your mouth—right down to the base, breathing heavily through your nose, eyes wet with tears that dripped into his grey pubes, and suppressing the inevitable gag that had you choking and spluttering as you surfaced for air.

"C'mon," he said suddenly, flicking the page like he'd even absorbed any of the information on the last one, and grabbed your hair to push you back down on his cock. "You don't stop unless you can't breathe, you understand me?" he asked authoritatively. Then, a little softer with his tone, just that touch lighter with a downturn of his eyes to reiterate something you already knew. "If you wanna stop altogether, you know what you gotta say don't you?"

You nodded with his cock down your throat, humming around him and basking in the small victory of a choked groan, then the desperation for composure when he shook his head and trained his eyes on the top of the page.

Diligently, you began to work, up and down, tongue running along the underside, catching the veins you had mapped—now muscle memory that lingered in the backrooms of your mind. Your dominant hand was forever caressing his balls, a comfortable weight in your hand—almost calming—as you took the entirety of him. The soft tip reached the back of your throat with every movement, reflexes smothered as you tried as best you could to not focus on the feeling of your jaw locking.

The tears were damp on his skin, the suction around his cock a malicious force that threatened to reveal his position and your pretty little eyes looking up at him with desperation for his attention. He could feel your gaze in his periphery and from the observant nature he knew still lay somewhere within you, you'd probably gauged that the book was nothing more than a disguise considering he had not turned the page in the past ten minutes. You knew the speed at which he read considering he read to you almost every night and with an extreme lack of restraint, his eyes honed in on you over the top of the cover.

"What're you lookin' at?" he asked with a strain, succumbing completely when his eyes flickered shut—giving himself a second to breathe. A moment of composure and his eyes were back on you. Yours had not left him. "Hm? What're you crying for, babygirl?"

His thumbs came to wipe at the corners of your eyes, holding underneath your chin to pull you off him gently. The string of spit that attached you to him had his position completely displaced—the stalemate broken as he raised the white flag in surrender and let the book fall gently against his lap. A forgotten entity as you leaned in with haste to lick the precum off his leaking tip. Just cause you liked the taste.

He still didn't know if you were lying about that or if you really were a little goddamn cumslut but he would take the wins as considerately as he took the losses.

Your eyes mystified him, the windows to your soul glistening like the heavenly gates of eudaimonia and you hypnotised him into acquiescing. Not forgiving. No, you were in no position to be forgiven just yet, not before he pressed your body into the bed and fucked his cum into you. The harshness just seemed to fall away.

"Goddamn, I can't stay mad at you," he said with exasperation, both hands cupping your cheeks and feeling his back crack as he leant down to kiss you.

Your tears wet his thumbs as his tongue slipped into your mouth, all spit and desire as you sobbed against his mouth. He pulled away to caress your hair, watching you blubber with carefully concealed guilt that he would bury down into the pits of the bruise on his chest by the day's end.

"I hate it when you're mad at me," you cried and it was so sincere he could hardly stand it.

"I know, baby, I know," he murmured. "But I don't like it when you're not good. And I gotta do what I gotta do. I don't want you runnin' off again, honey."

"I won't," you said, shaking your head. "I promise I won't."

In truth, Joel knew you wouldn't. Now, he knew that this temporary setback was nothing more than just that. You'd just got a little tetchy. It was understandable considering how much freedom he had taken from you. Your life had slowly transformed into a small slice of what it once was, the patrols dwindling to stable duty, then to greenhouse duty, and then helping keep the grocery store shelves stocked every other day, and then right down to Joel's house where nothing could get to you except the beast of a man who passed the threshold every day.

There was a short silence between your words and his next, licking his lips in contemplation before signalling over to the bed with his head.

"Go lay down."

Almost immediately, you did as he asked, bound hands placed on the ground, ready to crawl then stopping when you heard his no.

You looked in confusion, wondering what you had done wrong now. All he said was, "It's okay, you don't have to crawl just-" he sighed, looking at your hands and deciding he liked the scratches on his back far too much to restrict your movement for much longer. "Come here," he asked, and you obediently settled back into your previous position. He carefully removed the belt bind, rubbing at the marks on your wrist when the leather fell to the floor with a thud.

Then, the moment of softness was gone and he pushed you away with another nod to the bed before reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. He smiled when you glanced back on your journey to look at him undressing, a suppressed smirk on your face when you nestled down on your side of the bed and pressed your face into your pillow.

You didn't sneak another glance when he started shucking his jeans down his legs, kicking them off alongside his socks until all the clothes lay on a pile next to his chair, and then stood with a crack in his knees to settle down next to you.

The bed dipped when he sat, reaching for you with a gentle hand across your waist, turning you to face him.

You melted into him, shuffling closer so you could touch him in any capacity, eyes raking over his old frame as if he were anything special. In times like these, when you shamelessly soaked in the pudge of his belly, the wrinkles in his forehead and the grey in his hair, he felt wanted. You made him feel wanted, loved, desired—something he hadn't in years. Even before all this goddamn shit, when he was focused solely on giving his daughter the best life possible, when he didn't have time to sink into some cliche romance with a woman of respectable age and a similar situation. Even Tess, goddamn Tess who lingered in his periphery when he was beating a runner to death—flashes of all the people he'd killed and tortured with her by his side. He did not even feel wanted then. Just a disposable commodity. He had known that he was not the only man she messed around with in that QZ. Everyone was looking for comfort, everyone desperate for the touch of another to soothe them to sleep when the bombs dropped and there was nothing to keep them from crying.

Even when he had walked into Jackson with his head held high and the pretty woman who led patrol group C asked him if he'd ever want to go out for drinks sometime, he had not felt wanted. He had sat in the secluded corner of the Tipsy Bison with her hand on his thigh and whispered promises between sips of whiskey and decided that it didn't feel right—that there was something in her eyes that told him she wouldn't devote herself to him as you had done.

God and he felt so guilty every time he thought about how he turned Jessica down with a frown, holding her hands between his and telling her that he had enjoyed every second, that it wasn't anything to do with her or her character but all down to the fact that Joel didn't want to lose someone he grew close to again. He couldn't make room for any more pain in his chest.

Sometimes, he felt like it with you, felt like he should let you run away just to prevent the feeling when you eventually left anyway.

But, you stared at him with so much love, naked and wide-eyed and he couldn't even fathom the thought of letting you go. In this moment, when you rested your head on the pillow and nuzzled into his waiting palm when he cupped your cheek, he couldn't bear the images that danced and fell of you running away. Of you turning your back on him like he hadn't given you everything.

"Daddy," you murmured, eyes worried at his intense thinking, the silence stretching just a little too long.

He was pulled from his reverie with a shake of his head, eyes catching yours, fixated on the deepness of your intent and absent-mindedly tracing his hand down your arm, tickling along the soft hair and reaching for your palm with a squeeze.

"You ain't ever gonna leave, are ya?" he asked suddenly, intent on hearing you say it without blubbering, without the girl he'd turned you into saying it for you. He wanted to see the girl in the Polaroid, the girl who had once been crucified by the horrors of the plains. He wanted to feel the nails in your palms and feet, the sacrifice of yourself streaming into your eyes where the thorns had cut too deep.

You got quiet, your hand wriggling against his until you could fully intertwine your fingers. You squeezed once, shuffling up the bed to sit up slightly, and brought the back of his hand to your mouth. You kissed, as delicately as he had ever seen you kiss, and fucked his soul with the softness of your affections.

Then, you shook your head, all guts no glory.

"No. I won't go anywhere else for as long as I live."

He let the words settle, let them linger for just a little while—struggling to swallow them down, his teeth ripped from his gums and blood spilling on his tongue as he attempted to chew. They didn't quite reach his stomach, just nestled somewhere in his throat, a space where he couldn't quite cough them back up but also couldn't quite force them down. So instead, he kissed you before you could say another word, tongue down your throat, a hand wrapped around where the muscle dug, and pressed you into the mattress with the weight of his mania.

In truth, he knew he had been crazed since the beginning of it all—completely insane by the end of it, too.

He gave it all to you, and it was too perfect that you took it so willingly. All of his derangement was given to you in a china bowl, a side of rotting flesh and a cup of piss to wash it all down. He masked you with the poison and made you just as deluded as he was until you both lived in your very own madhouse.

"You know just what to say to make Daddy happy," he breathed between kisses. "Know just what to do to make me forgive you, huh? Even when you've been bad."

You moaned in response, his lips latching onto your jugular, hands everywhere he could reach, working you into a sweat before he clasped your clit between two twitching fingers.

He shushed you when you cried out, using his other hand to press over your mouth.

"Sh, sh, sh, I know, baby, I know. It hurts so good, huh?"

You nodded desperately, jerking when he pinched harder, then let out a muffled cry when he swiftly pulled his hand away and then brought it right back down flat against your bare pussy. He revelled in the tears, the look of desperation on your face for more—for him to hurt you until you felt like you were his good girl again.

So, he hit again, landing square in the middle of your wet cunt, pulling back his hand to see the glisten—the lingering essence of you slicking the skin. You did not notice him staring through the blur of your tears, just tugging on the ends of his hair which was getting too long, to pull him down to your mouth. He went willingly, soothing over your clit with softer fingers and basking in the feeling of you against him.

It had been a long day. A long time alone, even with the company of Jesse. He had been worried about you and the relief that he had you where he wanted was insurmountable. An indescribable reprieve from the stress of his day and the panic of losing you like he had lost everyone else.

So, he slipped his fingers inside you with the grace of an arcing arrow, and reached for the transcendence of your moans, searched for the mystery of the sea in your eyes and the reverence of the Lord Jesus Christ in your devotion.

"There we go," he murmured when you started moaning, the heel of his palm digging into your clit to provide extra stimulation. "That's the one, ain't it, babydoll. My pretty little babydoll- fuck."

If it wasn't for the painful hardness of his cock or the consolation that you were here to stay, he would've been embarrassed by the way he moaned with you. Embarrassed by the way he hissed every time his cock dragged along your thigh. If he was someone else entirely, he would've been embarrassed altogether by the way he had you. By the way you had him.

Joel knew, had known for some time, that he needed you far more than you needed him. It was why, sometimes, he could never bring himself to worry about what you would do when he eventually left for the West—why he struggled so much to sit down and write that goddamn letter he had distressed himself over so much. He had faith that eventually, you would be okay. You would learn to live without him.

Because Joel Miller was nothing special. He was not glorious. He was far from good and a lot of the time, he believed that he deserved to die. That his penance for his misdeeds was God sending you for him to look after, knowing that your presence would make him utterly insane. He wanted to give you far more than he could, he knew that. Yet, he would love you like he loved the memories and believe you when you said that you loved him too.

If it wasn't for that sickening love, Joel would've been embarrassed by the way he asked you for the second time, "You ain't leavin'? You promise me?"

"Fuck," you whimpered and he didn't have it in him to scold you for cursing. "Fuck, yes."

He groaned when you gushed around him, a vice-like grip on his fingers when he brushed a thumb over your nipple and sucked your collarbone.

"Yes, what?" he breathed out almost desperately. "Tell me what."

You expelled a harsh breath, hand wrapping around his working wrist and squeezing tight until a ring of white branded itself into his skin.

"N-never leaving," you half-moaned, unable to control the desperation for his fingers. "Don't want you to leave ever, Daddy."

"Oh, baby," he muttered. "I ain't goin' anywhere, my pretty little thing."

You clung to him, then, arms wrapping around him to pull his chest to yours, to feel the weight of him crushing you into the earth, burying you with a pearl headstone adorning the grave of passion. The depths you fell, you were unsure, the way you tugged him with you into the abyss, Joel could not appease.

The adrenaline began coursing through him when you begged him to put it in, when you told him with a whine that you wanted to feel him deep—that you didn't just want it but you needed it.

"Daddy, please," you cried, eyes full to the brim with desperate tears, the salt sliding down your cheeks, another whine when he slipped his fingers from you to swipe away the tears.

"Goddamn," he muttered to himself, mesmerised by how gorgeous you looked with his wet fingers against your cheek, eyes red raw from the constant crying that symbolised so much more than the pain of knowing him. "You're beautiful, baby. So beautiful, I can't even hurt you."

"You can hurt me," you said so eagerly. "I want you to-"

"I can't," he cut you off firm and soft, shaking his head with a vulnerability he hadn't felt in a long time. "Not right now. Not when I've got you back."

"B-but I haven't been good," you protested. "Daddy, I haven't been good."

Joel shushed you, refusing to listen to whatever else you had to say.

"You're always good. Always my good girl, yeah?"

You shook your head and his hand came whipping down against the side of your cheek—an unconscious decision that he would've felt guilty for if it wasn't for the brightness in your eyes at the action. Still, he could not continue with these bouts of violence; could not position himself as a force of injudicious actions. You did not deserve what he gave you. You never had. But, he couldn't force himself to stop the power, to feel the domineering presence of his words fall over you like a ton of fucking bricks. You loved it, he knew you did. Just like he knew you loved his hate and his insanity. You craved it like he craved your innocence and, although both were completely twisted in their own ways, who was he to deny you what you wanted?

So, he asserted a simple, "Repeat it," one last smack to the side of your face before he gripped his cock in hand and eased the tip inside.

"Ah," you cried, never used to the stretch no matter how many times he peeled you apart.

"Repeat it," he asked again, trying to gain composure as you swallowed him whole.

"I'm- I'm…" The words fell away from you, your mind going blank as he pushed himself inside you. Inching further and further despite the resistance of your tightness.

"C'mon, baby, let daddy hear it," he groaned, breathing heavily to keep himself from moaning. "Repeat it."

"I'm a good girl," you garbled out, all in one mess as he simultaneously bottomed out inside of you, both gasping into each other's mouth at the feel of him nestling.

Joel gripped the sides of your face between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head from side to side, just to test how limp you were—how fucked out you were already despite him not even moving. He missed the days in late summer when he used to keep you on his cock all day long, too hot to make too much movement in fear you'd both overheat. Just you, lolling against him and spiralling into heaven with the tip of him rubbing against your cervix.

Your legs wrapped around your waist, pulling him in all that deeper and he had no words, no teasing phrases to punish you for breaking the rules. He didn't give a shit about that, not anymore. Not after what had been remedied here in your bed. As he looked at you, eyes closed shut, lips swollen and kiss-bitten, all he thought about was what would happen next. Where he would take the two of you. He had ideas, thoughts once private that he spewed between your lips when he started rolling his hips.

"Gonna marry you," he uttered. "Gonna make you a Mama."

You moaned in retaliation, babbling something he couldn't quite hear, ignoring the "no" that he thought had been strung within your incoherent sentences.

"Yeah, baby," he breathed out. "Gonna take you away from here. Gonna keep you forever."

Your chest was heaving, his was too, and he couldn't find it in himself to be deterred by his own words—the words that he had not thought of as anything more than a disparagement of his own sanctity when the nights got too dark and he couldn't see the future from where he stood.

His hips got quicker, adrenaline fuelling the ache of his bones and your pussy was so tight and wet he could hardly focus on the task at hand. His thrusts were quick and sharp, pistoning into you with the force of all his desires and holding back nothing at all when cupped your face in both hands and begged you for one thing.

"Look at me," he asked through gritted teeth.

You complied as best as you could, eyelashes fluttering and eyes hooded, unable to look at him properly with the incandescent nature of the sensations.

"God, I love you," he breathed out and he could barely keep the contact anymore, the wet squelching coming from your legs keeping him grounded at the moment, Yet, he could feel himself floating with each ringing in his ear, so desperate to cum that he neglected to touch your clit, giving you the much-needed stimulation that would send you floating on high right next to him; bathed in sunlight and the reverence of God Almighty.

Chasing his orgasm only, he thrust as fast as he could, groaning into your ear with each snap of his hips and burying his face into your neck to keep the noises from embarrassing him when he thought back on them later. And suddenly, with one sharp shout, he came, fast and hard and underwhelming—deep inside you as he sagged and shuddered above you.

You both lay there for a moment, his breath hot and heavy against your neck and as the high faltered, his cheeks began to heat.

"Shit," he muttered. "Shit, baby, I'm sorry."

He pulled away to face you, gauging your reaction and finding nothing but a soft smile on your face.

"You came before me," you whispered, unable to control the giggles that spilt from your mouth. "You never cum before me."

His stomach was still clenched, his humiliation unable to overpower the spinning in his head and he was so bewildered that he looked at you with an expression of complete confusion. It took a moment for the giggles to settle in his ears before he began to crack a smile, shaking his head and unsuccessfully trying to get you to stop.

"Alright, alright, it ain't that funny." For some reason, that made you laugh harder and it was so infectious that he began laughing with you: complete easement, not even bothering to feel embarrassed about the way he'd just cum as fast as a virgin and hadn't even bothered to attempt to make you cum as well.

It felt normal, like you weren't both fucked in your own ways, called to the west and blinded by the sun in the east. The two of you were just you and Joel. The nice couple down the street who always kissed each other goodbye: a wife who made blueberry pie for the potluck and a husband who cooked sausages on the barbecue with the neighbours, telling him all about how lucky he is to have you. A little sickly sweet but normal all the same. But how could you be normal when the world did not adhere to the definition? How could anyone pretend that the situation of the globe was usual? Ravaged wasteland. Disparaged morals.

The two of you were not normal and, he decided, that he was fine with that. That neither of you wanted normality, and he was kissing away your laughs with a soft smile, teeth clattering in an unrefined connection. It was slow, almost sleazy the way your tongues began to touch, the humour fading to something more complex—a dependency so profound it maddened him.

"I'm sorry, baby," he murmured into your mouth. "Sorry I didn't make you cum on my cock, I know you like it best like that, don't ya?" Joel smiled at your nod, humming along with you. "Yeah, I know you do."

His kisses trailed down to your neck, down down down to your heaving breasts, nipples just desperate to be kissed and he sucked one into his mouth with ardour. You were so soft, always were and the smoothness of you beneath his tongue was something akin to heaven. He knew he would never reach the kingdom, and knew that eternity with God was impossible, so he would take what he could get while he was here. He would sin: murder, sex, and love with no bounds. He would deny His existence and then beg on judgement day for the feel of you one more time, his lips along your stomach as he kissed his way to your waiting cunt, spilling with his cum.

It was utter depravity when he saw the sticky white contrasted against the colour of you, dripping down onto the bed sheets and looking so incredibly appetising. And he was always crazed in his arousal, whispering words of insanity against your pussy in the hopes that one day he would indoctrinate you into believing them too.

"You think it's gonna take one of these days?" he asked, pulling you apart with his fingers, just to watch it fall out of you again. "You think daddy's gonna knock you up, hm?"

You were looking down at him with wide eyes, propped up on your elbows and looking so unsure of yourself in the moonlight. It only occurred to him then that it was now completely dark, the moon hanging bright in the sky, the day far behind you and winter subtly coming to a close. He refused to believe you when you shook your head, flopping back down to the pillows with a sigh when he traced the white all the way up to your aching clit.

"No?" His lips came down to your thighs, kissing the insides of the plush flesh and gracing you with soft bites, careful not to hurt you too much as you buried your flushed cheeks into the feathers. "You sure?"

You shook your head, moaning softly as he pressed his lips to the crease where you met, Joel's breath hot against you as you awaited the kiss of death.

"Please," you muttered. "Just wanna cum."

"Oh, she wants to cum?" There was condescension to his tone, harsh sarcasm that he didn't really mean and your hips bucked into his face in retaliation. He almost groaned at the scent of you, the sight of you so desperate for his tongue. He would make you cum if it was the last thing he did and he was ashamed that it would not be on his cock but he was getting older and the one hard-on was plenty for his body to handle. "It's okay, I'll make you cum, honey."

There, his lips latched onto your clit, moaning into the sensation, tongue lapping up the remnants of his cum with a single swipe and holding it dangerously in his mouth. Pulling away, he tapped his finger against your chin, crawling back up to face you with a mouthful of seed and disgusting thoughts he couldn't reconcile once all was said and done. You opened your mouth with no abandon, eyes wide as he gathered the combination of fluids in his mouth, and spat them directly into yours. Swiftly, he pushed on your chin, closing your mouth with a simple command of "swallow," and watched the bob of your throat as it all slid down to nestle into your stomach.

"Atta girl," he uttered, mesmerised by your obedience, slipping down your body again to begin eating you once more. Between kisses and sucks and licks, he murmured praise between your legs, promising you that you were his good girl—that you always were even when you broke the rules, even when you made him so mad and worried he could hardly think.

Joel's lips stayed clasped around your clit, fingers working into your cum-soaked cunt without abandon and stroking at the spot inside you that expelled every cry and moan from your mouth.

"Daddy," you whimpered. "Daddy, please, I-"

Muffled, he questioned you, asking if already after maybe only a few minutes of working, you were already on the edge—already ready to jump. Sometimes, he thought that maybe you always were. Maybe you were always just waiting for the moment he would push you—needing the extra little bit of assurance to tip you off the side of the cliff. You came so quickly and it was so cute. So special to him. So he sucked harder, fingers moving faster and your hands were in his hair and tugging with the force of the wind smacking against your face as you arched and fell and came into his waiting mouth.

Yet, he did not stop there, did not think you deserved just the one experience of falling, so he pushed that little harder, undeterred by your hands pushing against his head to force him away and placed his forearm over the expanse of your bucking hips to keep you down. He lapped and basked, the feeling of himself and you on his tongue an amalgamation of nature that could rival the wonders of the world. Surely, you were the eighth wonder, at least a figment in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, at least something greater than conceivable.

Because when you came, there was nothing but you, nothing but the expression on your face and feel of your fervour and he was determined to experience it again, despite your oppositions.

"T-too much, Daddy, it's- gonna." You were babbling, tears streaming into your temples, eyes squeezed shut from the overstimulation and your hands going limp against his head as you gave up the fight. You were leaning into it, he could tell. Rising higher into the darkness of the sky to find peace from the calling glare of the Lighthouse of Alexandria

When you got like this, he knew he'd have to rock you back to safety, find comfort in the uncomfortable when you were lolling in a headspace that cast a spell on your psyche, dug so deep inside you that it took bit by bit from your common sense each day.

"Daddy," you droned out, the moniker repeated over and over until you were gasping and twitching. "Daddy, I love you…love you s-so much." You cut your crying with a moan, revered by his tongue, motivated by the feel of his thick fingers inside you stroking and baiting you into coming again.

It came even quicker this time, the clenching of your stomach, the stopping of your sharp breaths as it built and built, rising tall until it shadowed your trembling figure. Then it all came tumbling down like a ton of bricks, a piece hitting you straight in the head as the heavens opened and the rain came pouring.

A chorus of "daddy" came tumbling from your lips, a hymn reserved for your own personal mass and you sermonised your affections with the snapping of your restraint—your thighs clamping down around his head, fingers digging into the mattress and tugging on the sheets. Seizing from the pleasure and then falling away completely as a long, drawn-out moan graced his ears.

Slowly but surely, his suction loosened, his fingers slipping from your sticky pussy and slathering over the skin of your stomach. Both of you were out of breath, a string of spit connecting you that mirrored the depravity that had taken place in the armchair not so long ago. He licked it away with a smile, crawling over you to press a kiss to your unresponsive lips.

Your thighs came together to remedy the aftershocks, your whimpers muffled by his mouth; an action that you had no energy to reciprocate. Knowingly, he moved away from your panting and practised your special dance, lips against your cheeks, your forehead, your nose and then burying his face in your hair.

"You okay?" he asked softly. "Want me to go get you some water."

You shook your head immediately, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, pulling him down against you.

"Please don't go," you whispered, throat hoarse and eyes drying to a crust.

"Okay, okay," he appeased, softly manoeuvring you onto your side and tucking in beside you—letting you shuffle yourself as close to him as you could get. "There we go…did so good for me, babygirl. So good."

The regular moment of silence befell the both of you, the time after the fall when you were wrapped up in the feeling of each other and gave yourselves a moment to contemplate. Moments where sometimes, he got worried about what you were thinking, if the clarity that he felt after the fact was the same for you, or if you felt just as manic and possessive as he did when the intelligibility gave way to new sensations that trumped the lucidity.

Yet, you always managed to ease his wandering mind, always had something to say, all muffled and sleepy once he'd tucked you both in bed and buried you in the covers—just so you wouldn't complain about the cold and not sleep skin to skin with him.

"I'm never leaving," you said against his chest. All the promises at sundown—this one an addition to the long list of equivocations. "I'm just worried one day you'll leave me."

"Hey now, I ain't ever-"

"Not that," you corrected, eyes appearing from underneath him, chin resting on his chest and looking up at him with watchful, waiting eyes. "I'm worried that one day you'll leave even when you don't want to."

