#so its just!!! she will always remind him he's not a burden and he never is a burden | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

peachdues · 1 year ago

Text

THE WIND AND MOON

PROLOGUE ♢ SANEMI SHINAZUGAWA X LUNAR PILLAR!READER

A/N: oh boy! The fic that started it all is back in progress (with a slight title change).

This will be a slightly canon-divergent AU, wherein Lunar Breathing is inherited and there's actually some power involved with the breathing techniques as a whole (as opposed to the styles just being nice sword movements with illustrations lmao).

Reader will be Sanemi's tsuguko for a time, and she will eventually become a Hashira. This is their story.

This will be a multi-part fic. Be warned: the Reader is a very morally gray character (but we love her for it).

@ghost-1-y thank you for reminding me of my love for this fic.

Massive CW: 18+, canon-typical violence, graphic violence, gore, child death, and implied S/A. Smut to come. MDNI.

Sanemi was there that day; the day she became part of the Corps.

The day her world ended.

It was fucking freezing that morning. The sky was a muted gray as snow drifted down from the heavens in wet, fat clumps. It had started sometime the previous night, and by the morning, the village had been covered in its thick blanket.

The carnage, however, was fresh, and so the snow was not white.

Only an hour had passed since the watery gray light of dawn bled into the sky from the east, when Sanemi’s crow swooped low over his head, tugging frantically at his hair. Beside him, the Flame Pillar ducked as his own crow joined the panic.

“Northeast! Northeast! Right at the base of the mountain! A horde of demons attacked the village!” They cried in tandem.

Not just one. A horde. A swarm of demons had descended upon a moderately populated merchant village, tearing it and its people to shreds.

Both the Wind and Flame Pillars furiously made their way northeast, one of the crows bleating that Tengen and Iguro were also en route. As they ran, the birds alternated in snaring what little information they had of the village, and what had prompted the attack.

It was because of her; or rather, her family.

The head of the village was a merchant known for his imports from the West. His success meant the village prospered as a whole, and it was popular for its numerous small shops and tea houses which lined the streets, always crowded with locals and travelers alike.

Demons had no use for money or exotic baubles; but Muzan Kibutsuji had a keen interest in obliterating Lunar Breathing from the world.

So he had.

The very merchant whose business prowess bolstered the local economy with his imports was directly descended from the clan which had created Lunar Breathing, Breath of Sun’s powerful, dark twin. The merchant was the youngest and only living relative of the aging head of the Lunar Clan, a retired Hashira who’d never taken a wife. But unlike the other breathing techniques, Lunar Breathing was an inherited talent, and without an heir, there would be no one to continue the great family’s legacy.

That burden was thus placed on the surviving eldest child of the merchant whose village both Sanemi and his comrade now rushed to.

There had been an elder son, Rengoku’s crow revealed, but he had died a few years prior from illness. And so, the merchant’s middle child was made the new heir, tasked with the mission of becoming a demon slayer so that she could continue on the Lunar Breathing tradition.

Her.

There was no word as to whether she had been present for the attack. Final Selection ended only a few days prior, and it was entirely possible that she either had been killed on the Mountain, or that she was still making her way back to the village, unaware that no one would be there to welcome her home.

There was certainly no greeting for the Pillars when they finally arrived at the mountain’s base. The village was eerily silent as Sanemi and Rengoku crossed over the small bridge abutting its ravine; still. Dawn had given way to a dark gray sky, and visibility was not ideal.

Not that it would’ve taken much effort to see the blood and gore that littered the village’s once lively streets.

“What on earth?” The Sound Pillar’s familiar voice broke the silence, as he and Iguro approached their comrades from the Eastern gate of the village. Behind them, trailed a group of nearly thirty Kakushi.

The Hashira slowly took in the nightmare around them, stunned into horrified silence as they beheld the level of destruction which had befallen the village just hours before.

“Kakushi. Spread out. Look for any survivors. They may be buried or hiding.” Rengoku’s voice was steady but uncharacteristically grave, his face stony and hard. “Shinuzagawa, we should make our way to the Lunar Merchant’s estate. We need to send word to the Clan head right away if-“

“You didn’t hear?” Iguro interjected. “The head of the Lunar House is dead.” Though the lower half of his face was covered, the anguish on the Serpent Pillar’s face was evident. “That’s where Uzui and I just came from. He was ripped to shreds.”

“Fuck,” Sanemi hissed, a toxic mixture of anger, guilt roiling in his gut. An entire clan — and entire village— had been decimated in a matter of hours, and no one had been able to protect them.

They hadn’t been able to protect them.

“Have we any word on the Lunar heir?” Rengoku asked quietly. Iguro and Uzui shook their heads. “Then she likely is lost, too.” The Flame Pillar turned back to Sanemi, his face a mirror of his own. “Let’s go.”

The snow and wind picked up just as the two swordsmen approached the Lunar Merchant’s manor, obscuring part of the wreckage before them. From the corner of his eye, Sanemi swore he spied movement out of the back corner of the estate, but when he turned to examine it, all was still.

Beflre he could inquire further, a sharp gasp to his right snapped his attention back to the Pillar at his side. But Rengoku was not looking at him; rather, he was staring directly ahead, right to the courtyard of the manor.

“Heavens above,” the Flame Hashira whispered.

Sanemi followed his gaze through what had been once-proud iron gates, though only half of it remained hinged. The other had been ripped from its stone setting, twisted by some unfathomable strength and thrown carelessly to the side. Just past the gate, Sanemi beheld a single, bloodied arm.

His heart dropped sickeningly to his stomach at what lay beyond it; for there was not an inch of ground that hadn’t been saturated with blood and bits of gore.

Chunks of flesh and torn limbs bearing harsh jagged teeth marks were strewn across the snowy garden. Broken glass and wood from the manor littered the ground, and the few walls that remained standing had been showered in a thick coat of crimson.

But the carnage did not end with the massacre on the courtyard. Sanemi forced himself to look upon the half-severed bodies of those who’d been stuck to the sloped roofing of the Manor, as though some demon had plucked fleeing humans from the yard to feast on them mid-air, adorning the handsome estate with a shower of bloodied entrails.

He did not notice the small group of Kakushi that had arrived at the Manor until he heard their gasps and cries of horror. Behind him, Sanemi heard one or two begin to retch, unable to stomach the carnage before them.

“Move!” Sanemi barked, his voice scratchy over the lump forming in his throat. “Fucking look for survivors! Anyone!”

A few paces ahead, Rengoku called up to the crows checking above. “Do you have a description of the heir?”

“She is around eighteen, Lord Rengoku!”

Not helpful, given that most of the bodies around them were unrecognizable. But it was something.

Rengoku turned back to Sanemi. “I will check inside the house. You!” Rengoku called to a small group of three Kakushi nearby, “With me!”

Sanemi continued to make his way through the debris and body parts in the courtyard, lifting stone and wood in hope that he might find someone — anyone — who had managed to hide. Yet that hope dimmed with every stone he turned, as he found only the scraps of the people who’d once called the Manor home.

He came across a large chunk of curved, chiseled stone that was half-embedded into the soft ground below. Grunting, Sanemi heaved the rock aside, thinking it was perhaps part of some fountain or statue.

His stomach lurched as the stone toppled heavily over. For there, crushed beneath the weight of the rock, was the small body of a child, severed completely at the torso. Her two halves lay next to one another, a ragged seam torn between the two as though pulled apart by force.

Sanemi felt the bile rise in his throat as his gaze fell upon the child’s face, utterly frozen in fear. Though death had snuffed out the light of life from her eyes, it had done nothing to conceal the terror she’d felt in her last moments, the girl’s mouth stretched wide, fixed in her final scream.

She was no older than ten.

He could not help it. Sanemi turned away from the grisly sight and vomited into the snow, every inch of him trembling. He wretched until his stomach was empty and his throat burned from the acid and strain of his dry-heaving.

With great effort, he managed to straighten, his breath short and choppy. But he forced his legs to carry him forward, though any hope that they would find the Lunar Heir or any survivor grew dimmer by the second.

Even as Hashira, Sanemi knew he’d never seen wreckage quite like this.

He neared the center of the courtyard, and halted before a large, circular stone inset that had been smashed to gravel, leaving only a single, large piece of rounded stone wall standing.

Found the fountain, Sanemi thought bitterly. Another sharp, icy gust of wind whipped its way through the courtyard, disturbing the little bit of snow that wasn’t packed down with the carnage. But the wind also stirred up something else, something dark and wispy.

Had the Wind Pillar’s lilac gaze been focused anywhere but that piece of stone, he would have missed it softly fluttering up before disappearing beneath the lip of the fountain.

Lips mashed into a tight line, Sanemi moved to examine the other side of the broken stone. As he did so, Rengoku reappeared on the outer steps of the engawa surrounding the Manor, a frown etched deeply on his face.

“Shinazugawa, something is off. The demons’ presence is obvious, but the house looks like it was ransacked— jewels, silks, valuables, all strewn about. Some of it seems to be missing —“

“I found her.” Sanemi bit out, gruffly. “The heir.”

It was her hair, Sanemi realized. Her hair was what had been disturbed by the wind, a few strands having drifted up before settling back down upon the bloodied shoulder of the lifeless girl collapsed before the fountain.

Had there not been a thick spread of red-stained snow and earth beneath her, Sanemi almost would have thought she’d been sleeping. Her face was almost devoid of any injury, save for a few fresh scratches along her jaw and temple. Her eyes were closed, long dark lashes tickling a soft, and unblemished cheek, as pale and smooth as the Moon. And there was a serenity to her expression, a calmness that posed a stark contrast to the chaos and horror which surrounded her.

The rest of her had not been left untouched. Sanemi noted that while she appeared to have maintained her limbs, her back was soaked in blood, no doubt the source of the large stain beneath her. Grimly, he noted that her blood still oozed from an unknown wound between her shoulders. Her left arm was stretched out before her, wrist bent at an unnatural angle, its skin mottled from a mixture of the cold and an attempt to bruise before her blood had ceased flowing in her veins.

Beneath the torn and bloodied haori around her shoulders, were a pair of pants and a fitted, long sleeved top which had clearly seen better days. Her clothes hosted various tears and stains, and she was so caked in blood and mud that it was difficult to further discern her body’s condition.

The crows had said the Lunar Heir was around eighteen years of age, but as Sanemi stared at her lifeless form, all he could think about was how small she looked; how young she’d been, when she lost her life to the brutality of demons.

The thought made his blood run cold.

“No doubt this is her,” Rengoku said heavily, nodding at wounds Sanemi had not noticed on her hands. Squinting, the Wind Pillar spied bruises and cuts in various stages of healing dotting her knuckles and fingers.

He suspected more lay beneath her soiled clothing.

“Final selection wounds,” the Flame Pillar confirmed. “She must have just returned from the mountain when the attack began. Perhaps she even stumbled into the middle of it.” Rengoku shook his head. “She didn’t stand a chance.”

It was well known that even if one survived final selection, they would likely descend the mountain with some degree of injury. Seven nights without access to shelter, food, or water was difficult enough, but the added danger of starving demons almost guaranteed that one would not emerge unscathed.

She must have been wounded, and severely enough to slow her return home by a few days. Even if she had the skill to hold her own against the swarm of demons that had attacked her village, whatever injuries she sustained during final selection likely sealed her fate.

Sanemi swore, looking over the last of the Lunar Breathing Clan, the acrid bite of guilt and pity seeping hotly into his veins. The poor girl survived the controlled horrors of final selection only to meet an even more grisly end at her home — where she was supposed to be safe.

Cruelty; utter cruelty, and a damn tragedy.

“She will get a Slayer’s burial, in the Master’s garden.” Rengoku declared firmly, raising his voice so the nearby Kakushi would hear. “She passed Final Selection; she’s one of us.”

“No,” Sanemi said, voice hoarse. “Bury her here with her family.” His eyes returned to the girl’s face, an inexplicable bitterness coating his tongue. “She fought to return to them; let her be with them.”

He lifted his eyes back up to the ochre gaze of the Flame Pillar. Rengoku stared at him for a long moment, before nodding, turning back to the Kakushi. “You heard Shinazugawa. Let’s give them all a proper burial.”

The Kakushi began to move, thorough and efficient even among the horror around them. Sanemi readied himself to assist, moving to stand when his eyes snagged on the girl’s torso, his gaze drawn to the sizeable swath of smooth skin that was exposed to the icy bite of the snow. His frown deepened as he took note of the odd way that her clothes sat around her exposed abdomen. The girl was half laid on her side, but the front of her shirt was bunched and twisted together, like it had been gathered and shoved out of the way.

His eyes lowered a fraction to the front of the girl’s pants. At first glance, all seemend normal, her trousers fitted at her hips, but that was precisely what caught his eye. The waistband on the girl’s pants slotted across her lower hips, not higher up on her waist as it should have been. One side was noticeably lower than the other, almost as though they’d nearly been tugged off.

Almost as if-

Sanemi felt the hairs on his body rise. Looking over the girl once more, he noted the suspicious lack of claw marks and bite marks to her body; the way that she seemed intact, compared to the bodies of her friends and family scattered in pieces around her.

And her blood — her blood appeared more fresh than what was caked in the snow around them, as though she’d been attacked right before the Corps arrived at the manor’s gate.

“Rengoku,” Sanemi said sharply, and the Flame Hashira was back at his side in an instant. Sanemi jutted his chin toward the girl’s body and Rengoku followed his gaze. He could see the gears turning in his comrade’s head, the owlish Slayer steadily taking note of the odd skew of her clothes and her lack of demon-like injuries.

“How many demons do you know that try to-,” Sanemi ground his teeth at the word that came to mind, his blood boiling hot. “Have their way with victims before eating them?”

“Not many,” Rengoku conceded darkly, a similar anger simmering in his eyes. “Though not unheard of. It is… rare. Most can’t resist their hunger.”

He fell silent for a moment, contemplating.

“Didn’t you say the house had looked ransacked?” Sanemi turned his gaze away from the girl and towards the broken doors of the manor.

Rengoku’s eyes widened. “Yes. As if someone came in and grabbed anything they could.”

Sanemi nodded. “Bandits. Probably heard about the attack and got excited to loot. Found a body that wasn’t completely torn apart by demons and tried to take advantage.”

Rather than bile, Sanemi felt anger, hot and lethal, threatening to spill out of him.

If he found them, they would receive no mercy, human or not.

Rengoku exhaled sharply through his nose, a weariness clouding over his features. “Though I don’t suppose we can really know for sure. There isn’t enough left of anyone else to compare.”

Rengoku clasped his hands in front of himself, and he closed his eyes, offering a small prayer for the girl. “Whatever happened to her, she’s gone now. Let us ensure she can rest.”

He turned to head back to where the Kakushi had begun digging graves for the deceased, leaving Sanemi alone once more.

He’d stared the spot where the girl’s body had lain long after a pair of Kakushi gently removed her to ready her for her burial, watching with hollow eyes and a hollow heart as the one of them — a female — tenderly brushed the girl’s hair from her face and straightened her haori. They’d crossed her arms over her middle and gingerly carried her to join the remains of her family.

Hers was the last of the graves to be prepared. The Kakushi were just beginning to pack the mud and snow over her body when one of them collapsed from exhaustion. The group resolved to take a small water break before finishing, and neither Shinazugawa nor Rengoku had the desire to object.

After all, digging nearly twenty graves was no easy task.

Both Hashira assisted with the effort, and their combined strength and stamina had streamlined the task considerably. While the Kakushi rested, Rengoku departed for the front gates to update Uzui and Iguro, who’d been dealing with the wreckage within the village, assisted by reinforcements of both Kakushi and lower rank slayers called in to assist with the clean up and burial.

In total, over two hundred graves were dug, and not a single survivor had been found.

It was a heavy day — perhaps one of the darkest in the Corp’s history, and its crowning poisoned jewel was the eradication of one of the oldest breathing styles.The news that there was one less defense against the demons was not a welcome one.

Sanemi had gone to the other side of the courtyard, away from the voices and graves and rising stink of death. Out of sight from any prying eyes, he found a tree and shoved his fist through it, clear to the other side. Splinters of bark exploded around his arm and bit into the skin around his knuckles and palm, but Sanemi could not find it in himself to care; he sought only to break through the silent numbness threatening to consume him.

Because he’d taken refuge on the other side of the courtyard, away from the new burial site, Sanemi did not see the hand and arm that shoved through the pile of earth resting atop the last grave. He did not see clawed fingers sinking into the mud and snow, desperately seeking purchase as the body attached to the arm hauled itself — herself — from beneath the earth, the remnants of her grave skittering to the side as she heaved her body out.

Sanemi did hear the terrified shriek of the Kakushi, and immediately he drew his sword. In the distance, he could hear Rengoku roaring orders at the terrified attendants, though he could not discern the specifics.

