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stellamancer · 6 months ago

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As someone who has thought many a time of sleeping in the tub (not necessarily out of spite) this speaks to me.

I think it's so cute that reader is trying to lull themselves to sleep and then as soon as they're just about there Mr. Perfect Timing himself comes in and ruins it!!! He's the WORST!!

"you're ridiculous" he says as if he is not the most ridiculous human being in existence!!!

....he must look like a dream right now omg.... ari in my mind's he looks so handsome staring at reader over the tub.....

ohhhh he made light of reader's feelings!!! banishment for satoru!! banishment for 1000 years!!!

it's so cute that they can't sleep without one another....

jealous of a cushion???? he's so silly soppy pathetic omg.

reader feels like a cat kinda as he apologizes... but too bad it was. A non apology. :'D stupid gojo!!! you fucked up!!!!

WHAT IF I CRIED ARI!!!!!

augggggghhhh he's so cute I just wanna....AAAAAAA the cuteness aggression is so strong!!!!

open mouth kisses all over the face.... He is just so silly!!!

Aughhh Ari!!!! This was so cute so sweet!!! Just what I needed!! Your writing has just such viseral imagery with the way you describe things!! I am just in awe!!!! LIKE!! AUGGGGGGGHHHH!!! my phone makes it very hard to copy and paste many specific phrases and stuff but!!! Please know that the beginning but was just!!!! very good. very easy to picture!!! thank you so much for sharing this fic!!

i can’t close my eyes alone ; satoru gojo

synopsis; arguing with satoru is always exhausting. bitter and spiteful, you leave him in the bedroom and go find another place to sleep; your couch would be the obvious choice, but where’s the fun in that?

word count; 4.2k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, f!reader (he calls you ’stubborn girl’ n ’pretty girl’ but other than that it’s gn!!), toru and reader have a fight, reader sleeps in the bathtub (don’t ask it came to me in a vision), hurt/comfort, he's doing his best :<, fluff!!

a/n; smth abt …. arguing w satoru gojo ……. idk why the concept has possessed me in the way that it has i just think hurt/comfort w toru is <33

okay, so maybe this wasn’t the best idea you’ve ever had.

in your defense, you weren’t exactly thinking straight; fueled by spite, eager to get far away, and admittedly a little curious as to how it would feel, the decision was made almost purely on impulse. and stupidity, probably.

it’s not comfortable at all.

maybe it could be. maybe if you had just a couple more pillows, a fluffier blanket with a cozier texture. maybe if you had something soft to put beneath you, another blanket or a comforter or — whatever. maybe if you had a warm cup of tea to drink. maybe if you had something warm to hug to sleep.

or someone.

(aw, what’s wrong? can’t sleep without me after all, huh?)

— nope. you are not going back there.

just the thought of how smug he’d get makes you bite the inside of your cheek, increasing your already growing frustrations. in desperate search of a more comfortable position, you nuzzle further into the pillow, but nothing works.

your limbs feel stiff, and your bones can’t seem to relax, a discomforting numbness seeping into your spine. and it’s cold. the feeling of porcelain against your skin keeps you tossing and turning, akin to an icy winter breeze, caressing the apple of your cheek.

still, there’s simply no other option. under absolutely no circumstances can you turn back now. not when you’ve come this far, when you can almost begin to sense an inkling of sleep’s familiar call, the drowsy flutter of your eyelashes.

it takes time, and perseverance — but eventually, the road to sleep does seem to brighten on the horizon. crawling closer and closer, lulling you into its embrace, while all you can do is lie there. completely at its mercy, exhaustion ghosting your subconscious, eyelids ripe with fatigue.

slowly but surely, your consciousness begins to fade. tenderly, soothingly, like a curtain over your eyes being slowly unveiled. you can almost taste it, on the tip of your tongue; sleep is only a moment away.

soon, you’ll fall into that cozy abyss. and then you’ll open your eyes, and the morning sun will greet you. it’ll be a new day, a better day.

so you keep your eyes closed, and sink a little further into the plush of your pillow, and —

the light flickers on.

in the state you’re in, tiptoeing on the edge between dreams and reality, so tantalizingly close to falling asleep, the brightness is positively grating. even through your shut eyes, it invades your senses — a glow so irritating it’s startling. the bathroom lights mock you with their shine, illuminating your figure, curled up in the tiny bathtub.

the whine you let out is involuntary, coaxed out from deep within your throat, as the uncomfortable sensation rouses you from your would-be slumber.

satoru raises an unimpressed eyebrow, where he stands by the door.

chest bare, wearing only a flimsy pair of sleeping shorts, he looks at you with tired eyes. exasperation painted onto his dishevelled features. then he clicks his tongue, voice raspy and rich with fatigue.

”you’re ridiculous.”

the judgemental tilt of his voice only makes the annoyance in your veins bubble up once more, just when it was finally about to dwindle. eyes squeezed shut to escape the burn of the artificial light, you let out a sharp wince, burrowing your face deeper into the pillow.

”turn it off!”

ignoring your angry plea, satoru makes his way over to you. with long, slow strides, vaguely uncoordinated steps. just a little clumsy. he plops down on the edge of the bathtub, and gazes down at you.

you’re lying on your side, arms wrapped around a fluffy cushion, knees against your chest. under the illumination of the bathroom lights, he can see you clearly; messy hair that he yearns to ruffle, a crease between your brows that he yearns to smooth away.

you look awfully uncomfortable, to no one’s surprise. he isn’t sure what else you were expecting.

despite the sting of the bright lights, you force your eyes open — only to give satoru a halfhearted glare, an attempt at appearing intimidating. though you somehow doubt it’ll work.

resting his jaw on the heel of his palm, satoru tilts his head. soft locks of white hair follow the movement, falling over his eyes, a little more tousled than usual. like he’s been tossing and turning, sprawled out on the bedroom mattress.

and, just like you suspected, the dirty look you send his way doesn’t seem to scare him off. not even in the slightest. if anything, you think you catch a flicker of lazy amusement dancing through his eyes. and it irks you, it does — an itch beneath your skin, a taste of irritation on your tongue.

because satoru is looking at you like you’re somehow in the wrong, here, like you’re the one acting out. as if he isn’t the reason you’re here in the first place.

at this point, you barely even remember what the fight was about. too sleep-deprived to recall it properly, too stressed to make a genuine attempt. all you remember is getting ready for bed, and the familiar sensation of frustration prickling your skin. you remember his pretty little grin, his teasing remarks and refusal to take you seriously.

remember the way he laughed, when you told him what was bothering you; the crinkle of his eyes, the warmth of his hands reaching over to squish your cheeks. a little patronizing.

(there was no malicious intent behind it, that much you know. he probably just wanted to lighten the mood. but it irked you, all the same. hurt you, maybe. just a little bit.)

then you remember storming out. grabbing a blanket and pillow and telling him to sleep on his own, if that’s how he was going to be. the words felt cold as they left your mouth, little breathy icicles. and then you left.

which is why you’re here, right now. curled up in your goddamn bathtub, for some reason that still escapes you, trying desperately to get even a wink of sleep without your boyfriend there to help.

and that’s also why satoru is here, back a tad slouched as he sits on the edge of the bathtub, looking at you like you’re some misbehaving cat. blinking slowly, drowsily, dragged down by the fatigue clinging to his eyelashes.

(he can’t sleep, either.)

”you’re really gonna sleep in there?” he sighs, after a moment’s pause. any honest concern in his voice is almost entirely overshadowed by the sense of admonition that follows it.

a scoff falls from your lips, sharp like a razorblade. ”yes,” you deadpan, shifting to lie on your stomach, hiding away from his insistent view. ”i was sleeping just fine before you barged in here.”

satoru shoots you a look, thoroughly unimpressed, entirely unconvinced of your blatant lie. ”you’re being dumb,” he huffs. ”at least sleep on the couch.”

”i don’t wanna hear that from you,” comes a hiss, low and disgruntled. a growing irritation. ”and i’m comfortable where i am.”

another dissatisfied huff. why are you being so irrational? he just doesn’t get it. scrambling for excuses, satoru tries his hand at another tactic.

”you’ll hurt your back.”

another little scoff. oh, so now he suddenly cares? you can’t believe him.

”so what?”

a moment passes. satoru bites his lip, teeth sinking softly into the flesh; a little pang of ache, but it’s nothing compared to the twist of discomfort in his chest. you’re making this more difficult than it has to be, he thinks. always so stubborn.

what is he supposed to say? how is he supposed to convince you to come back to bed, when you’re already so set on denying him?

god, he’s tired. he just wants to sleep, close his jaded eyes. just wants to not have to think, for a couple hours, curled up with the only person who makes him feel safe. just wants to dream in soft shapes.

but if you aren’t there, then…

a deep sigh. weary, annoyed. ”c’mon,” he coaxes, blinking sluggishly. ”you know you won’t be able to fall asleep without me. can’t we just make up already?”

your nails dig into the fabric of your blanket. every word he says only seems to deepen the sense of irritation plaguing your sleep-deprived mind.

it makes you want to shut him out, bury your head in the soft sheets and forget about everything else. he keeps acting like you’re just overreacting, like you wanted to have an argument. like he wasn’t the one who made you upset and then laughed at you about it.

”i don’t need you to fall asleep,” you grumble, muffled by the pillow in your grasp, arms tightening around it. nuzzling deeper into the soft velvet comfort.

satoru’s fingers twitch, as if urging him to pull you close. he almost glares at the cushion in your arms, that you’re hugging so fondly, putting all your body weight on — snuggling into it in search of comfort and warmth.

(that should be his chest.)

the gears in his head turn, slowly and mechanically, as he brings a hand up to card through his hair.

satoru hates seeing you so upset, so far away from him. having to watch you close yourself off, not allowing him to be near, soothe you and take care of you. kiss all your worries away. that’s all he wants to do, everything he needs to keep himself whole, to keep himself from being devoured by an exhaustion he’s lived with for as long as he can remember.

a strong frustration gnaws at his conscience. a certain desperation.

a big, heavy sigh leaves his lips. it bounces off the walls of the bathroom, the white tiles and shiny mirror, as he drags it out. almost childishly. then he’s angling his body to face you properly, big hands resting on his knees, a determined gaze set on your figure.

”look, i’m sorry,” he starts, rigid and earnest. blinking once, twice, chasing away the drowsy weight of his eyelids. ”i shouldn’t have laughed.”

your ears perk up.

shifting to your side as if hoping to hear him better, you peek up at him through half-lidded eyes. almost in disbelief, a kind of hope sprouting in the corners of your dilated pupils.

is he genuinely going to apologize, you wonder? admit that he was in the wrong? does he actually feel bad?

a moment passes. slow, drawn out, until satoru’s voice spills into the air again.

”there. i apologized,” he exhales, a little gruff. annoyed. ”now will you please just come to bed?”

…

wow.

okay, nevermind. you hope the ceiling fan falls on him.

beneath your skin, a mellow kind of anger bubbles up, blood slowly coming to a boiling point. he’s not sorry at all. of course he isn’t. you were stupid to think he’d actually give you a sincere apology, stupid to think he’d do the one thing that would actually make you want to fall back into his comforting embrace. stupid, stupid.

clenching your teeth, nails digging into the velvet fabric of the pillow, your eyelids flutter shut once more. only this time, you don’t plan on opening them again — at least not until morning comes. not until you see the sunkissed tiles of the bathroom, until the ache inside your chest has passed.

”satoru,” you enunciate, frigid and final. ”just let me sleep. we can talk tomorrow.” a beat. the tiniest grumble resounds from your lips, tinged with exhaustion. ”i’m too tired for this.”

under his breath, satoru winces. that palpable fatigue in your words sends a tremor running through his chest, discomforting, a shiver of his heart. you won’t look at him anymore, and the hint of finality in your tone makes him feel slightly dejected.

god, he’s awful at this. sincerity has never been his strong suit. he’s gotten better, lately, but it’s still so very foreign.

he didn’t mean to make you angry, didn’t mean to upset you. didn’t mean for the lilt of his voice to make his apology sound insincere. but that’s still what happened.

and satoru isn’t quite sure what to do.

he’s tired. eyes heavy with lost sleep, glimpses of would-be nightmares he knows he’d have were he to fall asleep right now. an anxious lump has long since formed in the back of his throat, and he misses you. misses your presence, your warmth. misses the feeling of having you close, the knowledge that you haven’t left yet.

(without you, he can’t —)

a sigh. soft, and resigned, flowing from his lips.

the inner turmoil in satoru’s mind begins to fade, slowly but surely, smoothed away by the sight of you. bundled up in a blanket too small to cover you properly, lying in that cold and cramped bathtub, discomfort evident in your features. sadness dripping from the bitter words you grace him with.

so out of reach, too far for him to follow, a boundary he wants to cross more than anything. but something about that meek expression makes him falter, makes his heart twist and turn inside his ribcage.

(he knows that you’re tired, too.)

so satoru swallows his pride.

the words are spoken in a whisper, hushed, through a voice so low you wouldn’t hear it if the silence of the bathroom wasn’t so suffocating. a soft lilt of his voice, bare and raw. meek, in a way that makes him want to crawl under a rock and die. but it’s there, and he lets you hear it; that soft little truth.

”… i can’t sleep without you.”

satoru doesn’t look at you. his confession rings in your ears, laced together with a softness you’ve come to associate with warm spring mornings and rooms so dark you can’t see his face. moments in which satoru feels safe. safe enough to be sincere.

— inevitably, your heart begins to soften.

(he’s trying. it’s difficult for him, but he’s really trying. sincerity and honesty are things that have been used against him all his life, so it’s no wonder he’d be scared.)

it’s very hard to stay mad at him, when he sounds like that. when his words come out sounding a little too much like a plea, a silent call for help.

with hesitance, you allow your eyes to flutter open, shifting a little to get a better look at him. he’s there, staring into space — the man you’ve grown to love so dearly. his tousled white hair, those slightly forlorn eyes. the vague darkness beneath them, slightly puffy skin. that tired, tired expression.

satoru taps the edge of the tub with the pads of his fingers, absentmindedly. index finger, middle finger, ring finger, over and over.

then, at last, he meets your gaze. and you think he swallows down a gulp, before smiling — it’s a pretty smile, somewhat tiny. a little sheepish, but awfully sincere. awfully satoru.

he tilts his head, gazing into your eyes with a tenderness that melts your heart to the marrow.

”… please?”

a second passes. then two.

soft and melodic, your heartbeat resounds in your ears, akin to a lullaby. like the call of a siren, coaxing you into giving in. and you’re weak, you realize, so very weak. just a smile and a tilt of his head, and you’re rendered utterly helpless.

(he’s just too pretty.)

without fully realizing it yourself, you’ve begun to move, dragging yourself up with sluggish motions. blanket still draped over your shoulders, and pillow snug against your chest, you blink. drowsily, slowly. a little meekly.

and satoru brightens.

it’s visible, in the way he physically perks up, back straightening, smile finally reaching his aquamarine eyes. a blend between hope and affection sprouts in them, slathered over with something honeyed.

a soft grin blooms on his lips, and he opens his arms wide — silently beckoning you to fall into his embrace. a raspy coo tiptoes on his tongue.

”c’mere.”

before you can make a move to do so, satoru leans over. scooping you up with ease, as if you weigh absolutely nothing, tucking you into his warm embrace. smothering you in his cushiony chest.

almost instinctively, your arms go to wrap around his neck, cheek smushed against the warm skin of his shoulder. if you strain your ears, you think you can hear the soft patter of his heartbeat. he smells of the tiramisu you ate before going to bed, and just a hint of expensive cologne. he smells of comfort.

satoru is soft, and warm, and everything you need right now. lulling you back into that cozy, sleepy state. your very own personal dose of melanin.

with a big palm on the small of your back, satoru keeps you pressed up against his chest, as if you could change your mind and try to escape at any moment. he stands up, still holding you, and hikes your legs around his waist. breathing out a satisfied hum, before turning on his heel.

satoru smiles, and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. ”let’s get you back to bed, baby.”

after turning the bathroom lights off, he begins to walk to your shared bedroom, still carrying you with one arm. always so strong and reliable. you know for a fact that he’s not going to drop you, so you opt to close your tired eyes; stretching out your limbs, lazily, releasing a quiet yawn that makes his lips curl up.

despite your lingering frustration, you find yourself nuzzling into the crook of his neck — and satoru coos, so painfully soft that you barely even hear it. the restlessness inside his own chest washed away, by the familairity of your body against his.

and before you know it, he’s dropped you down on the mattress. gently, but still enough to make you feel a little jostled, so close to falling asleep in his arms. he drags the blanket up to cover you, tucking you in; this one is bigger, with a fluffier texture, enough to cover you both with ease.

smiling softly at the sight of you all cozy, content in the knowledge that you’re finally comfortable, satoru crawls beneath the blanket and takes his rightful place beside you. eyes crinkled at the corners, rich with affection.

two strong arms reach around your waist, to pull you flush against him, until your head meets his chest and you can hear the soft thrumming of his heartstrings.��then he sighs, in pure bliss, thoroughly content. melting into your embrace, rubbing his cheek against the side of your head, nuzzling into the warmth that seeps from your body to his.

he runs his big hands down your back, affectionately, rubbing circles into your skin. coaxing you into melting a little, too.

”see, isn’t this much better?” he smiles, a little cheeky. such a tease.

”… the bathtub was fine.”

a chuckle rumbles through his chest, rich with fondness. his hand goes to card through your hair, nimble fingers smoothing down your scalp and running through the soft strands. every touch gentle, full of care. every word soaked in a syrupy sweetness.

”stubborn girl.”

despite your best wishes, you’re too tired to bite back the blissful sigh that leaves your lips. a part of you still wants to protest, to push him away —

but then you start leaning into his touch. helpless to his warm hands, his soothing voice. satoru is just a little too good at making you melt. so good that you finally begin to let your guard down, nuzzling into his bare skin, sinking a little further into the mattress.

and satoru stifles a coo.

”honestly,” he sighs, equal parts exasperated and amused. ”sleeping in the bathtub… you’re so silly.”

before you have a chance to respond, he’s pulling back — ever so slightly, just to get a better look at your face. arms looped around his neck, you blink up at him with droopy eyes, and he can’t resist the dopey grin that sneaks its way onto his lips. doesn’t even begin to try, when you look so unbearably sweet.

unable to stop himself, he broaches the distance between you, leaning close to kiss the top of your nose. and you squeeze your eyes shut at the gesture, face scrunching up, but it only makes him chuckle. smiling, honey-sweet, he admires your sleepy pout. soaks up every soft little grumble that slips from your lips.

his hand comes to cradle your cheek, thumb smoothing down your cheekbone. just gazing at you, taking you in, every single contour of your face. there is only adoration in his eyes. something silently delighted, that seeps into his words, his raspy voice.

”my pretty, pretty girl.”

a heat rushes to your cheeks. looking up at him, into those lovesick eyes, you can’t help but grow flustered.

he looks so content.

all you manage is a weak furrow of your brows, pressing a palm against his bare skin. softly, as if pushing him away, forehead meeting his chest with a soft bonk. hiding away, so he won’t see how much his words affect you.

”lemme sleep, toru…” you mumble, stifling a yawn.

unfortunately, your boyfriend is not one to give in so easily. before long, his fingertips are trailing across the skin of your jaw, coaxing you into lifting your chin. and you’re too sleepy to resist — practically melting, as he begins to smear openmouthed kisses all over your face. all you can do is close your eyes, attempting to ignore the sound of his exaggerated mwahs, frowning in a silent disapproval that you know you don’t actually mean.

satoru notices it, though. he always does.

”you still mad at me, baby?” he asks, in a way that sounds a little like he’s cooing at you. there’s a teasing tilt to his voice, but it’s also a genuine question. your frown deepens.

averting your gaze with a soft huff, even as he cradles your jaw with his slender fingers, a pout plays at your lips. under his kind eyes, you feel just a bit meek — recalling your argument from before. absentmindedly, you fidget with the waistband of his shorts, hoping to ease your nerves.

despite your valiant efforts to direct your vocal cords in a different direction, the voice that spills from your lips comes out sounding just a tad hurt.

”… you never take me seriously.”

satoru’s eyes soften.

his smile falters, by a hair, a brief stilling of movement. subtle, but hard not to pick up on. there’s a certain sense of shame in his irises, a genuine guilt stirring his heartstrings; several discomforting sensations, gnawing at the bones of his ribcage.

(you look so small.)

two hands reach out to cup your cheeks, big and warm. swallowing up your whole face. and before you can react, satoru leans in to press a sweet, chaste kiss against your lips. he tastes like tiramisu.

”’m sorry. we can talk about it tomorrow, okay?” he hums, and you can tell that he means it. ”i promise that i’ll take you seriously. for real, this time.”

as you look into those eyes of his, blue and soft around the edges, the last of your frustration is finally washed away. with a meek downward glance, and a faint nod, satoru relaxes — releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. relieved at your silent forgiveness.

tomorrow, he’ll definitely make it up to you. he’ll hear you out, without opening his big mouth, or trying to skirt around any emotions that make him feel even slightly uncomfortable. smoothing a big palm down your back, he hopes you feel it as a silent apology.

for now, he’ll just hold you. he’ll hold you, and kiss all your worries away, and keep you comfy and warm. that’s his duty. the only one he’d willingly choose, the only weight on his shoulders that never feels even a little bit suffocating. the only one he wouldn’t cast away, if given the chance.

nuzzling back into the safety of his collarbone, your heartbeat settles into a drowsy rhythm, slow and serene. satoru squeezes you in a tight hug, reassuring. comforting.

he can be a handful, and a little insensitive, but you love him a lot. you can’t imagine not loving him.

”… goodnight, toru,” you whisper. ready to give into sleep’s call, at last.

satoru smiles. you can hear it in his voice, sweet and silky, a soft curl of his lips. ”goodnight, honey,” he presses a kiss against your shoulder. warm, his breath on your skin. ”i love you.”

a yawn escapes your throat. ”love you too…” you mumble, sleepily. that one soft truth, before your consciousness fades.

and satoru’s smile only grows. hopelessly, inevitably, in the same way his hands can’t help but to bring you closer. until your heart is flush against his own, and he swears he can feel your heartbeats synchronize.

finally, with those three little words, satoru should be able to go to sleep. drifting off, he can only hope you’ll still be in his arms by the time he awakens.

(then again; you always are, aren’t you?)

#nikuniku fic recs

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stellamancer · 2 years ago

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Time passes differently when you're in love: sometimes it oozes along second by second -- like honey, like molasses, like blood -- and other times it jumps moment to moment, each one gone in the blink of an eye, over much too soon, leaving you wondering when another might come again.

In this way, you grow from clumsy neighbor girl to high school classmate in the span of many years that exist in your mind as snippets of this and that, like the day you first met him -- you hiding behind your parents as they introduced themselves to his, and him just looking at you with a small touch of interest reflected in his eyes -- or the time he accidentally walked in on you changing. You can recall the cherry blossoms falling like rain, decorating the streets like confetti, on the day you realized that you loved him with all your heart -- but that was back in middle school, a few years before the changing incident.

Through it all, Yamato-kun has always been Yamato-kun, even during that one rough patch where it felt more appropriate to call him Nikaidou sans any honorific because it wasn't very cool to be seen hanging out with the clumsy girl you only played with because your parents made you. At least, you assume this is what happened. Everything returned to normal by the start of middle school, so you never bothered to pry too much into it.

...then again, maybe it was when Midoriyama Satoru called you out after school to ask you to be his girlfriend that Yamato finally came around. To this day, you're not sure how he found out, but you know he interrupted Midoriyama mid-confession. Without acknowledging either of you, he wrapped his fingers around your wrist tight enough to bruise and tugged you away, glowering over his shoulder when Midoriyama tried to protest.

It happened maybe two more times, Yamato saving you from would-be confessions, until rumors spread throughout the entire school that you shouldn't confess to this one first-year girl because her boyfriend will always catch you in the act.

"It's like you have a sixth sense for these things," you told him once, and he just smiled and laughed. He gently tucked a few stray strands of hair behind your ear before pulling away, fingers already moving to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

The lenses glinted. "Saa... maybe I do?"

OH MY GOD. MIDORIYAMA SATORU WHAT AN INTERESTING NAME.....

but wowie wow.... mysterious (???) yamato anon... the childhood friends approach.... interesting. i think a childhood friend approach is hmmm. Seeing yamasan change over the years would be quite a sight.

And then. Him interrupting confessions so much that it becomes a rumor!?! That's hilarious LMAO. he must have a sixth sense or. you know. He could stop them all if he just fessed up himself LMAO.

#mysterious (???) yamato anon tag #nikuniku fic recs

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stellamancer · 2 years ago

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"W-why are you shirtless?" Your voice comes out more like a squeak than anything else, and Yamato simply looks at you, his eyes dancing with mirth. There's no doubt about it: he's laughing at you. Your reaction is normal, you think, because there's no reason for him to be shirtless right now – there's no reason for him to be shirtless in front of you.

"It's practice," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. For what? The question dies on your lips as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other; the motion is enough to pull your attention back to him and the expanse of fair skin–

He's not as toned as some other idols you know, but he's a lot more athletic than one would think from looking at him. Your eyes move up his arm muscles to rest a moment on his defined collarbone, then slowly, you glance down at his slender stomach. Your breath hitches. Yeah. Um. Yeah.

"See something you like?" he asks, voice dropping a few octaves, and he takes a few steps towards you. Reflexively, you take a step back. Two. Three. Four, and you realize that there's something hard and unmoving behind your back. But Yamato is still closing in, his eyes glinting with something you can't quite place.

"Y-Yamato-san!" you yelp, as he cages you in with his arm. His face is a mere inch away from yours; he's close enough that you can feel his bangs against your cheek.

"So?" he asks, his voice just a teasing whisper into your ear. "Do you think this is convincing enough to play this kind of part?"

He chuckles as he moves away from you, holding his hands up to show he means no harm. It takes all of your strength to not slide down against the wall, melting into a puddle of Nik- I mean fangirl bliss.

"Sorry, sorry," he says, and you get the feeling that he's not apologetic in the least. "I thought about what you said earlier and thought I'd give it a go. But I'm really not cut out for this kind of thing."

Liar.

"That's not fair, Yamato-san," you whisper under your breath. "I am most definitely one of those girls who want to see you shirtless."

"Hm?"

"N-nothing! Go put on a shirt before someone sees and gets the wrong idea!!!"

PRACTICE HE SAYS.... yama-san is always so quick minded..... so smart.... I SQUINT AT HIM.... stupid sexy shirtless yamato.... I'm gonna bite him.

AND ANON U CALLING ME OUT WEEPS. I AM COMPOSED AND DEFINITELY NOT PUDDLE SHAPED!!!!!

#nikuniku fic recs #mysterious (???) yamato anon tag #jk i would die fr if that haplened to me

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stellamancer · 2 years ago

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"I think you'd be great," you say, with such genuine enthusiasm that Yamato is caught off guard. Honestly, if it were anyone else, he'd chalk it up to them poking fun at him. Well, he can't be too sure that you're not teasing him too, if only a little, but he doesn't exactly mind all that much. If it's you, anyway. "I'm no Tsunashi Ryuunosuke," he replies, with a self-effacing smile, and he doesn't miss the way a pout forms on your face, as if you're a few seconds away from arguing the point. "I doubt anyone wants to see this onii-san shirtless." Your lips part, and he arches a brow, daring you to speak your mind. Not one to disappoint, you tell him plainly, "I think a lot of girls wouldn't mind the extra fanservice." Yamato chuckles as he leans over, not quite enough to invade your personal space, but close enough to raise your awareness of him. The lenses of his glasses glint. "Are you one of them?" "I might be!" you chirp, clasping your hands together behind your back. "But you won't know for sure unless you try it and see."

YES!! I AM ONE OF THEM!! YES YES!! I WOULD LOVE THE EXTRA FANSERVICE I WOULD LOVE TO SEE YAMA-SAN SHIRTLESS!!! the first stage outfit, that ugly ass thing, it's only redeeming quality was the lil bit of cleavage.

i mean it is true he is no ryu-san but yama-san has his own charms!!! and he could have more without that shirt. uwu

BUT REALLY MYSTERIOUS (???) ANON U REALLY SPOIL ME..... WITH ALL THIS YAMATO CONTENT....

did u see this week's episode yet? yama-san was quite handsome in the few frames he was in. i was taking lots of pictures. because. you know. he deserves it, and so do i for that matter. LMAOO

#nikuniku fic recs #mysterious (???) yamato anon tag

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stellamancer · 6 months ago

Text

I'm going to preface this by saying that 90% of the time when I read a fic I write my comments as I go, however there are usually points when I get too engrossed in the fic that I don't have anything to say and this was one of those fics.

I also don't know really anything about Aventurine so maybe the comment brain power was being routed to building an image of him in my head. Though! I did take some screen shots of. Passages I wanted to talk about!

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Okay so. I actually really liked the last line here, following this paragraph: it was a brief moment of humor before..... All that LMAOO.

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This was such a punch to the gut, but the real kicker was what MC said literally right after this. I was floored like omg.

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THIS. Like. I do not often think of metaphor in fic, but like the use of language to represent Aventurine's duality is. So... So much LMAO. Actually now that I bring it up I'm fearing bringing up stuff you mentioned in the afterword. ;;

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A FEELING HE HAS TO KILL. I weep.... And then representing that by having him respond in standard... and... AUGHHHHH. I'll come back to this later actually LMAO.

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Okay. This bit had me crying. I thought I could escape the tears and yet!!! You got me good maomi!!!

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aND THEN THIS.... the honesty of his dreams was just!!! bitingy phone.

Okay. So. A little aside before I start to ramble about the fic more. In Nier, there are these things called weapon stories that are these four part blurbs where the last blurb turns the story on its head. This fic did the same thing to me, because I forgot about your poll regarding MC. SO LIKE, those times when MC was being kind and sweet and then crying and everything my brain had played it all back and was like "WAIT WAS THAT JUST THEM MANIPILATING HIM????" Like I was just floored, speechless and in awe.

Honestly, I'm glad I forgot because remembering would have lessened the impact of the reveal LMAO.

Okay, okay, so, I'm such a slut for thematic repetition and so the repeating sections, like the opening section, the way Avgin sounds to Aventurine were just. 10/10 bits for me. I'll slurp up anything that has thematic repetition (and then utilizing it for the reveal + switching it to MC's perspective + revealing that despite Aventurine's lies and attempts MC knows how he actually feels).

Additionally, the feeling of loss and disconnect that you weaved through the narrative was just. I'm banging my head against the wall. LMAO.

This fic, maomi, was just about absolute showcase of your skill as a writer, not in just the actual writing but crafting a story based around a particular theme that resonates with the feelings of your audience. I'm not getting over how MC out manipulated the guy who loves to control them like.... Who is really the one in control here??? The two of them are not normal and definitely need help but god what an interesting dynamic. I bet it's fun to write. LMAOOOO.

translation

Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you. (Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)

5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.

Katican.

Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.

When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.

Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.

But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.

You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.

When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.

“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”

“You speak Avgin,” you argue.

“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”

“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”

Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.

You understand him well enough to know that.

“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”

You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.

“I’ll teach you my language as well?”

“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.

You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”

Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.

He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.

“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.

“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.

He hums. “Just one?”

“One per day.”

“Three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, I am a businessman.”

You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.

“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”

“Deal.”

Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.

It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.

Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.

He regrets it almost immediately.

When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.

“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.

“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”

Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?

But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.

There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.

There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.

Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.

Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.

Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.

But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.

When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.

“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.

You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”

“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”

You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”

You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”

“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”

After all, he is the only Avgin left.

It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.

But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.

“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”

Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.

Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.

But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 0 STATUS: Extinct END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE

The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.

He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.

So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.

“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.

“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.

“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”

“You've just reminded me how.”

“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.

“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.

“No, that's so boring.”

“Then let's do your language.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.

“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.

“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”

“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”

You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.

“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”

You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”

And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.

And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.

But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 2 STATUS: Endangered. SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.

He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—

As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.

His throat locks up.

“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”

He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.

“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”

“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”

He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”

“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”

Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.

“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.

It's a feeling he has to kill.

“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”

This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.

The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.

If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Your Avgin is—shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”

You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.

Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.

You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.

But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.

(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.

It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.

But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.

Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.

His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.

Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.

In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.

Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.

In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.

And he has you. Finally, he has you.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.

So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.

The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.

This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.

It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.

Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.

I'm sorry for always leaving you.

I'm sorry for making you cry.

I can't bear the thought of losing you.

Freedom would be too lonely without you.

I don't want to hurt you anymore.

I don't want to lie to you anymore.