Joel understood the meaning as easily as he understood his own impending doom, wondering briefly if it had been the imminence of his oncoming suicide that had permeated your thoughts as much as it had his. He had to give it to you, you were one observant motherfucker, even if you tried pretending that you weren't. He knew that you felt it too, every time he went out into the snow: the thought that maybe he won't come back.

"You know I try my best to get back to you every day, don't you?" he uttered, fingers trailing up and down your arm, the other raking into your hair and pulling you back down to his chest. He didn't think he could bear to look at you, to see your scepticism when he denied the feeling that it was coming someday soon.

"I know," you murmured. "I just…Joel, I was wrong today."

His movements along your arm stopped, time ceasing altogether at your tone, at your stability. He couldn't quite stop the lump in his throat or the filling of tears in his eyes as you poured your heart into him.

"This is my home," you whispered, voice cracking. "I don't wanna be anywhere else, I don't wanna be with anyone else, you make me feel something I've never felt before and I need you."

A pause. A moment. Then you repeated it, the three words that almost meant more than the expression of your love.

"I need you. I don't think I can live without you." He almost begged you to stop, his hand firmly placed on the back of your head and holding you against his chest so you didn't see the tears that he desperately tried to blink away. "Please don't leave."

Joel wished you hadn't spoken, almost wished the entire day hadn't happened altogether. It was all too real, all too goddamn strange and harsh; he could feel his heart shattering when he cleared his throat and lied right in your fucking face.

"I promise," he falsified. "I ain't leavin' you ever."

a/n: ngl it's one in the morning and half of this has barely been edited because I was proof-reading as I wrote (which has been over the course of a few months tbh) and I just really wanted to get this out and finished and I don't want to ever think about it again but IF you see anything that doesn't make sense then please tell me so I can go back and correct. I hate having bad grammar, so it is of utmost importance to me. There also may be a few bits that don't read as well, especially towards the end, because I had a rough time writing smut for some reason. Either way, this went in so many directions, and I hope you enjoyed it!!!

#virginreprise™#joel miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #tlou #pedro pascal #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us hbo #the last of us part 2 #joel tlou #joel the last of us #game joel miller #joel miller tlou

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 days ago

Text

love is tangled (literally)

pairing — prince satoru x princess reader

synopsis: prince satoru gojo has everything—unmatched beauty, terrifying competence, and seventeen government-funded mirrors dedicated to his face. but when royal life starts feeling a little too flawless, he sets out on a solo quest for romance, adventure, and maybe something meaningful beyond his reflection. what he finds in a cursed tower isn’t quite what he expected—but then again, neither is he. a fluffy, ridiculous fairytale about vanity, hair problems, and the kind of love that sneaks up on you between sword swings and dramatic monologues.

tags -> fairy tale, crack treated seriously, romantic comedy, fluff, banter, attempt at humor, gojo satoru is a hopeless romantic, reader has impossibly long hair, sukuna is a very tired dragon, whirlwind romance, dramatic rescues and poor life choices

wc — 27k | gen. m.list | read on ao3?

a/n: dropping whatever's rotting in my docs except the fics with actual updates pending 😭 please put the pitchforks down i might have undiagnosed adhd 🥀

prince satoru gojo had been blessed by the gods with a face that could make angels weep and demons convert to righteousness.

his hair defied the very concept of ordinary platinum—each strand seemed to hold captured starlight, shifting between pearl and gossamer depending on how the light struck it, like silk spun from winter dreams. when he moved, it flowed with him like liquid mercury, catching shadows and illuminating them, making even the palace servants pause mid-step to witness something that shouldn’t exist in the mortal realm. it fell in waves that seemed to have their own gravitational pull, drawing the eye and holding it captive until people forgot what they’d been doing in the first place.

his eyes were stranger still—not simply blue, but the color of frozen lightning, pale as morning frost yet sharp enough to cut glass. they held an otherworldly luminescence, as if someone had taken pieces of the sky just before dawn and given them the audacity to think. when he blinked, it was like watching stars being born and dying in the same breath. when he focused that gaze on someone, they often forgot their own names.

at this particular moment, he was conducting his morning ritual of existing magnificently in front of his favorite mirror—a floor-to-ceiling masterpiece of polished silver that had been specifically commissioned because regular mirrors simply couldn’t contain his radiance without cracking. three previous mirrors had actually shattered from the sheer overwhelming nature of his reflection, leading to what the royal glaziers had termed “the great mirror crisis of last tuesday.”

“truly exceptional work today,” he murmured to his reflection, tilting his head to examine the sharp line of his jaw. the movement sent his hair cascading over one shoulder like spilled moonlight, and he couldn’t suppress the satisfied curve of his mouth. “the people should really send thank-you notes for this kind of visual experience.”

he adjusted his posture slightly, watching the way the morning light played across his features. even his most casual movements held an unconscious elegance that made court painters weep with frustration—no canvas could capture the way he simply existed in space, the fluid grace that seemed to bend reality around him.

satoru had been born into wealth so obscene it was practically a war crime against poverty. his kingdom’s treasury didn’t just overflow with gold—it hemorrhaged the stuff. the royal coffers were supplemented by what his particularly creative advisors had dubbed the “emergency satoru shrine maintenance program,” a mirror tax that funded the constant upkeep of the seventeen shrines dedicated to his beauty scattered throughout the realm. pilgrims came from neighboring kingdoms just to gaze upon his portrait, often leaving offerings of flowers and perfume.

“it’s very fair and reasonable,” he’d announced during the tax implementation, his fingers moving with unconscious grace to adjust a strand of hair that had dared to fall out of perfect place. “beauty this transcendent requires proper worship. i’m really doing them a service by existing where they can witness it.”

the royal council had nodded along because, frankly, they’d all been a little hypnotized by the way sunlight caught the angles of his face during the announcement. two of them had actually walked into walls afterward, still dazed by the experience.

but here was the thing that made satoru’s existence both a blessing and a curse: he was devastatingly, impossibly good at everything. not just competent—transcendent. it was almost offensive how effortlessly excellence flowed from him like water from a spring.

sword tournaments had become a joke after he’d won the first one by accident. he’d shown up fashionably late, still adjusting his hair from the wind, and proceeded to move through opponents like he was choreographing a ballet. his blade work was pure poetry—each strike flowing into the next with liquid grace that made grown men weep at the sheer artistry of it all. he’d defeated the kingdom’s greatest swordsman while literally not paying attention, his gaze fixed on his reflection in his blade’s surface.

“it’s not my fault they move so slowly,” he’d said afterward, not even breathing hard, his hair still perfectly arranged despite the athletic exertion. “i was just trying to make it look nice.”

by the third tournament, they’d stopped inviting competitors. watching him fence was less like witnessing a battle and more like observing a dance choreographed by the gods themselves. the kingdom’s sword masters had collectively retired, claiming they could never again lift a blade without feeling inadequate.

archery? he’d won that competition while blindfolded, claiming he could “feel where beauty needed to go.” the arrows had formed a perfect heart shape in the target. horseback riding? his mount had actually refused to let anyone else ride it afterward, apparently spoiled by the experience of carrying someone so magnificent.

the fashion circuits had declared him their eternal champion after he’d shown up to a royal gala wearing robes that seemed to be cut from captured clouds. the fabric moved around his frame like morning mist, shifting between silver and white and something that didn’t have a name yet. he hadn’t even tried particularly hard—just thrown on whatever looked appropriately magnificent—but the collective gasp from the crowd had been audible from three kingdoms away. several ladies had fainted. one duke had proposed marriage on the spot.

“i don’t understand why everyone’s so surprised,” he’d said, genuinely puzzled by the reaction. “this is just what i look like.”

the royal tailors had wept openly, knowing they’d never create anything more perfect than what he’d worn that night. fashion houses across the continent had since changed their entire aesthetic to chase after something that came naturally to him.

then there were the perfume sponsorships. three different houses had begged him to endorse their fragrances, and honestly, he’d barely needed to do anything. just existing in the same room as their products had been enough to sell out their entire stock. “eau de satoru,” one particularly bold company had named their signature scent, though he’d politely declined to officially endorse something so obviously inferior to his natural aroma.

music? he’d picked up a lute once at a court gathering and accidentally composed what historians would later call “the most hauntingly beautiful melody ever created.” he’d just been absentmindedly plucking strings while looking at his reflection in a nearby goblet. the piece had made the entire court weep, and he’d set the instrument down with a casual “oh, that’s nice” before wandering off to find a better mirror.

painting? his casual sketches had been mistaken for masterpieces. dancing? his natural grace had redefined what movement could be. poetry? his impromptu verses had made the kingdom’s greatest bards consider changing careers.

which was the problem, really. satoru had conquered everything worth conquering, mastered every skill worth mastering, and looked absolutely devastating while doing it. the result was a bone-deep, soul-crushing boredom that not even his own reflection could cure.

he traced one finger along his jawline, watching the gesture in the mirror with the same fascination others might reserve for watching shooting stars. even his own movements entranced him—the way his hand moved with unconscious grace, fingers long and elegant as they mapped the perfect angles of his face.

“there has to be something,” he mused aloud, his voice carrying the kind of melodic quality that made birds pause their songs to listen. “some grand adventure worthy of this masterpiece.”

because beneath all the vanity, all the self-importance and justified arrogance, satoru was a hopeless romantic. he’d read every epic poem, every tale of knights and quests and true love, and somewhere in his perfectly sculpted chest beat the heart of someone who genuinely believed in fairy tale endings. he wanted to be the hero of his own story, not just the beautiful prince who looked good in tapestries.

he wanted someone to rescue. someone to fall in love with. someone who would look at him and see not just devastating beauty, but a soul worth loving.

late at night, when the mirrors couldn’t see him, he’d sometimes wonder what it would be like to meet someone who could match his magnificence. someone who could make his heart race the way his reflection made others’ hearts stop. someone who could see past the perfect exterior to the person beneath who desperately wanted to matter for more than just his looks.

not that he’d ever admit that to anyone. his image had to be maintained, after all.

“perhaps,” he said to his reflection, “i should commission a quest. something with proper dramatic potential.”

he moved away from the mirror, beginning his morning routine with the kind of unconscious elegance that made even simple tasks look like performance art. first, the selection of his outfit—always a carefully considered choice that looked effortlessly perfect. today he chose robes of pale blue silk that seemed to shimmer with their own inner light, the color bringing out the impossible shade of his eyes.

then came the hair ritual. not that his hair ever truly needed tending—it seemed to style itself in whatever way would look most magnificent—but he enjoyed the process. the careful brushing, the subtle adjustments, the way each strand fell exactly where it should. it was meditative, in a way, this daily celebration of his own perfection.

breakfast was served in the morning room, where seventeen different mirrors had been strategically placed to catch the light at various angles throughout the day. satoru ate with the same unconscious grace he brought to everything else, each movement of his hands somehow elegant and purposeful. even the way he lifted his cup to his lips was poetry in motion.

“your highness,” one of his advisors ventured, entering with a stack of papers. “the morning reports.”

satoru waved a dismissive hand, not looking up from his reflection in the silver serving tray. “anything actually interesting?”

“the usual, sire. tribute from the eastern provinces, requests for royal appearances, several marriage proposals from neighboring kingdoms...”

“boring,” satoru sighed, finally lifting his gaze. the advisor immediately stumbled slightly, still not quite immune to the full force of those impossible eyes. “anything with dragons? quests? damsels in distress?”

“i... no, your highness. nothing of that nature.”

satoru slumped elegantly in his chair, managing to look devastatingly beautiful even while displaying disappointment. “how am i supposed to have a proper love story if nothing interesting ever happens?”

the advisor blinked, clearly not equipped for this particular royal crisis. “perhaps... you could create your own adventure, sire?”

“create my own...” satoru’s eyes lit up with sudden interest. “that’s... actually not terrible advice.”

he stood with fluid grace, his robes settling around him like they’d been personally arranged by the gods themselves. each movement was unconsciously elegant, from the way his hand brushed against the table to the subtle tilt of his head as he began to plan.

“i need to think,” he announced, which was code for “i need to stare at myself in various mirrors until inspiration strikes.”

satoru made his way to the palace gardens, where a particularly lovely reflecting pool awaited his attention. the water was always perfectly still, creating a mirror-like surface that captured his image with crystalline clarity. he settled gracefully on the marble bench beside it, gazing down at his reflection with the same intensity others might reserve for solving complex mathematical equations.

the problem was that he’d already done everything a prince was supposed to do. he’d mastered combat, politics, arts, and sciences. he’d charmed foreign dignitaries, inspired poets, and accidentally caused several minor international incidents just by existing too magnificently in public. what was left?

love, of course. true love. the kind of earth-shattering, world-changing romance that would be worthy of someone like him. but how did one find true love when one was already perfect? what could possibly be dramatic enough, challenging enough, romantic enough to deserve his attention?

he was contemplating this dilemma when he heard voices drifting from the courtyard beyond the garden walls. satoru’s ears—perfectly shaped, naturally—perked up with interest. gossip was often tedious, but occasionally it contained the seeds of something more entertaining.

he moved toward the sound with fluid grace, each step unconsciously elegant. the afternoon light caught his hair as he approached the garden’s edge, creating a halo effect that would have made religious painters weep with envy.

“heard about the cursed tower to the north?” one voice was saying, rough and weathered like an old soldier’s.

“the one with the dragon?” another replied, this one higher, probably a servant. “they say there’s a beautiful princess trapped inside, but the beast’s never let anyone near. killed every knight who’s tried.”

satoru’s reflection in a nearby fountain suddenly became infinitely more interesting. his eyes widened slightly—just enough to make them catch the light like captured stars—and his lips curved into the kind of smile that could launch a thousand ships and probably sink them too, just for the drama of it.

“cursed tower,” he breathed, the words carrying the weight of divine revelation. his fingers unconsciously moved to smooth down his hair, though it was already perfect, the gesture more instinctive vanity than necessity.

his mind began to race, spinning possibilities like silk. a cursed tower. a dragon—presumably fearsome and terrible. a princess who had been trapped away from the world, completely unprepared for the earth-shattering experience of meeting him.

this was it. this was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

he could practically see it now: the dramatic rescue, the grateful princess falling instantly and completely under his spell, the kingdom celebrating not just her freedom but the sheer romantic perfection of the whole affair. it would be a story worthy of his magnificence, a tale that would be told for generations about the prince so beautiful he could charm dragons and so heroic he could rescue princesses with nothing but his devastating good looks and impeccable sword work.

satoru turned from the fountain, his robes settling around him like they’d been personally tailored by the gods themselves. each movement was unconsciously elegant, from the way his hand brushed against the fountain’s edge to the subtle tilt of his head as he began to plan.

“a quest,” he announced to his reflection in the water, because even his most private thoughts deserved an audience this beautiful. “a solo mission of destiny.”

he paused, considering the logistics. bringing anyone else would just ruin the lighting anyway. this was clearly meant to be his moment, his story. companions would only dilute the dramatic impact of his heroic arrival. besides, what dragon could possibly resist his charm? what princess could fail to fall in love at first sight?

his reflection seemed to nod in agreement, and satoru’s smile widened into something that could have powered the sun itself. finally, an adventure worthy of his attention. finally, something that might actually be interesting.

he was already imagining the princess—probably lovely in that delicate, ordinary way that would make his own beauty shine even brighter by comparison. she’d been trapped for so long, isolated from the world, that she’d probably never seen anything as magnificent as him. the shock alone might make her faint right into his arms. he’d catch her, naturally, with the kind of effortless grace that would make the gesture look like choreographed poetry.

the dragon would be fierce, of course, but dragons were notoriously susceptible to beauty. he’d probably only need to remove his traveling cloak and let his natural radiance do the work. the beast would be so stunned by his magnificence that it would forget to be threatening.

satoru moved toward his chambers, each step a study in unconscious elegance. he’d need the perfect outfit for this quest—something that would look appropriately heroic while still showcasing his natural radiance. perhaps the white and gold ensemble that made his hair look like spun starlight, or the midnight blue that brought out the impossible color of his eyes.

“perfect,” he murmured, catching sight of himself in another mirror as he passed. “absolutely perfect.”

and for the first time in months, prince satoru gojo wasn’t bored.

this was his moment. his time. his destiny.

it was time to fall in love.

the palace sleeps in that peculiar way that only places of immense wealth can manage—silently, expensively, and with the kind of peace that comes from knowing all your enemies are either dead or too intimidated to try anything. satoru’s chambers occupy the entire east wing, because naturally they do, and the moonlight streaming through his floor-to-ceiling windows catches on surfaces that cost more than small countries.

the bed itself is a work of art, carved from a single piece of white oak that supposedly once sheltered a forest goddess. the sheets are silk so fine they feel like water against skin, dyed the exact shade of midnight that makes his hair look like captured starlight. his pillows are stuffed with down from birds that only molt once every seven years, and the mattress was crafted by artisans who took a blood oath never to make another like it.

he’s supposed to be asleep. instead, he’s staring at his reflection in the ornate mirror positioned strategically across from his bed, watching the way shadows play across his features in the silver light. his hair spills across his pillow like captured starlight, each strand seeming to hold its own luminescence. even rumpled with sleep, even at this ungodly hour, he looks like something carved from moonbeams and impossible dreams.

the mirror itself is a masterpiece—hand-blown glass so perfect it makes reality look slightly disappointing by comparison, framed in silver that was mined from mountains that no longer exist. he’d commissioned it specifically for this angle, because even his unconscious moments deserve to be witnessed by something beautiful.

“this is ridiculous,” he murmurs to his reflection, though whether he’s referring to his beauty or his current state of sleeplessness remains unclear. probably both. his voice carries that particular quality it always does in the deep hours of night—softer somehow, more intimate, as if he’s sharing secrets with the darkness itself.

the quest calls to him from where he’s hidden the hastily scrawled details beneath his silk sheets—a dragon, a tower, a princess who’s probably devastatingly beautiful but not quite as beautiful as him because that would be cosmically unfair. it’s exactly the kind of adventure that ballads are written about, the kind that establishes legendary status, the kind that he’s been unconsciously preparing for his entire life.

he’d heard about it three days ago, whispered rumors in the servants’ quarters that had somehow made their way to his perfectly shaped ears. a tower that no one could approach, a dragon that had never been defeated, a princess whose beauty was supposedly legendary. the kind of quest that princes dream about, the kind that separates the truly extraordinary from the merely exceptional.

and satoru has never been merely anything.

he slides from his bed with liquid grace, bare feet silent on marble floors that reflect his movement like a dark mirror. his nightclothes—because even his pajamas are tailored silk—whisper against his skin as he moves toward his wardrobe. the fabric shifts around his form like it’s grateful for the privilege of touching him, and he supposes it probably is.

his wardrobe is less a closet and more a temple to sartorial perfection. three walls of his dressing room are lined with clothing that represents the finest craftsmanship from seven different kingdoms. his everyday wear hangs alongside formal court attire, battle gear next to silk pajamas, each piece carefully maintained by a staff of six who consider their work a sacred calling.

choosing an outfit for dragon-slaying requires careful consideration. this isn’t just about practicality—though he needs to be able to move, to fight, to look devastatingly heroic while doing both. it’s about the story that will be told afterward, the songs that will be sung, the paintings that will be commissioned. he needs to look like destiny made manifest, like the answer to every maiden’s prayer and every dragon’s nightmare.

he runs his fingers along the various fabrics, feeling silk slide against his skin like liquid moonlight, wool that’s softer than most people’s dreams, leather that gleams like polished obsidian. each piece tells a story, holds memories of victories and conquests and moments when he’d looked so beautiful that reality itself had seemed to pause to admire him.

the midnight-blue cloak goes on first, settling around his shoulders with the weight of expensive fabric and good tailoring. the material whispers against his skin as he fastens the silver clasp—a piece of jewelry that cost more than most people’s annual income, shaped like a crescent moon and studded with diamonds that catch light even in darkness. the cloak itself is a masterwork, woven from silk that was supposedly blessed by moon nymphs and dyed with ink from creatures that exist only in the deepest parts of the ocean.

he watches himself in the mirror as he adjusts the drape, making sure it falls just so across his shoulders, creating the perfect silhouette. the deep blue makes his skin look like porcelain touched with starlight, and his hair—god, his hair—seems to glow against the dark fabric like captured moonbeams.

his pants are leather, but not just any leather. they’re made from the hide of some creature that lived in the spaces between dreams, supple and strong and the exact shade of midnight that makes his legs look impossibly long. they fit like a second skin, tailored to showcase every line of his form while still allowing for the kind of movement that separates legendary swordsmen from corpses.

the shirt beneath is silk so fine it’s almost weightless, a pale blue that echoes the color of his eyes when he’s feeling particularly dangerous. it’s cut to hug his torso in all the right places, with sleeves that somehow manage to be both practical and elegant, ending in cuffs that are secured with buttons carved from some rare mineral that pulses with its own inner light.

his boots—those impossible white leather creations that cost more than most people see in a lifetime—slide on with practiced ease. they’re not just footwear; they’re a statement. crafted by an artisan who spent three years learning the secrets of working with hide from creatures that exist only in winter storms, blessed by seven different cobblers who swore oaths of perfection, and enchanted with protections that would make them suitable for walking through fire, water, or the petty jealousy of lesser princes.

he catches sight of himself in the mirror and pauses, struck by his own reflection. the outfit transforms him from merely devastating to absolutely legendary. he looks like he stepped out of a painting, like the answer to every prayer whispered in the dark, like the kind of prince that stories are built around.

“absolutely devastating,” he whispers to himself, and means it completely. his voice carries that particular satisfaction that comes from being exactly as magnificent as you think you are.

his sword comes next, that masterwork of steel and magic that’s never failed him, never let him down, never made him look anything less than absolutely perfect while wielding it. the blade itself was forged from metal that fell from the stars, folded and refolded until it achieved a perfection that mortal steel could never match. the hilt is wrapped in leather that once belonged to a creature of legend, and the pommel is a stone that contains a fragment of the first light ever created.

when he draws it, the blade hums with power, responding to his touch like it’s been waiting for this moment. light seems to gather along the edges, not harsh or overwhelming, but subtle and beautiful, like moonlight made solid. it weighs nothing in his hand, perfectly balanced, an extension of his will made manifest.

he slides it into its sheath with the soft whisper of metal against leather, and the sound is somehow both peaceful and dangerous, like a lullaby sung by something that could kill you without effort.

sneaking out of the palace is almost insultingly easy. the guards who patrol the endless corridors have been trained since childhood to serve the royal family with absolute discretion, which means they’ve developed the useful skill of selective blindness when it comes to certain activities. they nod respectfully as he passes, their eyes skating over his adventure attire with practiced indifference.

“good evening, your highness,” they murmur, as if princes regularly wander the halls in full battle regalia at three in the morning. as if this is perfectly normal behavior for someone who’s supposed to be sleeping peacefully in his ridiculously expensive bed.

satoru inclines his head with the kind of regal grace that makes even casual acknowledgments look like royal decrees. his hair catches the torchlight as he moves, and he catches several guards stealing glances at his profile as he passes. he pretends not to notice, but files the information away for future reference. even his stealth missions are opportunities to be admired.

the palace corridors stretch endlessly in all directions, lined with tapestries that tell the stories of his ancestors’ victories and paintings that capture moments of historical significance. his footsteps echo softly on marble floors that reflect his movement like dark water, and every surface seems designed to showcase his passage.

he’s walked these halls his entire life, but tonight they feel different. tonight, he’s not just a prince moving through his domain—he’s a hero beginning his legend. the distinction matters more than he’d expected.

the stables smell of hay and warm horses, leather and the peculiar comfort that comes from creatures who exist solely to serve human ambition. lanterns cast pools of golden light across the cobblestones, and the soft sounds of sleeping animals create a symphony of peaceful contentment.

reginald—his pristine white stallion who’s probably more beautiful than most people’s wedding days—occupies the largest stall, naturally. the horse is a work of art in his own right, bred from lines that stretch back to the first horses that ever carried heroes into legend. his coat gleams like fresh snow even in the dim light, and his mane falls in perfect waves that would make court ladies weep with envy.

“hello, gorgeous,” satoru murmurs, running his hand along the horse’s neck. the animal’s coat is silk under his fingers, warm and alive and perfect. reginald nickers softly at his approach, pressing his massive head against satoru’s chest with the kind of affection that speaks of years of partnership.

they make quite a picture together—the impossibly beautiful prince and his equally magnificent steed. satoru has commissioned seventeen different paintings of them in various poses, and every single one looks like it belongs in a temple dedicated to aesthetic perfection.

