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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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rawme-price · 18 hours ago

Note

do you have any avian!gaz in your 23 drafts??

Haha yes I do lol. Yall remember all the way back when I posted abt wingless!reader and hybrid!141??? This is gazs impression of u pre-reveal.

Gaz didnt think much of you at first, youre a damn good soldier to be selected by price, but not much more.

As he spends more time around you, though, he notices...things. like how youre always up before dawn, standing outside with some other avian hybrids when they heat their wings. That's one odd thing about you, how you always seem to gravitate towards the avians on base.

You had once told gaz you grew up around avians, so it must not be that big of a deal. You always do seem to handle social situations with them better than you do humans. You easily read gazs body language during ops or training, sensing what he wants to do before he announces it. Still, not odd.

What gets harder to ignore is the way you do things that humans just...cant do. Like during training when one of the avian recruits chirped a warning, you adjusted your cover as if you actually understood. When gaz confronted you about it afterwards you just shrugged, told him "most humans in spec ops can do that. We just get the general idea, yknow?" ....gaz has never seen another human do that, but he accepts it.

But the more he thinks about it, the more it doesnt make sense. You understand avian body language. He swears you understand chirps. Gaz has literally *seen* what looks like a nest when you duck into ur room at night.

But the answer to all these small things is impossible. Youre human, simple as that. Even avians with weak presentation have some form of wings, and definitely head plumage. So gaz tries his best to ignore it, and tamp down his instincts that have been screaming about flock in distress recently.

Youre human, so he has nothing to worry about.

#copy and pasted just for u anon <3 #cod #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz garrick #gaz x reader #avian au #hybrid 141 #hybrid reader #gaz angst #cod angst

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lifeofpriya · 3 days ago

Text

the first person he looks for - Jannik Sinner

[gif credit goes to @pyotrkochetkov]

a/n: let's see if i still remember how to post on here 😅 the reader is feminine fyi

summary: after his victories, he always looks for you first

The grass beneath his feet feels different now. Sacred, almost. Like every blade has witnessed something transcendent, something that will echo through the hallowed grounds of the All England Club for decades to come. The roar of Centre Court crashes over Jannik like a tidal wave, fifteen thousand voices rising in unison, but somehow—impossibly—it all fades to white noise the moment his racquet connects with that final forehand winner.

4-6, 6-4, 6-4, 6-4.

The scoreboard blazes the numbers like a declaration of war won through surgical precision. But you know Jannik doesn't see the scoreboard. Doesn't hear the commentators losing their minds in the booth above. Doesn't feel the weight of the moment pressing down on his shoulders like a crown he's been destined to wear.

He's looking for you.

You watch from the player's box as his hazel-green eyes sweep across the chaos, cutting through the celebration like a knife through silk. Past Simone Vagnozzi, who's pumping his fist with tears streaming down his face. Past Darren Cahill, who's already reaching for his phone to text someone—probably his wife, probably to tell her they've just witnessed history. Past the BBC cameras zooming in for the perfect shot of triumph.

But Jannik's not performing for the cameras. He never has been. Even now, with Wimbledon won, with his fourth Grand Slam secured, with his name about to be etched alongside the legends who've conquered these grass courts—he's just a boy from Sexten looking for his person.

And then he finds you.

The moment your eyes meet across the pandemonium, everything stops. The world narrows to just this: the way his chest is rising and falling in that controlled rhythm you know so well, the way his mouth curves into the smallest smile—the one reserved only for you—the way his whole body seems to exhale like he's been holding his breath for three hours and forty-seven minutes.

You're sitting in the front row of the player's box, wedged between Johann and Siglinde, and you feel the exact moment when his father notices where Jannik's attention has landed. Johann's celebration falters for just a second, his eyes following his son's gaze until they find you, and then his weathered face breaks into the kind of smile that speaks of understanding, of acceptance, of pure paternal pride.

"He's looking for you," Siglinde whispers in accented English, her voice thick with emotion. "He always looks for you first."

And it's true. After every match, every win, every moment that matters—you're the first person he seeks. Not because you're the loudest in your celebration or the most visible in your support, but because you're his anchor. His true north. The constant in a life that's been measured in rankings and tournaments and the relentless pursuit of perfection.

You stand up slowly, your legs shaking from three hours of tension, from watching the boy you love battle through the most important match of his career. The Wimbledon crowd is still erupting around you, but you feel like you're moving through honey, every second stretching into eternity as Jannik begins to make his way toward the player's box.

He's not running. That's not his style. Even in victory, even with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he moves with that same deliberate grace that's made him nearly impossible to beat. But there's urgency in his steps, purpose in the way he navigates through the congratulations and camera flashes.

Carlos is there at the net, of course. The defeated champion waiting with the grace and class that's made him beloved worldwide. Jannik stops, catches his breath, and you watch as they embrace—two gladiators who've just given everything they had to the sport they love. You can't hear what they're saying over the noise, but you see the way Carlos grips Jannik's shoulder, the way he leans in close and whispers something that makes Jannik nod solemnly.

Even from this distance, you can read the conversation in their body language. Well played. Thank you. See you next time.

It's Carlos who finally releases him, who steps back and nods toward the player's box with a knowing smile. He understands. They all understand. The brotherhood of tennis, the unspoken knowledge that behind every champion is someone who makes the victories sweet and the defeats bearable.

Jannik turns back toward you, and this time there's nothing in his way.

You're gripping the railing of the player's box so tightly your knuckles are white. Mark is beside you now, Jannik's older brother wearing the kind of expression that suggests he's fighting back tears. The Sinner family isn't loud in their emotions—they're steady, supportive, present. But today, watching their youngest son achieve something that seemed impossible just hours ago, they're allowing themselves to feel the full weight of the moment.

"I can't believe it," Mark says quietly, his voice barely audible over the crowd. "I can't fucking believe it."

You want to respond, want to share in the family's joy, but your throat is tight with emotion. Because Jannik is closer now, maybe twenty feet away, and you can see the way the late afternoon sun catches the copper highlights in his hair, can see the grass stains on his pristine white kit, can see the way his eyes haven't left yours for even a second.

He's stopped signing autographs. Stopped acknowledging the congratulations from officials and dignitaries. His entire focus has narrowed to this: getting to you.

The player's box at Wimbledon isn't easily accessible from the court. There are stairs, security protocols, barriers both physical and metaphorical. But Jannik navigates them all with the same strategic thinking he's just applied to dismantling Carlos's game plan. He knows exactly where he's going, exactly what he needs to do to get there.

You watch him disappear briefly into the tunnel that leads from the court to the player areas, and suddenly you can't breathe. The finality of it hits you all at once—he's done it. He's actually done it. His fourth Grand Slam. After the breakthrough at Melbourne last year, after defending his Australian Open title just months ago, after that heartbreaking five-set Roland Garros final against Carlos just weeks ago—that epic 5-hour, 28-minute war that he lost in the final set—he's finally conquered Wimbledon.

But today. Today he's won Wimbledon.

The crowd is still celebrating, still processing what they've witnessed. The upset of the defending champion. The rise of the quiet Italian who's been methodically working his way toward this moment for years. The commentary team is already calling it one of the great comeback victories in recent memory, and they're right. Down a set, facing a younger opponent who seemed to have all the momentum, Jannik did what he does best: he thought his way through the problem, made the necessary adjustments, and executed with surgical precision.

But none of that matters to you right now. All that matters is the sound of footsteps in the stairwell leading to the player's box, the way Johann and Siglinde are both turning to look toward the entrance, the way your heart is beating so fast you're worried it might actually burst.

And then he's there.

Jannik appears in the doorway of the player's box, and for a moment that feels like forever, he just stands there. His chest is still rising and falling from the exertion, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool London air. His Nike kit is grass-stained and battle-worn, his hair slightly disheveled from three hours of intensity. But his eyes—those hazel-green eyes that change color depending on his mood, depending on the light—they're fixed on you with an intensity that makes your knees weak.

You're maybe ten feet apart, but it feels like miles. The player's box is cramped, filled with family and coaches and ATP officials, but somehow it's like you're the only two people in the world.

"Ciao, amore," he says quietly, his voice carrying that soft Alpine accent that still makes your heart skip after all this time. The words are barely audible over the celebrations continuing around you, but you hear them clear as day.

You want to respond, want to say something meaningful, something worthy of this moment. But instead, you just whisper his name: "Jannik."

And that's all it takes.

He moves through the crowded box like water, navigating around his parents and brother and coaching team with the same effortless grace he's shown on the court. But there's urgency now, desperation almost, like he's been holding himself together through sheer force of will and you're the only thing that can make him whole again.

When he reaches you, he doesn't hesitate. His hands find your face immediately, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones as he tilts your head up to meet his eyes. His palms are warm, slightly rough from years of gripping tennis racquets, and they're trembling just barely—the only sign that he's not as composed as he appears.

"I did it," he whispers, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I fucking did it."

You've never heard him swear like that. Not in English, not with that kind of raw emotion in his voice. Jannik is careful with his words, deliberate in his expressions. But right now, in this moment, he's just a twenty-three-year-old boy who's achieved something he's dreamed about his entire life, and he needs you to understand the magnitude of it.

"I know," you whisper back, your hands finding the front of his shirt, feeling the rapid beating of his heart beneath your palms. "I know, baby. I'm so proud of you."

The word 'baby' slips out before you can stop it, and you see the way his eyes flutter closed, the way his jaw tenses like he's fighting back tears. He's not much for public displays of affection—too private, too careful about maintaining his image. But today, with Wimbledon won, with his family watching, with the weight of a dream finally realized, he can't bring himself to care about anything except this moment.

His lips find yours in a kiss that tastes like victory and salt and the kind of desperate relief that comes after months of pressure and expectation. It's soft but urgent, tender but claiming, and you can feel the way his whole body seems to relax into yours like he's been carrying the weight of the world and you're the only thing strong enough to help him set it down.

The crowd in the player's box erupts around you—family members cheering, coaches shouting congratulations, cameras clicking. But you're lost in the warmth of his mouth, the way his hands tangle in your hair, the way he kisses you like you're the prize he's been fighting for all along.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard. Jannik's eyes are bright with unshed tears, his cheeks flushed with exertion and emotion. He looks younger somehow, like the boy you fell in love with rather than the calculated competitor the world sees on court.

"I couldn't have done this without you," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "You know that, right? None of this—"

"Stop," you interrupt, pressing a finger to his lips. "You did this. You and your talent and your work ethic and your brilliant mind. I just… I just got to watch."

He shakes his head, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. "You did more than watch. You believed when I didn't. You held me together when I was falling apart. You made me better."

Around you, the celebration continues. Johann has his arm around Siglinde, both of them watching their son with expressions of pure pride. Mark is recording everything on his phone, probably for the family archives. Simone and Darren are deep in conversation, already analyzing the match, already thinking about what comes next.

But you and Jannik exist in your own bubble, your own private moment within the chaos. His hands are still framing your face, his thumbs still brushing across your cheekbones like he's memorizing the moment. You can see the exact second when the reality of what's happened starts to sink in—the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his mouth curves into that devastating smile that's reserved only for you.

"Wimbledon," he says, like he's testing the word on his tongue. "I won Wimbledon."

"You won Wimbledon," you repeat, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt. "You beat Carlos fucking Alcaraz at Wimbledon."

He laughs then, a real laugh that transforms his entire face. It's the sound you've been waiting to hear for months, the sound that tells you he's finally allowing himself to feel the full weight of his achievement. Not the measured response he'll give to the press, not the composed gratitude he'll show to the tournament officials, but pure, unbridled joy.

"My parents are watching," he murmurs, but he doesn't move away from you. If anything, he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist like he's afraid you might disappear.

"I know," you say, glancing over his shoulder to see Johann and Siglinde still watching with fond smiles. "I think they're happy for you."

"They're happy for us," he corrects, and something in his tone makes you look back at him sharply. There's something in his eyes, something deeper than victory, deeper than relief. Something that looks almost like…

"Jannik," you start, but he's already moving, already reaching into the pocket of his shorts.

Wait. No. He's not. He couldn't be. Not here, not now, not in front of fifteen thousand people and a global television audience and—

"I had a whole plan," he says quietly, his voice cutting through your racing thoughts. "After the US Open, maybe. Somewhere private, somewhere perfect. But watching you in that box, seeing you believe in me even when I was down a set, seeing you cry when I hit that last forehand…"

He's on one knee now, somehow, in the cramped confines of the player's box. The crowd around you has gone completely silent, everyone suddenly aware of what's happening. Even the noise from Centre Court seems to fade as Jannik looks up at you with those hazel-green eyes that have seen you through every triumph and failure, every moment that's mattered.

"I don't want to wait for perfect," he continues, his voice steady despite the magnitude of what he's doing. "I don't want to wait for private. I want to share this moment with you, and I want everyone to know that you're the reason I'm here. You're the reason any of this matters."

The ring is simple, elegant, understated in the way that's so perfectly Jannik. A classic solitaire that catches the light from the late afternoon sun streaming through the Centre Court roof. It's not flashy, not designed for cameras or publicity. It's designed for you, chosen with the same careful consideration he brings to everything that matters to him.

"I love you," he says, and his voice breaks just slightly on the words. "I love your mind, your heart, your terrible jokes, your ability to make me laugh even when I'm being impossible. I love the way you see the world, the way you see me. I love that you chose to build a life with me even when that life is complicated and public and sometimes difficult."

You're crying now, ugly tears streaming down your cheeks as you stare down at the boy you love, the man you've watched grow from a promising junior to a Grand Slam champion. Behind him, you can see Johann with his hand over his mouth, Siglinde with tears in her eyes, Mark with his phone still recording but his expression one of pure wonder.

"I love that you understand my silences," Jannik continues, his voice growing stronger with each word. "I love that you challenge me, that you make me better, that you never let me settle for less than I'm capable of. I love that you're here, in this moment, sharing the best day of my life."

He holds up the ring, and you can see the way his hands are shaking slightly. The same hands that just executed the perfect backhand down the line to win Wimbledon. The same hands that have held you through heartbreak and celebrated with you through triumph. The same hands that know every inch of your body, every curve and angle and sensitive spot.

"Will you marry me?" he asks, and the question hangs in the air like a prayer, like a promise, like everything you've ever wanted to hear.

For a moment, you can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except stare down at this incredible human being who's just won the most prestigious tennis tournament in the world and is using the moment to ask you to be his wife.

The player's box is completely silent now, everyone holding their breath as they wait for your answer. Even the crowd on Centre Court seems to have sensed something significant happening, the noise level dropping to a murmur as forty thousand people collectively lean forward in anticipation.

"Yes," you whisper, and then louder, strong enough for everyone to hear: "Yes, of course yes."

The ring slides onto your finger like it was made for you, which, knowing Jannik, it probably was. He's the type to have your ring size memorized, to have spent weeks consulting with jewelers, to have planned every detail even if he's claiming this was spontaneous.

He stands up quickly, his hands immediately finding your face again as he kisses you with an intensity that makes your head spin. This kiss is different from the first one—deeper, more claiming, full of promise and future and the kind of forever that most people only dream about.

The player's box erupts around you, but this time you're ready for it. Johann is clapping, tears streaming down his weathered face. Siglinde is crying openly, her hands pressed to her heart. Mark is shouting something in Italian that you can't quite make out over the noise, but his expression is one of pure joy.

Even Simone and Darren are celebrating, their professional composure forgotten in the face of this moment. These are the people who've been with Jannik through every step of his journey, who've watched him grow from a talented teenager into a champion, and they understand the significance of what's just happened.

"I can't believe you just did that," you say against his lips, your voice filled with laughter and tears and overwhelming love.

"I can't believe you said yes," he responds, his forehead resting against yours. "I was so nervous. I've been carrying that ring for months, waiting for the right moment."

"Months?" you ask, pulling back to look at him in surprise.

He grins, that devastating smile that's been featured on magazine covers and Nike advertisements but that you know is reserved for moments like this. "I bought it after Roland Garros. After I lost to Carlos in that final. I was so heartbroken, so disappointed in myself, but all I could think about was how you held me that night, how you made me believe that losing didn't make me a failure."

You remember that night. The way he'd cried in your arms after coming so close to his first French Open title. The way he'd questioned everything—his training, his strategy, his ability to win the tournaments that mattered most. You'd held him until he fell asleep, whispering reassurances about his talent and his future and the inevitability of his success.

"I realized that night that I didn't just want to win Grand Slams," he continues, his voice soft but intense. "I wanted to win them with you. I wanted to share every victory, every defeat, every moment that matters with the person who makes me feel like I'm more than just a tennis player."

"You are more than just a tennis player," you say firmly, your hands moving to rest on his chest. "You're kind and thoughtful and funny and brilliant. You're the man I want to spend my life with, Grand Slams or no Grand Slams."

He kisses you again, softer this time, more reverent. Like he's sealing a promise, like he's thanking you for seeing him as more than the sum of his achievements.

When you break apart, you become aware of the chaos still surrounding you. The player's box is full of congratulations and celebration, but there's also a practical element creeping in. Officials are trying to organize the trophy presentation, photographers are positioning themselves for the perfect shot, and you can see Jannik's management team hovering nearby, probably trying to figure out how to handle this unexpected development.

"I should probably go," Jannik says reluctantly, his hands still holding yours. "Trophy presentation, press conference, all the official stuff."

"I know," you say, even though part of you wants to hold onto this moment forever. "Go. Do what you need to do. I'll be here when you're finished."

He nods, but doesn't move. Just stands there looking at you like he's memorizing every detail of your face, like he's trying to capture this moment in his memory permanently.

"I love you," he says quietly, his voice carrying that soft accent that still makes your heart skip. "I love you so much."

"I love you," you respond, and you mean it with every fiber of your being. "Now go claim your trophy, Wimbledon champion."

He grins at that, the title still new enough to make him light up when he hears it. "Wimbledon champion," he repeats, like he's testing the words. "I like the sound of that."

"Get used to it," you say, giving him a gentle push toward the exit. "Because you're going to be hearing it a lot."

He starts to leave, then turns back suddenly, his expression serious. "The ring," he says, his eyes dropping to your left hand. "It looks good on you."

You look down at the diamond sparkling on your finger, at the physical representation of the promise you've just made to each other. "It feels good," you admit, twisting it slightly with your thumb. "It feels right."

"Good," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes you look up at him sharply. "Because I'm never letting you take it off."

And with that, he's gone, disappearing back into the tunnel that leads to the court. You watch him go, this man who's just won Wimbledon and proposed to you within the span of ten minutes, and you can't help but smile at the controlled chaos that is your life with him.

The player's box settles into a different kind of celebration now, more subdued but no less meaningful. Johann and Siglinde are beside you immediately, pulling you into warm embraces that smell like home and family and acceptance.

"Welcome to the family," Johann says in his careful English, his voice thick with emotion. "Officially, this time."

"Thank you," you whisper, tears threatening again. "Thank you for raising such an incredible man."

"He's happy with you," Siglinde adds, her hand resting on your arm. "We've never seen him like this before. Content, at peace. You're good for him."

You want to tell them that he's good for you too, that he's changed your life in ways you never thought possible, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you just nod and let yourself be enveloped in the warmth of his family's love.

Mark is there too, his phone finally put away as he wraps you in a bear hug that lifts you off your feet. "My brother has good taste," he says with a grin. "I'm happy for you both."

"Thank you," you say, meaning it completely. "Thank you for accepting me."

"Are you kidding?" Mark laughs. "You make him smile. That's all we've ever wanted for him."