I missed you.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

end

afterword

#nikuniku fic recs #as i always say mao never misses #i feel like my comment needs more screaming #PLEASE READ MAOMI'S FIC IT'S GREAT!!!!!!#AAAAAAAAAAAA #nsft #can't forget about that

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stellamancer · 2 years ago

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"I didn't ask for this," you say. Your skin stings as tears slide down your cheeks, slowly, one after another, until the sobs wrack your entire body, and you're certain the only thing keeping you standing is his arms wrapped around you in a mockery of a lover's embrace. His lips curl into a sinister smile as he drops a kiss to your exposed neck; the action is so soft, so tender, so unlike the scene laid out before your eyes. "But I did it for you," he replies, and your feel his lips part against your skin with every word. For you? You can barely make out puddles of dark liquid on the hardwood floor, forever stained by the crimes committed here in your name. "I didn't want them to die," you continue, trying in vain to move your arms out of his hold so that you might wipe away the tears that refuse to stop. He won't let you, and your heart aches. "I did it for you," he repeats, a bit more forcefully this time. "I didn't ask you to," you say, desperation filling your voice as you finally, finally, manage to turn away from the dreaded scene, but what you find isn't much better. The crazed smile is not the one you fell in love with all those years ago. "...didn't you, though?" For a moment, his eyes seem almost gentle as they look upon your face, but the ominous glint of his glasses ruins that thought as quickly as it comes. "When you complained about them again and again... when you got upset that they weren't letting you do what you wanted... when you told me you didn't want to put up with it any more..." You feel sick. "N-no. I didn't mean..." "If you're this upset over my present, shall I have you join them?"

I AM HOWLING YAMA-SAN!!!! DOUSHITE!!!! DO NOT KILL FOR MEEE AAAAA now u are going to jail yama-san. unless he kills me. and then himself. ahaha.... yama-san noooo plz don't die ur so hot...

AND YOU MYSTERIOUS YAMA-SAN ANON WEEPS

how could u do this to me!!?!?!?!?!

#tw blood #tw death #nikuniku fic recs #mysterious (???) yamato anon tag #slathers yama-san in his own blood #perfect

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stellamancer · 2 years ago

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"Don't worry," he says. The sound of his voice, low and sultry, is enough to send a shiver running up and down your spine, but it's the way his lips ghost across the shell of your ear that threatens to do you in as he continues, "I won't hurt you." That's a red flag, you think, squeezing your eyes shut. Which means you should expect the opposite and prepare for the worst. Run, maybe. As if sensing your inner turmoil, his arm snakes around your waist, gently forcing you back against him and holding you in place. His glasses glint ominously as he rests his chin on top of your shoulder.

"Don't run." He chuckles, and his breath tickles your neck. You open your mouth, prepared to tell him that you won't, that you're not thinking about it, that you would never think about it, but the words won't come. And then, your heart drops. "You won't get very far."

"--cut!"

You let out a shaky breath as Yamato slowly releases you, your heart still thumping loudly in your chest. It's not real, you remind yourself, but it's easy to forget these things when the one you're acting opposite is so skilled at his craft. Breathing deeply, you steel your nerves and turn around to face the handsome idol.

"Please don't murder me again, Yamato-san. I still have nightmares from the last ten times."

Please excuse me while I go expire in another rOOM BECAUSE OH MY FUCKING GOD YAMA-SAN!! YAMA-SAN??? YAMA-SAN!!! HE'S TOO MUCH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I WANNA BITE HIM AAAAAAAAAAA i need to see inside his head in this moment. i need to crack it open and analyze because BECAUSE BECAUSE HE IS JUST DOING HIS JOB BUT HE HAS TO KNOW HE HAS TO KNOW AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

tHANK YOU MYSTERIOUS (????) STRANGER THANK YOU FOR MY LIFE MY LOVE FOR YAMATO-SANNNNNNN. aaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

#anon tag #looking between between two people #which one of nyall done it #or will you be like yama-san here and terrorize me #that last line though #omg so brilliant #i want to eat it i want to save it #nikuniku fic recs

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stellamancer · 1 year ago

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The fact that Gojo had to do a double take over the gelato… LMAO.

I already read this bUT I WANTED TO FORMALLY READ IT? I GUESS? And comment on it.

Oh, col reader, you are so cute, so sweet so silly… trying on the lingerie at a time and place where you could be found. But it's okay, it's all for the better LMAO. I think Gojo would agree.

I know you said that you felt that this was a little brighter, perhaps more light-hearted than most things written in the col universe, but you know, I think it belongs, in the sense that there are things about it that make me think of col, in particular Gojo being a fast learner? I remember this from another col fic LMAO.

I would be remiss if I didn't make mention of the banger one liners. I have already told you that I am a fan of one liners and today and now are no exceptions. The 'but he doesn't want that' and 'do you have any idea what that does to him' are particularly notable, especially the latter one since it feels like a very subtle call back to the first time. hehe.

Anyway, as usual, sel this was an absolute treat to read and i am so mad that I cOULD NOT READ IT RIGHT WHEN YOU SENT IT TO ME. my job should reimburse me for emotional damage. col reader and gojo are just so cute together… and for his birthday… idk maybe col reader can make him a cake. they can make a cake together it'd be cute.

₊˚⊹。take my time (i’ll spend it all on you) | gojo satoru

wc: 1.6k

summary: gojo sees you in lingerie for the first time.

contains: f!reader, suggestive almost nsfw (they make out… maybe a bit steamy), 18+ just in case, reader is in lingerie, shy feelings!! gojo down bad!!

a/n: i hc that the first time gojo sees you in lingerie, it’s like seeing you walk down the aisle—he’s a bit sappy like that! i also think that he’d love seeing his lover in pink! idk! it’s just the vibes! (col reader would look cute in pink too i think hehe complements the personality!); takes place much later on, after col #4 (wip)

collection masterlist: conversations on love 3.5b. —will i ever bring you peace? <- extra. take my time (i’ll spend it all on you)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

There are few things in his life that have earned Gojo’s double take:

A sign for a newly-opened gelato shop with ‘exclusive flavors for the first 30 customers!’ written in fine print; Megumi, back in middle school, being confessed to with a sweetly handcrafted box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day; a small cut, right at the tip of his nose from that time you sparred with him and he let you get too close (or so he says).

And now you.

In something pink—

—that if he backtracks just a bit, steps one foot behind the other to glance again at the space left open by the bedroom door, and squints—

He’s certain, 200% sure.

It’s lingerie.

He blinks once, twice, rubs at his eyes even as his mind attempts to catch up to whatever it is–you–he just saw. This must be what wires feel when they short circuit.

You know he’s home, right? You have to, you just told him to rinse the dishes after snacking.

And he was in the middle of doing that—walking across your apartment from couch to kitchen, stopping only to do a double take at the sight of pink in his periphery, at you, once he looked again, clearly.

Or were you doing this on purpose? Did you want him to see you?

He gulps, warmth spreading from the tips of his ears down to his neck, lingering.

There’s only one way to find out, really.

He walks down the hallway leading to the bedroom, keeping his footsteps light so as to not startle you.

If he’s being honest right now, his mind is full to the point of feeling empty—too many thoughts swirling around the fact that behind this very door, he’s about to find you in pink lingerie.

And when he takes a deep breath, fingertips pushing on wood very slightly as he calls out, “Bab—“

“S’toru!” you squeal from the other side, panicked as you instantly push it back closed.

So you didn’t do it on purpose.

“Sorry, give me a minute!” you call out, and he can hear your footsteps from the other side, frantically walking around for what he can assume is you looking for something to cover yourself with.

But he doesn’t want that.

Not when he already has the visual of you, pretty in what he suspects is pink lace.

Not when the way you said ‘S’toru’ sounded so much like ‘‘Toru’, your ‘‘Toru’, the way you usually say it pressed against bed sheets, under him, expression blissed out from—

Do you have any idea what that does to him?

“Are you wearing lingerie?”

You freeze. Gojo can tell from the other side of the door, and you think, damn it, because he isn’t supposed to know you bought a set, much less see you in it. Not yet.

You could try to lie, but Gojo always sees through you, through every change in inflection, the way your eyebrow twitches before speaking.

“Can I come in?” he asks softly, almost hesitantly.

How can you possibly resist him when he speaks to you like this? Asking permission as if this space you live in isn’t as much his?

You sigh, flustered at being caught this way, “Can you close your eyes first?”

He follows, laying one hand over his eyes for good measure before knocking on the door. You open it slowly, wood creaking as he steps inside.

You feel a little naked right now despite how he isn’t even looking your way, opting to face the side opposite from where you’re standing. It’s on purpose, you know, he can tell where you are—Six Eyes and all.

There’s a smile that he’s hiding, biting his lower lip to stop it from showing. His toes are wiggling from the excitement coursing through him.

You know Gojo will like you in anything; in fact, he’s made it very clear that he prefers you in nothing—but still. Your stomach feels queasy and you can’t get rid of how nervous you’re feeling.

And you guess, it’s really just because this was meant to be a surprise for him—the design you’ve chosen, how it looks on your body, how it looks to him, especially. You’d ordered the lingerie set months in advance to leave a lot of time for returns, whether it turned out ill-fitting or just unflattering.

You didn’t expect him to catch a glimpse of it now, months before his birthday, before you were even ready.

“I’m waiting…” he teases, voice sing-song in that way he usually does to annoy you. It always makes you smile though, and it’s an odd form of comforting with how it dulls your jitters right now, just a little bit.

“Okay, you can look.”

As soon as he turns, you squeeze your eyes shut, hands on your sides as you fiddle with your fingernails. Seeing, knowing his reaction in real time is still nervewracking, regardless of every reassurance you tell yourself—because, what if this is the off-chance that you’re wrong, and he doesn’t like it?

Or worse: what if he has to pretend he likes it?

You frown a bit—it doesn’t help at all that Gojo isn’t saying anything.

But—

How can he, when there are no words, no adjectives, no possible descriptions to articulate what he’s seeing—what he’s feeling?

If he didn’t die then, in every instance he’s brushed with death: by Toji’s hands, locked up inside that box, in that final moment with Sukuna, nearly halved—

He thinks he might have just died right now.

Because this? You? In lingerie as pink as all he’s feeling—his cheeks, his nose, flushing down his neck, maybe even his chest if it were exposed.

It’s heaven.

You’re a sight.

While Gojo has certainly seen you in much less, and done with you things much more than just stand with you like this, he’s never seen you in lingerie.

And you’re so pretty. Sexy. All his, he can’t believe it.

He’s noticing all the little details on it–on you–its shade, almost salmon with a bit of baby pink; its material: sheer net as the base for everything—it’s practically see-through save for the delicate floral lace running across the bra cups and panty front.

The set itself is nice, sure, but he knows he only likes it this much because it’s on you. And he knows he’ll always like anything on you.

The heat in his stomach is building, spreading, to the single part of him that—

“Is it that bad?” you scrunch your nose, eyes still closed. He looks at you confused, before he realizes: he hasn’t said anything.

He chuckles and you open your eyes, pouting.

And God, he wishes you didn’t do that. That look on your face—what it does to him.

“I ordered it in advance for your birthday,” you start, pout deepening as you ramble on, “it was supposed to be a surprise, but if you don’t like it, I can still–”

That’s enough.

He can’t believe that you actually think he doesn’t like it.

Gojo steps into your space, close enough to grab you by the waist as his other hand reaches up to slot itself in the area between your ear and your jawline, tilting your head up slightly as he leans in to kiss you.

It’s rushed at first, almost desperate—hungry, the way he releases his breath only to take you in; your lips, soft in the way he knows them to be, his hand on your waist squeezing. Your fingertips trail to his cheek, almost cupping as his kisses turn deeper, more languid, lips moving against yours slowly, savoring.

Gojo is a fast learner, and he shows it best in the way he kisses you, as if he’s memorized every way to build that familiar heat within you. You lay your other hand against his chest, gripping at the fabric of his t-shirt as he pulls you closer.

You bite his lip and suck, just a little bit, the way he likes it, and he moans, lowly, vibrations rippling through your mouth as he holds you steady. He’s hard already; you can feel it pressing against your lower belly.

And you realize, as a small laugh tears itself away from you, how ridiculous it was for you to even worry.

You break the kiss, leaning your forehead against his as you keep your noses touching. It’s impossible to tell how Gojo looks, but you have a hunch with how he’s breathing so heavily; the skies in his eyes must be darker, almost gray, turned on by desire—the same one settling deep in your stomach, aching, needy.

“It’s perfect,” he whispers, lips grazing yours. He traces hearts by your shoulder, something born out of the many times you’ve lain in bed together, playing with the strap of your bra before pulling, a short snap! as he lets go.

“You like it?” you whisper back, a lilt in your tone, teasing. Your fingers come up to trace his lips and he holds them in place, nipping.

“Mhm,” he grins, smoothing his hand over the lace details on your bra, his thumb rubbing, “so pretty.”

He leans in again, a small peck, before asking, “Does this mean I can get my gift now?”

You laugh, hitting his chest, “It’s not your birthday yet!”

“Yeah, but what is time anyway?”

And you know, with the way he’s trailing kisses down your neck, licking and sucking—you’re going to have to find another thing to surprise him with on his birthday.

Later that evening, with your head lying right on his chest, you remember.

“Oh yeah, the set also came with one of those belt things. Garter, I think? But I wasn’t sure if you’d be into–”

You’ve never seen Gojo get up from bed faster.

thank you notes: for that anon that asked about whether col reader wears lingerie! + @stellamancer @soumies @crysugu for validating me that pink is in fact col reader's colour ᰔ i also just luv u guys 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#nikuniku fic recs #sel tag

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stellamancer · 1 year ago

Text

here i am! back again! breaking my fic ban!

but for you monty, i would do anything, include tear the world asunder.

eSPECIALLY FOR GOJO AND GOJO FROM THE FOSTER DAD AU??? excuse me for this but BARK BARK BARK!!!!

The stranger is imposing and beautiful in a way that is hard to look at; yet it’s the intense air of confidence and ease about him that makes it impossible for you to look away. Standing tall at the counter he’s all slender angles and fluid movements in his fitted white dress-shirt, rocking on his heels as he waits.

Thank you for describing how I look at that bastard LMAO.

Oh my god. I love Kota. So cute.

…..omg he's paying attention to Reader and Kota… me heart is racing.

The pigment in each iris is oddly dispersed and startlingly light, a clear blue with infinite depth, as if they were plucked right from a celestial body.

….monty the what u have described his eyes here is just so beautiful…

'This guy.' MOOD.

Oh my gosh it's Megumi. LMAO. And the way he and Gojo are talking… like… augh… monty, it's not like i expect any less of you, but you always get Gojo's voice so well so good… i am gnawing on my arm AGAIN (I need you to know that as I was typing this you DM'd me about not chewing my arm and that gojo would want me to keep it).

stud… in his ear u say… hehe…

NANAMI MENTION LMAO. I will admit that I am not. Obviously a Nanami fan, but knowing that this fic is related to your milestone fic and seeing the connection… I don't know!! It's always so fun when fics are all part of a big universe in my opinion!! Lots of fun!! When there is lore!! AAAA!!

KOTA CALLING MEGUMI, MEGUMI-NII…. my heart oh my HEART….

AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHH MONTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. I WAS READING SO SLOWLY. SO SO SLOWLY NOT WANTING TO IT TO END AND. aughhhh. I will continue to gnaw at my arm!!!!

Anyway, I know you were nervous and as always, AS ALWAYS, you delivered the most wonderful and scrumptious Gojo and I'm going to bite everything!! Aughhhh!!! This really was so cute. Kota and Megumi-nii and the puppers we the real stars of this fic!! They were all so adorable I want to gather them all in my arms and just hug them!!

OPEN ARMS, OPEN EYES ┊ GOJO SATORU

tags: GN reader, no curse au, meet-cute, gojo has a visual impairment (modern take on his six eyes), the divine dogs are service animals (seeing-eye dogs), original child character, reader is babysitting, fluff + flirting, (takes place in my foster dad au)

wc: 3k

Overhead, the bell rings a soft welcome. You quickly shuffle Kota out of the drizzle and into the warm embrace of the cafe. A full staccato can be heard over the soothing music as the wind begins to whip the rainfall against the windows. You sigh, having escaped the worst of it.

Kota squirms, his pink face scrunched into a glare as you bend to undo the buttons tucked beneath his chin and let down his raincoat hood. Free from the nylon confines he shakes out his hair and swipes at the strands stuck to his damp forehead with a whine.

“I know little man,” you murmur placatingly, reaching for the napkins on the nearby condiment bar. You pat his skin dry from his cheeks to his neck, and then under his cuffs around his wrists. His sniffling has allayed, to your relief. “Is that better?”

When he doesn’t answer you look up and find him entranced by something across the threshold. You follow his line of sight and feel the breath stolen from your lungs.

The shelves fixed to the wall behind the counters are littered with decorative trinkets doused in warm-gold light that crowns his white hair like a halo. Everyone’s focus has gravitated toward him, so much so that they don’t appear to notice the large black dog at his feet.

Kota, however, paid the man no attention. Instead his chubby fingers curled around your shirtsleeve to tug insistently at your arm, “Puppy!”

There’s a blue padded harness strapped to the dog’s torso, ‘assistance’ printed in bold reflective letters across the chest and along the adjustable handle. Their body language shows that they’re comfortable but alert, ears standing tall and twitching in Kota’s direction. Kota, who has managed to free himself from your grip.

And is tottering towards the service dog.

You rise to stand and amble after him, frantically whispering his name. “Kota—no. You can’t pet the dog,” your arm scoops around his belly to keep him from tripping as you grab the back of his coat and gather him to your front. The boy stomps his foot and whines, forcing his body pliant in protest and becoming deadweight.

Nervous about causing a disturbance you survey the surroundings. Nobody stirs. A woman and her two young children are seated nearby, and she offers you a sympathetic smile. You grimace, steadying Kota on his feet.

“But I wan’a pet the puppy,” Kota warbles, making grabbing motions toward the dog.

“You can’t sweetheart. Look,” you run a soothing hand down his back. Bringing him close you point at the blue harness. “See what they’re wearing? Can you read that word?”

Kota’s brow knits in concentration. “S’big word,” he says. You smile at his seriousness and suppress the urge to squeeze him.

“That word says ‘assistance’,” and he repeats it with imprecise intonation, thrice before he’s satisfied. “That’s right,” you praise him, sneaking a kiss to his temple. A frisson of happiness has him burying into the crook of your neck. “Do you know what it means when an animal is wearing a coat like that?”

Kota shakes his head.

“It means,” you cast a quick glance to the owner and almost swallow your tongue. His face is angled in your direction, as if listening in on your conversation, though his eyes are well hidden behind a dark pair of glasses. “It means that dog is working. They have a very important job to do, so we can’t interrupt them. It would be bad if they got distracted, right?”

Kota thinks long and hard about this. A litany of emotions wash over his expression. It ranges from confusion, to petulance and sadness, then finally, acceptance. “Yeah. Okay,” he nods, staring longingly at the fluffy tail sweeping back and forth across the tiles.

“Good. Now you’ve learned something new today. You can tell your parents all about it once I get you home,” you stand straight and brush down the front of your jeans. “How about we get some cream puffs to celebrate once it’s dry out, hm?”

“Yeah!”

The disruption thankfully hadn’t bothered the dog. You watch as the man drops his hand to his hip and they immediately nuzzle into the touch. “Good girl,” you hear him croon as his fingers crook behind her ear. Then he cocks his head and a pair of lustrous eyes are visible over his opaque, round-rimmed glasses.

Hair prickles on the nape of your neck. His stare settles just beyond your shoulder. The pigment in each iris is oddly dispersed and startlingly light, a clear blue with infinite depth, as if they were plucked right from a celestial body. “Thanks for keeping him on a leash,” he tells you with teasing cadence, mouth curled into a smile. Kota gives an affronted grumble and you laugh, combing your fingers through baby-soft hair.

The man inclines toward Kota, “Her name is Maya, by the way. You can’t pet her but you can say hello”.

Enthralled at this development Kota bends his knees in an bouncy little dance. “Maya-chan. Hi. My name is Kota,” he gurgles, hands covering his cheeks. Maya simply snuffled, a long tongue licking at her snout, and shifted on her front paws.

The attractive stranger nudges his dark glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. He wets his lips. “And what’s your name?”

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for you to realise he is asking you. Rattled by the prolonged silence you set your sights firmly on Kota and clear your throat to introduce yourself, “It’s nice to meet you”.

“Yeah? I don't get to hear that too often,” he replies, mouth thin as if fighting a broader smile. It’s a lovely shade of balmy pink. “I’m—”

“Gojo-san?”

The barista glances up from reading the name on the ticket, visibly flustered that he interrupted. “I’m sorry. Your drinks are ready,” he makes an aborted motion to hand the tray over and then seizes. “Ah—would you like me to take this to your table, Gojo-san?”

“That’d be great,” nothing about Gojo’s visage, nor his posture, changes. You feel pinned under his broad scrutiny. Anticipation swoops through your stomach as he angles his gaze in Maya’s direction, where Kota remains besotted. “Y’know, my other dog is here too. She’s actually retired now, so you can come and pet her if you want, Kota-kun”.

You balk. This guy.

“Yeah!” Kota effuses, crashing into your legs. He pats at your thighs. “Please. Can I, can I?”

You cast a lingering glance at the poor weather, a sheet of rain obscuring the view to the street, and ponder what Kota’s parents would want. As he’s an only child they’ve expressed their desire to get a pet in the near future. It could be a good lesson for him, and you have nothing to do until the shower calms.

“That's—kind of you. If it’s no trouble…?”

“Wouldn’t offer if it was,” Gojo replies. You are at least reassured by the fact that he doesn’t sound all that put-out. More than anything he looks pleased, like the cat that got the cream. He gestures toward the poor barista, waiting to the side with fingers flexing around the tray handles.

You nudge the little boy, “What do you say?”

Kota takes a deep breath, the air pushing out his cheeks. He bows, hair falling over his eyes, and gives an emphatic: “Thank you!”

Gojo’s runs a hand through his hair. It looks silky. A smooth glide, no tangles caught on his knuckles. Then he rolls his shoulders, expression schooled into something comically serious. “In that case I’m going to need you to do something, Kota-kun,” he says.

The tone has Kota’s spine ramrod straight. “This guy here is going to my table. Think you can walk behind him and lead the way for Maya?”

Kota’s eyes are wide and sparkling. He vibrates at the promise of responsibility. You observe the exchange with an odd fondness. Gojo is a stranger. Yet he has somehow has managed to win over the most stubborn kid you know.

“Maya,” he kisses his teeth. Maya rises to attention, locking onto her owner while he readjusts his grip on the harness handle. She tracks the movement of his free hand through the air as it comes to lightly tap Kota’s shoulder. “Follow,” he states.

Spurred into action as though commanded himself, the barista leaves to find Gojo’s table. Kota looks to you seeking permission. You nod and he wanders closely after the man on his little legs, glancing back every few seconds, brighter each time he notices Maya trotting onward at his heel.

Gojo’s gait is languid and purposefully slow. There's buoyancy to him as he navigates the space, trusting Maya completely to get to their destination. You walk a suitable distance from his side, inwardly dithering and unsure whether or not to push aside the few chairs obstructing the path. Maya doesn’t appear concerned. You’d hate to break her focus.

She takes Gojo deeper into the cafe with confidence. Tucked away in an alcove at the back of the room is a booth. In the booth is another dark haired boy, much older than Kota, around twelve or thirteen if you had to guess, and curled under the table is another large dog.

The boy is not impressed in the slightest. He frowns at the sight of you and Kota, disgruntled. Thoughts visibly pass over his face and whatever conclusion he comes to he glares up at Gojo for it.

As the barista sets down the tray of drinks the cups rattle against their respective saucers. He bows and slips away. Kota is beginning to squirm again. You can tell his patience is waning.

“I’m being glared at, aren’t I?” comes Gojo’s amused murmur. Though the boy’s ire isn’t directed at you it feels awkward to be in the line of fire.

“You are,” you reply, pinching the back of Kota’s hood to prevent him from diving under the table. “Are you sure this is fine? If your son isn’t—”

Gojo waves his hand as he strides forward, carefully resting it on the backrest of the cushions and he uses it to pivot himself into the booth. “Not my son. More like a nephew, or something. Right, Megumi?” the boy—presumably Megumi—flares his turned up nose and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Or something,” he says.

“Maya,” Gojo continues in a clear voice. “Down,” Maya is deliberate in where she rests, remaining within his reach. “Stay,” her paws cross one over the other, and she rests her chin atop her wrists. When she’s settled, he coos another, “Good girl”.

Maya’s tail swishes happily. Megumi grunts. “Don’t be like that, Megumi. The kid only wanted to meet Ren,” Gojo drawls. At the mention of her name Ren crawls out from under the table seeking attention. “Why don’t you show Kota-kun how to pet her?”

“Why me?”

“You’re older. Set an example,” Gojo rests his cheek in his palm, taking his glasses off to hook them on the end of his slender finger. Those startling eyes drag aimlessly over your form as he sighs, “Tsumiki would be so disappointed if she knew”.

At that Megumi’s arms drop in deference. He scoots out of his seat and coaxes Ren to sit. She’s a lovely dog, and big, with a luscious thick white coat and soulful eyes. He sticks his hand out, expression a complex mix of boredom and determination. Like he didn’t want to do it, but if he really had to, he wanted to do it well. “Kota-kun, right? Give me your hand,” he says.

Kota bounces on his toes and obediently drops his hand into the older boy’s. “You have to let animals smell you first. Let them decide if they want to be touched,” Megumi guides it toward Ren, proffered and upturned for her to scent. She nuzzles into Kota’s small palm and licks it for good measure, making him squeal.

Gojo melts into the booth cushion, entirely mellowed out. You stare at his profile, appreciating the soft line of his cheekbone right to the shell of his ear, just peeking out under fluffy white hair; lightly cow licked at the ends from the rain, curling right around the stud in his earlobe.

Feeling the weight of your gaze his eyes slide over and you quickly turn away. In the seconds you spent distracted Megumi has shown Kota where Ren likes to be scratched the most. Kota beams as he strokes down her flank, making her tongue loll out and her hind leg reflexively twitch.

You clear your throat. “She’s very pretty isn't she?” you muse, bending to Kota’s height and smiling gently at Megumi. Ren’s warm puffs of breath fan over your fingers as you let her smell them. “Is she the same breed as Maya-chan?”

“Yeah. They’re cousins,” Megumi answers stiffly. There’s a tinge of pink in Megumi’s cheeks now as he buries his hand in Ren’s fur, vying for reason not to look directly at you. “We’re letting them spend time together before we send Ren away”.

“Eh?” Kota’s bottom lip wobbles. His head whips around to Gojo, “Away?”

“Not like that,” you quietly reassured.

Gojo crossed his ankles under the table and reclined with his royal milk tea, wisps of steam curling over the rim. “Ren is too old to do her job now,” he smiles behind the cup, “She’s going to live with a good friend of mine and his two sons. Don’t worry”.

This comforts Kota a bit. “What, um,” he pats Ren’s face, and your heart aches, because he’s being so uncharacteristically gentle. “Maya-chan really has a job?”

“She really does”.

“But babies can’t work,” Kota beseeches. “Mama told me so”.

Megumi huffs, though you think it’s more of a laugh. “Maya isn’t a baby and she isn’t a puppy anymore either,” he says. The proud gleam in his gaze doesn’t escape you as he points at the younger dog. “She’s the best of her litter. I helped pick her”.

“Megumi has a good eye for that kinda thing,” Gojo sets down his cup and gestures to his uncovered eyes, framed by pale and unfairly long eyelashes. You are secretly grateful for the excuse to look at them again. “My eyes? Not so much. That’s what I have Maya for—and Ren before her. She helps me get around”.

Kota’s jaw slacks and he makes a long, drawn out sound of understanding. Ren bounces from paw to paw and you marvel at just how good she is with him. Calm, and attentive. Reacting whenever he reacts. Remnants of her training that she’d likely never lose.

“Go—go…”

“Gojo-san,” you prompt gently as Kota’s brow knits in that very familiar ‘I-don’t-want-to-cry’ manner.

“Gojo-san,” he tries again. “M’sorry your eyes don’t work good”.

Mortification washes over you. “Kota, sweetheart. You can’t just say that—”

Gojo barks a laugh loud enough to draw the attention of onlookers. While he remains unaffected, growing evermore amused, you shy away from their curious stares with a grimace. “Don’t worry. He meant no harm,” he says. “And look, it’s not that I can’t see anything. Want to know something cool?”

Megumi sighs indolently and you suspect he’s heard this spiel before. Kota unfurls from his brief flinch and nods. Gojo tips his chin and bends forward. Kota stares right into his lucent eyes, mesmerised.

“I can see shapes. To me you’re just a weird smudge,” Kota giggles from behind his hands as Gojo pretends to wet his thumb and makes a rubbing motion, like he were wiping Kota from his vision. “But I have too much pressure inside of my eyes. So I don’t just see shapes,” Gojo leans closer and lowers his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, “I see colours around things, like when you squeeze your eyes shut real tight”.

“Woah,” Kota breathes. His fingers clench and unclench where they’re clutched around his coat. “What colour am I?”

The older man decides to entertain the question and pauses to consider Kota with a ruminative hum. You find yourself waiting with bated breath, a shamefully scant portion of your brain focused on the vibration from your jacket pocket. Numbness is spreading up your feet to your calves, knelt on them for too long, but you don’t want to disturb the atmosphere.

“Red,” Gojo answers decisively.

Kota covers his mouth. He swivels on his heels to find you. “That’s my favourite colour!”

“It is,” you echo as you rub his shoulder, your tone gentle and indulgent. Your phone buzzes again and you slip it out from your pocket to check the screen. “Ah,” a brief glance toward the cafe window informs you that the rain has mostly stopped. Gold slats of sunlight are flooding the wet pavement. “It’s your parents, little man. They’ll be expecting us home soon so say your goodbyes”.

“No”.

“Kota”.

A stubborn beat passes. Sulking, Kota is deliberate and slow while he gives Ren a final stroke. “Bye bye, Ren, Maya-chan. Bye bye Megumi-nii. Bye bye Gojo-san”.

“Sure,” Megumi chokes somewhat at the honorific. “See you, Kota-kun”.

Gojo listens to the interaction with a smile. Close lipped and genuine. Though small the weight of it causes his eyes to crinkle slightly at the corners. “It doesn’t have to be goodbye forever,” he suggests.

You hesitate, “Meaning…?”

“If we exchanged numbers then Kota-kun could keep in touch with Maya and Ren. I’ll send cute pictures”.

Megumi scoffs and it makes the blood prickle under your skin. Your face feels hot. “Right. For Kota,” you reply dryly, mouth trembling as you valiantly try to keep the smile out of your voice. He must sense it anyway, because his own widens and he holds his phone out to you.

Kota claps excitedly while you input your name and number. “And how do I know you’re not a bad guy?” you ask, saving the details before closing out the app and handing the phone back.

“I pinky promise?”

Shaking your head amusedly you fix Kota’s coat collar, refastening the buttons before petting Ren farewell. “I suppose I’ll take your word for it,” you tell him. “Thanks again, for letting Kota meet the dogs”.

“My pleasure,” Gojo returns.

“I’ll—we’ll be seeing you, then,” you wave at Megumi, directing Kota toward the front of the cafe. Gojo drapes his lithe body over the table surface and rests his chin to his hand, as if watching you go.

“I’ll text you,” he chimes after you. People lift their heads as you scurry through to the entrance.

What have you gotten yourself into?

#nikuniku fic recs #MONTY GOJO IS TRULY PEAK GOJO #i need to bite something so badly....

2K notes · View notes

stellamancer · 1 year ago

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omg Erika. ERIKA ERIKAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

i was, so, so so so upset that you dropped this in the middle of my weekly dnd session and i couldn’t get to it til now but this!! this!! I know how hard you worked on it, how much you struggled because goddamn Gojo is hell to write. But it’s done, you did it and by god it’s wonderful!!!!

I absolutely love how it opened, the sky, the impending storm.... I’m such a big fan of sky motifs omg..

“ Now you wonder if that decision has caused you to be the fool. “

This line, oh I love this line, and it’s... it’s even greater, now that I’m thinking back, I’ll get back to that thought later.

I also also loved, loved this line: Terror and curiosity are not a desirable pair to navigate through. I am so weak for personifying feelings like this!! There’s a line later on about horror, dread and all their friends that my brain feels like is a sibling line to this and it is just.... Truly wonderful.