The Wind Pillar came into view of the gravesite right as the girl spilled out from the hole in the ground, using her bare hands to pull herself forward as the rest of her body remained limp.

Sanemi Shinazugawa was not a pious man; in fact, he considered himself rather skeptical of the idea of faith. If there were truly any gods out there, then Sanemi wanted nothing to do with them. They chose to let chaos and devastation run rampant. They chose to let demons exists.

But hell apparently had frozen over, and Sanemi found himself offering a prayer for the girl’s forgiveness as he prepared to behead her demonized form. He hoped she would understand; after all, she’d joined the Corps intending to rid of the world of the very thing she’d now become.

It was what he hoped one his his fellow Hashira would do for him, if he ever found himself in that situation.

As the Swordsman cocked his blade, ready to strike the crawling demon from behind, Rengoku cried out. “Shinazugawa, NO!”

Sanemi stuttered, his arm in mid-swing as he neared the demon’s neck. A flash of violet and white shot towards him, and a piercing shriek of metal tore through the sky as Uzui’s blade parried his, the force of the clash knocking him out of the air. A frustrated grunt echoed from his chest, and with great effort, Sanemi twisted mid-air to avoid falling flat on his ass, just barely managing to land swiftly on the balls of his feet.

“What the fuck,-“ His vicious snarl faltered at the expression on the Flame Hashira’s face, frozen and gaping. In that moment, Sanemi’s ears picked up on the faint thumping of a heart beating rapidly and unevenly below him. His nose suddenly burned with the strong scent of iron. The stench of blood so metallic that it could not have been anything but fresh.

Ears ringing, the Wind Pillar shoved past his stupefied comrades. Only when he was face to face with her did Sanemi finally understand why the Flame Pillar had been so desperate to stop his sword from hitting its mark.

The three Hashira were not looking at a newly turned and bloodthirsty demon. Instead, dragging her way across the bloodstained, muddied snow, was the Lunar Heir, deathly pale and trembling..

The girl whose death they feared doomed the Lunar Breathing House had clawed her way out from her grave with nothing but her hands and sheer will. She’d not been dead, after all.

Slowly, so slowly, her eyes lifted to glare up at the one standing directly before her. Though she strained to raise her head more than half an inch, her silver eyes met Sanemi’s lavender gaze, and a violent chill shot up his spine as he beheld what simmered within them.

Defiance.

Pain.

Rage. So, so much rage, relentless and raw. And so very human.

She reached another quivering hand out before her to further drag herself away from her tomb. A thin sheen of sweat coated her pallid skin, and fresh crimson began to seep into the snow beneath her.

Sanemi’s eyes flit to the stain on her back, where fresh blood oozed from the deep wound.

She was panting, clearly fighting every urge in her body to give in, to let death beckon her back into its sweet embrace.

“I-I’m not dead!” She grit out in between shallow, uneven breaths, her jaw clenched tightly enough to crack her teeth.

The three Hashira remained dumb and silent for half a heartbeat before-

“What are you all standing there for?” Uzui bellowed. “Help her!”

The Kakushi sputtered into action, several of them crouching down around the girl to aid her.

“Don’t touch me!” She screamed, eyes screwed shut and her head bowed defensively over her hands as she clenched her fists into the earth. The Kakushi fell back, looking anxiously to the Pillars to await further orders, but even they were at a loss. After several, harsh breaths through her nose, the Lunar Heir turned her face up, her gaze clashing with Sanemi’s once more.

He recognized the fear in her eyes, visceral and deep. Whatever she’d experienced over the last few hours had overtaken all her senses. She had no logic, no ability to rationalize that she was among other humans, among comrades.

Instead, all that drove her now was the primal instinct to survive.

And to her, they were another threat.

She continued to try and crawl away from them, but her movements grew even shakier, more unstable, as the blood loss combined with her physical exhaustion. Rengoku caught his comrades’ eyes, waiting to confirm their next move.

A quick shared nod sent Sanemi stepping quietly into her blindspot. Swiftly, the Wind Pillar struck the pressure point on the back of the woman’s neck with his hand, and she crumpled against the ground, unconscious and still. Gingerly, Sanemi lifted her over his shoulder, mindful of the open wound on her back.

Once she was secured, the Hashira and their Kakushi began their frantic sprint toward the Butterfly Mansion.

COMMENTS/LIKES/REBLOGS ALWAYS APPRECIATED!

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #sanemi shinazugawa #kny #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny sanemi #sanemi x reader #kn y smut #demon slayer smut #shinazugawa sanemi #demon slayer fic #demon slayer fanfic

1K notes · View notes

jzprncess · 7 months ago

Text

love language by sza

“help me understand how you speak your love language ”

pairing: Max Verstappen x Y/N reader

part 1/2 next part

word count: 2,823

summary: a girlfriend of a successful f1 driver decides to learn Dutch to better understand her boyfriends world—his culture, his emotions, and the language he speaks—hoping to connect more deeply and navigate the complexities of their high-speed, high-pressure relationship.

note: first time writing a fan fiction so be nice please! i don’t know how to work tumblr to the fullest so if you want to requests anything, message it to me! this will be in two parts! please leave comments so i know im doing something right!!

　　　　　　 ❛ ━━･♡❪ ❁ ❫♡･━━ ❜

Out of all the unexpected turns her life had taken, learning another language was never on Y/N's radar. Yet, here she was, grappling with the complexities of Dutch, staring at her laptop screen during a Zoom call with her tutor, Anne. They had been chatting frequently, especially while Max was off competing in a grueling triple-header race weekend.

Before he left, Y/N had noticed the shadow of frustration in Max's eyes, a rare shift from his usually upbeat demeanor. It wasn’t lost on her—or anyone, really. The weight of the season’s challenges had begun to press down on him, making his once confident posture seem a little more hunched, his usual optimism now clouded by self-doubt. Everyone could see it. With the way the season had started, Max had envisioned triumph. But now, in October, his hopes felt distant. He hadn’t clinched a victory since June, and every reminder of that fact only seemed to add to his frustration. Y/N wished she could lift that burden, even if just for a moment.

In an attempt to brighten his spirits, she decided to do something special for him—a gesture that would help him escape the pressure he was under. The very day he departed, Y/N found herself scouring the internet, searching for someone who could teach her some basic Dutch. Max, ever the romantic, had always whispered sweet phrases in his native tongue—whether it was giving her a compliment or simply wishing her a good morning. And though she often required translations, Y/N thought, Why not learn the language myself? It couldn’t be that difficult, right?

And so, here she was, earnestly trying to master the phrase “I love you, handsome” in Dutch, yet somehow fumbling over the words.

“Y/N, your pronunciation is getting better, but you need to keep practicing,” Anne encouraged from the other side of the screen, her fingers dancing over her keyboard. The rhythmic sound of her typing seemed to fill the space between them, as if punctuating her words with gentle encouragement. “Have you taken my advice and started watching shows in Dutch? Immersing yourself in the language will really help you improve, especially with those tricky pronunciations.”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, and stared at the screen, her lips pressing together as she tried to hold back the exhaustion creeping in. She had been working hard at this—between the classes, the practice, the late nights watching Dutch shows, and the constant racing schedule with Max, it was all starting to feel like a lot. “Yeah, I’ve been talking to the TV like it’s my best friend,” she said with a small, self-deprecating chuckle, her voice sounding a bit weary. “The characters probably think I’m crazy by now. But, you know, I think I’m making progress? Or at least I hope I am.”

Anne’s eyebrows raised in an encouraging way. “Well, that’s the spirit! The more you immerse yourself, the more natural it will feel. Dutch can be tricky, especially with its sounds, but you’re not giving up, and that’s what matters.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, rubbing her temples. It had been one of those days—between working on the language and managing the quiet space Max left behind when he was away, the weight of it all was starting to wear on her. “I don’t know... I keep stumbling over the same words, Anne. Like, I feel like I’m so close to getting it, but then I hear myself speak Dutch, and it just sounds... off. I’m trying, but it’s hard to know if I’m really improving.”

Anne smiled gently from the screen, as though she understood exactly where Y/N was coming from. “That’s completely normal. Language learning isn’t a straight path. There are ups and downs, but the key is to be patient with yourself. Remember, it’s not about perfection—it’s about progress. You’re already doing so much more than most people would.”

“I guess so.” Y/N’s voice softened, her eyes drifting away for a moment, lost in thought. “I just wish I could see it, you know? Max always speaks so fluently, and when he says something sweet in Dutch, it sounds so effortless. I want to understand it all, to be able to speak with him like that without stumbling or needing translations.”

Anne nodded, her face sympathetic. “I get that. You want to connect with him in the language that’s so familiar to him, and that’s a beautiful thing. But don’t forget, language is just one part of communication. Max will appreciate your effort no matter where you are in your learning. It’s about the intention, the heart behind it. And besides, if you’re working hard at it, he’ll see that.”

Y/N let out a small sigh, leaning forward in her chair and running a hand through her hair. “I just want him to know how much I’m trying. I know it’s hard for him when the season gets tough, and I want to be able to understand him better, not just the words, but how he’s feeling... especially when he gets frustrated. I want to be able to share those moments with him in his language.” She looked back up at Anne, a mixture of fatigue and determination in her eyes. "But it's like I'm still learning a whole new world, Anne. It's a lot to take in."

Anne’s expression softened even more. “Learning a language is like learning a new way to see the world. And you’re doing it for the right reasons. Max will notice that. Even if you don’t think you’re where you want to be yet, he’s going to appreciate your effort, your commitment to him and to his language. And you’re already showing him that you care in ways most people wouldn’t.”

Y/N gave a faint smile, feeling the weight of Anne’s words settle into her. She took another deep breath, her gaze flickering back to the screen. “I hope so. I’m doing this for him, and... for me, too. It’s just hard to see the progress sometimes when you’re so deep in it.”

“Well, keep at it, Y/N,” Anne encouraged again, her voice gentle but firm. “The progress is there, even when you can’t see it. And remember, when Max comes back, you’ll have a whole new way of connecting. That’s something special. Now, how about we wrap up for today, and next time, we focus on a few of those tricky sounds you’ve been stumbling over?”

Y/N nodded, the exhaustion beginning to fade as she felt a renewed sense of determination wash over her. "Yeah, let’s do that. Thanks, Anne. Really."

Anne smiled warmly, her tone softening. “Good night, Y/N. You’re doing great. Keep going, and keep believing in yourself.”

With that, the call ended, leaving Y/N in the quiet of her room. As the screen went dark, she sat still for a moment, letting Anne’s words settle into her. She still had a long way to go with Dutch, but now, she felt a little less weighed down by it all. She stood up from the desk, stretched, and with a deep breath, made her way to the kitchen. There was more to learn, yes, but she could do it. For Max. And for herself

This had become her routine for the past few weeks—immersing herself in a new language while navigating the emotional ups and downs of Max's racing career. Each night flowed into the next, filled with lessons and the hope that her efforts would spark joy in him when he returned. In a way, she couldn’t help but feel that this small adventure might not only help her connect with him in a deeper way but also serve as a reminder that even in tough times, he had someone in his corner—someone ready to support him and learn alongside him.

Time passed, and soon enough, the hectic three-race weekend was behind them.

Y/N wasn’t exactly sure when Max would be home. The unpredictable nature of his F1 schedule made it hard to keep track of his exact arrival time. As the hours stretched on, she decided to make the most of the quiet afternoon. She started by tidying up the house, picking up scattered race memorabilia and smoothing out the couch cushions, which always seemed to get tossed around after a long weekend of travel. The kitchen was next—dishes stacked in the sink, a few crumbs left from breakfast, and the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air. She cleaned with a kind of absent-minded rhythm, her thoughts drifting between the tasks at hand and the excitement of his return.

Not wanting to spend the whole day indoors, Y/N grabbed her coat, slipped into her shoes, and decided to run a few errands to break the monotony. She mentally made a list of things she needed—a trip to the grocery store for fresh produce, perhaps a quick stop at the florist to pick up some flowers for the dining table. The gentle hum of the city as she walked outside felt like a welcome distraction. As she moved through the familiar streets, her mind kept drifting to Max—imagining his arrival later that evening and wondering how he would feel after the intense race weekend. With a small smile, she pushed the thought aside. There were errands to run, and time had a way of slipping by faster when you were busy.

After a while, Y/N decided it was time to head back home, the errands and quiet city stroll leaving her feeling a bit more tired than usual. The exhaustion crept up slowly, settling into her bones in the best way—a peaceful kind of tiredness that made the thought of being home all the more appealing. Once she stepped inside, she kicked off her shoes by the door and shrugged off her jacket, instantly feeling the comfort of her own space wrap around her.

She sank onto the couch, letting the weight of the day melt away, but it wasn’t long before she found herself wanting to do something—something simple and familiar to bring a sense of warmth and routine to the day. The kitchen seemed like the perfect place. She stepped into the kitchen, the warmth of the space a comforting contrast to the quiet of the house. Her mind immediately wandered to dessert—something sweet to fill the silence. Pulling out her phone, she swiped through a few recipe sites, curiosity leading her fingers. After a moment, she typed "Dutch desserts" into the search bar. Her eyes quickly landed on appeltaart, the iconic Dutch apple pie. The thought of the rich, spiced apples wrapped in buttery crust made her stomach rumble. It was exactly what the moment called for.

With a smile, she set the phone down and rolled up her sleeves. The comforting hum of her favorite playlist began to fill the room, chasing away the silence and replacing it with familiar tunes. As the music flowed through the speakers, she started pulling ingredients from the pantry—flour, sugar, butter, and cinnamon. She paused for a moment, letting the soft beat of the song take over as she laid everything out on the counter. The scent of cinnamon already began to stir a feeling of warmth and anticipation.

With a deep breath, she moved into the rhythm of the recipe, the steady motion of measuring, mixing, and prepping grounding her. She could already picture the golden crust and warm, sweet filling that would soon fill the kitchen, and her heart swelled with a sense of simple joy.

As she hummed softly to the tune playing in the background, completely engrossed in the rhythm of her mixing and the warmth of the kitchen, she remained oblivious to Max stepping through the front door, his footsteps barely audible on the hardwood floor. Max paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the room before he crept quietly toward the kitchen, careful not to make a sound. He peeked around the corner, his gaze falling on you as you worked your magic, your movements fluid and focused. A smile tugged at his lips as the sweet scent of apple pie hit him, and he inhaled deeply, savoring the warm, comforting aroma that filled the air.

Max moved silently behind her, his steps light as he closed the distance between them. With a smile, he slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her close against him. He rested his chin on her shoulder for a moment, savoring the warmth of her presence, before pressing a tender kiss to her soft skin. As he inhaled the sweet scent of the kitchen, his lips brushed her shoulder, and he murmured in a low, appreciative voice, "Smells amazing."

The unexpected touch causes her to flinch, a small gasp escaping her as she instinctively tenses, but her body quickly relaxes when she turns to find Max standing there. A soft smile tugs at her lips as she meets his gaze. "I didn't hear you come in," she murmurs, her voice gentle and warm as she leans slightly into his embrace, feeling the comforting weight of his presence. She glances toward the counter, her hands still lightly dusted with flour, and then looks back at him, her eyes sparkling with a mix of affection and pride. "I made apple—" Her words falter for a brief moment, and she pauses, taking a breath before finishing with a playful smile, "Ik heb appeltaart gemaakt." (i made apple pie) She lets the Dutch phrase roll off her tongue with a touch of pride, her eyes lighting up as she anticipates his reaction to the homemade treat and at the sudden Dutch.

Max chuckles, the sound warm and teasing. "Oh, dus je spreekt nu Nederlands?" (Oh, so you speak Dutch now?) His eyes narrow playfully as he takes her in, studying her with a hint of disbelief, almost as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. It takes a moment for her to process his words, the surprise registering on her face before a grin tugs at her lips. She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head slightly as she meets his gaze. “Leren voor jou,” she responds with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, her voice light and teasing as she repeats the phrase—"Learning for you."

Max hums contentedly into her skin, his voice soft but filled with affection. "What did I ever do to deserve you?" His words are a gentle murmur, as though he's savoring the moment. She chuckles, the sound warm and light, as she wipes her hands on a nearby towel. Without missing a beat, she spins around, her eyes sparkling, and wraps her arms around him in a tight embrace. "I've missed you," she whispers into his chest, her voice filled with sincerity, as if the distance between them had only made her feelings stronger.

He gently pulls away, his hands lingering at her waist as he looks down at her, his eyes soft with affection. There’s a quiet warmth in his gaze, a tenderness that makes his heart swell with emotion. "I've missed you too," he murmurs, his voice low and sincere, the words wrapped in a quiet vulnerability. He smiles, a soft, almost teasing glint in his eyes as he adds, "Mijntje," (my little one), his tone filled with both love and playfulness. With a tender sigh, he leans down, his face drawing closer to hers. As he lowers himself, he brushes his lips gently against hers, the kiss soft and lingering, a promise of everything he feels for her in that quiet, intimate moment.