“ready for an adventure?” he asks, his voice carrying that particular warmth he reserves for creatures and people he actually cares about. it’s a softer tone than his usual princely projection, more intimate, more real.

saddling reginald is a ritual he’s performed thousands of times, but tonight it feels ceremonial. the leather is supple under his hands, worn smooth by years of use but still strong enough to carry them through whatever lies ahead. the bridle gleams with silver fittings that catch the lantern light, and the saddle blanket is embroidered with the royal crest in thread that costs more per yard than most people make in a month.

when he swings up onto reginald’s back, the motion is fluid and graceful, the kind of mounting that makes riding look like poetry in motion. his cloak settles around him perfectly, and his hair falls across his shoulders in a way that would make angels weep with inadequacy.

they set off into the night with the kind of quiet confidence that comes from being absolutely certain of your own magnificence. reginald’s hooves beat a steady rhythm against the cobblestones, then the dirt road that leads away from the palace and toward whatever adventure awaits.

the ride begins gloriously. satoru sits his horse with the kind of natural grace that makes riding look like an art form, his posture perfect, his hands gentle on the reins. his cloak streams behind him like captured midnight, and his hair moves with the wind in a way that suggests even the elements are conspiring to make him look magnificent.

the countryside passes by in a blur of sleeping villages and moonlit fields, forests that whisper secrets to the wind and hills that roll away into darkness. the night air carries the scent of growing things, of earth and sky and the promise of dawn still hours away.

for the first hour, everything is perfect. satoru feels like he’s living inside a ballad, like he’s become the hero of his own story in the most literal sense. reginald moves beneath him with the smooth gait of a creature born for greatness, and together they cut through the darkness like a comet streaking across the sky.

it’s when the landscape begins to change that things start to go sideways. the solid dirt road gives way to something more questionable, and the sweet scent of growing things is gradually replaced by the muddy smell of stagnant water and decomposing vegetation.

“oh,” satoru says as they crest a hill and the swampland stretches out before them, an endless expanse of churning mud and twisted trees that looks like the earth’s attempt at creating something deliberately unpleasant. “that’s... unfortunate.”

the bog extends as far as the eye can see, a landscape of brown water and suspicious bubbles, of plants that look like they’d rather be left alone and sounds that suggest things are moving beneath the surface. it’s exactly the kind of terrain that heroes are supposed to traverse without complaint, the kind of obstacle that builds character and proves worthiness.

it’s also exactly the kind of terrain that pristine white horses want nothing to do with.

reginald takes one look at the swamp, then at his immaculate coat, then back at the swamp. his ears flatten against his head, and he makes a sound that, if horses could speak, would translate to something like “absolutely not.”

“come on,” satoru coaxes, his voice taking on that particular tone he uses when he’s trying to convince someone to do something they obviously don’t want to do. it’s the voice he uses on court advisors when he wants to implement ridiculous policies, on tailors when he wants impossible alterations, on mirrors when he wants them to reflect him from more flattering angles. “it’s just a little mud. we’re on a quest.”

reginald’s response is to take three deliberate steps backward, his hooves finding purchase on solid ground with the kind of determination that suggests he’s made his decision and will not be swayed by princely charm or royal decree.

“reginald,” satoru says, his voice climbing toward something that might, in someone less dignified, be called a whine. “you can’t be serious. it’s just dirt. very wet dirt.”

but reginald is completely serious. he tosses his perfect mane, fixes satoru with the kind of look that horses give when they think their riders are being unreasonable, and then—with the kind of dignity that only extremely expensive animals can manage—turns around and begins walking back toward the palace.

“reginald!” satoru calls, his voice reaching levels of incredulity that would make his voice coaches weep with despair. “reginald, you can’t just leave me here!”

but reginald absolutely can and absolutely does. his white tail swishes with what looks suspiciously like satisfaction as he picks up speed, transitioning from a dignified walk to a determined trot, clearly intent on returning to his comfortable stall and his breakfast of oats that cost more than most people’s entire meals.

satoru watches his magnificent steed abandon him with the kind of betrayal that cuts deeper than any sword wound. this was not how the ballads were supposed to go. heroes don’t get ditched by their horses. heroes don’t find themselves standing alone at the edge of disgusting swampland while their noble steeds decide that comfort is more important than glory.

“this is unacceptable,” he announces to the empty air, his voice carrying that particular edge that means he’s about to do something dramatic. the words echo across the bog, bouncing back from twisted trees and stagnant water with the kind of persistence that suggests even the landscape is mocking him.

but satoru is nothing if not adaptable. if his horse won’t carry him through the muck, he’ll simply have to find another way. magic, after all, is what separates princes from peasants, heroes from wannabes, legends from footnotes.

his hands rise, fingers weaving through the air with practiced precision, and magic responds to his call like it’s been waiting for this moment. the spell builds around him, invisible but powerful, lifting him from the ground with the kind of casual defiance of physics that makes magic users insufferable to be around.

his boots rise three inches from the earth, hovering just above the surface of the mud with the kind of elegant suspension that turns necessity into art. his cloak settles around him perfectly, because even his magic has aesthetic sensibilities, and the faint glow that surrounds him makes him look like he’s been touched by starlight.

“much better,” he murmurs, taking his first floating step toward the tower. the magic holds him steady, carries him forward with the kind of smooth motion that makes walking on air look as natural as breathing.

the swamp is a study in everything satoru finds personally offensive. the mud bubbles with the kind of enthusiastic grossness that suggests things are living and dying and decomposing beneath the surface, all while emitting sounds that belong in nightmares rather than royal quests. twisted trees rise from the murky water like the skeletal fingers of buried giants, their branches draped with moss that hangs like tattered curtains in a haunted theater.

the air itself seems thick with moisture and unpleasant possibilities, and every breath tastes like stagnant water and decomposing leaves. there are sounds coming from the deeper parts of the bog—splashing, slithering, and the occasional call of something that probably used to be a bird but has since decided to become an agent of psychological warfare.

satoru floats through it all with the kind of serene grace that comes from being absolutely certain that none of this can touch him. his magic holds him steady, carries him forward with the smooth motion of someone who’s decided that physics are merely suggestions. his boots remain three inches above the worst of it, pristine white leather unblemished by the chaos beneath.

“this is the most disgusting place i’ve ever seen,” he announces to a particularly offensive patch of bubbling muck, his voice carrying the kind of authority that makes even inanimate objects feel judged. “and i’ve been to diplomatic dinners.”

his reflection in the scattered pools of clearer water continues to confirm what he already knows—that he looks absolutely magnificent while being mildly inconvenienced by apocalyptic terrain. his hair moves with the humid breeze in a way that suggests even the atmosphere is trying to create more flattering angles for him, and his cloak billows dramatically despite the fact that he’s moving at a pace that could generously be called “leisurely floating.”

he’s been traveling for precisely forty-seven minutes (he’s been counting, because even his suffering must be documented for future ballads), and his reflection in every puddle he passes only confirms what he already knows: he looks devastatingly beautiful while being mildly inconvenienced by the worst landscape design in recorded history.

the thought of the ballads that will be written about this moment sustains him through the worst of it. he can already hear the verses about the prince who was too beautiful to touch the ground, who floated through the cursed swampland like a vision of divine perfection, who faced the bog of despair with nothing but magic and unshakeable confidence in his own magnificence.

“the prince did cross the swamp of doom,” he murmurs to himself, working out the meter, “his beauty bright as flowers in bloom, his magic strong, his spirit light, he floated through the darkest night...”

it’s not his best work, but it’s a solid foundation for whatever court poet gets assigned to immortalize this adventure. he makes a mental note to commission someone with actual talent once he gets back to the palace with his rescued princess and his well-earned legendary status.

the deeper he goes into the swamp, the more the landscape seems designed to test his resolve. the trees grow closer together, their branches reaching toward him like they’re trying to snag his cloak or tangle his hair. the water grows murkier, and things move beneath the surface with the kind of sinuous grace that suggests they’re either very large or very hungry.

satoru maintains his composure through all of it, his jaw working in that particular way it does when he’s annoyed but trying to look heroic about it—a slight tightening at the corners, his lower lip pushed out just enough to suggest noble suffering without actual ugliness. his hands remain steady on the invisible currents of magic that carry him forward, and his posture stays perfect despite the fact that he’s essentially walking on air through a landscape that looks like it was designed by someone with a personal vendetta against beauty.

“this is ridiculous,” he mutters to a particularly offensive patch of swamp, his voice carrying that melodic quality that makes court ladies swoon and his enemies hesitate just long enough for him to kill them. “i’m a prince, not a... a trudger through primordial soup.”

a sound from somewhere deeper in the bog responds to his complaint—something between a growl and a laugh that suggests whatever lives in these waters finds his predicament amusing. satoru’s eyes narrow with the kind of disdain usually reserved for poorly mixed cocktails and people who think they’re better looking than he is.

“excuse me?” he calls toward the source of the sound, his voice carrying the kind of imperial authority that’s been making people nervous since he learned to talk. “did you just laugh at me?”

the response is another sound, definitely more laugh than growl this time, followed by a splash that suggests something large just moved closer to his position. satoru’s hand moves automatically to his sword hilt, fingers wrapping around the grip with the kind of practiced ease that’s kept him alive through seventeen assassination attempts and one very awkward dinner party.

“i’ll have you know,” he announces to the swamp in general, “that i am prince satoru of the realm of eternal spring, heir to the throne of unending summer, and widely considered to be the most beautiful man in seven kingdoms. possibly eight, depending on how you count the disputed territories.”

the splashing stops, as if whatever lives in the bog is considering this information. satoru takes this as his cue to continue floating forward, his magic carrying him with the kind of steady determination that suggests he’s not about to let swamp creatures delay his appointment with destiny.

“i’m on a quest,” he adds, in case the bog’s residents are interested in context. “dragon slaying, princess rescuing, the usual heroic activities. very important work.”

the silence that follows feels almost respectful, and satoru allows himself a small smile of satisfaction. even bog monsters, apparently, recognize quality when they see it.

he continues his journey through the swamp with renewed confidence, his magic holding him steady above the worst of the terrain. the landscape gradually begins to change as he moves deeper into the cursed territory—the trees grow taller and more twisted, the water becomes darker and more still, and the air itself seems to thicken with the weight of old magic and older stories.

it’s when the mist begins to roll in that satoru knows he’s getting close to something significant. the fog moves with the kind of purposeful flow that suggests it’s not just weather but atmosphere, the kind of dramatic environmental effect that shows up in all the best legends.

“finally,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction that suggests he’s been waiting for exactly this kind of ominous atmospheric development. “proper quest ambiance.”

the mist swirls around him as he moves, parting before his passage like it recognizes royalty when it sees it. his hair seems to glow in the pale light that filters through the fog, and his cloak moves with the kind of fluid grace that makes even simple movement look like choreography.

and then, rising from the mist like a challenge made manifest, the tower appears.

the tower, when it finally deigns to appear through the mist, is aggressively vertical. satoru stops mid-stride, his head tilting back in a way that showcases the elegant column of his throat, and his eyes—those impossible pools of summer sky trapped in winter ice—narrow with the kind of disdain usually reserved for poorly mixed cocktails.

“that,” he announces to absolutely no one, “is disrespectfully tall.”

his cloak, midnight-blue silk that cost more than most people’s houses, billows dramatically behind him as he approaches the base of the tower. the fabric moves like liquid shadow, every fold calculated to make him look like he’s perpetually walking into a fierce wind even when the air is perfectly still. his hand, pale and long-fingered in a way that suggests he’s never done manual labor in his life (because he hasn’t), rises to cup around his mouth.

“let down your hair!” he calls, his voice projecting with the confidence of someone who’s never been ignored in his life. “my love! your one true destiny arrives!”

he strikes a pose while waiting—one hand on his hip, the other still raised toward the tower, his profile turned at the exact angle that makes his cheekbones look like they could cut glass. his hair catches the dim light filtering through the clouds, each strand seeming to glow with its own inner fire.

silence.

satoru’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows—and they are sculpted, he pays a very talented woman to maintain them twice weekly—draw together in the faintest suggestion of a frown. his lips, naturally the color of winter roses, purse slightly.

“hello?” he tries again, his voice carrying just a hint of petulance now. “hot prince outside. do you want to be saved or not?”

more silence.

the frown deepens, creating a small crease between his brows that he immediately smooths away with two fingers. vanity, thy name is satoru—and he’s perfectly fine with that assessment.

“this is...” he pauses, searching for words grand enough to match his indignation. “this is incredibly rude.”

when the tower continues to ignore him with the audacity of inanimate stone, satoru’s expression shifts. his jaw sets in a way that’s gotten him into trouble since childhood—determined, stubborn, and absolutely convinced of his own righteousness. his hand moves to the ornate sword at his hip, fingers wrapping around the hilt with practiced ease.

“fine,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper that court advisors have learned to fear. “we’ll do this the direct way.”

he kicks the door.

not pushes. not tries the handle. kicks, with enough force to splinter the ancient wood into a shower of fragments that somehow manage to avoid his pristine appearance entirely. his leg extends in a perfect line, boot connecting with wood in a way that would make his old combat instructor weep with pride. the door explodes inward with a sound like thunder, and satoru steps through the destruction he’s created with the casual grace of someone walking into a ballroom.

his cloak swirls around him as he enters, sword drawn and glowing with that particular light that means he’s channeling just enough power to look impressive without actually trying. his hair settles around his shoulders like spun moonbeams, and his eyes sweep the interior of the tower with the kind of sharp assessment that’s kept him alive through seventeen assassination attempts and one very awkward dinner party.

what he finds is... not what he expected.

instead of chains and despair, there are teacups. dozens of them, scattered across every available surface in a riot of mismatched patterns. blankets nest in every corner like colorful birds, creating a landscape of soft comfort that speaks of long afternoons and lazy mornings. books lie open on their spines, pages marked with strips of fabric torn from what might once have been very expensive curtains.

and in the corner, looking for all the world like he’s contemplating the existential weight of his own existence, sits a dragon.

not a fearsome dragon. not a terrible dragon. just... a dragon. sighing. audibly.

satoru blinks, his sword wavering slightly in his grip. his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again—a remarkably fish-like expression that he’s never made before and hopes never to make again.

“gods, finally,” the dragon says, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s been waiting for a very long time for something very specific to happen. “take her. she��s your problem now.”

satoru’s brain, usually so quick to process and categorize threats, stutters to a halt. his eyes, wide and bewildered, fix on the dragon’s face—which is surprisingly expressive for something covered in scales.

“uh,” he says, with all the eloquence of a man whose world has just tilted sideways. “you’re the dragon?”

“i used to be terrifying,” the dragon—sukuna, though satoru doesn’t know that yet—continues, shifting his massive bulk with the resigned air of someone who’s given up on maintaining his fearsome reputation. “now i’m her designated footrest.”

satoru’s gaze follows the dragon’s meaningful look toward a pile of blankets that he’s only just now realizing might contain a person. his grip on his sword tightens, more from confusion than aggression.

“her...” he starts, then trails off as sukuna shifts again, apparently trying to get comfortable on the stone floor.

it’s then that sukuna makes his fatal mistake. he breathes—just a normal, everyday breath, but it’s slightly too loud, slightly too close to satoru’s position. and satoru, trained since childhood to react to any perceived threat with immediate and overwhelming force, moves.

his sword flashes through the air in a perfect arc, light trailing behind the blade like a comet’s tail. his body follows the motion with deadly grace, every muscle working in perfect harmony to deliver exactly the kind of strike that’s made him legendary in three kingdoms and mildly infamous in a fourth.

the blade passes through sukuna’s neck with the whisper-soft sound of steel through silk.

“wait—” sukuna starts to say, his eyes widening with the sudden realization that maybe, just maybe, he should have been more careful around the obviously dangerous pretty boy with the glowing sword.

but it’s too late. his head separates from his shoulders with a soft thud, and his massive body crumples to the ground with the kind of finality that suggests this particular dragon won’t be bothering anyone ever again.

satoru stands frozen for a moment, his sword still extended, his hair drifting around his face like a silver halo. his eyes, wide with surprise, stare at the decidedly dead dragon at his feet. his mouth opens in a perfect ‘o’ of shock, and for just a moment, he looks exactly like what he is—a very pretty, very powerful, very young man who’s just accidentally committed dragon manslaughter.

“oops,” he says, his voice small and uncertain in a way that would probably make his enemies reconsider their opinion of him as an untouchable force of nature.

the silence that follows is broken by a rustling sound from the blanket pile, and satoru’s head snaps up with the kind of sharp attention that suggests he’s very much aware that he’s just killed someone’s... pet? guardian? really large, scaly roommate?

this, he thinks as he watches the blankets shift and move, might be more complicated than he anticipated

the silence stretches like pulled taffy, sticky and uncomfortable. satoru stands there, sword still humming with residual energy, the dragon’s ashes settling around his boots like expensive glitter. his hair catches the dim tower light—not silver, not platinum, but something more like captured starlight given weight, each strand moving with its own lazy arrogance as he turns his head toward the pile of blankets in the corner.

he’s breathing slightly harder than he’d like to admit, not from the fight (please, that was barely a warm-up) but from the sudden realization that he’s actually done it. he’s in the tower. he’s slain the dragon. he’s about to meet his destiny, and his reflection in the grimy window shows him looking appropriately heroic, if a bit ash-dusted.

“did you kill my lizard?”

the voice emerges from what he initially assumed was a very committed fort-building project. blankets shift, revealing glimpses of fabric that might once have been a nightgown but now resembles something a particularly fashionable hermit would wear.

satoru’s first thought is that you sound remarkably unconcerned for someone whose guardian dragon just got dramatically murdered. his second thought is that your voice has a quality to it—something honey-thick and sleep-rough that makes his chest do an odd little flutter.

“lizard?” he repeats, and his voice cracks slightly on the word. he clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back into what he knows is his most dashing pose. “that was a dragon. a fearsome, terrible dragon that i—”

“he made decent soup,” you interrupt, and satoru watches in fascination as more of you emerges from the blanket fortress. “with those little herbs that make your nose tingle.”

you surface slowly, like a very reluctant periscope, and satoru’s brain performs what can only be described as a complete system reboot.

because your hair—good gods, your hair—spills around your shoulders in waves that seem to have their own gravitational pull, cascading down your back in a waterfall that shifts with every movement. it pools around you like liquid silk, spreading across the stone floor in ripples that catch the light and hold it hostage. there’s so much of it, more hair than should be physically possible for one person to possess, and it seems to go on forever, disappearing into the shadows behind you like some kind of textile infinity.

satoru, who has spent his entire life being the most beautiful thing in any room, finds himself momentarily speechless. his fingers tighten around his sword hilt—not from nerves, obviously, but because the weapon suddenly feels foreign in his hands when faced with the reality of you.

“dragon,” he corrects automatically, though his voice has gone slightly hoarse. he gestures vaguely at the ash pile with the kind of theatrical flourish that usually makes people swoon. “i slayed it. for you. very heroically.”

the movement is unconsciously graceful, like everything he does, but there’s a slight tremor in his fingers that he pretends doesn’t exist. his usual confidence—that unshakeable certainty that he’s the main character in everyone’s story—wavers like a candle in wind.

you sit up fully now, and satoru watches in fascination as your hair drags across the stone floor like liquid silk with delusions of grandeur. it’s not just long—it’s long long, the kind of length that suggests magic or madness or both. he can see it trailing behind you, disappearing into the far reaches of the tower, and his mind immediately begins calculating the logistics of this situation with the kind of panicked efficiency usually reserved for military campaigns.

“he was cranky,” you explain, stretching with the kind of elegant boredom that could make grown men weep. your arms rise above your head, spine arching like a cat discovering the concept of leisure, and satoru’s breath catches in his throat. “kept getting woken up by knights screaming and horses neighing and that one guy who kept singing off-key ballads at three in the morning.”,

the way you stretch makes something flutter dangerously in satoru’s chest. he’s seen beautiful things before. he is a beautiful thing. but this feels different, like looking at art that hasn’t been created yet, like witnessing the exact moment a star decides to shine.

“oh no,” he thinks, watching you yawn with the kind of casual devastation that should come with a warning label. “she’s hot. and completely unimpressed with me. this is it. this is the one.”

because you’re looking at him—actually looking at him—with the kind of mild interest someone might reserve for a particularly shiny rock. not awe, not breathless admiration, not even basic human attraction. just... mild curiosity, like he’s a puzzle that might be worth solving if you’re bored enough.

it’s intoxicating.

“you’re shiny,” you observe, tilting your head in a way that makes your hair shift and cascade like a waterfall. then, with devastating casualness, you add, “you got food?”

satoru’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. his reflection in the tower’s grimy windows shows him looking perfectly composed—jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes that blue-white color of lightning right before it strikes, hair falling across his forehead in artfully disheveled waves—but inside, his thoughts are performing some kind of interpretive dance about destiny and tragic romance and the way your voice sounds like honey mixed with mild irritation.

“i’m...” he starts, then stops. his usual repertoire of charming introductions—the practiced smile, the perfectly timed hair flip, the way he can make his voice go all low and intimate—feels suddenly inadequate. “i’m your true love?”

he says it like a question, which is unprecedented. satoru gojo does not ask questions about his own magnificence. he states facts. he declares truths. he does not stand in towers looking like a confused angel while a sleepy princess destroys his worldview with casual indifference.

“okay,” you say, and his heart does something aerobatic.

okay. just like that. like being someone’s true love is as simple as agreeing to try a new type of tea. satoru has had people write sonnets about the curve of his smile, commission sculptures of his profile, start wars over the honor of braiding his hair, and you just... say okay.

“but are you strong enough to carry me down twelve flights of stairs?”

satoru blinks. once. twice. his brain is still trying to process the fact that you said ‘okay’ to being his true love with the same energy someone might say ‘okay’ to trying a new sandwich.

“what—”

“because i’m not walking.” you settle back into your nest of blankets, and satoru realizes with growing horror and fascination that your hair isn’t just long—it’s impossibly long. he can see it now, trailing away from you like a river, disappearing into the shadows of the tower’s far corners. some of it is braided with what looks like ribbon, some of it twisted into loose coils, and all of it seems to have a life of its own, moving with each breath you take like it’s responding to some invisible wind. “those stairs are terrible. all stone and sharp edges and making you use your legs like some kind of peasant.”

“how much hair do you have?” satoru asks, temporarily derailed from his romantic crisis by the sheer logistical impossibility of your follicular situation. his eyes trace the seemingly endless length of it, watching how it catches the dusty light filtering through the tower’s windows.

“enough,” you say vaguely, as if the laws of physics are merely suggestions. “so? carrying me?”

satoru stares at you. at your hair. at the way it seems to stretch on forever like some kind of beautiful, impractical disaster waiting to happen. his mind is already running calculations—weight distribution, center of gravity, the aerodynamics of navigating narrow staircases while carrying someone whose hair could probably be used as climbing rope.

but beneath all that practical thinking, something else is happening. something that feels dangerously close to the kind of romantic nonsense he’s always secretly craved but never admitted to wanting. because you’re not asking him to slay another dragon or prove his worth through combat or compose poetry about your beauty. you’re asking him to carry you, to be useful in the most basic, intimate way possible.

“yes,” he says, and his voice has gone soft in a way that would make his mirror panic. “yes, i am.”

you study him with the calculating look of someone determining if a chair is sturdy enough to hold weight. your eyes trace over his frame with the kind of practical assessment that makes him feel both exposed and oddly pleased.

“prove it.”

satoru’s sword clatters to the ground, forgotten. he moves toward you with the kind of fluid grace that makes waterfalls jealous, but his eyes keep flicking to your hair, watching the way it ripples and shifts with every small movement you make. it’s hypnotic, the way it catches the light, like looking at the surface of water disturbed by wind.

“you sure you trust me?” he asks, and there’s something almost vulnerable in the way his head tilts, hair falling across his forehead like scattered moonlight. “i mean, we literally just met, and i did murder your... pet lizard.”

“dragon,” you correct with a slight smile that does terrible things to his composure. “and sukuna was getting annoying anyway. he kept hogging the good blankets and breathing smoke whenever i tried to read.”

the casual way you dismiss the dragon’s death should probably concern him, but instead, satoru finds it oddly charming. you’re not traumatized or weeping or clinging to him in gratitude. you’re just... pragmatic. like having your guardian dragon accidentally murdered is a mild inconvenience rather than a tragedy.

“you read?” he asks, because of course that’s what his brain latches onto. “in a tower? with a dragon?”

“what else was there to do?” you shift forward, preparing to be lifted, and satoru tries not to think about how your hair is going to complicate literally everything. “it’s not like i had a social calendar.”

“no visiting princes? no rescue attempts that actually worked?” satoru’s voice has taken on a teasing quality that surprises him. usually, his flirting is more calculated, more performative. this feels almost... natural.

“oh, there were attempts,” you say, and your smile turns slightly wicked. “but sukuna was very good at the whole ‘terrifying dragon’ thing. lots of screaming. lots of running. one guy fainted before he even got to the door.”