Our reader’s interactions with Gojo are such a joy each time... from the first meeting, demanding the flower crown. And I love how later on Reader’s feelings are manifested in the literal blooming of flowers around them!! A blooming love! It’s so cute I just wanna scream!!

Anyway, back to the line about being a fool. Reader’s naivete (as ignorance and foolishness) is such a reoccurring thing. It’s not entirely willful, but they have enough sense to realize it, and enough agency to realize that they want to be able to make their own choices and I think that.. it’s so nice to see them grow into someone who decides to not be foolish anymore, to face the world they know and don’t know head on and choose their own destiny.

And also that scene with the pomegranate. I wish i could draw it, but I can just imagine standing there, with the tree, a fistful of seeds in hand, the juices everywhere, in the reader’s hands on their face!! And in the background Gojo watching in horror. This scene is also home to one of my favorite lines: If this is being selfish, you think it has never tasted sweeter.

I just. I loved this so much. I’m sorry I wrote an essay. I got a little out of hand but truly, TRULY. This was such a wonderful read. A great way to spend my morning!

It seems you and I are going to be confined to Gojo Hell, lmao.

all of this (& heaven too) - hades!Gojo

He is not what you pictured. You had a painted image in your head of a terrifying immortal, ancient and dreary, who ruled over the dead. Instead you discover the king of the underworld is young, all brilliant wide smiles, and more importantly - dangerously handsome.

You are a goddess of spring torn between two fates, that is until you meet a strange man leaning against a tree…

pairing: satoru gojo x fem!reader

tags & warnings: 18+ only mdni, loose interpretation and altering of the hades & persephone myth, complicated/strained parental relationship (could be read as controlling/manipulative), mentions of kidnapping, brief physical assault, clingy + lovesick Gojo, slight wound licking and finger sucking, allusion to fem!oral receiving, Gojo being Gojo and offering gruesome violence as a form of love… if there is anything I missed pls let me know!!

wc: 14k

a/n: title is from the florence + the machine song of the same name. I already hate myself for wanting to write a companion piece to this from gojo’s pov… okay that’s all please enjoy, thank you for reading! Also biggest thank you to @stellamancer & @willowser who have been my best comrades in Gojo hell

When you were just a young little sapling your mother once asked you what your favorite thing about this world was.

“The great big sky!” You had told her brightly.

“The sky?” Your mother asked, amused. “Not any of the flowers? The rivers? Or the fields, my little sprout?”

“Nope!” You were adamant.

“Then why?” Your mother grinned and so you told her.

“Because it’s so big! Like there’s so much room to grow!”

Then you added. “And it’s so blue, like the sea!”

Your mother had laughed warm, vibrantly loud like the morning rays waking you up.

The sky. You always loved the sky. Even as an immortal crafted from ichor and stardust, the sky made you feel mortal in the best ways, especially now.

Now, as a fully matured celestial being, you are as old as one of the grand redwood trees you loved running alongside when you were a little.

You glance up at the sky while the wind blusters through your fields. Even with looming clouds clustering above signaling the arrival of a storm, you find reassurance there. The storm now actually feels comforting as a similar storm of unrest swirls inside of you. You stomp down from the mountain not even waiting for your mother.

That entire meeting with her, you, and the lord of the skies was pointless. Gakuganji, with his thunderous melodies and even with all his wisdom, made you curse the skies.

“We shall need to discuss terms of the arranged courting rituals soon.” You had almost choked when you heard the old god’s words. He could not be serious.

Even when you yelled confused, even when your mother sent you a sharp glare to keep quiet, Gakuganji never once acknowledged you. It was like you were not even present, just a simple wallflower ignored against the grander of other immortals. Because to them, you would always be a little sapling, your mothers offspring, nothing more.

The thunder booms ahead and you wish the rain would pour down on you. Maybe the rain would help simmer you down.

“Well now, don’t you look just as feral as a chimera?” A voice emerges,a coy playful tone you’ve never heard before.

When you snap your gaze to the side, you discover a man. Clothed in deep obsidian robes, he seems just as tall as the sycamore tree he leans against.

His hair is a startling white and -

His eyes are blindfolded.

Being so close to the sacred grounds tells you this man must be another immortal. But you had never met him before.

Then again, you had happily enjoyed staying unaware among your blooms. You wistfully ignored the problems and squabbles the others had. Even when you came of age centuries ago you did not have any desire to accompany your mother to Olympus. It was only recently that she began dragging you with her. Now you wonder if that decision has caused you to be the fool.

You glare at the mystery man. “I’m just fine, thank you.”

“Mhm, doesn’t look like it.” His taunts lightly and it makes you want to shriek.

“Wanna tell me who’s responsible?” Now his lips form into a soft grin. “I could deal with them for you.”

Even as strange as this man is, there’s some sense of comfort in his casual comment. The tension in your body, even in your face, slowly flutters away.

You sigh. “No it’s fine.”

Looking at his covered eyes, you already wonder what color they are.

Your name is called out sharp before you can ask your mystery man what his name is. Your mother’s voice snaps your spine straight. Quickly whipping around you see her scurrying to you with wide worried eyes.

“Head home, little sprout.” She urges you.

“Wait, why?”

“Head. Home.” Her words echo with the same force as the storm brewing around you.

Your mother’s magic swiftly swirls all around. She is getting ready to sweep you into the wind that helps her run along her wheat fields. You can’t help it. Your eyes fall to the mystery man. His handsome features smirk amused. You mother however stares at him as if he is an abomination from the depths of the underworld.

“Lord Gojo, good day to you.” And when she says his name, you discover this mystery man is not just from the depths of the underworld, but its ruler.

Your heart plummets fast into your stomach. The strangest concoction of emotions swirls in you. Terror and curiosity are not a desirable pair to navigate through.

Then in a wild gust, you are teleported home. You wonder if your mind might have flown out in the whirlwind because you still cannot believe it.

You just met the Lord of the underworld.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*⋆｡ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧

His existence was a simple phrase of his name you were told never to utter.

Lord Gojo.

The strongest of the immortals. The rumors paint him as a mindless monster who slaughtered titans during the Great War. He was a ghastly terror. The only immortal fit to rule over the dreary underworld. You used to paint him in your mind as someone aged like Gakuganji. The lord was carved from myth, ancient and terrifying. So you imagined him more creature than man.

Yet instead he exists a smiling handsome man who appears to you now.

“M-my Lord!” You stammer out frantically.

You had been sitting by the riverside braiding another floral crown to keep your mind at ease. Then, out of the blue, like a strike of lightning, the underworld’s king appears beside you.

“Oh no,” Gojo simply waves. “Please no titles, they disgust me.”

You almost choke on your own confused inhale.

“What are you doing here?” You squawk confused, trying to ignore how rapid your heart races in your chest.

This god was painted to be a terrifying tale. You mother once even told you he would only bring chaos and misfortune to anyone who crosses his path.

Now he lounges beside you under the shade of the trees.

“I came to see if you were alright. You looked so upset before.”

His words knock you breathless. Your mind could not believe this was truly the dreaded god of the underworld. Suddenly said king gasps obnoxiously loud and you almost jump out of your skin.

“What are you making?!” He leans down to point at the flowers in your lap.

“Flower crowns, they’re for the village children nearby.”

You loved to leave them off at the edge of the fields where the children played. Whenever you catch them wearing the bright floral wreaths your heart soars .

“Aw, that’s sweet.” Gojo admires, like a loud wind chime. “Can you make one for me then!?”

You wonder if the ground has given out from under you. The man whispered to be pure power, now wears a childish frown with his lip sticking out in a full on pout.

“Please?” He pleads.

Left with no choice, your attention goes back to the flowers bunched lonely in your lap and you furiously return to braiding.

“That one better be for me!” The king of the underworld comments in a song-like tone. A quick temptation rises in you to throw the flowers in the nearby river.

“What are you even doing here?” For some reason, you blurt that out.

The words leave before you can stop yourself and your eyes widen in horror. This is it. Your mind jumps to every awful thing he could probably do to you. And he does the absolute worst.

He laughs.

It colors his cheeks lovely and you hate how it somehow intensifies his handsome features even more.

“I told you! I wanted to check up on you.” Gojo smiles toothy but swiftly the image of a grinning crocodile waiting in the water comes to mind.

“I don’t believe you.” Again, you speak out too fast. Thankfully his lips thin into an amused line.

“You’re a lot more perceptive than you look, I like that.”

His words shake your brain, a fierce little rattle that has you staring at him stunned. Your heart races to find a regular beat.

“Well,” Gojo sighs. “I did have an annoying meeting with the others. But… while I was up here I thought I’d drop by and see how you were doing, petals.”

The fond playful name he bestows upon you is done so casually. Yet, it snags your breath.

Petals.

The nickname has your mind reeling until you fully process what he said. The meeting he went to was the same one your mother must have gone to earlier and is still at.

“What was it about?” You ask a bit calmer as you braid simple dandelions to pop against the forget me nots.

Silence softly settles and mixes in with the rush of the river.

“You mean…no one’s told you?”

Gojo’s voice is a soft but stunned whisper that steals your attention back to him. You now are frustrated you can’t see his eyes, can’t see the emotion in them.

“Told me what?” You frown.

The lord of the underworld stays quiet. He tilts his head towards your lap.

“The color of those flowers are lovely.” He says simply and even with a touch of awe.

Indignation rises in you, a heated over spilling boil and you snap. “What did you all discuss!?”

Then it hits you. You just flat out demanded so fiercely to the ruler of the underworld.

“I apologize-”

“No,” Blindfold or not his attention is fully directed towards you now. “Don’t apologize. You deserve to feel frustrated. Believe me I would be too.”

You exhale shakily.

“There's been more talk about your place among the others.” Gojo tells you simply. “Arranged marriage is being thrown around.”

Your heart sinks fast.

“I should have known.” You sigh as you rapidly return back to looking at your flowers. Slowly vines start to grow against your ankles. Your powers react to your emotions, and now the sensation of feeling tired manifests itself.

“Everyone thinks I’m just my mother's offspring,” you snap mainly to yourself. “Or that I’m only here to be someone’s marriage partner, but I’m not.”

The vines start to prickle against your skin. When you glance down so many have already grown across your legs.

“Who are you then? And who do you want to be?” Gojo’s words are so soft, casual and almost friendly.

The question even seems like one of your nymph companions would have asked you. Except Gojo’s directed unflinching attention almost makes you fidget.

“I…” you don’t even know how to answer. Even as you try to gather a reasonable one, the words feel chained in your throat.

You instead sigh and return to braiding.

Eventually the words come out, more of a whisper than anything.

“I’m me…that’s all. And I want to continue just being me.”

It probably made no sense, maybe even sounded awfully simplified at all to the god who watched over the dead. But the words held heavy truth in your heart.

You might not fully know who you truly are, but the choice to figure it out, to grow and simply make decisions for yourself, is all you wanted. You don’t want to be a simplified extension of your mother or a piece to use in a marriage arrangement.

After braiding in another daffodil stem, you notice the king beside you has gone quiet.

When you turn to the side you discover the god of the underworld is gone.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*⋆｡ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧

Something dances in the air, an unknown sensation that tingles and crawls against your skin. It feels like a warning you can’t fully describe.

When you try to press your mother about the meeting she avoids the conversation completely. It causes enough anger to rise so quickly in you that thorned roses pierce your hands. Then, one morning she arrives at your side with the heaviest expression.

“Mother, please tell me, what is happening?” You try asking as earnestly as you can.

Your mother, with her emotional turbulent eyes like a brewing storm, instead walks over to you and tenderly holds you in her arms.

“Know everything I do, I do for you.” Then she vanishes.

You swallow back a frustrated scream and instead furiously stomp away to your spot by the river stream.

Thankfully none of the tree or forest nymphs come near you. They must sense your frustration or see the prickly cacti slowly starting to sprout around you like a safely sharp fortress.

“Did you finish my flower crown, petals?”

A twinkling voice comes swift. It galvanizes your body as you scramble up fast to whip around.

There behind you, with an amused ease, stands the king of the netherworld. At the sight of him, the cacti plants bloom wild and bright buds.

“I like the color of these.” Gojo smriks nudging his face towards them.

“What are you doing here?” You whisper.

“I’m sorry, petals, don’t have much time.” Gojo frowns and then squares up firmly. It stuns you at how broad and striking he looks, a black ink stain against the picaresque forest landscape that has you captivated.

His face is somber, a true image of a composed ruler.

“The others made a decision. You’re going to be married off to another young immortal. But… your mother is coming to get you. She plans to keep you locked away. Made a whole scene about it.”

The words pierce your heart, piece your lungs and maybe your very soul as you choke on an exhale.

Blinking away tears, you stare at the king.

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice cracks.

“Because I believed you deserved to know, and that you deserved a choice.” Gojo answers but in its simplicity you find absolute comfort.

“So here are your choices…” Gojo continues and the scenarios flash a vivid picture in your head.

You can let your mother whisk you away and keep you locked by her side forever. Or you can let the lord of the sky decree all powerful and place you in a marriage with someone you don't even know.

“Or…” Gojo’s voice now dances optimistic and light.

“You can come back with me.”

The offer hits you with the force of a landslide. You sputter out nonsense, unable to process what you just heard.

Gojo decides to clarify himself.

“Come back with me.” He beams. “No one will know where you went. You’ll get to lay low for a while, maybe figure out what you want to do. You wouldn’t have to worry about anything.”

“And, best part of all? You get to enjoy as much time as you’d like with me.” Gojo sounds absolutely ecstatic at the idea.

Spending time with him and in the underworld however sounds like a terrifying punishment. Just the thought of the underworld itself draws a haunting dread. Would you be safe there? Could you even last long among the cold dreary depths?

The wind blows fluttering leaves around you. The strange sensation you sensed in the air arrives thicker and now the wind swirls like a warning. This time it urges you of your mother fast approaching with the fate tied with her.

Surprisingly, the lord of the underworld waits so patiently silent. Then, a cocky smirk twitches his lips, a silent challenge almost as if to say he might know your answer.

Your answer comes in three simple steps. Before you are even fully by his side, you blink and disappear from the surface.

In the forest, all that remains of you are the cacti now completely covered in glorious colorful blooms.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*⋆｡ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧

The underworld is a crystal dream.

When you first thought of the realm of the dead your mind conjured up a dreary desolate wasteland, one filled with anguish and wailing, dark hallowed hallways lined with skeletons. Instead gem lined caverns greet you wherever you go.

A solemn gloom however faintly hangs in the air and could not be ignored. You spot multiple shades, souls of those who have passed, wandering towards the different rivers or simply fading in and out at the edge of the castle. Death did soak this land. From a distance the looming light of Tartarus solidifies that haunting realization. The blood soaked fire orb flickered a chilling reminder of the dangers this realm posed.

“How long will I be here?” You had asked.

“As long as you want.” Gojo chirped. “You can leave whenever you want. Can take all the time you need to figure out what you want to do.”

It was warm and heartfelt. However…

“There are only two rules I need you to follow.” Gojo had added ominously and shattered the warm welcome. The rules were simple.

Never go to Tartarus.

And never eat anything from this world.

Simple, but the ominous directness sparks your mind to wonder about what terrors really did lurk here. Besides those two warnings, Gojo welcomes you with grand excitement into his grand home.

That first night you arrived he practically bounced with every step as he showed you around the kingdom. You were so worried the sight of this world would scare you. Instead elation and even a tinge of appreciation blooms in you. You had never once imagined in your lifetime that you’d ever see this. A new appreciation emerges for this place that would be housing you until you figured out your path.

Gojo also introduced you to the two other immortals living within the halls of the underworld.

Shoko, the goddess of death, who with her stunning features and dreary eyes smiles so kind whenever she sees you.

Then there was Utahime, the goddess of magic, of spells and the crossroads.

“I hope you will enjoy your time here. The underworld has a special way of… revealing to us our true selves.” She had told you sagely. You enjoy browsing her vast collection of scrolls and you eagerly listen to any tales she shares with you.

Even during the times you spend with her or Shoko, the king of the underworld quickly arrives to your side like a persistent gnat.

You decide to take strolls along the charcoal sand riverside, a familiar tradition you did on the surface. Gojo accompanies you any chance he can.

He’s a curious creature and asks you a range of questions. What do you love most about the surface? What do you dream of? What color do you associate with yourself? You answer them all and then some. You tell him about the nymphs, your friends, about the days you used to grow sunflowers so big they would rival trees.

He snickers, makes playful commentary, but listens with full rapture. His attempt to know you better has you grudgingly slowing easing into his presence.

As much as you enjoy the time spent along the riverside, it doesn’t compare to your favorite place in the entire underworld.

The Elysian Fields stole your breath away the moment you first saw them. You never believed anything organic could grow in a realm meant to harness and hold the dead. Yet the fields stretched before you in wonderful waves of green, of color, of life.

It’s why you spend so much time here.

Among the grass and the trees, your mind can freely wander. Your mother must be upset. You could only imagine the pain she must be going through not knowing where you are. But frustration quickly leaks in remembering if you did return to the surface, what life could you be able to find there?

You dig your feet into the lush grass and try not to let poisonous annoyance overwhelm you.

“You look lost in thought.”

Gojo’s voice flutters in. Then his shadow falls over you. You don’t even have to glance your head up because the king of the underworld casually sits down beside you.

“Haven’t figured anything out yet huh?” He asks and you shake your head a quiet no.

“That’s okay. There’s no need to feel pressured or get upset about it. It’s a big decision, trying to figure out what path you want your life to take.”

You never expected him to be this comforting.

“Besides, it’s not often I get visitors here. So I’m enjoying your company as long as I can, petals.” A grin spreads across Gojo’s face as wide as a sunrise.

All you can do is yank up some of the grass and playfully throw it at him.

He laughs a bright snicker but you notice something very quickly. The grass never fully hits him. The slight distortion peaks your curiosity and you go to do it again.

“If this is your form of attack then I can only imagine how terrifying you’d be in battle.” Gojo teases but you pay him no mind because the grass again does nothing. It falls short from hitting him as if he’s protected by something.

Completely ignoring his comment, you ask him about the strange occurrence.

You appreciate how comfortable you’ve become here and with the god of the underworld to now ask such questions. The king’s lips twitch.

“What exactly have you heard about me?”

A strange question but one with a layered answer. Simply put, he’s the ruler of the underworld, considered the strongest of all the immortals.

When your mother had told you stories of the titan war, she never failed to mention the power the ruler of the netherworld held. And there is one image tied to him you remembered vividly.

“A helmet, I heard you wrote a helm that gave you immense power.”

The entire time here your mind has thought too much about the helm. You wondered what it looked like. What was more dangerous though was the curiosity, the desire, to see what he would look like wearing it.

Gojo’s face blooms with a toothy smile.

“It’s…not technically a helmet.”

Then the god playfully points at the blindfold across his eyes.

The grand helm has been in front of you this entire time and you didn’t even know. Of course he wore it constantly.

“That’s incredible.” You can’t help but fully admire the black cloth now. To think something as simple as this cloth was so strong to be considered a war helmet, it amazes you.

“I heard it made you invisible though. I remember asking about it!” You blurt out. That was another legend you heard about from a few of the nymphs.

“Oh? So you’ve asked about me, petals?” Gojo smirks slyly and your face heats up. Carnations rapidly blooming start to tickle your ankles and you immediately squish them.

“You know, I’ve always wondered where that rumor came from.” He hums, thoughtfully. “But no. I don’t have powers of invisibility. Instead I have something way more impressive.”

Pride swiftly leaks into his voice and flourishes more when his chest visibly puffs up. The vivid image of a colorful squawking peacock flashes in your mind and you almost snicker until Gojo raises his hand up.

“Hold your hand out for me please.” His voice drops lower and the tone jolts your heart. You wearily lift your hand up.

Gojo presses his hand against yours. Your heart beats faster, rivaling a humming bird’s wings, and you wait for the impact.

It comes. However, Gojo’s hand applies no actual pressure. You don’t touch his skin or brush against his fingers. Instead only liminal space floats between. The barrier can’t be more than a hair width away yet feels as if it’s oceans wide.

“What is it?” You ask breathless and intrigued.

“Infinity.”

Gojo explains how the helm, his powers, rely on the eternal force that is infinity. Everything repeats. Everything can be continued into an unbreakable cycle, the purest form of infinity.

“And what is more infinite than death? Even universes are born and die.” He speaks with an ancient patience. But, you swear you catch an underlying sadness in his voice just out of your reach. Or maybe it is just your own sadness that you were facing as you realized the weight upon Gojo’s shoulders.

He exists as the personified infinity of death’s cycle continuing over and over again and someone must watch over it. He is unable to step free from that cycle because he is it.

“You look so sad, petals. What? Am I boring you?” Suddenly Gojo’s jovial voice shatters your thoughts.

The black cloth hiding his eyes holds more weight than it did moments before.

Then you notice none has pulled their hands away, neither your or him. No one makes an attempt to move even now. You simply sit there with the space of infinity resting solid, unwavering, against you and Gojo just out of reach.

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In the underworld, monotony can creep in easily. You find even after browsing all of Lady Utahime’s interesting collection of spells and curses, you grow restless.

“If you ever get bored,” Gojo previously told you. “You’re more than welcome to join me in the throne room.”

You had only seen the throne room during the first grand tour Gojo took you on. Now you stare at the throne room’s grand doors petrified to even open them.

“Why don’t you go inside? He would enjoy your company.”

Shoko’s calm sweet voice makes you almost bolt like a skittish deer. Caught red handed and the goddess of death sleepily smiles.

“Oh no. I couldn’t!” You sputter out.

For some reason, the thought of seeing Gojo on his throne, in his role as king of the underworld flickers something hot to boil under your skin. Shoko’s curious gaze burns a hole in the side of your face.

The goddess gives you a soft nod then continues her walk down the hallway.

“You know, there’s a hidden alcove above the throne room that can be accessed from the stairs…just a thought.” Shoko muses aloud glancing over her shoulder with twinkling amused eyes. Then the goddess turns a corner and leaves you alone with her words rattling in your brain.

Were you going to watch Gojo from the shadows?

Before you could even rationalize your thoughts you move quietly up the stairs until you reach your destination.

The alcove is a type of balcony obscured by the columns towering in the throne room. The view from high up grants you a wonderful sight of the entire room composed of marble and crystal. Instead of the imposing grand ruler you imagined sitting regally composed on his throne, the white haired god is sprawled half lying across the large throne. For some reason you’re reminded of a lounging lethargic cat and you bite your cheek from laughing.

Gojo stays reclining for some time. Eventually he does pull a scroll out from beside his throne and glances it over. At first you thought he appeared bored. But now as he sighs and flops to the other side of the throne childishly, you now think -

He looks lonely.

Even among the walls gleaming of the riches soaked in this realm, this incredibly boisterous immortal seems lonely. You even notice a hollow air rests in the room and reminds you of a day in winter when the earth seems frozen.

Then a giggle comes.

You wonder if maybe you misheard it. That is until a child quickly peeks from behind a column. The little girl pops out a bit more before returning to hiding.

Very quickly she scurries to a column closer to the throne.

Your eyes flicker to Gojo who continues overlooking the scroll on his lap.

The girl begins to tip toe closer and closer to the throne. You now wonder how the king will react. She seems gleeful, unafraid of him. Especially as she approaches with the proudest toothy grin on her sweet face.

Then Gojo whips around to her.

“GOT YOU!” He shrieks proudly and even points at her accusingly. She jumps like a scared little rabbit until she hunches over laughing. Her joy fills the throne room with so much warmth you find yourself smiling at the interaction.

“I got closer this time!” The girl stomps pouting and her face puffs up adorably.

“You did! I have to give you credit for that Rika.” Gojo addresses the girl with a delighted friendliness.

“I’ll get you next time!” The girl, Rika, announces sternly as her face furrows determined.

“I believe you.” Gojo nods and you even believe him.

The girl narrows her eyes harder at the king but then she quickly giggles.

“Why don’t you go back and play in the fields, Rika? It's much nicer than playing around here in this boring place. Trust me I don’t even enjoy being here sometimes.”

They both share a giggle and Rika beams up at him so kindly.

A molten smile draws over Gojo’s face and your heart melts. Softness, gentless, looks wonderful, beautiful even, on his handsome features.

“Alright you little pest, head back to the fields you go.” He playfully shoo’s Rika away with a dismissive wave and she sticks her tongue out at him.

Turning on her heels, you watch Rika slowly fade into the air. A sadness settles over you knowing this young girl passed away so young. But, it comforts you seeing how joyous and bubbly she is even in the afterlife.

Then, it slowly dawns on you.

The lord of the underworld is not the terrifying monster whispered to be. He is a silly terror, a bit eccentric, but a kind man.

Your eyes glaze over staring at nothing in particular and you decide to leave as well.

As you rise from your little secret perch a shadow looms across you. Glancing up, the lord of the underworld towers grins down disgustingly victorious.

“Well now, aren’t you just the sneakiest little weed I’ve ever seen!”

His comment pulls an indignant shriek out of you as you scramble up. Your face is on fire and you storm away in fast rapid stomps.

Gojo follows fast behind laughing so loud it bounces off the walls and echoes among the throne room.

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Days come when tears sting your eyes thinking about the surface. You do miss your mother.

You miss the feeling of the sun on your face, the breeze of autumn fluttering in for the change of the season. You can’t even remember how many days have passed since your arrival in the underworld.

But even thinking about returning to the surface terrifies you stiff. It makes your stomach turn because you know your answer to what lies above.

You don’t want to be in an arranged marriage and you don’t want to be locked to your mother’s side. There was no middle way, or other option between these two.

You stay in your room for a few days, wiping away the tears.

Eventually out of your clouded haze a soft knock arrives at your door.

Gojo waits on the other side. You don’t like how effortlessly your heart jumps seeing his tall stature leaning against the door, a striking ink stain with his black robes. His lips are a small but sad crooked grin.

“Can I show you something?”

You wordlessly nod and follow his lead. He doesn’t press you about your sudden cloistering. He doesn’t try filling the space with talk. You’re grateful in the silence that he understands.

Through different corridors of the castle this area feels unfamiliar and a spark of curiosity flickers in you. Then Gojo stops.

There in the shade of the hallways, a secluded large square open area is before your eyes. The area seems out of place carved out from the marble and gem walkways

“What is it?” You feel a bit foolish asking.

Gojo grins wide beside you. “Why don’t you go and find out?”

You give him an incredulous and worried look. This could be a playful trick. Utahime had warned you how notorious the lord of the underworld was at playing surprise tricks which included hiding behind corners to scare anyone passing by.

“I promise, you’ll like it.” Gojo however reassures you with a gentle earnestness. So with a sigh you walk and step into the patch.

Beneath you is actual soil. It’s soft, smells of comfort and you can’t help it, a watery laugh escapes you. How long has it been since you felt the earth above?

Even since you visited the Elysian Fields, you discovered an ominous truth about your favorite spot.

“Nothing can grow there.” Utahime told you sadly. “While everything is lush and beautiful and cannot die. However, nothing can grow as well.”

But you remembered the carnations. You knew they bloomed when you were there and you revealed that to Utahime.

Her lovely face scrunched up in wise thought and her eyes became distant.

“Unfortunately it could have just been a simple fluke. The Elysian Fields are meant to be a place of peace. Maybe it was trying to comfort you as well… let you feel some sort of semblance of the surface world.”

The thought was comforting but also carried an ocean abyss of sadness. Understanding nothing could grow here in this world made sense.

But now you sat on solid soil, true soil from above.

You scramble to your knees and can’t help but dig your hands through it. The cushiony familiar texture, the smell that has been with you since you were a sapling. Tears threaten to cloud your vision.

Turning around, Gojo is there leaning against the hallway’s frame and beaming bright like a marigold.

“How?!” You ask breathlessly, unable to still process this.

“I have my ways.” Gojo coyly replies. More questions only rise in you but you quietly set them aside.

“Utahime said nothing could grow here.”

“Hm…that is true. But, why not give it a try?” Curiosity oozes out of him.

So you decide, why not. With your hands in the soil you inhale and the magic in your veins flickers to life.

You clutch the dirt tight in your grasp as if trying to hang on to this last sense of who you are.

Out of the earth. a small green sprout suddenly peeks out.

Absolute excitement and giddiness unfolds in you like a wild hurricane. You can’t help but snap your face back to Gojo in pure joy.

A wide open and even a bit proud smile illuminates his handsome face.

“Well look at you, petals! Nice work. Although I was expecting a tree or something, that little thing is nice I guess!”

You playfully throw a handful of dirt at him. It’s childish but it’s the only way you can fight the fondness growing in you, a festering weed you don’t know if you want to eradicate.

Gojo breaks out in amused cackles. His cheeks puff up and you can almost sense the amusement in his covered eyes.

“I’ll let you enjoy.” He pushes off the hallway frame and is about to turn around when you quickly call to him

“Wait.”

He freezes and glances over his shoulder.

You have to ask. “Why did you do this?”

Now the god of the underworld fully turns his attention back to you.

“Do what?”

You sigh exhausted at his innocently coy reply.

“Why did you do this? Give me this plot of land?”

Gojo’s lips, which you have been alarmingly thinking about more, turn into an eased crooked smile.

“It’s a gift. You’re my guest here and my friend. So why not?” He replies anticlimactic, even shrugs.

The answer is not satisfying and it slightly irritates you. But you’re still grateful. You might not know the true reason why he did this and might not ever know. But Gojo still did this for you all the same.

So gathering that gratitude you smile at him, a true earnest one.

“Whatever the reason is…Thank you, Gojo.”

This is the first time you say his name. Just the taste of it in your mouth leaves a strange tingle.

The ruler of the underworld’s face. It drops so fast that you barely catch it. But it was there. A look of pure surprise, confusion and something else you can not pinpoint. But all of that quickly vanished only to be replaced by a smile radiating artificiality. Then Gojo vanishes.

In this new space, you exhale against the new weight building in your chest. Leaves then begin tickling your hands and you glance down at your new blooms.

Pure confusion strikes because this is actually a brand new bloom.

You’ve never seen this flower before.

Delicate cotton white star-like flowers greet you and you’re afraid to even touch them. So many of them cluster around each other in rather tall stalks. They remind you of lilies in their shape but are smaller and have a fragility to their thin petals.

You stare at the blooms slowly filling out the area around you until you are completely surrounded.

Horror strikes you fast.

The cloudy white petals match the white hair of the lord of the underworld.

Unknown to you, as you sit frozen among your new flowers, wheat fields decay above on the surface.

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As much of a king and ruler he is, boredom plagues Gojo most of the time. It doesn’t surprise you one bit.

He pesters you constantly in your garden now. Currently you threaten to grow Venus fly traps large enough to eat him.

“You know, I’d actually be interested to see that.” He muses light and you hate that the thought of creating such a thing has you curious as well.

Gojo and you exchange a glance. Soon enough a large Venus fly trap stands around the same height as the god.

“It’s huge!” He cries impressively and pride flutters through your chest.

Then the underworld's king sticks his whole head inside the opening mouth of the Venus flytrap and waves his hands with the brightest expression.

You scream in panic and Gojo cackles beyond entertained. He thankfully removes his head. It’s perfect timing as the plant’s prickly mouth snaps itself shut.

You are horrified but Gojo just continues to laugh.

He opens the plant’s mouth and starts moving it. Changing his voice to a high pitched tone, he begins talking as if he’s the plant itself in some sort of bizarre performance.

“I beg your garden?!” He shrieks in an absurd voice.

It’s ridiculous, unbelievable and you can’t help it. You burst into wild giggles that shake your body. You have laughed more in his company than you can even remember. You’re having true fun with him in a way that you can’t even remember experiencing with your old companions.

You remember previously noticing how lonely the god of death looked and it only made you wonder how you’ve also tasted loneliness. Always stuck to your mother’s side, living in her shadow, it grew lonely there.

“Don’t laugh at me! Just wanna have fun, be-leaf me!” Gojo continues in that shrill tone.

Now here you are laughing in pure fun at his antics.

Gojo quickly drops the performance and immediately asks you to make a lotus as small as a clover. It’s tricky but when the flower unfurls a tiny lovely blossom in the palm of your hand, Gojo cheers.

Then you start thinking of jacaranda trees the size of bonsai. With a furrowed concentration you form a beautiful miniature tree. The lovely violet blooms even so small color the area exquisitely.

“You’re incredible.” He breathes out the words and they almost sound in awe.

You try not to get flustered but it is hard with his attention so intently focused on you. Instead you wave your hand out. Playfully a bunch of cherry blossoms nearby rapidly swirl in a whirlwind of petals all around him

Gojo shouts an amused ecstatic cheer, flinging his hands up among the petals. You snicker even more.