She pulls back just enough to look into his eyes, her breath catching in the space between them. Her heart races, each beat carrying the weight of everything she feels for him. Her hands rest gently on his chest as she searches his gaze, finding warmth, safety, and a quiet promise there. With a soft sigh, she leans in just a little closer, her lips barely brushing his as she whispers, her voice trembling with sincerity, "Ik hou van jou."

The words, though soft, are heavy with all the emotions she can't quite put into words—years of trust, laughter, passion, and quiet moments, all wrapped in those simple yet profound syllables. His breath hitches, and a smile plays on his lips as he leans in, closing the small space between them with a kiss that feels like both a promise and a beginning. There’s a warmth radiating between them, an unspoken yearning that lingers in the air, electrifying yet restrained. The kiss deepens, lingering just a moment longer, igniting a flutter of anticipation in her chest—a taste of what could be. As they pull away, their eyes lock, and in that shared gaze lies a world of possibilities, a silent acknowledgment of the passion that awaits them.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

tag list : @heluvsjappie

#f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x y/n #f1 fluff #f1 x y/n #f1 x female reader #f1 x you #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 fanfic #mv1 x reader #mv1 x y/n #jzprncess

786 notes · View notes

luvsophen · 4 months ago

Text

The romanced Inquisitor and the Redeem ending (Veilguard spoilers)

I often see misunderstandings and critical comments, especially on Reddit, about the role of the Inquisitor in the redemption ending. I want to explain how I see it from a narrative designer's perspective. I'll approach the topic from a broader angle, so I ask for your patience and understanding. Long read.

To understand the ending and why the Inquisitor is written the way they are, we need to revisit Solas's motivation and psychology as presented in the game. Even in “Inquisition”, it’s clear that Solas clings to the past as if it were the ultimate truth. He asks the Inquisitor to prove him wrong, but that idea feels doomed from the start. Just as I thought ten years ago, I still believe that his primary motivation isn’t solely about his people but rather a deeply complex internal crisis. Solas is a complex and layered character, and his motivation should reflect that complexity according to all the rules of storytelling. It’s incredibly unfortunate that the story arc involving the rebellion and the spirits was cut, as this truly simplified his character and didn’t give players a chance to ponder his beliefs more deeply. But we know that this motivation exists in the background and is alive. We only hear about his motivation related to his people, that is, the spirits, in the final choice with Rook. Naturally, the fact that Bioware put his personal regrets and trauma front and center is psychologically accurate, but the player should have come to this conclusion on their own, discovering it themselves. It’s too obvious, but such are the modern trends in storytelling.

Now, regarding Lavellan. The ending with a romanced Inquisitor suffers from the same issues as the rest of the game — lack of variety and exclusive choices.

I see that some people are disappointed with the ending because the Inquisitor's love and pleas were not enough. I assure you, it was never intended to make it enough. If the Inquisitor’s love/friendship had been enough, Solas's story in “DAtV” wouldn’t have even begun. Solas is as immersed in his past as any millennia-old being could be, leaving no room for anything but his burden, guilt, and despair. Left to his own devices, he will always choose the path of least resistance to his trauma, repeating his mistakes in what he believes is for the greater good until he reaches the point of ultimate self-destruction. He is truly a broken man because of all the terrible things he has done and the horrors he has endured.

The point of the storyline was to showcase the depth of his regrets, the weight of his burden and moral downfall. The Inquisitor (friend/lover) affected him in a way that no mortal ever could. Solas runs from them, and there are objective psychological reasons for this beyond simply not wanting to hurt someone he cares about. Lavellan isn’t wrong when she says she could influence Solas. Yes, if they had years and time for such conversations, but that opportunity doesn’t exist. He doesn't leave her a choice and decides for both of them.

The logic of the ending is that you need to peel back Solas's “layers”. In the finale, Solas is deeply wounded and exhausted, and it’s the perfect moment to play on his emotions while he’s so vulnerable. From a dramaturgical perspective, the focus was correctly placed: the present, future, and past must come together to lift the burden from his shoulders, show him a new path, restore his wisdom, and give him a new purpose. This is how the writers envision his salvation without killing him or distorting his spirit.

Rook represents the present — the modern world and its people. And the modern world asks Solas for mercy, pleading with him not to destroy their lives even more, reminding him that more violence won’t make “the flowers” bloom as Solas wishes. Rook delivers the first logical blow: “Who benefits from tearing down the Veil —you or all of us? You’re lying to yourself and drowning in regrets”. Solas knows this, but knowing and accepting are different things for the psyche. That’s why Rook, as a representative of the world Solas aims to destroy for the “greater good”, steps forward first, asking him to reconsider his true motivations. And Solas does ponder. By this point, he’s already filled with doubts, born long ago, but he’s still not ready to make another choice. The massive burden of the past and a graveyard of sacrifices remain on his shoulders. Solas rejects Rook, rejects the desires and opinions of the present, the modern world, just as he always has. As he must. For now.

Then the Inquisitor steps onto the stage. Whether a friend or a lover, the Inquisitor was the first to show Solas during their time together that he was wrong, cracking his convictions. This is especially clear in the letter to his beloved Lavellan.

Look at how he acts in this scene. How he freezes upon seeing the Inquisitor, how he lowers his head and dagger, the sadness and regret on his face, the tears welling up. In Lavellan’s case, he exhales painfully: “Vhenan”. After all these years of separation and his betrayals — “My love, my heart”. For me it was a emotional moment of vulnerability.

The Inquisitor is here to give Solas two things: forgiveness, which Solas cannot grant himself, and a reminder of who he is, who he dreamed of being, offering him a choice for the future. But even these gifts may not be enough for Solas because a person trapped in the past and overwhelming regrets, committed to self-destruction and mass deaths, sees no reason to choose a different future.

He has lost all hope for it. He believes he deserves neither happiness, love, nor forgiveness. And when Lavellan says she forgives him, Solas doesn’t understand why. What’s the point of forgiveness after all he’s done? Look at his face in that scene. He can’t forgive himself. He tries to prove to himself that he doesn’t deserve forgiveness: “I lied, I betrayed you”. The contrast with his self-justifications in “Trespasser” is stark. And yet, she forgives him. It means a tremendous amount to him, and he turns away from this gift in disbelief. It will take years before he truly forgives himself.

This scene is meant to show how deeply he’s sunk into his past, into his own darkness, unable to step back even for the sake of his beloved or a friend, for another path and future. He’s filled with self-justifications.

Solas explains why Lavellan’ forgiveness isn’t enough: “And then I... and then she died for nothing”. No, not because “she/Mythal” died for nothing. Everything he’s been through, everything he’s done to the world—everything—was for nothing if he keeps the Veil. And how can he live with that? All the suffering must be justified. His millennia of fears, pain, and guilt—these are stronger than his feelings for the Inquisitor. This is realistically portrayed, even if it hurts his beloved, even if it hurts you as a player. He can’t release himself from his burden and guilt. He’s come up with a thousand justifications. You hear this throughout the game from Mythal, Ghilan'nain, Morrigan, and so on. Solas is an unreliable narrator.

The present, the future, the past. Mythal is the catalyst for everything. That’s why she has to deliver the final blow, and she breaks him. For the last time. I won’t touch on the ethics of this moment. His entire tragedy began with her; his downfall started with her. He ties all his burdens to her. She embodies all his past and all his pain. Through her more benevolent version in Morrigan, Mythal shares the burden of their joint crimes with him. She doesn’t apologize or express remorse to him but directly destroys his last justification—that it was all for her. She no longer needs it. He is free. The world has suffered for too long, Solas has suffered for too long. It is time to stop. And in the finale, there’s no time for him to create another reason to justify his “delusions” and mass deaths.

Solas no longer has the strength to fight himself, and he agrees to stop. His past, present, and future simultaneously redefine his purpose. Now he has a new goal. This suits him as a spirit bound to serve his purpose. But he can't forgive himself and that's logical. The romanced Inquisitor is here to demonstrate for him immense wisdom and generosity by mortal standards, a deep understanding of Solas's spirit, and the strength of her love for him. It should break through any rational defense of his psyche. He is seen, heard, forgiven, given hope and purpose, his fear of being alone is shattered, and he is loved so deeply that he can hardly believe it. These are all the needs and desires of Solas that we have learned about from the two games. He desperately needed it and Weekes gives it to him with the help of the Inquisitor, his beloved. This is intentional. Solas is so disoriented and broken that he can't say anything to her except to give her a choice, one last chance to turn away from him, because he himself will no longer turn away from her.

Narratively, the Inquisitor, friend or lover, represents a bridge between Solas’s past and future: a factual happy future and a new purpose if you are his lover and leave with him; or you grant him a new purpose, reminding him of who he is, if you do not leave with him or are his friend. Solas faces dangerous work both on himself and on the Blight; this is not a respite.

The Inquisitor, however, will never be freed from their religious and mythical role. This character will always be tied to that role in the story.

Lavellan here embodies almost a religious myth about the great power of love that surpasses all contradictions, a bond stronger than rational reasons. It’s pointless to rationalize, and you won’t find solace in that process — their relationship is meant to be a deeply emotional romance with an irrational, mystical and mythical connection between two lovers.

Lavellan performs a strictly narrative function here, but out of respect for those players who cannot associate themselves with such an Inquisitor, there should technically have been an option to not go with him into the Fade right in that scene, instead of at the tavern.

Narratively, the writers are concluding the arc involving the story of the Evanuris, Solas, the Blight, and the Veil. Above all, the writers focused more on this overarching narrative than on how to incorporate the player's various choices into the plot. Therefore, the canonical character of the Inquisitor takes precedence here — that's how the writers envision this character.

Canonically, The Inquisitor like the HoF, is a hero with a specific, grand purpose in the plot. This is a character who brings order to a world on the brink of madness. They think on a global scale and resolve global conflicts. They don’t create problems, they solve them. The same approach is shown with Solas. He is both a global and personal problem for Lavellan. Solas forces the Inquisitor (any of them) to endure a lot of pain and unpleasantness, turning their life upside down.

Lavellan’s resentments, wounded pride, and sorrow may later be expressed or dealt with differently, but right now, the fate of not only Solas but the world is being decided (quarrels will not help anyone solve the task on a global scale; Lavellan will not be petty, nor will she be too proud, just as she won't think of herself first when faced with the world's fate; she will only think about it once the world is no longer in danger). Lavellan cannot convince Solas, but will keep trying with the influence she has.

Personally, I believe that this type of love (type of the lover) is exactly what Solas needs for his personal growth.

The Inquisitor offers him forgiveness and understanding because that is their role here — to be above it, to be wiser than Solas, to show more mercy, patience, and understanding toward others’ nature and spirit than Solas ever did toward the modern world and mortals. And this is especially valuable for the narrative. Mortals (Rook, the Inquisitor, Morrigan) give Solas what he couldn’t get in the past: the freedom to be himself, and salvation and/or love. This idea is even repeated in the game’s cut files.

According to interviews, Bioware wanted to level the playing field so that any player with any world state/choices could choose the redemption ending — I'm not a fan of this decision from the perspective of character development, but after all, this is a game, not a book story.

I’m not too critical of the Solavellan ending, even though I’m not a Solasmancer; I just like him as an antagonist and a character. I don't find the ending with his solo redemption psychologically credible. I'm sorry they didn't add at least Cole to the game to help him on this painful journey.

In my opinion, Solavellan ending is the best thing that happened in the game for Solas (and in his whole life). At least somewhere, he was given happiness and something he didn’t even dare to hope for.

The game itself is a big disappointment in terms of narrative, but I don’t want to criticize Bioware too much without knowing the reasons why it turned out this way. And for this reason, you should try to look beyond the execution and focus on the content and context of the story to understand the writer’s intent.

Thank you for reading to the end!

#solavellan #solas x lavellan #solas x female lavellan #solas x inquisitor #English is not my native language; I did my best

226 notes · View notes

sukirichi · 10 months ago

Text

[ DUSK ‘TILL DAWN : 012 ]

“we who bear the burden of the crown do not need to love. you only need to stay here, with me, in power, in greed, in lust – in victory.”

cw. 18+.modern royal au. infidelity. minimal angst. reader is confused with her feelings. toxic characters. toxic relationships. explicit smut. unedited. implied dub-con. smoking. physical violence. sex tapes. reader has a gun and almost uses it.

notes. i wanted the kiyoomi and suna girlies (/gn) to win so here it is! feedbacks / reblogs/ comments are appreciated <3

wc. 12.9k

series masterlist

[ TWELVE ] for you, i would cross the line. i would waste my time, i would lose my mind. they say “she’s gone too far this time.”

You prided yourself in being logical.

There was little to no room for measly emotions when it came to royal affairs. Granted, you had no proper training, but you were raised as a noble, and the rules were clear. Set aside your emotions, always look towards the most plausible solution, and cry about it later – where no one could see. Those were your mother’s words. You held onto them for as long as you remembered, with the exception of making only one grand mistake: proceeding with the marriage after catching your fiancé cheating on you.

But now? Now, you were about to make your next worst decision – letting Kiyoomi walk away.

It wasn’t love, of course. It couldn’t be. The odds simply weren’t in your favor, but couldn’t a Princess hope? You met him first, had him as your last dance on your debut ball. He was the first Prince who ever held your hand, the first Prince to dance with you, and the first – possibly last – who reminded what love could feel like. What love should feel like. It was explosive and angry like fire licking up at your skin, begging, pleading at you to chase after him. Every nerve in your body protested as you watched him take one more step away from you. It’s a mistake, one I’ll regret – Don’t let him go. It screamed at you, its cries desperate to be heard. You didn’t want to be here in the Palace. You didn’t want to return to your shared quarters with Rintaro.

You wanted to go back to Itachiyama – his farmhouse, the castle ruins, riding aimlessly with Astra and Lucy, picking fruits from his garden, and spending hours in his library. You hadn’t even held your end of the promise yet to learn everything about him.

What did Kiyoomi love? What did he look like in his slumber? Does he talk in sleep? Does he steal the blankets? What about his favorite song?

You moved before you could think.

Closing the distance in hurried strides, you grasped the Prince’s elbow. He stiffened under your touch, his eyes unreadable through the dimly-lit hallways. “Your Highness. Wait,” you panted, “Listen… back at Itachiyama–”

“Do you want me?”

Your grip on him faltered. Briefly, you took a step back, but the Prince was having none of it. He easily closed whatever distance you attempted to put between you two, his face hard and eyes burning with passion. With yearning. You never thought a man could look so determined yet hopeless as he did, the picture-perfect image of ardor. His brows pinched together, his lower lip trembling as he sighed. “Do you want me?”

You shook your head.

If only it could be as simple as that.

“It’s wrong, my Prince. We couldn’t… We wouldn’t work out. I only meant to say that I do adore you, and I do not want whatever complicated feelings we have to ruin our friendship,” Lies. Every word uttered from your lips were nothing but measly lies. Kiyoomi could tell too – the hesitation written all over your face said otherwise. “I hope you understand. You and I – we’re impossible.”

You couldn’t tell which one you needed more: for him to deny your worries, or for him to agree that you were right. You figured both would be just as painful.

Kiyoomi’s nostrils flared as you looked away from him, feet shuffling in the other direction already. “Stop. Do not take another step. Don’t you dare,” with a low growl, you were suddenly pulled back against his warm chest. You gasped at the hardness of his body, the warmth of his skin, the tenderness of his touch. His lips were everywhere but the one place you needed it to be – lingering at the curve of your neck, his breaths fanning over your exposed collarbones. It was like he had set you on fire with one touch alone, his firm grip around your waist both eerily intimidating and lustrous. And he must’ve laughed – you weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you were completely under Kiyoomi’s mercy, and quite frankly, he could have his way with you as he pleased.

“If you do not choose me…” murmuring, your breath hitched as his lips briefly grazed your skin, making your pulse jump. “You will regret it. You will be unhappy with him.”

I’m already unhappy with him, you wanted to say, but the words died in your mouth.

You’d lost all forms of coherence under Kiyoomi’s spell. Especially in this compromising position, this scandalous way his hand now slowly trailed its way from your abdomen and up to the swells on your chest – Gods, what would any witnesses say? This wasn’t how a Prince held a woman that wasn’t his.

“Your Highness,” you tried to fighting from his grasp, only to fall momentarily back against him when finally, finally, his lips were now leaving marks on your neck. It took all of your willpower to not give in right there, to not sink your fingers in his delicious curls. You had to say no. “I-I think we’ve both had a long night. We should retire to our quarters.”

“I will allow it if it’s my quarters you’ll be sharing.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck – your gaze darted around the empty hallway, paranoid.

The lights had been dimmed hours ago, the staff retiring to their rooms, but it was so quiet your breathy moans could echo. Anyone could walk in and see you like this, pleading but not quite begging for the Prince to not stop holding you.