“tragic,” satoru murmurs, and then his arms slide beneath you with practiced precision. the weight of you settles against him like a missing piece clicking into place, and he marvels at how perfectly you fit in his arms, how your warmth seeps through his shirt and makes his chest feel too small for his heart.

“comfortable?” he asks, his voice rough around the edges.

instead of answering, you do something that completely obliterates his composure: you curl into him, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt, your cheek pressed against his collarbone like you belong there. your hair spills over his arms, and he can smell something that might be lavender or maybe just the particular scent of someone who’s been living in a tower for too long.

“you’re very warm,” you murmur, already half-asleep. “and you smell like expensive soap and poor life choices.”

satoru laughs—actually laughs, not the practiced sound he uses for courts and crowds, but something real and slightly hysterical. “poor life choices?”

“rescuing princesses from towers,” you explain drowsily, your breath warm against his throat. “very high mortality rate.”

“good thing i’m perfect,” he says, adjusting his grip and trying not to think about how your hair is already trailing behind them like some kind of magnificent, impractical train. he can feel the weight of it, the way it shifts and moves with each step he’ll need to take, and he’s already mentally mapping the best route down the tower stairs.

“are you?” you ask, tilting your head to look at him. “or just very, very vain?”

for a moment, satoru considers lying. considers giving you the practiced response he’s perfected over years of court functions and public appearances. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—not impressed, not disapproving, just genuinely curious—that makes him want to tell the truth.

“both,” he admits, and the honesty surprises him. “definitely both.”

you smile then—something small and genuine and absolutely devastating. “good. vanity’s more interesting than perfection.”

satoru stands there for a moment, holding you in a tower full of ash and faded tapestries, and thinks that maybe this is what all those love songs were trying to explain. not the dramatic declarations or the sword fights, but this: the weight of someone who chooses to trust you, who curls into your arms like they’re exactly where they’re supposed to be.

“ready?” he asks, though he’s not sure he is.

“no,” you say, settling more firmly into his arms. “but carry me anyway.”

and so satoru—prince of mirrors and maker of poor life choices—begins his descent, your impossible hair trailing behind them like a river, wondering when exactly his perfectly planned rescue mission turned into something that feels dangerously close to falling in love.

the first few flights go smoothly. satoru's boots find purchase on stone worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, each step deliberate and measured. his shoulders burn pleasantly with the effort of carrying you, and he finds himself cataloging every detail of this moment: the way you've gone boneless in his arms, the soft puffs of your breath against his throat, the impossible silkiness of your hair where it brushes against his hands.

your hair, he's beginning to realize, is going to be a problem.

it trails behind them like a living thing, catching on stone edges and doorframes, creating a continuous whisper of silk against stone that follows them down the spiral staircase. satoru finds himself having to pause every few steps to carefully extract strands from crevices in the wall, his movements becoming increasingly careful as he navigates around the growing tangle.

“this is fine,” he mutters to himself, stepping over a particularly thick section of hair that's somehow wound itself around a loose stone. “this is romantic. this is—”

his foot catches on a trailing strand, and he stumbles, grip tightening on you instinctively.

“careful,” you murmur without opening your eyes, and there's something almost fond in your voice. “you're very graceful, but hair is treacherous.”

“how do you usually manage all this?” satoru asks, genuinely curious as he carefully untangles another section from what appears to be a small crack in the wall.

“very carefully,” you say. “and with a lot of help from sukuna. he used to carry the end of it when we moved around the tower.”

satoru glances back at the seemingly endless trail of hair and feels something that might be panic flutter in his chest. “the end of it?”

“mmm.” you're already drifting back toward sleep, completely unconcerned about the logistical nightmare your hair is creating. “it's about fifty feet, i think. maybe sixty. hard to measure when you're trapped in a tower.” fifty feet.

satoru does some quick mental math and realizes that means your hair is currently dragging behind them like the world's most beautiful and impractical anchor. every step he takes, every turn of the staircase, is creating new tangles, new snags, new opportunities for disaster.

“this is love,” he tells himself firmly, carefully extracting a particularly stubborn strand from a gap between stones. “this is romance. this is—”

a section of hair catches on a protruding piece of iron, and the sudden resistance nearly sends him tumbling backward. he catches himself with reflexes honed by years of sword training, but the jolt wakes you up.

“what's wrong?” you ask, blinking up at him with sleepy concern.

“nothing,” satoru says through gritted teeth, still trying to free the trapped hair without dropping you. “just, uh, architectural difficulties.”

you peer over his shoulder and seem to grasp the situation immediately. “oh. yeah, that happens a lot. you have to kind of... wiggle it.”

“wiggle it?”

“the hair. it gets caught on everything. you learn to work with it.”

satoru wiggles the hair. it comes free with a soft whisper of silk, and he resumes his careful descent, now hyperaware of every strand trailing behind you.

by the time you reach the halfway point, satoru is beginning to sweat. not from the exertion of carrying you—that part is actually quite pleasant—but from the constant vigilance required to navigate your hair through the narrow staircase. it's like trying to move through a maze while dragging a silk river behind him.

“how are you doing?” you ask, apparently sensing his growing tension.

“fine,” satoru says automatically, then catches himself. “actually, no. your hair is...” he pauses, searching for diplomatic phrasing. “it's very beautiful. and very long. and it's turning this rescue into a logistical nightmare.”

you're quiet for a moment, and satoru immediately regrets his honesty. this is supposed to be romantic, not practical. princes don't complain about inconvenient hair during dramatic rescues.

“i know,” you say finally, and there's something almost apologetic in your voice. “i'm sorry. i know it's a lot.”

“no,” satoru says quickly, “no, it's not—i mean, it is a lot, but it's also—”

he trips over another section of hair and has to catch himself against the wall, careful not to jostle you in the process.

“it's fine,” he finishes weakly. “i can handle it.”

you study his face for a moment, then seem to come to some kind of decision. “do you have a knife?”

“what?”

“a knife. or a sword. something sharp.”

satoru's free hand goes instinctively to the dagger at his belt. “yes, but why would you—”

“we're cutting it.”

the words hit him like a physical blow. “we're what?”

“the hair. we're cutting it off.”

“but—” satoru's voice cracks slightly. “but it's so beautiful. and long. and it's probably magical or something.”

“it's impractical,” you say matter-of-factly. “and it's making you sweat, which is ruining your whole ethereal prince aesthetic.”

satoru wants to argue, wants to insist that he can handle it, that carrying you and your impossible hair is just another challenge to overcome. but then he feels another strand catch on something behind them, and the gentle tug threatens to unbalance him entirely.

“okay,” he says quietly. “okay, we can cut it.”

you nod and gesture for him to set you down on the narrow stone steps. satoru does so reluctantly, immediately missing the weight of you in his arms. you gather your hair in both hands, pulling it forward so that it pools around you like a lake.

“here,” you say, indicating a spot roughly at shoulder length. “cut it here.”

satoru draws his dagger with hands that tremble slightly. the blade gleams in the dim light, sharp and deadly and somehow wrong for this purpose. “are you sure?”

“i'm sure.”

but when he raises the knife, he hesitates. your hair is so beautiful, so impossibly long and silky and you. cutting it feels like destroying something precious, something that can't be replaced.

“i can't,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “what if you regret it?”

“satoru,” you say gently, and the way you say his name makes his chest feel tight. “it's just hair. it'll grow back.”

“but what if it doesn't? what if it was magical hair and cutting it breaks the spell and—”

“then we'll figure it out,” you interrupt, and your voice is so calm, so certain, that some of the panic in his chest begins to settle. “together.”

satoru looks at you—really looks at you—and sees no regret in your eyes, no hesitation. just trust. complete, unwavering trust in his ability to do this one thing for you.

he cuts the hair.

the blade slices through the silk strands like they're made of air, and suddenly there's so much less of it. what falls away pools around them in drifts, and what remains barely brushes your shoulders, framing your face in soft waves that make you look somehow both younger and more elegant.

“there,” you say, running your fingers through the shortened strands. “much better.”

satoru stares at the severed hair scattered around them, and before he can stop himself, he's gathering up one long strand, wrapping it carefully around his fingers.

“what are you doing?” you ask, watching him with amused curiosity.

“keeping it,” he says, and his voice is rough with emotion he doesn't quite understand. “as a... memento.”

“a memento?”

“of this moment. of...” he gestures vaguely at the hair, at you, at the impossible situation you’re in. “of the sacrifice you made for me.”

you stare at him for a long moment, then burst into laughter. “satoru, it's hair. i'm not dying for your cause.”

“it's symbolic,” he insists, still carefully coiling the strand. “and it's beautiful. and it smells like you.”

“you're ridiculous.”

“i'm romantic.”

“you're romantically ridiculous.”

satoru carefully tucks the strand of hair into his shirt pocket, right over his heart, and feels something settle in his chest. when he looks up, you're watching him with an expression that's equal parts exasperated and fond.

“ready to continue?” you ask, extending your arms toward him again.

“ready,” he says, and lifts you back into his arms. the difference is immediately noticeable—no trailing hair to catch on stones, no constant whisper of silk against the walls. just you, warm and solid and perfect in his arms.

the rest of the descent passes in a blur of soft conversations and comfortable silences. you doze against his shoulder, occasionally waking to make sleepy observations about the architecture or to point out interesting patterns in the stone. satoru finds himself talking to you even when you're asleep, his voice low and rambling as he works through his thoughts out loud.

each step downward sends a subtle vibration through his chest where you rest, and he finds himself adjusting his breathing to match yours—shallow when you're deeply asleep, deeper when you stir. the weight of you in his arms has become as natural as his own heartbeat, and he catches himself flexing his biceps slightly whenever you shift, testing his own strength not out of vanity but out of genuine concern that he might somehow fail you.

“i'm not just carrying you,” he murmurs as you pass a particularly narrow window that lets in a shaft of golden afternoon light. the beam catches in his hair—strands the color of fresh snow touched by winter sunlight, each strand so fine it seems to absorb and reflect light simultaneously. “i'm carrying our future. our destiny. the weight of true love itself.”

he pauses, letting the words hang in the air like an incantation. there's something profound in the way the light falls across your sleeping face, turning your skin luminous and soft. satoru's chest swells with the kind of pride that feels almost religious—he is the chosen one, the hero, the prince who gets to carry the sleeping princess toward their happily ever after.

“your voice is loud,” you mumble without opening your eyes, your breath warm against the hollow of his throat. “shh.”

the criticism hits him like a physical blow, and heat creeps up his neck in a way that has nothing to do with exertion. satoru gojo, prince of the realm, beloved by mirrors and citizens alike, has been shushed. by a sleepy princess who smells faintly of dragon smoke and old books.

he loves it.

satoru blushes—actually blushes, pink spreading across his cheekbones like watercolor on wet paper—and lowers his voice to barely above a whisper. but he doesn't stop talking. the words pour out of him like water from a broken dam, soft and continuous and necessary.

he tells you about his kingdom, about the gardens where peacocks strut between fountains that sing different melodies depending on the hour. his voice takes on a dreamy quality as he describes the way morning light turns the palace walls into sheets of gold, how the mirrors in the great hall reflect not just images but somehow capture the very essence of beauty itself.

“the library has books that smell like vanilla and old leather,” he whispers, his lips barely moving as he navigates a particularly steep section of stairs. “and there are reading nooks with cushions so soft you sink into them like clouds. you'll love it there—i can already picture you curled up with a book, hair falling over your shoulder like a silk curtain.”

he pauses, realizing he's been planning your future in his palace without asking, but the way you make soft, sleepy sounds of acknowledgment makes his heart do something acrobatic in his chest. each tiny noise you make—a hum of agreement, a sigh of contentment—sends warmth shooting through his veins like liquid sunshine.

“the bed i'm going to have commissioned for you,” he continues, his voice growing more animated despite the whisper-soft volume, “it'll be so large it'll need its own zip code. maybe its own weather system. silk sheets the color of moonlight, pillows stuffed with down from swans who died of old age and contentment.”

you shift against him, nuzzling closer to his neck in a way that makes his breath catch. “that sounds excessive,” you mumble, but there's affection in your voice.

“i am excessive,” satoru says proudly, then immediately moderates his tone when you make a soft sound of protest. “excessively devoted to your comfort.”

when you finally reach the bottom of the tower, satoru's legs are trembling—not from exhaustion, but from the sustained effort of carrying you while maintaining perfect posture. he would rather die than let you notice any weakness, any hint that carrying you has been anything less than effortless.

he pushes open the heavy wooden door with his shoulder, and the hinges groan like something ancient and tired. the sound echoes through the tower above them, a final goodbye to the place that held you captive and him apart from his destiny.

cool evening air hits his face like a blessing, carrying with it the scent of wild roses and something that might be rain gathering on the horizon. the forest stretches before them, all silver bark and leaves that shimmer like scattered coins in the dying light.

“it's beautiful,” you breathe, and satoru realizes with a start that this might be the first time you've seen the outside world in months. your eyes are wide and wondering, reflecting the dusky sky like dark mirrors.

the observation hits him with unexpected force. while he's been living in luxury, attending festivals and tournaments and having his portrait painted by the kingdom's finest artists, you've been trapped in a tower, seeing only stone walls and narrow windows. the injustice of it makes something fierce and protective unfurl in his chest.

“not as beautiful as you,” he says automatically, then immediately wants to kick himself for such a terrible line. the words taste stale in his mouth, like something he's said a thousand times to a thousand different people.

but you don't seem to mind the triteness. “that's awful,” you say, but you're smiling—a small, genuine curve of lips that makes his heart skip like a stone across water.

“i know.” the admission comes easily, surprising him. usually he defends his charm with the righteousness of the truly vain, but something about your gentle teasing makes him want to be honest instead.

“you should work on your flirting.”

“i'll add it to my royal duties,” he says, and the image of himself studying pickup lines with the same intensity he applies to swordplay makes him grin.

you laugh, and the sound echoes off the tower walls like music—bright and clear and so genuinely delighted that satoru feels it in his bones. he starts walking, carrying you toward the forest path that will eventually lead them home, and each step feels like a promise.

the journey to his kingdom is supposed to take three days on horseback. on foot, carrying a princess with recently shortened hair and a tendency to find everything mildly amusing, it takes considerably longer.

not that satoru minds. if anything, he finds himself deliberately slowing your pace, taking longer routes, stopping to rest more often than necessary. his internal compass, usually so precise and goal-oriented, seems to have developed a preference for scenic detours and extended lunch breaks.

every moment he spends carrying you feels precious in a way that surprises him. he's used to instant gratification, to getting what he wants when he wants it. but this—this slow journey through dappled forest light, with you warm and trusting in his arms—feels like something worth savoring.

you seem to sense his reluctance to rush, and you don't complain about the extended timeline. instead, you point out interesting things along the way with the enthusiasm of someone discovering the world for the first time.

“mushrooms that look like tiny umbrellas,” you say, gesturing toward a cluster of fungi growing on a rotting log. “birds with unusually bright plumage”—a flash of cardinal red against green leaves. “cloud formations that remind me of various household objects”—a cumulus formation that does, indeed, look remarkably like a teapot.

satoru finds himself seeing the world through your eyes, noticing details he's walked past a thousand times without really seeing. the way morning mist clings to spider webs, turning them into strings of diamonds. the particular quality of light that filters through leaves, green and gold and alive. the sound of his own footsteps on the forest floor, steady and sure, carrying you both toward you future.

“stop,” you say suddenly on the second day, just as satoru is navigating around a fallen log with the kind of graceful precision that would make his dance instructor proud.

“what's wrong?” his voice immediately takes on the tone of someone prepared to face down dragons, bandits, or particularly aggressive squirrels.

“mushroom,” you say, pointing to a small cluster of fungi growing on the side of a tree. “they're cute.”

satoru stares at the mushrooms, which look exactly like every other mushroom he's ever seen—brown caps, pale stems, the general appearance of something that might be edible if you're very brave or very stupid. “they're... mushrooms.”

“cute mushrooms,” you correct, and there's something in your voice that suggests this distinction is important. “look at their little caps. they're like tiny hats.”

“you want me to stop so you can look at mushrooms?” there's no judgment in his voice, just genuine curiosity. this is a new experience for him—being asked to pause not for his own comfort or convenience, but for someone else's whim.

“yes.”

satoru stops. he stands there, holding you in his arms while you examine the mushrooms with the kind of intense focus most people reserve for great works of art or particularly challenging math problems. his arms don't even tremble—all those years of sword training and physical conditioning have prepared him for this exact moment, even if he didn't know it at the time.

he watches your face as you study the fungi, noting the way your eyes narrow slightly in concentration, the small furrow that appears between your brows when you're thinking. there's something endearing about your complete absorption in something so simple, so easily overlooked.

“okay,” you say finally, settling back against his chest with a satisfied sigh. “we can go now.”

this happens seventeen more times over the course of the day. mushrooms, interestingly shaped rocks, a butterfly that lands on satoru's shoulder with the confidence of something that recognizes true beauty when it sees it, a stream that makes particularly pleasing sounds as it flows over smooth stones.

each time, you ask him to stop with the same casual authority, and each time, he does. no questions, no complaints, no subtle suggestions that you should perhaps maintain some sense of urgency about reaching the palace.

by the third day, satoru has developed a complex relationship with mushrooms. he finds himself scanning the forest floor constantly, looking for fungi that might catch your attention. when he spots a particularly colorful cluster growing on a rotting log—caps the color of sunset, stems pale as fresh cream—he stops without being asked.

“mushrooms,” he announces, and there's genuine pride in his voice, like he's presenting you with a gift he's personally crafted.

you peer at them with the serious expression of a scholar examining ancient texts. “ooh, those are nice ones. very... mushroomy.”

“mushroomy?” satoru's eyebrows—pale as his hair but perfectly shaped—rise slightly.

“it's a technical term,” you say with the kind of matter-of-fact delivery that makes him want to laugh and kiss you simultaneously.

satoru doesn't point out that 'mushroomy' is definitely not a technical term. instead, he files away this information about your preferences and continues walking, already planning to have the palace gardeners cultivate the most interesting mushrooms they can find in the royal gardens. maybe an entire greenhouse dedicated to fungi. maybe a mushroom conservatory with guided tours.

the mental image of himself giving diplomatic visitors a serious lecture about the artistic merits of various mushroom species makes him grin.

on the fourth day, you wake up from a nap and immediately zero in on something that makes satoru's chest puff with pride like a peacock displaying its finest feathers.

“your arms,” you say, poking at his bicep with the kind of scientific curiosity usually reserved for interesting specimens. your finger is warm through the fabric of his shirt, and the casual touch makes his skin tingle. “they're very... substantial.”

“substantial?” satoru tries not to sound too pleased, but his voice definitely goes up an octave, bright with barely contained excitement. the word 'substantial' bounces around in his head like a compliment he wants to frame and hang on his wall.

“muscular. strong. good for carrying princesses.” you say this like you're conducting a professional evaluation, but there's something in your tone that suggests approval.

“i have an excellent fitness regimen,” satoru says, and his voice is practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “sword training every morning at dawn—well, after breakfast, because i'm not an animal. horseback riding through the royal forests. swimming in the palace pools, which are heated to exactly the right temperature for optimal muscle development.”

he pauses, then adds with the kind of earnest intensity that most people reserve for discussing matters of life and death: “i'm very committed to physical excellence.”

“it shows.” the words are simple, delivered with the casual tone of someone commenting on the weather, but they hit satoru like a physical blow.

he nearly trips over his own feet, and only his excellent balance—trained through years of dance lessons and sword work—keeps him from stumbling. the casual way you say it, like it's just an obvious fact rather than the kind of compliment he's been fishing for his entire life, makes his heart do something impossible and athletic.

he's received countless compliments on his appearance over the years. poets have written verses about his beauty. artists have begged to paint his portrait. mirror salesmen have offered him lifetime discounts in exchange for testimonials.

but somehow this simple acknowledgment of his strength, delivered in your sleepy, matter-of-fact voice, feels more meaningful than all the poetry ever written about his face.

“you think i'm strong?” he asks, and his voice has gone slightly breathless, like he's just finished a particularly challenging workout.

“obviously.” you shift in his arms, settling more comfortably against his chest. “you've been carrying me for four days without complaining.”

“i would never complain about carrying you.” the words come out fierce and immediate, like a vow.

“even when my hair was trying to strangle you?” there's laughter in your voice, but also something softer, something that might be affection.

“especially then. that was just... additional challenge. character building.” satoru's grip on you tightens slightly, possessive and protective. “i'm basically a hero now. a hair-wrestling champion.”

you laugh, and the sound vibrates through his chest in a way that makes him want to purr like a very large, very satisfied cat. “you're ridiculous.”

“i'm devoted,” he corrects, and his voice has gone soft and serious.

“you're devotedly ridiculous.”

satoru grins, and the expression is so bright it could power a small city. “i'll take it.”

on the fifth day, you encounter bandits.

satoru is in the middle of explaining the complex political implications of his kingdom's mirror tax—a subject he finds endlessly fascinating and which he's certain you'll find equally compelling—when three men step out from behind a cluster of trees, weapons drawn and expressions appropriately menacing.

“stand and deliver,” the leader says, which satoru finds disappointingly cliché. couldn't they have come up with something more original? something with flair?

“deliver what?” satoru asks, genuinely curious. he tilts his head slightly, hair catching the afternoon light like spun silver. “i don't have a wagon. or a cart. or any visible goods.”

“your money, obviously.”

“oh.” satoru considers this with the kind of thoughtful expression he usually reserves for choosing between different shades of blue for his formal wear. “i don't carry money. i have people for that.”

the concept of handling his own currency is as foreign to him as the idea of washing his own clothes or cooking his own meals. he's a prince. he has staff for such mundane concerns.

“then give us the girl.”

the words hang in the air like a curse, and satoru's entire demeanor shifts. the casual amusement vanishes from his face, replaced by something cold and sharp and infinitely more dangerous. his arms tighten protectively around you, and when he speaks, his voice carries the kind of authority that makes grown men reconsider their life choices.

the change is instantaneous and complete. one moment he's a vain, chattering prince discussing tax policy; the next, he's something lethal and focused and absolutely uncompromising.

“no.”

“no?” the bandit leader seems genuinely confused by this response, as if the concept of refusal is entirely foreign to him.

“absolutely not.” satoru's voice is soft and pleasant, but there's steel underneath it—the kind of quiet certainty that comes from never having been denied anything important in his entire life.

the bandits exchange glances, clearly not prepared for this level of calm refusal. they were probably expecting panic, or at least some kind of negotiation. instead, they're facing a prince who looks like he's discussing the weather while simultaneously radiating the kind of danger that makes smart people back away slowly.

the leader steps forward, raising his sword in what's probably meant to be a threatening gesture. “listen, pretty boy—”

he doesn't get to finish the sentence.

satoru moves with liquid grace, shifting you to his left arm while his right hand draws his sword in one smooth motion. the blade emerges from its sheath with a whisper of steel, and the afternoon light catches the metal and throws it back in brilliant flashes that seem to slice through the air itself.

his movements are economical, precise, beautiful in the way that perfectly executed violence can be. there's no wasted motion, no unnecessary flourish—just pure, efficient lethality wrapped in aristocratic elegance.

when satoru speaks, his voice is soft and infinitely more terrifying than any shout. “you will not touch her. you will not look at her. you will not breathe in her direction.”

he pauses, and his smile is beautiful and terrible, like sunlight on a blade. “you will turn around and walk away, and you will pretend this conversation never happened.”

“or what?” the bandit's voice has lost some of its earlier confidence, but he's committed now, pride and desperation warring in his expression.

satoru's smile widens, and there's something almost pitying in his expression. “or i'll kill you.”

the words are delivered with the same casual tone he might use to discuss the weather or comment on the quality of the local mushrooms. there's no heat in them, no anger—just simple, matter-of-fact certainty.

the fight, such as it is, lasts approximately thirty seconds.

satoru never puts you down, never loosens his grip on you, never even breathes particularly hard. he simply moves through the three bandits like they're made of paper, his sword tracing elegant arcs through the air that end with decisive, final results.

his footwork is perfect, weight shifting smoothly from foot to foot as he dances around their clumsy attacks. the sword in his hand moves like an extension of his own body, cutting through the air with the kind of precision that comes from years of training and natural talent.

when it's over, he sheathes his sword with the same fluid grace he used to draw it, and continues walking as if nothing happened. his breathing is steady, his grip on you unchanged, his expression returning to its usual pleasant neutrality.

“that was impressive,” you say, and your voice is warm with genuine admiration that makes something glow in satoru's chest.

“you saw that?” satoru asks, pleased and surprised. he'd been so focused on protecting you that he hadn't been sure you were paying attention.

“i saw you spin-kick someone while holding me. that takes serious core strength.” there's something almost awed in your voice, and satoru preens under the praise like a cat in a patch of sunlight.