The next hour passes in a blur of congratulations and logistics. You watch from the player's box as Jannik receives his trophy, as he gives his winner's speech with that characteristic composure that hides the depth of his emotion. He's professional, gracious, everything a Wimbledon champion should be.

But you catch the moments when his eyes find yours in the crowd, when his carefully maintained composure cracks just slightly to reveal the joy underneath. You see the way he touches his chest where his heart is, a subtle gesture that you know is meant for you. You see the way he mentions his family in his speech, his voice growing softer when he talks about the people who've supported him through everything.

"I want to thank my team," he says into the microphone, his voice carrying clearly through the hushed Centre Court. "My coaches, my family, everyone who believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself. This victory belongs to all of us."

He pauses, his eyes finding yours again across the distance. "And to someone very special who's been with me through every step of this journey. Who makes me a better player and a better person. Thank you for saying yes."

The crowd erupts at that, fifteen thousand people suddenly understanding that they've witnessed something more than just a tennis match. They've witnessed a love story, a proposal, a moment that will be remembered long after the scores are forgotten.

You're crying again, overwhelmed by the public acknowledgment, by the way he's chosen to share this moment with the world. Jannik has always been private about your relationship, protective of the space between his public and personal lives. But today, with everything on the line, he's chosen to let the world see what you mean to him.

The trophy presentation continues, but you're lost in your own thoughts, in the magnitude of what's just happened. You're engaged to Jannik Sinner. You're going to marry the man who just won Wimbledon. You're going to spend your life with someone who sees you as more than just a spectator in his success, who wants to build a future with you that's about more than just tennis.

When the official ceremonies are finally over, when the last photo has been taken and the last interview has been given, Jannik returns to the player's box. He looks exhausted but exhilarated, his hair slightly disheveled from the trophy presentation, his smile wide and genuine.

"How do you feel?" you ask when he reaches you, your arms immediately wrapping around his neck.

"Like I could conquer the world," he says, his voice muffled against your hair. "Like I could do anything as long as you're with me."

"You can," you say firmly, pulling back to look at him. "You just proved that."

He kisses you again, soft and sweet and full of promise. Around you, his family and team are gathering their belongings, preparing to leave Centre Court and begin the celebration that will undoubtedly continue into the night.

"Come on," Jannik says, taking your hand and interlacing your fingers. "Let's go home."

"Home?" you ask, confused. "We're in London."

"No," he says, squeezing your hand gently. "Home is wherever you are. And right now, I just want to be with you."

You follow him out of the player's box, through the corridors of the All England Club, past the congratulations and the cameras and the chaos that follows a Grand Slam victory. His hand never leaves yours, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your palm like he's reminding himself that this is real, that you're real, that the ring on your finger isn't just a dream.

As you walk through the players' entrance and into the London evening, you can't help but think about the journey that's brought you here. The early morning practices, the grueling travel schedule, the pressure and expectation and constant scrutiny. The losses that left him devastated, the victories that felt hollow without the ultimate prize.

But also the quiet moments. The lazy Sunday mornings in Monte Carlo, the way he makes you coffee exactly the way you like it, the way he listens when you talk about your work, your dreams, your fears. The way he holds you when you can't sleep, the way he makes you laugh when you're stressed, the way he loves you with a steadiness that feels like coming home.

"I still can't believe you proposed," you say as you settle into the back of the car that will take you to your hotel. "In front of fifteen thousand people."

"I still can't believe you said yes," he responds, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as he pulls you closer. "I was so nervous I thought I might pass out."

"You didn't look nervous," you say, remembering the way he'd knelt down with such confidence, such certainty.

"I was terrified," he admits, his voice soft in the dim light of the car. "Not that you'd say no, but that I'd mess it up somehow. That I'd ruin the moment."

"You didn't ruin anything," you assure him, your hand finding his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. "It was perfect. You were perfect."

He's quiet for a moment, his fingers playing with your hair as London passes by outside the windows. "I meant what I said," he finally says. "About not being able to do this without you. About you making me better."

"Jannik—"

"No, listen," he interrupts gently. "I know everyone talks about my work ethic, my dedication, my strategy. But none of that matters if I don't have a reason to push myself. You're my reason. You're what makes all the training and travel and pressure worth it."

You want to argue, want to tell him that he's successful because of his own talent and determination. But you understand what he's trying to say. You've seen the way he plays differently when you're in the stands, with more freedom, more joy. You've seen how he carries himself when he knows you're watching, when he knows you believe in him.

"We make each other better," you say instead, and he nods against your hair.

"We do," he agrees. "And now we get to keep doing that for the rest of our lives."

The rest of our lives. The phrase hangs in the air between you, full of promise and possibility and the kind of future that feels too good to be true. But as you sit there in the back of the car, your engagement ring catching the light from the streetlamps, Jannik's arm around your shoulders and his Wimbledon trophy in the seat beside you, you allow yourself to believe in that future.

Because if today has taught you anything, it's that sometimes the impossible becomes inevitable. Sometimes the boy from the mountains of South Tyrol grows up to win Wimbledon. Sometimes the quiet strategist becomes a champion. Sometimes the love story gets the happy ending.

And sometimes, just sometimes, the first person he looks for in the crowd becomes the person he wants to look for for the rest of his life.

"I love you," you whisper into the silence of the car, into the space between victory and whatever comes next.

"I love you," he whispers back, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "Wimbledon champion and all."

You laugh at that, the sound mixing with the quiet hum of the London traffic and the distant echo of fifteen thousand people who witnessed something magical today. Something that started with a tennis match and ended with a promise, something that began with a boy looking for his person and ended with two people choosing to build a life together.

The car pulls up to your hotel, and you know that tomorrow will bring new challenges, new pressures, new questions about your future and your relationship and what it means to be engaged to one of the world's best tennis players. But tonight, you're just going to hold onto this moment, this perfect, impossible, beautiful moment when everything changed and nothing changed and the boy you love became the man you're going to marry.

"Ready?" Jannik asks as the car comes to a stop, his hand already reaching for the door handle.

"With you?" you say, looking at him with all the love and pride and overwhelming joy you've been holding in your chest all day. "I'm ready for anything."

He smiles at that, the kind of smile that could power cities, that could light up the darkest corners of the world. "Good," he says, helping you out of the car with the same gentle care he's shown you from the very beginning. "Because this is just the beginning."

And as you walk into the hotel together, past the congratulations and the cameras and into whatever comes next, you know that he's right. This is just the beginning of a story that started with tennis but has become about so much more. A story about love and partnership and the kind of forever that most people only dream about.

A story about the first person he looks for in the crowd, and the last person he wants to see every night for the rest of his life.

The hotel suite feels different now. Bigger, somehow, as if the magnitude of the day has expanded the very walls around you. The Wimbledon trophy sits on the marble coffee table like it belongs there, catching the soft glow from the London streetlights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. But your eyes keep drifting to something smaller, more intimate—the way the diamond on your left hand sparkles every time you move.

Jannik emerges from the bathroom, finally free of the grass-stained kit that carried him through three hours and forty-seven minutes of tennis history. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at the edges in that way that makes him look younger, more like the boy from Sexten than the man who just dismantled Carlos Alcaraz on Centre Court. He's wearing simple gray joggers and a soft white t-shirt, and somehow this version of him—quiet, unguarded, wholly yours—is more devastating than any magazine cover or Nike campaign.

"Press is finally done," he says, his voice carrying that familiar tiredness that comes after major tournaments. But there's something different in his tone tonight. Lighter. Like a weight he's been carrying for months has finally been lifted.

You're curled up on the plush sofa, still wearing the sundress you chose so carefully this morning—soft blue, his favorite color on you, though you'd never admit that the choice was intentional. Your phone has been buzzing nonstop for hours with congratulations, interview requests, and messages from friends who watched the proposal live on television. But you've ignored them all, content to exist in this bubble of post-victory calm.

"How do you feel?" you ask, the same question you posed hours ago in the player's box, but somehow it carries more weight now. Now that the adrenaline has faded, now that the cameras have stopped rolling, now that it's just the two of you in the quiet sanctuary of your shared space.

Jannik doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he crosses the room with that same deliberate grace you've watched him perfect over years of professional tennis, settling beside you on the sofa with a soft exhale that sounds like relief. His hand finds yours automatically, fingers interlacing with the natural ease of a gesture repeated thousands of times.

"Surreal," he finally says, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your palm. "Like it happened to someone else. Like I watched someone who looked like me win Wimbledon and propose to the woman he loves."

You study his profile in the dim light—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the small scar above his left eyebrow from a childhood skiing accident he's never talked about in interviews. Even now, hours after his greatest professional triumph, he looks contemplative rather than celebratory. It's so perfectly Jannik that it makes your chest ache with affection.

"Do you regret it?" you ask quietly. "Proposing there, in front of everyone?"

His head turns toward you so quickly you almost laugh. Those hazel-green eyes are wide with something that looks almost like panic, his grip on your hand tightening reflexively.

"What? No. God, no." He shifts to face you fully, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because you're so private," you say, leaning into his touch. "Because you've spent years protecting our relationship from the spotlight. I just… I want to make sure you don't think you got caught up in the moment."

Jannik is quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching your face like he's looking for something specific. When he speaks, his voice is soft but certain, carrying that same quiet intensity he brings to everything that matters to him.

"Do you remember what you said to me after Roland Garros?" he asks. "After I lost to Carlos?"

You remember that night vividly. The way he'd sat on the edge of the bed in your Paris hotel room, still in his post-match clothes, staring at his hands like they'd betrayed him. The way his voice had cracked when he talked about being so close, about playing the match of his life and still coming up short. The way he'd looked so young and heartbroken that you'd wanted to fight the entire tennis establishment on his behalf.

"I said a lot of things that night," you murmur.

"You said that winning and losing didn't change who you were to me," he continues, his accent thickening slightly the way it does when he's emotional. "You said that I could win a hundred Grand Slams or never win another match, and you'd still choose me every single day."

The memory hits you like a physical thing, warm and bittersweet. You remember meaning every word, remember the way his shoulders had finally relaxed when you'd crawled into bed beside him and held him until he fell asleep.

"I meant it," you say simply.

"I know you did. And that's when I knew." His hand moves from your cheek to tangle in your hair, his touch reverent and careful. "That's when I knew I wanted to marry you. Not because you celebrated my victories, but because you saw me as more than the sum of them."

He pauses, his eyes dropping to the ring on your finger before meeting yours again. "Today, when I won, when I felt that moment of pure joy and accomplishment… the only thing I wanted was to share it with you. Not as my girlfriend, not as someone who supports my career, but as my partner. My equal. The person I want beside me for every victory and every defeat for the rest of my life."

Your throat tightens with emotion, and you have to blink back tears for what feels like the hundredth time today. "Jannik…"

"I didn't propose because I was caught up in the moment," he says firmly. "I proposed because the moment made me realize I don't want to waste any more time waiting for perfect. You are perfect. We are perfect. Everything else is just details."

You kiss him then, soft and lingering and full of all the love you can't quite put into words. He tastes like the champagne from the winner's celebration and something that's purely him, and when you finally break apart, you're both breathing a little harder.

"So what happens now?" you ask, your forehead resting against his.

A slow smile spreads across his face, the kind that transforms his entire expression and reminds you why you fell in love with him in the first place. "Now we plan a wedding. Now we figure out what our life looks like as an engaged couple. Now we see if you can handle being married to someone who hits a yellow ball for a living."

"I think I can manage," you say dryly, which makes him laugh.

"Good, because I have a pretty demanding schedule for the next few months. US Open coming up, Asian swing after that…" He trails off, something shifting in his expression. "Actually, about that. I need to tell you something."

The sudden seriousness in his tone makes you pull back slightly, studying his face. "What is it?"

"I talked to Alex Vittur tonight. My manager," he clarifies, though you've met Alex dozens of times. "About the engagement, about what this means going forward."

A cold thread of anxiety starts to wind through your chest. You've always known that your relationship exists in a complicated space—public enough that tennis fans know about you, private enough that you've managed to maintain some semblance of normalcy. But engagement changes things. Marriage changes things even more.

"And?" you prompt when he doesn't continue.

"There's going to be more attention now. More scrutiny. The tennis media is already calling it the proposal of the year, and we haven't even seen the full coverage yet." His hand finds yours again, gripping tightly. "I need you to know what you're signing up for. What we're both signing up for."

You've thought about this, of course. Have wondered what it would mean to be permanently linked to someone whose every move is analyzed and critiqued by fans and media around the world. But sitting here now, looking at the man you love more than anything, the answer feels startlingly simple.

"I'm not signing up for the attention," you say quietly. "I'm signing up for you. For us. Everything else is just noise."

Relief floods his features, and you realize he was genuinely worried about your answer. It makes your heart ache that he could doubt, even for a second, your commitment to building a life with him.

"There's something else," he continues, and this time there's something almost shy in his expression. "Alex thinks… he thinks we should do an interview. Together. Something official, controlled, to get ahead of the story."

The idea makes your stomach clench with nerves. You've always been careful to stay in the background of Jannik's career, supportive but separate. The thought of sitting in front of cameras, of answering questions about your relationship and your future, feels overwhelming.

"What do you think?" you ask, because his opinion matters more than anyone else's.

"I think," he says slowly, "that I'm tired of hiding how important you are to me. I think I want the world to know that the woman who said yes today isn't just my girlfriend who happens to travel with me. You're my partner, my best friend, my future wife. You're the reason I can do what I do at the level I do it."

His words send warmth flooding through your chest, but you can hear the uncertainty underneath them. He's asking for your permission, for your comfort level, even though he's the one who would bear the brunt of any criticism or judgment.

"Okay," you say, surprising yourself with how quickly the decision comes. "If it's important to you, then it's important to me."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," you interrupt, and you realize you mean it. "I want people to understand what we have. I want them to see that this isn't some tennis romance novel. This is real. We're real."

Jannik's smile is soft and grateful and so full of love that it makes your chest tight. "Ti amo," he whispers, slipping into Italian the way he does when English feels insufficient for what he's trying to say.

"Ti amo anch'io," you whisper back, and his eyes light up the way they always do when you attempt his native language.

The room falls into comfortable silence, both of you lost in your own thoughts about what comes next. Outside, London continues its nighttime rhythm, but inside this suite, time feels suspended. Like you're existing in a perfect bubble where nothing can touch you except each other.

"Can I ask you something?" Jannik says eventually, his voice soft in the quiet.

"Anything."

"When did you know? When did you know you wanted to marry me?"

The question catches you off guard, and you find yourself thinking back through the months and years of your relationship. There have been so many moments—big and small, public and private—that could qualify as the turning point.

"Remember your first win after the suspension?" you say finally. "Madrid, I think it was. You'd been so quiet for weeks, so angry at yourself, so convinced that everyone would always see you differently."

He nods, his jaw tightening slightly at the memory. The doping suspension had been one of the darkest periods of his career, even though it was ultimately resolved in his favor. The doubt, the whispers, the way some people looked at him like he was damaged goods—it had nearly broken him.

"You won that match, and instead of celebrating, you came straight to me in the stands. You were crying, and you said…" You pause, the memory still vivid and painful. "You said you were scared that you'd never feel clean again. That every win would be tainted."

"I remember," he says quietly.

"And I told you that the people who mattered would judge you by your character, not by mistakes that weren't even yours. That I would stand by you whether you won another tournament or not, because I didn't fall in love with your ranking. I fell in love with your heart."

You meet his eyes, seeing the emotion swimming in them. "That night, when you held me and thanked me for not leaving, for not believing the worst… that's when I knew. That's when I realized that loving you wasn't just about the good times. It was about choosing each other through everything. The ugly parts, the scary parts, the parts that test everything you think you know about yourself."

Jannik is quiet for a long moment, his thumb still tracing patterns on your palm. When he speaks, his voice is thick with emotion.

"I was so scared during that whole thing," he admits. "Not of losing tournaments or rankings, but of losing you. Of you deciding that the complications weren't worth it."

"Never," you say firmly. "That was never even a possibility."

"I know that now. But then…" He shakes his head. "I kept waiting for you to realize that loving me meant dealing with all the chaos that comes with professional tennis. The travel, the pressure, the scrutiny. I kept expecting you to wake up one day and decide you wanted something simpler."

The vulnerability in his voice breaks your heart a little. You've never doubted your commitment to him, but you realize now that he's been carrying this fear for longer than you knew.

"Jannik, look at me," you say, waiting until his eyes meet yours. "I chose you. Not tennis, not the lifestyle, not the fame or the money or any of the external things. I chose you. The man who makes me coffee every morning because he knows I'm useless before caffeine. The man who remembers that I hate crowds and always finds quiet restaurants when we're traveling. The man who listens to me talk about my work even though it has nothing to do with tennis."

You lean closer, your hand coming up to rest over his heart. "I chose the man who cries during dog movies and knows more about Formula 1 than any person reasonably should. The man who speaks three languages but still gets tongue-tied when he's trying to tell me he loves me. I chose your heart, your mind, your terrible jokes, your ridiculous perfectionism. Everything else is just packaging."

By the time you finish speaking, there are tears in his eyes, and he's looking at you like you've just solved every problem he's ever had.

"How do you always know exactly what to say?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Because I love you," you say simply. "And because someone very smart once told me that love is about seeing people clearly and choosing them anyway."

He kisses you then, desperate and grateful and full of promise. And when you break apart, both of you are crying and laughing at the same time, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what you're promising each other.

"We're really doing this," Jannik says, like he's just now believing it.

"We're really doing this," you confirm.

"You know what this means, right?" he asks, a hint of mischief creeping into his expression.

"What?"

"You're going to be Signora Sinner."

The name hits you like a physical thing, warm and strange and wonderful. You've thought about it, of course, but hearing him say it out loud makes it feel real in a way it hasn't before.

"I like the sound of that," you admit, which makes him grin.

"Good, because I've been practicing writing it for months."

"Months?" you ask, laughing. "How long have you been planning this?"

"Longer than you think," he says mysteriously. "I may have bought the ring after Roland Garros, but I've been thinking about marrying you since about our third date."

"Our third date was dinner at that terrible tourist trap in Monte Carlo because we were both too nervous to pick somewhere nice."

"Exactly," he says, his smile soft and reminiscent. "You spent the entire meal making fun of the plastic grapes on the tables and the waiter who kept calling you 'bella signorina.' And I remember thinking that I wanted to take you to terrible restaurants for the rest of my life, just to hear you laugh like that."

The memory makes you warm all over. That night feels like a lifetime ago, back when you were both still figuring out what you meant to each other, still careful and polite and desperately trying not to mess up something that felt important.

"You were wearing that blue dress," he continues, his eyes distant with memory. "The one with the little flowers. And you had this tiny piece of parmesan cheese on your lip, and when I told you about it, you were so embarrassed that you hid your face in your hands."

"I can't believe you remember that," you say, touched by the specificity of the memory.

"I remember everything about that night," he says seriously. "Because that was the night I realized I wasn't just attracted to you or infatuated with you. That was the night I realized I was falling in love with who you are as a person."

The weight of his words settles between you, heavy with years of shared history and the promise of years to come. You think about that girl in the blue dress, so nervous and hopeful and completely unprepared for how thoroughly this quiet, intense man would change her life.

"What are you thinking about?" Jannik asks, reading the contemplation in your expression.

"Just… how different everything is now. How much we've both changed since then."

"Not everything's different," he says, his hand moving to cup your cheek. "You still laugh at my terrible jokes. You still steal my hoodies when you think I'm not looking. You still get that little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating on something important."