And it was wrong, so deliciously wrong.

“Please,” you closed your eyes, unable to stop yourself from craning your neck to give him access. Above you, Kiyoomi chuckled, the rumbling of his chest deliciously low.

“You should stop lying to yourself, Princess. You do not want him. Whatever attachment you still have for my brother, it is nothing but a pitiful excuse of familiarity. You keep him around because there is no other choice, but you cannot keep lying to yourself. You cannot keep lying to me that you do not feel as I do when I see the way you look at me,” grasping your chin with his much larger hand, Kiyoomi forced you to look into his eyes. Pools of inky depths stared back at you with part frustration, part lust – his skin already flushed with sweat. You couldn’t look away even if the world ended. There was only you and Kiyoomi, with his hand resting on top of your breasts and gently caressing, so light you might’ve thought he wasn’t there.

And you, breathless and reckless, clung to him like he was your last lifeline.

Kiyoomi dipped down. His nose brushed against yours, your breaths mingled before he breathed you in greedily. “I was never a man who had many desires, but you are the greatest of them all. You run through my mind even in my sleep, and you are the first thing I search for when I wake. So do not tell me you do not want me when I know it’s my name you cry out in your sleep.”

Your knees felt impossibly weak.

“What do you want me to do? I’m married. You’re married. Are you forgetting divorce is impossible?” you snapped back, shoving him until his back hit the wall. The painting above him clattered, yet the Prince seemed uncaring, his arms crossed against his chest as you breathed hard. This was preposterous – this could not go any longer. “This would never work. The people would never understand.”

“I do not care what they think.”

“I care what they think! My husband is already cheating on me, and his own people detest him for it. What more if they find out I have taken you as my lover?”

“Then tell me to go,” he whispered, tilting his head back as he stared at you almost defiantly, mockingly. Like he knew you wouldn’t have the courage to actually say it. “Tell me, and I will walk away.”

When Kiyoomi is met with silence, he scoffed. A smirk graced his handsome face before he’s grabbing you by the arm and twisting you, the positions reversed until your back hit the wall. There’s a slight ache pounding at the back of your head, but nothing – absolutely nothing – could tear your attention away from his lips crashing into yours. The kiss is nothing short of avidity. Kiyoomi devoured you like a man starved, molding the shape of his lips into yours while his large hand encompassed the entirety of your face. Thumbs running over your cheek, his imposing frame completely dominated you. Your bodies were now pressed into each other that it became difficult to tell where you began and the Prince ended.

All you knew was Kiyoomi kissed you like he spent most of his nights dreaming about it, sighing and groaning all at once before his tongue fought for dominance.

Pushing his tongue inside your willing lips, he tasted all of you. He spoke the words he struggled to say, the firm grasp on your hip keeping you in place beneath him a clear sign he didn’t want you anywhere but here. But you weren’t leaving. You’d be a fool to walk away now that you finally had a taste of him, and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

You wanted more, needed more.

Kissing him back harder, your palms flattened on his chest before you balled his shirt into your fists, uncaring if he’d walk back home flustered and wild. You simply needed him there; you wanted to breathe him in, to have nothing but him as your entire world.

“Stay,” you pleaded in between kisses, letting the Prince maneuver you until your bum landed flat on a table. Uncaring, the Prince swept aside all knick-knacks placed above it when his lips found yours again. And oh, a greedy man he was. Even after kissing you until you were breathless, he still hadn’t had his fill. His tongue danced with yours in this gentle melody only you two could sing, your bodies moving in sync like a choreographed dance. Your hand would wound up to tangle itself in his dark locks, his hands would scramble to undo his breeches, and willingly – wantonly – you would welcome him with all your being. It’s a dance between lovers, a forbidden tune you sang wholeheartedly, accompanied by your high-pitched moans once the Prince had himself buried in you – “Oh. Oh.”

“Who makes you feel good?”

“You, my Prince, it’s you,”

Biting down on your lip to muffle the noises you made, you heard the crescendo of the music. Rising and rising with overwhelming intensity at each note hit, each perfect thrust and drive into you. He hadn’t felt like anyone else. He was thicker and spread you open, impaled on his stiffness while you sat there helplessly to take it all. You felt empowered and weak at the same time, with your legs locking behind his chest as tears rolled down your face from the pleasure of it all, but Kiyoomi showed no signs of stopping.

Heavens, he might not even stop tonight, not when you sucked him in tight and made his breath stutter, his thrusts staggered.

“Kiyoomi,” you cried out, unable to keep quiet any longer. He simply held you carefully, a great contrast to his hips pistoning in and out of you – no, he held you like you were a porcelain doll he feared would break, someone he had to protect and cherish. And his eyes – droopy yet adoring – gazed upon you like you were worth more than any crown. “Oh, you are so…”

His forehead landed on top of yours, his lips minutely brushing against yours for a quick kiss. It’s rushed, frantic, yet intimate in ways you’d never experienced before. For once, sharing bodies with someone didn’t feel like just like sex.

For once, you finally made love with someone.

“Choose me, Princess,” he gritted his teeth, “It was always meant to be me.”

You awoke with a gasp.

Sitting up, your heart pounded in your chest, your skin clammy and drenched with sweat. A scan of your surroundings told you that you were in your room, the empty side of your bed a sign Rintaro kept to his word and left you alone. Closing your eyes, your head dropped down to your palms.

So it had been a dream, after all.

You really allowed Kiyoomi to walk away from you. And one mistake leading into another, you let Rintaro do the same.

Regret churned at your stomach. You could see it perfectly now – the drooping of the Prince’s shoulders, his gaze cast downwards when you bid him farewell. There were still traces of the happiness you felt in Itachiyama lingering on him just as he finally left, ones you were compelled to reach out to before it was too late. But it couldn’t be – you refused to give into your desires when it meant committing a sin. Rintaro didn’t deserve your loyalty, but he was still your husband, and you wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing you’d been exactly like him.

In fact, you might be becoming like him with each passing day, and although you would never say it out loud, you understood him better now.

To find someone who could’ve been yours, someone who would’ve made you so happy against all odds, and to not have them at all – it felt like a cruel joke was being played by the Universe.

Is this what Rintaro felt like? Did he feel as if the world was being unusually cruel to him? Did he wonder what he could’ve done to deserve all this? Because those thoughts ran into your head long enough that you gave up on sleep, and rolled out of bed with a heavy heart and – shamefully – aching with need. Snatching your robe from the closet, you tiptoed out of the room. Rintaro was fast asleep in the sofa, his arm shielding his eyes from the lit candles. When he didn’t budge from his spot at you poking around him, you let out a sigh of relief and left the room. Clicking the door shut, you spun around, coming face to face with a wide eyed maid.

“Heavens!” you placed a hand on your chest, and then chuckled as the maid stepped back and bowed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone would still be around.”

The maid frantically shook her head. She scratched the back of her head as her gaze darted around, seemingly determined to not look you in the eye. “No, Your Highness, it was my fault for startling you. I was reassigned to you just now, you see, and… Uhm, I’m Airi. Prince Shinsuke sent me here.”

Airi… You’d heard that name before.

“Oh! Airi. Yes, of course, I remember you,” you nodded, tying the robe around your waist tighter. “Why are you up this late?” At your question, Airi’s cheeks flushed a deep red before turning away. You smiled to yourself, chuckling under your breath as you gently squeezed her arm. “I understand. You needn’t say anymore.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Would you like to accompany me for a walk?” you gestured to the empty hall. Airi nodded, a little too enthusiastic in picking up her skirts. You figured neither of you wanted to stay here any longer where anyone could easily see you.

Turning to the other direction, you headed for the gardens at the outer wing. It was the closest to your shared room with Rintaro, and coincidentally, an infamous shortcut to Belleview’s surrounding gardens. There had been rumors that Belleview was added in the palace grounds as an afterthought years ago – how a sudden need arose to have a separate place for a married couple. It was bizarre, in your opinion, how this long, seemingly endless path would certainly end up right at Kiyoomi’s doorstep if you were patient enough to brave the half hour walk.

Could you?

Would you?

Absentmindedly, you gnawed at your nails. Your Mother would chastise you for the unladylike gesture if she were here, but it was only you and Airi. She wasn’t going to judge, although you didn’t miss the way she glanced at you so often. Curiosity, maybe, but a question imposed her eyes. Deciding to break the silence, you smiled at the dark-haired maid.

“You’re very pretty. I can see why the Prince fell for you.”

Airi stuttered in her steps. “Oh! Thank you, you’re too kind for that, but I doubt it’s because of the way I look. The Prince and I have known each other since we were kids, that’s all. My mother was a maid too before she died. She was the one who helped raise His Highness,” she babbled, grimacing when she realized your patient smile held little to conceal your amusement. “Uhm… If I may be so bold, my Princess, I think you look rather great for someone who has been cheated on.”

Your brows rose. That you hadn’t expected.

“I do?”

“Yes. You look unbothered by it, or at least, you seem to be doing a great job at it,” she offered a polite smile, “Being a royal must come naturally to you as a noblewoman.”

Unable to help it, you chuckled. Oh, how wrong she was.

“Not at all. I haven’t always been this way,” you told her, watching as your surroundings changed from the marble pillars and into the night sky, where the fresh, cold breeze bit at your skin. You were thankful for it – the cold atmosphere was a great contrast to the blooming, colorful flowers.

It somehow reminded you of Kiyoomi’s gardens, and how you probably wouldn’t see it anymore.

The smile on your face disappeared. The ring on your finger grew heavier, and unbeknownst to you, you started spinning it with your thumb. It was curious, truly, how a week was all it took before you completely lost yourself. You couldn’t remember who you were even like before Itachiyama, before Kiyoomi. Or could it be that the past you had never been fulfilled to begin with? What if you were merely a work in progress, and the you in this moment was the real one?

If that was true, then that could only mean two things you would never want to admit out loud.

One: that you weren’t as in love with your husband as you thought if you couldn’t get Kiyoomi out of your mind, or Two: that the traditional saying and belief was right – your last dance would be your fated lover.

And it would make sense, too. Of course, you were happy with Rintaro. Were. You fell in love with him simply because there was no other appropriate reaction. He was the Crown Prince, a man who called on you every single day and learned about your passions until night came. He charmed your parents, loved them as his own, and proudly presented you to his regal family. It was the kind of love little girls were taught to dream about. The kind of love everyone wanted. You couldn’t blame yourself for craving the Prince’s touch, for giving him all your firsts. It seemed only the right thing to do. He courted you, committed to you, loved you as much as he could – it was logical and methodical.

It was one plus one equals two.

But Kiyoomi? It didn’t feel natural, or a step by step process.

It felt all kinds of wrong because you shouldn’t, and all kinds of right because it’s him. It’s the way he smiles at you when he thinks you’re not looking, or how his head is always turned in the other direction to act like he isn’t listening. He isn’t like Rintaro who never takes his gaze off of you – not because he can’t get enough of your beauty, but because he was watching. Rintaro was always watching, analyzing everything you did, crafting his actions and words perfectly to elicit the response he wanted from you.

His brother was the exact opposite.

Kiyoomi always stayed at the walls and blended in with the background. He never attracted any attention to himself, but would devote his entire focus on you simply because he’s entranced. Or you hoped he might. Surely it couldn’t be one-sided.

You felt it too – the frustration ebbing off of him each time you slipped away. You saw with your own eyes the way his face fell when news of your husband’s affair spread.

He didn’t hate his brother for sleeping with his mistress behind your back. He hated Rintaro for ruining a night that should’ve been yours. A night where his touch could linger on yours for a moment longer as you smiled for the cameras. A night where it’d be appropriate for him to look at you like you’re the star of the show – it’s camaraderie, you’d play off – and a night where he might’ve drove you back at the farmhouse and slowly, tenderly, begin with tugging your gloves off before he moved on to your dress.

Gods. You exhaled. You shouldn’t be doing this.

You shouldn’t be thinking about Kiyoomi, his plump lips that looked inviting, his dark eyes hungrily roaming over you and hoping, praying, that it’d been him instead. These were all wrong – so why were you walking towards Belleview?

“Your Highness?”

Airi’s voice snapped you out of your trance. Blinking, you smiled back at her in apology and continued. “Sorry, I must have been lost in my thoughts. As I was saying, though, I spent most of my life hiding behind my parents’ shadows because I struggled talking to people. And then the Crown Prince came and swept me off my feet, which changed everything. When he came into my life, I figured I had to become someone worthy enough to stay by his side, someone he could be proud to be with. It took a lot of years and effort before I could be confident enough to say I was good enough for him,” you mumbled, stopping in your tracks to look up into the dark horizon before you.

Huh. Why hadn’t you realized that before?

You’d been trying so hard to impress Rintaro all along. Isn’t that why you were so frustrated? You’d spent years molding yourself to become who he wanted, only to be slapped in the face that it was impossible because you could never be her.

You let out a dry laugh. “But apparently not. He already had someone else.”

“I’m really sorry you were dragged into this. From the stories Prince Shinsuke tells me, you’re a kind woman who deserved better.”

“I don’t know about that,” you said, “Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t mad upon reading the tabloids about his affair? If anything, I was just furious he couldn’t stay out of trouble and ruined my trip to Itachiyama.”

“Did you like it there?”

“I loved it. I wanted to stay.”

Admitting it out loud felt… liberating. You were beginning to feel more like yourself, even if it meant being less of a Princess and more of this unorthodox woman who simply wanted to be. It must be the side effect of spending time with Kiyoomi. You would soon care less about the rules imposed on you, and unapologetically be yourself.

“But the world sure has a cruel way of bringing you back to reality.”

“Your Highness?”

Both yours and Airi’s head snapped at the sound. Amongst the rustling of the bushes, a tall figure suddenly appeared – all mighty and regal even in his creased blouse and loosely tied breeches. His hair, dark and tousled like he’d run his fingers through it, did little to hide the surprise on his face.

“My Prince,” you breathed out, “What are you doing out here so late?”

“I couldn’t sleep. And you?”

You fought back a smile at his raspy voice. You could almost picture it – Kiyoomi tossing and turning all night in a bed separate from Iris. The sanguine voice in your head fibbed, too, wondering if the Prince thought about you as well. “It’s a restless night,” was all you let on, and gestured to the shock-still maid beside you. “Airi, do you mind giving us some privacy?”

Vehemently, she shook her head. “Not at all, Princess. Please, call for me if you need anything. I won’t be far.”

You waited as Airi disappeared from sight before you stepped closer to the Prince, compelled by an invisible force to be closer to him. “Kiyoomi–”

“Are you well?”

“Me? Why do you ask?”

He tipped his head to the side, causing a lone curl to fall in front of his eye. You fought back the urge to brush it away, beguiled by his long fingers sweeping it away “You’re in a very difficult position right now, whatnot with the article spreading,” he gestured back to the castle, “Has he spoken to you?”

You shook your head. “He’s kept to himself the past few days. I think this is a lot harder on him than it looks. As for me, well… I’ve had better days.”

True to your word, Rintaro almost secluded himself from the world. He shut off his phone, chucked it at another corner of the room, and never touched it again. It was painful seeing your husband that way when you know of his hobby of endless scrolling. But now, he couldn’t stomach the social media wishing him ill, seeing so blatantly with his own eyes his people’s deference to him. It hurt – more so for him than you – but still, a small part of you wished he’d say something. You were there, were you not?

You cut off your trip short because your husband needed you, and he barely uttered a word since you arrived. It got at your nerves. Nevertheless, you’d give him the time he needed. You planned to keep to your word that you would fix this all for him, regardless of what that might take.

You weren’t so cruel to let your husband be dragged into the pits of hell. Because quite frankly, that wasn’t the media’s right to begin with. If anyone would unleash hell upon Rintaro and Iris, it had to be you.

Kiyoomi scanned your face. “You don’t seem upset about all of this.”

You shrugged. “Their secret would’ve gone out one way or another. It was only a matter of time. Besides, I have far, bigger things to worry about, like you,” you leveled your gaze with his, watching as the Prince sucked in a breath.

Your last conversation with him the past night still played in your mind. It ate away at you to have to say goodbye when you didn’t want to, but he was here now. You woldn’t waste the opportunity to make things right.

Steeling yourself, you shut your eyes tight to gather courage. “Kiyoomi… Your Highness. I… I do not wish to stop talking to you. I know I sound absurd because I haven’t known you that long, but everything we shared in Itachiyama, I cherish it. I won’t forget a single memory I shared with you. So please allow me to take back what I said. I didn’t mean it when I said I would stop talking to you.”

“You should, though.” Opening your eyes, your heart dropped into your stomach when the Prince took a step back. “I don’t think we can be friends, Princess.”

Your hands grew cold and clammy.

“W-Why not? Have I done something to offend you? Tell me, and I will correct it–”

“We cannot be friends because I do not wish to be just your friend.”