It becomes a game. Gojo offers new plant ideas or to grow vegetation he never knew existed. His face genuinely scrunches up at the odd smelling plants you call forth and you snicker pleased at his reactions.

Eventually you take a seat and start to make a few flower crowns. One particularly is for the young girl you saw in the throne room, Rika, and who you’ve caught now a few times peeking at you from around the palace columns.

No surprise but the lord of the underworld takes a seat right by your side.

“A flower crown huh… You know, you never made the one I asked for when we first met.” He comments with the worst pout.

Of course he remembers that. You had even forgotten about that meeting by the riverbank.

You scan around looking for something to use until you spot the perfect crown.

Reaching to a nearby shrub, you break off a bare small twig. You regally place it on top of Gojo’s head.

“Aw!” His deflated reaction, seeing this powerful god with a simple twig on his head, has you snickering. Then you realize Gojo stopped his infinity barrier for you to place it on him.

You don’t even want to linger on that thought. So violently shoving it away, you continue braiding the flowers. You concentrate hard, even scrunch your face as you weave in lily stems.

A delicate but soft crawling sensation suddenly dances across your leg. The culprit is a branch from a leatherleaf fern Gojo has plucked. You wiggle away in a panic.

He again drags the delicate green leaves to playfully tickle you and try squirming away from him as much as you can. An urge to even hiss at him rises.

“What?! Are you ticklish, petals!?” Gojo beams with excitement.

“No, you’re just annoying!” You reply sharply trying to stay calm.

The king however is patient and stubborn. Instead of relenting he wiggles the fern’s large leaves firmer across your arms then to your shoulder where it meets your neck.

You squeal, laughing so unattractive as you wiggle away with all your might to flee from his playful torment. You can’t even chide him to stop, too caught up in the wild infectious giddiness taking over.

Your body buckles under the ministrations very slowly until your back rests on the solid soil ground. Your eyes snap open.

There, the god of the underworld leans over you.

Gojo is handsome. You knew that from the first moment you saw him. But now you take in how wide his shoulders are, how celestially white his hair glows, and how compromising, as well as dangerous, this position is.

Your mind had started drifting more and more towards deeply temptatious thoughts of him. Thinking of how your hands would grasp his broad shoulders, wondering how his body without any barriers would feel pressed over you.

A dizzying fire licks through your veins. Gojo finally stops his tickling bombardment and now stares down at you. Even without seeing his eyes they pierce you with a hypnotic pull.

A moment passes or maybe a millennial has. Time ticks by too molten to process.

You want him. You hate how badly you want this infuriating man. You hate thinking about how easy it would be to lean up and kiss him. As tempting as that idea is, how much it consumes you, you remember a heavy truth. If your lips leaned up to kiss him you would only find infinity.

Before anything else can be said or done you rapidly spring up from the soil like a new bud. You say nothing. Neither does Gojo. Quickly you return to braiding your poor discarded flower crown. He remains quiet long enough you wonder if maybe he left your side quietly.

Until the ground shifts besides you as Gojo moves to stand.

“Don’t let the plants eat you, petals. You wouldn’t make good fertilizer.”

You can’t even find a quick retort to shoot back at him.

When you reach for a few roses to add their lovely color to the floral wreath, you wince. A sharp prickling sensation stabs your fingers.

Drawing your hand back you see your golden blood, the ichor of an immortal, dripping down your fingers.

Suddenly an image flashes wild and frantic in your mind.

Gojo appearing before you suddenly. He inspects your wounded hand. Instead of applying a wrap or even allowing you to heal with time as all immortals can, he delicately places your bleeding fingers into his mouth. He sucks on them gently and fierce. His tongue swipes against your wound, against the blood. He moans, loud, debauched, and it mixes with the wet slurps. He sucks and sucks without any desire to stop. His tongue fondly runs up again along your fingers. The pressure of his mouth, the warmth of it, letting yourself bravely trace his teeth, then feeling him playfully bite your skin…

You scramble out of your thoughts as a slick liquid heat pools between your legs. Grabbing your flower crown, you storm off to your room praying to flee from the god of the underworld haunting you.

But you know it is hard, almost impossible, to outrun and hide from a god.

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“I have to leave for a few days.” Gojo explains as he sits besides you in the garden.

The garden has now become a lush oasis for you. Various ferns happily grow to one side. A few fruit trees already take root and grow steadily. So many flowers sprinkle beautiful clusters of colors all across the space.

Of course your new white flowers continue to bloom patiently and delicately. Wherever you turn, so many seem to pop up. It's to the point even Gojo made a comment upon seeing the new florals.

“Oh? These look new.” You ignored his curious comment.

Now you ask about his trip with the same curiosity.

“Leaving? What for?”

A pause comes.

“Unfortunately there’s been a recent increase in the amount of newcomers arriving in our realm.”

You don’t miss the way your heart jumps hearing him say “our realm.” The main issue at hand however has you concerned.

“Do you think it’s a sudden war? Or a natural catastrophe?” Your heart twists thinking about either terrible possibility.

“Don’t know. That’s why I’m heading up to figure it out.” Gojo sighs.

You nod understandingly and sympathetically to Gojo. Even with his eyes covered, his gaze seems to stare somewhere far away. Then he quickly averts his attention to the budding trees you’re tending to.

“This one seems to be doing great here.” Gojo notes curiously. He leans closer to you, a pressure softly pushing against you. Any giddiness of having him so close is quieted by the truth that it’s infinity against you.

“It is.” You agree happily. “Pomegranate trees are resilient. They just need the right soil and can bloom with much worry. They even can handle different types of pests.”

Gojo hums a curious thing.

“Sounds a little familiar, don’t you think?” He comments but his voice is deep, low. Hearing his tone this way sparks a dangerous desire to life and it drags its claws down your spine.

“Familiar how?” You hesitantly ask.

Something gentle, barely with the lightest of pressures, runs across the back of your hand. You think it might be his fingertips. Your body reacts, galvanized in a frenzy. But when you whip your head to the side, the king is gone.

As you sit alone in your garden, you almost scream.

When the time comes to bid Gojo farewell, you now wonder how you’ll handle truly being alone without him.

“Don’t miss me too much, petals.” He teases and you roll your eyes.

“Please, I’m going to enjoy having this place all to myself.” You scoff.

Gojo grins like a cat that’s caught a canary and then, he leaves without another word.

In his absence you find, at first, you do enjoy the peaceful solitude. But that gets old quickly because stars above you do end up missing him.

You didn’t realize how much your existence here has now become so entrenched with Gojo’s. You miss the strolls you and him take. You miss his questions about the new blossoms growing. You even miss the way he playfully throws figs at you at dinner while you sit not eating a single bite. It has become not just a friendship with the underworld’s god but a true deep bond with him.

“Can you stop with the wistful sighing please?” Utahime sternly asks as you lounge in her study.

“I’m not wistfully sighing!” You stammer out embarassed.

“Uh huh.” She does not seem convinced but also does not press the subject further. The goddess of magic instead stays completely focused on her piles of scrolls scattering her area.

The underworld seemed to be slowly constricting around itself. A tension tightened the air. Everyone, even Shoko, seemed scarce and occupied. Whatever was occurring above on the surface was greatly impacting this world.

You decide to leave Utahime to her devices and slip away quietly.

Now you wander the edge of the royal grounds. Your eyes scan the realm stretching out before you. There, like a lantern among the darkness, the fluttering flickering red light of Tartarus shines unwavering.

It is the last place that you have yet explored.

You remember Gojo’s rule, his warning about not going to it

However, a small twinkle inside you even feels as if it’s being drawn there by a soft gentle pull.

You could just walk and see it from the outside, not even enter its gates. No harm would come from just inspecting the grand prison from a closer distance right?

Before you can stop yourself your feet guide you across the river’s path to the other side.

The atmosphere distorts into something sinister like the way the air hollows out before a terrifying storm.

Soon the crystalized rocks become jagged spikes. A smell of sulfur fills your senses and a wave of heat begins to tickle your skin. Soon the glowing red is now a vibrant bleeding sun before your eyes.

You dare not step any closer.

Terror slowly claws over your body. This is as close as you will get and will ever get. You turn around to walk back.

“…Little flower…” a soft raspy voice sends a horrifying chill up your back.

Your head snaps to the side. A creature unravels from the bottom of a rock and stares up at you with tree branches like eyes.

A cursed soul.

Something now besides the creature wiggles from the ground. It morphs and shifts from a clay like structure to take the shape of man. He reminds you of a patch quilt and his body screams that he too is another cursed soul.

“You are far away from home, little goddess.” The curse coos.

You can’t even speak as fear chokes your throat.

Move, you have to move! Something inside you screams. It sounds almost like Gojo.

Before you can move, hands, or maybe branches of some sorts, suddenly snap around your legs and yank you back. A scream escapes you or maybe you believe you hear a scream.

Everything happens fast. Your body is dragged and pulled closer to the prison. Laughter cackles sinisterly all around you and you thrash as much as you can. Tears clog your eyes. You wonder if this is it, if this will be how your end greets you. You swat at anything you can reach, but the panic is rising more and more.

Then a blinding heat sears under your palms.

You can’t help it, your eyes squeeze shut and your hands feel as if they have exploded.

Then the pressure is gone from across your body. Your eyes, water soaked with tears,

open and you find you are free. No more decayed limbs and branches on your body.

You scramble up as best as you can. Your legs however give out from the amount of wounds sliced across you. You try to heal as quickly as you can but being around such sinister evil for so long has drained you.

Suddenly something rushes besides you and you are too late to react. The patchwork creature jumps on you. With a gleeful monstrous smile he morphs into like a cage claw against your body and has you in his grasp.

You scream but you can’t even hear it over the horrifying laughter. You thrash, try to free yourself again, but your body grows too exhausted to even move. Your vision begins blurring.

Then another scream of anguish comes but you can’t even process what or who it is.

Your body is released. You pitch forward, unable to hold yourself up anymore. Then someone catches you.

“Petals.” Gojo’s voice rings panicked in your ears. You wonder if he is a figment of your imagination. Before you can even focus, your vision gives out and you fade into oblivion.

The next thing you know, you wake up in the comfort of the softest sheets and a place that is not your quarters.

When you come into consciousness and see the grandness of the room, the dark shade of the walls, you piece together quickly this is Gojo’s bedchamber.

A new type of panic grips your heart and you scramble up.

“Careful, careful!” Suddenly the man himself reprimands you in a quick panic. Gojo sits up from his chair beside the bed. Whatever emotion lies in your eyes freezes him from approaching you.

“What happened?” You ask in a small whisper. You wonder if it was all a nightmare, a terror fueled fever dream.

“I found you in Tartarus.” Gojo replies. This is the first time his voice has sounded this upset. His face darts away from you.

“What were you thinking? What were you even doing there?” His voice is sharp as a blade’s edge and it cuts you swiftly.

Your reason now sounds so childish.

There have been multiple times when you rolled your eyes at Gojo’s antics. You believed him to be a fool, a childish king who has not grown up, a result of being alone for so long here in this realm. But now you wonder if you are the foolish one.

You croak out an apology that rips your heart open. Squeezing your eyes shut you try to stop the tears from coming but it’s no use.

“I just…I just wanted to see. It was…it was something you can’t explain. I’m sorry.” You apologize again. A poisonous frustration and anger at yourself for being so foolish fills you. If you had only listened.

Suddenly a hand rests gently on top of yours. No barrier, no infinity. Just Gojo’s soft larger hand enfolding yours. It’s warmer than you expected.

Gojo does not yell, doesn’t even say anything else. He simply sits besides you staring so concerned but understandingly. You squeeze his hand and more tears form rivers down your face.

The underworld’s king stays by your side the entire time.

Right before you fall asleep, still in the king’s bedchamber, you swear the most delicate and tender touch runs across your face.

Once you are healed Gojo, holding your hand, takes you back to Tartarus.

“I should have showed this place before.” He explains quietly. “I could have only imagined your curiosity.”

You try to focus on his voice but it is hard when you try to process what lies before you.

“Wait…Are you sure we’re at Tartarus?”

“Uh…yes?” Gojo replies a bit confused but you are more confused than he is. Because there is no possible way this could be the same place.

The same burning furious fiery glow is now a simple flicker of a flame like a dwindling candle. All the rocks and sharp spikes have been crushed and leveled into debris cluttering the whole area. The air even holds a haunting stillness. This reminds you of a forest after a fire, a quiet entombment that spoke of a tremendous fury. Did he do this?

You realize as much as you want to know, you want to leave even more.

A squeeze of your hand is all you have to say before Gojo squeezes back. In a blink you and him are back at the palace’s main atrium. But a quest stands there waiting.

“Ijichi!” Gojo cries bright and happily.

Your eyes go wide.

The messenger of the gods. You had seen him in passing and even then you found him to be an uptight god. Now his face is hardened and upset. His keen eyes spot you and his mouth drops.

Ijichi cries your name and something inside you falls.

“What brings you here Ijichi?” Gojo asks with a twinkling curiosity.

“You know exactly why I’m here Gojo!” The messenger snaps and a part of you wants to shrink away. But, another piece of you knows you can’t run anymore.

You know why the messenger is here.

“I need to speak with you.” Ijichi urges with pleading eyes staring so intensely at you.

Reality weighs you down. You have to address this. You cannot keep hiding anymore.

So you let go of Gojo’s hand and you and Ijichi move to a private room.

You sit down ready to hear about your mother, about the urgency that you need to return to the surface world and face your fate.

But what comes to you instead plummets your entire soul. With a gentle but stern kindness tells you all that is happening.

Horror, dread, and all of their friends, fill your body.

The surface world is dying. Famine plagued the fields. Livestock is suffering. People are suffering.

All because of your actions.

Ijichi, bless him, is not accusatory, does not shame you or put blame.

“You need to return home with me. I’m sorry.” The messenger urges but sympathy seeps out.

You don’t hesitate to nod yes as tears come in tidal waves.

There is not much to take with you. You say farewell to your garden, to the beautiful palace, to Utahime and Shoko who both hug you incredibly tight.

But when you go to say goodbye to the lord of this world, he is nowhere to be found.

You do not have to search long. He sits in his study. This the most you’ve ever seen him actually use it and look so dashingly studious, regal, at work. He completely ignores your entrance and does not even spare you a glance.

“I’m leaving.” You announce. He stays silent.

You swallow hard and compose yourself.

“Thank you so much for letting me stay here for as long as I have. You’ve been a wonderful host.”

A wonderful friend. A wonderful companion, and maybe something even more wonderful, so fond and dangerous, you dare not speak its name.

He stays quiet and you are about to walk out of the door when suddenly Gojo’s hand grabs yours in a rapid grip. Your heart trips over a skipped beat from feeling his true hand clutching yours.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He argues.

“I have to go back. I have to face this.” You urge even though your voice wavers waterlogged.

“You don’t have to. We can figure this out.”

He does not want you to go.

You even accept you don’t want to either. Not just because you fear the truth awaiting you, but because you’ve become terribly attached to this place, attached to him.

At first you wanted to laugh it off as simply being stuck here and left with no choice but to just tolerate the god of the underworld. Instead you found you sought Gojo on your own more and more. You wanted to know him, not as a ruler of the eternal realm of death but as the man you learned hates pickled radish and loves any type of sweet treat.

You swallow hard and shake your head.

“I can’t keep running away.” You even surprise yourself at how firm, how solid and unwavering, your voice resonates.

Gojo’s hand releases yours. The air brews tense and thick. Then the god of the underworld lifts his blindfold up.

Your heart stops.

Beautiful ocean blue eyes stare at you. Of course his eyes would be luminous pools.

You can’t speak, don’t know what to say.

“Satoru…” he instead speaks first. “That's my true and first name... Thought you should know it before you leave.”

The gift he is presenting to you is immense. No mortals know the true name of your kind. Even you are addressed by a secondary name so tightly tied with your mothers.

Now he is giving you this pure full piece of himself. His eyes, his name, his heart, all are pieces you tenderly lock away in your heart. They hold more precious value than any of the gems buried in this land.

Before you can even reply Gojo leans forward.

With the most delicate of pressure, he kisses your forehead. Your eyes water but now for another emotion too grand to process while you drown in its waves.

He whispers out and says your name, your pure true name. He’s never said it before.

Then he disappears.

You swallow back a deep sob and return back to the atrium.

Gojo is nowhere to be seen even when you head to the stairs that lead back to the surface.

Before you leave, Utahime gives you one final hug then discreetly slips something into your hand. It’s a simple cloth with a sigil on it. You had seen her work on these types of spells many times and knew they all had various uses.

“Should you ever need us again or want to return, just use this.” She whispers low in your ear.

You clutch it tight, like a lifeline. When you go to give one final glance back to the underworld, the king is missing. You can’t find him anywhere and heartache clogs your throat. So you turn your back to the darkness and step into the light of the surface.

The smell of the air hits you first. The crisp scent of the dying leaves arrives in the brisk breeze. A barren earth stretches out before you and you walk into the desolation to meet your fate.

The sky above is a clouded muted gray.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*⋆｡ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧

Your mother is furious, absolutely in a rage that would rival a tsunami. But thankfully with your return the earth flourishes overnight as if by a miracle. The lush green should be a comfort to you. The smell of the sunlight should elevate your spirit warm but instead you ache for the soft glow of the gemstone walls.

“You have two choices.” She tells you sternly. “Either marry the immortal chosen for you or stay here with me.”

You stay quiet and she snaps out your name, a part of you wants to laugh because it sounds like a curse.

“Answer me!” Your mother demands and you break.

“I dont want neither!” You cry back. “Can’t you see?! The reason I ran away to the actual place of death is because I cannot pick either! Because I don’t want to!”

“Could you truly be so selfish?!” Your mother accuses you with a seething venom.

Selfish. Were you being selfish?

You once discussed this with Gojo because you had wondered many times if you were simply being a selfish brat running away from your problems.

“I don’t think so.” He shrugged. “Isn’t it selfish of you mother to want to keep you beside her forever? Besides, if you are being selfish then who cares. Nobody realizes it’s actually okay to be somewhat selfish every once in a while, especially when you’re deciding what direction your life is going to take.”

His voice becomes a soothing balm to your frustration.

So you bare your soul and heart before your mother. You could never be happy being forced to wed another. Nor would you ever be satisfied staying stitched to your mother’s side. You need your freedom. You wanted and deserved to have your own choice away from those options.

Her eyes flicker a kaleidoscope of emotions. She thankfully lets you speak the entire time without interruptions. When you are done, she gently walks forward and embraces you. You squeeze her tight.

“I’m sorry, my little sprout.” She comforts you.

You exhale, relieved.

“That damn monster of the underworld,” she says with a steady anger. “He filled your brain with nonsense.”

She pulls away and your face falls in horror.

“Don’t worry. I already plan to discuss with Gakuganji a meaningful punishment for him.”

You cry out a plea to her. But she simply smiles and pats your cheek.

“You won’t have to worry about him or anything else ever again.” She affirms confidently

Your frustrated scream falls on an empty room as she leaves in the breeze of the wheat fields. Emotions bubble up in you so wildly that your head begins to throb.

The panic clouds your vision. What will happen to Gojo? Why couldn’t your mother listen to you? Then an idea quietly emerges among the chaos.

You remember the slip of cloth tucked away in the private corner of your chambers.

Before your mother could come back, before you can even fully think, you race to grab it. You trace your finger along the intricate ink and then close your eyes.

When you open them, you are in the underworld, back in your garden.

It is as lush and beautiful as the day you left it except now the trees have grown in beautifully. Their shady leaves flourish against the marble and crystal. Your eyes land on the lone tree standing so firmly among the others.

The pomegranate tree flowers happily in full bloom filled with a fruitful harvest.

You remember the discussion you had with Gojo over these trees. You spoke of how resilient they were, and he quietly offered how familiar that sounded. The beautiful reddish violet fruit you now pluck so effortlessly from the branches you recognize is you.

You grew and flourished, gained a new sense of yourself. You carved out an existence here and bloomed into a new life.

You act fast. With all your strength you smack the fruit against the bark of the tree. Thankfully it cracks open to reveal the glistening seeds inside.

A conversation you had with Gojo has been playing in your mind since you returned to the surface.

“Why can’t I eat anything here?” You asked the first time you joined him for dinner.

“As tempting as these cakes are,” he grins, taking a large bite out of the sugary sweet.

“Eating anything from here means…you’re pretty much stuck here forever, petals. And I don’t think a pretty bud yourself could handle that now could you?”

Those words echo more than ever as the pomegranate seeds stain your fingers.

You could handle it. In fact you want to embrace it. A life here, with Gojo. You knew the consequences awaiting you. A part of you even screams to stop.

But you instead scoop out a handful of seeds and swallow them swiftly.

Their juicy delightful nectar fills your mouth. If this is being selfish, you think it has never tasted sweeter. You wait thinking there would be a reaction to doing this, to stealing yourself to this world. The only thing that comes is someone breathing out your name.

You snap your face to the side. There Gojo stands completely frozen.

His blindfold is missing. The ruler of the underworld now stares at you with his bare wide cerulean eyes that rival a field of bluebonnets.

“Petals…” Confliction strangles his voice and his eyes flicker to the pomegranate in your hand.

“What are you doing here? What did you do?” You don’t think you have ever heard him sound this confused and panicked.

“Satoru.”

His name, it’s all you can say. It’s a prayer so beautiful you never want to stop saying it.

You blink and the king vanishes. Then he is before you. His hand clutches your face firm and he swoops down to kiss you.

You can’t help but whimper as your breath gets stolen from your lungs. You clutch onto the god tighter, desperate to get as close to him as you can.

Under your touch infinity disappears.

Satoru’s tongue slips effortlessly into your mouth and explores with a chaotic mess. You taste the same desperation he has mirroring your own.

He lifts you up effortlessly with one hand and it makes you squeak. Then, the two of you are whisked away.

When you arrive in his chambers a frantic edge is set ablaze as Satoru presses you against the cool wall of his room. He effortlessly grinds against you and another whimper leaves you to get caught against his lips.

You are drunk on the taste of him. You don’t even care how loud you pant because you are too afraid this moment could end at any moment.

Satoru starts to kiss the corner of your lips. He quirky nips sharp bites against your skin and your eyes close in bliss.

He kisses across your cheek, down your neck, alternating between kissing and softly biting.

Then cool air tickles your bare kiss soaked neck and your eyes wearily open.

Satoru is now on his knees.

His hands reverently run against your delicate robes. A meditative but possessive gleam darkens his eyes making them look like deep trenches.

He kisses your exposed thigh and you tug at his soft white hair. His rich cobalt eyes now flicker up to you.

You sigh out his name with a slight whine as you miss his lips against yours.

“Shh...” he urges softly as he bites at your skin again harder. Your hips rise on their own accord. He chuckles deep and thick.

“Let me worship you.” He whispers with reverence with eyes drenched in delicious lust. It’s the last thing he says before his tongue suddenly licks an intent path up your thigh straight to your sex and you see stars.

Eventually he carries you to his grand bed where you now lie against him.

Love drunk in the afterglow you can’t stop giggling at how Satoru continues to kiss any inch of your body.

“You really are the terror of the underworld.” You snicker playfully.

“Oh of course. Can’t let you forget my reputation.” He beams proud as he kisses your fingertips once again.

His chest is solid and warm under you as you rest against him. His heart beats like a beautiful strong drum you can rest your ear against and hear now. Instead you slide up higher to burrow your face against his neck. All of this is intoxicating and a gift you cherish.

But even in the afterglow, the weight of this union settles over a grim cloud.

“My mother is going to set the world on fire.” You mutter soft and pained.

“No,” Satoru kisses the top of your head. “The old geezer upstairs won’t let her.”

A comforting in his own Gojo way and you snort amused for a moment. Against his warm solid neck Satoru only draws you closer to him. The two of you stay in bed for what feels like a millennia but still not enough.

You are about to slide out of the bed when the god of the underworld whines grabbing you back like a child refusing to let go of their favorite toy.

“I need to get ready.” You softly say as you run your fingers through his cloud white hair.

“No.” He pouts. “You’re stuck here with me forever now, petals.”

That is true.

“I am, but you know I can’t avoid this.”

As you go to slip on the new beautiful robe that of course Satoru had ready for you, he blurts out-

“Marry me.”

Your knees almost give out.

You screech out a confused noise and whip your attention back to him.

“Are you serious!?”

“As serious are you were when you banged that poor pomegranate against a tree!” He fires back.

In a blink Satoru is suddenly holding you in one of his arms while the other cradles your face in his hands.

“Marry me.” He repeats again but this time his voice leans sincerity. “Let me annoy you for the rest of eternity by your side as your husband.”

You don’t hesitate. You pull his face towards you and kiss him desperate. The poor robe you slipped on is hastily yanked off and you are returned back to the cooling bed sheets.

“You know,” Satoru muses playfully as you rest again tangled up in his arms. “I never heard you say an official yes or no.”

You lift your head up and give him an incredulous glare.

“You can’t be serious, Satoru.”

“You’re right.” He softly beams down to you. “The amount of times I heard you screaming ‘Yes Satoru! Yes my love!’ was the best answer.”

You grab the nearest discarded pillow and smack him with it. It fully collides against his too gorgeous face and he laughs at the collision. The tables turn when he swiftly snags the pillow from your hands and playfully retaliates. Your laughter and his bounce together so brightly in the room. It fills you with enough strength to finally face whatever fate awaits you.

Your beloved headache of a fiancé reassures you with one soft kiss to your shoulder.

Before you can even step out of the palace, the surface world’s entrance cracks open. From the shadows you see your mother and then beside her is the god of the skies himself.

“Oh ho! Well now…this is going to be fun!” Satoru cackles with excitement.

“Hey, my darling soon to be wife,” he turns to ask you. Even with his eyes covered again you know glee shines in them. “You want the old man’s head on a platter as an early wedding gift?!”

You almost choke on air. Of course you’re not the only one outraged at what he said.

Your mothers voice cracks the air with destructive anger

“You’re engaged to this monster?!” Her eyes are blistering fires threatening to scorch you where you stand. You reply a solid yes without hesitation.

“Aw! I didn’t realize you liked me so much already, my dear mother in law!” Satoru coos. Your mother flat out ignores him as do you.

“This is prosperous! Outrageous!” The lord of the skies, Gakuganji, thunders in an outrage rivaling your mothers.

“She ate food from this world, and is so bound here.” Shoko explains with a steadied ease.

“There is now way you will survive here any longer!” She seethes at you. “You are not meant for this world!”

“Actually…” Suddenly the poised voice of the goddess of magic herself flutters into the room. With a steeled conviction, Utahime steps forward. She explains how she has been watching you ever since your arrival and noticed changes happening.

“Growth, new life has emerged here. We have all witnessed it. On top of that, I think being here has unlocked new abilities I don’t think we even thought were possible.”

Powers?

“When you momentarily stopped those curses from Tartarus.” Gojo explains patiently as if he read your mind. Faintly you hear the horrified voice of your mother screaming Tartarus?!

“I did that?” You ask stunned.

“Yup, you did.” Satoru beams, prouder than ever.

“What is the meaning of this!?” Gakuganji demands.

“It means she can survive here. If anything it maybe even suggests she might have even been destined to be here.” Utahime replies steady.

Destined to be here.

You think of the words she once told you, about how the underworld revealed truths about one’s self.

“Even with that possibility, you stay here and there will be no peace.” Gakuganji urges.

You know the suffering that could come. Your mother is a stubborn creature who would never relent.

For some reason, you think of the bleeding heart flower. You think of their shoes and how distinctly the flower seems to be two parts blended together beautifully. Some of the petals even have to curl open for it to grow. So you decide to split your existence in half.

“For half the year I will be here, in the underworld with my husband.” The word rolls effortlessly off your tongue and it feels right, feels as if you have always said it. “And the other half will be on the surface. Equal time to each place.”

Gakuganji hums a moment to consider.

“You cannot allow this!” Your mother pleads to the grand elder god.

“No one can undo what has been done. The fruit has been eaten and she’s tied to this world.” Shoko clarifies simply.

Satoru hums a playfully amused noise that makes you want to smack him upside the head. Instead you ask for the room to speak with your mother. Now it’s just you and her, as it has been for so many centuries. Except a canyon now stretches between you and her. She waits on the other side of it a vengeful fury.

“Did you do this to spite me?” Your mother asks pained. Exhaling exhausted, you shake your head.

“I did this because it’s my choice, and because I love him.” You tell her with a patience that even surprises you.

“And that’s all I’ve wanted. Not to choose between what you wanted me to pick but instead make my own decision.”

“You…you cannot love the lord of the underworld.” She croaks with so many emotions tangled in her voice.

Your lips tug as if Satoru himself pinches your cheeks into a smile.

“I’m sorry, but I can and I do.” Might be one of the hardest tasks you ever faced, but you would do it for all of infinity.

Your mothers eyes scan over your face. The emotions in them seem endless, a bottomless well that you can’t even swim in.

“You’ve grown, my little sprout.” Her voice wistfully comments. The two of you simply stare at each other.

After that she barely looks at you even after the others return.

The decision is made rather simply compared to the riotous calamity that preceded it. Six months with your mother and six months here. But of course, your mother declares your time on the surface begins now. Gakuganji agrees and your spirit pops.

Any moment of celebration, any hope of wanting to enjoy being here, decomposes in your chest. You gather yourself as best as you can.

“Can I at least say goodbye to my husband?” You ask.

“You are not even married yet.” Gakuganji sneers.

“We aren’t. But you could wed us right now and change that if you’d like, old man!” Satoru offers. The old god’s face crumbles up so disgusted you have to hold back a laugh.

Thankfully you’re allowed a moment of solitude with Satoru in his chambers. You embrace his tall frame and he holds you tight.

“My offer still stands. Just say the word and I’ll throw the old man in the one of rivers.”

“Satoru please.” You sigh.

“What?! All I am saying is there is still time, I could easily throw him in. He wouldn’t even know what hit him.”

A small snicker does leave you as you shake your head no.

“Fine.” Your soon to be husband sighs disappointed.

“So much for an engagement announcement.” Gojo teases trying to soothe the moment with humor but a question about your sudden engagement has been weighing on your mind. You need to ask him before you leave.

Holding Satoru’s hand you gently lead him to the beautiful carved out window nook. When he sits completely flush besides you, you reach over to draw his blindfold away.

His eyes are oceans you never wish to leave. But you will have to. Every six months you will be away from this man who has burrowed a hole in your heart and made it his home.

“Why do you want to marry me?” You ask.

His eyes scrunch up slightly curious but also as if he doesn’t understand your question.

“Because you’re my other half.”

That’s beautiful, but it’s not enough. You’re thankful Satoru senses that’s not the answer you wanted and he sighs dreamily.

“That first time I saw you, do you remember?” He begins.

At Olympus, that seems like centuries ago now.

“You had so many petals and leaves stuck in your hair. Yet, your face was so angry…like you could’ve ripped apart the mountain in half.” He explains fondly. “Now I have no doubt you could if you smack a fruit against it.”

“Hey,” you playfully laugh but it’s watery, soaked in disbelieving love.

“But you were incredible, this hilarious creature of both fury and flowers. I had never seen someone so beautiful.” Satoru adds

His hands now have moved to encompass yours.

“Do you think we’re rushing into this?” You question.

“Do you think we are?” He mirrors it back to you.

A piece of you agreed this is rushed. But then the ache inside of you already dreading leaving this man speaks louder than your doubt.

“Look,” he speaks first. “My life has been the same for so long. Like I got stuck in my own infinity and then you came stomping in… ”

Satoru’s cerulean eyes fiercely flicker up to you and he stares unwavering.

“I’d tear apart the skies for you.” He says simply “You make my life brighter. You and your scrunched up annoyed face you always give me. Your laugh. The way you talk to all your planets like they can speak back-“

“Plants respond better to hearing voices.” you croak interrupting him.

“It helps them grow faster, yes I know.” He finishes for you so cheekily and your heart is about to float out of your body.

“So you really want to marry me?”

Satoru rolls his eyes at your question.

“Petals, I wanted to marry you the moment you threatened to shove me in the River Styx during one of our morning strolls.”

You bark a watery laugh. “Don’t tempt me. I’d still do it.”

The god of the underworld suddenly breathes out your name.

Tenderly Satoru leans forward and kisses you. You don’t care that your mother is waiting for you. You simply want to enjoy this slice of eternity for as long as you can.

“I love you.” You whisper the words, a holy sigh, against his lips.

“That’s nice.” He muses. He’s lucky no throw cushions are nearby or else you would have smacked him.