He traces the spot he's talking about with his thumb, and you realize he's right. Underneath all the growth and change and evolution of your relationship, the fundamental things that drew you to each other remain constant.

"And you still get that look in your eyes when you're about to kiss me," you observe, noticing the way his gaze has dropped to your lips.

"What look?" he asks, even as he's already leaning closer.

"Like you're about to do something very important and you want to make sure you do it right."

"Kissing you is important," he says seriously. "It's the most important thing I do."

"More important than winning Wimbledon?" you tease.

"Much more important than winning Wimbledon," he says without hesitation. "Wimbledon is just tennis. Kissing you is… kissing you is everything."

And then he does kiss you, soft and slow and thorough, like he has all the time in the world and nowhere else he'd rather be. You lose yourself in the warmth of his mouth, the gentle pressure of his hands in your hair, the way he kisses you like you're something precious and rare and entirely his.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard, and the atmosphere in the room has shifted into something charged and intimate.

"We should probably get some sleep," Jannik says, but he makes no move to let go of you.

"Probably," you agree, equally reluctant to break the spell of this moment.

"Press conference tomorrow, then back to Monte Carlo to start planning a wedding."

"Planning a wedding," you repeat, still getting used to the phrase. "That's going to be interesting."

"Why?"

"Because you're a perfectionist who wants to control every detail, and I'm someone who gets overwhelmed by too many choices. It should be a fun combination."

Jannik laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet room. "We'll figure it out. We figured out everything else."

"True," you concede. "Though I have to say, proposing at Wimbledon is going to be a tough act to follow."

"Good thing I only plan to propose once," he says, bringing your hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your ring finger.

The gesture is simple, almost unconscious, but it sends warmth flooding through your entire body. This man, this brilliant, complicated, beautiful man, chose you. Out of all the people he could have, all the lives he could have built, he chose you.

"I love you," you whisper, the words feeling both familiar and revolutionary.

"I love you," he whispers back. "My fiancée."

The word hangs in the air between you, new and strange and wonderful. Tomorrow, you'll wake up and figure out what it means to be engaged to one of the world's best tennis players. You'll plan a wedding and navigate increased media attention and learn how to build a marriage that can withstand the pressures of professional sports.

But tonight, you're just going to hold onto this moment. This perfect, impossible, beautiful moment when everything changed and nothing changed and the boy you fell in love with became the man you're going to marry.

"Come on," Jannik says finally, standing and offering you his hand. "Let's go to bed. Big day tomorrow."

You take his hand and let him pull you to your feet, but instead of heading toward the bedroom, you find yourself looking back at the coffee table where his Wimbledon trophy sits gleaming in the lamplight.

"That's really yours," you say, still slightly amazed by the reality of it.

"It's really ours," he corrects gently. "Everything I have is ours now. That's what marriage means, right? Sharing everything, the victories and the defeats and everything in between."

You look at him then, this man who just won the most prestigious tournament in tennis and is more excited about the fact that you're wearing his ring. This man who sees your love not as something that supports his success, but as something that makes his success meaningful.

"Yeah," you say, your voice soft with wonder and love and overwhelming gratitude for the life you're about to build together. "That's exactly what it means."

And as you follow him toward the bedroom, leaving the trophy and the chaos of the day behind, you know that whatever comes next—whatever challenges or celebrations or ordinary moments lie ahead—you'll face them together.

Just the way it's supposed to be.

Just the way it's always been, from the very first moment he looked for you in the crowd.

The snow falls outside the windows in thick, lazy flakes, blanketing the alpine landscape in pristine white that stretches as far as the eye can see. From your suite on the third floor of the castle resort, you can see the peaks of the Dolomites rising in the distance, their jagged silhouettes softened by winter mist. It's the kind of view that belongs on postcards, the kind of setting that feels too perfect to be real.

But then again, this entire day has felt like something borrowed from a fairy tale.

You're sitting at the antique vanity in your bridal suite, still wearing your wedding dress but having shed the cathedral-length veil and the delicate Jimmy Choo heels that carried you down the aisle three hours ago. Your makeup has been touched up after the ceremony tears, your hair carefully arranged back into the soft updo that took your stylist two hours to perfect this morning. But despite all the professional polish, you feel more yourself than you have all day.

Maybe it's because the ceremony is over. Maybe it's because the formal photographs have been taken, the congratulations received, the immediate chaos of becoming Mrs. Sinner finally settling into something calmer. Or maybe it's because you know that in just a few minutes, Jannik will knock on that door, and for the first time today, you'll have a moment alone together as husband and wife.

The thought sends a flutter of nervous excitement through your chest. Husband and wife. Even after six months of engagement, even after months of wedding planning and dress fittings and menu tastings, the reality of it feels surreal. You're married to Jannik Sinner. You're married to the man who won Wimbledon and proposed to you in front of fifteen thousand people, who spent the last six months proving every day that his love for you runs deeper than any tournament victory.

A soft knock at the door interrupts your thoughts, and your heart immediately jumps to your throat.

"Come in," you call, your voice slightly breathless with anticipation.

The door opens slowly, and Jannik steps into the room like he's entering a sacred space. He's changed out of his formal morning coat into a simpler black suit, though he's kept the white dress shirt and the silk tie that matches the pale blue of your dress's sash. His hair is slightly mussed from the wind during the outdoor photographs, and there's a light dusting of snow on his shoulders that he hasn't bothered to brush off.

But it's his expression that makes your breath catch. He's looking at you like he's seeing you for the first time, like the woman sitting at this vanity is some miraculous apparition he's not quite sure he deserves to witness.

"Hi," he says softly, his voice carrying that familiar accent that still makes your heart skip after all this time.

"Hi yourself," you respond, turning on the vanity stool to face him fully. "How's the reception going?"

"Good," he says, but he's not really paying attention to the question. His eyes are tracing over you with an intensity that makes you feel warm all over. "Beautiful. Everyone's having a wonderful time."

"But?" you prompt, recognizing the slight tension in his shoulders.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, that devastating half-smile that's been featured on magazine covers but that you know is reserved for moments like this. "But I missed you," he admits. "I know we've only been apart for twenty minutes, but I missed my wife."

My wife. The words hit you like a physical thing, warm and wonderful and still so new that they make you dizzy.

"Your wife," you repeat, testing the words on your tongue. "I like the sound of that."

"Good," he says, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind him with a soft click. "Because you're going to be hearing it a lot for the next sixty years or so."

The privacy of the moment settles around you like a warm blanket. After a day filled with family and friends and photographers and wedding coordinators, it's just the two of you in this beautiful room, with the snow falling outside and the rest of the world temporarily forgotten.

"Come here," you say softly, and he crosses the room without hesitation.

When he reaches you, his hands immediately find your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones in that gentle gesture you've come to associate with his most tender moments. "You look incredible," he whispers. "I mean, you always look incredible, but today…"

"Today?" you prompt, smiling at the way he seems to be struggling for words.

"Today you look like mine," he finishes quietly. "Like you belong to me the way I belong to you. Completely. Forever."

The possessiveness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine, but it's not the kind that makes you want to pull away. It's the kind that makes you want to melt into him, to remind him that the belonging goes both ways.

"I do belong to you," you say, your hands coming up to cover his. "Just like you belong to me. That's what the rings mean, right?"

He looks down at your left hand, where your engagement ring now sits alongside a simple platinum wedding band. His own ring—a matching band that he chose because he wanted everyone to know he was taken—catches the light from the fireplace crackling in the corner of the room.

"The rings are just symbols," he says, his voice soft but intense. "What we promised each other today, what we've been promising each other for months… that's not about jewelry or legal documents or ceremonies. That's about choice. Choosing each other, every day, for the rest of our lives."

You remember the moment he's referring to, the private vow exchange that happened just before the official ceremony. Standing in the small chapel adjacent to the main hall, with only the officiant present, you'd spoken words that were too personal, too raw for the larger audience. Words about the dark moments and the bright ones, about the way you've seen each other at your worst and chosen to stay anyway.

"I meant every word I said today," you tell him, your voice steady despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm you. "Every promise, every vow. I'm not going anywhere, Jannik. Not ever."

His eyes flutter closed for a moment, like your words are too much to process while looking at you. When he opens them again, they're bright with unshed tears.

"Ti amo," he whispers, slipping into Italian the way he always does when English feels insufficient. "Ti amo così tanto che a volte non riesco a respirare."

You don't speak fluent Italian, but you've learned enough over the years to understand the general meaning. I love you so much that sometimes I can't breathe. The sentiment is so perfectly Jannik—dramatic and intense and utterly sincere—that it makes your chest tight with affection.

"I love you," you whisper back. "More than tennis, more than winning, more than anything."

The reference to his sport makes him smile, remembering all the times you've joked about competing with tennis for his attention. But you both know that's never been a real competition. Tennis is what he does; you are who he is.

"Can I tell you something?" he asks, his hands still framing your face.

"Anything."

"When I was walking down that aisle today, when I saw you at the other end in that dress…" He pauses, seeming to struggle with how to articulate what he's feeling. "I kept thinking about Wimbledon. About that moment when I won and the first thing I wanted was to find you in the crowd."

You remember that moment vividly—the way his eyes had searched for you through the chaos, the way everything else had faded away when your gazes finally met.

"And today, walking toward you, knowing that in a few minutes you'd be my wife…" He shakes his head, like he's still processing the magnitude of it. "It felt like that moment, but bigger. Like every good thing that's ever happened to me has been leading to this."

The words hit you like a wave, washing over you with their sincerity and depth. This man, this brilliant, complicated, beautiful man, has a way of making you feel like you're the center of his universe while simultaneously reminding you that his universe extends far beyond just the two of you.

"I felt it too," you admit. "That sense of everything clicking into place. Like all the pieces of my life finally making sense."

He leans down then, his forehead resting against yours in that gesture that's become your signature pose. It's how you stand together in quiet moments, how you find each other's center when the world gets too loud or complicated.

"We did it," he says quietly. "We actually did it."

"Did what? Got married?" you ask with a soft laugh.

"No," he says, though he's smiling. "I mean yes, obviously we got married. But we did the impossible thing. We built something real and lasting and beautiful in the middle of chaos. We found each other and chose each other and somehow managed to create this life that's better than anything I ever imagined for myself."

His words wrap around you like a warm embrace, and you're struck once again by his ability to see the bigger picture, to understand the significance of what you've built together beyond just the romantic gestures and public moments.

"It wasn't impossible," you say softly. "It was inevitable. We were inevitable."

"Were we?" he asks, and there's something almost vulnerable in the question.

"Think about it," you say, your hands moving to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palms. "All those years of you traveling the world, playing in tournaments, meeting thousands of people. All those years of me living my life, working my job, completely unaware that professional tennis even existed. And somehow, we still found each other."

You pause, thinking about the chain of coincidences and choices that led to your first meeting. "If you hadn't decided to stay an extra day in Monte Carlo after that tournament. If I hadn't decided to take that job that moved me there. If you hadn't gone to that specific café at that specific time…"

"If you hadn't been reading that book I recognized," he adds, remembering the moment he'd approached your table and commented on your choice of literature.

"Exactly. All those tiny decisions, all those moments that seemed insignificant at the time, but they were all leading us to each other." You smile up at him, overwhelmed by the beautiful complexity of fate and choice. "So yes, I think we were inevitable. I think the universe conspired to bring us together."

Jannik is quiet for a long moment, processing your words with that same careful consideration he brings to everything important. When he speaks again, his voice is soft with wonder.

"I love the way you see things," he says. "I love the way you make everything feel like magic, even when it's complicated or difficult or scary."

"That's because you make me believe in magic," you respond truthfully. "You make me believe that good things can happen, that dreams can come true, that love can be exactly as perfect as it seems in movies."

"Even when I'm being impossible? Even when I'm stressed about tournaments or obsessing over training schedules or spending too much time analyzing match footage?"

"Especially then," you say firmly. "Because that's who you are. You're passionate and dedicated and you care deeply about everything you do. I didn't fall in love with some sanitized version of you. I fell in love with all of it—the perfectionism, the intensity, the way you eat the same breakfast every day for months when you're in a good rhythm."

He laughs at that, remembering his very specific pre-tournament routines that you've learned to navigate and support over the years.

"You're going to have to put up with all of that for the rest of your life now," he warns, though his tone is playful.

"And you're going to have to put up with my terrible morning mood and my inability to make decisions about restaurants and the way I steal your hoodies when I'm cold," you counter.

"I love your terrible morning mood," he says seriously. "I love that you're grumpy and disheveled and completely yourself before you've had coffee. I love that you need me to make those decisions because it means I get to take care of you. And I love that you steal my hoodies because it means you carry a piece of me with you."

The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tight with emotion. After more than two years together, he still has the ability to surprise you with the depth of his feelings, with his capacity to see beauty in the mundane details of sharing a life with someone.

"How are you real?" you ask softly, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean how do you exist? How do you manage to be this incredible tennis player and this thoughtful partner and this beautiful human being all at the same time? How did I get so lucky that you chose me?"

Jannik's expression grows serious, his hands moving from your face to your hands, interlacing your fingers with careful precision.

"You think you got lucky?" he asks. "I'm the one who gets to wake up every morning next to the woman who sees me as more than my ranking. Who loves me on my worst days, who celebrates my victories without making them about her, who builds her own incredible life while still choosing to share it with me."

He lifts your joined hands, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. "I'm the one who gets to call you my wife. I'm the one who gets to grow old with someone who makes me laugh, who challenges me, who makes every day feel like an adventure worth having."

The words wash over you like a benediction, and you're struck by the realization that this is what marriage is supposed to feel like. Not just the grand gestures and romantic moments, but this deep, abiding certainty that you've found your person. The one who sees all of you and chooses all of you, every single day.

"Dance with me," you say suddenly, the words coming from some deep impulse you don't fully understand.

"Here?" he asks, glancing around the suite. "There's no music."

"So? We don't need music. We just need each other."

A slow smile spreads across his face, that devastating expression that still makes your knees weak after all this time. "Mrs. Sinner," he says formally, offering you his hand with an exaggerated bow. "Would you do me the honor of this dance?"

"I thought you'd never ask, Mr. Sinner," you respond, taking his hand and letting him pull you to your feet.

The wedding dress makes movement slightly awkward, but you manage to find a rhythm together, swaying slowly in the space between the fireplace and the windows. Outside, the snow continues to fall, creating a winter wonderland that feels like something out of a dream. But inside this room, wrapped in Jannik's arms, everything feels perfectly real.

"I can't believe we chose December in the mountains," you murmur against his chest. "When you proposed, I was thinking beach wedding. Somewhere warm and tropical."

"But this is perfect," he says, his chin resting on top of your head. "This is where my story began—in the mountains. It feels right that our story as husband and wife should begin here too."

You think about his childhood in South Tyrol, about the boy who started skiing before he could properly walk, who learned discipline and determination on these same alpine slopes. It makes sense that he'd want to begin this new chapter in the landscape that shaped him.

"Plus," he adds, and you can hear the smile in his voice, "I look better in a suit than in swim trunks."

"That's debatable," you say, which makes him laugh.

"You're terrible," he says fondly.

"You married me anyway."

"Best decision I ever made," he says without hesitation, and the certainty in his voice makes your heart flutter.

You continue swaying together in comfortable silence, both lost in your own thoughts about the day, about the future, about the beautiful complexity of the life you're building together. The fire crackles softly in the background, and the snow creates a gentle percussion against the windows.

"What are you thinking about?" Jannik asks eventually, reading the contemplation in your silence.

"Everything," you admit. "Today, Wimbledon, the first time we met, what our life is going to look like five years from now. Ten years from now."

"And what do you see? In five years, ten years?"

You're quiet for a moment, actually considering the question seriously. "I see you still playing tennis, but maybe starting to think about what comes after. I see us in a house somewhere—maybe Monte Carlo, maybe Italy, maybe somewhere we haven't even discovered yet. I see kids, eventually, when we're ready for that adventure."

The mention of children makes him still slightly, and you pull back to look at his face. "What? Too much?"

"No," he says quickly. "Not too much. Just… I've been thinking about that too. About what kind of father I want to be, what kind of family we want to build."

"And?"

"And I think about my parents, about how they supported my dreams without making tennis the only thing that mattered. I think about how they taught me to work hard but also to be kind, to be grateful, to see the beauty in ordinary moments." His hands move to rest on your waist, his thumbs tracing gentle circles through the silk of your dress. "I want to give that to our kids. That sense of possibility, but also that foundation of love and stability."

The picture he's painting makes your chest warm with anticipation and love. You can see it so clearly—Jannik teaching small children to ski on these same mountain slopes, reading bedtime stories in his soft accent, showing them how to hold a tennis racquet but never pressuring them to follow in his footsteps.

"They're going to adore you," you say softly. "Our kids. They're going to think their dad is the coolest person in the world."

"Even when I'm old and retired and probably a little boring?"

"Especially then," you say firmly. "Because by then they'll be old enough to understand that their father isn't just some guy who was good at tennis. He's the man who loves their mother completely, who builds a life based on kindness and integrity and the belief that every day is worth celebrating."

Jannik's eyes grow bright with emotion, and he pulls you closer, until there's no space left between you. "I love you," he whispers against your hair. "I love the future we're going to build together."

"I love you," you whisper back. "All of you, all of it, forever."

The word 'forever' hangs in the air between you, weighty with promise and possibility. Forever seemed like such an abstract concept when you were younger, but now, wrapped in Jannik's arms on your wedding day, it feels concrete and achievable and absolutely certain.

A soft knock at the door interrupts the moment, followed by a voice you recognize as your wedding coordinator.

"Mrs. Sinner? The guests are asking for you and your husband. They're ready to begin the reception."

Mrs. Sinner. The title sends a thrill through you, even though you've been hearing it all day. You look up at Jannik, seeing your own mixture of disappointment and anticipation reflected in his face. You want to stay in this bubble forever, but you also want to celebrate with the people who love you, who've traveled from around the world to witness this moment.

"We should go," you say reluctantly.

"We should," he agrees, but neither of you moves to break apart.

"Just… one more minute?" you ask.

"One more minute," he confirms, his arms tightening around you.

You stand there together, swaying slightly to music only you can hear, storing up this moment like a treasure you can return to whenever you need reminding of what real love feels like. Outside, your friends and family are waiting to toast your marriage, to dance and laugh and celebrate until the early hours of the morning. Tomorrow, you'll fly back to Monte Carlo and begin the practical business of merging your lives completely—joint bank accounts and shared closets and decisions about where to spend holidays.

But right now, in this perfect moment, you're just Jannik and his wife, dancing in a castle in the mountains where your love story began its next chapter.

"Ready?" he asks eventually, though his reluctance to leave matches your own.

"With you?" you say, echoing the words you spoke to him in the car after Wimbledon, when everything changed and nothing changed and your whole life shifted into something beautiful and impossible and exactly right. "I'm ready for anything."

He smiles at the callback, remembering that night as clearly as you do. "Good," he says, stepping back just enough to offer you his arm with formal gallantry. "Because this is just the beginning."

And as you take his arm and let him lead you toward the door, toward the celebration waiting beyond, toward the life you're going to build together day by day and choice by choice, you know that he's right.

This is just the beginning of a story that started with a tennis match and a proposal, but that's really about something much deeper and more lasting. A story about finding your person in a world of billions, about choosing love every day even when it's difficult, about building something beautiful and strong enough to weather whatever storms might come.

A story about the first person he looks for in the crowd, and the last person he wants to see every night for the rest of his life.

A story that begins, always, with choosing each other.