Whatever distance he created between you disappeared. In the blink of an eye, Kiyoomi had closed the gap in one smooth stride, leaning down close enough his nose nearly brushed yours.

You inhaled sharply at the proximity. Kiyoomi’s heat blanketed you, making you realize you’d been shivering from the cold prior to his arrival. Now, he was here, and your senses were filled to the brim with him – his scent, his warmth, his frame looming over yours making you feel protected instead of small. You couldn’t help it; your fingers twitched to pull him by his collar and finally have his lips pressed to yours. It’d been eating away at you for several nights.

A peck couldn’t hurt.

But you made no move, greedily sharing in the same breaths instead. Because if it was all you could have, then it was all you could get.

“You’re right. It does sound absurd. We have barely spoken to one another, yet I’m already tired of this stupid game my brother is playing – his foolish plans to become King, make my wife his concubine, all with the intention of keeping you around like a pet. It makes my blood boil,” Kiyoomi grinned, though it was more sinister than genuine. “He cannot have everything for himself. I will not let him.”

“My Prince. I–”

“–Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in love with you, nor do I have any intentions of stooping down to Rintaro’s level and stealing what isn’t mine,” cruel, you think, as the Prince effectively cut you off with a brush of his thumb to your lips. You were now putty at his hands; melting and knees weakened with nothing but his touch holding you up. “But I am tired of seeing you this distraught over a man who cannot see your worth. I have had enough. So whatever plans you may have to retaliate, tell me, and I will gladly be a pawn in your game. Make your move. You may command me as you please.”

It took a moment before his words dawned on you. When it did, your palms flattened on his chest, absorbing its warmth and feeling the flutter of his heart underneath your fingertips. He felt so alive, whole, and well – you couldn’t possibly drag him into your mess.

“I could never use you like that. You know this.”

“So you do have a plan in mind,” he noted with a smirk, fingers crawling up to circle your wrist. “My brother really underestimated you, hasn’t he? You’re already proving to be far more dangerous than any sword.”

You flushed warm at his compliment. Pretty, yes, Rintaro has called you that multiple times. Beautiful, gorgeous, even, but dangerous? It made you feel powerful, like the crown was already on your head, and the kingdom was all yours for the taking. But greed often started out as a small flicker of fire, and you stomped on it as quickly as it breathed into life. You were no thrill seeker – you would not dabble or tread in dangerous, unknown, forbidden paths. Such paths like Kiyoomi, but it was there. The temptation. The calling to just reach out to the hand he’s offered.

Its voice beckoned you. Come, it whispered oh-so-sweetly at your ear, he is your puppet.

You bit the inside of your cheek in contemplation. “It isn’t a good plan at all, and the Queen has summoned us – all of us – to inform us of her decisions on how we will proceed with this scandal. There’s a good chance Her Majesty might get in the way, but I’m determined. I need this plan to work.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“I plan on turning the tables around and pinning it on Iris. I know it’s dangerous – she’s your wife, and you might get caught in the crossfire–”

“Do as you please.”

“Are you serious?”

Kiyoomi nodded with resolve. “When I said I do not wish to be just your friend, I meant it. I want you to use me. I want to be your weapon,” nudging his nose with yours, he brought up your hand to his lips, kissing the glimmering diamond on your ring. A kiss of rebellion, a war cry, or a silent plea to be dominated – it said everything and too little all at once. “If there is anything I can do to help you escape this royal hell, I will do it.”

You closed your fist around his lips, and basked in the ghostly flutters it will leave upon your skin hours after he has gone. Then, you questioned it all: how could something so poignant evoke a raging will within you?

“It will be hard for you, Your Highness,” you warned him, “My plan is not a kind one.”

“I do not have very kind thoughts myself,” he chuckled, the sound dark and ominous. “But you should be careful, Princess. Iris is not who you think she is. If you are to proceed with your plan, you need to watch out for yourself, and Maiko especially.”

Maiko? What could Maiko’s involvement with Iris be?

“She won’t hurt Maiko, will she?”

“She wouldn’t dare, but I can’t guarantee she won’t try doing something to you,” with a wary gaze, Kiyoomi immediately masked it with that of indifference. Scanning the surroundings, and hearing nothing but the crickets of insects and the rustling of bushes from the wind, Kiyoomi wrapped a protective arm around your waist. “It’s getting late. Let me walk you back. Iris is probably somewhere close.”

You were never one to feel much fear, but in that moment, a sense of numbing chill settled in your bones. Goosebumps arose on your skin. It was almost like you could feel it – her sharp gaze, her wicked and deceivingly innocent smile. You shivered despite yourself and huddled closer to the Prince, letting him guide you through the garden’s maze when his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“Do you wish to know what would make Iris tick?”

“What?”

“It may be Rintaro who she wants,” his breathy voice caressed you, sending a different set of shivers down your spine. “But it is I whom she would kill to keep. Present yourself as a threat, make her believe you can steal me from her, and you will find her willingly offering Rintaro to you.”

You scoffed. “And if I don’t want him?”

“Then you shall always have me.”

Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi…

The Prince’s last words haunted you. Moreover, the way he looked with the moonlight illuminated upon him… he felt surreal. He came to you in your dreams more than once, caressing you in places he shouldn’t be touching, filling you in ways you never thought possible. A part of you wondered if it was merely your brain coping with the fact you’d mistakenly lain in bed with Rintaro. How you’ve felt disgusted with yourself ever since, and found it hard to look in the mirror. Perhaps it was simply a trick of the brain – replacing the man who left marks on you with the man that could’ve made you feel better. And you knew Prince Kiyoomi would – with those large, calloused hands, and luscious lips you spent countless hours gazing upon… would it be such a sin to wish they hadn’t been dreams only?

Picking up the nearby body wash, you scrubbed yourself clean of Rintaro. Your body still ached from last night’s events, but your heart clenched for an entirely different reason. Seriously. You couldn’t believe it. First, he’d let himself get caught in the action, and you let him sleep with you? You could’ve pushed him away. You could’ve said no.

It didn’t have to lead to whatever happened last night.

But then again, laughing to yourself, why did you chastise yourself so much? He was your husband. You were both married – sleeping with him wasn’t a mistake. Yet why did it feel like it? It felt as if… you kept on letting him take and take from you. How long until you’ve had enough? How much more could you give before there was nothing left of you?

You sighed, sinking deeper under the water. It’d been hours since your previous encounter with the older prince, and he hadn’t left your mind since. His offer for you to make use of him like he was a weapon, or worse, a tool, wasn’t an opportunity you could let pass by.

You could make use of him. He had more access to Iris than you ever could, and planting spies in Belleview Manor sounded terrible. She’d probably won over their loyalty judging by the way they kept their mouths shut that first night you arrived there to give her tea for her ‘headache.’ She had secrets, that you were sure of, but did Kiyoomi know them too? What was her connection with Maiko? Surely… Maiko wasn’t involved in whatever schemes they had in mind. The Princess was too sweet and innocent for that, but then again, so was Iris. The so called ‘dear friend’ of your boyfriend before he’d asked for your hand in marriage.

This was proving to be nearly impossible.

It was hard to tell who to trust within the Palace. Kita would be at your side, but you couldn’t possibly involve him in your plan. He might not even approve of it. It would be against the law, and it wasn’t the kindest thing one could think of. Kita would call it ‘the opposite of justice.’

“I hope the meeting went well, Princess?”

Popping your head from the water, you watched as Airi entered the room, folded towels in her arms. She’d prepared a bath for you long before you arrived, the water warm and filled with bubbles – just how you liked it. The room smelled faintly of roses, too, and you made a mental note to thank Airi for her efforts.

“It was great. His Highness and I discussed a lot,” he almost kissed me, too, but she didn’t need to know that, or the fact you wished he did. “Oh, and Airi.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

You pondered over it, you really did it. It was out of your character to abuse the power you had, yet you couldn’t stop the heat flaring in your veins. The pettiness that begged to be revealed. “Could you have someone call L’Essenxe Royale? Tell them I want them to discontinue their Vanilla Candy line because I’m allergic to it, and it would be a shame if I had to stop purchasing their perfumes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Airi nodded, stopping in her tracks after a beat. “I wasn’t informed you were allergic to vanilla. I’m sorry, I’ll do better in catering to your needs more.”

“I’m not allergic. I just don’t want to smell Iris ever again.”

Just before Airi could respond, the doors swung open. Suna sauntered in like he owned the place, the top three buttons of his white shirt undone and loose. His collarbones and the top of his chest shone with sweat, his skin flushed and his dark hair messily swept to the sides. He must’ve gone for his early training – and damned him for looking good.

You snorted inwardly. But Prince Kiyoomi probably looked better.

“There you are. I didn’t get to see you before I left.”

“Airi, please give us a moment,” you requested from where you sat, arms lazily resting on the sides of the tub. Airi scurried out of the room with reddened cheeks – no doubt picturing what events could transpire between a naked wife and her insatiable husband. And speaking of said husband, he’d leant against the pristine white walls, arms crossed against his chest as he let those dark, hooded eyes roam over your exposed skin.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I think the real pleasure here is this view.”

You rolled your eyes. “Is that what you told your mistress too when you fucked her in my bed?”

Suna paused. It was a bait; he was sure of it. Choosing not to bite at your provocation, he pushed his weight off the wall and gestured to the doors. “You redecorated the room,” he announced, “Without my permission.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission. I thought we made it clear – under your suggestion – that I was to sleep in that bed, and you take the couch outside. Technically, that would make it my room, no?”

“You made Airi burn the sheets.”

“Sue me.”

“You threw away Iris’ clothes.”

“They barely counted as clothes, Your Highness. They were just thongs.”

“If this is about last night–”

“Last night was a mistake. Never speak of it again,” you warned, and just the mere reminder that you’d let him have his way with you, and you were too weak to refuse, again, no longer made the relaxing bath enjoyable. All of Airi’s efforts poured down the drain because having Suna around had your muscles stiffening with tension again. Rising from the bath, you wiped off the bubbles and suds off your body before stepping out. “What did you truly come here for? You never bother me when I’m bathing.”

Suna’s hungry gaze followed your every movement. The perverted bastard wasn’t even trying to hide it – his poor attempts of adjusting his breeches a failure once you’d put on your robe. “Her Majesty has summoned us for breakfast. She has an important announcement to make. I suggest you make haste so she won’t be anymore upset with us.”

“With you, you mean,” you waved around your lip balm, “What? Don’t look so offended. I am not the one who caused a scandal here.”

“I’m tired of arguing with you.”

You couldn’t agree more. Smacking your lips together, you walked past him, making sure to sashay your hips as you did. But before you could leave the room, Suna’s hand shot out to wrap it around your wrist. Gently, he pulled you back into him until your breasts brushed with his chest, the dampness of your robe making his shirt stick even harder on his skin.

“Wait,” he breathed out, not once taking his eyes off you as he blindly swiped for a towel. “Let me dry you off properly. It would be a shame if you made a mess on your newly decorated room.”

Your husband fell down on his knees before you could say a word.

You almost asked him what he was doing when his hands tugged at the ties of your robes, his tender touch pushing them past your shoulders until the robe pooled at your feet. You inhaled sharply. Suna was kneeling before you, caressing your leg and urging you to place at his thigh. You don’t know what compelled you to obey, but you did. Resting it on his leg, you felt too exposed – his nose was right at your stomach, his hands touching everywhere but that one place near your heat.

It was torture.

The entire act was done with slow, purposeful motions. Like an artist taking great care with his sculptures, he pressed hard on your hips to keep you in place when you shivered. His strength, his silent gestures that he wouldn’t let you slip and fall – it broke your heart.

Why couldn’t he love you?

Why couldn’t he touch you this way and mean it?

Why did he have to remove his ring?

The glint of the golden material caught your attention from the vanity. You picked it up where he left it last night, unconsciously hugging it to your chest until you fell asleep. Until now, you’d brought it with you, and stared at it hard enough it might’ve melted. It never did, just as he would never belong to you. And then – his finger swiped over your nipple, the cloth on his hands now damp and his breath staggering as he moved to kiss your bare stomach.

You pushed his head away.

Suna stumbled back, barely. He sat there with a dazed expression, the towel he used to dry you with now forgotten. His hands shook in his lap, his eyes blown wide with something you couldn’t quite name – longing, regret, frustration. Whatever it was, it matched yours.

“I’m dry enough,” you told him, snatching off his ring from the counter and flicking it his way. The two of you watched as it stumbled along the ground with a loud clink, clink, clink, before it rolled right at his feet. When you finally found the courage to speak, your voice was so quiet – you couldn’t hear yourself at all. “Wear it. I don’t care that it no longer means anything to you. I won’t have you causing anymore problems for me when your mother asks about it.”

When you and Suna sat next to each other at the dining hall, neither of you spoke a word.

In fact, not a single person present dared to. Her Majesty sat at the head of the table, the clink of her utensil the only thing audible as she furiously cut into her steak. She was furious, that much was obvious. Even Crown Prince Ushijima hadn’t touched his meal, and his young son, barely a boy of eight, had his lips shut the entire time.

Finally, she takes a bite, takes a huge drink of her wine, and slams the glass down. All of you jump at the sound.

“It is not every day we can all be gathered here, but as you are all aware, it is a trifling time for the Crown. We as the royal family need to be united now more than ever,” she announced, her back straight as she looked everyone in the eye. “Which is why I am here to inform everyone of some minor changes we will implement from now on, and some events we have planned for the next season. First of all, Princess–” she pointed her knife your way, “-I need you to hold your mother back. She’s getting on my nerves with all her incessant calling.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she lifted her chin, “Your Mother hasn’t stopped bugging me ever since that article was released. She demands I return her to you, but I think she forgets her place and yours. You are a Princess now; you are the Crown’s property. You are to stay here and see to your duties until you take your last breath.”

Forcing a smile, you willed yourself to calm down. “My mother was merely concerned, Your Majesty. I’m sure she doesn’t mean any harm.”

“Which is exactly why I’m telling you to tell her to stand down. I have already spoken with my advisors our next course of action and have all decided that we will deny Rintaro and Iris’ affair by all means. We are to pretend as if the article never existed. We need to show we are the Crown, the monarchs and rulers of this grand kingdom. We will not be swayed by measly gossip and defaming rumors.”

“But it wasn’t a rumor. The Crown Prince did sleep with the Princess.”

Her Majesty sighed, the sound dramatically drawn out. “Do you have any complaints, my dear? Because if you did, then you should have attended the meeting this morning.”

You gritted your teeth. “I wasn’t informed there was one.”

“That’s a shame – I thought Rintaro would tell you. It seems he likes to keep his secrets, then,” she jabbed, and your husband nervously sipped his wine as you glared at the sides of his head. “Now, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, we planned a few events for this season. For this month, the four of you will be showing up to public events and you are to appear united in marriage. Laugh, kiss, hold hands – I do not care. Just make sure the cameras get it, and if anyone dares ask on any clarifications about the affair, simply tell them that it is very easy to fabricate photographs nowadays. You will deny everything. Understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” agreed Suna, and you scoffed. Snaking his hands under the table, he squeezed yours in assurance and whispered, “Don’t cause a scene in front of the Queen. We will talk later about this.”

“I was hoping we would.”

“Next, Iris and Y/N will be having weekend dates to show they are friends. We have already contacted an orphanage you will pay a visit to. Play with the kids, read storybooks with them, and get as many pictures as possible. Not only will it show that there’s camaraderie between you two, but hanging out with children will also imply that we can expect a next line of heirs soon.”

“A splendid idea!” Atsumu beamed, the first to dig into his meal. Rather, the Prince was halfway finished stuffing his mouth, happily rubbing his hands together at the thought. “This will all be good for the Crown, and to win the people’s trust back.”

“You really don’t know how to shut up, huh?” muttered Osamu.

“Your Majesty. Don’t you think this is going too far?” Tobio spoke up, slamming his hands on the table as he stood up. Beside him, Prince Shinsuke was pleading for him to sit back down. The youngest Prince merely slapped his hands away, looking betrayed by his brother’s words. “Why is no one speaking up? Is this how the royal family really is? You would all lie to your people, deceive them we are all in one heart and mind when we are not. Is that the kind of rulers we aspire to be? Are we really the rulers they look up to?”

Prince Shinsuke pinched the bridge of his nose. “I understand you’re upset, but the throne wouldn’t have lasted this long if none of us pulled some strings and kept up deceiving acts. Trust me, I also do not wish to take a part in this, but Her Majesty is right. The people are already growing restless that we have been without a King for years – having Crown Prince Rintaro’s reputation tarnished will not make this better. And as far as I know, there are still many protests against having an illegitimate child on the throne,” he reminded, causing Prince Ushijima to clear his throat awkwardly. Still, Shinsuke pushed on. “Rintaro is the King the Cabinet wants. We must follow the law. Ushijima can only be crowned King until we have ran out of options.”