It dawns on you that this is the closest to a wedding you will get until you return. So you pull away from his lips and vow yourself to him.

You vow to always roll your eyes and snap at him when he says something ridiculous. You vow to always now take the biggest bite out of his confectioneries even if he complains. You vow to be by his side until the cosmos collapses and even beyond that. But mainly, you vow-

“That you never feel lonely for too long ever again, Satoru.”

His eyes go wide, shimmering almost in awe. The king rushes forward and kisses you with a dizzying passion.

“We would make terrible marriage officiants.” He mutters against your lips.

“Who cares.” You scoff.

“Hm seems I’m rubbing off on you in many other ways, petals.”

You chide him for being crude and he snickers, your ridiculous husband.

“What a cute new queen you are.”

Queen. By marriage, by love, you are a queen now.

“Your crown is going to be a twig, like the one you placed on me that one time.” Satoru grins playfully.

“As long as you match with me.”

He laughs so freely and it’s beautiful.

The thought of being a ruler, a monarch, for some reason does not scare you. You thought it would. Instead it only comforts you knowing the king who would be beside you is Satoru.

This joyous bubble however deflates as you return to your mother. This would be it. This is your goodbye until six months from now. But even among the heartbreak, a wave of reassurance washes over you. Because it is just six months. Compared to a lifetime without Satoru, six months is a simple breeze.

Once again you bid goodbye to Utahime, to Shoko, both embrace you tighter than ever. After all, you are one of their own now. And your husband, your poor Satoru, now wears the most obnoxious teary face that makes you want to flat out walk away from him.

But of course you embrace and kiss your king softly.

“You better not kill my garden.” You warn against his tender lips.

“No promises.” He smiles.

As you’re about to start your journey, Satoru wails dramatically.

“One last kiss to remember me by!” Then making a horrendous kissing-like sound, he rushes to your side. You effortlessly hold your hand out to stop his face from reaching you. He weeps horrified while Shoko and Utahime kneel over laughing in unison.

You’re amused at his antics but among the hilarity, Satoru leans into your palm. Gently he tilts his face and leaves a soft kiss on the palm of your hand.

It grants you tremendous strength to start your journey.

As you reach the edge of the stairs, so close you can almost taste the sunlight, you turn around. The last time you did this, Satoru was nowhere to be found. Now he stands at the very edge of the bottom of the walkway.

A moment passes. It is just you and him staring at each other. You’re tempted to run back to him one final time. But you can’t. You inhale a deep resolve and Gojo looks on proudly as he nods.

“I’ll see you soon, petals.” His voice is low but you hear it, clear as day, even from the top step. You nod back, not trusting your own voice to reply.

His words give you the push to reach the surface.

The morning breeze tenderly greets you first. Your legs feel like they can give out from all the emotions rushing through your body. So you look down to focus on where you step.

There among the lush green grass your white underworld flowers already sprout below you. Your lips twitch trying to hold back a tearful laugh.

Glancing up you see the grandest blue sky stretching far and wide.

You’ve always loved the sky.

Except now your breath hitches at the sight.

Because the color above is the same captured and crystallized in your husband’s eyes.

In the endless blue you find a new reassurance about the growth waiting for you in this new life. You also think of Satoru waiting for you as well. With the open sky now a welcoming blessing, you walk confidently into this new life.

With every step you leave behind delicate cloud-white underworld flowers blooming beautifully among the grass.

#nikuniku fic recs #normally i would respond in the tags but this was such an essay omg

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stellamancer · 1 year ago

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OKAY. Finally sitting down to read knight!gojo.

Sera, I really like how you.... made the Gojo clan in this AU a notable family... LMAO. I'm not sure quite how to phrase what I mean... tranlated it? In a way? Transitioned? Transmigrated? Something like that, but Gojo being a one man army on his own in this world too is just very... him LMAO.

Anyway, is he having Shoko... intentionally poison him in attempts to achieve enlightenment again??? GOJO????? That is such a dangerous game you're playing, your princess will not be happy!!!

I really like this section here:

“I have a princess to rescue,” he said. “Dragons to slay, things of that nature.”

Shoko scoffed. “You are the dragon they have to save princesses from.”

Well, Gojo thought as he hurried down the corridor, she wasn’t wrong. He was sure others agreed with her. He didn’t waste his time with children’s tales anymore, but he remembered his mother’s voice whispering to him in the dark, curled around him in his bed. A dragon was a tool to lock princesses away. His presence deterred anyone from coming too near to his princess, so by that definition, he was most certainly a dragon.

A dragon huh... well, I think a knight is far more romanitc, but it really aligns with the notion a couple paragraphs earlier with him blurring the line between man and monster.

And then there's this:

“Come now,” he says, a little softer. “Don’t look so desolate. What will I do if everyone sees you pouting? You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“You don’t have a reputation to ruin.”

“Don’t underestimate the things I’d do for the smallest sign of joy from you. Shall I procure one right now to destroy for your amusement?”

GOD HE IS SO ABSOLUTELY SMITTEN. SO SMITTEN. Tell me why we can't marry him? What good is being a princess if we can't choose!! To hell with royal formalities and the like!!

Dammit Sera, he is already so charming. I hate him. HATE HIM. But, untouchable huh? I see this word choice... I see what this really is LMAO.

DANCING AAAAAAAAA. I'm so weak for dancing.... It's so... AAAAA.

His lips are soft against your skin, temptation incarnate. <- Sera this line is so very sexy omg. And then the mutual pining??? You are killing me!! Killing me!! Gojo is so openly smitten and well, Reader... is probably some shade of obvious. AUGH. I'm suffering!!

DON'T TA- okay I know he is probably being protective, but LIKE. Let me read into the potential jealousy. Let me have just a smidgen... Yeah, reader I'd... melt at being called princess by Gojo too. I. Yeah. Broke a little just thinking about it.

Part of me wants a proposal counter. We're at two so far, so I'm curious how many it will take before our princess finally gives in to him.

AUGHHH PRINCESS NOOOOOOOOOOO. I'm sure he'll be back, but it's just... WEEPS.

AND THEN NAOYA.... the night is getting worse... Can't tell him to fuck off, can't tell him we don't wanna dance... Man, being a princess sucks LMAO.

"We both know how this ends." I gagged a little at him. Gross. It ends with his head on the pike. Or it should.

OMG GETO TO THE RESCUEEEE. bless him. ofc gojo sent him, but. regardless, thanks for the save geto!

gOJO HOW RUDE. staring at another woman when you're dancing... i mean i doubt yuki cares BUT STILL. he may be a knight here, but no matter what, he's the king of rudeness!!! AND HIS GAZE IS FILTHY??? that's such a... the picture that paints is just so intense omg...

and there he is. he's back again. can't stay away that one.

ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT???? princess lock yOUR DOOR OMG... but gojo, man, he should teacher reader how to throw a good punch!! sure she's a princess, but doesn't mean she can't give someone the ol' one two knock out!

omg... he put reader's slippers on... that's actually kind of sweet despite... the death there. speaks to his priorities i think.

the 'all i know how to do is kill' line reminds me of text post meme i sent to my bf earlier: 'like it's MY fault my love language is acts of service and all i know how to do is kill'

UTAHIME'S SCAR!! sera that's so brilliant of you, working her scar into this universe's canon!!

oh! another proposal, kinda. LMAO, utahime please take my hand in marriage and together we can fight against the plague known to the world as satoru gojo. he's so rude, reader can protect utahime!! probably!!

AAAAAAAAAA THE RIBBON. AAAAA SERA U ARE KILLING ME ONE DISPLAY OF AFFECTION AT A TIMEEEEEE.

YUJI!!!

squinting at the king here.... he better stop talking shit about yuki...

gosh calling gojo a natural disaster... ain't that the truth...

a secret meeting in the garden tho... hehehe. but. aughhh.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA omg SERA HOW COULD YOU END IT LIKE THAT I'M SO SCAREDDDDD.

Okay, okay, okay okay, enough of my play-by-play comments. So. Wowie. Part of me really needs to marinate here. This is really a wonderful introduction to this story! I don't know what's to come, but I feel like you've done a lot of wonderful set up here!

I can really feel the reader's frustration at her position, being a princess really isn't all cake and flowers, and with the fact that she is the sole heir to the throne hanging over her head... Maybe things would have been easier for her had she had a brother, but, I don't know. The fact that remains that, throughout the entire narrative it's just reinforced how much things are really out of her hands. She is so hyper aware of the things she cannot do, shouldn't do, doesn't know how to do, so I'm very interest in seeing what happens for her from here on out. I feel like we've gotten the foreshadowing that marriage is on the way from the kitchen onto the table for her. And not the marriage any of us want LMAO. Given Naoya's presence at the beginning I can believe that could be an option, but name dropping Sukuna... makes me wonder if that's the route you're planning to go.

Personally, I'd love to see her take her fate into her own hands and rather than think of what she is unable to do, to think of what she can, but that is just my personal preference.

Also, I commented on it a lot in the play by play, but Gojo is so devoted, so so so devoted to his princess. And you know, it's so very Gojo to be that devoted, but to draw the line in the sense of... Like, when I think of a knight in Gojo's position with the same feelings he has, I would think that the knight would ultimately put duty first, but Gojo... he just wouldn't LMAO. Not if that's what he didn't want, and I think that, if he truly felt that the reader didn't want him he might relent... But at the same time, I can't even imagine that being a possibility to him. He really has that 'all roads lead to me' kind of feel, you know?

And that last line, you must be cackling wherever you are, hitting us with that kind of cliffhanger. I'm so nervous. What the hell is going to happen because clearly not all is well. AUGHHHHH.

I'm so excited for the next part (if not immensely nervous)!! I'm sorry if my play-by-play babbling is really... babbling LMAOOO. But I know you were concerned that you'd plateau'd with your writing and like... I haven't read teen dad gojo yet, so I can't run any comparisons, but I have complete faith that you have nothing to worry about!!!!

Act One, Chapter One: half agony, half hope

Knights are bound by duty and honor, but Gojo is more devoted to his princess than he ever was to his oaths.

Main Masterlist | AO3

wc — 10k

tags — royal au, knight gojo, princess reader, forbidden love, ballroom scene, dancing, court politics, blood, minor character death, period-typical misogyny, complicated relationships with fathers, secret meetings, flouting social etiquette by sneaking out to meet your childhood best friend who is also your loyal knight, title from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Next: the beginning of devotion (coming soon)

He was so still Shoko almost mistook him for a dead body. It was a common misunderstanding in her line of business, but not one she was usually startled by. As a poisoner, legally and officially a herbalist, the occasional corpse on her table wasn’t such an unexpected occurrence. A lord, on the other hand, was.

Especially if it was him.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t just a lord. He was the son of the former Hand of the King, the greatest swordsman in living history, and connected to the princess. There wasn’t a man alive who didn’t know the Gojo name. It was synonymous with the royal house itself as the clan that had produced scores of advisors to the king. In nearly every generation, the heir to the throne was accompanied by a Gojo, acting as a living sword and shield.

But even with that storied history, this one was special. A young man who had risen to prominence during The Silent War, he returned home from hell as a knight unlike any other. The bards would adore him. They already did.

Most generals earned their titles by leading campaigns. Gojo hadn’t needed one. He turned the tides of the war as a single man army. They had started calling him a grim reaper, a god of death.

Shoko disliked him on principle, but she couldn’t kill a man like that. They’d have her head on a pike. She didn’t mind the idea of dying so much. What she did shrink from was the idea of dying painfully.

The princess was known for abstaining from most decisions involving the crown despite being in line to inherit it, but Shoko somehow doubted that she would remain so passive if her favorite knight was murdered. Thankfully, Gojo let out a soft breath to show her that he did remain among the living.

“I thought you died,” she remarked.

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

She said something else, but Gojo wasn’t listening anymore. He was floating through a shapeless world again, chasing that moment. It slipped away from him despite his redoubled attempts to capture it. He remembered the tang of iron in his mouth. Blood spraying in the air, a mist that he could smell and taste. The leather grip of his sword in his hands, slippery with sweat.

He was trying to win back enlightenment, briefly attained and lost again just as quickly on the battlefield. A feeling of deep and solid peace had settled over him as he hacked through bodies, as if that was what he was meant to do. It should’ve concerned him. He already confused the ever thinning boundary between man and monster. That bloodshed brought him such euphoric tranquility could only mean it was growing worse, but he hated things he couldn’t understand.

He needed to experience it again. Just one more time, so he could make sense of it. The smell of blood. Wading through the dead and the dying, thigh deep in gore - it was no use. Frustrated, he let it go.

There was something soothing about the cracks in the ceiling. He stared up at it, letting his breaths come as shallowly as they had while he had been immersed in his meditative state. Shoko’s basement was chilly and dark, but it was necessary for the illegal autopsies she performed at his request. Those, and the poisons she crafted for him, were its primary purpose. It was only a stroke of luck that these qualities were also helpful for his attempts to recover his short-lived state of grace.

He was tempted to try again, but not today. There was someone too precious to keep waiting if he delayed any longer. He wouldn’t impose upon her the way he often imposed on the elder lords who tried to remind him of his place by pulling rank. While they deserved his spite, she didn’t.

Even Shoko was surprised by his sudden desire for punctuality. “You’re not going to stay?”

“I have a princess to rescue,” he said. “Dragons to slay, things of that nature.”

Shoko scoffed. “You are the dragon they have to save princesses from.”

Gojo found that he was a little proud of himself for that. Thinking of his mother had made him nostalgic. He thought she might be proud too, that he had taken such good care of the princess she herself had looked after. A dragon might trap, but it also guarded and hoarded. He had polished his princess like a treasure, lavishing her with attention until she had become a gem.

She was beautiful.

He was a soldier, so he had long since rid himself of the ability to lose his breath, but if he still could, he would’ve choked at the sight of her when he broke past the doors. She was seated so that the eye of anyone who entered the ballroom would be drawn to her first, but he would’ve found her regardless. He had promised.

Wherever you were, he would always find you.

It’s difficult to hide, being as tall as he is, but Gojo managed. He didn’t want you to see him coming. Already, he has to bite his lip to fight down his smile as he draws closer and closer. A few more steps, a detour to duck behind some random noble, and he’s in front of you.

“May I?” You don’t have a chance to speak before he’s already dragging a chair closer.

The smile on your face doesn’t match the harsh delivery of your words. “The next time you leave me alone with these miserable fools, I’ll order you to fall on your sword.”

Gojo laughs, unfazed. “Good choice. You’re too pretty to get your hands dirty. Although, you are a bit more murderous than expected for a princess.”

“You try putting up with Naoya’s simpering gibberish for an hour.”

“I don’t have to.” He slips into the chair beside you, avoiding you neatly when you try to trip him. “Watch your feet, my lady. People like me don’t have to put up with Naoya.”

People like you shouldn’t have to, either. You’re both higher ranking than he is, a princess and a lord each, yet Gojo’s the only one who gets to escape his painful-to-witness affections.

It’s only natural. A royal dowry comes attached to you. Any eligible man would have to be an idiot not to fight for your hand, but really, they’re vying for a chance at kingship. You can’t go one day without someone reminding you that you’re a physical embodiment of the crown, something to want and own.

Gojo pours himself water with a heavy hand, bypassing the wine. Watching him sip at it, you realize you’ve actually never seen him drink.

“Come now,” he says, a little softer. “Don’t look so desolate. What will I do if everyone sees you pouting? You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“You don’t have a reputation to ruin.”

“Don’t underestimate the things I’d do for the smallest sign of joy from you. Shall I procure one right now to destroy for your amusement?”

You know he wants you to smile, but you can’t. Even if Gojo can usually pry laughter from you with the ease of a trained jester, this time, your sadness weighs over you like a heavy wool cloak. It’s your birthday, but it’s not a happy occasion. Every passing year tightens the noose around your neck.

You’re a princess, and that means your life was arranged for you before you breathed your first breath. There’s nothing you can do about it. You’ve never had a choice.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make that face,” he says. “I’d marry you. If it came down to it, I’d take care of you.”

His words nearly cause you to spill your drink all over your finely embroidered dress. If it set in, it would never come out. He grasps your hand just as the cup begins to tip, saving you.

“Did you mistake your water for wine?” It’s a genuine question from you.

He waves his goblet around carelessly. You’re worried he might be actually drunk, but you smell no alcohol on him. He couldn’t get inebriated from just a sip, anyway. Whatever wild whims have overtaken him tonight are entirely of his own design.

“Better me than Naoya, no? I’d keep you safe.” He cracks a crooked smile in your direction, like you’re sharing a secret. “Admit it. I’d be a good husband. If I were around, you’d be untouchable.”

He’s telling the truth. If Gojo Satoru was your husband, no one would dare anything with you, but you chase the idea from your mind as quickly as Gojo plants it. You’re your father’s daughter, raised on his practicality. You don’t waste time on pipe dreams. Better the hideous truth than a lie costumed in beauty - the bite of thorns was infinitely preferable to the impermanent fantasy of petals.

Instead of answering him, you push your plate in his direction. You don’t even have to ask. Gojo dutifully takes your knife and fork in hand to cut up your meat. “Not even going to consider it, princess? I’m hurt. That was a serious offer, you know.”

“You’re insufferable. Be quiet and eat.”

Gojo’s mother used to say that the more adamantly someone denied something, the closer to the truth it likely was. You can only hope Gojo doesn’t remember, because she was right. The reason you won’t give him even an inch on the topic of marriage is because a proposal from him is the only thing you want but can’t have.

Predictably, he ignores you. He’s never known when to quit. With so little that can genuinely stand in his way, Gojo has difficulty understanding the concept of a limitation. You’re both spoiled in that sense, noble children who had never been told no.

“Think about it,” he says casually. “We’d be invincible. What other house could stand before our union?”

“I said- hello, father.”

“A little early to be calling- oh, hello, Your Majesty. You look well tonight. Is that a new ring?”

Your father cuffs Gojo around the ears. “Brat.”

He’s in a good mood, then.

“My little girl,” he says to you. “How pretty you look. I’m surprised no one has stolen you away from me yet.”

You’re not so little anymore, but you forgive him. It’s just the two of you, ever since the queen died. He’s the reason you are what you are, as cultivated as a rose in a greenhouse. The climate that nurtured you is one carefully tailored by his own hand.

“Not for lack of trying,” Gojo says brightly.

“Boy,” your father calls him, despite the fact that Gojo isn’t a boy either. A deep sigh escapes his lungs. He looks truly sorrowful for a moment. “You look just like your mother.”

Gojo’s smile freezes on his face. It’s true, he does. Through him, the king’s former hand lives again, but you know Gojo doesn’t want to be seen as an extension of her, even if he misses her more than anything.

You’re familiar with the way your father knows exactly what to say to make you feel small again. The king is someone who exudes power. His uncanny ability to pick out what you’re most sensitive to and exploit it makes even the most proud of noblemen revert to children in his presence, as if they’ve been scolded by a nanny for stealing tarts from the kitchen. It’s strange that you feel the need to protect Gojo, the strongest person you know, from that.

He reaches out and pats Gojo’s cheek now that he’s reduced him to silence. “Enjoy the night, my dear child.”

When he leaves, Gojo slumps back in his chair with a tick in his jaw. Even if the king is your father, he can’t help himself. “Nasty old man,” he mutters.

You pinch his thigh beneath the table. “Smile and look pretty.”

“Ugh, who is it now?”

“Lord Zenin and his son haven’t gotten their fill of tormenting me.”

“Hm,” Gojo says. “I wonder.”

“If you have a plan to avoid them, hurry. They’re nearly here.”

“I don’t know,” he teases. “I don’t think you’d like it very much.”

“Yes, well, I don’t like conversation with Sir Zenin very much either.”

He grabs your hand. “Then you’ll forgive me for anything that happens tonight?”

“Anything is questionable, but do as you please.”

He tugs you from your seat, pulling you through the crowd of people. Caught in his wake, you float past faces familiar and unfamiliar until the patriarch of House Zenin and his infernal spawn fade behind you.

When you turn to face him again, he’s dipped into a bow. His smile is sweet, boyish. It’s as if you’re children again, and he’s stolen you from your lessons to waltz in an empty ballroom, motes of dust that you’ve stirred up floating in the sunbeams.

He extends his hand, a sapphire burning on one finger. A dragon curls around the silver band of the ring, a nod to his heritage. Though the Gojos are a powerful and ancient house, in this moment, Gojo looks young, foolish, and all the better for it.

“May I have this dance, my lady?”

You giggle, wishing you had a fan to pretend to hide behind. You’re playing pretend again, acting as if you’re characters from a storybook.

“I’d be delighted to, my lord.”

The music swells. Gojo takes your hand and presses a kiss to your bare knuckles. His lips are soft against your skin, temptation incarnate. In his grasp, your fingers tremble slightly, torn between wanting to seize him and wanting to run away.

You’re terrified by how much you want him.

If you let him in for one second, you can imagine how easy it would be to never stop. He’s every one of your desires and hopes made manifest, tied up in a single person. Although it’s impossible, you still feel the heat of him. The warmth of his lips linger on you, a stolen moment before he sweeps you up in his arms.

This is how you remember he’s a boy no longer. The breadth of his shoulders is wide. He’s lost the roundness of youth, his face growing angular and cunning. There’s solid muscle underneath your hands as he pulls you with him, his feet beating a steady rhythm that you have to fight to keep up with.

He’s doing it on purpose, you know, testing how much you still retained all of those years of tutoring. You’re determined to show him they weren’t for naught.

When you catch your breath and master the music once more, gliding with him rather than being tugged along, he smiles like he always expected you to. He’s been like this since you were young, dangling challenges in front of you that he’s equally as excited to see you pass as fail.

The music slows. All around you, the frantic steps melt into slow swaying. You’re feeling brave tonight, so you step closer. You allow the arm curled more tightly around your waist, the tender look in his eyes. When you steal a glance around, no one is watching the two of you, but how far can you go before you lose it all?

“Don’t talk to Naoya again,” he murmurs against your skin. It tickles, and you squirm until he presses so close it petrifies you. “I don’t like the rumors around him.”

“What rumors?”

“Bad ones. He tumbles girls and leaves them with nothing. Hurts them, takes whatever he wants, and ruins their lives. I don’t trust him, and especially not with you.” His hand smoothes over a stray ruffle on your petticoat, the gesture impossibly loving. “Never with you, princess.”

You shudder at the way he says princess, feeling cut open, exposed. What has gotten into him tonight? You don’t understand. It feels like drowning, your brain always three steps behind, struggling to break the waves of your confusion.

You know you’re weak. It’s your name that protects you, the threat of your father and the royal house behind you. Alone, you’re a lamb to slaughter. You’ve been spoiled your whole life, leaving you naive and helpless.

Gojo is someone you trust implicitly. He’s always protected you. You’ve relied on him for as long as you’ve been alive, but perhaps that’s conditioned you to feel comfortable putting your hand into the mouth of the beast. Even at the chance of exposing how poorly you’ve been trained for the court’s schemes, you don’t hold back when you’re with him. He makes you feel at ease to speak freely without fearing how much you’ll reveal of your own vulnerabilities.

“I can’t,” you tell him honestly. “House Zenin is one of the Three Great Houses. I can’t refuse Naoya without good reason.”

“Then marry me,” he says softly. “Marry me and be done with all of this. They don’t deserve you, anyway. They won’t treat you like I will.”

You close your eyes, feeling the telltale hotness of incoming tears burn behind your eyelids. Why did he do this to you? He was so gentle it hurt, even though you knew he was capable of terrible things. Somehow that made it worse, the knowledge that he was choosing to be kind.

“You should go,” you say instead.

Marriage between you and Gojo would never happen. Forget your father. An alliance between the strongest house and the royal house? It would be akin to tyranny. There would be blood in the streets before any of the other nobles would allow it. It’s better not to dream about impossible desires.

Thorns, not petals, you remind yourself. You can suffer the truth.

“Why?” He says. “I want to stay with you. I want to be good to you.”

“This isn’t something to joke about, Satoru.” He looks like he’d rather you have slapped him. “Never talk to me about this again. Find someone else to dance with.”

There. Your brain snags on something to distract you. You’ve been dancing with him for too long. It’ll reflect poorly on your reputation to give an unmarried man so much of your attention.

“Pick another partner,” you urge him.

His brow creases. Stubbornly, he holds onto you even tighter. “Don’t want to.”

“You have to. Everyone will whisper. I’m surprised they aren’t already.”

“Then let them,” he pleads. “It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Regretfully, you pull away. Darkness clouds his beautiful face. It’s unnatural. When you remember him, he’s always smiling. The instances when he directs a genuine frown at you are few and far between, but you’ve already made your decision.

Gojo stalks off in search of a new partner. Somehow, even though you were the one who forced him to leave, your heart stings to watch his back fade into the distance. If you didn’t want him to go, you shouldn’t have said anything. This is what you hoped for. Still, it’s painful.

You want to find somewhere to rest after your spat, drained from a rare argument with him, but nowhere is secluded enough for you to let your guard down. Suddenly, you feel a wave of hatred for your stupid, glittering palace and the stupid, glittering fools infesting it. You just fought with your best friend and you’re tired, but you still have to keep up appearances.

Somewhere nearby, Gojo is spinning another girl, her skirts flaring out around them. You wish you could press your palms to your eyes, letting the pressure relieve your headache, but you’ve shown enough weakness tonight. Instead, you tilt your head back and breathe, trying to appear calm and in control.

It’s a good thing you restrained yourself, because Naoya is the one that finds you. His shoes are the first thing you see, black leather with steel accents. Steel, not silver, because he wants it to hurt when he kicks.

You know. You’ve heard the stories.

“Abandoned by Satoru, my lady?” You hate the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. Gojo makes it sound so intimate, like it’s for you and him only. Naoya’s version is a bastardization, much like the man himself.

You’re too tired to deal with him, and yet, you’ll have to. House Zenin is important to your father and thus, important to you, especially when you inevitably replace him. “What are you insinuating about your princess, Sir Zenin?”

You use the proper address, the way he should’ve spoken about Gojo. They’re not close enough for him to be calling the other man by his first name.

“Nothing, nothing,” he says. “Don’t get defensive now.”

You want to tell one of the knights stationed around the hall to drag him away. Instead, you smile and let him prattle on. Court politics. If you ever want to prove to your father you deserve everything you’ve been born into, you have to play the game. No matter how terrible some of the players are.

“Since you graced Satoru with one, I hope you wouldn’t mind another dance.”

Turning him down isn’t an option, but when you see that everyone’s watching, you realize even more how much it really isn’t an option. He probably arranged it that way too. Demonspawn. You’d curse his house if you could, instead, you offer him your hand, cringing internally when he tries kissing it.

You can’t help but compare the two. Gojo did it better.

Like any son of a high born house, Naoya’s a good dancer. It’s the one compliment you’re willing to grace him with, as everything else about him, especially his personality, is hideous. His hand is solid against your upper back, the other leading you as you spin around the room. It makes you want to scrub yourself clean, even under the layers of clothes.

You’re doing this for your house. Your throne. This is nothing. None of your mantras diminish your desire to shove Naoya’s head in the cake waiting at the banquet table.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” he tells you.

“Forwardness is unbecoming in a man,” you say with a smile, as if he’s telling you the sweetest nothings. “What would my father say?”

“Don’t play coy, princess. We both know how this ends.”

“Please excuse me,” you say as soon as the song ends. One is enough. “I find myself rather dizzy.”

Naoya’s lips whiten with anger. He tries to grab your wrist, but someone steps between you. “Watch your hands with Her Royal Highness, Zenin. I won’t tolerate your disrespect.”

Naoya’s eyes flash, but the interloper is sweeping you away already. His hands hover above your dress, never actually touching, as he guides you in the opposite direction.

“Sir Getou, what are you doing?”

Getou looks down on you in amusement once you’re a safe distance away. “Satoru sent me to rescue you, of course. I didn’t think he was serious when he said you would get into trouble without him.”

“Trouble finds me,” you reply archly.

“Yes, yes,” he placates, sparking annoyance even though he just saved you from Naoya. “Are you tired of dancing yet, or do you have room for one more? I’m hoping to make an impression on potential wives by dancing with the princess.”

You’re smart enough to know that one more is rarely truly one more, but Getou did save you from Naoya. Besides, if you’re busy with him, no one else can ask for your hand.

“I suppose I can spare you a dance.”

Like Gojo, Getou is an adept dancer. He is, after all, a trained court noble, and the sons of House Getou are unusually predisposed to the arts in any case. If the Gojos are known for their strength, the Getous are known for their crafts.

Getou doesn’t flinch from your unwavering gaze. If anything, he seems to find it amusing, although in the way one would find a puppy amusing. Gently, he leads you around the ballroom.

“Stay alert, my lady. Someone’s watching you,” Getou warns.

You follow his gaze to Gojo. There’s a beautiful woman in his arms that takes you no time at all to place, so infamous is her notoriety. Yuki of House Tsukumo is second only to Gojo in her blatant disrespect for everything the elders held dear.

They make a striking couple. Everywhere they go, heads turn to watch them pass. Her gold to his silver, her lion to his dragon - it would be a powerful match. They would be perfect for each other, if only because no one would be able to challenge each other like they could.

Excellent dancers each, together they become an instrument for the music to shine through. Getou is gentle with you, each movement as delicate as lilies floating across the surface of a pond. In contrast, Gojo and Yuki dance like they’re fighting, each trying to gain an advantage over the other. They’re magnetic, drawing every eye in the room to watch them.

Everyone else may be entranced by the pair of them, but the pair itself seems disinterested in the crowd around them. Yuki’s eyes are closed but Gojo-

Gojo’s looking at you. Your cheeks heat with his attention. His stare is intense, eyes half-lidded. Every move is prowling, almost predatory. His eyes remain fixated on your face as he and Yuki move in a complicated, sinuous series of circles. There’s something impossibly filthy about his gaze. It borders on indecency, combined with the way he barely seems to be paying attention to dancing, giving you all of his focus instead.

“We can’t let them steal all the attention,” Getou says. He really is Gojo’s brother-in-arms. “Let’s give them a show.”

You’ve never been trained in statecraft, but you’ve been given the very finest of tutors in the elegant manners of the court. A show, as Getou puts it, is more than within your capabilities. You close your senses to the rest of the world, focusing on the shift of your skirts and Getou’s quiet voice as your steps weave intricate patterns across the floor.

He’s a naturally friendly man. It’s easy to talk to him, whispering between each peak in the music. Although he’s friends with Gojo, your social circles rarely overlap enough for you to spend much time in Getou’s company. You’re almost surprised by how much you enjoy it.

“I think it’s time to change partners,” calls a familiar voice.

As Getou takes the hands of Lady Yuki, her eyes still closed as she sways, someone takes his place. Gojo’s hand slides from where Getou’s were placed appropriately on your upper back down to your hip. You drag them back up, ignoring his pout. He’ll be your last dance of the night.

“Should I be worried about being replaced?” He murmurs.

“It was only one turn,” you tell him.

“And I never want to do it again,” he says. “The other girls don’t dance like you do.”

He’s an unrepentant liar. You might have been tutored by the best dancers your father could find, but at this level, first and second place might as well be interchangeable. He’s only saying it so you know that he wanted to come back to you, despite the fact that you forced him away.

Gojo’s a contradiction wrapped inside a paradox, at once sadistic and merciful. No one’s capable of making you feel as much as he does. Without the guidance of formal tutors to give you the education of a prince, you have no idea how to navigate the dangerous world of alliances and betrayals, war and peace. Once, you clumsily blundered through diplomacy, watching your father’s disappointment grow by the hour. You’ve since learned that complete silence is preferable to gaucheness. At least that is something your education as a princess has taught you.

But Gojo knew you before you grew into the woman you are now. He still remembers how to pull smiles and tears from you, how to push you to the brink of exasperation and coax you into brilliant happiness. He has a key to all the gates you’ve erected. No matter what you do, he always slips past your defenses.

If you keep letting him do as he pleases, you’ll be the only one who loses. Gojo is a man. If he’s rumored to be attached to the princess, it’ll elevate his reputation. He’s already the best swordsman in the entire kingdom. Being thought of as a profligate would only make them worship him more. People love a little hint of degeneracy to their heroes - not too much to make them immoral, but enough to make them attainable.

A princess is not a hero. You’re not someone to attain, you’re someone to obtain. When people look at you, they only see the crown. If you’re thought of as a ruined woman, it would prevent you from finding a husband. It would destabilize the entire kingdom.

It hurts to realize that you’re that selfish. Gojo would’ve chosen you over anything, but you’re letting something as empty as reputation displace him.