#jannik sinner #jannik sinner imagine #jannik sinner imagines #jannik sinner fic #jannik sinner fics #jannik sinner x reader #tennis imagine #tennis imagines #tennis fic #tennis fics

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pillbaby · 2 days ago

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camboy!sukuna is a terrible roommate. you should've known better, especially after that first visit to his apartment. it was a disaster. even though he knew you were coming, he hadn't bothered to tidy up. the place was littered with empty pizza boxes, half-empty energy drink cans, and an absurd number of socks.

camboy!sukuna's rent, though, was undeniably cheaper than anything else you could find. it was a choice between this messy, chaotic apartment and having nowhere to sleep at all. you really didn't have much of a choice.

camboy!sukuna who constantly has women over. he doesn't even try to be discreet about it. the walls are paper-thin, and trying to sleep through the loud moans and the rhythmic banging of his headboard against the drywall is nearly impossible.

camboy!sukuna, when he doesn't have company at night, seems perfectly content to go solo. you can hear his groans and the muffled words that sometimes escape his lips. you can never quite make out what he's saying, but the low, vulnerable sound of his voice is enough to stir something in you.

camboy!sukuna who, you hate to admit, has you slipping your fingers past the hem of your pajama pants. it's a little mortifying, getting off to the sounds of your roommate pleasuring himself. but you can't help it. he's incredibly attractive—over six feet tall and built. if he's that big, what about his dick?

camboy!sukuna and those dirty thoughts won't leave your mind. you press a hand over your mouth; you'd be damned if you let him hear you. you close your eyes, pretending it's his cock you're clenching around, coming in sync with him, your sticky release spilling onto your sheets. you know he's climaxing, too, because you've noticed he gets significantly louder when he orgasms.

camboy!sukuna's door is open one day. he's not in his room, but in the shower down the hall. you had just needed to talk to him about something. you'd never actually been inside his room, only caught glimpses when he slipped in. he's not much of a conversationalist, for some reason, but he has no problem walking around the apartment half-naked.

camboy!sukuna who's bedroom you walk into, your curiosity getting the better of you. there's not much to it: a messy bedspread, some rock band posters on the wall, and a pile of clothes on the floor. not as bad as you expected, honestly. you're about to leave when you notice his laptop is open, and you squint at the screen.

camboy!sukuna who's screen reads livestream ended. you had no idea he was a streamer, and you certainly didn't know he was a porn streamer until you read the url of the site. shocked doesn't even begin to cover what you're feeling. your roommate's live stream was a camshow? he's a camboy? that same overwhelming curiosity takes hold of you, and you click on his stats.

camboy!sukuna who had almost 500,000 viewers tuned in to his latest stream. your eyes widen, your jaw dropping. stunned, you stumble backward, hitting the wall. (except it's not the wall. it's your six-foot-something, built roommate.)

camboy!sukuna watches you with amusement as you babble about needing more time on the rent, tripping over your words, your face burning. you're just trying to explain you're a little short on cash this month.

camboy!sukuna just grins, telling you he knows a good way for you to make a quick buck. his gaze drifts to the laptop, and yours follows. and because you're just a good roommate who doesn't want to delay her rent payment, you slowly nod.

camboy!sukuna who's right. this is a good way to make a quick buck. his viewers are enthralled, spamming him with donations, all wondering who this pretty girl he's fucking so passionately is. his head is buried in the crook of your neck, and your legs are wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him even closer.

camboy!sukuna who fucks you so well the stream could never truly capture it. his strokes are deep and fast, almost desperate, as he chases his orgasm. his teeth sink into your shoulder, and he murmurs about how well you take him, how good you look on camera, how he can't believe he's never brought you on before.

camboy!sukuna has you cumming over and over again until you're dizzy and can't take any more. even then, he doesn't stop. he just keeps fucking his seed deeper into you. you're an overstimulated mess of tears and wet release, and he just might be in love.

camboy!sukuna who's looking at you with heart-eyes at the end, brushing hair out of your face, making sure you're okay. his fans realize he's completely smitten before he even does.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #ryomen x reader #ryomen x you #ryomen x y/n #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen x you #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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ketsuarting · 2 days ago

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100% nay 1000%

Kim Kitsuragi and Harry Du Bois are two sides of the same coin. One gripping so hard at control in an uncontrollable train wreck of an environment and the other so desperately trying to give up when he can't help but care so so so so much.

Kim wishes he didn't need to go down and to it freak style and Harry wishes he could just let go and allow himself the simple pleasure of enjoying the good thing that's right there for him to have.

The game, from Kim's perspective, is so utterly impossible and pointless. If Harry was not there that man wouldn't have been able to perform the goddamn autopsy. He has zero options, for a myriad of reasons that all don't matter too much, but it results in him 'fake it till you make it' composure and aloofness and control.

Meanwhile playing disco elysium is miserable. No matter how many steps forward you make, it ends in bitterness. When I first played the game I tried so so so hard on Lenas quest and I actually had a 94% success rate on talking to the big stick bug. Guess was. I rolled snake eyes. I didn't even try to see if there was a second chance after that, I just pulled the plug and didn't touch the game for a week. I effectivly did what Harry did in tbe beginning, I said 'fuck it, I don't wanna be this animal anymore'

DESPITE THE FACT THAT BESIDES THAT I HAD EVERYTHING ELSE PERFECTLY DONE. KIM LIKED ME A LOT, I SOLVED THE CASE, I SAVED THE LESBIAN. I did so well, I was this close to beating the game, but one little slip up, which was fully out of my control btw, just... Made me snap and spirale.

They're so gay your honor

man i keep seeing people be like “HARRY would be in love by the end of the week, but KIM is too straight-laced and professional and-” DID WE PLAY THE SAME GAME. DID WE MEET THE SAME KIM KITSURAGI. and while we’re at it DID WE MEET THE SAME HARRY DU BOIS??? harry would take AT LEAST one month and/or two more near death experiences before allowing himself to be bisexual and THATS why they cant freak it crazy style in the game

#disco elysium #disco elysium spoilers #spoilers

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lemonanddeepspace · 3 days ago

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𝐓𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐨 𝐔𝐬 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭

Sylus

[Chapter 1] No Way Out

Story Masterlist

Pairing: Sylus x f!Reader

Story Warnings: Angst, Smut, Arranged Marriage, Second Chances, Infidelity

Chapter Warnings: None

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

Your husband doesn’t care if you live or die, it’s all the same to him. You’re no one of importance to him, he’s made it clear. After nearly five years of marriage, he barely remembers your name. Sylus has never, and will never care about you– It hurt a little at first, you won’t lie, but now you’ve grown indifferent to his treatment.

Since the beginning you knew the marriage was out of convenience. Sylus sought power that only your family could bring to him so he made a deal that they couldn’t refuse. You never got the details about it, you just knew you were the bargaining chip. You were thrown in the middle even though you aren’t allowed to know what’s going on.

You were upset at first. You threw tantrums, demanding an answer from someone. Anyone. Yet no one spoke up. However, the marriage didn’t upset you as much as it should’ve. You were finally free from the birdcage, given a false sense of freedom as Sylus took you under his wing.

Freedom. You almost scoff at the mere thought of it. Your prison just grew in size, but you are in no way free. He doesn’t care if you live or die but he does care if you escape. There’s someone constantly watching you, no matter where you’re at.

Sylus controls everything and everyone in the perimeter. You can’t even have a proper conversation with a stranger because they know who you are, and they want to maintain their distance. Sylus can’t even look you in the eye but he still manages to control everything in your life.

When you first got married to him, you thought you could handle it, but your patience has grown thin over the years. It’s gotten to the point where you can’t handle it. You seek freedom, and you’ll do just about anything to get a taste of it. Which is why you plan to leave Sylus, one way or another.

Tonight will be the night that you ask Sylus for a divorce. Even if he won’t grant it to you, you’ll still lay the concrete and make it clear that you want out. Even if it’s his sole decision. You have no say in a marriage you were forced into, but you hope that maybe luck will be on your side. Maybe by introducing the idea, Sylus will let you go.

There’s only one thing that feels nearly impossible: getting a moment alone with Sylus.

Lighting doesn’t strike twice in the same place, and neither does Sylus. You see him once a week, and he’s never alone. It’s always at a different time, a different day– Never consistent.

“Luke, will Sylus come around tonight?” You question as you watch the twin slouch on your couch, playing a video game. You stay out of his way, not blocking his view of the television, allowing him to remain focused on his game. That’s your first mistake, Luke barely even acknowledges you’re there because he’s too occupied with his game.

“Luke.” You call out to him again, and he glances at you for a moment before his eyes land on the television again.

“Online game, can’t pause.” He informs you, making you click your tongue.

“Is Sylus coming yes or no?” You repeat your question, knowing that he doesn’t need to look at you to answer. Either he knows or he doesn’t.

“Boss man? I don’t know.” You’re not sure if he’s lying through his teeth or being honest, but you don’t care enough to look into it. The twins are always covering up for Sylus, asking them anything is useless.

“Luke.” Your voice gets stern as your eyes land on the electrical cord. He can ignore you all he wants, but he’ll definitely change his mind once you realize you have the upper hand. When he looks at you again, he sees a threat. He freezes, and he sighs. You don’t have to keep exchanging words.

“He’ll come around tonight. He’s going to be late though.” He panics as he sees your hand get dangerously to the cord. He knows better.

“How late?” You ask, and he shrugs. You end up giving him a subtle nod before turning on your heel and leaving him alone. You’ll just stay up, no matter how late he is. If you don’t tell him tonight, the courage might leave your body the next time you have a chance.

Your eyes are shutting on their own as you wait for your husband. You’re trying your best to fight your sleep, but it’s winning. Luke must’ve warned Sylus to not come home tonight because you’d be waiting. To think a man his size is scared of you– You also are just getting into your head about it when Luke could’ve just lied to you.

You think about giving in until the loud sound of footsteps begin to approach your room. Your eyes are knocked wide awake, and you adjust your posture. You try to look lively, as if you weren’t about to fall asleep. You stand up from the couch, reaching for your class of wine and bringing it up to your lips. You try your best to look nonchalant.

“Heard you wanted to speak to me.” His voice sends a chill down your spine. You want to say that you’ve gotten used to it, but it’s rare to actually hear it.

Your breath is caught up in your chest before you turn around to finally face him. Sylus glares down at you with tired eyes, exhausted from the day– Already tired from what you have to say. He looks the same as always. Sylus never really changes; in five years you haven’t noticed a single hair out of place. Maybe you don’t notice a change because you barely see him, but by a simple comparison with your wedding photos, he still looks the same.

He perks up his brow, waiting for you to finally respond. He can’t idly stand by for hours as he waits for you to answer. He tries to give you some leeway, noting that you’re nervous. It’s hard not to notice when the nerves radiate from your body, even if you’re trying your best to suppress them. Your body gives subtle hints. No matter how stoic you try to be, there’s a tremor that you can’t get rid of.

“Well then, what is it? I don’t have all day.” Sylus is getting annoyed. He’s trying not to yawn as he waits for you to speak.

Except that the courage that you had earlier has faded and now you’re trying your best to come up with the right words. You take a deep breath as you stare at your husband. He’s looking into your soul, trying to decipher what you’re up to.

You can’t back down now, even if your heart is racing. He knows you want to talk about something, and it’s clearly something important since you’ve waited for him. He watches your every move, waiting for you to get something out.

“Well?” He insists.

“I want a divorce.” You finally spit out, eyes looking anywhere but at him. You aren’t brave enough to actually look at him to watch his reaction. Even though you know he won’t care, there’s a twinge of hope in you that he’ll care– And that hope controls your actions, forcing you to look away.

“I beg your pardon?” He responds, making you look up at him. His brows are furrowed in confusion, as he tries to decipher what you just said to him. He takes a moment to think about it, as if his ears are deceiving him. But no, he heard you right.

“Sylus, I think it’s time for me– For us to end this. There’s no point in this, and I’m tired.” You admit, nervously rambling. Your feelings get the best of you, and the confidence you had imagined during this moment is nowhere to be found. “I just feel like that’s the best thing for us. We’re not like an actual married couple–”

The words stop flowing out of your mouth the moment you hear a cold laugh leave his lips. You bite your tongue as you wait for him to say something. You look at him with hopeful eyes, hoping that he’ll agree to your request. But you know better.

“A divorce?” He questions with a mocking tone in his voice. He looks at you with contempt, almost feeling pity for you. “Sweetie, what do you think a divorce is?”

“I’m not stupid.” You answer, rolling your eyes at his response. “I want out of whatever we have–”

“You don’t get to decide that you want a divorce, the same way you didn’t get a choice in marrying me.” He interrupts you, his words getting under your skin. You should’ve expected it. You know that getting out of your situation isn’t easy. But hearing the words leave his lips makes your blood boil.

“It’s unfair!” You raise your voice as Sylus laughs. He turns around and begins to walk away, putting an end to the conversation. Unluckily for him, you aren’t quite done and you won’t let him leave so fast. You follow after him, nearly yelling, “Sylus, I’m speaking to you!”

“Life’s unfair, kitten. Get used to it.” You roll your eyes at his response, and you almost curse yourself for continuing the conversation. The nickname he gives you makes you seethe.

“Kitten? Seriously?” You scoff, almost getting sidetracked. Until you remember that there’s bigger issues at hand. “I feel like a prisoner, Sylus!”

“I believe that’s what they call marriage.” He argues, amused by his own response. He wants to get you off his tail before moving any farther, so he stops in his tracks.

“We’re not a married couple! We don’t have dinner together, we don’t speak to each other, we don’t sleep in the same bed– We don’t have sex! We haven’t had sex!” You raise your voice, making a fuss over something he finds utterly amusing.

“Sex?” He raises a brow, fighting back a smirk.

“Yes, sex!” You shout, making him let out a chuckle. He grabs your wrist, forcing your hand on his chest.

“You want sex? Is that it, kitten?” He leans down, making your face get warm out of pure embarrassment. Your words click as he repeats them.

“No!” You shake your head, jerking your hand out of his grasp. You look at the ground in shame as he laughs.

“What is it then, sweetie? You complain we don’t have sex, but when I ask if that’s what you desire, you tell me no. So?” He responds, and you feel your face burn up. You want to crawl in a hole and hide away forever. Perhaps you shouldn’t have brought that aspect of marriage up, but it’s a little too late to take back your words.

“I just mean that–” You stammer, unsure how to proceed. He’s caught you with your tail between your legs. You bite your tongue before nodding in defeat. “I just want a divorce, Sylus. I deserve romance, love, consideration– And the most basic thing of all, respect.”

“I respect you.” He argues, making you laugh for once.

“Respect? Your response to me asking for a divorce was undermining me. You asked me if I knew what a divorce is.” You point out, and he clicks his tongue. He doesn’t have the energy for this.

“I’m not in the mood, sweetie.” He sighs, turning around to leave you once again. Only this time, he doesn’t care if you keep chasing him. He’ll shut the door in your face, forcing you to go away.

“Of course you aren’t. Whatever helps you, Sylus.” You keep your heels on the ground, refusing to step any further. You can’t keep arguing with him when it’s clear that you want different things, at least tonight. Maybe tonight he’ll sleep on it and reflect on what he truly wants. Hopefully when he wakes up tomorrow, he’ll grant you liberty.

But you know things won’t be so easy, especially not with Sylus.

#lads x reader #love and deepspace #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus qin #lads

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blueberrybirdsworld · 3 days ago

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Player of the Match 3/3

Summary : She’s the most dominant player in women’s volleyball and media favorite known for her killer serves and perfectly styled hair. She’s also a massive Formula 1 fan. More specifically, an Oscar Piastri fan.

Oscar has no idea… until Lando shows him an interview of her revealing her crush.

Pairing : Oscar Piastri x volleyball player!reader

Genre : SMAU, fluff, request, suggestive

Face claim : Duru Türknas

Series : Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Main Masterlist

The sliding doors of the Nice Côte d'Azur Airport opened to let in a soft wave of summer heat, the Mediterranean sun spilling across the arrival hall in a gentle haze. Oscar stood a few feet away, slightly bouncing on the balls of his feet as his eyes scanned the crowd. His palms were clammy despite the air-conditioned terminal, one hand clutching his phone while the other rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck.

He had arrived twenty minutes early. Of course he had.

In the past, he'd always prided himself on being calm and composed, on track, during press, even in front of wild fans. But this? This had him undone. Because this wasn’t just anyone flying in for a weekend. It was her.

The girl he had watched on screen, spiking balls with impossible grace and laughing under fluorescent gym lights. The girl who had blushed in interviews when his name came up. The girl who, against all odds, was now texting him, flirting with him, going on dates with him. And now, stepping off a flight to spend the weekend in his world.

When he spotted her, dragging a small suitcase and wearing that bright smile that made his stomach twist in ways he hadn’t felt before, Oscar actually forgot how to breathe.

"Hi," she said, slightly breathless, eyes lighting up when she saw him standing there, white tee slightly wrinkled, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times.

He blinked, swallowed the lump in his throat, then finally moved forward. "Hi," he replied, smile blooming instantly. "You made it."

She laughed. "I did. Still can't believe it. Monaco feels like a dream."

Oscar reached for her suitcase handle, already pulling it from her hand with a gentleman's ease. "Well, let’s make it a good one. I parked just outside."

The drive from Nice to Monaco was smooth, the coastal roads curving between cliffs and sea, sunlight painting everything in gold. Oscar kept stealing glances at her from the corner of his eye. She looked out the window, hair pulled back loosely, sunglasses resting in her hand as she took in every glimpse of the Riviera.

Every few minutes, he'd ask something.

"Are you comfortable? Want the AC lower? Need water? Snacks? Should I stop for coffee?"

She turned to him at one point, placing a gentle hand on his wrist, laughter in her eyes. "Oscar. Breathe. Please. I'm good. Just really happy to be here."

He exhaled like she'd physically released some valve in his chest. "Okay, sorry. Just want to make sure everything's perfect."

"It already is," she said softly.

And then she pulled a tiny gift bag from her tote and handed it to him.

Oscar blinked. "What's this?"

"A little something. I saw it and thought of you. I hope it’s not too stupid."

He opened the bag carefully and pulled out a small, plush croissant with a smiling face stitched into it. His eyes widened in amusement.

"It’s a Piastri-pastry," she said, cheeks warming. "Pastry. Piastri. You know... dumb wordplay."

He actually choked out a laugh, one of those genuine, uncontrolled ones that made his eyes crinkle.

"That might be the best gift I’ve ever gotten," he said, turning the plush in his hands. "I'm putting this on my nightstand. Or maybe in the car. Permanent seat."

Their eyes locked for a moment longer than necessary. He leaned in slightly, almost without thinking but then pulled back, jaw tight, remembering himself.

She noticed.

He was too careful. Too cautious. Too polite. And it only made her like him more.

Oscar’s apartment in Monaco was sleek and modern, but surprisingly homey. Minimalist furniture, soft neutrals, and a framed photo of his dog back home in Australia on the entryway table.

He helped her with her bag, hovering in the hallway like he wasn’t sure if he should offer her the tour or apologize for not vacuuming.

"You can freshen up here," he said, leading her to the guest room. "Or rest. Or... whatever you need. Again, if you’re hungry or thirsty, I..."

"Oscar," she said gently, stepping closer and placing a hand on his chest. "I’m fine. Seriously. Stop worrying so much. Let’s just enjoy this, okay? No pressure. No expectations."

He nodded, trying to absorb her calm like a sponge. "Okay. It’s just, I really want this to go well. You to feel welcome. I’ve never flown anyone out here before."