Your jaw dropped.

“And what of me?”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, the future of the Kingdom is a heavier matter at hand than your broken heart,” Iris quipped, “Besides, if you knew about our relationship prior to the marriage, then you cannot blame anyone but yourself. You’re in this predicament because you were too cowardly to let go when given the chance.”

“That’s enough!” Tobio yelled. “You all need to stop talking about her like that. You’re all right – the Crown is more important. We need a stable ruler and for the people to not lose their trust in us. But the Princess is still a human. She was lied to, manipulated, and constantly looked down on. The least you can do right now is let her acknowledge her pain, seeing as it is clearly too much for each and every one of you to be decent human beings!”

Her Majesty paid him no mind. Waving her hand in the air dismissively, she sighed. “He is young. He will understand someday.”

At her nonchalance, Tobio’s nostrils flared. It was the last you saw of him before he kicked his chair back, storming out of the hall before everyone erupted into protests. Keiji slunk back into his seat, Shinsuke was immediately making efforts to appease the Queen by apologizing on everyone’s behalf, and Maiko was crying. And you? You glowered at the Queen before following after Tobio, the three other Princes right at your heels.

The doors slammed shut behind you.

You could hear the Princes running after you. Two pairs were rushing, but one pair of footfalls sounded more like stomping. Before you could turn down the hall where Tobio went, you were dragged by, Suna firmly gripping your elbow as he halted you in your tracks.

“Her Majesty was speaking,” he hissed, fingers digging harder to your skin. “Don’t be rude.”

“Oh, fuck off, Rintaro. I can’t believe you right now. Letting me be friends with your mistress? Really? And you didn’t even tell me there was a meeting this morning!”

His free hand ran through his hair. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you would act like this. You would’ve embarrassed me in front of the advisors. Besides, you left before I could–”

“I embarrass you? Do you even hear yourself? You’re the embarrassing one for going behind my back and sleeping with your mistress–”

“She’s not my mistress!”

“Isn’t she? I wasn’t aware there was another word to describe a woman frolicking with a married man!”

His grip grew tighter as he spoke, and you squeaked out in pain. You tried to pry his fingers off of you, but Suna wasn’t having any of it. “You’re one to talk, leaving me here in this country to go around dancing with my brother–” Your husband’s face disappeared before you. In the blink of an eye, he was shoved nearly across the room and falling right at his ass.

Kiyoomi stood protectively over you, his chest rising and falling as he shook with anger.

“Stay away from my wife!”

Meanwhile, Tooru dodged between Suna and Kiyoomi, the former rising on his feet and reeling his arm back in a punch. Tooru effortlessly caught his brother’s arm, but holding him back was a different struggle of itself. “Rin, that’s enough!”

“Are you okay?”

You blinked back from the scene. Kiyoomi was now holding your arm where Suna grabbed you, checking for any injuries. Aside from a little aching, and a possible bruise that would show up tomorrow, you were unharmed. Still, the Prince wasn’t assured. His thick brows pinched together in concern, turning your arm over and over as he muttered to himself the violent things he wished to do to his brother. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not really, but I want to go after Tobio.”

Kiyoomi nodded in understanding. “Go. I’ll handle this.”

You shared a knowing look with him. I’m on your side, his eyes said, and that was enough to reassure you. Giving him a nod, you quickly turned on your heels and ran. You ran and ran until you were out of breath, your corset digging into you uncomfortably. The youngest Prince sure was a fast one – he’d already reached his own study in such a short time.

Peeking through the partially closed door, your heart broke at the sight.

Prince Tobio sat on his painter’s stool, an unfinished portrait of you – smiling in your wedding dress – lay before him. He was crying, sniffling to himself and wiping his tears with the collar of his blouse. Even the sounds of his cries were too painful to hear.

Shutting the door behind you, you took your place behind him, gently squeezing his shoulders to make him look up. When he did, his bloodshot eyes greeted you.

“I’m sorry you had to witness all of that,” you tell him softly, “I didn’t mean to ruin breakfast for you.”

Tobio shook his head. He pulled out a handkerchief before blowing on it, and you smiled despite yourself – he’d grown so much, yet he was still that sweet, naïve boy in your eyes. It felt like a lifetime ago when he had his debut, and now he was flourishing into such a great, young man. Your little brother, the sweetest Prince – you would do anything for him.

“You don’t need to apologize for anything, sis. You’re the victim here.”

You laughed a little. Victim sounded too poor of a word choice. Turning to the canvas before you, you gestured to it. “What are you painting?”

“You,” he admitted with red cheeks, “I started on this when Rintaro announced he’d be marrying you so I could give it as a wedding gift. But Her Majesty wanted me to focus on my studies, so I didn’t have enough time to finish. I mean, it’s not even the same dress you wore on your wedding so it’s inaccurate–”

“-It looks beautiful.”

“It’s still unfinished,” his shoulders slumped in your flattery before he lightened up, already moving to pick up the brushes as he wiped his snot with his hanky. “Since you’re here, would you like me to paint you as you are now? I’ll get a new canvas.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to lose all your efforts on your previous painting.”

“It’s fine,” he reassured, and per his instruction, you sat stiffly to ‘pose’ for him. It’s a little awkward, and Tobio struggled to sketch you each time you fidgeted, but at least he wasn’t crying anymore. Midway through his sketch, though, he placed his pencil down, his eyes brimming with tears again. “I still can’t believe Rintaro was capable of being so cruel. I’ll never forgive him for what he did,” he said, his lower lip quivering. “Are they really like this? Is everyone in the Palace truly so heartless? Will I… never find love of my own, too?”

“Oh, Tobio,” you reached your arms out, crushing him to your chest. The Prince’s tears dampened your dress, though you paid it no mind. He was too young for all this hurt – this war over the crown. He was too good for a cruel place like this. “It will get easier someday.”

Fisting your skirt, he buried his face to your neck, his whole body shivering under you. “I never wanted to be a Prince. I-I wanted to keep playing sports and go pro someday. There’s a whole world out there for me to see, and I’m so afraid I’ll never become the person I want to be. I’m afraid I might turn out like my brothers.”

You pulled back to make him look at you. Cupping his face with your hands, you shook your head firmly. “That’s not true, Tobio. You’re already a thousand times better than your brothers. Look, you’re sweet, kind, and passionate. Who says you don’t deserve to achieve your dreams? You can be who you want to be. You can see the world. I promise you that I’ll support you in anything you want to do. Anything.”

“Really?” grinning, he wiped his cheeks free from his tears. “Then… will you come to my game? There’s a match and the Coach just added me to the team. It… Well, it might be a good opportunity for you and everyone else to show you’re unaffected by the scandal, too.”

“Oh, forget the scandal. I only want to see you play,” you tell him, and the Prince’s innocent smile is so big and bright it soothed all the aches in your heart. You promised to yourself, then and there, that you would do what it takes to protect that smile. “Now, should we get to this painting?”

That talk with Tobio filled you with unwavering resolve.

The poor boy didn’t deserve to spend a minute longer in the Palace. It simply wasn’t a place for him. He needed to be out there, living his life to the fullest, and to be surrounded by good people who were healthy for him. Not his greedy, cheating brothers, and most especially not with the heartless Queen as his only mother figure.

You had to do something for him. You had to weaken the throne even further, exploit their weakness and make the monarchy crumble. If not for you, then you would do it for Tobio.

It was the reason you’d gained enough courage to dial the number weighing heavily in your pockets long before Itachiyama. That piece of paper Kiyoomi slipped into your coat just before you parted ways. You should’ve known it back then – Kiyoomi was somehow always one step ahead of you. It’s like he knew what you wanted to happen before you said out loud. What you needed before you told him what it was. And you’d done it – scheduled the meeting, hired a private chauffer, and rented out a restaurant in the middle of nowhere at the dead time of the night before you could change your mind.

Do it For Tobio. For Kiyoomi. For you.

He arrived not a minute later than the designated time. He stood tall and confident – seemingly unbothered by the mass of hate he’d accumulated. Sauntering in through the doors with a smirk, he let out a low whistle, impressed with the lack of people. You had promised him privacy, after all, and if you wanted to succeed in your plans, you couldn’t be shy in splurging a little bit of money.

“Kuroo Tetsurou, was it?”

“Your Highness,” he greeted with a bow, his smile growing wider as he pulled out his chair. He’s handsome, with a smile you wouldn’t deem trustworthy, and he held an aura to him that warned you to tread carefully. He was, after all, the man who singlehandedly exposed your husband’s affair. “I am flattered by your efforts, though I must admit. I did not expect you would reach out to me of all people. I assumed you wanted my head.”

You offer him a polite smile. “You have it all wrong. In fact, I’m thankful for the opportunity you’ve presented to me,” leaning forward, you slid a thin envelope his way. Inside it contained a document of your own words, one you trusted Kuroo would twist to sound more convincing. “I want you to publish another article.”

Kuroo’s eyes widened. He waited for a beat, a moment or two, for you to say you didn’t mean it. You could’ve been joking. But you hold his gaze, your smile just as firm, refusing to waver from his intense gaze. “With all due respect, Ma’am, I think I’m already in enough trouble for that last one.”

Fair enough. You didn’t think he’d be that easy to convince.

Reaching beside you, you pulled out a case and clicked open the locks for him. If Kuroo was surprised before, he was most definitely flabbergasted by now. Wads of cash piled against each other stared back at him – temping him to reach out and take it. Smiling to yourself, you gently nudged the case in his direction.

“This is half of what I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you twice as much once you’ve done your part,” you promised, “You don’t need to fear, Mr. Kuroo. I’ll guarantee your protection if you do this for me.”

Kuroo chuckled to himself. Shutting the case back shut, he was quick to slide it to his side – deal done and closed. “If a lovely Princess is asking so nicely, I can’t possibly turn it down, can I?” pulling out a small notebook from his coat, Kuroo uncaps his pen with a twist of his teeth. “So let’s get into it. What story do you want, Ma’am? Do you want the truth or… something more scandalous than your husband’s affair?”

“I want you to ruin Iris,” you declared, “Inside that envelope is a list of people the Princess frequently interacts with, as well as records from her history dating back from when she moved here with mother. I want you to look into everything and pick apart whatever could destroy her reputation. There are secrets that she keeps, and I want them out in the public.”

Kuroo doesn’t bother writing that down. “Her reputation is well ruined already, Ma’am. I doubt much could make it worse.”

Your brow shoots up. “Are you doubting my abilities or questioning my demands?”

“Neither,” he reassured with a mischievous grin, “I shall write something about her, then, but what about the Crown Prince? Do I still have the assurance of your protection if he comes after me for messing with his precious little thing?”

Oh, please. His ‘precious little thing’ doesn’t even want him.

Spinning your wedding finger with your thumb, you stared at it. “Tell me, Kuroo. You’re a journalist, one that wasn’t invited at that private party my husband was in. So why were you there that night? Most importantly, how did you get their photos?” you brought your gaze back up to him, “You’re not secretly planning for the downfall of the crown, are you?”

Kuroo scratched the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Highness. But to answer your question, then no, I wasn’t invited. I wouldn’t even know a single thing about their affair if it wasn’t for one of you.”

“One of us?” you echoed, “Are you saying someone in the royal family hired you as well?”

“Indeed. Though I must say, I never expected working with just one of you could have me set for life. What more if I teamed up with you too?”

So your theories were right. That article didn’t appear out of nowhere – someone wanted it to happen. “It was Iris, wasn’t it? She asked you to publish that because she knew I was with her husband… but that wouldn’t make any sense. That article puts her in a bad light. It couldn’t be her, right?”

“You’ll be surprised, Ma’am, but it was not the Princess,” he clarified.

Kuroo’s face pinched in contemplation, and then suddenly, pulls out a different phone from his pockets. It’s a beat-up iPhone with its battery nearly dead, but with a few clicks here and there, the video played loud and clear. The camera is shaky, the angles all wrong. Whoever recorded it clearly seemed to be inebriated. Yet there it was – the unmistakable masculine voice groaning, the slapping of skin against each other, and a high-pitched womanly moan. The camera caught nothing but long, blond hair flowing on top of her bouncing breasts before the camera was flipped, finally showing the culprit –

“Atsumu?”

Atsumu gripped Yuki’s hips, shoving the phone between their bodies to show the pistoning of his cock in and out of her. There was no point denying it now. Both their faces were clear from the video, and if this got out…

Kuroo paused the video. “I’m not supposed to be showing you this, but the Prince hasn’t kept up to his end of the bargain, so I might as well ask for your help, too,” shutting the phone off, Kuroo rested his chin on his hands. “That night, he slept with an intoxicated actress and accidentally filmed themselves in the act. The Prince was drunk himself, made the mistake of posting that video online, and merely eighteen minutes later, any traces of their sex tape disappeared. Curious?”

The pieces of the puzzle finally fit.

“He called you to write about Iris and Rintaro to cover up his scandal.”

He snapped his fingers. “Bingo! And he succeeded, even if it was an impulsive decision on his side. Still, the Prince paid me handsomely because he was desperate, but he hasn’t offered me protection like he promised. I’m being hunted down by the Queen’s goons as we speak. Isn’t that why you offered to have me chauffeured here?”

You knew Kuroo prioritized his safety over money due to his current predicament. It was the reason why you risked sneaking out of the Palace and meeting him alone. His terms were clear – no witnesses, no guards, just you and him. You would keep to your word if it meant cornering Iris, but with Atsumu and that poor actress thrown into the mix… things just got more complicated.

Reaching out for Kuroo, you squeezed his hand. “You will be safe with me. I promise you this.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

You glanced at the iPhone between you two. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Kuroo, but now that you know he’d do pretty much anything for money, you couldn’t risk it. It wasn’t just Atsumu’s reputation you were worried about – firstly, Rintaro would kill him if he found out it was all his doing. Second, that poor actress. She rose to fame in her career recently; this would ruin her image. If things took the wrong turn, who was to stop the Queen from forcing the two to get married if that tape was leaked? You couldn’t risk any cracks in your plan.

“Kuroo, may I have that phone?”

“It’s all yours if you throw in another five grand, Princess.”

“Consider it mine then.”

You and Kuroo left immediately after everything was settled. Just as promised, you would cover all his travel expenses. He would stay overseas to ensure his protection while he reached out to his connections to get all the information he needed, and once the article was ready, he’d publish it and disappear from the media. You covered that too – he was paid enough to live comfortably while in hiding. Now, you only needed to wait for everything to go according to plan.

First, the downfall of Iris. Next, her separation with Kiyoomi without having to let Rin ascend to the throne. And once she’s finally out of the picture, you’ll move on to your beloved husband. You’ll seduce him, have him fall completely to your whim, make him realize he could never have anyone like you again – and once he’s wrapped around your finger, you’ll plea for divorce.

A heart for a heart. A marriage for a marriage.

And if the odds play into your favor at the end of it all, there’s only one destination in mind: Kiyoomi’s farmhouse in Itachiyama.

You smiled to yourself – it would work out. You had a good feeling about it. Kiyoomi is supporting you and acting as your spy, Kita is backing you up on the grounds for divorce, and the nation has unwaveringly showed their support for you in these trying times. After all, you were just the poor, neglected wife. They expected you to spend your days crying and chasing after your deceitful husband, or to simply take it all – be silent and smile for the cameras.

Fuck what the Queen said. You won’t let her win.

Driving back to the Palace, you glanced at the time. It’s almost four in the morning, and soon, Her Majesty would be beginning her routine and expecting her daily calls from the Princes. Pressing harder on the gas, you sped up until a glint catches your eye. You glance at the rearview mirror, eyes widening at the fast approaching car from behind – a sleek, black car with the royal family’s crest on it. Shit. But – it couldn’t be the royal guards. You’d made sure no one would see you, and Airi had gotten your note to slip some sleeping pills into Rintaro’s tea so you could sneak out. Kiyoomi was informed of your plans, too, and he’d reassured he’d hold the fort down while you dealt with Kuroo.

Unless Iris had snooped through his phone and found everything out, then –

You wasted no time. You drove faster, reaching for the gun in your glove compartment as the roaring of the car behind you moved in closer and closer. Heart pounding in your chest, you speed-dialed Kiyoomi, praying to any God who was listening that he would pick up. It couldn’t be Iris, it shouldn’t be her. God forbid she does anything to provoke you into pulling the trigger.

Infidelity was one thing, but the murder of a royal family member was not something one could merely frown at. You didn’t want to be thrown into jail.

The call did not push through.

“Fuck!” you slammed your feet on the gas, watching as the car sped up even more until it was now next to you. You were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but the mammoth of trees and a never ending road with darkness clouding the path. Just then, the windows rolled down, and you waited with bated breath as the face finally came into view.