Not that it’s exactly a choice. Your life has been forfeit since you were born. You don’t belong to yourself, but to the royal house. As the only child of the king, you can’t allow yourself any mistakes, not when even the barest twitch of your fingers is scrutinized.

When Gojo offers to escort you back to your chambers at the end of the night, you swallow down the desire to agree. His eyes are hopeful, mirroring your own expression. It could be like back then, when you were children, running through the halls of the grand palace without a care in the world. Except you know you can never return to the halcyon days of your childhood, before your mother died, before his mother disappeared, before everything went wrong. You try not to let the disappointment on his face bother you when you allow the knight your father sent to bring you back to your rooms instead.

You attribute the strange feeling you get in the morning to the leftover melancholy of last night. Sunlight trickles across your face lazily, not enough to raise you from your bed but just bright enough to remind you that morning was here.

You’ve never slept long enough for the sun to warm your face while you were still entangled in your sheets before. The window faces your bed at such an awkward angle that the sun has to be high in the sky before it can light across your pillows.

Usually a maid wakes you by now if you aren’t up already. Where were they?

A gentle knock at the door only makes you more apprehensive. It can’t be Utahime. You know the sound of her steps. The pacing is stilted, awkward, as if whoever was behind the door was nervous.

“Hello?”

“Oh, princess!” Definitely nervous. Not a voice you can recognize. A new maid, perhaps? But why would they-

The door bursts open. You scream as a cloaked figure lunges at you. She throws herself on top of you, trying to pin you to the bed so she can run you through with the knife she has raised in her left hand.

She’s crying. “You weren’t supposed to be awake!”

Crying and angry. Fluffy white down bursts into the air, obscuring your vision as she stabs a pillow so brutally it vomits its contents. She’s not very good, which explains her terror. Unfortunately, you aren’t very good either, and you’re pinned underneath her. Thrashing doesn’t work - at the very least, she’s stronger than you, if badly trained.

When she finally immobilizes you, she has a growing bruise over her arm from a terrible punch you had thrown, trying to mimic the way Gojo does it. Keeping your thumb outside your fist was all you remembered, and it went wide. You barely managed to hit her, and it came with a cost. She snags your wrist and pins it down.

The knife plunges towards you. It’s rusty, which terrifies you almost as much as the implement itself. If by some miracle you survived, you’d be at risk of infection.

Blue eyes flash before you. In this moment, an inch away from death, you wish you had gotten to say goodbye to him. Fear robs you of rationality. You don’t know anything but that you want to see him one more time and feel the warmth of his embrace.

“Princess, it’s okay. I’m here.”

You crack an eye open. The girl is no longer visible. The only person leaning over you now has white hair and the characteristic Gojo eyes, impossible to fake. You decide you must’ve died already. This is heaven, where your wishes have been granted.

Gojo pulls you up. His hands are warm and solid. Vaguely, you realize that you’re trembling with the same nonchalant distance that you would use to catalog the color of the pillows.

“You’re not dead yet.”

“Did I say that out loud?”

He chuckles. His thumb is rubbing soothing circles into your palm. “No, I could just tell by the look in your eyes.”

“The girl…”

“Dead.”

You scramble to the edge of your bed and peek over. Sure enough, she’s lying in a pool of her own blood. Her throat has been cut so surely her head is nearly separated from her body.

You gag.

“Wait,” Gojo says. He kneels to tear off her cloak and holds it in front of you. “Here, princess.”

You don’t want to give in to your queasiness, especially not when he himself is so stoic, so you shake your head. More insistently, he pushes it towards you.

“It’s only natural,” he soothes. “I’m used to this. You’ve never seen a dead body before.”

“Just come here,” you say weakly. “No, actually. I’ll come to you.”

“Give me a second,” he says, dropping to his knees. Under the bed, he retrieves your silk slippers. He slips them onto your feet gently, standing when he’s finished with his task.

Obligingly, he waits as you gingerly step over the girl. When your slipper threatens to dip into the red stain spreading across your floor, he simply grabs you underneath the armpits and lifts you over it.

Even though it’s a horrific scene, you can’t look away. Her face is frozen in a still mask. Bile fills your stomach. Gojo gently turns your head in another direction with two fingers, the touch delicate. “Don’t look.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“I told you not to restrain yourself,” he says disapprovingly.

“You’re not- you’re-“ You can’t figure out the right way to finish your sentence. “Does it really get that easy?”

His laugh is short and brutal. “Easy? I didn’t even think about it. All I know how to do is kill. I don’t mind it, for you.”

You shake your head. There’s nothing to say, with a body between you and blood pooling around both your shoes, but still, your heart aches. You had known him when he was a boy. It would always be hard to see him with calluses where once his hands had been chubby and soft.

He chucks you under the chin, the gesture fleetingly affectionate. “Don’t be so despondent, princess. I’m glad to do it. That’s what knights are for.”

Knights and maids, all meant to lay down their life or other lives for you at your convenience. Utahime was too loyal to have let an assassin into your chambers by choice. Your breath catches. It concerns him that you’re teetering into upset again, just when he’s calmed you down.

“Satoru, is Iori-“ The thought is too horrible. You can’t finish it.

“She’s not dead,” he says.

Noticeably, he doesn’t say that she’s alright.

Utahime will be scarred forever. They found her slumped at the bottom of the stairs, her body dumped unceremoniously after they stole her from outside your bedroom. A massive gash opened her right cheek up, crossing just slightly over her nose bridge.

You almost can’t bear to look at her. Not because her scar makes her hideous - far from it. Utahime will always be beautiful to you. The scar is only a reminder of how you’ve failed her.

You’re a princess without any power. All you can do is fuss over her after the fact, unable to change the past.

“Princess,” she hisses, jerking away from you for the third time in as many minutes. “You must stop! I’m your lady-in-waiting, not the other way around.”

“You got hurt for me,” you say, hands balled helplessly at your side. You refuse to touch her more aggressively, for fear of aggravating her wound. The bandages wrapped around her cheek are an ever present reminder of how much she’s sacrificed for you. So are the whispers. The looks. She holds her head high, acting as if it doesn’t bother her.

“I was glad to do it. I didn’t want to be shipped off to some far away baron anyway. Be grateful,” she cracks a smile you don’t feel. “I certainly am. At least I could still join the church, if anything.”

Why do the people around you insist on destroying themselves for your benefit?

“You don’t need a baron.” Loyally, you vow, “I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.”

“Be careful, my lady. Some would take that as a marriage proposal, and then I’d have twice as many death threats.”

“I’d protect you.”

“You, princess? I doubt that,” Gojo calls.

You’ve been watching the knights move in and out of the arena from your vantage point on the royal balcony, but very few of them have dared to address you, much less speak to you so casually. They’re all too focused on the tourney you’re set to watch this afternoon. Only he would be so familiar with you and so unconcerned about the sparring, knowing his chances.

Utahime lets out an aggressive sigh with no regard as to whether or not Gojo could hear her. In fact, she’d probably prefer it if he had overheard. Gojo, for his part, ignores the chance to antagonize her for once in his life in order to focus on you.

“You know, my lady, I’ve heard an interesting rumor going around.”

You walk to the edge of the balcony and peer over the railing. Utahime gasps in fear and grabs onto your petticoats, afraid that you’ll tip over the fencing. “Go on, Sir Gojo,” you say.

“If a fair damsel grants a knight her favor, he’ll fight ten times as well. Twenty, even. And all the more so if it’s the princess, who everyone knows is the fairest in the land.”

Unwillingly, a smile twitches to life upon your lips. “Is that so?”

“Won’t you grant your most loyal knight a token of your affection?”

“Don’t,” Utahime gripes. “What has he done to deserve it?”

A scrap of pale blue fabric flutters in the light breeze, reminiscent of doves. Gojo catches the ribbon you’ve loosed from your hair, his fist enclosed in armor. He brings it to his lips for a chaste kiss he can’t place upon you. The entire time, his eyes are on yours, searching.

“I’ll win this whole thing,” he says. “I’ll defeat every knight here for you.”

The trumpets blow, calling the contestants. He’ll be wanted. Utahime shakes you lightly as he leaves your sight. “Get yourself together,” she says sternly.

“But mama, I love him!” You joke.

Her frown can’t last in the face of your teasing smile. She fixes the lace on your sleeve and collar, though they’re hardly ruffled. She can’t help herself. It’s her second nature to dote on you.

“Ah, my princess,” she sighs. “You worry me.”

You poke her uninjured cheek, trying to get her to smile. “It’s not me. You worry too much.”

Another voice cuts in. “I feel the same way sometimes, my dear Lady Utahime, but I trust no one more than you. Her mother left her to your capable hands, after all.”

Your father has arrived. Utahime smiles as the king kisses her cheek, but you can’t. You know he means it lightheartedly, but it galls you all the more that he says it so blithely. When your mother fell ill, Utahime had been the one who took charge of looking after you.

Not your father.

Not your only living parent, the man who was supposed to feel all the closer to you for your loss. Instead, he pushed you away.

You knew you weren’t being fair.

The king had been wracked with grief over the passing of his beloved wife. Along with his other royal duties, he couldn’t possibly have been expected to watch over an infant as well. You know better than anyone the toll the crown takes on a man. Stewardship of this land asks a heavy price. It’s not an easy role.

No, you can’t blame your father for choosing the country. It’s his duty, as it is yours.

You only wish it hadn’t been Utahime’s burden to carry instead. She was just a few years older, a child still when she had raised another child. In many ways, she had been a mother to you. Only now that you’ve grown older than she had been back then do you understand how much responsibility she had accepted at such a young age.

Your father turns to you. “Are you enjoying the tournament?”

“It’s barely started. Only the squires have been jousting. We haven’t seen any of the real knights yet.”

“Those squires will become knights themselves one day. Watch carefully, and you may discover a treasure worth keeping.”

As he speaks, you finally find someone worth watching, as if your father only had to say it to cause it to happen. A boy with rosy hair lunges towards his opponent. He disarms him and forces him to the ground - only to offer him his hand in exchange.

The other squire hesitates. Doubt crosses his face. Finally, he accepts the proffered hand like someone expecting an attack at any minute, but all the other boy does is pull him to his feet and dust him off. He’s more honorable than most of the knights of the realm you know, too focused on humiliating their opponents to flaunt their own glory.

Your father doesn’t notice your distraction. He’s still speaking. You bring yourself back to the conversation just in time to hear him say, “Sukuna, the King of the Curses.”

“Sorry?” You laugh.

“It’s no laughing matter, I’m afraid,” your father says gravely. “He’s the ruler of the Western Kingdom, the land where the sun never sets. Perhaps he’s grown tired of his arid land and seeks gentler climes, for his invasions have earned him the title ‘King of Curses’.”

Utahime’s lip curls in disgust. “King of Cruelty is more like it. I’ve heard of what he’s done to his prisoners. That man has no honor.”

“None,” your father agrees, “and yet it is necessary not to antagonize him. We are small if prosperous. We can’t afford it.”

Utahime looks as if she wants to speak, but she holds her tongue. She’s always been good at navigating the court. Trained under her, you wait as well. Taking your cues from her is something you’ve done since you were a child.

“Yes,” your father says, his eyes distant. He’s ruminating over something he won’t share. “He can’t be provoked. The representative he sent us for this tourney must be carefully attended to.”

That representative, Uraume, doesn’t fight like any knight you know. Their sword is wider than most of those found in your country, and half as tall as a man. Precision is lost in favor of brutality. They wreak havoc with the brutality of a butcher, tearing through the ranks of your best and strongest. Of course, he’s not the only strong fighter. There are other knights to watch as well.

“That Lady Tsukumo is doing quite well for a woman,” your father notes in surprise. “What prodigious talent. I don’t think her house has produced a fighter like that in years.”

“She’s better than half your knights,” you remind him. “Lady Tsukumo already defeated most of her bracket.”

“Yes, yes,” your father laughs. “You know I don’t mean it like that. I’m simply admiring her.”

As the day progresses, clear victors emerge in each division of the tournament. Uraume is one of them. Gojo is another.

They placed him against Getou for his penultimate match, knowing the crowd would go wild for a contest between not only two of the best knights of the realm, but sworn brothers. Although Getou is better than most, Gojo is more of a natural disaster than a real, human adversary. At the end of their round, Getou smiles even as Gojo brings him to his knees.

The next round is even more hotly anticipated than Getou and Gojo’s.

Gojo strides into the center of the arena with the classic arrogance he’s known for. He delights in riling the crowd up. They cheer louder and louder on each circuit he laps around the arena on his silver stallion, pale as moonlight. By the last, they’re nearly delirious with passion for him.

Uraume has no such pretenses. They’re a cold creature, as frigid as they come.

It matters not. Gojo beats them so easily that it can only be described as disrespectful. He rides past Uraume and thrusts the hilt of his sword into their stomach with such force they fall off their horse. Gojo dismounts casually. He hadn’t even used his blade. He flips Uraume onto their back with a boot and steps onto their breastplate, pinning them in place. His sword hovers underneath their chin, a whisper away from death. “Yield,” he says pleasantly.

You, remembering your fathers speech about Sukuna’s chosen representative from that morning, glance to the side. He’s smiling as gently as ever. Underneath his cloak, where only you and Utahime can see, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles have turned white.

After the match, you recognize one of the men rushing Uraume off to be one of your father’s most trusted advisors. He must be doing damage control, but then again, when is he not when Gojo’s around?

Your father stands, as composed as if he had never been upset in the first place. You envy that self-control. You’ve always aspired to your father. In your eyes, he was the perfect ruler - perhaps because he was the one who taught you what a ruler should be.

Gojo waits in the center of the arena. He’s beautiful as always, as fierce as an avenging angel. There’s a fine sweat beading at his temples in a way that makes you want to wipe it off with your handkerchief, but you abstain, knowing thousands are watching.

Gojo has no such scruples.

When it’s time for him to be awarded his laurel crown, he kneels - not to your father, but to you. A gasp rises from the crowd. You stifle your own shock. Here, where every sign of weakness is clearly visible and easily taken advantage of, you can’t reveal that this wasn’t planned. The royal family’s control over its retainers must appear immaculate - even if Gojo had always been uncontrollable.

Wordlessly, your father passes you the laurel. You know something is brewing. He can only tolerate Gojo’s outlandish behavior so many times. But this isn’t the place to worry about your father’s incumbent wrath, so you take over the duties of honoring the victor. It’s easy. You’ve seen your father do it enough times to be able to replicate it in your sleep.

Gojo rises from his knees, a hungry smile on his face. “I told you I’d win.”

“That you did,” you reply noncommittally, trying to figure out how you’re going to discreetly get him out of the arena without your father attempting to try him for treason.

He frowns. Knowing him and the type of maneuvers he’s likely to pull, you put a respectable amount of distance between the two of you as you mark his brow in gold paint.

When you grasp his hand to lift his arm into the air, he presses something into your palm. Years of sharing secrets and playing pretend at espionage have trained you not to flinch. When you lower your enjoined hands, you slip the shred of paper he’s passed you into your pocket.

People are cheering. You notice with warmth that he looks heroic, like he’s stepped right out of an old legend. Your father doesn’t seem to agree.

Arguments between the two of you used to be few and far between, but lately it seems like you can’t do anything right. You’d forgotten what it was like to retreat to your parents’ bedroom for a scolding. It hadn’t happened since you were a child, yet here you were again, studying the fabric of the draperies to avoid eye contact with your father, just like you had when you were younger.

“He wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” you start. But that’s not true, and you know it. So you try again. “He wasn’t trying to cause problems. He cares about the kingdom, father. He was just trying to show off his - our - strength.”

“Gojo is a liability.” How easily your father casts him off, marks him as defective. He’s always been like that - clinical in his appraisal. You lacked that precise, indifferent ruthlessness. You’ve tried.

“He’s a good man, a good knight. House Gojo has always been loyal to us, father. Remember his mother? Remember Sorashi? She wouldn’t want you to treat her son like this.”

Your father flinches. First comes sorrow, then, anger. “Don’t speak to me about Sorashi.”

“You can’t just pretend like they never existed! Sorashi, my mother-“

“Child, you are testing my patience dangerously.”

You fall silent, hating yourself for it. Always a child. Never someone worth listening to.

“You don’t understand anything,” he says more gently.

“I don’t understand anything because you won’t tell me anything!”

“You’re a princess,” he snarls. “You’re not supposed to know anything!”

You reel back, stunned. You had always been afraid that this was how your father truly felt.

“You have no sons, so it’s me or no one else.” Disgust fills you at the fear in your own voice. Weak. Pathetic. After all these years, the lessons your father gave you still haven’t sunk in. Perhaps he’s right, and you’re not fit for the throne after all. You’re still begging for what you want instead of demanding it like it’s what you deserve. A prince wouldn’t act like this, but you’re not a prince - only a girl who was never taught how to rule.

He throws up his hands in exasperation. “I didn’t say anything about sons. See, you’re too young and inexperienced. This is why I won’t let you in yet. You’re not ready to rule.”

“But I will?”

He gives you a wan smile. He’s tired. Guilt seeps through you. These days, all you do is fight. You miss the times when it felt like you had worked together. At the end of all of it, you love your father. You hate that it’s been like this.

“All in time, my child. I love you, I really do. But you’re not ready.”

Mutiny curls under your tongue. You’re not ready because he waited too long, hoping for a male heir until your mother died. By then, it was too late for you to catch up on years of lessons you should’ve had. Regardless of what he says, you know how he feels. You were never the one he wanted but-

He’s still your father. When he reaches out to stroke your cheek, a peace offering, you close your eyes against his hand and don’t give voice to your treasonous thoughts. It’s nothing to suffer the humiliation of your status for a while longer. You have all the time in the world to earn your place.

Your father is right, in the end. You can be patient.

Back in the privacy of your room, you unfurl Gojo’s note. Gojo’s mother had him trained in elegant cursive that he uses for formal documents and letters. In his messages to you, it degenerates into chicken scratch. It’s a lucky coincidence that it’s all but unreadable to anyone else, making it a code only you can decipher.

The gardens at midnight. - S.

Only a place and a time. Is he trying to tempt fate?

You indulge in the idea of not going, especially since things are already tense with your father. All the way up until the hour you need to leave, you let yourself believe it’s not happening. It’s too risky. People are already suspicious of you as it is. The minute passes, and if you go now, you’ll be late, so you won’t.

You grab your shawl with a huff of annoyance. You’re going. You were always going to go, from the very moment you got the note.

You aren’t used to sneaking through hallways you usually glide through. There are several close calls as you make your way closer and closer to the gardens. Multiple times, you’re forced to make a run for the nearest door or drape to hide behind.

You’re barely two feet away when you’re finally caught. A hand slaps over your mouth before you can scream as someone tugs you into a dark corridor. You kick and lash out, forgetting everything Gojo has taught you in favor of blind violence.

“Shh,” comes a voice in your ear. “It’s just me.”

You bite him.

He hisses and pulls back, shaking out his hand. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Why would you do that? You scared me!”

“You’re not careful enough, princess. Did you even notice the maid coming up the left hallway?”

Admittedly, you hadn’t. It’s lucky that he was there to save you.

Gojo has always been there to protect you. The tension bleeds from your body. You sigh and lean into him. You can’t help it.

He laughs. “Are you that happy to see me?”

“If you don’t be quiet, I’ll show you exactly how happy I am.”

“Come on,” he tugs you out towards the gardens. It’s dangerous, but you follow him anyway. Being with Gojo is so threatening not despite his strength, but because of it. You rely on him too easily, trusting him to see you safely through any peril. His very presence is the promise of security. It makes it too easy to relax when he’s with you.

You expect him to tell you why he called you here, but he remains silent when he tugs you down on the bench next to him. “Satoru?”

“Here,” he says, opening his hands. A single crushed violet sits on his palm. You raise it to your eye. It’s all the more fragrant because it has been mangled, the delicate petals bruised to release the scent into the air.

Gojo’s mouth lifts in a smile. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize.”

“You really know how to win a girl’s heart,” you tease.

“Hopefully I know how to win over her father’s too.”

You freeze.

“If not marriage, then knighthood. Let me be yours, in whatever way I can have you.”

“You have me,” you tell him. “You always have.”

You don’t know how to answer such devotion. Besides the obvious political ramifications of being wedded to Gojo when your marriage is meant to be a bargaining chip used for the sake of your kingdom, you don’t want it. Not like this.

Gojo has been your dedicated shield for so long, the two of you have forgotten a life where he wouldn’t give up everything to protect you. He’d do anything for you - even that which he should hold sacred for himself. His very body is littered with scars that he’s received on your behalf. How much more can you take from him?

Does Gojo really want to marry you or does he want to protect you? Will he play the part of the devoted servant for the rest of his life?

“You don’t have to…” You realize you don’t know how to say it. Or that you don’t want to. Selfishly, a part of you can’t bear to release him from the oath he gave you when you were children, though he couldn’t have known. Neither of you could have understood what it meant for him to kneel at your feet and swear his life to you. It had all been in good fun, the way children understand things. “I don’t want you to- Oh, Satoru. You don’t owe me anything. You’ve done enough for me.”

For a second, your imagination plays tricks on you. The cobalt of his eyes kindles into a terrifying flame, like the lightning in the town he hails from. It’s as if the draconic blood his ancestors claimed still lives within him.

He continues as if he hadn’t heard you. “I’m going to ask your father tomorrow. I want to be your dedicated knight; I won’t wait any longer. I’ve waited enough.”

His pushiness feeds your annoyance. You cling to it, preferring it to the dreadful hopelessness inside of you. The right thing is not always the easy thing. Gojo deserves his freedom after wasting his youth on keeping you safe, yet letting him go feels as difficult as willingly driving a nail through your hand. You want to cling to him forever, reassured by his strength.

“Don’t,” you say, trying to sound firm.

“At the ceremony,” he says determinedly. “When he gives me captainship in the army. He’ll have to say yes if I ask him then.”

“Satoru, please-” Your voice wobbles embarrassingly, and you have to pause. Silently, you beg your tears not to fall. The way he disarms you is humiliating. You turn away, but Gojo understands. Years of watching after you has taught him a lot. He bandaged the scrapes that you refused to cry over and avenged your honor after you pretended your pride hadn't been hurt. He can see right through you. “Please don’t.”

You see the frustration on his face. He’s not a man used to holding himself back, and yet he does.

“It’s alright,” he says. “We can wait.”

It’s just another number to add to the tally of favors you owe him. “It’s not that I don’t want you to be my guard,” you say in a small voice. “I just-”

“I know. Though I do think the king will ask me anyway, so this is all pointless.” He looks away. “I just wanted you to- Nevermind.”

“Really?” Doubt colors your voice.

“I’m the strongest. Who else would your father ask to protect you but me?”

“He doesn’t like you,” you point out. “No, he does, but it’s a very begrudging like. I don’t get it.”

It makes you smile, thinking about the way your father can’t stand Gojo but won’t allow anyone else to speak poorly of him. He’s still a Gojo after all, no matter how much trouble he causes your father, and your father loves Gojos. The royal house has always held their house dear. They had been close for decades. Always, they were something to the other, no matter what form that something took.

“There you are,” Gojo murmurs. His fingers trace the arc of your mouth. “So pretty.”

You glare at him through tears. “And whose fault is it that I cried?”

“Your father’s?”

You scoff. “You see? This is why he doesn’t like you.”

Gojo looks at you seriously. “I’ll get down on both knees and beg him for it if I have to.”

“Don’t do that,” you gasp.

“I don’t care,” he says. “You’re what’s most important to me. More than pride, more than honor.”

You look at the crushed violet in your hand.

Who else but Gojo?

He breaks you down so easily. You press the flower back into his palm. “I know you’ll do what’s right.”

His eyes soften. He leans closer.

“Gojo,” comes a voice. “What are you doing in the gardens this late at night?”

You stiffen. The owner of the voice is drawing closer.

“Do you trust me?” Gojo asks, as cool and collected as ever.

You nod, fearing your voice will give you away. He cups your face in his hands and ever so delicately presses a light kiss to your cheek, tilting his head towards you. Does it look like a real kiss from afar? Did he mean it to?

“Stop,” he tells the man behind you. “Don’t come any closer. You’ll scare her.”

“A new plaything?” Asks Yaga. “I’m not so scary, am I?”

Gojo notices you tremble harder as the voice registers. Lord Commander Yaga is close to the King. As the captain of the kingsguard, he could ruin everything.

Gojo lifts a hand to the back of your head and presses it gently towards his shoulder, obscuring your face. He pulls you towards him, arranging your legs around his waist. A soothing hand traces a warm path up and down your back. It calms you as much as it shames you. You’ve never been this close to any man, not even him, and now you’re cuddling only for the sake of protecting your secrets.

“The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is a terrifying man, or so I’ve heard,” he says casually, as if the two of you aren’t trapped in an extremely compromising position. As if your father wouldn’t demand his head on a pike if Yaga realized who it was.

“Just escort her to her room when you’re done,” Yaga says gruffly. “I don’t need to tell you to be a gentleman, do I?”

“No, sir,” Gojo says cheerfully.

That night, you breathe a sigh of relief. Yaga gave no sign he recognized you. He acted as if he normally would upon encountering any soldier of his on a late night escapade, profoundly disinterested and deeply desirous to get away. Only in the morning do you begin to doubt your deception.

#nikuniku fic recs #please read sera's knight gojo!!!!#not only is devoted knight gojo absolutely to die for #the world building sera's done is top notch #i'm equal parts excited and afraid of what's to come LMAOOO

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stellamancer · 1 year ago

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okay, so this fic was probably among the first recommended to me (by mao) and like. It did not miss. Not in the slightest. Like, it was like a five course meal and as the story moved from scene to scene I was literally just like 'omg it cannot get better than this' but it DID.

I won't deny or pretend that I picked up this fic for Gojo and like. He was great, particularly in the scene where rip!mc is bleeding out lmao oops. But honestly, frankly, the whole star of this fic is Suguru.

The line where rip!mc says she wants to meet his parents??? The absolute dramatic irony of that is just... wonderful but also absolutely horrifying because as an isolated incident it's a sweet sentiment, cute- especially Suguru's reaction there?? I could fall for that man.

I think it's really after that scene that everthing just snowballs, like I'd been reading slowly, wanting to savor the fic, but at that point I was like 'no, no I need to devour this right now!!' And like, personally as a reader I think that's the best moment.

Oh, but the kiss, the kiss!! A goodbye kiss! A bittersweet kiss!! My heart!! It ACHES. A confession as good as any!! And poor rip!mc didn't see it coming, didn't know what to do... AUGHHHH.

I say all that about Suguru, but I think some of my favorite lines are about Gojo. Like:

Sometimes, you think you died.

But then Satoru looks at you, and you think you’ve never felt quite so glad to be seen.

And then.

He’s looking at you, but your downturned head is all he sees. It’s all he sees now. He wishes you’d just look at him. Even Suguru looks at him, although it takes more effort now, because nowadays Suguru spends more time looking into space than at him. He’s not used to it.

(maybe you should have kissed rip!mc too, gojo. idiot loser.)

And finally, there was this line: It reminds you of long hazy summers spent all together, back when you had taken things for granted. It reminded me of your other fic summertime record. I remember thinking, as I was debating whether or not I wanted to ask if it was in reference to kagepro, that it was an interesting title for a story that takes place in the winter, but I saw this line here and everything clicked, it all made sense!!

Anyway, this fic was so truly wonderful, I'm so happy I finally sat down and read it but at the same time I'm sad because I can't read it again and experience it again!! But... there are all the ripverse fics.... and dog days are over and i'm very excited to tear into them all hehe...

(also that last line? killer. perfect. wonderful. gojo should buy rip!mc all the sushi she wants.)

r.i.p. 2 my youth

pairing: geto suguru x fem!reader x gojo satoru / ieiri shoko & reader word count: ~10k LMAO warnings: HI arc spoilers, mildly dubious consent, pining, non-chronological, mentions of substance abuse, PTSD, love triangle but the kind where everyone’s in love and gay and also mentally ill and in need of therapy rating: T (read on ao3)

yes this is the (unusually long but improved!) rewrite

“You’re late,” Satoru comments, rubbing his cheek, as you walk onto the floor of the building Suguru had texted the location of to you. “Missed all the fun too.”

“What happened?” You ask, eyeing the red bruise on his face. You doubt it’s a battle related injury. You had seen the photos of the incapacitated members of Q.

“The Star Plasma brat happened,” he grumbles, aiming a nasty look at the middle of the room.

Suguru sighs, greeting you with a smile. “You had it coming. As always with you, no tact at all.”

Keep reading

#nikuniku fic recs #this really was just so good #so so so so so good #i love rip!mc #joining the fanclub hand me a card #damn i wrote an essay

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stellamancer · 1 year ago

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Okay, okay, I read this like days ago, but mobile didn't want to cooperate with me when I wanted to... do what I'm going to do SO.

I live for jealous boys. Like, yes, get all squirmy and annoyed because you want my attention. And Gojo is almost no exception. Almost. Like here:

He is such a brat! A complete and total brat!! And Reader knows it! But here he goes a step (or ten) too far and pays the price... The absolute horror and regret Reader feels after scratching Gojo is palpable... And missing him so much that she goes to his room...

That whole exchange was so good... AAAA....

I think my favorite line, so to speak from the whole fic was the following:

Particularly the last two lines... Aaa... I'm gonna eat them.

I really enjoyed this piece so much! I feel bad I'm taking so long to get through the series... trying to savor every last bit of it before I finish lmao...

BAM: Shortcake Crumbs

in which king gojo satoru is prone to jealousy, and you are prone to refusing him

gojo satoru x fem!reader

word count: 7.6k reader: fem (she/her pronouns, fem terms, fem clothing including dresses) tags: hurt/comfort, royal au, childhood friends to lovers erm..... reader gets a lil violent w gojo in this one 😳 but its deserved imo. other than that gojo gets jealous and pushes the reader too far, public affection in the form of blatantly making out in front of nanami and then being walked in on by a courier

usurper!gojo tag || masterlist

you shoot up in the bed, eyes wide. satoru stands at the entrance to his bedchamber with his blindfold halfway off, staring at you in bewilderment, or perhaps something like awe. he doesn’t speak at first. instead he sheds his jacket, and then the loose cotton shirt beneath, without once breaking your gaze; in the candlelight you can see three sharp lines adorning his left cheekbone, the deep red of a scab, and the sight makes you wince.

“you weren’t in your bed.” he sounds almost dazed. “i had thought…”

shaking his head in dismissal—or possibly to clear it—he approaches carefully, as if you were a skittish, wounded doe. you shuffle over beneath the covers to allow him room to join you but he stops instead, right at the edge of the mattress.

and then he kneels.

“My, what have we here?”

Satoru announces his presence loudly as he enters the airy conservatory you occupy, sending the footmen and maids aflutter with movement. You turn away from your conversation towards the entrance and find him striding towards you, breaking the relative peace of the solarium and making you wince slightly.

You’d planned to meet him here, though it’d been meant as an event solely for the pair of you. His comment is, therefore, directed towards your current companion: Lord Nanami, one of your king’s only competent advisors, a stoic, reliable man who you hold dearly as a friend and who sought you out for advice momentarily before leaving to address an important matter on the southern border.

The lilt in your betrothed’s tone indicating concealed displeasure has you straightening, ready for any manner of antics sure to come from his umbrage.

He drapes his enormous form over the back of the chaise you sit perched upon, snakes those lengthy arms around your body to cage you in, pulls you back against the cushions and away from the man who sits across the table from you. Juvenile, you want to chide, yet you’re acutely aware of the maids bringing out carts of various confections; the servants retrieving chairs for your two companions; Nanami himself, politely averting his gaze by pointedly staring out the windows. An admonishment of your future husband, your king, would only bring more trouble than its worth.

Instead you reach up without looking and find Satoru’s face to cradle it in your palm. The tension in his arms melts as he presses a kiss to your temple, sufficiently placated by your affection.

In hindsight you should have sent Nanami away long before the decided time. Perhaps that would have saved you the trouble, though realistically your course of action ought to have been not to plan a rendezvous with Satoru in any public area. You should know better by now than to trust him to be anything close to courteous—well, ever, but particularly where you’re involved, and even more so when you and other men are involved. As if you would run to any other man when a king, when Satoru, is pursuing you.

“You’re early, my king.”

“A tryst with my beloved is more important than those dusty old fools’ pitiful attempts at advising. The company here is far finer.” He lifts his head from your palm but your fingers still catch a trace of the grin spreading across his face before it leaves your touch. It’s directed across the table at Nanami, and even without seeing it you know it’s sharp. “Though half is unexpected. Nanamin, aren’t you due to leave in an hour?”