Her smile softened. "That’s sweet. And a little intimidating. But sweet."

He laughed awkwardly. Then his voice dropped slightly, eyes flickering to her lips before quickly darting away. "Also... I’ve kind of been panicking about when to kiss you since the second I saw you at the airport."

She tilted her head. "Really?"

"Yeah. I keep overthinking it. Like, do I wait for the boat? At dinner? Under the stars? After dessert? Before dessert?"

She chuckled and stepped a little closer, eyes glinting with playful mischief. "Well, boat night does seem like the most cinematic option."

Oscar tried to hide his disappointment, nodding. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense."

She stared at his pout for one second too long, then let out a soft sigh. "Oscar."

He looked up.

"I was joking."

He blinked.

She took his hand. "You can kiss me now."

The way his breath caught—like the air had left the room and returned all at once, was almost funny.

Almost.

Then he stepped forward, cupped her cheek with one careful hand like he didn’t trust this to be real, and kissed her.

It was slow and warm at first, uncertain and full of all the nerves they’d been dancing around for weeks. But when she curled her fingers into the collar of his shirt, he melted into it, deepened it, let himself feel all of it.

And when they finally pulled away, their foreheads resting together, both slightly breathless, she whispered:

"Guess I won’t be needing that cinematic boat kiss anymore."

Oscar smiled against her lips. "Let’s do that too. Just for the full experience."

She laughed.

And God, he never wanted her to stop.

The sun hung low over the Monaco skyline, casting a soft golden light across the shimmering waters of the harbor. The cobbled streets were busy but calm, the sounds of gentle waves lapping against yachts mixing with the distant clinks of silverware from seaside cafés. Oscar glanced at her as they strolled side by side, her hand occasionally brushing against his, a quiet spark every time it happened.

He'd taken the afternoon to show her around the city, as much of it as could be covered in a few hours anyway. From the famous Casino de Monte-Carlo to the little market stalls tucked between luxury boutiques, she had marvelled at everything like a kid on Christmas morning. And God, he loved watching her take it all in.

"Okay," she said, pulling off her sunglasses and tucking them into her hair, "Monaco might be my new favorite place."

Oscar grinned, relieved and proud at the same time. "Yeah? That’s a big win."

"I mean... you, ice cream, yachts, sunshine? It’s like a dream."

"You forgot to mention traffic and being stared at by tourists."

"Minor inconveniences," she said, bumping his shoulder lightly with hers.

They stopped at a small gelateria by the harbor, Oscar ordering two cones: lemon and pistachio for him, dark chocolate and raspberry for her. He paid before she could even reach for her wallet.

"Oscar," she protested, laughing.

"Monaco rule number one," he replied smoothly. "When you're visiting, you don't pay for anything."

"Says who?"

"Me. Just now."

She licked her ice cream and raised a brow. "Fine. But I’m buying breakfast tomorrow."

He smiled to himself as they continued their slow walk along the marina, passing polished yachts, local fishermen packing up for the day, and the occasional couple arm-in-arm. With every passing minute, he felt himself relax a little more. Her laugh came easily. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She wasn’t overthinking this the way he was.

As they reached the far edge of the harbor, the private docks opened up before them, quieter and more secluded. Oscar led her down a narrow path between the boats, their steps echoing faintly on the wood.

He stopped when they reached Lando’s borrowed yacht.

"This is the one," he said, trying to sound casual, but the nerves were creeping back into his voice.

She turned toward the boat, then back at him, a slow grin forming. "Of course it is."

"I know, it’s a bit... much."

She tilted her head. "It's Monaco. Everything here is a bit much. But I love it."

They climbed aboard, and Oscar helped her down onto the deck with exaggerated care, his hand lingering in hers for a few seconds longer than needed.

"You okay?" he asked for the fifth time that afternoon.

"Oscar. I swear. If you ask me that again, I’m going to push you overboard."

He laughed, raising both hands in surrender. "Fair. I just..."

"Want to make sure I’m okay, I know," she interrupted, softer now. She looked at him for a moment, then reached out and took his hand. "I am. I’m really happy to be here."

They sat side by side on the back deck, the sky fading slowly into shades of amber and rose. The sun dipped behind the hills, leaving a trail of light dancing on the water. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. It wasn’t awkward. It was just, peaceful.

Oscar finally broke the silence. "Can I ask something stupid?"

She turned to look at him, intrigued. "Always."

"Are you... not nervous? At all? Because I’ve been in a constant state of panic since noon."

She smiled and looked down at their hands, still loosely tangled. "I was terrified."

He blinked. "Wait, seriously?"

"God, yes. You’re Oscar Piastri. The guy I crushed on through a screen, remember? The one who had no idea I existed while I was out here embarrassing myself in interviews."

Oscar winced playfully. "I loved those interviews. I watch them on repeat after your match. I think my favorite was when your teammate called me your imaginary husband."

"God no, but that's because you didn't know me, I tough you will never saw those."

"Well I saw it eventually."

They both laughed.

She continued, voice softening. "But yeah, I was nervous. I just... I’m a bit better at pretending I’m not."

"That’s not fair," he said, shaking his head. "You’re calm and collected and perfect, and I’m just here hoping I don’t say something dumb every two minutes."

Their laughter faded into another moment of quiet, one that lingered just long enough for her to lean against his shoulder. The air had cooled slightly, but her presence was warm.

"This might be my favorite day," she murmured.

Oscar tilted his head to rest lightly against hers. "Same."

Then, after a beat he says : "No pressure, right? Just... enjoy the moment?"

She smiled, eyes closed. "Exactly."

And as the stars began to blink into view above them, Oscar felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest. Not nerves. Not anxiety. Something calm. Something hopeful.

@volley_yn

Boat day with perfect company. 🛥️

@_user1: Wait wait wait… isn’t she in Monaco?? 👀 isn’t Oscar there too???

@_user2: okay but like… Oscar doesn’t have a boat, does he?

@_user3: maybe it’s just another guy?? maybe a random date??

@_user4: NO bc Lando does have a boat and he was at her match too

@_user5: but she was crushing on Piastri HARD, so like why would it be Lando now??

@_user6: plot twist: she changed favorite McLaren boys 💀

@_user7: can someone confirm if that’s the same white shirt Oscar wear all the time or am i just delulu

@_user8: the grapes. the lighting. the boat. THE MAN. I NEED TO KNOW.

@_user9: nah fr WHO IS HE 😭😭

@_francesca: you look so cuteee. enjoy 😌

@_user10: FRANCESCA DON’T JUST SAY THAT, TELL US WHO THE GUY IS

@_user11: @_francesca blink twice if it’s Piastri

@_user12: just say his name bestie, you’re in too deep now 🫣

The stars had claimed the sky above Monaco by the time they finished their glasses of wine. The yacht floated steady beneath them, anchored just outside the main harbor, where the city lights shimmered in the dark sea like a reflection of the stars above.

Oscar had brought a bottle of white, something Italian and crisp he thought she might like and to his relief, she did. She’d even made a pleased little sound after the first sip, which he stored deep in his memory like it meant something.

They were curled up on the back lounge of the boat now, close but not quite tangled yet. The wind was soft and salty, her legs bare where her skirt had slipped higher, and Oscar, trying very, very hard not to be a cliché, had placed his hand gently on her thigh when she leaned into him with a giggle. He didn’t even know what they were laughing about anymore.

Probably the wine.

She leaned back slightly, still chuckling, and ran her fingers into his hair, slow and light and deliberate.

Oscar’s breath caught.

“Okay,” she said, “you are very tense for someone who’s supposedly calm.”

“I’m not tense,” he replied too fast, too stiff. “I’m just... aware.”

“Aware?”

“That your hand is in my hair and I might actually melt into this seat if you keep doing that.”

She laughed, low and warm. “You like it?”

He hummed. “Dangerously.”

Her hand lingered, tugging lightly. His eyes fluttered closed for a second. When he opened them, she was watching him.

And she wasn’t smiling.

She was looking at him like she was thinking.

Planning.

Then she leaned in again and kissed him.

This time, it wasn’t sweet or shy or careful.

This time, it was slow, deliberate, her mouth opening beneath his, her tongue brushing his in a way that made his pulse skyrocket. He kissed her deeper, one hand firm on her thigh now, the other sliding up her waist to keep her close. Her fingers stayed in his hair, pulling softly, tilting his head, deepening the kiss until he groaned.

Actually groaned.

She grinned against his mouth.

“Oh God,” he muttered, cheeks flushed, breath ragged.

“I didn’t know you made noises like that,” she teased, her voice thick with amusement.

“I didn’t either,” he said honestly.

Then she did something that short-circuited every remaining rational thought in his brain.

She climbed onto his lap.

Effortless. Confident. Gorgeous.

Straddling him in one smooth movement, her legs on either side, her body warm and soft against his.

Oscar blinked, hands frozen in place like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to touch.

She was smiling again, that mischievous glint in her eyes. “You okay?”

“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

She laughed, leaned down and kissed him again, deeper this time, hungrier. He finally moved, hands sliding down her back, pulling her just a little closer. She shifted in his lap and he bit his lip to keep another sound in.

Her mouth moved to his neck, kissing, teasing, then a little bite.

Oscar swore under his breath. “You’re going to kill me.”

She nuzzled against his jaw. “You’ll die happy.”

His hands started to explore more now, drifting lower on her back, brushing the edge of her shirt where skin met fabric. And then he paused.

Pulled back just an inch. Enough to look at her.

“You know,” he said carefully, his voice quieter, “I didn’t invite you here for… this.”

She blinked. “Really?”

He flushed. “I mean… not that I don’t want to. I just… it wasn’t the plan. I wanted you to see Monaco. I wanted to show you the boat. Lando might’ve had… other ideas.”

She tilted her head. “Lando ?”

“Condoms on the main desk,” he muttered.

Her mouth dropped open. “Oh my God. That was him?”

“Yeah,” Oscar groaned. “I try to hide them the minute we step in here. And then I spent the entire afternoon praying you wouldn’t notice.”

“I did notice.”

“Of course you did.”

She started laughing, really laughing. Her whole body shaking against his lap.

“I thought you put them there!” she managed.

“What?! No! I would never...” he cut himself off, then muttered, “he’s such a menace.”

“He’s just a good friend. A little too involved.”

Oscar huffed. “Too involved. That’s putting it lightly.”

There was a pause. Then he ask again. “So… we’re not actually doing anything, right?” he asked, brows raised.

She smiled, brushing hair from his forehead, her hands resting on his shoulders. “Yeah. No way.”

“Right.”

“Yeah.”

“...You don’t sound convinced.”

She leaned in again, her mouth hovering just over his.

“Neither do you.”

Oscar leaned forward, guiding her gently down onto the cushioned bench, his breath shallow and rapid, the wine and heat and desire fogging everything else. She let herself fall back easily, pulling him with her, their mouths still connected in a slow, hungry kiss.

Her hands were on his neck, then in his hair again, tugging softly as he trailed his lips down her jaw, to the line of her throat.

Then lower.

He kissed her neck, soft and warm, then again, deeper this time, slower, lingering as he began to truly taste her skin. He found that spot just beneath her ear and she gasped. It made him smile, and then do it again, this time letting his teeth graze lightly before soothing the mark with his mouth.

Her body arched under him.

Her shirt had ridden up slightly in the motion, and with trembling fingers, Oscar slipped one hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing over the warm, bare skin of her waist.

She didn’t stop him.

In fact, she sighed, soft and pleased and shifted her hips beneath him, her legs slowly parting to make space between them. She welcomed him there, like she had been waiting for it all night.

That single movement undid him.

His breath hitched, his hand tightening on her hip for a second as he pulled back just enough to look down at her, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright in the dim yacht lighting.

He swallowed hard, heart racing, then leaned up and pulled his shirt over his head in one quick motion.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t overanalyze.

He just… let go.

Her eyes followed the movement and lingered, on the planes of his chest, the soft shadow of muscle, the way his breath rose and fell quickly now. She bit her bottom lip, smiling as if seeing him like this was both unexpected and completely inevitable.

And then her hands were on his skin too, her palms warm and steady against his ribs, her nails grazing softly as she explored him with a confidence that only made his heart beat faster.

Oscar kissed her again, more desperate now, more certain. The kind of kiss that says “I want all of you” without ever needing the words. His body pressed between her open legs, fitting there like it had always belonged.

Maybe they weren’t planning anything.

Maybe they still weren’t sure.

But the boat rocked gently beneath them.

And when she take off her shirt in a heated move, he stopped pretending he wasn’t all in.

The morning sun filtered softly through the half-closed curtains of the yacht's main cabin, casting streaks of golden light across the bed. The sea outside was calm, gently rocking the boat with a rhythmic lullaby. Oscar lay on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting lightly on her bare waist, fingers curled in the sheets.

He’d been awake for a while now, quietly basking in the warmth of her body against his. Her breathing was slow, deep, still lost in dreams, and God, she looked so peaceful. Her cheek pressed into his chest, lips slightly parted, hair a soft mess against his skin. Every now and then she’d shift in her sleep, pulling herself closer, curling into him like he was her favorite place to rest.

Oscar had barely moved except to grab his phone at one point to text Lando. A decision he immediately regretted. As soon as the texts started spiraling into chaos, he regretted everything.

He was mid-scrolling through Lando’s 25th message asking him for details when she stirred.

She let out a tiny hum, barely audible, before pressing a sleepy kiss to his chest. Then her head lifted, eyes slowly blinking open.

"Hey," she whispered, voice raspy and low.

Oscar froze, dropped his phone off the side of the bed with a quiet thump, and turned to face her fully. "Hey," he replied, a little too quickly, a little too brightly.

She smiled, soft and sleepy, then immediately tucked her face back into his neck. "God. Is this real?"

"I’ve been asking myself the same thing for an hour," he whispered into her hair.

They lay like that for a few minutes, tangled together, the morning light warming the room, the smell of salt and sunshine slipping in through the open window. She shifted, resting her leg over his, pulling herself impossibly closer.

"You’re really warm," she mumbled.

Oscar chuckled. "You’re literally on top of me."

"Exactly." She looked up at him, eyes clearer now, teasing. "Human heater."

He laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "Do you want something? Water? Breakfast? I could go grab you a..."

She gently pressed her hand over his mouth.

"Oscar."

He blinked.

"Stop. You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"Overthinking. Panicking. Offering me seventeen different types of juice."

"Only three," he muttered behind her hand.

She smiled, dropping her hand to his chest. "I’m here. I’m happy. Can we just... stay like this for a second?"

Oscar nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, we can do that."

She leaned up and kissed him gently, slow and sleepy, her lips tasting like last night and morning sun. And when she pulled away, she looked at him with this wide, almost nervous look.

"So... does this mean you’re like... my boyfriend now?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, like she was afraid saying it out loud might ruin something.

Oscar's eyes softened.

He cupped her cheek with one hand and leaned in again, pressing a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then her lips.

"Oh, I am," he said between kisses. "For real now, baby."

She grinned, cheeks turning warm as she pulled him into another kiss, this one deeper, more certain. She rolled back against the pillows, pulling him with her, the sheets twisting around their legs. Their laughter echoed softly in the cabin, mixing with the morning breeze, with the gentle sway of the sea.

@_oscarpiastri

Just a perfect weekend.💙

@_user1 not to be dramatic but WHO is that girl 😭😭😭

@_user2 Oscar… boyfriend era??????????

@_user3 sir we are gonna need a face reveal RIGHT NOW

@_user4 wait wait is this THE soft launch ????

@_user5 that’s not Oscar casually soft launching a gf like we wouldn’t notice 😭

@_user6 y’all it can be Y/N right?? she’s been posting similar boat stuff lately 👀

@_user7 omg it better be her I love her so much they’re cute together

@_user8 STOPPP IF IT’S HER I’LL SCREAM

@_landonorris Bro you’re terrible at this. Just post her face already we were all literally there when you kept looking at her at her volleyball match💀

@_user9 LANDO WHAT 😭😭😭 @_user10 ANDDDD THE COVER IS BLOWN LMAOOOOOO @_user11 @_landonorris is actually the messiest wingman I love him @_user12 this confirms it omg it’s Y/N for real @_user13 Y/N AND OSCAR CONFIRMED I’M GONNA FAINT

@_oscarpiastri Ignore him.

@volley_yn

Well, since everyone clearly knows now 🙄 Guess nothing’s stopping me from posting my favorite Oscar pics from my very personal gallery. Hope he doesn’t think I’m crazy after this...

@_oscarpiastri: You ARE crazy. But I love you so that’s my problem now ❤️‍🔥

@_landonorris: You're welcome btw. This love story wouldn’t exist without me.

@_francesca Okay but Lando’s right for once. Also… Lando, you single or what 👀

@_user1 from celebrity crush to boyfriend??? girl is LIVING THE DREAM 💘

@_user2: no bc imagine telling your bf “this is my fav meme of you” and it’s HIM 🤣 she’s texting Oscar with his own memes rn i just know it

@_user3: girl went from “he’s cute” to “he’s mine”

@_user3: the beach pic?? the dinner pic?? I AM NOT OKAY 🫠

@_user4: I want what they have. and also her camera roll. and her boyfriend.

@_user5 i just KNOW she made the dinner one her lockscreen 💅

@_user6 everyone shut up she deserves him. this is the cutest reveal in f1 couple history

Author note: It's the last part of this serie, thank you again so much for the request, hope you like it :)

taglist : @bunnisplayground @vampgege, @chocolatemooncoffee, @carlando4, @il0vereadingstuff, @lilith-123321, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @charlotteking27, @scarletwidow3000, @taetae-armyyyyy, @mynameisangeloflife, @tsuniio, @sophxxkiss, @teti-menchon0604, @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @dustie-faerie, @madicecream123, @angstynasty, @jolixtreesunn @bycinnamoons @taylordaughter @athanasia-day @halleest @l-a-u-r-aaa @esw1012 @storminacloud @anthonys-viscountess @saudianna @cutestarsandstuff @alittlechaotics-blog @sailorinthesie @lindseyybarrett @junklockets @h-rtsnana @anonomano @julvrs @gigigreens @remussbitch

#oscar piastri #formula 1 x reader #f1 #op #op81 #op81 mcl #op81 x reader #op81 fic #op81 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x female oc #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri f1 #mclaren #op81 x you

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heldbybarnes · 2 days ago

Note

"please stop flirting while I hold your intestines in"

omg yes. this is such a bucky thing. that sassy shit!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings:

----------

Your hands are slick with blood—his blood—and you’re seconds away from either saving Bucky Barnes’s life or screaming into the void.

“Don’t die,” you grit, pressing gauze into the open wound in his side while trying to keep his intestines from spilling onto the dirt-covered floor of what used to be a market square. “Don’t even think about dying, Barnes.”

“I’m not dying,” Bucky slurs with a weak grin. “I’m just… enjoying the view.”

You don’t even look up. “If you flirt with me while I’m literally holding your intestines, I swear to God—”

“You say that like it’s not the sexiest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m serious. You’re hot when you’re bossy.” He winces but doesn’t stop. “And you’ve got very gentle hands. Real nurturing. Could see you raising chickens. Or small angry children.”

You finally look up at him, eyes blazing. “You’re bleeding out, and you’re thinking about chickens?”

“Trying to picture our future, doll.”

Your jaw drops in disbelief, but he takes the opportunity to lift one unsteady hand and brush your cheek with the back of his fingers, smearing blood across your skin. “You’ve got blood on your face. Makes you look… kinda feral.”

You slap his hand away. “Touch me again and I will let your intestines hit the floor.”