“i have excellent core strength,” he says, and his voice is bright with barely contained pride. “years of training. proper nutrition. dedicated conditioning.”

“clearly.”

satoru is quiet for a moment, processing the compliment, then asks with the kind of hopeful vulnerability that makes him seem younger than his years: “did you think it was cool?”

“very cool.”

“would you like me to reenact it later? in case you missed any of the finer details?” the offer is made with complete sincerity, as if staging elaborate fight recreations is a perfectly normal part of courtship.

“absolutely.”

satoru grins and picks up his pace slightly, already planning the elaborate recreation he'll perform once you make camp for the night. maybe he'll add some extra flourishes, some additional spinning. maybe he'll provide commentary on his technique while he demonstrates.

on the sixth day, you start braiding flowers into his hair.

it begins innocently enough. you’re walking through a meadow that stretches endlessly in every direction, carpeted with wildflowers in shades that seem almost too vibrant to be real. the air is thick with the scent of growing things and morning dew, and somewhere in the distance, satoru can hear the melodic trill of larks announcing the day.

you ask satoru to stop so you can examine a particularly vibrant patch of blooms, and he sets you down carefully—his arms protesting the loss of your weight in a way that surprises him with its intensity. there's something about the way you fit against him, the perfect distribution of your weight across his chest and arms, that makes carrying you feel less like a burden and more like a privilege. when you're not pressed against him, he feels strangely hollow, as if some essential part of himself has gone missing.

you immediately begin gathering flowers with the kind of focused intensity that makes him want to watch you forever. your movements are economical and precise, each gesture serving a purpose he doesn't fully understand but finds utterly captivating.

satoru finds himself cataloging the way you move: the precise curl of your fingers around delicate stems, never crushing or bruising the tender green flesh; the small furrow that appears between your brows when you're concentrating, creating a tiny vertical line that he wants to smooth away with his thumb; the way you unconsciously bite your lower lip when examining each bloom for perfection, leaving it slightly swollen and darker than usual.

he should be bored by this mundane task, should be tapping his foot with impatience the way he does when courtiers drone on about trade agreements and tax legislation. his attention span has always been notoriously short for anything that doesn't directly involve his own reflection or the admiration thereof. but instead he feels oddly mesmerized, drawn into your quiet ritual with a fascination that borders on obsession.

there's something almost sacred about the way you handle each flower, turning it in the light to examine the delicate veining of its petals, testing the flexibility of its stem with gentle pressure. you reject more blooms than you keep, discarding anything that doesn't meet your mysterious standards with the kind of ruthless perfectionism that satoru recognizes in himself.

“what are you doing?” he asks, settling onto the grass beside you with the fluid grace of someone who's never had to consider whether his movements look elegant—they simply do.

“making you beautiful,” you say absently, threading the stem of a small white flower through your fingers with the kind of practiced ease that speaks of long hours spent in similar pursuits.

satoru's chest does something strange and fluttery at the casual certainty in your voice. “i'm already beautiful,” he says, because it's true, because mirrors have never lied to him, because the entire kingdom pays taxes just to maintain shrines to his face.

“more beautiful,” you correct, not looking up from your work.

“is that possible?” the question slips out before he can stop it, and there's something almost vulnerable in the way he asks it. as if, for the first time in his life, he's genuinely uncertain about the answer.

you look up at him with a small smile, and satoru feels his breath catch at the way the afternoon light catches in your eyes. “we're about to find out.”

you gesture for him to turn around, and satoru complies with the kind of immediate obedience that would shock anyone who knows him. he settles cross-legged on the grass with his back to you, his spine straight and shoulders relaxed in a way that showcases the elegant line of his neck.

he can feel your fingers in his hair, working through the pale strands with gentle precision, and the sensation is so intimate that he has to close his eyes. satoru gojo has had his hair touched by countless servants, stylists, and admirers, but this feels different. reverent. personal in a way that makes his chest tight with something he can't name.

his hair—the color of winter morning frost caught in the first rays of dawn, of pearl dust scattered across black velvet, of starlight given weight and substance—falls in soft waves past his shoulders. it moves like liquid silk when he turns his head, each strand catching the light in a way that seems almost supernatural. he's always been secretly proud of its texture, the way it feels like spun moonbeams between his fingers, cool and smooth and impossibly soft.

seventeen different products go into maintaining its impossible silkiness, a routine so elaborate it requires a dedicated servant and forty-seven minutes every morning. there's the cleansing oil infused with essence of morning glory, the conditioning treatment made from unicorn tears and crushed pearls, the leave-in serum that costs more than most people's annual income. each step is performed with religious devotion, because satoru's hair is not merely hair—it's a work of art, a testament to the heights of human beauty, a national treasure that deserves nothing less than perfection.

but somehow, the way you describe it makes all of that seem almost trivial. as if the true magic of his hair has nothing to do with products or maintenance, and everything to do with the way it moves and breathes and exists in the world.

“your hair is like touching moonlight,” you murmur, and your voice is soft with concentration, each word barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might break the spell you're weaving. “like holding pieces of captured starlight.”

satoru's throat goes dry, and he has to swallow twice before he can speak. people have written poetry about his hair, composed songs that are sung in taverns across the kingdom, started wars over the right to see it catch the light just so. the royal treasury receives weekly donations from citizens who simply want to contribute to his hair care fund. but no one has ever described it like that—like something magical and otherworldly, like something precious beyond mere beauty.

the words settle into his chest like warm honey, golden and sweet and utterly intoxicating. he's heard thousands of compliments about his appearance, but this feels different. personal. as if you're seeing something in him that no one else has ever noticed, something that exists beyond the careful cultivation of his image.

“seventeen different products,” satoru says automatically, then immediately regrets it. the words sound crass and commercial after your ethereal description, and he winces at his own tactlessness. “i mean—”

“of course there are.” you sound amused rather than judgmental, and satoru relaxes slightly at the warmth in your voice. “it's very soft. like silk, but alive.”

alive. satoru turns the word over in his mind, trying to understand why it affects him so deeply. his hair has been called many things—lustrous, magnificent, divine—but never alive. as if it's something that exists beyond mere vanity, something that breathes and glows with its own inner light.

satoru feels you working flowers into his hair—small white blooms that feel like silk against his scalp, their petals cool and smooth, and something that might be baby's breath, delicate as lace and twice as precious. you weave them through the strands with the kind of artistry that suggests long practice, your fingers moving with confident precision as you create patterns he can't see but can feel in the gentle tug and twist of each placement.

your fingers are gentle against his scalp, occasionally brushing against the sensitive skin behind his ears in a way that makes him shiver and lean unconsciously into your touch. the sensation is unlike anything he's ever experienced—not the professional ministrations of his servants, who touch him with careful reverence, nor the grasping hands of admirers who want to possess rather than cherish.

this is different. intimate. your fingers move through his hair like you're mapping uncharted territory, learning the texture and weight and movement of each strand. you pause occasionally to smooth down a particularly stubborn section, your touch so careful and reverent that satoru finds himself holding his breath, afraid that any sudden movement might break the spell.

every now and then you pause to examine your work, your breath warm against the back of his neck as you lean in to adjust a flower or smooth a wayward strand. the proximity makes satoru's pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the way you smell—like morning dew and wildflowers and something indefinably sweet that makes him want to turn around and bury his face in your hair.

he wonders if you can feel the way his pulse quickens whenever your fingertips graze his neck, if you notice the way his breathing has gone soft and shallow with contentment. he's never been particularly good at hiding his reactions—his face has always been an open book, every emotion written clearly across his features for the world to see. but with you, he finds himself hoping that his transparency is endearing rather than embarrassing.

the flowers you choose are all white and cream, with occasional touches of the palest yellow—colors that complement rather than compete with his natural coloring. you work with the focused intensity of an artist, stepping back occasionally to examine your progress before diving back in with renewed purpose.

“hold still,” you murmur when he starts to turn his head, and satoru freezes immediately, suddenly hyperaware of every breath and heartbeat. “almost done.”

the command shouldn't affect him the way it does—satoru gojo takes orders from no one, has never been particularly good at following instructions that don't align with his own desires. but something about the gentle authority in your voice, the way you speak to him like he's precious cargo that deserves careful handling, makes him want to obey.

“there,” you say finally, sitting back to admire your work, and satoru immediately misses the warmth of your hands. “perfect.”

satoru reaches up to touch the flowers, feeling the delicate petals against his fingertips. they're cool and smooth, with that papery texture that speaks of wild growth and morning dew. “how do i look?”

“like a fairy tale prince who's been blessed by forest spirits,” you say, and there's something wondering in your voice that makes satoru's heart skip.

“is that good?” he asks, and he hates how uncertain he sounds. satoru gojo has never been uncertain about his appearance—it's the one constant in his life, the one thing he's always been able to rely on.

“very good,” you confirm, and the quiet conviction in your voice settles something anxious in his chest.

satoru feels heat climb up his neck, spreading across his cheekbones in a way that would be visible if you were looking at his face. he's grateful that you can't see his expression from this angle, can't witness the way his composure cracks at your simple praise.

“you don't have to stop,” he says quietly, the words barely above a whisper.

“stop what?”

“the... the flowers. i like the way your hands feel in my hair.” the admission feels monumental, like confessing to some shameful weakness. satoru gojo, prince of the realm, reduced to begging for gentle touches like a starved animal.

you're quiet for a moment, and satoru's stomach clenches with the fear that he's revealed too much, shown too much of the desperate need that lives beneath his polished exterior. then your fingers return to his hair, working through the strands with renewed purpose, and he nearly sags with relief.

satoru closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the sensation—the gentle tug of your fingers, the soft whisper of flowers being woven into his hair, the quiet sounds of the meadow around them. birds call to each other in the distance, their songs weaving together into a symphony that seems designed specifically for this moment. the breeze carries the scent of growing things and distant rain, and somewhere nearby, he can hear the gentle buzz of bees moving from flower to flower.

his breathing evens out, becomes deep and rhythmic, and he feels a strange rumbling in his chest that he doesn't immediately recognize. it starts low and quiet, barely perceptible, but gradually grows stronger until it's a steady, satisfied purr that seems to originate from somewhere deep in his ribcage.

the sound surprises him with its intensity. he's never made a noise like that before—has never even known he was capable of it. it's the kind of sound that belongs to creatures of comfort and contentment, to cats sprawled in patches of sunlight and dragons curled around hoards of treasure. not to princes who pride themselves on their composure and dignity.

but he can't seem to stop it. the rumbling continues, betraying his utter contentment with a honesty that makes him feel exposed and vulnerable. it's as if his body has decided to bypass his brain entirely, expressing his happiness in the most primitive way possible.

the realization that he's purring—actually purring like some sort of overgrown house cat—should mortify him. satoru gojo, prince of the realm, heir to a throne and a legacy of dignity and grace, reduced to making animal noises because someone is playing with his hair. the scandal would be delicious if it ever got out. his enemies would have a field day with the knowledge that their untouchable, perfectly composed prince could be reduced to purring with a few gentle touches.

but somehow, he can't bring himself to care. the sensation is too pleasant, too addictive, too perfect to worry about dignity or reputation. for the first time in his life, he's experiencing something that feels more important than his image.

“satoru,” you say softly, and your voice is laced with barely contained amusement.

“mmm?” the sound comes out as more of a purr than actual speech, and satoru's eyes snap open in horror.

“you're purring.”

“i'm what?” satoru's voice cracks slightly, and he can feel his face flushing with embarrassment.

“purring. like a very large, very vain cat.”

satoru listens to himself and realizes with mounting horror that you're right. there's definitely a low, rumbling sound coming from his chest, something that sounds suspiciously like contentment made audible. it's the kind of sound that has no place in the throat of a dignified prince, the kind of involuntary response that belongs to house cats and not to royalty.

“i don't purr,” he says, though the evidence suggests otherwise. even as he speaks, the rumbling continues, betraying him with its steady, satisfied rhythm.

“you're purring right now,” you point out, and satoru can hear the grin in your voice.

“that's... that's not purring,” he protests weakly. “that's... satisfied breathing.”

“satisfied breathing?” you repeat, and now you're definitely laughing.

“it's a thing,” satoru insists, though he knows he sounds ridiculous. “it's a perfectly normal princely response to... to hair maintenance.”

you laugh, and the sound is bright and delighted, ringing across the meadow like silver bells. “you're ridiculous.”

“i'm not ridiculous, i'm—” satoru starts to protest, but the words die in his throat when you lean forward and press a soft kiss to the top of his head, right where you've woven a crown of white flowers into his hair.

the gesture is so tender, so unexpectedly affectionate, that satoru's breath catches in his throat. no one has ever kissed him like that—not with passion or desire, but with simple, overwhelming fondness. as if he's something precious and beloved, worth cherishing for reasons that have nothing to do with his face or his title.

“you're ridiculous,” you repeat, but your voice is warm with fondness, thick with an emotion that makes satoru's chest feel tight and strange. “and i like it.”

satoru turns around to face you, and whatever you see in his expression makes your eyes widen slightly. he knows what he must look like—flower crown askew, cheeks flushed with something that has nothing to do with the warmth of the afternoon sun, eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with his usual calculated charm.

he looks young and surprised and completely besotted, his carefully maintained composure cracked wide open to reveal something raw and honest underneath. his lips are slightly parted, as if he's forgotten how to breathe properly, and there's a dazed quality to his gaze that makes him look like he's been struck by lightning.

the flowers in his hair catch the light as he moves, creating a halo of white and cream that makes his skin look luminous and his eyes seem even brighter than usual. petals cling to his shoulders and collar, evidence of your gentle ministrations, and there's something almost ethereal about the way he looks—like a fairy tale prince who's been blessed by forest spirits, just as you said.

but it's not just his appearance that's changed. there's something different in the way he holds himself, a softness that wasn't there before, as if your touch has smoothed away some of the sharp edges that come with a lifetime of being admired from a distance. he looks approachable in a way that's completely foreign to his usual regal bearing, human in a way that makes your heart skip.

“what?” you ask, and your voice is soft with concern, as if you're afraid you've done something wrong.

“nothing,” he says, but his voice has gone rough around the edges, thick with emotions he doesn't know how to name. there's wonder in his tone, and something that might be gratitude, and underneath it all, a kind of desperate affection that makes your chest tight. “just... thank you. for the flowers.”

the words are inadequate, he knows. they don't capture the magnitude of what he's feeling, the way your simple gesture has shifted something fundamental inside him. but they're all he has, and he hopes you can hear the sincerity in his voice, the way his usual glibness has been replaced by something more genuine.

“you're welcome,” you say simply, and the easy acceptance in your voice makes something in satoru's chest crack open like an egg, spilling warmth and light into spaces that have been dark for too long.

you sit there for a moment, looking at each other in the golden afternoon light. satoru can feel the flowers in his hair, can smell their subtle fragrance mixing with the scent of your skin and the warm earth beneath them. he thinks this might be the most perfect moment of his entire life—not because of how he looks or how others perceive him, but because of this quiet intimacy, this gentle acceptance of all his ridiculous vanity and need.

then you sneeze.

the sound is small and delicate, barely more than a soft “achoo” that seems almost musical in its lightness. but it makes you wrinkle your nose in the most adorable way, your entire face scrunching up like a disgruntled kitten. your eyes water slightly, and you rub at your nose with the back of your hand in a gesture that's so unselfconsciously cute that satoru feels his heart skip and stutter like a broken record.

there's something endearing about the way you try to make the sneeze dainty, as if you're concerned about disrupting the romantic atmosphere with something as mundane as allergies. even your sneeze is considerate, satoru realizes with a rush of affection so intense it makes his chest ache.

“sorry,” you say, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, and your voice is slightly congested already. “flower allergies.”

the words hit satoru like a physical blow, and he stares at you with growing horror. “you're allergic to flowers?”

“just a little,” you say, and your attempt at nonchalance is undermined by the way you're already starting to sniffle. “it's not serious.”

but satoru can see the signs now that he's looking for them—the slight redness around your eyes, the way your nose is already starting to turn pink, the subtle congestion that's creeping into your voice. you're trying to hide it, trying to minimize your discomfort, but he can see the truth written clearly across your features.

“but you just spent twenty minutes putting flowers in my hair,” satoru points out, and there's something almost incredulous in his voice. the realization is hitting him in waves—first the shock, then the guilt, then a kind of overwhelming tenderness that makes him want to wrap you in silk and protect you from every allergen in the known world.

“it was worth it,” you say simply, as if suffering for his vanity is the most natural thing in the world. as if your comfort is a small price to pay for his beauty, as if making him happy is worth any amount of personal discomfort.

the casual way you dismiss your own suffering makes satoru's chest tight with something that might be anger if it weren't so thoroughly mixed with guilt and self-recrimination. he thinks of all the times he's prioritized his appearance over everything else, all the ways he's been carelessly selfish without even realizing it.

but more than that, he thinks of you—sweet, patient, selfless you—choosing to suffer in silence rather than deprive him of something that makes him feel beautiful. the gesture is so generous, so utterly without expectation of reward, that it makes him feel simultaneously humbled and unworthy.

satoru stares at you—at your slightly red nose and watery eyes, at the way you're trying to hide your discomfort behind a smile—and feels something shift in his chest. something fundamental and irreversible, like a door opening in a room he didn't know existed.

“we should go,” he says, already reaching for the flowers in his hair with hands that aren't quite steady.

“no,” you say quickly, catching his wrist in your smaller hand. your fingers are warm against his skin, and satoru can feel his pulse jumping beneath your touch. “leave them. they're beautiful.”

“but you're allergic—”

“i'll be fine. besides, you look like a fairy tale prince. it would be a crime to undo all that work.”

satoru wants to argue, wants to insist that your comfort is more important than his appearance, but the way you're looking at him—like he's something precious and beautiful and worth suffering minor discomfort for—makes the words stick in his throat.

“okay,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “but if you start sneezing again, the flowers come out.”

“deal,” you agree, and your smile is radiant enough to make satoru's chest ache.

he gathers you back into his arms, lifting you with the same effortless grace he's always possessed, and you immediately curl into him. your nose presses against his collarbone, and satoru can feel your breath warm against his skin. the position makes him want to protect you from every allergen in the world, to wrap you in silk and keep you safe from anything that might cause you discomfort.

the flowers in his hair tickle slightly when the wind catches them, petals brushing against his neck and shoulders in a way that makes him hyperaware of their presence. but he finds he doesn't mind. if anything, he likes the reminder that you cared enough to make him beautiful, even at the cost of your own comfort.

as you walk, satoru finds himself studying your face with the kind of intensity usually reserved for his own reflection. he catalogs the way your eyelashes cast shadows on your cheeks, the slight flush that spreads across your nose from the flower allergies, the way your lips part slightly as you breathe. you're beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with mirrors or products or careful cultivation—beautiful in the way that growing things are beautiful, natural and uncontrived and utterly captivating.

on the seventh day, something changes.

satoru wakes before dawn, which is unusual for him—he's always been more of a 'luxury suite and breakfast in bed' kind of prince. his usual routine involves waking at precisely nine-thirty, allowing his servants to present him with his reflection in three different mirrors while he determines which angle best showcases his morning glow.

but something has pulled him from sleep, some subtle shift in the world around him that makes him instantly alert. his senses, honed by years of sword training and an almost supernatural awareness of his own beauty, pick up on the wrongness immediately.

you're still sleeping in his arms, face peaceful and relaxed, and for a moment he just watches you breathe. there's something about the way you look in sleep—younger somehow, more vulnerable—that makes his chest feel tight with protective instinct. your hair fans across his chest like spilled silk, and he can feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his ribs.

then he realizes what woke him. you're warm. not just warm, but warm—feverish in a way that makes him immediately concerned. your cheeks are flushed with something that has nothing to do with embarrassment, and when he touches your forehead with the back of his hand, your skin feels like it's burning.

panic rises in satoru's throat, sharp and immediate. he's never been particularly good at caring for others—his entire life has been structured around being cared for, pampered and protected and attended to by armies of servants. but the thought of you being sick, of suffering while he sleeps obliviously beside you, makes something primal and desperate claw at his chest.

“hey,” he says softly, shaking you gently with hands that aren't quite steady. “wake up.”

you stir but don't open your eyes, making a small sound of protest that goes straight to his heart. the sound is weak and congested, nothing like your usual clear voice, and satoru feels his stomach clench with worry.

“tired,” you mumble, burrowing deeper into his chest with the kind of unconscious trust that makes satoru want to fight dragons and move mountains and do whatever it takes to keep you safe.

“i know, but you're burning up. i think you might be sick.”

“not sick,” you insist, though your voice is thick and congested in a way that contradicts your words. “just... flower allergies.”

satoru frowns, his gaze automatically going to the flowers he still wears in his hair. they're wilted now, petals browning at the edges, but they still release their subtle fragrance into the air around them. “this is because of the flowers, isn't it?”

“maybe a little,” you admit, and the casual way you dismiss your own suffering makes satoru's chest tight with something that might be anger if it weren't so thoroughly mixed with guilt.

“why didn't you tell me it was this bad?” he asks, and there's something almost desperate in his voice. the idea that you've been suffering in silence, that his vanity has caused you actual harm, makes him feel sick.

“because you look pretty,” you say simply, and the honesty in your voice makes him want to do something drastic and romantic like challenge the concept of allergies to single combat.

the words hit him like a physical blow. you've been suffering—actually suffering—so that he could maintain his appearance, so that he could indulge his vanity for a few more hours. the realization makes him feel small and selfish in a way that's completely foreign to his experience.

instead of dwelling on the guilt, he immediately begins removing the flowers from his hair, working carefully to avoid disturbing you any more than necessary. each bloom he discards feels like a small betrayal, a piece of beauty sacrificed, but your health is infinitely more important than his vanity.

his fingers work through the strands with the same precision he usually reserves for his morning grooming routine, but there's nothing self-serving about this. each flower he removes is an act of care, a small sacrifice that feels more meaningful than any of the grand gestures he's performed in his life.

“better?” he asks once the last flower is gone, and his voice is rough with concern.

“you didn't have to do that,” you say, and there's something almost sad in your voice that makes satoru's chest ache.

“of course i did. you're more important than flowers.” the words come out fierce and certain, and satoru is surprised by how much he means them.

“but you looked so beautiful,” you protest weakly, and satoru can hear the genuine regret in your voice.

“i always look beautiful,” satoru says matter-of-factly, though his voice is gentle. it's not boasting—it's simply stating a fact, the same way he might observe that the sky is blue or that water is wet. “but you only get one respiratory system.”

you laugh, then immediately start coughing, and the sound is harsh and painful in a way that makes satoru's protective instincts kick into overdrive. he holds you closer, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your back until the coughing subsides.

“we need to get you to the palace,” he says, already calculating distances and travel times with the kind of strategic thinking usually reserved for diplomatic negotiations. “the court physicians will know what to do.”

“i'm fine,” you insist, though the way you're breathing—shallow and slightly labored—suggests otherwise. “just need to rest.”

“you can rest when we get home,” satoru says, and the word slips out before he can stop it.

“home?” you repeat, and there's something soft and wondering in your voice.

satoru freezes, realizing what he's said. the palace has always been his residence, his domain, the place where he exists in his full glory. but he's never thought of it as home—home implies warmth and belonging and the kind of emotional attachment that has nothing to do with mirrors or marble floors.

“i mean, the palace,” he corrects quickly. “when we get to the palace.”

“home,” you repeat, and there's something soft and wondering in your voice. “i like the sound of that.”

satoru's heart does something impossible and gymnastic, a complex tumbling routine that leaves him breathless and slightly dizzy. the idea of you thinking of his palace as home, of the two of you sharing a space that's defined by belonging rather than beauty, makes him feel warm in a way that has nothing to do with fever.

“yeah?” he asks, and his voice is smaller than he intended.

“yeah,” you confirm, and the simple certainty in your voice makes satoru's chest feel tight with emotion.

he adjusts his grip on you, pulling you closer against his chest, and starts walking with renewed purpose. home. the word feels right in a way that surprises him, like something he's been waiting his whole life to say.

the next day, you wake up feeling better—not perfect, but the congestion has cleared enough that you can breathe normally. satoru notices immediately, of course, because he's been watching you sleep with the intensity of a concerned parent, cataloging every breath and checking your temperature with obsessive frequency.

“how do you feel?” he asks, and his voice is rough with relief and exhaustion. he hasn't slept properly in twenty-four hours, too worried about your condition to do more than doze fitfully.

“better. your shoulder makes an excellent pillow,” you say, and there's something almost shy in your voice that makes satoru's chest warm.

“i've been told i have very comfortable shoulders,” he says, and some of his usual confidence returns now that you're clearly improving.

“by who?”

“my mirror, mostly,” satoru admits, and he can feel heat creeping up his neck at the confession.

you laugh, and the sound is clear and bright, no longer muffled by congestion. “your mirror has opinions about your shoulders?”