Dark hair was the first thing you saw. The windows rolled down, down, down, until you were staring deep into your husband’s eyes. Brow cocked, he smirked, raising the phone to show he’d been calling you – that’s why you couldn’t call Kiyoomi. Suna was interrupting the line. Shit, how was he even awake right now?

Moreover, how did he find you?

You scowled to yourself. There was no outrunning him now. Suna was a ridiculously good driver, and there was no way you would ever use a gun on him. Steeling yourself, you forced yourself to regulate your breathing – your efforts boon when Suna suddenly pressed on forward until he was a feet away from you, maneuvered his car with the hood facing your direction, and then just – stopped.

Bracing your hands on the wheel, you forced all your energy to release its power on the slamming of your brakes. The skidding of your car squeaked for what seemed like minutes until finally – finally – your came to a halt. You were breathing hard, the back of your head aching from the impact of it crashing to the headrest. Meanwhile, Suna opened his car doors in slow, languid movements, the ends of his leather black trench coat hitting the pavement. With nothing but the headlights of his car illuminating him, he looked more like an omen of death than a Prince – dressed in a white turtleneck, black pants, and a long coat that highlighted his tall figure. He looked ominous, like he carried sorrow and pain with him – pain that he was about to make you feel.

Because you knew – of course you knew; you knew him better than anyone – that the placid smile he wore was anything but.

He slammed the car doors shut. Leaning against the hood, Suna’s gloved hands reached for a lighter in his pocket as he lit his cigarette, the stick hanging from between his lips. As soon as it flickered, he pocketed the lighter back, using two of his fingers to make a ‘come hither’ gesture at you.

Clearly, you spoke too early. The odds were not in your favor.

You exited your vehicle, hands gripping the edges of the door as you gathered to courage to take one more step towards him. It wasn’t that you were afraid – he wouldn’t hurt you, not really. But too much could be taken away from you in such little time – Kuroo couldn’t have gone far, and Atsumu’s sex tape was still in the backseat. You didn’t trust Rintaro to not ruin your plans. And you wouldn’t let him, not now when you were so close to victory.

One step, two steps, three steps – your heels clicked against the road as you walked, making sure to keep your chin pointed north. Hips swaying to the side, you finally ended up before him – right between his spread legs – your husband leaning back at the hood of his car whilst he sized you up, his free hand resting behind him.

“Funny seeing you here,” he drawled out, his voice thick with barely-held back rage. “They told me you were sleeping, but last time I checked, driving while falling asleep was illegal.”

“Cheating is also illegal.”

“Your comebacks are getting old, my love.”

Your head snapped to his direction. He hadn’t called you that in forever, not since you’d returned from your honeymoon. To have him call you that now, with such a deeply rich, smooth voice and sounding like he’d just woken up, all breathy and rasp – could it be possible to fuck someone to death?

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” tipping his head to the side, Suna’s lips slowly formed into a smirk. He took a drag of his cigarette, keeping his eyes on yours as he wrapped those lips around the stick – delicately and tantalizingly slow – just like how he did when he worshipped you in bed. You breathed out hard and attempted to take a step back, but he was having none of it. Swiftly, he’d tugged on your shirt to pull you close to him, causing you to stumble and fall into his lap. Above you, your husband’s chest rumbled with amusement.

“Look at you. Always so weak for me.”

He leaned in close, his scent of smoke and expensive woodsy perfume enveloping you. It’s addicting, just as he is, and your knees grew weak. Your legs slid down just as Suna wraps a strong arm around your waist to hitch you back in place, your core resting above his thigh. There, he spreads you open with just his knees, his warm lips suddenly attaching themselves to your neck. You gasped out, hands falling to his shoulders in a measly attempt to pull him away – and oh.

Suna had different plans in mind.

“You,” he breathed in your ear, his gloved fingers popping the button of your blouse one by one. “cannot get rid of me that easily, Your Highness. You can slip in as many drugs you want in my drinks, you can kill me a hundred times and fuck me over again and again, but don’t you dare forget,” growling lowly in your ear, your husband took your chin in his hands and forced you to gaze deep into his eyes – pools of hazel swirling with need and wrath – “Not even death can do us part. I’ll keep on looking for you even if you try to hide at the ends of the earth.”

#suna x reader #suna rintaro x reader #suna rintarou x reader #suna x you #kiyoomi x reader #kiyoomi x reader smut #kiyoomi smut #sakusa kiyoomi smut #kiyoomi x you smut #haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #suna x reader angst #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsurou x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #haikyuu x reader smut #rintaro suna x reader #suna rintaro x you

512 notes · View notes

aspenmissing · 2 months ago

Text

ʟᴇꜰᴛ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 4376 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ, ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ??

ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ 1 || ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ 2

JAYCE

The soft glow of Piltover's city lights filtered through the window, casting golden reflections across the nursery walls. Jayce stood near the crib, rocking back and forth in slow, steady motions, his arms cradling the small, fragile body of his newborn son.

Theon.

The name felt right the moment you had suggested it. A name that carried weight but also warmth. It had been only a few days since Theon came into the world, and yet Jayce already felt the magnitude of fatherhood pressing down on him. It wasn't the kind of weight that burdened—but rather one that reminded him that everything had changed.

And now, for the first time, you weren’t here. You had barely left Theon’s side since his birth, but exhaustion had finally overtaken you. With a reluctant kiss to Jayce’s cheek and a soft whisper of reassurance, you had retreated to rest, leaving him alone with their child for the first time.

Jayce had fought Hextech-fueled battles, debated before the Council, and faced the pressures of being Piltover’s Golden Boy—but nothing compared to this. The tiny bundle in his arms let out a soft noise, a little whimper, and Jayce felt panic surge in his chest.

"Hey, hey... it's okay, buddy," he murmured, shifting Theon slightly, his large hands adjusting awkwardly but carefully. His son’s face scrunched up, his tiny fists waving in the air, as if protesting whatever discomfort he was feeling. "I’ve got you. I promise."

Theon's tiny, warm body fit against him so perfectly. He was so small. So impossibly small. Jayce exhaled, pressing his lips to the crown of his son’s head, his heart thudding in his chest as he tried to shake the uncertainty clinging to him.

He had never felt more unprepared for something in his life.

"I don’t really know what I’m doing yet, but..." He let out a soft chuckle, the weight of the moment settling deeper in his bones. "I swear I’ll figure it out."

Theon gurgled, his little hands twitching before settling against Jayce’s chest, his breathing evening out once more. Jayce swayed gently, looking down at him in awe. This was his son. His and yours. A piece of both of you, wrapped in warmth, in innocence, in all the hope that a future could bring.

The responsibility was terrifying—but it was also everything.

Jayce let out a slow breath and shifted his grip slightly, adjusting Theon in his arms. He gently ran a hand over the fine wisps of hair covering his son's head, marveling at the softness of it. His son’s skin was so smooth, his breaths light and even against Jayce’s chest. Every small movement felt like an entire world shifting in his arms.

"You’re lucky, you know?" Jayce whispered, his voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the city beyond the window. "You have the best mom in the world. She’s gonna teach you so much. And me? Well... I’m still figuring this out. But I swear, I’m gonna be the best dad I can be."

He sighed, rocking slightly in place, letting the silence settle between them. A faint smile touched his lips as he imagined the future—Theon’s first steps, his first words, the way he’d grow into someone brilliant and strong, just like his mother. He wondered if Theon would inherit your kindness, your stubborn streak, the way you could always see the best in people.

"I hope you get her patience, kid. Because let’s be real, you’re gonna need it with me."

Theon shifted slightly, his tiny fingers twitching against Jayce’s chest. Jayce felt his heart tighten, overwhelmed with an emotion too vast to name. This was love in its purest form—unshakable, boundless, the kind of devotion that settled deep in the bones and never left.

With one last lingering look at the sleeping child in his arms, Jayce shifted toward the rocking chair, easing down carefully so as not to disturb Theon’s peaceful slumber. He traced a fingertip along the curve of his son’s cheek, his heart swelling in a way that made his throat tighten.

"You’re gonna be okay," he whispered, voice soft but sure. "Because I’ll always be here. No matter what."

And as the city hummed outside, as the world beyond their walls continued on, Jayce held his son close, letting the quiet promise settle between them.

VIKTOR

The soft glow of the lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the quiet room. Viktor shifted slightly, leaning on his cane as he gazed down at the tiny bundle cradled in his arms. Nikola. His child. His and Y/N’s.

The thought still sent a shiver through him, one of disbelief and awe. He had spent so long immersed in progress, in science, in the pursuit of understanding the world’s mysteries. Yet, here was a mystery more profound than anything he had ever encountered—a small, warm, fragile being, barely days old, now curled against his chest, trusting him entirely.

“Ah, little one,” Viktor murmured, his accent thick with emotion, “it seems it is just you and I tonight.”

Y/N had finally succumbed to exhaustion and was fast asleep in their shared bed. She had insisted she would stay up, but Viktor had gently persuaded her otherwise. She had done so much, carried so much, brought Nikola into this world with a strength that left him speechless. The least he could do was hold their child for a little while longer, allowing her some rest.

Nikola stirred, letting out a tiny, barely-there whimper. Viktor’s breath hitched. He had faced great challenges in his life, but this—this small sound of distress from his child—sent his heart racing. He adjusted his hold carefully, mindful of his weaker leg as he settled into the armchair by the window. The city lights of Piltover shimmered in the distance, and for once, he paid them no mind. The only light that mattered was the one nestled against him.

He rocked the baby gently, uncertain but careful, his hand supporting the delicate weight of Nikola’s tiny back. His touch was hesitant at first, afraid that he was too rough, too clumsy. But then, as the minutes passed, he felt Nikola relax, their little body molding against him as if this was where they belonged.

His heart clenched.

A father. He was a father now.

Would he be enough? Could he be? He was not the strongest, nor the most stable, not in body, and often, not in mind. He had always been consumed by his work, by the ceaseless hunger to be more. And yet… here in this moment, none of that mattered. Here, all that mattered was the steady rise and fall of his child’s breath, the faint warmth of their tiny fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt.

A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You have me utterly defeated, Nikola,” he whispered, brushing the lightest of kisses against the baby’s forehead. “And I surrender gladly.”

Nikola sighed in their sleep, their tiny fist pressing against his chest. Viktor swallowed hard, adjusting his grip slightly as he traced the curve of their small face with his thumb. They were so impossibly small. He had spent years perfecting intricate inventions, but nothing had ever felt as delicate, as precious, as this.

The quiet stretched on, filled only with the occasional creak of the chair and the soft sounds of Nikola’s breathing. Viktor let his eyes drift closed for a moment, letting the peace wash over him.

When he opened them again, he found himself whispering words he had never spoken aloud before.

“I do not know what kind of father I will be,” he admitted, his voice barely above a breath, “but I will be here. I will love you. Always.”

Nikola stirred but did not wake. Viktor smiled softly, allowing his body to relax against the chair. He would stay like this for a while longer, just him and his child, in the quiet safety of their home.

For the first time in a long time, Viktor felt no rush to move forward. No need to chase the future.

Because, at last, the most important part of his life was right here in his arms.

JAYVIK

Viktor adjusted his brace as he shifted to sit more comfortably on the floor beside Jayce, their new-born daughter, Lina, wiggling happily between them on a thick, plush blanket. Y/N had left them to run a few errands, and now, the two men found themselves alone with their child for the first time.

Lina cooed, her tiny hands reaching toward the air as if grasping at the faint sunlight filtering through the workshop window. Her bright eyes darted between her two fathers, and then she let out an excited squeal, kicking her little legs in delight.

Jayce chuckled. "She's got some strong lungs, huh?"

Viktor smirked, watching Lina with a look of awe. "That is an understatement. She is already making her presence known—just like her parents."

Jayce leaned down, his large hands gently adjusting the blanket around Lina. "You think she'll take after you? Smart, inventive, a little stubborn?"

Viktor tilted his head. "And what if she takes after you? Charismatic, ambitious, and, of course, reckless?"

"Reckless?" Jayce scoffed playfully. "I prefer bold."

Lina giggled as if entertained by their banter, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling. Viktor's gaze softened, and despite his usual careful movements, he hesitantly reached out, his fingers ghosting over Lina’s small hand before finally letting the infant wrap around his index finger.

A warmth spread through Viktor’s chest. He had built many things in his life—machines, inventions, theories that shaped Piltover—but none of them compared to this tiny, breathing miracle before him.

"Here, let me help," Jayce said as he scooted closer, reaching out.

Viktor gave him a mock-exasperated look. "Are you implying I am not capable?"

Jayce smirked. "Just saying—it wouldn’t hurt to have a little support."

Despite his teasing, he carefully adjusted Viktor’s brace to give him better leverage, making it easier for him to lean forward without straining too much. Together, they carefully scooped up Lina, Viktor cradling her first while Jayce hovered, ready to assist.

The baby gurgled, perfectly content in her father’s arms. Viktor swallowed hard, something unspoken in his amber eyes as he met Jayce’s gaze.

"You okay?" Jayce asked softly.

Viktor nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never thought… I would hold something so fragile, so important."

Jayce reached over, his large hand covering Viktor’s where it supported Lina. "Well, now you have us. You're not doing this alone."

Viktor exhaled, a small, rare smile curling his lips. He looked down at Lina, who blinked up at them before yawning, her tiny body relaxing.

"Look at us," Viktor murmured. "The great inventors of Piltover, reduced to mere fools over a child."

Jayce chuckled. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

For a moment, there was nothing but the soft breaths of their daughter and the quiet understanding between them. Then, just as Lina began to doze, the door creaked open, and Y/N stepped in.

"You two survived?" Y/N teased, setting down their bags.

Jayce grinned. "Barely. But I think we managed."

Viktor gave Y/N a tired but content look. "She is quite the experiment—unpredictable, full of potential… and impossible to control."

Y/N chuckled as they leaned down, kissing Viktor’s temple and ruffling Jayce’s hair before pressing a soft kiss to their daughter’s forehead. "Sounds just like her fathers."

Jayce laughed, and Viktor hummed in amusement, all three of them watching as Lina let out a soft sigh in her sleep.

A new kind of invention. One they’d build together, one day at a time.

VANDER

Vander had never been afraid of holding a child before. He had cradled Vi and Powder as newborns, had soothed them through fevers, had taught them to walk, to fight, to survive. He was a father in all but blood to them, but this—this was different.

Ren was so small in his arms, barely bigger than one of his broad hands. Their tiny fingers curled and uncurled against his chest, their breath soft, warm, and utterly trusting. Vander had been certain he would be ready for this moment—he had prepared, after all. But now, alone in the dim light of the bar, the weight of his own child nestled against his heart, he found himself speechless.

A deep, rumbling chuckle escaped him as he traced a rough, calloused finger over the delicate line of their nose. “You’re a miracle, little one,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I had it in me, y’know?”

Ren yawned in response, their tiny mouth stretching wide before settling back into sleep. Vander smiled, the sight warming something deep in his chest. He had spent years protecting the children of Zaun, fighting for them, sacrificing for them, but this—this was a piece of him, of you. His own flesh and blood.

A loud creak signaled the opening of the Last Drop’s door, and Vander turned, grinning as one of his regulars stepped inside. He wasted no time.

“Oi, Mica—c’mere, c’mere.” He gestured eagerly with his free hand, his broad shoulders practically vibrating with excitement. “Look at this. Look at my kid.”

Mica blinked, stepping closer to peer at the tiny bundle in Vander’s arms. “Sweet Shimmer, Vander, you finally made one of your own, huh?”

“Damn right, I did,” Vander said, his chest swelling with pride. He shifted Ren just enough to give the old patron a better view. “Ain’t they perfect?”

Another patron wandered in, then another, and soon the small crowd had gathered around, all drawn in by the rare sight of Zaun’s protector reduced to a soft-spoken, doting father.

You had warned him not to overwhelm the baby, but Vander couldn’t help himself. He wanted everyone to see. He wanted the whole damn Undercity to know that Ren was here, that they were his. That they were loved.

And when the night deepened and the bar emptied, Vander stayed where he was, cradling Ren close, whispering quiet promises against their soft little forehead. Promises of protection, of warmth, of love. Of a future where they would never have to fight alone.

Because this time, Vander wasn’t just the protector of Zaun.

He was a father. And nothing in the world could take that away from him.

SILCO

The apartment above The Last Drop was quiet, save for the occasional distant murmur of Zaun’s nightlife below. The neon glow from the city seeped in through the window, casting shifting patterns across the walls. It was a stark contrast to the usual clamor of the bar beneath them, to the world Silco commanded with an iron will.

But up here? Up here, there was peace. A kind of peace he had never known before. Because now, nestled securely in his arms, was something far more precious than power.

Veyna.

His daughter.

She was barely a few weeks old, her tiny hands curling and uncurling against the fabric of his vest. He sat in his office chair, his usual place of scheming and strategy, but now? It was something else entirely. A sanctuary. A place where the weight of ambition gave way to something far softer, something warmer—the quiet breaths of his newborn.