“That’s fair,” he wheezes, then lets out a groan. “Okay, maybe less flirting, more focus. What’s the sitrep, Doc?”

You press harder into the wound, ignoring the way his back arches in pain. “You’ve got a deep abdominal laceration, likely nicked your small intestine, maybe worse. I’m trying to hold things in until evac gets here.”

He groans. “So what you’re saying is…I’m full of shit.”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, biting back a smile despite yourself.

“I’m serious. You’re in love with me, admit it.”

“I’m in love with not watching you die.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

You hear the distant whir of a quinjet overhead and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Evac’s here. You just have to stay alive for three more minutes.”

“Piece of cake,” he murmurs. “Except… instead of cake…my intestines are… in your hands.”

“Please stop saying intestines like it’s a love language.”

“I love the way you say 'mesentery' when you’re mad.”

The quinjet touches down in a roar of dust and wind. Medics rush over with a stretcher, and you help ease him onto it, keeping pressure on the wound with one hand, guiding the IV into his arm with the other.

“I’m not done with you,” Bucky mumbles as they start loading him in. “We still haven’t picked chicken names.”

You sigh. “One more word out of you, and I’m naming them all after your worst mission reports.”

He grins through the oxygen mask. “You do care.”

“I swear to God, Barnes, if you die on me, I’m going to bring you back just to kill you myself.”

The last thing you hear before the quinjet doors close is his muffled voice: “Mrs. Barnes has a nice ring to it.”

You shake your head, stained with blood, heart pounding in your chest—half from panic, half from the impossible man who just won’t shut up.

God help you.

You might actually be in love with him too.

#bucky barnes x reader #hurt/comfort #flirt!bucky #battlefield banter #soft chaos #he bleeds #he flirts #reader is done #hbb lowkey prompts

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blamebrampton · 3 days ago

Photo

I once spent a free week helping a friend on her terrible magazine. It had a series of WooWoo columns up the back, which I had mocked her for roundly. I will never forget having the copy for the Angel Messages column come onto my desk: I think I groaned. “Can you ask the angels when my boyfriend will propose?” read the first letter. “He’s been saying he will for five years and he hasn’t even left his wife yet.”

The response: “The angels are very clear that this man is not the one. He has been standing between you and your happiness for some time and he has done everything he can to make it impossible for you to see that he is not the right man for you. The angels say it is imperative that you cut him fully out of your life, and you will then start to find the path that will lead to your true and lasting happiness.’

I never mocked the Angel Messages lady again. She knew that all this woman’s friends would have said the same thing, but also that she was only going to listen to it if it came delivered as a heavenly message in a trash mag.

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firingstars · 1 day ago

Text

hold on (even if it’s fake)

new avengers!bucky x new avengers!reader

summary: public interaction with the new avengers has never been worse, and all of valentina's previous PR stunts have effectively failed, and only caused the team to become walking memes rather than heroes. in a last ditch effort to save face, valentina proposes a new plan: make the leader of the thunderbolts publicly date a member of the original avengers team.

warnings: 18+, mdni, soft smut, piv, fingering, no use of y/n, slight fake dating trope, slight enemies to lovers, descriptions of violence (reader lowk got some anger issues to work through), reader has avoidance issues, post-thunderbolts movie, semi thunderbolts movie spoilers, tension, angst, comfort

word count: 12.5k

a/n: i want to preface that most of this was written when i was sleepy on melatonin >:3

masterlist

“Engagement has been going down,” Mel said, gesturing towards the screen behind her.

The team members dragged their gaze up towards the front of the room, weary expressions all over their faces. They didn’t want to hear this speech again– they knew engagement was down in the depths of hell. Shit, they wouldn’t be surprised if the world just decided to forget about them completely.

As if to rub salt into the wound, an animated graph showed a steady arrow that ran from the top left, all the way down to the bottom right of the screen.

“The only clicks that we are getting are memes,” Mel continued, tapping the screen of her tablet, presenting the next slide. “Most of them are about Walker and his limited time as Captain America, or talking about how Bucky is hot and his failing career in Congress, or discussing how Alexei is seen in public trying to convince locals to become fans–”

“I am a walking PR team, not a meme!” Alexei boomed, a scandalized look all over his face.

Mel gave him a smile, one that looked like she was trying to comfort a toddler more than anything.

“What is the point of these meetings?” Yelena demanded, her hand hitting the mahogany desk in frustration. “We meet every single Friday just for you to show us pie charts and graphs on how the world hates us. We already know that– are we not just trying to do the mission?”

“I was waiting for someone to ask. Thank you, Yelena,” Valentina said, giving a practiced, disgusting smile from the head of the table.

A wave of nausea filled the room. Lord. Last time she looked like this, the entire team had been thrown into a photoshoot that was supposed to up their familiarity with the people. All it did was create reaction photos for whenever articles of the team came out.

“While the mission is important, the mission is nearly impossible without the people backing you up. You can’t just blow things up, and walk away if the people hate you, after all. So, we need to come at the people with a different approach,” Valentina said, standing from her seat. “What do the people of America love?”

“Disgusting, overly processed food?” Ava muttered, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes, but you guys were not very particular with collaborating with McDonald’s last time I brought this up–”

“You put us on the face of a cereal box,” John grunted. “Isn’t that enough?”

“What America loves is a love story,” Valentia said, ignoring John. The confusion that settled in the room was palpable. The team looked at each other, frowns on their faces. Valentina continued, “And we are going to give them a love story. These people want familiarity. Something to make you guys relatable. Enjoyable to the public–”

“I’m sorry, Val, but none of us are in relationships,” Yelena cut her off. “The only one close to it is actually divorced.”

“Thanks,” John scoffed. Yelena shot him a pitiful look.

“The relationship doesn’t have to be real. You think all those celebrities in Hollywood are actually dating?” Valentina scoffed, crossing her arms as she moved to the front of the room. Mel moved to the side, allowing her boss to take the stage. “This is a PR stunt. Something to boost your credibility. Make you guys shine– make you guys lovable.”

“I’m not getting into a fake relationship with either of these men,” Ava immediately said, frowning. Then, she looked across the table. “No offense, but none of you are exactly relationship material."

“None taken,” Bucky muttered, sighing deeply. “Valentina, what are you even going on about?”

“I’m so glad that you spoke up, Congressman,” Valentina grinned. “Because you will be the face of this project.”

“Valentina–”

“And the rest of you can relax,” she cut Bucky off, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Bucky, you may not have worked with her per se, but she does have a wonderful track record with the public, and you have worked with her friends. She’s well loved in terms of media presence, though she’s been one of my shadow agents for the last handful of years since the whole… Accords situation.”

Bucky’s eyebrows creased in suspicion. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, a deep sigh coming from his chest.

“She is an ex-Avenger,” Valentina said, her smile growing wider. “Which means, her involvement with the New Avengers will increase our engagement with the public tenfold. And by having a romantic relationship with you, the leader of the New Avengers– well. Let’s just say, it’ll be amazing for the press.”

“Hang on– are you talking about Noir?” John asked, sitting up straight. “One of the original Avengers? Who fought in the 2012 Battle of New York? I thought she was dead.”

Valentina shrugged noncommittally as she looked at her cuticles. “Well, she doesn’t go by Noir anymore. She just goes by her first name, but she’s not dead. She just didn’t want to get in the middle of the fight that tore up the Avengers in the first place– the Accords. She removed herself from the situation entirely and never came back.”

“So… she’s been working for you,” Yelena said slowly. “And if she’s never come back, why the hell would she come back to be an Avenger again?”

“That’s a little above your paygrade now isn’t it?” Valentina smiled, a little crinkle to her nose. She turned to Bucky with a smile. “She’ll arrive here at the Watchtower within the next few days. I’ll arrange for a meeting between the two of you, and we’ll go over the expectations of what your relationship together is to be.”

“I didn’t agree to this–”

“Do you have a choice to agree?” Valentina dared him, gesturing back to the screen, where memes were still on display– still making fun of them.

Bucky paused, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he stared at the various different photos. Then, he looked around the conference table. None of his teammates could look him in the eye. They weren’t objecting to this either.

Fuck.

The Avengers tower is different. You know it is, and it makes your stomach churn when you see it from the outside. You hate it, even though you had made the decision with the original group to move to the Avengers compound years ago. You shouldn’t be this upset to see it bought, renovated, changed for something else.

Yet, it still bothers you.

A receptionist at the lobby recognizes you immediately, and gives you your badge to use to key in. You want to burn it into ashes immediately. Tony didn’t make you guys use badges. He had you guys use voice recognition, eye scanners, and fingerprints. You wonder if this is just a work in progress, and they’re still trying to get the tower functional. You keep your thoughts to yourself as you move to the elevator.

It’s clean, in a way that smells like a hotel. Hiding secrets, not memories. Stripped down to nothing. Valentina’s wiped away everything that was once within these walls, all the laughter.

Then again, you walked away from those same people because you couldn’t stand to watch them fight. When things got rough– when Steve and Tony asked you to choose a side, you took one look at them, and packed your bags.

Sam called you a coward. Said that you were running.

You didn’t correct him.

The elevator doors opened with a ding! and you’re brought to the top floor of the tower. The sound of water hits your ears. Someone is doing the dishes. You can see a few heads on the couch to the side, and they’re turning to face you. All within a few seconds, everyone’s coming to see you. Well, almost everyone. There’s a man missing from the group.

There’s a mixture of awe and intimidation in the air. Tension and fear. You don’t know what Valentina has or hasn’t said about you, but you know what is said online about you. They continue to stand there, watching you, scanning you– sizing you up.

You take a few steps out from the elevator, hauling your duffle bag and backpack with you.

“Morning,” you said, giving them a curt nod before turning off to the side.

“Where are you going?” one of the men spoke up– Bob– you think. His shoulders are collapsing in on himself, and his hands are dripping with water onto the floor beside his bare feet. The Sentry that Valentina told you about– the one that damn near broke apart the entire world.

“Conference room,” you replied, continuing to walk away.

If Valentina hasn’t completely torn down the place, then you know where you’re going. From the looks of it, it seems that she just changed the drywall and changed the wallpaper.

It looks fucking tacky. You should bother her to hire a new interior designer, honestly. Pepper would have never allowed these items to be in the tower. The mix of metals and the resin epoxy covered floors… You can imagine her, shuddering, while Tony grins beside her and hands her his card, telling her to go ahead and change whatever she wants about the place.

You push the glass door of the conference room open. It used to be a sliding door, one that would automatically open. J.A.R.V.I.S. used to greet you when you walked through this door, asked you if you wanted to turn on some light jazz while you waited for the rest of the team to barrel into the meeting room since you were always too early.

Except, J.A.R.V.I.S. was known as Vision now, and Vision was dead. Just like almost all of the people that you once knew, and none of them are going to be walking through these doors again. No– it’s just you. You, alone, are in this tower that used to be the place you called home. It has never felt more unfamiliar in your entire life.

“You made it. How was the flight?” Valentina smiled warmly at you, standing from her seat at the head of the table. Beside her, you see Mel standing there, ever the good assistant, with her tablet in hand ready to show you some new presentation.“Come in, come in. Take a seat.”

You want to skin her. Slowly dissect her while she’s conscious so she can feel every single nerve being ripped apart, and then feed it to her dying corpse. Then you want to bring her towards the reconstructive clinic in Seoul, have them build her back to life just enough so that she’s still in pain, so you can do it all over again.

But you can’t.

“It was alright,” you responded, and dropped your luggage by the door before pulling out one of the rolling chairs to sit.

Valentina waits for you to say more. An awkward silence settled over the room. A few moments later, the CIA director cleared her throat, and returned to her own seat, and looked between you and the other member in the room.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of each other, yes?” she asked, voice dripping with honey.

Your gaze shifts, and you’re sucked into a storm of blue grey eyes. He’s scanning you, looking you up and down with caution. It’s not the same way that the others were doing out in the common area. He’s not sizing you up, trying to see what you’re made of. No– he knows you. It goes beyond just hearing stories of each other through Steve or Sam.

You’ve fought with this man before. Maybe not him right now, but a different version of him– one that he did not choose to be has crossed your path.

You were a highly trained S.H.I.E.L.D. operative. One of the best in your line of work, and became an Avenger through some rhyme or reason that you still didn’t understand yourself. You’ve fought aliens, been on stakeouts, had snipers pointed at your head from miles away, and yet– the man sitting across from the table from you is the only person that has made you feel true, unbridled terror.

Every once in a while, you can still feel the ache in your thigh from where his blade fully sheathed into your muscle on that bridge in DC, and dragged downwards. You had only been lucky to have maneuvered so he didn’t hit your femoral artery, or you wouldn’t be alive at this moment.

You don’t tell Valentina any of that. You’re more than certain that the soldier in front of you has never even breathed out words of his past to anyone either.

“I’m well aware of Congressman Barnes and his achievements both in the military and in our government,” you replied, your eyes never straying away from him and his watchful gaze.

Bucky’s eyebrows twitched at your words. You watched as his tongue poked at the inside of his cheek as the gears in his head turned over, processing if there were any double meanings behind what you had just said– if there was some kind of backhanded retort or compliment.

“Wonderful,” Valentina hummed, and clapped her hands together. “As you both know, the reason for this meeting is to discuss our plan. Operation: Romance the Public, if you will. Do you like that? Like the name I came up with?”

There’s a sort of gloating tone in her voice that makes you release a deep breath of air. Neither you or Bucky said a single word, but you do turn to her. You’re not amused. You don’t bother hiding it, and you revel in the way that her smile falters at the expression on your face.

Mel cleared her throat from behind Valentina, and out of the corner of your eye, you see the screen at the front of the room come to life.

“Great. More pie charts?” you asked.

“The pie charts are wonderful,” Valentina quickly said, almost defensive. Clearly, it’s her idea to constantly add those graphs to every single meeting.

“I’m not too sure how pie charts are supposed to tell me how Barnes and I are to be fake dating each other,” you said, leaning back in your seat. “Valentina, you’re talking to someone that was trained in espionage. I don’t need to be told how to pretend to be in love with someone.”

“Well, pardon me. I forgot that sleeping around was part of your list of expertise,” she said, smiling at you.

You blinked at her, lips parting. Then, you smiled back at her. Sickly sweet and pretty. You leaned over the table, arms crossing over the wood as you lowered your voice. There was no need to yell. Wasting your breath on her? Unnecessary.

“I don’t have to be here,” you said softly, meeting her eyes. You saw the brief flash of panic go through her features. “Do you think I want to be an Avenger again, Fontaine? I can watch you and the rest of this team fucking dive into the pits of hell for all I care, and become the laughing stocks of operative work and the media. Hell– Sam Wilson, the nation’s new Captain America, can take up the mantle, ruin you guys, and I will watch with a smile. I think that you’re forgetting that I am doing you a favor.”

You watched as she wet her lips, and her nostrils flared at you. She swallowed thickly, clenching her jaw as she tried to sit up straighter, tried to give off the appearance that she was in control here.

“You forgot the de. It’s de Fontaine,” she whispered to you, giving you a small wink as she nodded.

“I don’t give a shit,” you whispered back, shaking your head.

The smile on her face slowly faded away as you maintained eye contact. You tilted your head at her, waiting for another witty response.

It never came.

You sat up, palms hitting the wooden table as you stood. You gave a nod to Mel, who looked absolutely petrified where she stood. Briefly, you felt bad for the girl. Valentina was definitely going to take out her anger on Mel, who couldn’t do anything against her.

“Well, I’m gonna go,” you declared, and looked across the table towards the man who had been oh so silent the entire meeting. “You tell me when I’m needed– an actual mission or if we’re supposed to be seen out in public together. I’m not sitting in one of these stupid fucking conference rooms to listen to her bullshit again.”

You didn’t wait for Bucky’s confirmation. You pushed out from your chair, and reached for your bags, going back out into the hallway. If Valentina listened to at least one of your conditions when you told her that you would do this stupid fucking PR stunt, then your old room better be vacant. If not, you don’t care who’s shit is in there.

You’re throwing it all out.

You wondered if Tony was in heaven, looking down at you, laughing his ass off. You were certain of it, actually. Him and Natasha both must be sharing a beer together, watching the show unfold in front of them. Honestly, you couldn’t blame them. The sight would be comical to you, too, if you weren’t the one actively in it.

This was the first charity gala that you attended, but one of many that Valentina threw. The reason for this? You and along with the New Avengers were attempting to raise funds to help send back to cover the costs of the damages that the fucking idiots on the team caused in the latest mission in Brazil.

You wished you could say that you weren’t part of that mission, but your name was unfortunately slapped onto it like a brand on your skin.

You thought you knew what awful teamwork looked like. After all, you had been there to see the beginning stages of the original Avengers. You watched as Steve and Tony fought chest to chest in some homo-erotic tension that made you want to rip both of their heads off at the time. You watched the Hulk throw Thor into a compression tank, and then have to be chased down by Natasha.

Hell, even after you guys finally started to get along with each other, you guys were still on each others’ asses. Debriefs consisted of arguments demanding to know who was compromised, who strayed a toe away from the original plan, and who needed to pull their weight. At the end of the day, you called it accountability.

Yeah... You wanted to go back.

You had never been part of a more disorganized team in your life. The original Avengers were dysfunctional? No. You guys at least knew each other’s skillset. You could only watch in pure exhaustion as Ava tried phasing through buildings with John following her, demanding for her to take him with her, only to be ignored. If it weren’t for that serum in his veins, you were certain that he should’ve gotten at least three concussions with how many times Ava told him that she would bring him through a building, only to change her mind right before.

At the same time, Yelena was shouting for her father to stop the theatrics with the locals before giving up completely. You didn’t have too much to say about Yelena– watching her fight made your chest hurt actually. She fought like Natasha did. You wondered briefly if it was because she was trained in the same place, or if it was because of their bond together. Either way, you couldn’t bring yourself to pick her apart too much.

Bucky stopped playing leader the second shit went to the fan. One second, he was giving orders, making sure everyone was aware of their positions, and next thing you knew it? You watched as he ripped out his earpiece and shoved it into his pocket because he couldn’t stand the sound of Yelena and John arguing over the frequencies.

Meanwhile, Bob was in the jet, keeping the AC running so you guys would be hit with some cool air after being stuck out in the sweltering heat. You still didn’t understand why you even took him to the missions when he didn’t do anything. Yelena swore that it was for field experience. That it was good for him to watch. He couldn’t watch jack shit from the forest that you dropped him off at though.

Worst of all, the damage done to the country could have been avoided. It was all so easily avoidable. None of the explosions or damage needed to happen. Yes, the original Avengers blew shit up– did you guys ever mean to? Never. You watched Wanda cry in her room for days after messing up after a mission, yet Alexei and John were chuckling about how big the cloud of smoke was in the air.

Now, it was time for your first official public appearance with Bucky. Dressed to the absolute tens– him in some both of you in matching Versace suits and gowns. God damn it, and he couldn’t even pretend to look you in the eyes. He just needed to stare at the space between your forehead, and that would be good enough for the cameras.

“Did you not receive any media training as a Congressman?” you asked through a smile, sticking yourself closer to Bucky as the cameras flashed at the two of you.

“I received media training,” he grunted, low, and under his breath as his hand twitched around your waist, but still barely present. His fingers were ghosting, as if he was afraid to touch you. “Media training didn’t include fake dating.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes as you smoothly took his hand in yours, pulling it tighter to your body. You felt him stiffen beside you, and you wanted to kill him. You wanted to kill everyone actually, but that wasn’t an option here.