Nanami is, you know, one of the scant few people Satoru would trust with his life—and one of the even fewer he’d trust with yours. You’re thankful to him, to the diligent efforts he put towards your king’s return from within the palace walls and the unfaltering loyalty to the crown he’d shown even when you hadn’t been aware of it, yet those were the exact things which prevented genuine connection between you and he in the years Satoru spent away from the palace. A spy, after all, oughtn’t get attached to those he spies upon.

Now, though, your roles are far different. You are his expected queen and he one of your future husband’s only truly trustworthy companions, and the two of you are connected by perhaps the most binding of human experiences: a shared annoyance in the form of your king.

Satoru’s respect is scarcely given yet Nanami is most assuredly someone who’s earned it. You cannot decide, therefore, if it is baffling or perfectly comprehensible why your future husband seems to be so guarded when it comes to you and your acquaintanceship with the same man. It’s subtle, cleverly concealed, but you can tell—and so can Nanami, certainly, with the way he’s become so stiff.

“I came seeking your bride’s command before my departure.”

A ridiculous form of flattery, simply reminding your king of his impending marriage to you, yet you’d never deny the results. He preens at the title. His head tucks back down against your shoulder to silently demand the return of your palm, though not before brushing lips against your cheek.

“And you were right to. My bride’s command is law. She has such a lovely head, I’m thankful she uses it in our favor.”

With that tentative approval, you return your attention to Nanami and the conversation you’d been having with him prior to Satoru’s arrival.

It’s easier said than done, however, with how incessant your betrothed is in his affections. You might count yourself lucky that he hasn’t attached his lips to your neck yet; that he’s merely nosing into you like some large cat, that his wandering hands are teasing rather than heavy. When he decides your response is too subtle he removes his hold on you only to round the couch and slide into the space directly next to you, large hands already grasping at your skirt-covered thighs to pull your respectably crossed legs sideways into his lap. Once he’s comfortable, with that iron grip never faltering, he turns his attention to the array of sweets he’d certainly hand-picked for this very affair the night before.

“And you’re quite certain the shipment was due to arrive last week?” you manage to ask, trying not to spare a glance at Satoru’s actions next to you.

“He was more than clear in his dispatches.”

“Send for the envoy, then, and—mph.” A forkful of cake is shoved into your open mouth, too large to speak around. You cough, gagging a little, solely from the sheer strength of your betrothed’s actions.

Satoru has kept his blindfold on. With Nanami and a multitude of servants still in the room, and the public nature of the location, you suppose you shouldn’t be surprised, however it’s bothersome that you can’t see his eyes when he’s just attempted to asphyxiate you with confectionery. You settle on glaring at him as you swallow before returning your attention to Nanami—and receiving another forceful bite for your efforts, silencing you before you can speak.

This time he doesn’t remove the fork. He gives you a smile instead.

“Good, yeah?” The tone of his voice is easy; chipper, lilting, simple in a way that might outwardly seem pure. Yet you know better. You might be unable to see the gleam in his eye but your king is anything but innocent.

You swallow again, and then pull away, refusing to answer out of sheer stubbornness. Nanami stands to the side—as visibly distressed as he could ever be—but you address him directly as you turn away from Satoru, even shifting yourself on the chaise to put a minuscule amount of distance between the pair of you.

“Send for the envoy, and if he continues to be evasive in—”

“The strawberries are better,” interrupts the man who you in all your intellect have agreed to marry, clearly made querulous by your silent treatment as he bullies his way into your view and shoves one of the very fruits into your mouth whole. He’s used his thumb, and he doesn’t remove it, instead gripping your chin and pulling you away from Nanami to face him before pressing the pad of it past your lips and between your teeth to rest against your tongue as you swallow the remainder of the berry.

It’s unnerving how poorly you can tell what he’s thinking with his eyes covered like they are now, even when his face hovers inches from yours and his finger is in your mouth. You hadn’t realized how easy it’d been to do that in your quarters where he doesn’t wear it, how much you’d come to enjoy being able to read his face without difficulty. Though he doesn’t keep his intentions a secret very long—he pulls his thumb away and captures your lips immediately with his own, already slipping his tongue into your mouth to chase after the lingering taste of the strawberry he’d shoved down your throat.

The first time Gojo Satoru had ever kissed you was in your youth, back when he’d been a spoiled rotten prince with far too much free time which he preferred using to beleaguer you.

In hindsight, nothing much has changed.

It’d been your fourteenth summer. He had stumbled upon you reading in the company of a shared friend—Getou Suguru, a boy of the same age as the pair of you whose father had been captain of the guard. It hadn’t been a conscious choice to tuck yourselves away in a quiet corner of the palace’s largest library yet it made sense, what with that being the most comfortable location and the two of you being cordial enough to find one another’s company pleasant. Satoru had found you together. Not indecently so, no, the pair of you sat meters apart with multiple chairs between you, yet that hardly mattered to the young prince.

He’d grabbed your book, holding it above his head and taunting you as you abandoned decorum in favor of desperately attempting to grab at it. A futile effort; fourteen was the year crown prince Gojo Satoru had sprung up like a young aspen, all lanky arms and sprawling legs with well above a head of height over you. You’d called him all manner of names with little regard to his status and he’d retaliated by cooing about how your indignantly puffed cheeks made you look like a chipmunk. Getou had slipped away sometime in the struggle, certainly too annoyed by the noise to remain.

A kiss was the demanded ransom, insisted upon with bright blue eyes glinting sharply and given without as much protest as you likely ought to have put up. It’d been clumsy and green as one would expect, the book still lifted well out of your reach up until he pulled away and ordered with pompous demand that you never interact with Getou again. Only then did he return the book, accompanied by a solemn vow to let his hounds loose in your mutual friend’s quarters should he catch the two of you together again—a threat which was never fulfilled though you’d obstinately refused to alter your behavior.

Truly, your king is nothing if not the same boy he’d been then, though the same could be said of you: he so prone to such intense jealousy it makes him stupid and you far too giving of kisses you shouldn’t relenquish.

Admittedly there’s a fairly large difference in that the kiss he engages you in now can neither be described as clumsy nor as green. It’s ravenous, entirely teeth and tongue, all-consuming as he yanks you into him. Perhaps you’ve been too lax in your attempts to avoid his affections behind closed doors, or perhaps he’s trained you far too well into ceding to his will, because all attempts at protest are dashed from your mind. You return the embrace with vigor, hands finding their way to clutch at the collar of his robes and sliding up beneath the back of his blindfold to lace into soft strands of platinum hair.

He makes a noise in his throat, pitched and a little strangled, and pulls you ever closer—yet the motion wasn’t thought through, and he realizes far too late that his unsteady perch on the edge of a cushion isn’t stable enough to hold the both of you. You topple back and he catches himself with a big hand on the couch’s arm just beyond your head, never once parting from you. The other arm encircles your waist, steadfast and taut. Your hand, still in his hair, tightens in response and it pulls another throaty noise from him.

It’s this noise which reminds you quite suddenly that this is wildly inappropriate, that you are not in your private chambers but rather in a quite public area of the palace and that you have quite pressing company.

You take your king by surprise when you grasp him clumsily by the jaw none too gently and bodily shove him away, but when you lift yourself almost upright you find that Nanami has taken his leave. You can hardly blame him. The irritation welling up within you cannot fully be directed at Satoru, however, considering you’d allowed the unabashed display as much as he had initiated it. He radiates smugness despite the way his lips pout through the splayed grasp of your fingers and the blindfold that still prevents you from seeing his eyes.

“I’m beginning to question this arrangement, my king,” you lie, if only to disguise the way you’re still struggling to catch your breath.

Beneath your hold, his lips twitch in a grin. He doesn’t bother shaking you loose, not yet, as he calls out to the room at large, “Leave us,” and the resultant shuffle of footsteps and ruffling clothes lasts only for mere moments as the remaining servants clear the room.

It’s only then that he reaches up and removes the blindfold, though you have little time to admire those pretty eyes suddenly revealed to you.

Satoru is enormous, far too big even for the oversized lounge you both occupy, and you’ve known since his miraculous return that his strength is more than terrifying when he needs it to be. As such it’s no surprise that he proceeds to remove your grasp on the lower part of his face with little effort. It only takes a mere hand and a gentle push on your elbow to buckle your arm and then he’s crowding you, arms around you, trapping you between the plush chaise and his body.

When he speaks he doesn’t bother removing his head from where he’s buried it in the crook of your neck. “I refuse to believe you. You adore me.”

“You torment me.”

“You torment me.” There’s a whine in his voice, a pout to his lips against your skin, and despite yourself you give a little sigh—less exasperated and more content—that you know will only encourage him.

“I doubt we speak of the same thing, my besotted king. You are far too brazen, as I've told you profusely.”

“You blame me for my infatuation when you’re so sublime? Perfection made human right before me? The fault is your own, my lovely wife.”

“Not yet,” you correct as always, because it’s easier than addressing everything else he said; easier than thinking about the way he’d stare at you if he was able, eyes soft and hazy with lovesickness as they always are when he regards you. “Not your wife yet.”

“My bride,” he amends, punctuating each title with a kiss to your neck as he noses against your jaw. “My future wife. My inexorable queen.”

“You speak too much.”

“I could never speak enough, not about you.”

Funny, then, that rather than continue lavishing you with praise he chooses to occupy his lips with yours, though you find this more manageable. The kiss this time is easier, languid. He keeps his tongue to himself and his eyes are blissfully closed, entirely unworried now that everyone has left and he can enjoy your unadulterated attention.

And you have to admit it’s nice, perhaps a little picturesque in the vast, opulent room the pair of you occupy and the plush couch he’s pressing you down into. Perhaps you find a bit of indecent excitement in his ability to clear a room with two simple words. Your hands raise to pull him in by his shirt and he obliges happily.

Then you part from his lips in favor of trailing yours down his neck, letting teeth graze along his Adam's apple just to feel the shaky bob of it beneath them before he tenses and shudders and then collapses beneath your touch. Satoru slumps down into your embrace with his forehead coming to fall upon your shoulder and a low, satisfied hiss pulled from his mouth by the kisses you scatter along his collar.

The breathy laugh he lets out is just as content, a little smug. “Torment you, do I?”

“You speak too much,” you repeat yourself, though it’s admittedly affectionate. “One would think with all the kissing you insist upon doing it’d manage to shut your mou—”

The sound of footsteps halts the pair of you, freezing you both and pausing your words. Your breath catches. The mere possibility of being stumbled upon is one thing, but the actual act of it is another; it makes your hands fist in Satoru’s tunic. The action doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

He pulls up to brace himself awkwardly with a hand upon the couch’s back and glare at whoever interrupted the pair of you—and you realize with growing chagrin that his mouth is smeared with the rose-colored tint adorning your lips (the very color he’d gifted you weeks ago, had insisted you wear proudly, a request you’d once found baffling but now makes stark, horrible sense), tint which is additionally smudged along his jaw and down his neck. There’s little room for misconception in what you’ve been doing with him, a man who isn’t yet your husband, openly where anyone could see.

“Your majesty,” begins the shaky-voiced courier who has certainly been sent by one of the advisors, “I’ve been told to remind you of—”

“I thought I ordered you all to leave us,” Satoru interrupts harshly, entirely lacking in the carefree lilt his tone typically maintains even when annoyed, and it’s true that a part of you gets a thrill knowing that your discomfort is the very reason he’s fixing the poor boy with a glare enough to send him crying home to his mother, but surely even he can see that it’s far too late. The sound of that nervous voice stuttering out a yes, your majesty followed by frantic footsteps leaving the room does little to comfort you.

You’ve already pried yourself from his grip to search for a linen from the table. It’s easy enough to find one. Once it’s within hand you return to your spot and tug him down none too gently to seat him before you, gripping his jaw to tilt it harshly so that you have access to the skin of his neck you’d unwittingly decorated.

The hiss he lets out this time is pained rather than pleasured, though his lips are curled upward as if he’s still finding plenty of enjoyment. The look sparks rage deep within you.

“Have you no sense?” you spit out, rubbing intently at the sensitive spot just beneath his jaw. “Any brains at all beneath that blindfold? Anyone could have come across us. As it stands that courier will talk relentlessly, the entire court will hear of this within a day.”

“You can hardly blame me. How should I be expected to respond when my precious bride ignores me in favor of another man?”

“With enough restraint to protect my dignity at the very least. You may have none but I’ve yet to exhaust my own.”

“Ah, but you have an abundance, surely you can sacrifice a bit to indulge me?”

The silence you give him as answer is pointed. So is the increasing harshness with which you treat his neck; the skin is steadily being rubbed raw, nearly pinker now than the original cosmetic coloring had been.

“To indulge yourself, then, as you so clearly enjoyed it. Perhaps even more than I.”

“I do not by any means enjoy being dragged into humiliating, shameless public demonstrations of your infatuation. Your response to your own frivolous worries upon seeing me do nothing more than talk to a man other than yourself—one who, I might add, you would trust with your own head, so I cannot for the life of me discern why our conversation would make you so insufferable—is anything but endearing.”

“Worries? I had none. Nanami is hardly a proper match for you.” The look on his face is smug. You realize with ever increasing ire that your current actions—giving him the very attention he so craves by fussing over him with the linen in your hand—are only worsening matters, and your ministrations become exponentially harsher as a result. “He cannot give you what you truly desire. Comparing him to myself is absurd.”

Despite your tense actions and only building fury Satoru only coos at you and bypasses your ministrations in an attempt to kiss you again that you thwart by pressing the cloth to his puckered lips. It’s dismissive, demeaning. You’re tired of his insistence that he knows better than you about your own desires, tired of him refusing to listen to you, tired of him disregarding you when you insist he back down.

“You’re quite right, a comparison is no less than insulting,” you snap, pushed to the brink and resisting the urge to throttle the man before you—but his patronizing smile only broadens and the words spill from you as your vision goes red, determined to make him sting the way you have been since the moment you’d realized the entire court would know of this incident come morning. “He wouldn’t have cajoled me into such an impudent display out of petty insecurity—unlike some he isn’t so juvenile. Perhaps your fears aren’t so irrational and I ought to rethink my choice in betrothed instead of allowing some ill-mannered lout of a king to utterly ruin my reputation.”

And you punctuate the words by lashing out equally with your actions, wielding your nails like talons with a sharp rake to his cheek and then shoving him away with a knee to his stomach that sends him careening off the chaise to the floor.

The moment it happens you regret it, eyes widening and lips going slack just before you lift a palm to cover your mouth. The way his shoulders sag sends a pang of remorse through you, and it only grows firmer in the pit of your stomach as he stands and reaches out to gently pry the cloth from your formerly fussing hands.

“I— I did not—“

He turns away. In his other hand you see the black fabric of his blindfold and, in a motion which you ‘d never have thought would affect you so terribly, he lifts it to tie it around his eyes. For far too long you sit there, unsure of how to proceed, only able to watch him use the reflective surface of a platter to meticulously remove the smeared lip tint himself.

And not speak. He’s entirely silent as he does it, and you wrack your mind in a futile attempt to remember the last time his waking presence had not been accompanied by endless, ceaseless teasing and chatter. You can’t recall if there had ever been such an incident in the first place.

It only gets worse when he finishes and takes his leave. You still wouldn’t know if he parted with a lingering look, because he stubbornly keeps that blindfold on, and if he turned his head at any point to face you then you missed the action entirely.

You can only watch as he exits the solarium, leaving you shocked and contrite.

He doesn’t show up for dinner.

The head chef informs you that he’d chosen to take it with his advisors. It’s the first time he’s ever willingly given up a chance to spend time with you. Your mood, certainly, can be felt by every person in the room—your ladies-in-waiting, the maids, every server and chef. You try to ignore the pitying looks they exchange, instead solemnly staring at your food as you ruminate on your actions.

It isn’t fair, you think. He is well and truly aware of how you feel about his antics yet here you are pondering how to apologize to him when he’d spent the afternoon trampling over your boundaries with gleeful abandon for no reason beyond his petty, senseless jealousy—in your fury you’d taken it too far, certainly, but a part of you wonders how you’re meant to express just how helpless he makes you feel when mere words don’t do a thing.

When a cat is riled—or scared—it employs many indications thereof. If one ignores the hissing and yowling and insists upon handling it anyhow, one cannot be rightfully affronted if it proceeds to scratch and bite. Your hisses had been far more eloquent. He ought to have heeded them.

Yet that evening you sit in bed reading until the candles burn low, glancing up at the entrance to your bedchambers with every movement and low voice beyond. A second hand wouldn’t even be needed to count the number of times he’d slept in his own chambers since returning to the palace and taking the throne, and none of those instances had been by his own choice but rather because you’d briefly returned to your family estate. You’re not sure what you’ll do if morning comes and he remains away.

The wait becomes too agonizing to bear. It isn’t so late yet that his absence is altogether unusual but there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach that he might already be in his own bed. It makes you restless, keeps you from falling asleep, so you decide upon checking. The rest of the occupants of your quarters will be of no trouble—it’s far too late for anyone to still be up yet too early for servants to be readying for morning—but you have a constant duo guarding your door and they, certainly, cannot allow you to slip past them. Nearly half an hour passes before you determine that you cannot wait.

You steel yourself, and then push the door open.

The two guards stationed outside your room stiffen immediately. They exchange a look, then one turns back to you. “My lady, you’re awake?”

“We’re going to his chambers,” is all you say in response. The way they both immediately relax doesn’t escape you.

The queen’s and king’s chambers are connected by a door, mirrored in their twisting corridors and abundance of rooms. Yours are only slightly filled with your most trusted companions. His are entirely unoccupied.

You’re not sure if it’s better or worse that his bed is empty. Perhaps he still intended to have joined your bed after his work was done. Perhaps he’d stay out through the night. Either way, you’d feel foolish dragging your guards back to return, so you make yourself comfortable in his sheets.

And you won’t think about how they smell like him, faint but undoubtedly there, especially when you rest your head on the pillow. You won’t think about how it relaxes you immediately, how you fall asleep with ease, though you still find yourself yearning for a body rather than having to make do with a bundle of blankets. You won’t think about how you dream of him.

No, you’ll blame the latter on the manner in which you’re awoken. It’s sometime in the very early morning, the sun yet to rise; the door opening startles you awake.

You shoot up in the bed, eyes wide. Satoru stands at the entrance to his bedchamber with his blindfold halfway off, staring at you in bewilderment, or perhaps something like awe. He doesn’t speak at first. Instead he sheds his jacket, and then the loose cotton shirt beneath, without once breaking your gaze; in the candlelight you can see three sharp lines adorning his left cheekbone, the deep red of a scab, and the sight makes you wince.

“You weren’t in your bed.” He sounds almost dazed. “I had thought…”

Shaking his head in dismissal—or possibly to clear it—he approaches carefully, as if you were a skittish, wounded doe. You shuffle over beneath the covers to allow him room to join you but he stops instead, right at the edge of the mattress.

And then he kneels.

You’re moving back towards him on instinct as he lays his head on the edge and reaches out towards you with lanky arms. Soon you’re close enough to touch him, so you lace your fingers into his hair and watch as his eyes close, as he burrows his face into the soft give of your stomach.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles against your nightclothes. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I should have listened.”

“I ought to be the one apologizing. What I said was cruel.”

“Not untrue, though.”

You frown. “That hardly makes it less cruel. I, too, am sorry. For striking you as well.”

The low hum he lets out is dismissive, though not rudely so. “Didn’t even hurt.”

“Yes, well, I can’t imagine your advisors were pleased with the marks.”

“I enjoy it when you mark me up.” It’s an attempt at a joke, that teasing lilt present in his tone, but when you don’t speak, when you merely stroke his hair and give a little noise of discontent, he switches tactics. He pushes closer into you, presses a kiss that you can barely feel into your chest, and then speaks far more candidly. “When your bed was empty I thought you’d fled. I didn’t know what to do. I nearly slept in it alone, just for the fleeting warmth and the smell of you.”

You let out a huff of laughter, a part of your chest aching at the bitter irony of it—of how close the pair of you had come to spending the night miserable and lonely, in each others’ beds, yearning and longing—yet warmed by the fact that it hadn’t come to be. Whatever force had beckoned him to return to you, you thank it.

“I’m very glad you came to me.”

“I am, too.”

He falls silent. You think he might be basking, thankful to be in your presence, so you let the quiet simmer until, minutes later he breaks it. “I threatened the courier.”

“What?” Your brow furrows.

“I found him soon after, cornered him outside the kitchens. The boy nearly soiled himself from fright. He won’t have told anyone.”

“That hardly—” You sigh. “My king, it won’t matter. He wasn’t the only person who knew. Threatening the poor boy didn’t stop the maids and the footmen from talking. They already have. Servants talk, nobles talk, the court hears all. You cannot undo what’s been done any more than I can undo those marks on your face.”

He falls silent again, for a moment. Then, “I’m sorry.”

“I know. Remember this guilt you feel the next time you’re inclined to do such a thing and let it halt you before an apology is necessary.”

“I will.” His arms tighten around you.

“Are you going to share with me what set you off so terribly? Perhaps instead of inciting an argument which results in nothing but our misery you could tell me outright what troubles you.”

He refuses to speak. It’s funny, you think—with how freely he compliments you and professes his devotion, with how easily he gives you physical affection and seems to require your embrace and your kisses—how difficult it is for him to share with you his insecurities.

“Satoru…” You sigh. “Confide your worries to me. I’ll be your wife in a matter of weeks, let me reassure you with honesty rather than mere actions.”

He lets out a little huff, but then with petulant chagrin painting his tone finally admits, “I found correspondence in your chambers the other week, left from the former regime. My aunt was wrapping up talks of an engagement between you and Nanamin mere days before I arrived. Admittedly… perhaps I find the idea more vexing than I can be proud of.”

You purse your lips. “I’m aware.”

“Of her meddling or of my vexation?”

“Both. The late queen was hardly meddling. She held my opinion highly, she’d hardly have taken such action without first discussing with me. Every man she considered in her matchmaking was reviewed by myself beforehand—if anything, she was merely allowing me to use her influence to propose courtship on my own behalf. Lord Nanami was a near perfect match. Naturally, I was intimately involved in those negotiations. As for you, I cannot say you’ve ever bothered to hide such emotions from me.”

“A near perfect match, you say?” The tone is bitter. Of course, you think, he’d fixate on that sentiment. “If this is an attempt to soothe my temper, my bride, you’re sorely failing.”

“A near perfect match for what I was searching for. You well know that I’ve never searched for someone such as yourself. You are altogether unanticipated, not some safe union to a companion who I will find as little issue with as possible. I should think that you’d enjoy such an admission.”

The noise he makes in response is low, gravelly; still displeased, though a little placated. You steel yourself to continue and shift your hold in his hair to one with hands on either side of his head, tilting it up to stare at you. The boldness of the action seems to shock him but he melts immediately into your touch.

“Let me make this clear to you here and now. It is true that Lord Nanami is a well-bred gentleman but I have never once considered him a marriage prospect for reasons beyond social standing and companionship.” You pause, suddenly flustered by what you intend to admit yet determined to say it anyway, and avert your gaze to avoid seeing the way he looks at you. “It should stand obvious, therefore, that you exceed him in title, and that I do not consider you a mere companion. I do adore you, my king, though I find it difficult to say, certainly where keen ears might listen in. I ask that you not fault me for that.”

“I could never fault you,” he murmurs in that lovesick stupor. “For anything, my wife.”

You choose not to correct him this time.

“Then know that my affections are true and vast, despite how I keep them to myself.” Pausing, you frown a little. “Perhaps, however, you should fault me for marring your pretty face.”

Satoru gives a throaty little hum, less smug like you might have expected and more contented. “You find me pretty?”

“Very.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll allow it, only because I find you breathtaking.”

You think perhaps you ought to protest that, insist that his beauty far exceeds yours, but you know that you’d never win such an argument, and you don’t believe your heart could take the compliments he’d shower you with in the process. So instead you allow the conversation to lull, and then shift in the bed to sit.

He makes a little noise of protest, reaches out with those long arms as if to push you back down, but your hands upon his head guide him to lay it in your newly created lap and he quiets, just like that, soothed by his chin in the crease of your thighs. His fingers shove beneath your legs with easy vigor until he’s holding them in a firm grip just above the knee and he gazes up at you, pale skin and white hair visible even in the dim light, those regal eyes drinking in the sight of you like you’re the most precious of every treasure locked away in his abundant coffers.

Though now that his face is directly before you, the trio of lines you’d inflicted are only made more stark. You reach down to cradle his head in your hands and inspect it, gaze running over his brow—catching on that stark white scar bisecting it, the only other time you’d injured him—and his nose and his lips, losing yourself for a moment in his gaze before finding the scratches once more.

His nose wrinkles. You watch, a little bemused and a little enraptured, as his eyes dart to the side and his lips purse like he’s holding something back.

“What?” you ask, yet when his eyes snap back to focus on your mouth with your words before averting again you think you might have an idea.

You use your hold on his face to turn him towards you and let your thumb brush against his wounded cheekbone. Pretty white lashes flutter in response. He shivers a little, presses into your hand, face melting into something sweetly rapturous.

“Does my king want me to kiss his wounds?” you coo.

His eyes open wide and his lips part in what might be a denial—for your sake, certainly, considering all that the two of you have been talking about—yet, while you appreciate the effort, you hardly mind giving him the affection he so craves behind closed doors. Before he can speak you lean down and simultaneously tug his head up to do exactly as you’ve offered: kiss the three hash marks your nails had created in his skin. When you pull back his eyes are closed again.

“Better?” you whisper.

“Yes,” he whines. “Again.”

You comply with a little huff of laughter, that familiar warmth blooming in your chest. This time you don’t stop at the wound. You dust kisses along the bridge of his nose and down his cheeks, pecking at the corners of his mouth and tracing beneath the swell of his lower lip.

He follows you briefly when you retreat, as if unwilling to let you go. It draws another breathy giggle from you.

“More?”

The nod you get is frantic, so this time you kiss him fully, bowing your head and capturing his lips. He lets you lead him through something slower and sweeter than he tends to lead you. There could be any number of reasons behind that—the conversation you’ve just had, his exhaustion, or perhaps merely the fact that you’ve initiated—but whatever the case may be, you savor it.

You wonder if he knows that all your finesse in kissing has been learned from him, and the moment that thought crosses your mind the answer is obvious. He certainly does, and it certainly is a point of pride for him that the skillful movement of your lips is something only he will be able to experience, and if you ever broached the subject aloud he’d tell you as much and continue to remind you for the remainder of your life. It hardly matters, anyway, when the very gift is something you can wield to down him just as greatly as he can you. In fact it only takes mere moments for the both of you to become breathless, yet you continue for far longer, unwilling to part and intent upon basking in the moment. Satoru certainly would never object—in fact it’s when you pull back for breath that he complains, gives a desperate little whimper, barely opens those pretty eyes to stare heavy-lidded up at you as he pants for air.

“Okay,” you breathe out, “okay, let me tend to the wound.”

“It hardly requires—“

“Let me tend to it.” You’re insistent. This time you think he understands that you need to do it, because he nods in acquiescence.

He keeps the proper equipment for tending to wounds (cleansing tinctures, salves, dressings) in his bedside table—you recall because you once stormed into this very chamber after hearing that he’d dueled three of his cousins simultaneously to find him, bloody and battered, attempting to treat himself, and wrenched the dressings from his hands with the intent to do it yourself, scolding him for his foolhardy actions all the while. Even now you doubt your words stuck, dazed as he’d been by both your presence and the blood loss.

Now he’s relatively clearheaded—as clearheaded as he can be around you—but he still hinders your attempts to retrieve what you need by tightening the hold he has around your thighs as you turn and move towards it. You’re inclined to think it’s less purposeful and more mindless desire to remain close, so you drop your hand to lace it into soft, pearly hair while the other reaches out to open the drawer and fetch a cloth, small bottle, and jar.

The cleansing tincture has the consistency of water, crystal clear and colored a pale purple, and the scent is faint and clean as you uncork it—not that you’d expect anything of lower quality in a king’s possession.

Satoru tilts his head without your guiding and presses his cheek into your thigh as you dampen the cloth with the liquid and apply it gently. The pained hiss he lets out is certainly just for show—you’ve seen him take all manner of blows without so much as a flinch—but you still fuss over him the way you know he wants, murmuring out an apology and pressing kisses to his hairline.

“Nanamin would never let you waste such quality medicine on an already healing cut,” he mutters.

You tsk at him, yet your hands remain tender. “Then I suppose it’s a very good thing that I do not intend to inflict such a wound on him.”

The laugh he lets out is a little husky. It trails off dreamily, and you’re reminded that while you’ve slept prior to his return, he hasn’t. You’re fairly certain he’s drifting off in your lap as you set down the cloth and pick up the jar of salve.

You’d almost feel bad at the way his nose wrinkles and borrow furrows in distaste when you open it if not for the fact that you find the motion heartachingly adorable. The paste is pungent, not entirely unpleasant yet far too strong; if you weren’t aware that the scent will dissipate as it dries to a shell upon his skin, you might have decided to forgo it altogether. The scab doesn’t truly need it—you’ve been told the salve’s hardening is to mimic the coagulation of blood, for wounds which bleed too profusely—yet you feel better as you gather a miniscule portion onto your thumb and apply it to the wounds made by that very hand. A physical apology for the physical slight.

“There,” you say finally. “Done.”

You move your hands away but not before brushing wispy alabaster strands of hair from his forehead and pressing your lips to his face one final time in a kiss upon his brow. He rises to his feet slowly, enormous frame looming as he eases himself between your legs, leans down, rests his forehead on your shoulder, and turns his face into the crook of your neck. His arms snake around you to pull you flush against him, and he takes a moment to inhale deeply and then let out the breath in a soft sigh.

After a moment, he breaks the quiet.

“I don’t enjoy returning to an empty bed,” he says like a confession.

“I don’t enjoy sleeping in one,” you retort.

“And I very much dislike arguing with you.” That admission is smaller, accompanied by a tight squeeze of his arms around you. “There are few things worse in this world than when you don’t wish to be around me. I think I might die of a broken heart if you never let me see you again.”

“You were the one hiding, my king.”

“Satoru,” he corrects. “Or husband, if you prefer.”

“Not yet.”

He pulls away from you to give you a pout.

“Oh, fine, then. A compromise.” You sigh exasperatedly, pulling back to once more give him room to join you beneath the covers which he now does readily. He doesn’t let you get far; his arms are around you again before he’s even settled in, holding you close with an air of expectancy to him that makes you let out a breathless little giggle before finishing your thought. “My love, hm? Is that satisfactory?”

“More than,” Satoru sighs.

“Only privately,” you amend, but then to mollify the blow, “my love.”

“For my ears alone, then. I’ll accept those terms.”

Just like that, as if your presence is enough to calm him in an instant, he’s nodding off; it’s thick in his voice, stretching and slurring the words. In the morning he’ll cling to you, refuse to let you leave as he dutifully ignores his responsibilities, and you’ll be forced to deal with the repercussions of staying in his bed until midday, yet you know that you won’t fight his grasp too heavily in the moment.

He speaks again then, one final last-ditch attempt to fight off sleep. His request is so quiet that you can barely discern it, that you wonder if you were meant to hear it at all.

“Promise me you won’t run?”

You tighten your hold on him. It’s a little strange, you think; he feels somehow small. Like this you ought to be keenly aware of his sheer size yet despite the broad shoulders and excessively long limbs he folds himself with such expertise that he fits comfortably nestled into you.

“I don’t intend to leave this bed tonight,” you say with mild amusement.

But he shakes his head, almost imperceptible, voice barely above a murmur. “I don’t mean tonight.”

You realize then that returning to your empty bed earlier must have taken more of a toll even than he’d said. You’ve never slept in his quarters before—not for his lack of trying but for your insistence—so the assumption of your fleeing had not truly been so absurd. Except that it is absurd, the idea that you’d choose to leave him. And he’s close enough to slumber that you’re willing to acquiesce and tell him as much.

“I won’t run. I swear it,” you promise, leaning down to place a lingering kiss on his lips. His eyes never open. “ Now sleep, my king, my love. I’ll be here in the morning.”

And every morning after that, if given the capacity.

#nikuniku fic recs #nikuniku commentary #i usually do this kinda thing in the tags but damn tumblr #i don't think i could have copy pasta'd those into the tags anyway due to character limits #i feel like i had more to say but my braincell is not at 100%#tho pluvi if me responding like this makes u uncomfy or sth lemme know #don't look at me prematurely posting omg embarrassing

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stellamancer · 1 year ago

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OKAY OKAY I READ IT.