“my mirror has opinions about everything. it's very comprehensive.” satoru's voice is warm with affection—not just for you, but for the mirror that's been his constant companion for so many years.

“what does it say about your carrying technique?”

satoru perks up immediately, his natural vanity reasserting itself in the face of your obvious recovery. “it says i have excellent form. natural grace. born to carry princesses.”

“your mirror is very supportive,” you observe, and satoru can hear the smile in your voice.

“it's a good mirror,” he says seriously, as if mirrors can be judged on their moral character rather than their reflective properties.

you shift in his arms, settling more comfortably against his chest, and satoru thinks he could walk like this forever. carry you from kingdom to kingdom, stopping to admire mushrooms and fight bandits and listen to you make sleepy observations about the world around you.

the thought surprises him with its appeal. satoru gojo, who has never wanted for anything, who has been the center of attention and admiration his entire life, finds himself craving nothing more than this simple intimacy—the weight of you in his arms, the sound of your breathing, the way you fit against him like you were made to be there.

“satoru,” you say quietly, and your voice is soft with something that makes his pulse quicken.

“mmm?”

“thank you.”

“for what?” he asks, though his voice has gone rough with emotion.

“for carrying me. for removing the flowers. for... everything.”

satoru's steps slow, and he looks down at you with an expression that's soft and wondering. your words hit him somewhere deep and vulnerable, in a place that has nothing to do with his appearance or his status.

“you don't have to thank me for that,” he says, and his voice is barely above a whisper.

“i want to,” you insist, and the quiet conviction in your voice makes satoru's chest feel tight.

“it's my job. my honor. my...” he trails off, searching for the right word, the one that will encompass everything he feels when he looks at you.

“your what?”

“my pleasure,” he says quietly, and something in his voice makes you look up at him with sudden attention.

the word hangs in the air between them, heavy with meaning. not duty or obligation, but genuine joy. the kind of bone-deep satisfaction that comes from doing exactly what you're meant to do, from finding your purpose in the service of someone you care about.

“satoru—” you start, and there's something breathless in your voice that makes his heart skip.

“i need to tell you something,” he says, and his voice is serious in a way that makes your heart skip. “i know this is fast. i know we've only known each other for a week. but i—”

“you talk too much,” you interrupt, and before he can respond, you're leaning up to kiss him.

the kiss is soft and tentative at first, barely more than a brush of lips, but then satoru makes a sound that's half gasp, half groan, and suddenly you're pressed closer together, the kiss deepening with desperate intensity.

satoru stops walking entirely, his arms tightening around you as he kisses you back with the kind of focused devotion he usually reserves for his reflection. but this is different—this is about you, about the way you taste and feel and the small sounds you make when he deepens the kiss.

you taste like morning and possibility and something that might be forever, and satoru thinks dimly that he could live off this feeling alone. his entire world has narrowed to the press of your lips against his, the way your fingers curl in his hair, the soft gasp you make when he traces the curve of your mouth with his tongue.

when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, and satoru's eyes are wide with wonder and disbelief. his lips are swollen and his hair is mussed, and he looks completely undone in the most beautiful way.

“that was...” he starts, then stops, apparently at a loss for words.

“awful?” you suggest, but your voice is breathless and your lips are swollen and you're looking at him like he's something precious and rare.

“perfect,” he says reverently, and his voice is thick with emotion. “absolutely perfect.”

“even though i taste like flower allergies?”

“especially because you taste like flower allergies,” satoru says, and there's something so sincere in his voice that it makes your heart ache.

you laugh, and the sound is bright and delighted, ringing across the countryside like a promise. “you're ridiculous.”

“i'm in love with you,” satoru says, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “completely, hopelessly, dramatically in love with you.”

the confession hangs in the air between you, raw and honest and terrifying in its vulnerability. satoru has never said those words to anyone—has never felt the need to, has never met anyone who made him want to offer up his heart like a gift.

“good,” you say, and your smile is radiant enough to make satoru's chest ache. “because i'm in love with you too.”

“even though i'm vain and ridiculous and talk too much?”

“especially because you're vain and ridiculous and talk too much,” you confirm, and the easy acceptance in your voice makes satoru feel like he could conquer kingdoms.

satoru grins, and the expression is so bright and joyful that it makes your heart skip. his entire face transforms when he smiles like that—not the practiced charm he shows the world, but something genuine and unguarded and completely devastating.

“so what happens now?” he asks, and there's something almost shy in his voice.

“now you carry me home,” you say simply, and the word feels natural and right in a way that surprises you both. “and we live happily ever after.”

“just like that?”

“just like that,” you confirm, and your voice is warm with certainty.

satoru adjusts his grip on you, pulling you closer against his chest, and starts walking again with renewed purpose. the palace is still a day's journey away, but he finds he doesn't mind. every step he takes carrying you feels like a step toward your shared future, toward a life full of mirrors and meadows and the kind of love that makes fairy tales seem reasonable.

“hey satoru,” you say as you crest a hill that offers a distant view of gleaming spires and golden domes.

“yeah?”

“next time, let's take a carriage.”

satoru laughs, bright and joyful, and the sound echoes across the countryside like a promise. “deal.”

in the distance, the palace gleams in the afternoon sun, waiting for you to come home.

satoru arrives at the palace gates like he’s returning from conquering entire continents rather than a single tower, his hair catching the afternoon light in ways that make the guards forget their duties. the strands move like liquid moonlight, each piece seeming to have learned the art of dramatic timing from its owner, floating and settling with an almost sentient awareness of how devastating they look against his skin. his eyes—those impossible depths that seem to hold winter storms and crushed jewels and something far more dangerous than either—scan the courtyard with the lazy confidence of someone who’s never doubted his own magnificence.

look at them all staring, he thinks with satisfaction, adjusting his grip on you slightly so the afternoon sun hits his profile at the perfect angle. as if they’ve never seen a prince carry his beloved before. though to be fair, they’ve probably never seen it done with quite this much style.

and there you are, draped across his arms like the world’s most expensive silk scarf, your hair spilling over his forearm in cascades that make his breath catch even though he’s carried you for miles. you’re wearing his cloak because apparently your tower wardrobe consisted of “sleeping gown” and “slightly different sleeping gown,” and the deep blue fabric pools around you like liquid starlight, making you look like some sort of celestial being who’s decided to grace the mortal realm with your presence.

“you know,” you murmur against his chest, your voice still thick with the remnants of the nap you took somewhere between the haunted forest and the royal gardens, your breath warming the silk of his shirt in a way that makes him want to purr, “most people would be tired after carrying someone for three hours.”

satoru’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric at your back with just enough pressure to remind himself that you’re real, that this isn’t some elaborate daydream his vanity has conjured up. “most people aren’t devastatingly handsome princes with supernatural strength and perfect bone structure.” he says this with the same tone other people might use to discuss the weather, completely matter-of-fact, because in his mind it simply is fact. his eyes drift down to where your lashes rest against your cheek like tiny dark brushstrokes, and he thinks—not for the first time—that whoever designed your face had clearly been showing off. probably the same artist who did mine, he muses, excellent taste all around.

you crack one eye open, catching him staring, and there’s something infinitely amused in your gaze that makes his chest do something complicated and warm. “are you admiring yourself or me?”

“both,” he admits without shame, his smile pulling at the corners of his mouth in that way that makes diplomatic envoys forget their own names and occasionally walk into walls. “it’s called multitasking.” and i’m exceptionally good at it, he adds silently, just like everything else i do.

the palace doors swing open before you reach them, because even the servants have learned that when prince satoru approaches carrying his beloved, obstacles simply remove themselves or face the consequences of disrupting such a perfectly choreographed moment. he glides through the entrance hall with the fluid grace of someone who’s never questioned whether he belongs anywhere, his footsteps silent on the marble floors that reflect his image in fractured, crystalline pieces. even broken reflections of me are beautiful, he notes with satisfaction, truly, i am a work of art.

“satoru,” you say, and the way you pronounce his name—lazy and fond and just a little exasperated—makes something warm unfurl in his chest like a flower blooming in fast-forward. it’s strange, he thinks, how his name sounds different when you say it. when others say it, it sounds like worship or fear or calculation. when you say it, it sounds like… like coming home. “you can put me down now. we’re inside.”

he pauses mid-stride, looking down at you with those eyes that seem to hold entire winter storms, and for a moment his perfect composure wavers. the thought of putting you down, of not having you in his arms, of losing this excuse to hold you close—it’s almost physically painful. “but why would i do that?”

“because walking is a thing normal people do?” you suggest, but there’s no real insistence in your voice, and satoru latches onto that like a lifeline.

“we’ve established i’m not normal people.” his voice carries that particular brand of arrogance that should be insufferable but somehow isn’t, probably because he’s saying it while looking at you like you hung the moon and personally arranged the stars and maybe threw in a few nebulas for good measure. “and you’re certainly not normal people. normal people don’t make dragons into footrests.” normal people also don’t look at me like i’m actually worth looking at instead of just pretty to look at, he thinks, but that’s a thought too complex and vulnerable for him to fully process right now.

you laugh, and the sound makes his chest vibrate in a way that’s probably not medically advisable but feels better than any compliment he’s ever received. “sukuna wasn’t that bad. he just had boundary issues.”

“he tried to eat me.” satoru’s eyebrows draw together in that way that somehow makes him look like a particularly attractive storm cloud, all dramatic shadows and beautiful devastation.

“he was cranky. you try being stuck in a tower for fifteen years with someone who refuses to learn basic conversation skills.” you shift in his arms, and the movement makes your hair catch the light streaming through the tall windows, creating a sort of halo effect that makes satoru’s thoughts stumble over themselves.

his expression shifts, confusion flickering across his features like sunlight through moving water. “what do you mean refuses to learn conversation skills?”

“the last prince who tried to rescue me spent four hours explaining his horse’s bloodline. the one before that wanted to discuss tax policy.” you settle more comfortably in his arms, your head finding that perfect spot against his shoulder, and satoru feels something possessive and warm curl in his chest. “you’re the first one who’s actually interesting.”

the compliment hits him like a physical force, and he has to resist the urge to preen visibly. interesting. not beautiful, not magnificent, not devastatingly attractive—though he’s certainly all of those things—but interesting. it’s a word that implies depth, substance, the kind of thing that can’t be achieved with good bone structure and perfect hair. the kind of thing that suggests you see something in him beyond his reflection. instead of preening, he lets his smile grow slow and devastating, the kind that makes his reflection in the hallway mirrors look like something carved by artists who understood that beauty could be a weapon. “interesting,” he repeats, savoring the word like expensive wine, rolling it around on his tongue like he’s trying to understand its full flavor. “i prefer magnificently captivating, but interesting works.”

more than works, he thinks, it’s the best thing anyone’s ever called me. the realization is startling enough that he almost stumbles, caught off guard by the sudden intensity of his own feelings.

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too, and satoru thinks that your smile might be the first thing he’s ever seen that could compete with his own reflection for his attention. it’s a dangerous thought, the kind that suggests his entire worldview might be shifting, but before he can examine it too closely, you’re speaking again.

“where exactly are we going?”

“our room.” he says it casually, but there’s something almost possessive in the way his arms tighten around you, like he’s trying to claim you through proximity alone. the words feel strange in his mouth—our room, not his room, not the room, but our room. when did he start thinking in terms of ‘our’ anything? “i had them prepare something special.”

“define special.” there’s wariness in your voice now, the kind that suggests you’ve learned to be suspicious of his grand gestures.

“you’ll see.” he grins, and it’s the kind of expression that has historically preceded either something wonderful or something catastrophic, sometimes both.

the journey through the palace corridors gives satoru ample opportunity to catch his reflection in every polished surface, and he’s pleased to note that carrying you somehow makes him look even more magnificent than usual. the way your hair spills over his arm like liquid silk, the contrast of your skin against his, the peaceful expression on your face—it’s like someone designed the perfect portrait of royal romance and decided to make it three-dimensional. we look like we should be immortalized in marble, he thinks, or at least in a very expensive painting.

“you’re doing it again,” you murmur without opening your eyes, and there’s something almost affectionate in your exasperation.

“doing what?” he asks, though he knows exactly what you mean. he’s been checking his reflection in every mirror, every polished surface, every slightly reflective piece of armor you’ve passed.

“admiring yourself. i can tell because you get this little smile that means you’re pleased with how you look.”

satoru’s step falters for just a moment, caught off guard by the observation. he prides himself on being unreadable when he wants to be, on maintaining perfect control over his expressions and reactions. the fact that you’ve catalogued his smiles, that you can read him well enough to distinguish between different types of self-satisfaction, is both thrilling and terrifying. “i don’t have a little smile.”

“you absolutely do. it’s different from your regular smile. your regular smile is all teeth and ego.” you pause, and he can feel you studying his face even with your eyes closed. “your little smile is… softer. like you’re seeing something you actually like instead of just something you know looks good.”

the observation hits him strangely, settling in his chest like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples through thoughts he’s never bothered to examine before. he’s never thought about the difference between liking how he looks and just knowing he looks good. it’s an uncomfortable realization, the kind that makes him want to change the subject or deflect with humor or maybe just stare at himself until the feeling passes. liking implies choice, preference, actual emotion beyond mere acknowledgment of objective fact.

instead, he finds himself saying, “maybe i’m not just admiring myself.” the words come out quieter than he intended, lacking his usual performative confidence.

“oh?” there’s something almost teasing in your voice, but gentle too, like you’re handling something fragile and don’t want to break it. “what else could the great prince satoru possibly find worth admiring?”

he stops walking entirely, right there in the middle of the corridor lined with portraits of his ancestors, and looks down at you with an expression that’s somehow both completely confident and utterly vulnerable. it’s a look that would probably break several hearts if anyone else saw it, but right now it’s only for you. “you,” he says simply, and for once there’s no performance in it, no awareness of how the words sound or how they make him look. “you’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen, and i’ve seen a lot of beautiful things. including myself. extensively.”

extensively might be an understatement, he thinks. he’s probably spent more time looking at his own reflection than most people spend sleeping, but you—you’re different. you’re beautiful in a way that makes him want to look at you instead of at himself, which is saying something considering his previous priorities.

you blink up at him, and satoru watches color bloom across your cheeks in real time, a soft pink that spreads like watercolor on wet paper. “that’s…” you start, then stop, then start again, and he finds himself holding his breath waiting for your verdict. “that’s either the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me, or the most conceited.”

“both,” he says with a grin that’s pure sunshine, the kind of smile that could probably power a small city. “i’m multitalented.” and modest, he adds silently, don’t forget modest.

“you’re ridiculous.” but there’s no heat in it, only fond exasperation and something that might be love.

“i know,” he agrees, and starts walking again, pleased with himself on multiple levels. there’s the usual satisfaction of saying something clever, but underneath that is something newer and more complex—the pleasure of making you blush, of seeing that soft expression cross your face, of being the cause of your happiness instead of just a witness to it. “you love it.”

“i love you,” you correct, so casually that it takes him three steps to process what you’ve said.

when it hits him, he stops so abruptly that you actually bounce a little in his arms, and for a moment his perfect composure completely abandons him. his eyes go wide, lips parting slightly in shock, and if anyone else saw him right now they’d probably think he’d been struck by lightning. “you what?”

“i love you,” you repeat, looking at him like this is the most obvious thing in the world, like you’re telling him the sky is blue or that he’s beautiful. “you’re vain and dramatic and you killed my dragon roommate, but you carried me down twelve flights of stairs without complaining and you braid flowers into your hair when you think no one’s looking. of course i love you.”

satoru stares at you, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to remember how words work. this is completely outside his area of expertise. he knows how to be adored, how to be desired, how to be envied and feared and admired. he knows how to make people fall in love with the idea of him, with his beauty and his power and his carefully constructed charm. but loved? actual love, the kind that sees his ridiculous vanity and finds it endearing instead of annoying? the kind that notices small details like flower braids and interprets them as something sweet rather than further evidence of his narcissism?

she knows about the flowers, he thinks, momentarily panicked. when did she see the flowers? was i not being careful enough? do other people know about the flowers? but then the rest of her words sink in, and the panic is replaced by something warm and overwhelming and completely foreign.

“i…” he starts, then stops, running his tongue over his lower lip in a gesture that’s unconsciously nervous. his usual confidence has deserted him entirely, leaving him feeling strangely vulnerable and exposed. “i love you too.”

the words feel strange in his mouth, not because they’re untrue but because they’re so much more real than anything he’s ever said before. usually when he speaks, he’s performing, even if it’s just for an audience of mirrors. every word is chosen for maximum impact, every phrase crafted to create a specific impression. but this is just… honest. terrifyingly, wonderfully honest.

i love you, he thinks, testing the words in his mind. i love the way you look at me like i’m more than just a pretty face. i love how you’re not impressed by my titles or my power or my perfectly sculpted cheekbones. i love that you made friends with a dragon and turned him into furniture. i love that you let me carry you not because you need to be carried but because you can tell i need to carry you.

you reach up and touch his face, your fingertips tracing the line of his cheekbone with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts or priceless artwork. “good,” you say softly, and your voice is warm and satisfied and completely free of surprise. “now can we please go see this special room? i want to take a nap, and your arms are very nice but i prefer horizontal sleeping.”

satoru laughs, the sound bright and genuine and completely free of his usual calculated charm. it’s the kind of laugh that makes servants pause in their duties and guards forget their posts, not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it’s real. “demanding little princess.”

“lazy little princess,” you correct, settling back into his arms with a contented sigh. “there’s a difference.”

“mm.” he resumes walking, but there’s something different in his stride now, something looser and more natural. the constant awareness of how he looks, how he moves, how others perceive him—it’s still there, but it’s quieter now, background noise instead of a constant roar. “i like lazy. lazy means you’ll stay.”

the words slip out before he can stop them, more vulnerable than he intended, and he feels heat rise in his cheeks. smooth, satoru, he thinks, very princely. very confident. definitely not needy at all.

“where would i go? you’ve seen my tower. the decorating was terrible and the company was scaly.” you pause, considering. “though sukuna did make surprisingly good soup.”

“you could go anywhere,” he says, and there’s something almost vulnerable in his voice, a thread of uncertainty that he usually keeps buried beneath layers of arrogance and charm. “you’re not actually trapped here. you know that, right? you could leave whenever you want.”

the thought terrifies him more than he wants to admit. he’s used to people staying because they have to, because he’s their prince or because they want something from him or because leaving would be politically complicated. but you? you could walk out tomorrow and there would be nothing he could do to stop you except ask you to stay, and asking feels impossibly vulnerable.

you’re quiet for a moment, and satoru finds himself holding his breath without meaning to, his steps slowing as he waits for your response. the silence stretches between you, filled with the soft sound of his footsteps on marble and the distant chatter of servants going about their duties.

then you shift in his arms, turning to look at him more directly, and there’s something in your expression that makes his chest feel tight with hope and terror in equal measure.

“satoru,” you say, and his name sounds different when you say it now, weighted with something that makes his heart stutter in his chest. “i spent fifty years in a tower with a dragon who snored and a window that only showed the same three trees. do you really think i’d give up a palace with a prince who carries me everywhere and looks at me like i’m the most beautiful thing in the world?”

relief floods through him so suddenly that he almost stumbles, his grip on you tightening as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. “when you put it like that…”

“besides,” you add, and there’s something almost mischievous in your voice now, “someone has to keep you humble.”

satoru’s eyebrows shoot up, and he looks down at you with an expression of mock offense. “i’m plenty humble.”

“you literally have a mirror tax.”

“that’s just good economic policy,” he protests, but he’s grinning as he says it. “the mirrors need maintenance. it’s not my fault i’m so beautiful that they get more use than average.”

you laugh, and the sound echoes off the corridor walls in a way that makes everything feel lighter, brighter, more alive. “see? you need me.”

and the thing is, satoru realizes with a clarity that’s almost painful, he does. not because he needs someone to worship him or validate his beauty or even to provide an audience for his magnificence. he needs you because you make him feel like himself instead of just like his reflection. you make him want to be interesting instead of just beautiful, clever instead of just charming, worthy of love instead of just admiration.

you make me want to be better, he thinks, and i’ve never wanted to be better before because i thought i was already perfect. it’s a humbling realization, the kind that would probably shatter his ego if it weren’t wrapped in so much affection and acceptance.

“here we are,” he announces, stopping in front of a set of ornate double doors that definitely weren’t there yesterday. the wood is carved with intricate patterns that seem to shift and dance in the light, and the handles are shaped like sleeping crescents that fit perfectly in his palm.

you blink at the doors, then at him, then back at the doors. “did you… have these doors installed while we were gone?”

“i may have sent a message ahead,” he says, and he looks pleased with himself in that way that suggests he’s done something he considers especially clever. his eyes are bright with anticipation, and there’s a nervous energy in the way he holds himself that suggests your approval matters more than he wants to admit. “i wanted everything to be perfect.”

perfect for you, he thinks, because you deserve perfect things and i want to be the one who gives them to you.

he shifts you in his arms so he can open the doors with one hand, and the gesture is so smooth and practiced that you wonder if he’s been planning this exact moment since the day he decided to rescue you. the doors swing open with barely a whisper, revealing…

“satoru,” you breathe, and he knows immediately that he’s succeeded in whatever he was trying to do, because your voice has gone soft and wondering and completely amazed.

the room is enormous, because of course it is—satoru has never done anything halfway in his life and he’s not about to start now. the ceiling soars above you, painted with soft clouds and golden stars that seem to twinkle in the afternoon light. windows stretch from floor to ceiling, each one perfectly positioned to catch the sun at different times of day, ensuring that the room is always bathed in flattering light. but the centerpiece, the thing that makes your breath catch and your eyes go wide, is the bed.

it’s less a bed and more a small continent of silk and velvet and probably enough pillows to supply a small army. the frame is carved from white wood that gleams like pearl, and the canopy above is draped with fabric that shifts from deep blue to silver to gold depending on how the light hits it. there are pillows everywhere—small ones for decoration, large ones for comfort, some that seem to exist purely because they’re beautiful. the whole thing looks like something from a fairy tale, which is probably appropriate considering the circumstances.

“you said you were tired,” he says, and there’s something almost shy in his voice, a vulnerability that sits strangely on someone usually so confident. “so i thought… maybe we could be tired together?”

together, he thinks, like a real couple. like people who choose to share a space and a life and all the small moments in between. the idea is still new enough to make his chest feel tight with possibility.

you stare at the bed, then at him, then back at the bed, and satoru finds himself holding his breath again, waiting for your verdict. “this is the most extra thing i’ve ever seen.”

his face falls slightly, and he looks down at you with something that might be disappointment. “too much?”

“absolutely too much,” you agree, but you’re smiling as you say it, and the smile transforms your entire face. “it’s perfect. you’re perfect. this is all completely ridiculous and perfect.”

satoru’s answering smile is so bright it could probably be seen from space, and he carries you to the bed with renewed enthusiasm. the bed, which requires climbing actual stairs because apparently he’s incapable of doing anything halfway, accepts you both with a softness that feels like being embraced by a cloud.

when he finally sets you down on the silk coverlet, you immediately sink into softness that seems to mold itself around you, supporting you perfectly while somehow making you feel weightless. “comfortable?” he asks, and he’s hovering slightly, like he’s not sure what to do with his hands now that they’re not full of you.

“very,” you say, and then you pat the space beside you with a smile that makes his heart do something complicated and wonderful. “now get over here. all this carrying has been very impressive, but i want to cuddle.”

satoru doesn’t need to be told twice. he settles beside you with the fluid grace of someone who’s never been awkward a day in his life, and you immediately curl into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close until you’re practically lying on top of him, and thinks that this might be the most perfect moment of his life.

“this is nice,” you murmur against his chest, your voice already getting sleepy again. “much better than a tower.”

“much better than an empty palace,” he agrees, and he means it. the palace has always been beautiful, filled with priceless artwork and perfect furnishings and mirrors that reflect his magnificence back at him from every angle. but it’s never felt like home. home, he’s learning, is not a place but a person, and that person is currently using his chest as a pillow and looking at him like he’s something precious.

home, he thinks, testing the concept. i never thought i needed a home. i thought i just needed a stage. but this—your weight against him, your hair tickling his chin, the soft sound of your breathing—this feels like coming home after a long journey he didn’t even know he was on.

“satoru?” your voice is soft, already half-asleep.

“mmm?”

“next time you decide to rescue a princess, maybe check if she actually wants to be rescued first.”

he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest in a way that makes you smile against his shirt. “noted. though i think i’m retired from the princess-rescuing business.”

“oh? why’s that?”

“because,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and breathing in the scent of your hair, “i found the only princess worth rescuing.”

you make a sound that might be laughter or might be disgust, but you’re smiling when you lift your head to look at him. “that was terrible.”