Soon, you got the thumbs up from Mel, letting you know that there were more than enough photos taken of you and Bucky. You held in your breath of relief for just a few more minutes as you slipped your hand into his, effectively leading Bucky into the gala and away from the press.

You continued to hold hands, only the sound of your heels clicking against the marble floor being the noise between the two of you. It makes you cringe.

When you’re far enough away, ducking into the sanctuary of a hallway, you both release each other. Bucky creates some distance between the two of you. The action shouldn’t bother you, but it does. You’re still wired up from the failure of a mission that you had to endure– the mission that the others deemed was good enough because they destroyed less than they thought they would.

“I need you to pretend that you’re in love with me, or this shit is not gonna work, Barnes,” you said, closing your eyes as you attempt to regain part of your sanity. You lean back towards a wall, resting your head against it.

“It's a little difficult when I’m being suffocated in my suit,” he muttered, messing with his cufflinks.

“You look fine,” you sighed. “At least you’re fully covered. I’m one wrong move from showing off my chest to the entirety of New York. But seriously– get your shit together otherwise the media will think I’m holding you at gunpoint.”

“This wasn’t my plan, if you forgot. Not my decision to do this for publicity,” he said, eyebrows furrowed. “If I had it my way, I wouldn’t be doing any of this shit for the media.”

“Obviously. If it was, then you wouldn’t be such a mess out there! Again, I can’t do my job if you’re going to be a statue. I thought you were supposed to be a charmer. Some smooth guy that knew how to flirt. Can you channel that guy out for me?”

“Who the hell said all that?”

“Steve did.”

Bucky blinked at you, surprised for a second. “Steve said that? You– how close were you to Steve?”

“Close enough,” you waved off, trying to avoid the conversation.

Something about the way he’s looking at you is letting you know that he won’t let this go any time soon. A deep sigh escapes your throat as you look at him.

“Steve talked about you a lot,” you huffed, running your hand through your hair. “Said you were a ladies’ man. So I thought this whole operation was going to be easy, but I guess Steve had no idea what he was talking about because this is the worst undercover mission that I’ve ever had the displeasure of doing.”

The surprise on his face melts away into utter irritation. A frown finds its way onto his face, and his head cocks just slightly.

“Why are you even here?”

“If you forgot, the gala is because your team blew up half of the fuckin’ city, babe,” you replied, giving him a bitter smile.

“That’s not what I’m– babe?” he cut himself off, an incredulous look on his face as he stared at you in disbelief.

“You’re my boyfriend, aren’t you?” you asked sarcastically, tilting your head at him.

There’s five seconds of silence. You wondered if there’s something that short circuited in his brain because he’s frozen in place, staring at you like you’ve grown two heads. Finally, he moves. He dragged a hand down his face, taking a deep breath as he attempted to calm himself down.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he said, his jaw clenched tight.

You met his gaze. It’s accusatory. Suspicious. The same way that he looked at you in the conference room, and the same way that he looked at you in the jet when you and the rest of the team were on your way to Brazil. He’d been quietly trying to figure you out this entire time.

“Why I’m here is none of your concern,” you dismissed, tearing your eyes away from his. “All you need to know is that I’m trying to help you, so it would be really great if you cooperated with me.”

“That’s the part I don’t understand,” he said, a deep sigh escaping his chest. “You said it yourself– you don’t want to be an Avenger again. You’ve been in hiding for years, since right before the previous Avengers broke up. Why are you back?”

You stared off into the side, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood. You turned to him, scanning his face again.

Truthfully, you can’t blame him. You may hate this team, hate that fucking tower, but this is his. There’s a history behind him, and the rest of those fools that he calls his teammates, and a dynamic that you can’t squeeze yourself into even if Valentina labels you as a New Avenger.

Moreover, you have no idea what was said about you in private. You don’t know what Steve or Sam told Bucky about you– if they even talked about you at all once you left. You don’t know what happened to any of your old friends aside from the media coverage, aside from the mission reports that you were able to dig up by hacking into a series of encrypted, locked files before you got caught by being too sloppy, too emotional one day. It was how Valentina located you, and when she realized who you were, she didn’t arrest you. Asked you to join her shadow operatives.

You had nothing better to do, so you agreed.

But now?

A slow, shaky breath exits your chest.

“You do your job, Barnes. I’ll do mine,” you told him, meeting his eyes once more. “Let’s try not to have anymore lovers quarrels, babe.”

You pushed off the wall, and brushed past him, going towards the heart of the gala where the others are already mingling with investors, sponsors– anyone to give some money.

You put on your best smile, and you join the fray.

Whether you like it or not, this is your team now, too. Your name is attached, and you were part of a mission that disrupted hundreds, if not thousands of lives. So, you chat. You talk with people that ask about what you’ve been doing the last few years. You smoothly evade any and all questions about where you were when the Accords were being signed all those years ago, and you managed to deflect any mentions of the final battle with Thanos.

Easy talk, easy words. Lies slip in and out of your mouth to fill in the gap in your resume, words that you’ve come up with to properly fool all these people around you. You watch as they eat up every single syllable that comes out of your mouth, and you can feel your pockets grow heavier with each and every smile you give.

It doesn’t ease the weight on your heart.

When you give yourself a break, you steal a flute of champagne from a server’s tray as you make your way to the balcony for some fresh air. You leaned your elbows against the concrete railing, staring out into the sky before you. The summer air is blankets over you, though it does little to warm you in the gown that Valentina shoved you in for the night.

“You make it look so easy.”

You looked over your shoulder, finding Yelena coming to join your side with her own glass of alcohol. She offered you a smile, pressing her back against the railing as she settled beside you.

“What’s easy?” you asked, raising your eyebrows at her.

“The mission. The… talking to the people inside the gala. The interactions, all of it,” she shrugged. “Being an Avenger.”

“Your sister is the one who made being an Avenger easy,” you said, letting out a scoff of a laugh as you shake your head at her.

A small, sad smile tugs onto her lips as she turns to look at you. She studies you for a few moments, then lowers her eyes. “Did you know her? Know her… well, I mean,” Yelena asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Yeah,” you nodded to her, returning her smile. “I did.”

Silence carefully settles, and the two of you drink slowly. You keep your gaze out towards the balcony, while Yelena watches your six, focused on the party going on through the doors. When her glass is empty, she releases a breath.

“Barnes is horrible,” she said, making your eyebrows shoot to your hairline. “I’m also trained in espionage. I get it– he fucking sucks. I saw him pose for photos.”

You let out another laugh, shaking your head at her words. “God. We’re not going to convince anyone if he keeps it up. I thought he was raised in the forties. Chivalry central.”

“He’s old,” Yelena shrugged. “Maybe he just needs a reminder on how to flirt.”

You made a face at her, and frowned. “There’s no need for us to actually flirt, Yelena. It’s all fake, remember?”

“Maybe it needs to be real for him.”

The media adores you and Bucky for some weird reason.

Or rather, it’s you they adore.

When one of the original Avengers returns to New York to fight the hard battles again, it’s like a saving grace, you supposed. The memes turned into soliloquies and love letters. People began to take the New Avengers seriously overnight after the charity gala, but it’s also due to your own handiwork from the appearance that you had at the White House after the gala.

You've gone to meet with the government– to meet with Captain America. It was to congratulate you, to welcome you back into the line of work. Since the original heroes were gone, America had become real sentimental about their fanfare with making sure everyone knew who they relied on now.

Cameras are all in the two of your faces as you stare down Sam Wilson. You pretend not to feel pain. You pretend you don’t miss him. You pretend that it doesn’t hurt when his smile doesn’t meet his eyes when you shake his hand.

“So… You and Buck, huh?” he asked you, and it was loud enough for some of the cameras to pick up.

“Yeah. Me and Bucky. We got real close,” you said, smiling at Sam.

“When did that happen?” he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

“Steve introduced us,” you replied, a fond look in your eyes as you spoke. You almost looked dreamy.

Sam couldn’t say a damn thing against you– not when it meant having to discredit the previous Captain America. And the media loved it. They loved the story that Bucky’s best friend, the last leader of the Avengers, had created the couple between the New Avengers. It was almost a classic love story.

You and the rest of the team continued to watch your interviews at the White House. Watched as you spoke so highly of your new team, spoke of the plans that you were aware of, how you would be allocating the funds in Brazil to several different areas of need to ensure that each impacted site would be taken care of.

You were heavily leaned into the fact that none of this could be done without the help of Bucky, who regretfully could not have made the appearance to the White House as he was currently out on the field doing exactly as you were saying at that moment. You were simply being the spokesperson as you were the most familiar face to the people at this time.

“Reliability creates credibility,” Valentina said, a smirk on her face as she paused the clips.

“What the hell does that even mean?” Ava sighed deeply.

“It means that the plan is working– she is our most reliable figure on the team, so everyone will take what she says and worship the ground she walks on. It’s the original Avenger effect! Show them the engagement logs,” Valentina sighed, and snapped her fingers at Mel.

Immediately, a new presentation was being brought up to the screen. You all watched as bar graphs were brought to life, showing the positive incline of the last few months of how the media was buzzing about the team.

Since you had been rumored to be returning back to hero work, there had been some better talks about the team. Since you were spotted working in Brazil, right next to Bucky’s side the entire time, the whispers elevated to a decent chatter. After the gala, a storm had kicked up. Now with the White House appearance, and the construction in Brazil, this was the best interaction that the team had been receiving online since they saved New York from the Void.

“This is a great start,” Valentina said, then turned to look at you, then to Bucky. “But we need more from the two of you. More love story.”

Both you and Bucky slumped in your seats. You watched as his eyebrows pinched together, then followed the way he took his vibranium hand and dragged it down around the scruff of his mouth.

You’re not really sure what was talked about the remainder of the meeting. You’re trying to weigh the pros and cons of continuing this facade with Bucky. Is it really worth it, at the end of the day? Truthfully, the paycheck Valentina is giving you weekly is nice. Nicer than what she was giving you when you were just doing the shadow work when you completed her dirty work, but still.

Guilt continued to build within you. You had locked eyes with a woman outside of the White House, when you were walking out– and she thanked you. Something in you made you stop. You asked her what for. She said you and the Avengers saved her, many, many years ago– and that she’s happy that you’re alive. That one of the originals is back at the frontlines, leading the new generation of heroes.

She told you what a relief it was for you to return, and it’s nice that you can find love with one of these new heroes amongst the craziness of your line of work– that it must be nice to have someone close to lean on.

You only gave her a tight smile, and told her to continue to stay safe.

You leave the conference room the same time everyone else does, when you see them get up from their seats. You don’t meet Bucky’s eyes, even though you know they’re on you. He’s still watching you. He’s still trying to figure out why you’re here. What your purpose is.

You don’t really know what you’re doing either.

Either way, you grab your laptop from your room that night. You’re showered, in pajamas, and you’re over everything. You know where Bucky’s room is– down the hall and near the fire exit. It’s the quickest way to escape if there’s ever an issue within the tower. Part of you knows that he chose this side of the tower because Steve had his room in this wing, too.

Bucky’s door cracked open after exactly five seconds of you waiting outside. You don’t allow him to let you linger in the hallway– you shoved your way through, crossing the threshold of his room.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Bonding with my boyfriend,” you replied, and sat down on the edge of his bed as if you owned the space. Your legs are crossed under you as you flip your laptop open, and begin to pull up your playlists.

There’s nearly nothing in his room. Nothing memorable or personal. It’s almost like he’s a guest here. The only splash of color is his bedsheets, which are gray, and the journal on his nightstand that you know isn’t his. It’s Steve’s.

“Again– what are you doing?” Bucky asked, more exasperated this time than the last.

You glanced up at him, giving him a smile. He’s in a tank top– and his dog tags are chest. You can faintly see the scars on his shoulder peeking out from the straps, connecting with the seam of his metal arm. He’s standing there, arms crossed over his chest, with a frown on his face.

“Sit,” you said, patting the space on the bed beside you. “Let’s listen to music together.”

His frown only deepens. You continued to stare at him, expectant and waiting. You’re not leaving his room until he gives in to you.

And he does.

He shuts the door to his bedroom, and the bed dips beside you as he takes a seat, but he’s rigid– just like he was when he had to take photos beside you on the steps of the museum for the gala. He’s not even touching you, and he’s stressed out.

“Why are we listening to music?” he grunted.

“You ask so many questions, baby,” you clicked your tongue at him as you clicked onto one of your playlists affectionately labeled Nostalgic Stimulation. “Was that also part of your media training?”

Music filled in the empty space of the room, and you turned up the volume just a little bit before placing your laptop in between the two of you. Bucky’s eyes land on your screen, taking in the different song titles as you fall backwards, closing your eyes as you rest on his bed.

“I know these songs,” he muttered. “They’re in Steve’s notebook.”

“They better be. I recommended half of them to him,” you hummed. Your eyes were still shut, but you knew his gaze had shifted to rest on the side of your face where you laid. “You listen to this kinda music, too?”

“Not really,” he sighed.

“No?” you asked, finally looking at him.

Bucky had a sheepish expression on his face. Like he was almost ashamed of admitting it. He went back to looking at the songs on your laptop, reaching to touch the scrollpad– going through each of the song titles.

“They’re… I mean the songs are good, but they’re not my style,” he muttered. “I gave it a chance.”

“What’s the issue with it?” you frowned at him. “These are classics, lover boy. Staples in history, if you will.”

“Classics,” he repeated with a scoff. “Sweetheart, you’re talking to someone that’s older than these songs. These are not classics to me. Besides, you didn’t strike me as someone that listened to classics, either.”

Your lips parted, and you blinked. Fine. He got you there.

“Well, part of the reason I enjoy these songs so much was because we used to play them all the time,” you shrugged, moving to sit back up. “All of these songs in this playlist specifically just remind me of good times.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“The team,” you answered, meeting his eyes. You saw him pause for a second, his breath catching in his throat. “Sometimes, we would wake up to Tony listening to these songs in the lab. Other times these songs would be in the gym while Steve and Natasha were sparring. I would play them while I was cooking in the kitchen. We would listen to them together to unwind after a longer mission in the jet on the way home… So yeah. Good times.”

You’re grateful that you’ve already turned the music on to fill in the silence. Bucky doesn’t answer you for a while, and you don’t elaborate your words to him. Yet, you two still stared at each other.

The more that you talk, the more that you reveal about yourself, the more he relaxes. It seems Yelena’s words were right. He needs to believe that it’s real. That you’re real. You’re trying to convince yourself all at the same time that this is real, too.

“What about the other part?” Bucky asked.

You shrugged, and gave him a sad smile. “I’m lonely.”

Since that night, you continued to come to Bucky’s room as often as you could. Once the rest of the tower falls asleep, you’re making your way down the halls with your laptop and phone. You no longer knock, and Bucky doesn’t expect you to do so anymore. You just push your way through, shut the door behind you, and drop onto his bed.

Bucky doesn’t even have the energy in him to look exhausted at your appearances. You don’t know if it’s because you admitted to him that you’re lonely, or if it’s because he relates to it. Deep down, you’re starting to think he enjoys your company, with how he lets you do whatever you want. You don’t want to admit it, but you’ve begun to look forward to your nightly escapades with him, too.

You pretend that it’s just a stepping stone for the mission. That it’s only for the mission– to make Bucky more comfortable with you, but deep down, something is shifting. You’re changing, too. You don’t find so much fault in every corner of the tower. You try to pretend that the time you spend in Bucky’s room isn’t extending longer and longer every night.

You’ve turned his room into a rock concert venue. You taught him about raves, and how young folk these days can and will drug themselves on purpose for maximum fun. Bucky looked mildly horrified at the thought, and then you turned on some EDM music. The poor soldier couldn’t wrap his head around the various synthesized tracks before he asked you to turn it off. It was the only time he asked you to change the music, so you indulged in his request.

When you ran out of music to talk about, you started to bring other things to his room. Like alcohol.

“You know I can’t get drunk, right?” he asked, eyeing the several bags in your hand.

“Which makes this so much more fun,” you smiled at him as you started unloading the items onto his desk. “I’m making you my guinea pig.”

“Your guinea pig?” he repeated, eyebrows furrowing.

“Maybe bad wording choice given your background as an experiment, but indulge me a bit here, okay?”

You watched as he picked up some of the other items that you brought and sighed deeply. You met his eyes, and watched as he simply could not fight back against you. He just sat back down on his bed, defeated.

“Have you ever had soju and yakult before?” you asked, already opening up the probiotic drink.

“What the hell is a yakult?” he asked, slightly exasperated.

“Oh, you’ll love this, babe.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

But, he did love it. In fact, it was his favorite drink of the night. It was yours, too. You started off on the easier side of alcohol before you had shifted into deeper territory. You were having a blast, mixing several different things and watching his reaction. Some of them had him looking pleasantly surprised. Others made him demand for you to give him another shot of soju.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to be mixing light and dark alcohol in one night, sweetheart,” Bucky told you with a raised eyebrow as he took a slow pull on his whiskey.

You groaned at his words. “You are a buzzkill. Let a girl do what she wants.”

“It’s my room that you’re going to throw up in.”

“Just toss me into the hallway if I start going green,” you muttered, pouring yourself another glass. You’d long stopped mixing anything. You two were just drinking at this point. After throwing back your alcohol, you stared at him, and he was already looking at you. You frowned. “I wonder if you can get alcohol poisoning.”

“No, doll. I can’t get sick,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “You on the other hand–”

“I’m not even drunk.”

“You’re slurring your words.”

“I am not.”

“Debatable,” he scoffed.

He was right. You passed out in his room that night, and woke up tucked into his sheets. You weren’t anywhere near his bed last time you remembered anything. You were sitting at his desk, still chatting with him. You recalled giggling with him, drunk off your mind, him smiling at you while you talked about things that you couldn’t recall.

Now, the entire room was cleaned up. The mixers and alcohol were back in the bag that you had brought, and Bucky was sitting at the desk. He was also asleep, chin tucked to his chest, arms crossed.

Your heart slightly ached at the sight.

Bucky refused to tell you what you said to him that night. At the very least, he promised to you that you didn’t embarrass yourself. You decided to swear off alcohol for the time being. You started bringing your laptop back to his room, and made him sit beside you at the head of the bed.

“This movie fucking sucks,” Bucky muttered beside you, trying to stay quiet like you were in a movie theatre despite the fact it was just the two of you and you’d seen this movie hundreds of times before.

“It’s the pinnacle of cinema, babe,” you whispered back. “Are you really Steve’s best friend? He loves this movie.”

“Steve has questionable tastes. Like being your friend,” he grunted.

Your response was to toss a popcorn kernel directly into his face. Bucky doesn’t even attempt to dodge it. He allowed the buttery thing to smack his cheek, then drop onto his bed, leaving a grease stain onto his sheets. He sighed, shaking his head before picking it up, and throwing it into the garbage can in the corner of his room.

“The cinematography is all over the place,” Bucky continued. “How can you say this is the pinnacle of cinema? Are we not in the modern world–”

You press the space bar on your laptop, and angle your head to look at him. There’s a smile on his face. He’s fucking messing with you– teasing you. He meets your eyes, and his grin only grows wider.

“You waited until we were more than halfway through the movie to tell me that you hated it?” you asked.

“I had to make sure that I really did hate it,” he shrugged.

You rolled your eyes at him, “You’re awful.”

“And yet, you still keep coming to my room every night like you own this place.”

“What can I say? I’m just visiting my boyfriend every night, like a dutiful girlfriend,” you huffed, pulling the device back onto your lap to find a different movie to watch with him.

Bucky snorts beside you, shaking his head. “Right. Because that’s what we are.”