SATORU'S PERSPECTIVE??? SATORU'S PERSPECTIVE!! OMG you know i have been wanting this for FOREVER

it's so cute that he doesn't feel the need to put on apperances for Hebi, omg my heart…

Satoru would like to tell you that you can just get close to him for warmth, but he hasn’t mentioned it because he’s such a good friend. <- I am screaming over this… And him??? Wanting to put his arm around Hebi??? To help keep her warm????

AUGHHHHHH I AM SCREAMING IN SO MUCH AGONYYYYY. I know he's younger here and he hasn't made the mental jumps that current IW Gojo has, but you have to know, surely you MUST know how badly this is KILLING ME. And he is just so precious 'he knows nearly in the whole world, so he wants to find out what it's like at some point.' Oh, I love him and him treasuring every time Hebi says something nice….. MAN I HOPE HE TREASURED THOSE WORDS SHE SAID TO HIM BEFORE THAT EPIPHANY….

It's okay if it's just hEBI. I SWEAR….

AAAAAA. I know, I know you said that they are just so good at reading one another and I just…

He is such a bRAT. But it's so cute at the same time. I hate it. omg.

OH THAT FUNNY LOOK. That must be Hebi's affectionate look… That 'you are so adorable i love you so much' look… If so it's so silly that he doesn't know.

AUGHHH. I literally cannot put into words how much I love this. SatoRU IS JUST SO PRECIOUS IN THIS HIS PERSPECTIVE IS SO PRECOCIOUS AND AAAAAA. He is so full of love and affection for Hebi it is almost unBEARABLE and my heart is so happy and so full and even though I know that Hebi, at the very least, is currently on a high speed pain train ride, they will be hAPPY and that's what they DESERVE!!!!

Sometime in summer, before 2004

set in ‘intrinsic warmth’ canon, because I needed to write something happy and I thought I should share it <3

Satoru can’t believe you don’t remember when you met him.

“This means you hate me,” he says to you, one day, in the Chapel. It’s mid-July, hot and sticky, and the weight of the heat in the air has made him lazy.

He’s got a white shirt on, and he’s pretty sure he’s got some sweaty patches there—if he was with someone else, Satoru would put in some effort to hide them, because someone else would probably think it was gross, but it’s you, and so he doesn’t need to. He likes that about you: it’s one of the many things he likes about you. You know him so well that he doesn’t care about things like that anymore. After all—Satoru flattens his hair down over his forehead—you don’t care about his new haircut, which he hates more than anything anywhere at anytime ever.

Satoru’s lying on his back with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling with hazy eyes. His sunglasses are crooked on his nose, and he pushes them up.

A few days ago, he’d used Limitless to try to throw a pillow at you, but he’d overshot it and accidentally blown a hole in the ceiling. He does feel bad, just a little, mainly because you haven’t stopped talking about how cold the winters are going to be. Satoru would like to tell you that you can just get close to him for warmth, but he hasn’t mentioned it because he’s such a good friend.

He thinks about that, maybe more than he should. He would like it if you could get over your whole touch thing, because he wants to be able to touch you. Sometimes, in the winter, he’ll see you shivering on your own, this huge divide between the two of you, and he just wants to put his arm around you and stop you from being so cold.

You’re always telling him how much of a heat radiator he is—my space heater, you say sometimes, which Satoru likes, because he likes it when you say things to him like that, like you’re staking a claim on him, that he’s your best friend, and it’s not only that you’re his—and so he figures that you should just shuffle closer sometime, and it’d be fine. Satoru hasn’t ever really touched you, and so he doesn’t know what it’s like: and he knows nearly everything in the whole world, so he wants to find out what it’s like at some point.

“You hate me,” he says again, when you don’t respond to him. Satoru looks over at you, pouting. “Why do you hate me?”

You’re cross-legged, leaning against the wall of the Chapel, flicking through a Vogue magazine. You roll your eyes and tut.

“I don’t hate you.”

“Yes, you do.” Satoru makes a big display of being really, really sad. He does this sometimes, because sometimes it’ll prompt you to say something a bit more overt, in terms of your friendship with him.

Satoru tells you all the time how much he likes you, how much of a good friend you are to him, how cool you are and how amazing you both are—but you’re more reticent with your feelings, and so he has to treasure every single time you say something like that.

He doesn’t think you know that he does it on purpose, but at the same time, you have these crazy psychic powers that you can always find things out about him. Satoru often thinks that you can read his mind—you can just look at him, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. It’s kind of spooky, but he’s okay with you having those superpowers, if it’s just you.

And it’s not like you’re going to use it for anything bad. You’re too cool to do that, and you like him. Which is really cool. You like him.

Except he’s pretending you hate him, which is funny.

“I don’t,” you say. You stop reading the Vogue—success! Satoru has claimed your attention—and start fanning yourself with it. “I just don’t remember everything in the world, Gojo.”

“It’s not everything in the world! It’s the first time we met. That’s important!”

“I remember the second time we met. That was more impactful, anyway.”

“How?” Satoru doesn’t understand that at all. “But you’d just met me! How was that not impactful?”

“I didn’t know you’d want to talk to me again,” you say, shrugging. “So, when you did, it was surprising. That’s what I remember.”

Satoru makes a face, scrunching up his nose. “Of course I’d want to talk to you again.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Course I would!” Satoru groans and then sits up, making a heaving sound. He pushes his glasses into his hair and pulls up the bottom of his shirt to wipe his sweaty face. “Agh. Too hot. Too hot, and you don’t remember when we first met, and I’m too hot!”

He looks over at you, feeling a bit petulant. You’ve stopped looking at him, and you’re focusing back on the magazine. You’re not even reading it properly—he can tell, since your eyes aren’t moving. Weird. Satoru groans again, to get your attention back, and you press your lips together.

“Hebi-Hebi,” he says. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. Look at me.”

You do. Satoru grins.

“You’re so mean to me,” Satoru says, and he rolls over to his stomach to get a bit closer to you. “So mean. How are we going to celebrate our best-friendiversary?”

You choke. “What?”

“It’s a thing,” he says, grin widening. “I’m pretty sure it’s a thing. When we became friends!”

“Shouldn’t that be when we became best friends?” you ask. You tilt your head against the wall, seeming to actually consider it. “There’s a difference between a friendiversary and a best-friendiversary, surely.”

“Oooh. Yeah, maybe.”

“So we should remember a date for our best-friendiversary instead.” You hum, thoughtful. “That would be nicer, since that’s more important.”

“So you’re saying we’re best friends?” Satoru asks, goading.

You raise your eyebrows. “Of course we are.”

You say it like it’s obvious. Satoru feels all glowy inside.

“Of course.” Satoru drags out the words, feeling how it sounds in his mouth. “Of coouurse. Of course we are! And you know what?”

“What?”

“Best friends,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at you, “should remember when they first met!”

You blow a burst of lips through your lips, clearly pretending to be unamused. For all of your psychic superpowers about figuring out his thoughts, Satoru thinks he can read you pretty well too. It’s funny when you pretend to be all aloof and not like him, when it’s obvious that you actually really really do.

“You’re so annoying,” you say to him. Satoru laughs, and your lips twitch.

Ha-ha! Another success!

Satoru likes it when he can make you smile. It doesn’t happen all that often at all, and so when he manages it, it’s a huge success. It’s one of the best feelings in the world, he thinks, when he can make you smile. It’s only trumped by the times when he can make you laugh, which then is only trumped by the times you call him by his first name.

Satoru is Satoru, but you only ever call him Gojo. Which, yeah, is his name, but it’s also his name to everyone else—everyone else in the world thinks of him as Satoru Gojo, from the Gojo family, heir to the Gojo technique, which is really cool sometimes, but also really annoying and kind of not cool.

But to you, he should be Satoru. You’re the only person that he’s ever met that he’d want to call him Satoru. And so, when you don’t, he feels strange. You tell him often that he needs to get used to not always getting what he wants, but Satoru doesn’t think that he should have to, not really. In his opinion, everything would be better if he could get what he wanted all the time.

“So mean to me,” Satoru says again, without much gusto, because the day’s getting even hotter and he can’t really summon the energy to play out your usual routines.

You seem to be getting tired, too. You’re watching him with a funny look on your face, but your eyelids are drooping and you keep blinking all slowly, the way you do when you’re sleepy.

“Sure,” you say, yawning.

“Can’t believe you admit it.”

“Mmhm.”

“Can’t believe—” Satoru stifles a yawn: he caught it from you. “—that you don’t remember. I remember, Hebi-Hebi.”

“You should tell me, then.” You shuffle down until you’re lying next to him. You’re on your side, looking at him with a faint smile playing across your lips. Satoru feels glowy again. “Remind me, about the first time we met.”

“Should I?” Satoru asks, not caring about hiding his smirk. “Would you like that?”

“Maybe.”

“Then,” Satoru says, as he turns onto his side too, so you look like two mirror images of each other, if someone was looking down from the Chapel ceiling, “I’ve just got to, haven’t I? If you’d like it, then I’ve got to do it.”

Your lips press together, and then all of a sudden you’re smiling, big and wide, the way you barely ever smile in front of him. Satoru feels his stomach swoop. He loves it when you smile. My best friend, he thinks. Mine.

“I guess you have to,” you whisper, and you’re almost shy, almost hesitant. You know that you don’t need to: Satoru, surely, by now, has made sure of that. He’s spent his whole life trying to make you happy, all of his life that he’s enjoyed living. He doesn’t think that there’s anything he wouldn’t do for you, if you wanted him to. He’s certain you know that by now.

“Then I will.” Satoru brings up a hand between your bodies, and he loves how you don’t move away from him, the way you do to everyone else. You trust him, more than anyone in the world. This is what he loves, too: just as much as you are his favourite, he is yours.

Satoru rests his head on his arm, and settles in for a story; you’re watching him, with soft, affectionate eyes, and he is more happy than he ever has been. He keeps thinking that, when he’s with you. And, every time he sees you, he thinks it again. Here you are, listening to him, devoting your attention to him wholly, and you’re the best person he’s ever known.

“So,” Satoru says, so determined to keep your eyes on him, to keep your focus for ever and ever and ever, “it was a few months before my seventh birthday, and I didn’t know that I would be meeting my favourite person in the world.”

#nikuniku fic recs #i truly cannot put into words how much i love intrinsic warmth #honestly and truly

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stellamancer · 6 months ago

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lime iced tea? hmm....

OFC HE THINKS READER IS CHECKING HIM OUT.....

can't tell him what's wrong.... well, gojo can't have that now can he LMAO.

you know, and maybe this is just because the first fic I read from you involved the beach and the sea, but I feel like there's a reoccurring water motif in your fics... but the mention of sea glass.... I love sea glass.....

OH HERE'S THE PHANTOM SCARS LINE!!

you know, it's very interesting to read this fic and compare it to the bathtub fic that I read last night in which reader confided in gojo and he laughed and then here they're refusing to confide in him because they think he'll laugh.

GOSH THE SUSPENSE OF WHAT IS BOTHERING READER HAS ME AT THE EDGE OF MY SEAT AUGH.

OH MY GOD THAT'S WHAT IT WAS??? READER LOVES HIM TOO MUCH? And he's not saying anything????? I'm gonna beat him up!! Say something!!! OH HE'S TRYING NOT TO LAUGH??? I'LL BEAT HIM UP TWICE!!!

"is it really such a bad thing?" OF COURSE IT IS!!! He doesn't understand!!!!

aRIIII AUGGGGGGHHHHH I'M GNAWING ON MY PHONE.

and then him saying you could never love him as much as he loves you???? I am screaming!!!! AAAAAAAAA and reader making it a competition. heh. that's so cute.

PINNING READER DOWN TO TICKLE THEM?!?!? FOUL PLAY FOUL PLAY!!!!

MORE WATER MOTIF!!!! I actually like this line a lot.....

ANYWAY ARI THIS WAS SO ADORABLE!!!!! I'm kicking my feet!!! I just!!!! AUGGGGGGHHHH too cute too cute!!! But it's what we all need right now I think. lmao. and the little bit of banter at the end???? very fun. Thank you so much for writing this and sharing it!!!

i think your love would be too much ; satoru gojo

summary; something is worrying you. satoru just doesn’t know what.

word count; 4.1k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, sickening amounts of fluff, (that’s literally all. that’s it. thank you for your time), you’re both down horrendous, the ”something” reader is worried about is very very silly <333, mostly satoru’s pov!!

a/n; i love this man so fucking much my chest hurts so i dug up the sappiest wip i could find in my drafts <333 you can tell i completely lost the plot halfway through but just pretend that i didn’t ok. i dedicate this to gojo nation :3

satoru feels your stare prickle at the back of his neck.

he’s rummaging through the fridge, one hand on his hip, grabbing two cans of iced tea from the bottom compartment. peach for him, lime for you. his infinity is down, the pads of his fingers meeting chilled aluminum, condensation licking at his skin.

but the goosebumps that sensation causes is nothing compared to the ones he gets from this — your stare digging into the back of his head, your attention aimed directly at him. when he turns around, closing the fridge with a bump of his hipbone, you freeze. like a deer caught in headlights.

satoru grins.

”you checkin’ me out?”

”no,” you blurt, and his smile only grows.

”aw…” he waltzes across the room, from the kitchen island to the living room, fuzzy socks against the floorboards. ”what’s up, then? something on your mind?”

with a clink, he puts the cans of tea down on the coffee table. you murmur out a breath of thanks, but make no move to reach for either of them.

now that he’s close enough to see you properly — he thinks to himself that you do look a little ill at ease. something in the crease between your brows, shying away from the eye contact he wants. something in the way your voice comes out somewhat strained.

”it’s nothing… i just —”

you stop. gaze fleeing from his own, slipping down to your lap. he thinks you look particularly small like this. curled up on his expensive couch, curling in on yourself; gnawing at your bottom lip.

”… i’m being dumb.”

he hums. tilting his head, taking you in — wasting no more than a mere moment before taking action.

you feel him plop down next to you, a shift in the weight bearing down on his couch. comforting. when you glance up, he’s smiling, patient and light. hand sneakily slipping between the cracks of your own, squeezing your palm; running his thumb over the ridges of your knuckle.

”wanna tell me about it?”

from behind the black layer of glass obscuring your frame, satoru watches you intently. watches your expression shift, drinking in the twitch of your brows, how the colour of your eyes flickers in the light. the way your soul sulks and sputters under the weight of his gaze.

you part your lips. slowly, searching for the right words — only to close them again.

you try once more. hesitant.

all you can manage is a frustrated huff.

”it’s nothing, honestly,” you’re quick to backtrack, wincing inwardly. ”i've just… been thinking, i guess.”

a hum. his smile doesn’t waver. ”about what?”

you avert your gaze. biting your lip, again, turning away from him; resting your chin on the heel of your palm. avoiding his stare like it could turn you to stone. he barely picks up on the words you murmur, flowing out beneath your breath.

”i... can't tell you.”

satoru raises a brow.

a moment passes. two, three — the silence is telling. you can hear the discontentment in his voice, despite his attempts to mask it.

”why not?”

”i… haah.” you scoot away, just a little more, turning away so he can’t dissect your expression the way he’d like to. ”i just cant, okay?”

silently, silently, he observes you. the little of you he can see, at the very least; fixating on the side of your face, your cheek, those fluttering eyelashes. as if it could tell him something. you can’t see the way his eyes narrow, behind his shades, black glass shielding you from the weight of his scrutiny.

satoru bites back a huff.

curiosity and impatience aside, he feels offended. thoroughly so. he doesn't like it when you shut him out, like this, when you don’t allow him to soothe you. your relationship has been a slow one — steady, a kind of settling in that he never thought he’d experience. calm waves lapping along the edges of smooth sand, washing away tiny pebbles and handfuls of sea glass; delicately coming closer. getting him used to the sensation before gently urging him to take a dip.

that’s the kind of love you share.

so it stings, a little, when you won’t let him return the favour. it stings in the same way his phantom scars itch on cold nights.

he knows opening up isn't easy. for you, for anyone, least of all for him — but he still finds himself feeling a little bit dejected. because he's supposed to be your safe space. the person you can trust with absolutely anything.

(if he can’t be that, for you, then what the hell is he even good for?)

he can’t help but feel the slightest tug of worry, too. seeing the tight line of your closed lips, that hardness of your expression. the unmistakable stress accumulating in the corners of your eyes.

but he doesn’t voice that worry. he simply gives your hand another squeeze, and smiles a little wider. ”try me.”

a sigh flows from your lips.

”you don't get it, satoru.”

your voice has a bite to it, now, just a little harsh. something akin to a soft hiss — defensiveness, he ultimately settles on. but why?

”it’s —” you muster up a glance his way, the slightest little peek, before turning away again. blurting out the words on the tip of your tongue. ”it’s so fucking embarrassing. you’ll laugh.”

satoru blinks.

”… huh?”

”you’ll laugh, and you'll tease me, and — ” he feels your hand slip from his own, muffling a groan as it covers your face. ”i’ll never live it down.”

you’re hiding, squirming, and satoru’s curiosity increases at an alarming rate. he leans forward, trying to catch a glimpse of your face, but you don’t let him.

now he’s nothing short of intrigued.

”i won't,” he says, simply. voice as clear as glass. you scoff into your hands.

”you will!”

”i promise you i won't laugh.”

”you always say that.” a sigh falls from your lips, deep and heavy, as your hands finally slip down to your lap. ”but you never mean it. you’ll laugh so much. i know you will.”

you bite down on your lip. he wants to cup your jaw and kiss you, mend the bruising with a swipe of his tongue — but he tactfully decides against it.

”it’s — it's so…” you trail off, fidgeting with your hands, nervously linking your fingers together. gazing down with a pout. ”so stupid.”

”baby…” his voice takes on a fond tone, tender and patient. everything he strives to be, when it comes to you; you and you alone. ”c’mon. you can tell me anything.”

with a sense of delicacy, he takes your hands into his bigger ones. tucking them into his palms, bringing them into his own lap — meeting your meek eyes.

”right?”

through the blue of his gaze, he watches you falter. watches your eyes soften, crumbling a little, as you silently weigh your options. you look flustered.

then you slowly part your lips.

”you’re gonna think i’m just joking, or whatever, but — but i mean it. i’m…” your throat bobs with a shallow gulp. ”i’m seriously worried.”

satoru nods. ”i’ll take you seriously.”

you look up. all you’re met with is a reassuring smile, familiar dimples, the slightest hint of a kind blue behind his shades.

and you finally give in.

”i… i think i might —”

shifting and squirming, your gaze flits from spot to spot, hands still intertwined with his own. you’re caged in, forced to face him, and it only adds to your nervosity. his eyes never leave your face.

”i think… i…”

your voice comes out sounding tiny. gaze stuck to the couch beneath you, as your lips form around the right syllables, and you finally blurt out out the words you've been trying to keep at bay.

”i think i love you too much.”

…

silence.

you still refuse to meet his gaze. a red hue crawls up your neck, spreading to the tips of your ears, heartbeat pounding under your ribs. the sentence spills out of your lips like an arrow; so rushed he barely deciphers it in time.

before the silence can swallow you whole, you continue. trying not to stammer, holding back an embarrassed wince. pouting softly, brows furrowed as your clammy hands twitch anxiously against his own. ”like... to the point where… it isn't normal.”

and then you wait. with bated breath, too embarrassed to look up, bottom lip tensing and softening between your teeth. dreading the explosive reaction he’ll undoubtedly give you.

… except it doesn’t come.

he’s not saying a word. nothing. the silence is so deafening you could cut it in half, lingering, festering in the air around you.

all you hear is your own stupid, erratic little heartbeat — refusing to settle down.

a couple painful moments pass, before you physically can't take it anymore.

as slowly as you can muster, your gaze travels upwards — from his lap to his chest to his exposed collarbone, until his face finally enters your field of vision. you can’t resist the temptation.

(why is he being so quiet? satoru is never quiet.)

you meet his gaze. or what you think is his gaze, anyhow, because you can’t see the way they’re squeezed shut. what you do notice is the twitch of his lips, quivering ever so slightly, as if unsure of which direction to go — and you know one of satoru’s sharp teeth must be biting down hard to keep them in place. his shoulders are shaking, only barely, and he breathes out sharply through his nose; in a desperate attempt to keep his promise.

desperately struggling to maintain his composure.

he makes the mistake of opening his eyes, and all that effort goes down the drain. met with the sight of your flushed face, wide eyes, shining with embarrassment and disbelief.

like a stack of cards blown over by the wind, satoru’s poker face crumbles. he fails to bite back the wide grin that breaks out across his lips, showing off the white of his teeth, and a soft bout of fresh laughter flows from out his lips.

you gape at him.

then your brows furrow, harshly, and you choke on a scoff. with a start, you’re scrambling to stand up, tugging your hands away from his.

”see?” you hiss, almost tripping over your own two feet as you shoot up from the couch. ”i told you! you're laughing!”

you sound so embarrassed he thinks he might cry.

satoru gives up. laughter reverberating throughout his entire body, deep and loud, from the very bottom of his gut — enough to have him clutching at his sides. that only makes you flush deeper, glare harder, and all he can think is that he wants to kiss you silly.

”you promised!”

”i’m —” he chokes on a sharp wheeze, one hand reaching out to keep you from leaving. ”i’m sorry, baby, i —”

but he only ends up doubling over. sputtering with laughter, feeling the leather of the couch meet his cheek. you turn away sharply, and he pulls himself up again. ”wait — sweetheart —”

a fond chuckle rumbles through his chest, his long arms circling around your waist and pulling you into his embrace. caging you in. you struggle helplessly, trying desperately to break free, but it’s useless — he’s the strongest for a reason.

all you can do is writhe and grumble under your breath, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla and musk. the fabric softener he uses puts your senses hopelessly at ease, but he’s still laughing — so you can’t help but kick and struggle seamlessly.

”let me go, satoru!”

said man chokes on another little laugh, shoulders shaking, tucking you so close he can feel the pitter patter of your heartbeat against his stomach. you’re so upset with him. but he can’t stop, can't reel it back in, and every weak punch to his chest and muffled protest just makes his composure feel more out of reach. he tried his best.

he really, really did.

he tried so hard not to laugh.

(”i think i love you too much.”)

god.

just what is he supposed to do with you, huh?

”i’m sorry,” he grins, almost entirely out of breath. ”’m not doing it on purpose, you're just —”

a sudden fit of giggles.

"you're so cute.”

”satoru, it’s — not funny,” you whine, practically burning up. every single sound he makes buzzes in your ear. ”i’m serious. i —”

you squeeze your eyes shut. giving in, finally, allowing yourself to melt into his arms. limbs losing their feistiness. he delights in the sensation.

”you don't get it.”

it’s a whisper, muffled against the fabric of his shirt, but he hears it nonetheless. deep breaths, he reminds himself. it’s hard to take such an adorable confession seriously, but he tries. for whatever reason, you genuinely sound troubled.

”wait, so you —” he bites back an amused breath, but can’t hide the palpable smile in his voice. ”you love me… too much?”

a groan. you hide away, nuzzling further into his chest; your safe harbour.

”…i told you it was embarrassing.”

”it’s not,” he’s quick to console you. ”i’m just confused.” his palm glides across the back of your head, smoothing down your tousled hair, a grounding weight. he pats your head softly. ”i mean…”

a deep inhale. his heartbeat finally settles into a calm rhythm, slow and steady, lungs flooding with oxygen. he breathes out through his nose.

”is that really such a bad thing?”

”it is.” a frown finds its way onto your lips. your reply is instantaneous. ”i don’t think it’s normal. i’m just…”

satoru listens. patiently, feeling your fingers grip onto the edges of his shirt — comforting yourself with the soft fabric. then you sigh.

”i don’t know. i just can’t, like…” you grapple for the right word, moving your hands haphazardly, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. ”comprehend how much i love you.”

satoru bites back a smile.

(his heart flutters, flutters, flutters, like cherry blossoms on a windy spring morning.)

before he has the chance to, you part your lips again; speaking in a soft voice. resigned, he thinks. ”it’s just weird. it’s not exactly bad, but —”

you bite down on your lip.

”... it’s scary.”

a soft coo buzzes in your ear. satoru can’t help but pull you closer, closer still, smothering you in the warmth of his embrace. conveying what he knows will be too much for you to hear in words — what he knows he couldn’t convey in the language that you speak. you feel warm, still burning up a bit. like a little firefly.

he isn’t faring much better, though; a vague heat blooming under the skin of his nape. smiling so wide his cheeks are starting to hurt.

(what on earth did he do to deserve you?)

a firm jaw settles on the top of your head. satoru parts his glossy lips, voice flowing out somewhat breathlessly, affectionate as can be.

”don’t you think i feel exactly the same about you?”

his pulse trembles against you. when you strain your ears, you can hear the rhythmic thumping of his heartbeat, mingling with your own; still resounding in your ears.

”… i dunno.”

satoru’s hold around you tightens, ever so slightly. something in the way he cradles you, strong arms around your waist, a low hum accompanying the light squeeze of his limbs. he can’t see your face, from this angle, but his pupils still flicker downwards — hungry for a glimpse of your expression.

then he smiles.

”i’m terrified of you, y’know?”

you blink. once, then twice, eyelids fluttering. a moment of silence passes.

”… huh?”

”beyond terrified, actually,” his smile builds into a grin. ”i’m getting goosebumps just thinking about it. no one scares me more than you do.”

satoru pulls away, just a little, just enough to finally get a good look at you. your eyes are brimming with confusion. a large palm goes to cradle your cheek, and he tilts his head — inhaling a breath.

”i love you so much that it hurts.”

…

a soft chuckle slips from out his lips, when he catches your flustered, wide-eyed stare. sneaking a hand towards the small of your back, leaning in to press a kiss against the apple of your cheek.

”i adore you,” he whispers, smooth syllables melting into a purr. you stiffen under his touch. his fingertips trace the lines of your jaw, lips trailing down to your neck, chaste and sweet as he nips at the sensitive skin. muttering under his breath. ”you have no idea.”

and you truly, truly don't. satoru doesn't think you even know the half of it.

you can’t possibly know what you mean to him — that your very presence makes him forget who he is, what he has to be, a weight on his shoulders he grew used to long ago. you can’t possibly know that just the feeling of your hand in his makes the distance between you feel so inconsequential.

you are the most precious thing in his life. he doesn't think you could ever understand the weight that sentiment carries — he wouldn't want you to.

and here you are, so awfully worried, because you're too in love with him. he still can't help but grin. you’re so sweet, so silly. the words make him feel as if his heart is crumbling.

”… i can't believe you’re real sometimes.”

something tender rests under the whisper. something frighteningly sincere. it makes you feel a little like you’ve been sliced open. it’s raw, it’s heavy and light and it’s love. it’s satoru — all his little inconsistencies, and the stability beneath it all.

and some part of you knows that he's telling the truth. that he understands your ridiculous little confession, your embarrassing worries. satoru understands.

that alone is enough to quell the turmoil in your chest.

(what he gives you is a love as boundless as the sky, one that covers everything you could ever be.

unconditional.)

”so there’s no need to worry.”

he pulls back, lips leaving your skin. you still feel their warmth linger. his shades have slipped down, barely hanging on to the bridge of his nose, and you can see the blue of his eyes. they’re shining like jewels, soft around the edges. consumed by love.

”there’s no way you could ever love me as much as i love you.”

gazing into satoru eyes, as if hypnotized by their glow, your own gleam with a mesmerizing shine. glazed over with something sweet and wonderful, something satoru wants to burn into his retinas so he never forgets it. he wishes he could wring it out of you and put it in his pocket — but it looks prettier behind your cornea.

he savours the moment, slowly, until it abruptly ends.

with a second of pause, your brows draw together, forming into an irritated furrow. lips tugging downwards into a frown. ”that’s not true.”

satoru blinks. still smiling.

”i love you way more,” you huff. petulantly, almost, something soft and amused in your tone. he thinks the sound fits you more than anything; unburdened and stubborn.

(as charming as you are, though — this is one battle he refuses to lose.)

”nu-uh,” he pokes the tip of your nose, delighting in the soft flutter of your blinking eyelashes. ”i love you more. sorry, sweetie.”

a huff. ”you don't.”

”i do.”

”you don't."

this time, you're the one reaching out, the pad of your finger landing on the tip of satoru’s nose — teasingly trailing up to the bridge of it. his heartbeat stutters, but he feigns nonchalance, raising an unimpressed brow; eyes unknowingly gleaming with mirth.

and mischief.

you barely have time to react. one moment you're seated on satoru’s lap, the next you're looking up at him with your back against the couch. he towers over you, keeping your hands pinned above your head with a single palm.

a familiar chill runs down your spine.

”i do,” he grins, free hand reaching towards you. recognizing the danger of a situation you've been in more times than you can count, you try to squirm away — but you don't get very far.

satoru’s fingers ghost over your sides, and panic floods your wide eyes.

even though you know exactly what’s about to happen, a yelp pushes past your lips when he begins to tickle you. mercilessly, fingers trailing over your most sensitive spots. all you can do is squirm, trying your damnedest to bite back the bout of laughter crawling up your throat —

but apparently neither of you are very good at that.

when the familiar cling of your laughter finally spills past your lips, flowing into satoru’s ears, his smile blooms into a grin. big and happy, childish in its innocence — not even attempting to hide his joy. his own giggles melt into your soft wheezes and desperate pleas, as you struggle to break free, straining against the firm hold he has on your wrists.

”i love you way, way, way more,” he continues to tease, halting his movement just enough to let you catch your breath. ”it’s not even close.”

even as giggles breathlessly spill from your lips, you manage a shake of your head. ”no, you —”

”wrong answer.”

he cuts you off with a smirk, and the torture starts anew. you can't get the words out, caught in your throat and muffled by a loud squeak, followed by forced laughter. satoru watches, in pure adoration, waiting for the moment you finally relent.

it doesn’t take long.

”f — fine, fine!”

he stills. eyes crinkled, shades barely hanging on to the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to keep going. if only so he can hear your melodic giggles.

”can’t we —” you struggle to catch your breath, words stuck between bouts of leftover laughter. cheeks flushed and chest heaving. ”just call it a tie?”

satoru pauses. he drags it out, exaggerated, building up suspense. eyes narrowing playfully. ”hmmm…”

then he smiles. a soft, resigned little thing.

”alright, alright.” he leans forward, keeping you in place. ”that works, i guess.”

his lips meet yours. soft and glossy, tasting of cherries, exhaling a pleased sigh against your mouth. you’re still panting a little, but he doesn’t seem to mind. slow to pull away, with a drawn out mwah, grinning boyishly down at your disheveled state. he lets your wrists go free.

an unimpressed look is all you give him, quick to melt into a soft chuckle.

”well, that’s that.” you push yourself up with your elbows, fixing your tousled hair. ”now we can forget this ever happened.”

satoru raises a brow.

”oh, i dunno about that,” he purrs, voice ripe with mischief. a teasing glint flashes in his eyes, as he scrutinizes you, and it’s enough to have your face heating up again. he can’t help but grin, letting out a loud coo.

”you love me so much you can't comprehend it, huh?”

you blink. it takes a moment for your expression to shift, from bafflement to embarrassment — but it’s all worth it when it does. he barely restrains the urge to kiss you again.

”satoru…”

a giggle leaves his lips. he reaches a hand out, pinching your cheek, tugging softly at the skin.

”you’re cute.”

with a roll of your eyes, you swat his hand away; unable to bite back a smile. “quit it.”

”aw.”

he looks so smug. you can’t help but want to bite back, somehow — so you muster up your most shit-eating grin. a distinctly teasing lilt to your sugar-sweet voice.

”you love me so much that it hurts, huh?”

satoru blinks.

endearment blooms, in the depths of his cerulean eyes. he watches you carefully, awfully amused — he’s rubbing off on you, isn’t he? what a scary thought.

”yeah,” he breathes, a sigh laced with sincerity. cupping your cheek with the palm of his hand, settling on the option he knows will fluster you most. ”i do.”

this time, you’re the one who blinks. once, twice, before letting out a groan — slumping against his broad frame. satoru chuckles, breathlessly, consumed by you; by every move you make. all six of his eyes aimed directly at you.

(if he gives you the sky, then what you give him is a love as steady as the ocean — one that’ll drown every bit of his sadness.

unquestioning.)

”can’t you ever just let me win?” you mutter, breathing in his cologne and tugging at his shirt. pressed up against him, on his couch, safe and secure. right where you should be.

he noses at your neck, pressing a little kiss against your pulsepoint. a quiet, quiet offering at the altar of your soul. ”nope,” he hums, smiling cheekily.

”i love you too much for that.”

#nikuniku fic recs

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