“that was romantic,” he protests, but he’s grinning as he says it.

“that was terrible and romantic,” you correct, and your eyes are soft with affection. “just like you.”

satoru’s grin softens into something more genuine, more vulnerable. “i love you too.”

and there, in a bed that’s probably visible from space, surrounded by enough luxury to fund a small kingdom, prince satoru finally understands what it means to be truly, completely, ridiculously happy. not the shallow satisfaction of admiring his own reflection, not the brief pleasure of being admired by others, but the deep, lasting contentment of being known and loved and chosen by someone who sees all of him—the vanity and the insecurity, the genuine kindness and the performative charm, the loneliness he’s carried like a secret and the love he’s finally learned to give.

outside, the sun sets over the kingdom, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that stream through the enormous windows and make everything look like it’s been touched by magic. the mirror tax gets raised again the next morning, but nobody complains because the prince looks so content that even the royal accountants find themselves smiling.

and if sometimes the palace staff hear laughter echoing from the royal chambers, and if sometimes that laughter is followed by the sound of someone saying “you’re so vain” and someone else responding “i know, isn’t it wonderful?”—well, that’s just the sound of happily ever after.

in the weeks that follow, satoru discovers that being in love is remarkably similar to being obsessed with his own reflection, except infinitely better. he still checks his appearance in every mirror, but now he’s thinking about how you’ll react when you see him. he still preens when people compliment his beauty, but he’s more interested in the way you smile when he walks into a room.

he starts carrying you to all his royal duties, claiming that you’re his “emotional support princess” and that he simply cannot function without you nearby. the royal council learns to conduct meetings around the sight of their prince holding his beloved like she’s made of spun gold, and visiting dignitaries quickly discover that the fastest way to earn satoru’s favor is to compliment not just his appearance, but yours as well.

“you’re spoiling me,” you tell him one morning when you wake up to find that he’s had the servants bring breakfast to bed along with a single perfect flower that he’s somehow woven into your hair while you slept.

“good,” he says, and he’s already fully dressed and perfectly groomed because he’s apparently one of those people who wake up looking like they’ve been personally styled by angels. “you deserve to be spoiled.”

you stretch languidly, and satoru’s attention catches on the way the morning light hits your face, turning your skin golden and making your eyes sparkle like jewels. “most people would get tired of carrying someone around all day.”

“most people aren’t me,” he points out, settling back onto the bed beside you with that fluid grace that makes everything look like a dance. “and most people don’t have arms specifically designed by the gods to hold perfection.”

“your arms were designed by the gods?” you ask, laughing.

“everything about me was designed by the gods,” he says with complete sincerity. “i’m basically a religious experience in human form.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you curl back into his side. “you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m magnificent,” he corrects, “and you love me for it.”

“i love you despite it,” you say, but there’s no heat in the words, only fond exasperation.

“tomato, tomahto,” satoru says cheerfully, and then he’s kissing you, soft and sweet and with the kind of reverence that makes you think maybe he’s right about the religious experience thing.

when he pulls back, you’re both smiling, and the morning light streaming through the windows turns everything golden and perfect and exactly like a fairy tale ending should be.

“so,” you say, settling more comfortably against him, “what’s the plan for today? more royal duties where you carry me around like a particularly elegant accessory?”

“actually,” satoru says, and there’s something almost shy in his voice, “i thought we could just… stay here. for a while. maybe all day.”

you look up at him in surprise. “what about your schedule? your meetings? your extremely important mirror tax business?”

“they can wait,” he says, and he’s looking at you with an expression that’s soft and vulnerable and completely genuine. “i want to spend the day with you. just us. no audience, no performance, just… this.”

this, he thinks, this quiet intimacy that i never knew i wanted. this feeling of being completely myself with someone who loves me for it.

“okay,” you say softly, and your smile is radiant. “just this.”

and so you do. you spend the day in your ridiculous, wonderful bed, talking and laughing and discovering all the small ways that love can be both ordinary and extraordinary. satoru learns that you hum when you’re content, that you have strong opinions about the proper way to arrange pillows, and that you make the most beautiful expressions when you’re concentrating on something.

you learn that beneath all his vanity and dramatics, satoru is funny and kind and surprisingly thoughtful. you learn that he really does braid flowers into his hair when he thinks no one is looking, and that he does it because his mother used to do it for him when he was small. you learn that he’s been lonely for much longer than he’s been willing to admit, and that your presence in his life feels like waking up from a dream he didn’t know he was having.

by the time the sun sets, painting your room in shades of amber and rose, you’ve created something new between them. not just love, but partnership. not just attraction, but understanding. not just romance, but home.

“i love you,” satoru murmurs against your hair as you drift off to sleep in his arms, and this time the words come easily, naturally, without any performance or calculation.

“i love you too,” you whisper back, and your voice is warm with contentment and satisfaction and the kind of happiness that comes from being exactly where you’re supposed to be.

outside, the kingdom sleeps peacefully under a blanket of stars, and somewhere in the distance, a night bird calls out a song that sounds remarkably like a lullaby. the mirror tax will be raised again tomorrow, but tonight, all is well in the palace of the vain prince and his beloved princess.

and if the mirrors throughout the palace reflect not just satoru’s beauty but his happiness, not just his perfection but his joy, not just his image but his love—well, that’s just the way fairy tales are supposed to end.

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nanamiskentos · 1 month ago

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The first sign that something was off was the uncharacteristic silence. No footsteps, no grumblings of a medieval sorcerer wreaking havoc in the 21st century. Not even the crash of metal and cables to signify that SUKUNA had once again lost the fight to your little apartment's toaster, and resorted to eating the wiring.

"Sukuna?"

No answer either. That alone was enough to raise some alarm bells, for he was never this quiet.

You found him in the kitchen, crowded like an overgrown wildcat beside your cheap dining table, muttering to himself while trying to balance a massive bundle of wildflowers in one hand, and what looked like. . . a scroll?

You blink rapidly, "What, are you writing me a war declaration?"

Sukuna's russet eyes flick up, caught. His gruff expressions hardens, immediately defensive as if you had already accused him of something distasteful. Like that time you had hissed and scolded him for asking your local butcher for the freshest kills in the one and only time you had taken him grocery shopping with you.

Besides, how had he been aware that the meat merchant would have called the authorities on him? Didn't that puny man know that Sukuna singlehandedly vanquished the Emperor's army in Heian-Kyo, in the great summer of 794?

But now, Sukuna looks vaguely bored, "This is not for you."

You cross your arms, "Really? You're using my pens, I didn't even know you could read, let alone write."

Sukuna snarls, fingers tight around the very strained thin blue biro that promises to snap under the weight of his grasp, "It is an inferior modern implement."

"You're holding it upside down."

Sukuna scowls harder, and if you didn't know better and if you didn't have the King of Curses wrapped around your finger, you would assume he was trying to pin with you a glare to kill, "I was trying to surprise you."

"Oh my god, are you trying to be a romantic?" You're gaping, hand slapped over your mouth.

Sukuna stands up sharply, almost taking down your new light fixture from IKEA, as he snaps, "Trying? I am not trying. This is romantic. You're just too far removed from true elegance to understand."

"You put a dead pigeon next to the flowers."

"It is a symbolic offering."

"It's a health code violation, Sukuna."

"It shows my devotion."

"It shows I need to call pest control. You know that thing is a disease-carrier, right?"

Sukuna looks genuinely offended, "I went on a quest, woman. I climbbed your building's fire escape to gather the best wild herbs and flora that this macabre city has to offer –"

"That's a bunch of dandelions and one tulip."

"And a sprig of mint, you ungrateful fiend. I charmed the wise woman downstairs for her crops."

You think of your elderly downstairs neighbour, with her crabby attitude, sharp cane and stories of how things were so much better before the Soviets. You proceed to eye Sukuna with glistening, drooling stomach mouth, his four, thick arms, and ink winding over his face, "Somehow, I doubt that. Wait, what's that smell?"

Sukuna turns slowly, curtly giving you a look over his shoulder, "Nothing. Do not concern yourself."

Ah, but lo and behold. In the middle of your expensive non-stick pan, you eye a horribly charred steak, aggressively seasoned with cinnamon, soy sauce, and absurd helpings of instant coffee grounds.

"I heard women like food offerings during a courtship." And mind you, not a hint of shame in Sukuna's proud voice.

"This is what you nearly set my apartment on fire for?"

"Out of affection!"

Sukuna crosses all four arms, swathes of sheer muscle rippling as he does so, "Modern rituals are pointless. In my time, it was proper practice to compose poetry, and bring offerings. A verse beneath a maiden's window at night was a gift of the highest value."

"Is that why you were on my balcony yesterday, and I found a haiku written on spare receipts?"

Sukuna's withering frown deepens, carving into barely flushed skin, "You were the one complaining to that irritating friend of yours last week. How no-one ever does anything nice for you, and everyone has lovers but you. And you missed feeling chosen. So I chose you."

You ignore the traitorous thump! of your heart against your ribcage.

"And your friend, irritating, honestly with a voice like that, and a face so untrustworthy, how one even puts up with that is a question that I wonder at, and –"

"Sukuna."

"Your friend said that if a man does not appear with both flowers and adequate food, he is not serious nor worthy of one's time." Sukuna gestures, as one would point out to a child, to the botanical massacre and blackened meat, "I adapted."

Now your heart is doing traitorous, little twists.

"You're serious?"

Sukuna gives you a look that someone would give to an annoying bug buzzing around a room, bored and avoidant, but the choppy spikes of his blush-pink hair do little to hide the flush darkening on the tips of his ears, "I do not do things halfway."

"So the live cricket in the bouquet. . . ?"

"Represents vitality. Even the village oaf would know that."

You suddenly wonder whether you should flip the gas off from your still searing stove, sending plumes of blackened smoke to stick to your kitchen tiles, "Oh, fuck. My landlord is gonna' kill me."

Sukuna trails after you, a bite of anger in his voice, as he continues to prattle behind you like a large shadow, "What is a landlord? Why is another man lording your land? I am perfectly capable of agricultural management, I had an estate, you know."

NOTE: for the supreme sukuna-wife of my heart @creamflix ❤️

#i read a really good book on heian era japan and i also wanted to write something silly #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #ryomen sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #sukuna #jjk fluff #daphworks

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1800titz · 4 months ago

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The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

HI FRIENDS. The council has spoken, so here is the first part of the lovingly-dubbed spanko fic. This series will be early access, so— parts go up on patreon first, then they come to tumblr 3-ish weeks later (but if you wanna get ahead, the second part is already up on patreon). Reader insert, emotionally a slowburn, and basically a garbage fire I'm pouring my deepest, darkest desire into as a coping mechanism :p If you liked TDIAG, you'll probably rock with this one. As always, feedback/reblogs massively appreciated <3 WEEEEEEEE okay bye

ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ : ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

CONTENT/WARNINGS: miss girl misconstruing consensual kink for domestic violence (oops)

WC: 7.8K

Harry’s face is the reason average men have developed a phenomenon called personality.

Historically, it was faces like his, at the very least, that ignited adaptation�� this wasn’t an overnight implementation, after all. Men don’t move that fast. There’s a long-lasting, brutally destructive record there, and a tale as old as time itself. Before charisma had to be manufactured in the absence of a devastating jawline, there was the high-cheekbone aristocracy, and its counterpart, what’s known today as the “he’s actually really nice” faction. The beauty privilege inventors; the bedroom-eye monarchy; the symmetrical syndicate of a resting smolder—

And the rest of everyone else.

Rumor has it that the first comedian was a man who watched another guy, who had eyes like wet chrysocolla and really broad shoulders, turn a casual glance into an entire bloodline’s origin story. Maybe the first poet sat next to a man wearing the skin of divine nepotism— and the only defense strategy was to pick up a hobby that spoke less in pretty, heart-shaped lips and more in words like love’s trembling hand doth trace its name upon thy skin. New seduction ritual: implemented.

Basically, the survival mechanism goes like this: if you’re competing with bone structure sculpted by an empyrean chisel, a mouth worthy of oil paintings and crumpled love letters, and the kinds of dimples that were engineered for the sole purpose of emotional damage (Cupid’s attempt; two, little exit wounds, the perfect pair of injustices parenthesizing his smile)…

And you’re lingering in the shadow of those attributes? Operating on a deficit? Well, then. There’s a little more work left to be put in.

If you’re lucky, you’re tall, or you’re well endowed in the basement, or both. If you’re none of those things, you’re banking on a gift with a musical instrument, or you’re coping with the weight of your wallet. You’re getting into niche, esoteric interests you will impress upon every woman that steps foot into your orbit to stand out, or you’re polishing up your comedic abilities. The thing is, society has evolved to the point where this compensation is the foundation to procreation. The foundation to function. And the kind of men with faces like Harry, who got in line not once, but twice when God was handing out genetic privilege (the overachieved extra credit projects), just get to sit back and let the world unravel at their feet.

Men like Harry don’t need personalities because they already look interesting enough. When you’re the kind of pretty that inspires love songs and ill-advised tattoos, you don’t need wit, or pockets lined with green. It opens doors (and legs) with such minimal effort that it may as well be as simple as breathing. The quiet space in a room bends around you when you become the focal point by existing, incidentally magnetic.

It’s pretty unfair, to say the very least.

Y/N only really registers it passing— in fleeting, peripheral moments when the space bends around him and her eyes glue, almost like an accident. A brief sighting here and there, like a rare animal caught between the trees— seen but not acknowledged, because staring starts to feel like stepping into something too raw, too deliberate.

He’s always moving. In motion, slipping past. Glimpses of wide shoulders cutting through the communal pool, water slicking over musculature in a smooth tide and then rivulets, droplets sticking against sun-warmed skin. A silhouette in the elevator at the end of the hall, head bowed. Sorting through crinkled envelopes between his massive hands with a ruckle between his brows.

He’s got the kind of face that suggests he should be gently perched on the edge of a marble fountain, carved in alabaster. A cherubic thing. Rosy-mouthed, haloed by damp curls that tuck around his ears in perfect, artistic disarray. The kind of beauty that feels vaguely mythological, like he should either be blessing crops or luring unbeknownst sailors to their deaths. A visage that belongs on domed Renaissance ceilings.

Y/N breathes. Her pulse feels like it’s rattling a little. It makes her head feel a little gooey when he’s stood in front of her.

And here he is, holding a package in one hand, water still beading at his collarbone from a morning shower, damp curls dripping onto the fabric of a lived-in, vintage T-shirt. The tragic failure of modern existence is that a man like this— who should, by all logic, be strumming a lyre on the edge of a celestial fountain— has instead been doomed to wander the mundanities of the human condition. To swipe through his mail. To stand in front of her door and say things like “Think they swapped our mail again” in that perfectly unassuming, relaxed tone, like his very existence isn’t actively offensive to the concept of mediocrity.

His singular flaw? That one, teeny thing?

He’s a horrific neighbor.

Abysmally inconsiderate, in fact. Maybe, one of the worst people Y/N has ever had the pleasure of sharing a paper-thin wall with.

The thing is, under all normal circumstances, eye candy is a desirable next door tenant, to catch those scarce glimpses of and swoon over. But Harry? He’s dangerous. An illusion gilded in beauty that sits in this achingly so, lazy way. It’s an excellent cover for someone who (based on volume alone) should be legally required to sublet a soundproof chamber instead of an apartment. Beauty privilege, remember?

Instead of spending his days spreading divine harmony and whispering sweet nothings into the ears of poets, her tragically beautiful neighbor has chosen a different calling. One that involves subjecting Y/N to an auditory experience that can only be described as an unholy, unprovoked act of sonic terrorism against anyone who possesses functioning ears.

While he may look like the patron saint of soft lighting and tasteful nudity, he lives like a man who has never once considered the presence of neighbors. Evidently, the universe operates on imbalance.

It’s not surprising that he fucks. Nor is the frequency, given— everything. It would be more surprising if he didn’t, which, statistically, seems impossible. It is the sheer volume at which he fucks and the blatant disregard for customary noise ordinances.

Y/N has had the great misfortune of gaining intimate knowledge of Harry’s extracurricular activities through nothing but flagrantly inconspicuous, unsolicited proximity. She is now, against her will, deeply familiar with the sound of his bed frame against the wall. With the low, gravel-thick groan that spills out of him before everything goes quiet, the sharp gasp from whoever is tangled up in the sheets beneath him. The pornographic chainlink of yes, yes, yes, as if to lyricize the tempo of a wrought iron headboard ramming against hollow drywall. She’s a victim to secondhand moaning; a hostage to the unchecked libido of a man she’s not even screwing.

The young woman isn’t sure who he’s sleeping with, but based on the sounds, they either really, really like whatever feat of Olympian-endurance he’s performing on the other side of the wall, or they’re being held at gunpoint and doing an exceptional job of faking it. It’s loud. A predictable regularity. Enough to make her consider downloading white noise apps and investing in a stronger liquor cabinet.

And every morning, after nights filled with thumping and gypsum-dulled dirty talk— horny monologue hour, hardly softened by an overworked, underpaid layer of rental-grade plaster— and the occasional bass-heavy indie rock soundtrack, he leaves his apartment looking criminally rested. Peaceful. Unbothered by the absolute railing he has just put someone (and the walls) through.

For all his divine aesthetics, Harry fucks like he’s trying to earn a standing ovation. With the kind of dedication to performance that suggests he thinks there’s an awards committee waiting outside in the hallway to hand him a trophy when he’s done.

Y/N doesn’t know what’s worse— the rhythmic, wall-shaking thump of his bed frame, the low, muzzled stream of just incomprehensible enough to stay offensive murmurs, or the fact that he has the audacity to look well-rested when she sees him the next morning, while she lurches past him like a woman who’s been spiritually waterboarded by the full-scale resonance of his sex life.

Y/N has tried— earnestly tried— to ignore it. To mentally downgrade him from disruptively attractive to something more manageable, like guy-next-door cute. But Harry is simply too loud to be ignored.

And not just in volume— though, yes, he operates at a decibel that insinuates he believes “inside voice” is an urban legend. It's everything. The way he takes up space. The way he stretches his arms over his head and his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of toned stomach like some kind of aesthetic oversight. The way his lips pull into a smirk when he's amused, a single dimple pressing into the smooth skin of his cheek.

The worst part? He doesn’t weaponize it. Just… exists, as if he entirely lacks self-awareness for the unrelenting power he yields with pure aesthetics.

Perhaps the only thing more dangerous than his unregulated evolutionary favoritism is the lack of object permanence it causes. Inspires. Because at the end of the day, despite how polite, how deeply-gnarled in neighborly niceties, The Incident from last month still exists, but miraculously manages to melt into her every time she’s face to face with him. Like a static buzz settling into the way her composure thaws away.

His most notable sound pollution, to date, spilled in the form of audible rejection on a rain-drenched afternoon, dripping through the drywall in a dissent-rusted chain. Stop. No. Please. It was a voice she didn’t recognize. A voice trying to be firm but not entirely expecting to be listened to. It sounded so defeated, like a cry and then a high, sharp whine in response to whatever distinctly lower-pitched murmurs the insulation muzzled. All velvet-dipped tones swallowed by the structural integrity of a shoebox apartment.

Y/N is the last person to dig into others’ preferential depravities, nor does she have the mental bandwidth to file through the archives of a borderline stranger’s hedonisms, but her stomach had twisted up like one of those coiled, abstract sculptures that fits on a bookshelf, and she ended up on the couch with her cellphone tucked to her ear.

Because it wasn’t just the kind of sound that prickled at her nape, but curdled deep in the belly of her, heavy and rotting.

(“Um, hi, I think my neighbor is— hurting someone.”)

But the thing is, standing with her door cracked now, Y/N thinks there needs to be at least one, obnoxiously visible character flaw to remind her and offset the audacity of his aesthetics, because up close, it’s so much worse.

Anything— an overinflated ego, a questionable tattoo, a personality cultivated exclusively from Joe Rogan podcasts. But no. Harry is polite— painfully so, armed with the clean-shaven jawline of a man who has never known an awkward phase and the kind of infuriatingly natural charm that makes all rationale and reason puddle off into awed oblivion.

“Hey,” he says, cradling the package in one palm, curls wet, one rogue lock clinging to the crest of his cheekbone in a way that would look deeply artificial on anyone else. “Think they swapped our mail again.”

The level of allurement at which he functions should come with a warning label, so it’s a little tough to keep The Incident afloat when he just… waterlogs it with simple, blissfully unaware presence. In these types of situations, all that buoys is the vague, internal monologue reminding her that she’s been gawking wordlessly too long to be considered socially acceptable.

Her taller neighbor (significantly taller; really, Y/N thinks— it’s as if he collected hallmarks like they were on conveniently timed clearance) blinks. He’s still holding the package out. Y/N blinks back. Batting her lashes shakes something, as if warding off gnats off in a plume of smoke. Slowly, she accepts the misdelivered offering, and unease creeps into the soft spot between her rib bones and her organs.

Despite the way the man has embedded his existence so deeply into her thoughts— honestly, so much so that he may as well be paying rent (she should be getting compensated for the unpaid mental labor)— Y/N doesn’t actually know Harry.

She knows his name is Harry. H-A-R-R-y, always inscribed in all capitals, besides the cacographic tail end of the lowercase, curving Y. She’s given up on trying to understand why whoever the post office sends insists on treating their mailboxes like interchangeable suggestions rather than fixed addresses. She knows that their mail, through some act of bureaucratic sabotage, somehow manages to interchange between 9B and 9C with unsettling regularity.

She knows he fucks. A lot. So regularly that at this point, it’s practically a statistical impossibility that his celibacy record stands longer than a sparse handful of days. She knows that he wears the face of a misplaced effigy, with a halo’s worth of plausible deniability— the kind that should be mounted to an Italian plaza centerpiece, or live frescoed, immortalized on a high ceiling between Corinthian columns. She knows she called the police on him last month, so she needs to ball her resolve in her arms when it spills apart like unrolled toilet paper—

There is one truth Y/N must latch on and cling to in these tragically catastrophic stand-offs (probably… entirely one-sided, given that the opponent to her poor mettle and overactive nervous system is just… standing there, breathing, entirely oblivious of his innate talent to dilate pupils and cause momentary amnesia), and that truth is this: no superficially aesthetic veneer of deception can shell-up reality.

And the reality is that Y/N does not know this man, and so no cherubic façade, neighborly niceties, or feigned self-unawareness can suppress that he may as well be an entirely different person behind closed doors.

It’s months down the line that the irony will hit her— that yes, undeniably, Harry is almost a direct, walking contradiction behind the assumed sanctity of a closed door— that no pleasantries or seraphic, unassuming dimples can soften the obscenity of his pastimes. Hobbies include: vinyl collecting, long walks, and ensuring that an attitude adjustment sticks. But that’s months down the line, and right now?

Right now he’s just her obnoxiously loud neighbor that, according to probable cause (and the recording of the phone call she made to the emergency hotline, stored somewhere in the 911 archives), may or may not take no for an answer. Which is the biggest tragedy of all, in her opinion.

“Thanks.” There’s a little bite there to the word, there. Enough for him to clock it— for something to flicker along that lazily charming smile, like a gossamer-thin, bewildered film over the surface of his expression.

Harry pauses, almost like he wants to say something (probably to acknowledge the awkwardly apparent dissonance going on), but then he just… doesn’t.

“Okay,” as the man breathes, the breadth of his shoulders swells up, thick muscle rising up under the cotton fabric (not quite pulled taut— not anywhere besides the span of his shoulders— but enough for the shape of his pebbled nipples to poke through the material). Y/N chews into the gummy-smooth skin along the inside of her cheek. Honestly, it’s unfairly disarming; his low voice, his stupid face, his hard nipples prodding through the tee. With his dewy meadow eyes glued onto her, her resolve wobbles like a flimsy stilt house on the coast in a hurricane. “Have a good one.”

He ducks his chin (a subtle period on the uncomfortable pause, a formal seal on his exit) at the young woman, still holding the parchment-wrapped package she’s been awarded as if solidified into a stone-encasement of the position. Y/N blinks. Harry turns.

With a final glance toward his retreating back, the girl closes the door. As her fingers tighten around the package, her knuckles bleach from the strain. It’s either that or punch drywall, and quite frankly, she’s been paying too much in rent to consider remodeling and too many fees in the form of involuntary eavesdropping to afford a fracture in the (poorly constructed) noise barrier. She tucks the chainlink back onto its track as the door clicks shut and resigns herself to another unfortunate truth: Harry is so dangerously attractive that not only is she almost certainly going to think about this moment later, but she will be reminded, every time she’s shepherded into close proximity with him, that when God packages something up in 6 feet of limited-edition facial topography and artfully tousled curls, no amount of unsought aural pornography and creeping suspicion can stop a cosmic nepotism baby from dismantling her concentration.