“That’s what the world thinks,” you hummed, scrolling through the different options. Nothing looks appealing to you, and if Bucky thinks the movie that you two were just watching was bad then shit– everything you’re gonna choose is going to be bad.

“Media engagement has been more positive,” he said, almost a bit quieter.

“It’s because you started touching me like you actually like me during press interviews,” you said, closing your laptop. You gave up. “We’re really selling Val’s publicity stunt. Gotta give it to her– America does love love.”

A small laugh escaped his chest. “It’s more you than me doing the work.”

“You’re doing just fine, Bucky. I’m sure it was difficult for you to act like you love me when you had no idea who I was,” you sighed.

“No– even now… You coming every night. It was for the mission, right? So I could get to know you. Be more comfortable with you,” Bucky said. “I know you don’t want to be here. I still don’t get why you’re here, but… I’m glad that you are.”

You can’t meet his eyes.

The shame that you’re feeling is threatening to crawl back up your throat. The past few weeks, you managed to shove it all down. You had forgotten about it. Pretended it didn’t exist. Right now, it’s hard to ignore.

You take in a slow, steady breath.

“You never told me what music you like,” you said, and lifted the screen of your laptop. “It’s your turn to share some information about you with me.”

You’re about to hand over the device to him so he could search it up, but he gets out of bed. You immediately straightened, confused. Briefly, you wondered if you’d offended him. If that was somehow a taboo topic for him, but no. It wasn’t.

Bucky went to his closet, pulling out a vintage record player. He gently set it down on his desk, then went back to the closet to pull out another item– a box full of vinyls.

“I like forties music,” he told you, a small smile on his face as he started fingering through the different records.

Slowly, you got out of bed, too. You join him by his side, looking over his shoulder at the various different tracks. They’re worn around the edges, the colors faded. They looked more than second hand, and were very well loved throughout the years.

“How long did it take you to get all of these?”

“A while,” he admitted with a shrug. “Many trips to the thrift stores. I learned what FaceBook Marketplace was, too.”

“Steve said vinyls weren’t a thing yet in the early forties,” you said. “I tried teasing him one day about it, and he got real defensive.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, and pulled out a Louis Armstrong record. “They weren’t… but I like ‘em. They give me that same form of nostalgic stimulation that you crave, too.”

You watched as he loaded the track, and placed the needle onto the record. Slowly, the music filled your ears. You turned to him, seeing a fond smile on his face as he listened to the song play.

“Is your nostalgia from before the wars?”

“Yeah… The dance halls,” he nodded, looking down at his feet briefly. “I was quite the dancer back then. Charmed a lot of women, went on plenty of dates… The music would play and I would be unstoppable, really.”

“And now, you tense up now when you have to give me a hug in front of a camera,” you teased lightly. “Do I need to put Sinatra in your earpiece when we go through our interviews?”

“Honestly? It might help,” he chuckled, meeting your eyes.

You watched him for just a few moments. There’s something different about him right now. Maybe it’s the music. It’s unlike what you normally listen to so it’s affecting you, but he looks different. You couldn’t help but smile back at him, not when the smile he has is so genuine. So real.

“Pretend we’re in the forties right now,” you told him, watching his eyebrows furrow slightly in surprise. “Let’s dance, Sarge.”

“You can dance?”

“Not in the same way you can, but I’m a fast learner,” you grinned, holding your hand out to him.

Bucky’s eyes fall to your palm, and his smile only grows softer. You hate the way that your heart races at the sight. Gently pushed your hand away, before extending out his own. “That’s backwards, doll. I’m supposed to be asking you for the dance.”

“My apologies,” you laughed, sliding your hand into his.

He stepped in closer to you, his other hand moving to rest around the small of your back. You circled your arm around his, hooking your hand over his shoulder before he began to lead you in a gentle sway of the beat.

“Was there always such a respectful distance between dance partners in the forties?” you whispered to him, looking in between your bodies at the space.

A sharp laugh tumbled out from him, but he pulled you in even closer until your chests were touching– until even air can’t pass through. When you looked up at him, you found he’s already watching you, a smile so wide on his face that there are slight crinkles around his eyes.

The air gets stuck in your throat, and you have to remind yourself to continue to breathe.

“Is that better for you?” he whispered back.

“Much.”

Bucky only shakes his head, in mock disbelief, but you two continue to sway along to the music. You could understand why there were so many girls after him back then, if this was how he danced with them. He’s humming along to the song, and you can feel his heartbeat from how close you are to him.

It thumps against your own chest, slow and comforting. It’s gentle, and it makes your own chest hurt from the sheer kindness it emits. Bucky’s heart is just like his steps, and you know he’s taking this dance even slower than it needs to be because you said that you didn’t know how to. He’s dancing in half the time of the song’s tempo.

You can’t help yourself. You rest your head on his shoulder, a slow breath escaping your nostrils as you close your eyes. Bucky doesn’t stop humming. His grip on your waist tightens just a bit more, holding you impossibly closer to him.

You don’t want the music to end. You don’t want to pull away from him, but the night is getting late, and you should head off to your own room for the night. You’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe you could convince him to pull out the vinyls again. He has a lot that you could go through. You could dance more another night.

It’s what you tell yourself as the needle hits the end of the record, and automatically lifts to avoid damaging the record. His humming has stopped, your swaying has come to a halt, and silence fills the air, but Bucky’s hold on you doesn’t loosen.

“I should go,” you murmured to him, but you don’t detach yourself from him either. Your head remained on his shoulder, resting in the crook of his neck like it's your space to occupy.

“Stay.”

You shouldn’t.

You know you’re not here in the Watchtower for the right reasons– you’re not spending time with Bucky for the right reasons, and you know Bucky is suspicious of you. He has every right to be, but somewhere along the way– he decided he doesn’t care about those suspicions anymore. He’s placed his trust in you, but you haven’t told him the truth about anything.

Yet, you’re still undressing him with the same amount of vigor as he has when he’s pulling your own clothes off. Your laptop gets accidentally bounced off the bed when your bodies collide, and you both are momentarily alarmed at the sound of the shatter.

“Did you have anything important on that?” he whispered, hot breaths mingling with your own as he hovered about you.

“You really think I keep important Avenger level secrets on a fucking Mac laptop, Bucky?” you whispered back, eyebrows furrowed.

“I like it when you say my name.”

“God, you’re so lame.”

The smile he gave you in return for your sass is devastating. Then, he’s lowering himself back down onto you, mouth catching yours before he’s lifting you back properly up the bed to rest comfortably against the pillows.

Bucky’s body is slotted so perfectly against yours, blanketing yours in a warmth that you hadn’t felt in a long time. His hands are all over you, as if he’s trying to map you out, memorize you by touch as he’s too busy enjoying your kiss with his eyes closed.

You felt his fingers pause at the scar on your thigh. He pulled away from the kiss, eyes zeroed in on it. You watched, breathless, as his fingers ghosted along the raised skin.

"Sorry about this," he murmured, meeting your gaze again.

Guilt. There was guilt in his eyes. Regret. Pain and brief darkness threatening to creep up onto him. You couldn't have that, not right now- not when you were both naked, and you were under him.

"It didn't even hurt," you told him, tugging him back down to you, capturing his lips once more. "But I won't forgive you if you look at me like that again."

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered against your lips, as a small laugh falls from his lips- one that makes your chest soar. Yes. That is what you want from him. Not the sadness or the hurt. His hands are back on you, exploring once more.

“Bucky…” you sighed against his mouth as his fingers danced along your stomach, threatening you with a promise to go lower.

“Mhm,” he hummed, breaking away from your lips. “I got you, doll.”

You can’t help but dig your nails into his shoulders when his fingers slide up and down your folds, feeling you out. A low, contented moan escaped from his throat and he lifted himself off your body slightly to look between your legs– to see the glistening state between them.

Bucky watched as his fingers dipped within you, watched as your puffy lips split open for him, watched as your mouth fell open in a breathy moan as he slowly began to massage you from within.

“You’re soft all over, sweetheart,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You didn’t have a response for him, not when he added a second finger into the mix. His gaze was intense, so fixated on watching your body respond for him like he didn’t want to miss a single twitch or tremble in your muscles.

Bucky didn’t stop even though you could see his own member, hard and leaking against his stomach– begging to be touched. No, he was more focused on you– wanting you to fall apart from his touch, from just his fingers alone.

You were more than happy to oblige if it meant that you could finally get all of him inside of you.

“Bucky, hurry,” you murmured, though you were still panting, still twitching from your high. His fingers were still inside of you, still moving. “Bucky, I need you.”

“You’re so impatient,” he said, clicking his tongue in mock disapproval when you tugged on his wrist, trying to get him to shift away.

“Acting like you don’t want me, either,” you huffed, a little breathless as he began to line himself up with you.

“Baby, you don’t know how badly I’ve wanted you,” he chuckled, and pushed in.

You’re both silent for a few moments, mouths open in noiseless moans as you both take the time to adjust to the feel of each other. His forehead rested against yours as he took a moment to just let everything sink in. His hands squeezed at the curve of your waist, and a shaky breath escaped his lips.

“Jesus,” he muttered, then pressed his lips against yours.

You can only let out a small giggle in response– one that he returns right back. Your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him against you as his hips started to move. Slowly at first, still getting used to you, then gradually picking up speed.

Soft chuckles and giggles are being passed between your lips in the midst of breathy moans.

You ran your hands over his body– from the hollow of his throat, down his chest, to his abdomen, and resting on his hips. You just wanted to feel every single ridge and contour of him, wanted to feel the way his muscles moved and contracted as he shifted within you– wanted to feel him as deeply as he was feeling you.

You watched as he took one of your hands, laced his fingers with yours, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. All the while, his eyes were locked onto yours while his hips continued to rock deeply into yours.

“So perfect, so, so pretty,” he muttered to you, making a shiver run down your body as he moaned out your name next.

He was the pretty one, but with the way that he was looking at you– the way that he was touching you? You couldn’t help but believe him.

Bucky held you in his arms like you were something to worship, something to love. You meet his eyes more than once, and they’re soft. Not hungry or desperate. They’re as gentle as his heart is kind, and you fall apart under his gaze. Bucky follows you right afterwards, whispering your name like a prayer.

He holds you tight that night. Tells you to stay again, in his bed. With him.

You don’t need much convincing.

You don’t know why you’re here, in this secluded corner of a coffee shop. The worst spot to meet up, in your opinion. You would’ve chosen the Watchtower. It was private, at the very least, but no. Sam wanted to meet in public. Why? You have no fucking clue.

Then again, that’s the general theme of your life for the past three and a half months. You don’t know why you came back to New York. You’re not sure why you went on those missions. There’s no clear reasoning on why you went through every single interview and public appearance that Valentina made you do for the sake of Operation: Romance the Public.

Well, that’s all a lie. You have a reason. You know exactly why you’re here.

Either way, you shouldn’t be sitting across from Sam with Bucky beside you, listening to the two of them argue about who should have the rights to the Avengers. Bucky asked you to come with him. Said it might be easier to convince Sam, to make the talk go easier since you know Sam, since you fought beside Sam as an Avenger.

You tried talking your way out of it. Said it wasn’t a good idea. Bucky gave you one look and you were a goner.

“You’re operating as a government backed team– what aren’t you understanding? You’re doing the exact same thing that we fought against!” Sam hissed, trying to keep his voice low.

“Do you think this is what I wanted? I was trying to take Val from her position,” Bucky replied, his voice just as hushed. “I didn’t expect for all of this to happen either!”

“You know, I get that– I understand that, Buck, I really do– but the name? The title? You know better than anyone how hard I have to fight to try to be worthy of my name and yet you can just waltz in here with a bunch of criminals–”

“The original Avengers were all criminals, too,” you cut in, and both men looked over at you. You met Sam’s eyes. “In case you forgot. We were criminals, too.”

“Don’t fucking start with me,” he said, pointing a finger at you. “Because I will not stop once I do.”

“Sam,” Bucky quickly said, trying to get his attention again. “I can’t change what happened. Please. I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m just trying to do what I can here.”

“By doing what? Faking to the world that you and little Ms. Perfect Avenger is in a loving relationship?” he asked with a scoff, leaning back into his seat. He’s still staring at you, jaw clenched tightly as he takes in a sharp, deep breath. “You left us. You left me and Steve when we needed you. You didn’t even fight with us. You dropped off the face of the fucking Earth, and now what? You’re back here for some fame? You’re so full of shit, you know that?”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not here for fame, Sam. I wouldn’t need to join the Avengers again if that’s what I needed.”

“You are so full of shit!”

“Sam. Cool it,” Bucky warned.

“Why are you defending her? She wasn’t even there for you when shit went down the fucking drain!” Sam exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Last time you guys met, you tried to fucking kill her, and vice versa!”

You dragged a hand down your face, irritation building into your chest as you listened to him talk. “Okay, clearly, this isn’t working. This civil conversation that you called us out here for? Over with, Wilson. I’m leaving. I’ll see you back at the tower, Bucky.”

“If it’s not about the fame, then what is it about?” Sam asked you. You met Sam’s eyes. He was challenging you. “You should’ve chosen a side. Because we got back together in the end like we always believed we would… and you were nowhere to be found—“

“You watch your fucking mouth,” you cut him off. Your body bristled, your heartbeat spiked.

“Am I wrong?” he dared. “You’re a coward. You were back then, and you still are. All you know how to do is run.”

“That’s enough, Sam,” Bucky warned, trying to keep his voice even.

Sam wasn’t done yet. He kept his eyes locked in on yours, and you couldn’t even tear your gaze away from his. Your chest felt tight. Your breathing was getting restricted. You watched as he took in a slow, intentional breath as he calmed down, just a little bit.

“You left us,” Sam said, nodding at you. “You were so afraid to lose half of the team back then, half of any of us back then… You didn’t even realize that you would end up losing all of us in the process.”

The chair clattered behind you as you pushed away from the table, and the rest of the coffee shop fell silent, looking into the direction of your table. You didn’t care.

You were already out the door, and halfway down the street. Sam was right. All you did was run, after all.

You dodged and weaved through the crowd of civilians, desperately trying to get away as fast as you could. You didn’t know where you were going. You just needed to leave— leave New York. Leave the country. Leave the Avengers again. Go back into hiding.

Your lungs are burning within your body by the time you turn into an alleyway. Your legs can’t hold your weight anymore, and your back slides against the concrete wall as you bury your face into your hands. You’re desperate for air. Desperate for a release. Something to make it all stop hurting.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart. I know Sam said that all you do is run, but that was like… a mile in five minutes.”

Your hands are being gently pried away from your face, and Bucky is on a knee in front of you, also slightly out of breath– but not for the same reason that you are.

“Why did you follow me?” you whispered.

“Couldn’t just let you run out like that–”

“I’m done,” you interjected, shaking your head. “I can’t do this anymore. The fake– the PR shit. The fucking team– us. I can’t do this.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed in mild confusion as he looked at you. You tear your wrists away from him, running your hands through your hair and squeezing at the roots. You’re going insane.

“What do you mean?” he muttered. “This– I get that it’s publicity and this is… a media stunt, but… the team– you and I– none of that is fake.”

“All of it is fucking fake, Bucky!” you shouted at him, releasing your hair. You have to close your eyes, and keep them shut tight. Otherwise, you’re going to be stuck looking at Bucky’s face, seeing the hurt that’s so clearly evident on his features. You can’t stand to look at it, when you know that you’ve caused it.

“I don’t get what you’re saying right now, doll,” he muttered, reaching for your hand again, and you want to cry. He shouldn’t be this nice to you. You don’t get why he’s being so patient with you.

“Bucky, I don’t want to be here,” you stressed, attempting to take your hand away from him. He only tightens his grip on you– interlaces your fingers together. “You know it, I know it– Sam fucking knows it!”

“Look at me when you’re talking.” It’s not a demand. It’s said as a request. He squeezes your hand, and then your name comes from his lips. Gentle. Soft. Almost reverent. “Please.”

A shaky breath exits your lungs, but you find the courage to look him in the eyes. And he offers you a small smile. It only makes you want to scream all the more. You stared at him, searching for the anger, the suspicion. There’s none of that. You don’t understand.

“Bucky… I should’ve chosen a side,” you whispered to him, heart hammering in your chest. “I lost everyone. I lost everything. I’m only here because Steve asked me to be. I fucked up– and I found out he wasn’t dead like Tony, like Natasha– so I searched for him. Found him retired in that farmhouse in the south, and begged him for forgiveness. I told him that I missed him, I missed the team, and that I was sorry that I wasn’t there for him and everyone else–”

You paused, needing a moment to take a breath. You didn’t understand how Bucky was still kneeling in front of you, taking in all of your words with such patience and clarity, but you were about to break down and start crying.

“And I pleaded with him to tell me what I could do to make up for the shit I did to him, and he asked me to help you if the opportunity ever came— and it did– it finally fucking did, Bucky–” you said, your voice cracking. “I’m only here because I’m listening to the last order my Captain gave me. I don’t want to be an Avenger because this isn’t my team. These aren’t my people. I left my team. I betrayed them– I don’t… I don’t deserve to be here.”

“I know,” he said, nodding to you. “It’s okay.”

You stared at him, the tears slipping down your face. “What?”

“You already told me this,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “When you were drunk. You also made me swear not to tell you that you told me until you said it to me when you were sober.”

Your lips parted, a shaky breath escaping through.

“I just told you that we are fake,” you whispered. “That I– I’m only here because of Steve–”

“You also told me that you liked spending time with me every night,” he murmured to you. “And that hanging out with me was the first time in a long time that you had felt peace.”

“Bucky. I just told you our friendship is based on a lie.”

“I don’t think you would’ve told me the truth if you really didn’t care about me. Twice now, actually.”

“Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“You’re talking to someone that has a horrible history, too,” he shrugged, a small smile tugging onto his lips. “If Steve sent you my way, then shit. I’ll send him a postcard. Never thought he would be playing wingman after all these years, but gotta give it to him. He always knew my type.”

A laugh of disbelief falls from your lips. “Seriously?”

“The media already thinks we’re together. I don’t mind it if we continue on with it. And from the looks of the conversation we just had with Sam…” A deep sigh escaped his chest, and shook his head. “We’re gonna be in some tough fucking shit pretty soon. We could use all the help we can get- if you want to keep going. I won’t force you.”

“You still want me on the team?” you asked.

“I think I need you there to keep me sane amongst the rest of them, actually,” he admitted. “They’re… a tough crowd.”

“They’re disorganized.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Bucky muttered, and you can’t help the smile that came onto your face at the exhaustion that briefly flashed through his eyes. He looked back at you, meeting your gaze, returning your smile. “Point is, I wouldn’t mind it if you were still there. I think that you deserve it, actually. For someone that claims to not give a shit about the team, that says that this isn’t your team all the time… You work harder than anyone on all those missions.”

“Old habits die hard.”

“Exactly,” he said, squeezing your hand just a bit more. “Come back to the tower with me? I need some help when Sam starts retaliating.”

“Is that all you need me for?” you asked, even though you already know the answer.

Bucky’s gaze is locked onto you. There’s a small smile on his face as his eyes roam across your features, taking in your appearance. You’re not too sure what there is to smile about, not when you’re certain that your tear stained and mussed up hair is an absolute mess, but under his gaze? You can’t help but feel beautiful.

He reaches, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as he shakes his head. Your jaw is being cradled in his hand now, as he pressed his forehead against yours– just something to let you know that you’re real. That he’s real. To let you know that he needs you more than just for the team. He needs you, just as badly as you need him.

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