The last thing Harry expects from a disgruntled herd of bleary-eyed, sock-shuffling renters— a crowd caught somewhere between sleep-deprived and half-dead— is small talk.

Half these people have a look that suggests they contemplated burning alive before choosing to evacuate, and the other half probably wish they decided to wear real pants to bed. Tonight, Harry falls into both categories. With the fire alarm still shrieking from the guts of the complex and the blinking glow of blue and red in the corner of a tar-black night, the briefs hitching high on his meaty thighs is almost… poetic. Cinematic, at the very least. Like a scene from an experimental indie film focused on the gradual dissolution of dignity.

The downy rabbit nestled in his arms, coiled more like a floccose ball than a living animal, is the sartorial maraschino cherry— it pulls the look together. Emergency Evacuation chic. He looks about as disheveled as the rest of the congregation; bedhead, sleep still dusting at his half-mast gaze, keyring slipped over his middle finger and his phone cradled in the same hand (though, Harry thinks wryly, no building-wide emergency couture quite tops the tighty-whitey socks-and-sandals combo that the guy up ahead of him is rocking). There’s sparse chatter going on all around him, a kind of background drone that fades into the wail, but he doesn’t have any intention to engage. Despite the unplanned slumber party and the potential opportunity to trauma-bond, he can’t really find it in him to start ice-breaking and sharing life stories. There’s a time and place to build community with your neighbors— half-dressed in a parking lot at three AM isn’t one of them.

Instead, he stands in the midst of the mass, dead-silent as if still calibrating. It takes him a while to notice the young woman a few feet ahead of him— long enough that the cool air has settled over him in a coat. Her bathrobe wraps tight around her, cinched pink terry-cloth. He doesn’t recognize that she’s a familiar face until she turns enough for him to see her side profile, her phone screen casting light and painting shadows in the crease of her furrowed brow as she sniffs. Thumbing over the device, Y/N turns back over her shoulder.

The longer he stands there, creaking into a more-awake rendition of himself as the faint chill cuts through the grogginess in his skull, the more the silence marinates into impatient restlessness. Stretching like old gum. She lingers in his periphery, shifting from foot to foot as if nursing the same restive itch. Once again, his neighbor twists to the side, rocking onto the balls of her feet and then back down onto her heels. A huff spills from her lips as she turns her phone off and tucks it up under her upper arm, crossing them. It’s not cold enough for the air to bloom with her breath, but the exasperation in it is audible. Maybe because he’s managed to seep closer.

“—Wonder if someone just pulled it.”

At first, Y/N doesn’t acknowledge the statement, as if she doesn’t recognize the remark is directed at her. And then, the presence behind her— not pressing uncomfortably close, just distant enough to notice— has Y/N turning her head over her shoulder. She double-takes.

Harry’s in a new light. Still abysmal to her train of thought, already weak on its tracks given that the drowsiness from being rudely awoken in the middle of the night still has her lingering in a dull, cotton-wrapped awareness. But now, he’s a fraying shape; sleepy and half-nakedly soft. Hair a masterpiece of sleep deprivation— the typically styled ringlets on his head sit mussed; whatever shape (she assumes the usual— somewhere between windswept and enticingly intentional) existed yesterday has gone rogue, erased by his pillow. What’s left is a tousled disarray. He’s in another tee, once again pulled snugly over his shoulders, and he’s cradling what could be a live, fuzzy animal, but more resembles a balled fur stole, its potential face tucked into the nook between his muscly upper arm and his chest. Despite the ridiculous assortment of this particular wardrobe showcase, that’s not what catches her eye most. Y/N sucks in a breath.

Considering a fair share of the evacuees around them teeter on the brink of public-indecency, it shouldn’t throw her guard off as much as it does, but all she can manage in such close proximity with Harry’s thighs is to blink wordlessly. It’s not necessarily his thighs so much as the way they’re denuded— not the way his trousers sit on them so much as their entire lack thereof. It’s the way his lower region is only covered up by a pair of jet-black briefs, clinging like a second skin, riding ridiculously high and ridiculously low. High enough that the only place her eyes can focus is the (chewy) musculature, slightly sun-bathed from all those hours spent in the residential pool, dusted with hair. Low enough that a sliver of skin peeks from between the waistband and hem of his shirt, hitched up just a touch on one side. Enough to hint at a sharp dip of a mostly concealed V, where muscle sinks in a hard line along bone. A tease of whatever workout routine he’s committed to. Beside the rigid line chiseled in there, an inked, leafy stem climbs (a set of mirrored layers that she’d observed on him, supine on a pool chaise).

Basically, it’s the type of thing that should legally classify him as a walking thirst trap.

With the crowd sporting bedtime fashion, some covered only in the most legally vague sense of the word, it leaves Y/N wondering: if most of the people decided to haphazardly vacate their apartments by only tossing on the most minimal attire— if opting to add to their garb in any way— what did Harry add? Did he wear the cream-toned tee to bed? Just the Calvins? Both? Or was he entirely bare, only sloppily throwing on whatever was left discarded by the side of the bed? Does he sleep naked?

With all these sordid thoughts clouding up the forefront of her mind like a thick plume of fog, she can’t find words through alphabet soup and the vague mental images of Harry’s bare skin tangled by sheets. To make it better, he’s just staring at her, like he’s expectantly waiting for her to respond. What was the question?

Y/N blinks again. “What?”

“The—“ Harry bobs his head towards the cluster of emergency vehicles, olive eyes oscillating to the apartment complex and back onto her, “fire alarm. I wonder if someone just pulled it.”

If ever the universe was to humble Harry from a breathing renaissance painting, half-clothed and half-asleep would be the time. He could be knocked down to whatever status a man up front is bearing, clad in a questionably classy fusion of tragic, high-cut cotton underwear, socks, and suede, open-toed sandals. Somehow, though, it’s worse that his bedhead, for the most part, still leaves the tendrils curling in lazy, untamed waves. That his nakedly-beguiling thighs, strong and sculpted with muscle, look like they’re meant to pry knees wide. It’s mortifying—

“Then, they’d be an asshole,” she murmurs, her own gaze raking out and lingering on the building. The words come out clipped with exhaustion, and then that pause lingers again.

Harry hums. She chances another glance at the furball curled to his chest.

“Snuggles,” Harry supplies, raising one arm a tad from where it’s caged to support the animal. The motion is enough to jostle the thing, and it tucks its face out, twitching its nose. With careful precision, the man moves one hand out from the cradle— the one not clutching his keys and his phone (by the way, casually dwarfed by the sheer size of his palm and cupped, lengthy fingers) to skim his pointer along the Holland lop’s dangling ear. “He’s a bit delicate and has some strong opinions on sudden, loud noises. Not a fan of fire alarms, as it turns out.”

The young woman hums noncommittally, eyes snaking back off to the polychrome strobe.

The last thing Harry expects from his neighbors during a mandatory, middle-of-the-night evacuation order are pleasantries. Between the slouched postures, the collective, dead-eyed aura of suffering, the general degree of resentment perfuming the air, and the visible internal debates over whether a hypothetical fire is worth enduring the cold, it’s safe to assume morale is at an all time low. Which brings him to his next point— there is, Harry suspects, something about him that fundamentally offends his neighbor.

Not inherently because she’s not talking to him. Naturally, the theory has no relevance to her lack of enthusiasm at the moment.

There’s a clause to life that he learned as a little kid, an absolute truth that the motto “water off your back” was created around, and this clause is that not everyone will like you. There’s really no gentle way to chew on that one, but it’s a fact Harry has long come to terms with. Jealousy, misery, even a simple case of personalities repelling like mismatched magnets— all things that can cause someone to decide you’re just not their cup of tea. Incompatibility could very easily leave your existence grating someone down to the molecular level. And you can never please everyone— that’s another piece of that truth he had to gnaw on before he decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life marching to the beat of his own drum.

Apparently, something about this tempo scrapes at some highly-sensitive nerve of hers like a dull knife on a chalkboard.

It’s an intuition thing, really. There hasn’t so much been a sharp, substantial instance so much as there’s been instances. Little, creeping things; the way her eyes ward when he’s close, despite the way they hover; the tone she seems to reserve for him, not outwardly rude, but suspiciously close to some awkward admixture between tolerating jury duty and being held at gunpoint. There’s more, among those, too— the suspiciously long pauses that sit like preludes to every response she gives him. The way her gaze flickers off avoidantly.

And those last two aren’t flustered mechanisms.

Harry knows he is, according to conventional, societal standards, attractive. He’s no stranger to reflective surfaces, nor is he unaware of the way actual strangers look at him. Ogle. Gawk.

It was a burgeoning metamorphosis he became acutely aware of between awkward kidhood and the place he’s at now. First, all lanky angles of uncertainty, only half-grown into his features, when his bones had made up their mind but the muscle and skin over them hadn’t quite decided what they wanted to be yet. Then, it was almost overnight. Everything began stretching into place and ubiquitously working in his favor. Eyes lingered, heads turned…

It’s safe to say he knows nervous girls. Boys. The lack of eye contact, or on the polar opposite hand, the blanking, empty stares and the silent beat as their response time glitches and their mouth tries (and fails) to keep up with a short-circuiting nervous system. Not everybody is able to stay the most suave version of themselves interacting with someone they find sexually attractive— his firsthand experience involves not only being on the receiving end, but on the giving end, as well. Granted, the aesthetics boost had given him a sense of confidence that buried his inhibitions down, so it’s been a long while since the last time he tripped over himself in front of someone that made his dick sit up and pay attention, but—

The thing is, Y/N doesn’t glance away like staring at him rapidly dissolves her thoughts in a static haze. She doesn’t take long pauses because she’s floundering over the next word. She doesn’t even look at him in a way that insinuates she’s worried he’ll nip her or something, she’s just so utterly…

Closed off. Disinterested. Like his presence is a jury duty evaluation and she’s wriggling in her seat, waiting to talk about her views on jury nullification.

In fairness, it could very well be a me-not-you thing— the awkward shuffle through their interactions, the severe deficit of enthusiasm. Those communication patterns could very well be sound across the board… in another universe. There are footprints that lead him to the massive elephant in the room, and those footprints spell the vague shape of it didn’t used to be this way.

Sure, Harry contemplates, if she was a miserably unpleasant person that holed up in her apartment with no interest in corresponding with another human being, he’d get it. If she’d given him the idea that something about him rattled her down to atoms the first time he ever said hello to her, he’d get it. But she used to smile. Coyly, almost, he’d go as far to say— one finger away from twirling a lock of hair around her pointer as she talked to him. The kind of simper that accompanies a giggle from a barista handing his drink over across the counter, eyes honed. She used to lean onto her door frame when he handed off a stack of envelopes that got misplaced into his mailbox, or hung back with her eyes wet and lively as she stood at his doorway and handed off a package.

What’s more is that his history is marked by drawing more people in after he opens his mouth, than turning them away. He’s arguably likeable— not in an arrogantly self-absorbed way, but strictly based on track record. He’s befriended too many older ladies (who sparked up chatter with him in grocery stores unprompted, mostly), and gotten slipped too many drinks (on the house) from bartenders to believe otherwise. Generally, his existence tends to fall into the category of charming rather than grating.

When he considers all of this, his analysis only leads him to one conclusion— there is something about him that suddenly, fundamentally offends his neighbor.

And it’s with this hypothesis that Harry clears his throat, hesitates, and prods, with just a moment of lull after she’s turned back away from him, “If I’m misreading this, feel free to tell me to piss off, but— did I do something?”

The young woman pivots back over her shoulder, blinking, almost as if she’d forgotten he was behind her at all.

“…What?”

Harry shrugs. The motion coaxes Snuggles to lift his head again. “I don't expect us to be friends, but I also don't want to be the person you actively avoid in the hallway. If I've done something to make things weird, l'd rather fix it than pretend I don't notice."

For a long second, Y/N doesn’t say anything. Just batting her lashes up at him, features lax, like she’s processing the earnest directness behind his words and letting them settle. And then her face twists.

Ooh— okay. Ruckling brow bone, lips tugging down, the nearly incredulous burst of air she expels as she turns her prickling face away—

She scoffs, muttering something strangely close to, “can’t be serious,” under her breath, and Harry’s eyes pensively narrow just a smidge. Enough to be entirely imperceptible as he drinks in her body language. That’s an indicator, if Harry’s ever seen one.

“You know what, Harry,” she says after a moment (now her arms are caging defensively, that’s an interesting touch), “…I just don’t really …appreciate how you treat women, to be honest.”

Of all the responses Harry had been anticipating, curiously honed on every word, that was— not the one. His dark canopy of lashes sweeps over his eyes as the admission lands and… knocks him off kilter, just a bit. His brows relax, then furrow up as he mulls the statement over, buffering.

He sounds a little bewildered when he says, voice much more soft-spoken, “…Sorry?”

“You should be,” his neighbor tells him pointedly, her arms still crossed like a defensive barrier across her chest, “Hitting women is wrong. Very illegal for a reason, actually.”

At the mention, his head bobbles back a bit like he’s dodging a smack between the brows with the context-lacking declaration. He’s not quite sure he’s heard her right, eyebrows climbing and eyes widening almost comically. Right, okay. This is… a gross misunderstanding, he decides. When the realization hits him, truly hits him, his knee-jerk response is an incredulous laugh, which he muscles down. Instead, his appalled amusement trickles out like a little huff, corners of his strawberry mouth tugging up. Unfortunately, the reaction only seems to irritate her further, and her forehead crinkles up as her own eyebrows ascend in stunned disbelief.

“You think there’s something funny about hitting a woman?” Y/N presses, eyes steeling into slits, her priorly indoor-voice rising a decibel.

The volume of her statement (and the misleading content) has his otherwise mirthy expression falling into something far more serious. Full of comically flat, grievous denial, like a kid being scolded for spray-painting a concrete wall after being caught with the can in its hand.

“—No,” Harry shakes his head slowly, side to side, “Not at all.”

Cautiously, his gaze slips off to the corner, where a few tenants have turned over their shoulder to gauge the commotion. As the young woman’s head swivels to tail where his eye contact has meandered, Harry realizes that backpedaling is only going to become a feat of incredible verbal athleticism from here. Upon catching the other glimpses from the crowd, slowly turning back to their own conversations, Y/N makes a deadpan sound of amusement before she turns back to face him.

“Oh, what? You’re ashamed now that you’re being called out for it? Good,” she bites, shoulders teetering as she leans toward him and unfolds her arms, pointing her index finger into his direction scathingly, “You should be ashamed. It’s absolutely disgusting to put your hands on a woman.”

This is tragically weighed against Harry’s favor. Here he was, just a half-asleep evacuee, holding his rabbit, clad in only a pair of hardly decent briefs, contemplating whether he should Uber Eats tacos as soon as the emergency exit fiasco were to clear up (might as well, since he’s already awake). Somehow, he’s managed to morph from an unassuming extra to the perceived antagonist.

No, Harry thinks— this wouldn’t be a disaster film; it’s a full blown, poorly-contrived drama with a plot twist even the supposed villain is caught off guard by. The curly-headed brunette chances another glance to the other side now, where more people have not only glimpsed over in brief acknowledgement, but have fully twisted their shoulders to observe the apparent scandal. As much as Harry wholeheartedly marches to the beat of his own drum, at this moment in time, his reputation is shaking in its boots and he’s reached a mental checkpoint called time for damage control.

Weaving sincerity into his tone and shaking his head placatingly as he steps forward— a subconscious attempt to coax her into lowering her volume— Harry tells her, “I don’t put my hands on anybody that doesn’t consent to it first.”

Her face scrunches up.

“I think,” his pink tongue slinks out to wet his lips, “maybe, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“No, I really, really do,” Harry counters, ducking his chin into a nod.

Instead of hearing him out, however, his neighbor, as if fueled by the internal calling to manually dismantle misogyny, one assumed violent criminal at a time, only raises her volume a little more. Exceeding the normal range, definitely steeping in public-humiliation-ritual territory.

“I’m not misunderstanding,” Y/N bites, brows pinched like he’s personally offended her by even insinuating as much, “I have ears, just so you know, and I’ve heard a woman saying no, and please, and stop. So you can drop your good boy act, okay—“

Harry blinks. If not for the character defamation going on and the way Socks-and-Sandals raises his phone out of seemingly nowhere, pointing it into their direction as if there isn’t a potential fire to be filmed instead of all things, Harry would laugh. But there is, and the flash is on, weak along his peripheral edge—

“I know guys like you, I know your type,” Y/N declares, jabbing her finger against him again, this time so close to grazing the area along his chest, right between the tops of his pectorals, just over Snuggles, “and it’s gross that you think because you’re attractive you can walk all over everyone and do things like that to people, and you know what, next time maybe the cops won’t be so nice—”

Ah, nice. Another mystery resolved; one which involved a pair of men with guns in their holsters at his door performing a wellness check and an excruciatingly awkward clarification on impact play, consensual sadomasochism, and safewords. For weeks Harry wondered what had inspired a legal inquiry into his pastimes. Now, staring at the culprit— case dismissed— he can only blink before his brows wrinkle up.

“You’re the one who called the police?” Harry murmurs, a note of soft incredulity soaking the phrase.

“Any sane woman would call the police when she heard another woman being abused—“

“Abused?”

“Yes! Abused! And— and— honestly—“

Before Y/N can launch into another ruthlessly-curated, virtue-plated diatribe, Harry resituates the animal in his grip, unlocking his phone to the homescreen. Then, Safari. He thumbs over it with a careful determination seeding along his downturned, sculpted expression.

“I don’t know what form of assault would be worse,” Y/N chimes, hands climbing up in an exaggerated, universal symbol of exasperation before they fall back to her sides (as if she hadn’t even noticed his attention has been redirected to his phone), “but when someone says no, it means no.”

It only takes a second for her to register that his focus has been rerouted elsewhere, though. Her tone dips indignantly.

“Excuse me. I’m talking to you. And also, while we’re at it, you’re unbearably loud and an unmannerly neighbor—“

Harry turns his phone around. His expression is impressively flat, all things considered. Y/N pauses.

“Typically,” Harry states as her eyes rake over the glowing screen, “I like to be wined and dined before I give a crash course on my preferences, but.”

The image stretched across the illuminated LED sits over her tired gaze as she absorbs it, pupils jittering as she reads, but through the lens of his own profile mirrored back, he can see the moment her righteously fueled demeanor chips.

“I do, like, a… softcore porn type thing,” he admits.

Still, her brows are kinked. Only now, in stupefied doubt. “I— what?”

It’s with a rotting sense of dread curdling in the pit of her tummy that it suddenly dawns on Y/N— the mortified realization that she has succumbed to a horrible misunderstanding.

The website the tab is set on almost looks archaic, like a kitsch relic— repository archives of a porn blog from the early 2000s. Spankinggram. The page is set onto a profile, something called Rings&Paddles, and the squared image of an avatar slices through the garishly orange palette of the site’s logo. Her gaze sweeps over the vista; a man sitting down on an armless chair, thighs splayed, palm curled over a …hairbrush.

The profile picture sunders off at the neck. It’s a faceless silhouette, but the miscellany of sketches cascading across a forearm and the distinctly chunky medley of rings are… enough—

“Consensually,” Harry— Rings&Paddles, Y/N recognizes, molten heat dripping along the crests of her cheekbones— adds, “No one is being abused.”

In retrospect, the only feasible option to survive this, Y/N decides, is to change her name and move to another state.

Probably something short and vaguely melancholic, one of those names that would look intriguing in all lowercase. A quiet town. Somewhere coastal, maybe. West. No— north. As far north as geographically possible. Perhaps she could get a dog. An older, ratty boy from a shelter. Drive an old car that’s too big with a busted radio. She’ll pretend it’s a benefit, rather than an inconvenience, because she’ll be the fabricated kind of mystique that insufferably enjoys the quiet calm (and rainstorms). A rebranded, movie-clichè hipster, but not unbearable in real life—

“But I understand the concern,” her neighbor says, cutting through the haze as she contemplates what brand of cigarettes she’ll be taking up as a trait of her pseudo-identity. Against all odds, his tone is calm in an all-too-merciful kind of way, “You can look into… domestic discipline, if you’d like. If you wanted to understand a bit better. There’s loads of really good information on the internet.”

For a moment, Y/N deliberates burning alive. If there isn’t a fire licking up her department store drapes, she’s going to set one to avoid bearing the weight of this shame for the rest of her life. Granted, the heat sizzling at her face feels like a flame, enough, both at the way she’s just publicly kinkshamed an innocent man and at the mention of …domestic discipline.

She’s going to cry.

They would be Virginia Slims.

“You— …what?”

The garbled confusion drenching her tone is almost laughable. She sounds it, too; voice pinched and deceptively close to trembling off into a sob. Y/N stares straight ahead, body locked in a fugue state of humiliation as the realization calcifies in real-time. Her shoulders have gone stiff and her spine rigid, posture squeezed somewhere between standing and catatonic. The scale of her miscalculation worms into her skull like a parasite that’ll chew her awake in the middle of the night, years down the line.

For the last month, Y/N has spent every interaction with Harry evasively toeing over eggshells. Floundering over the way his face was sculpted, rather than compromising the integral structure of their acquaintanceship. Somehow, a sleep cycle cut short and the ambiguous suggestion that he had picked up on her avoidant habits was all it had taken to not only slander his (apparently not safe for work) extracurriculars, but probably assure her foreseeable Amazon packages suddenly start going missing.

Now, with a semi-public declaration of his profile pressed out to her face and his name no longer being audibly smeared with accusations, Harry can appreciate the quiet sense of revelation.

His neighbor, on the other hand, looks visibly wrecked. Her entire stance is pulled in tight, like she’s actively trying to make herself smaller, but it’s her face that really gives her away— the way it twists, fluctuating between wide-eyed horror and the dawning realization that she’s just detonated a social landmine at point-blank range. All heat-tinged and shame-doused, the young woman blinks up at him, doe-eyes rounded in apologetic appall and lips parted slightly like she’s still buffering. The combination of words that just left his mouth— softcore porn, domestic discipline, consensual— seem to be wrestling in her brain like tangled Christmas lights, none of them quite fitting together in a way that makes sense and glinters.

“I am sorry about the noise,” he tells her, shutting the phone off and nestling his arm back up under his pet, “I’ll make sure to keep it to a minimum from now on.”

Y/N wilts. With the phone no longer held out into her direction, the way she stays glued to the same spot on the cement— as if mortified into a motionless piece of stone— is ridiculous enough for him to gnaw into his cheek to chew back a bark of laughter. Despite all trials and tribulations, his coping mechanisms never fail.

“You— oh my God,” Y/N whispers. She makes a sound that could be a vaguely pained noise or the byproduct of her soul seeping out of her body. “Oh my God.”

Harry blinks.

“I called the police on you,” she tells him, utter dismay lacing the words together.

“You did, yeah.”

Harry still remembers the blank expression varnished along the officer’s face— the kind of emotionally vacant stare reserved for department store mannequins. The echo of the distant, metaphysical NOPE that definitely rode along his brainstem the moment the curly-haired brunette mentioned “it’s a kink thing,” and the way his partner, hands allocated to his holster belt, started very obviously examining his own shoes.

“I thought—“ Y/N stutters, her wobbling voice sounding squeezed from her trachea, “I thought—“

“You thought you were living next door to a criminal,” Harry supplies. When he tilts his head, a rogue curl flops over his forehead.

Finally, the young woman moves, burying her face in her hands. This will haunt her, she thinks. Forever.

From the corner of his eye, the man can tell that most of the tenants have gone back to their regularly scheduled repertoires of stalled misery. And despite the absolute PR mess her blunder has induced— his eyes wander over her, the way she’s cupping her face like she wants to melt into her own hands and seep off into the pavement— he feels oddly… bad. Not secondhand embarrassed (firsthand, definitely firsthand), but Y/N looks like she’s going to combust. It’s tragic, really. The kind of pitiful that makes him purse his mouth and stare down at her in contemplation.

“Honestly,” his voice cuts through the haze in her throbbing, hot skull, all even-toned sincerity (which is worse, so much worse), “if I was in your position, yeah? I’d do the same thing.”

The admission coaxes her into a horrified peer through the wedges between her fingers. The warmth pressed to her palms feels borderline pyrexic.

“And if that were the case, you’d be the neighborhood hero. So.” He raises a shoulder nonchalantly.

Y/N doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, she soaks in the crime scene, doused in the blinking blue and red.

“I’m not sure neighborhood hero is how I’ll be remembered,” the young woman finally answers, groaning through her hands, and then pressing her fingertips into her temples.

Harry hums. Then, he sighs. “No, you’re right. I’d say misguided vigilante. I reckon it’s a bit better than violent felon, though.”

Y/N makes another sound. This one sounds a little more wounded.

Next part here

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