Behind the closed bedroom door, Y/N was asleep, exhaustion having claimed her after yet another long night. He had told her to rest, promised he would look after Veyna while she slept. And he kept his promises.

She had been fussy at first, stirring in her bassinet as if sensing Y/N’s absence. But the moment he had scooped her up into his arms, she had settled, her tiny form curling into his chest like she belonged there.

Which, of course, she did. She was so small. So delicate. So innocent. And she was his.

He traced a finger down her cheek, marvelling at how soft her skin was. The scarred and calloused hands that had built an empire, that had struck down enemies and shaped the future of Zaun, were now cradling something so… pure.

Veyna stirred, her little face scrunching up before relaxing again. Silco let out a quiet chuckle.

“Demanding, just like your mother,” he murmured, rocking her slightly.

There was something about holding her that steadied him, something that made the weight of the world feel distant, if only for a moment. He loved coming home to this—to her. To the soft, rhythmic thrum of her heartbeat against his chest, to the way her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, as if she already knew this was where she belonged.

And Silco—ruthless, cunning, feared by many—tightened his hold, as if she were the only thing in this world that truly mattered. The one thing he would protect above all else.

Because she was. Because she was his. And that was something no one could ever take from him.

A faint rustling came from her, followed by the tiniest sound—a whimper, barely above a whisper. Silco glanced down, watching as her little face twisted in discomfort, her tiny body shifting in his arms. He sighed through his nose, pressing another kiss to her forehead.

“Hush, now, little one” he murmured, voice low and smooth, a tone he rarely used with anyone. "We don't want to wake your mother."

Carefully, he rose from his chair, adjusting her in his arms. The movement made her stir, but she settled quickly when he pressed her to his chest. One hand supporting her head, he strode across the dimly lit room, boots silent against the wooden floor, until he reached the large window overlooking Zaun.

His city.

It stretched beneath them, a sprawling, breathing thing—alive with neon lights and restless movement. Even in the dead of night, Zaun never truly slept. Pipes hissed, distant voices carried through the streets, and the ever-present hum of industry filled the air.

"This," he whispered, looking down at her, “is your home.”

His free hand reached for the latch, pushing the window open just slightly. The air that wafted in was thick with the scent of oil, smoke, and metal—a scent Silco had long since grown used to.

“I built this,” he continued, voice softer now. “For you. For your mother. For all of Zaun. A future free from the grasp of Piltover.”

Veyna made another small noise, shifting just enough to peek open unfocused, sleepy eyes. Silco huffed a quiet laugh, watching her face.

She wouldn’t understand, not yet.

But one day… one day, she would.

He turned his gaze back to the city, his grip on her tightening ever so slightly.

“You’ll come to know it as I do,” he promised. “Its beauty. Its cruelty. But you, little one… you will never have to fight for your place in it. Because it’s already yours.”

She let out a soft sigh, her tiny fingers curling against the fabric of his vest once more.

Silco pressed another lingering kiss to her forehead before shutting the window, sealing them both in the quiet warmth of his office. For now, she didn’t need to know the weight of the world. For now, she only needed this.

Him.

And he would give her that, for as long as he could.

EKKO

The world outside their small home in the Firelights’ hidden sanctuary pulsed with life. The soft glow of lanterns swayed with the shifting air currents in the underground tunnels, their light casting flickering patterns against the walls. From a distance, the familiar hum of hoverboards echoed—young Firelights weaving through the metal and stone of their hideout, their laughter mixing with the occasional crackle of an old, half-broken radio sputtering music from a forgotten age.

But inside their home, the world was still. Ekko stood frozen, barely breathing, his arms wrapped around the impossibly tiny bundle cradled against his chest.

Nia.

His daughter. His and Y/N’s daughter.

Her presence was both familiar and alien all at once. She was small, delicate, warm—an entire future wrapped in soft blankets, her tiny hands curled into delicate fists. She had Y/N’s nose, his deep brown complexion, and when her eyes flickered open—just for a second—he could see a glimpse of something bigger than either of them staring back at him.

Y/N had only left for a little while—just to step outside, just for a breath of fresh air after the exhausting whirlwind of childbirth and sleepless nights. “You got this,” she had whispered, pressing a lingering kiss against his temple before slipping through the door, her touch grounding him for just a moment.

But now, standing here alone with their newborn daughter, Ekko wasn’t sure he did have this.

He had faced enemies twice his size, led the Firelights against the worst of Zaun’s threats, and survived things that would haunt him forever. He had taken beatings, stolen from those who would kill him if they caught him, and carried the weight of an entire rebellion on his back.

But this?

This was different. This was fragile. Precious. This was something he couldn’t afford to mess up.

Nia stirred against him, shifting in his arms, a soft, breathy gurgle escaping her lips. One of her tiny hands twitched, fingers uncurling before gripping onto the loose fabric of his shirt.

Ekko held his breath.

“Uh… hey, baby girl,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, afraid too much noise might break the delicate moment between them. “It’s just me and you now.”

Nia didn’t respond—obviously. But she blinked up at him, eyes big and unfocused, her soft face scrunching up as she worked through whatever newborn thoughts babies had.

A breathless chuckle escaped him, the corner of his lips tugging into a small smile. He shifted his hold slightly, carefully supporting her head the way Y/N had shown him so many times. He had watched her do it effortlessly, adjusting without even thinking, but now that it was his turn, everything felt impossibly complicated.

“I think we’re gonna be cool, right?” he tried, rocking her slightly. “Just don’t—uh—start crying. Please?”

Silence stretched between them for a heartbeat.

Then, as if sensing his hesitation, Nia’s lips trembled, her tiny face turning an alarming shade of red. Ekko’s stomach dropped.

“Wait—no, no, no, no—” A sharp, piercing wail tore through the quiet. Ekko panicked. His brain short-circuited, running in every possible direction at once. What was he supposed to do again?!

He bounced her a little, a movement he had seen Y/N do countless times, hoping it would work like magic. “Shhh, hey, hey—it’s alright, I got you, I got you,” he soothed, voice soft but uncertain.

No luck.

Her cries only grew louder, her tiny body wriggling against his hold, her distress clear in every shuddering sob. His mind scrambled for answers. Was she hungry? No—she had just eaten. Diaper? Maybe. Tired? Definitely.

“Okay, okay, uh—” He moved toward the small pile of supplies nearby, balancing Nia with one arm, fumbling clumsily with the blankets and spare cloths with the other. He felt like a fool, one wrong move away from dropping everything—including her.

“You’re good, Nia, Daddy’s got you,” he murmured, more to convince himself than anything else.

He paused.

Daddy.

The word felt strange in his mouth. Foreign. Unfamiliar. And yet, saying it aloud sent a slow, deep warmth curling through his chest.

He was a father.

Not just a leader, not just the boy who had once tried to outrun time itself, not just the kid who had watched everything around him fall apart.

A father.

A real one. A present one. Someone who would never leave, never abandon, never let his daughter grow up in a world that had already taken too much.

The weight of that realization settled on him like a heavy cloak, pressing down, grounding him.

Nia sniffled, her wails quieting for a brief moment as Ekko finally managed to tuck her into the soft swaddle again, wrapping her securely the way Y/N had taught him. He adjusted his grip, cradling her close to his chest, her tiny body warm and fragile in his hands.

Slowly, gently, he began to rock side to side, his movements instinctual now, his voice dropping to a quiet hum.

A song.

A melody from his childhood. Something old, something distant—a lullaby his mother used to sing before the world had stolen his innocence. The words were faint on his tongue, the memory blurred by time, but the rhythm, the feeling—it was still there.

Nia’s breathing slowed. Her fingers uncurled from his shirt. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

Ekko let out a deep breath, relief washing over him like a tide. He rested his forehead lightly against hers, his heart hammering against his ribs, overwhelmed and yet—oddly at peace.

“You got me wrapped around your tiny little fingers already, huh?” he murmured. The door creaked open.

Ekko looked up, caught in the soft glow of the moment as Y/N stepped inside. She looked exhausted—so exhausted—but the smile on her lips was nothing short of radiant.

She paused in the doorway, eyes flicking between him and their now-sleeping daughter, taking in the sight before her.

Ekko, rocking their child in his arms. The dim, golden light casting a halo around them, the soft lull of his voice still lingering in the air.

It was a picture she would never forget.

“How’d it go?” she asked, voice quiet.

Ekko glanced at her, his grip on Nia tightening just slightly, his lips curling into a lopsided grin. “Terrifying,” he admitted, his voice light but honest.

Y/N chuckled softly, stepping closer, pressing a gentle kiss against his cheek before brushing her fingers over Nia’s soft curls. “You did good,” she murmured.

Ekko leaned into her touch, his free arm slipping around her waist, pulling her close.

Maybe he didn’t have all the answers. Maybe raising a child in a world like theirs would be the hardest thing he’d ever do. But he had them.

His family.

And that was all he needed.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader #ekko x reader

344 notes · View notes

1chaerry · 2 months ago

Text

somewhere in the past pt.2

summary: The world moves forward, but ghosts never rest. A familiar ship on the horizon. A name she has not spoken in years. A storm long overdue. Some things were meant to stay buried. Some things refuse to be forgotten.

c.w. : MAJOR SPOILERS for One Piece Film: Red, angst, mentions of violence, plot centric

Disclaimer: Reader is called "Saram" meaning "Human/Person"

part 1 | part 3

The night was thick with salt and the distant hum of the ocean. The Red Force rocked gently against the waves, its lanterns casting dim pools of light onto the wooden deck. Somewhere in the distance, the crew’s laughter rang out, muffled by the wind. It was the kind of laughter Saram had learned to tune out, the kind that reminded her how alone she truly was.

She sat curled up near the mast, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her tiny frame shivering in the night air. She wasn’t crying—she never cried. But her throat ached, her chest burned, and her heart felt like it was being squeezed by something too big to fit inside her.

Shanks stood a few feet away, his posture heavy, his coat draped over his shoulders. He hadn’t looked at her in minutes, just stood there, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Saram,” he exhaled, his voice rough from the night’s drink but still sharp with something else—exhaustion, maybe. Or frustration.

She refused to look at him.

“You ran off again,” he muttered, quieter this time. “Lime Juice had to comb half the damn port looking for you. You can’t keep doing this.”

Saram hugged her knees tighter. “I didn’t ask anyone to come looking.”

Shanks sighed, the sound drawn out like a man who had been carrying too much for too long. He took a slow step toward her, then crouched down, resting his arms on his knees.

“That’s not the point,” he said. “You’re nine, Saram. You can’t just disappear in the middle of the night. It’s dangerous.”

She finally turned her head, just enough to glare at him. “So what? It’s not like you care.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t deny it. It would’ve been easier if he had yelled. If he had scolded her, told her she was reckless, a brat, a burden. Instead, he just sat there, staring at her with an expression she couldn’t place.

Something in his face reminded her of the way adults looked when they gave up.

“Saram,” he murmured, rubbing his face again. “If only you were easier.”

Her breath caught. Her ears rang.

She had no idea what she had expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.

Not that.

Her fingers dug into her arms as she stared at him, something sharp cutting through her ribs, something that felt too much like truth.

If only she were easier. If only she weren’t such a problem. If only she weren’t her.

Shanks pushed himself to his feet, not waiting for her response. “Go to bed. We’re setting sail at dawn.”

He turned and walked away, disappearing below deck, leaving Saram alone with the sound of the waves. She sat there for what felt like hours, staring at the spot where he had been. Then, slowly, she rested her forehead against her knees, curling in on herself.

She didn't cry that night, didn't sob but that night, the sea could’ve swallowed her whole, and she wasn’t sure if anyone would’ve noticed.

But then again, maybe that would’ve been easier, too.

The Red Force had always been a home to laughter, to drunken singing and the warmth of shared stories—but not here. Not in this quiet corner of the deck, where Saram sat curled in on herself, the weight of Shanks’ words pressing against her ribs like iron shackles.

If only you were easier, Saram.

The words gnawed at her, sank their teeth into the fragile parts of her heart. Each syllable felt like an assault, each phrase a reminder of what she feared most. She tried to ignore it, tried to brush it off, but the more she pushed it aside, the deeper the bite became, and the harder it was to breathe. It wasn’t just the words themselves, but what they represented—the truth she wasn’t ready to face, the wounds she had been trying so desperately to hide.

They crept under her skin, and no matter how hard she tried to shove them away, they clung to her, unwilling to let go. She dug her nails into her arms, skin tingling from the night chill. The sea stretched endlessly before her, dark and yawning, as if daring her to disappear into it. And for just a second, she wondered—if she slipped beneath the waves, would she drift far enough that even the Red Force couldn’t find her?

A soft creak of the floorboards pulled her from her thoughts. The steps were steady, unhurried. She knew who it was before he even spoke, before he even sat down.

Lime Juice sat beside her without a word, folding his legs as if he had all the time in the world to wait for her to speak first. He didn’t try to make her look at him, didn’t demand she talk. He just existed beside her, warm and steady, like a lighthouse standing against a storm.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

Finally, his voice broke the silence, quiet and sure.

“He loves you, you know that, right?”

Saram exhaled sharply, like he had just asked her the stupidest question in the world. “Yeah.”

But her voice was hollow, like an echo of something she wasn’t sure she believed anymore.

Lime Juice sighed through his nose, shifting slightly so his shoulder barely brushed hers. His presence was solid, grounding, and yet it made her throat tighten.

“Saram.”

"Yeah?"

"Don't go somewhere I can't reach you kid."

She swallowed, looking down at her bare feet against the wooden deck. The soft grain of the wood beneath her toes, the slight splinters pressing against her skin, only seemed to accentuate how small her feet looked in that moment—delicate, fragile. Childish. She hated it. It wasn’t just the size that unsettled her, but the feeling that came with it, like she was caught in some moment she couldn’t escape. The innocence, the vulnerability of her feet, bare and exposed to the world.

The words slipped out before she could stop them, before she could shove them back into the locked-up parts of her chest.

“Am I too much for you too, Lime?”

She chuckled—soft, bitter, with the kind of weight that didn’t belong in a child’s laugh. It was the sound of someone who had learned too young that love had limits.

Lime Juice’s breath hitched, so quiet she almost missed it. Then, without hesitation, he said, “Never too much, Saram.”

She finally turned her head, just enough to meet his gaze. He wasn’t looking at her like Shanks had—like she was a problem he didn’t know how to solve. No, Lime Juice looked at her like she was something whole, something worth loving, even in all her sharp edges and tangled mess.

His hand came to ruffle her hair, a rare gesture from him, something so soft that her chest ached.

“Just perfect,” he murmured.

The wind tugged at her hair, the night air biting at her skin, but Saram barely noticed it now. The raw, aching feeling in her chest had shifted, becoming something else entirely—a dull throb that refused to fade. She kept her eyes down, focused on the wood beneath her feet, unable to meet Lime Juice’s gaze.

"Why do you still try with me, Lime?" Her voice barely rose above a whisper, as fragile as a sigh. The question hung in the air between them, soft yet cutting. She didn't want to look at him, didn’t want to see the pity in his eyes or the frustration that she’d seen so many times before. She didn’t deserve his patience. She didn’t deserve anything.

She could almost hear his breath catch before he spoke, a soft, steady sound that told her he was waiting, gathering his thoughts. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—not with Lime Juice beside her.

For a long moment, he simply watched her, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, his voice broke the silence, warm and steady, like the sea at dawn.

“Do you remember when you were little?” he asked, his tone carrying a quiet nostalgia.

Saram’s breath hitched. Of course, she remembered. She remembered so much more than she ever let on.

Her fingers clenched against the fabric of her shirt, her heart thudding a little harder in her chest as the memories came rushing back. The sound of her small feet pattering through the hallways of the Red Force, the soft whispers of comfort that Lime Juice would give her when nightmares twisted her dreams. The way she’d cling to him, trembling from the world outside, and the way he’d always calm her, always hold her as if she were the most precious thing he’d ever known.

Saram squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block the images, but they slipped through anyway—her small hands clutching his sleeves, her face tear-streaked as she buried herself into his side, giggling with unfiltered joy, laughing as he spun her around with an ease she could never forget. It was a time before the walls around her heart had formed, before she learned to guard herself from the things that could break her.

A small, bitter laugh escaped her lips. “You mean when I was so much easier to deal with, huh?”

Lime Juice smiled, the corners of his lips turning up gently, though the look in his eyes was anything but playful. It was soft, almost tender, as if he were remembering the moments she could barely allow herself to.

“I never thought you were ‘easy,’” he murmured, his voice low, laced with fondness. “You were always you, Saram. Always strong, always a little stubborn. But when you needed me, I was there. And that hasn’t changed.”

She blinked, the words sinking deep, settling into her chest like a stone.

“Why do you still stay by me, Lime?” Her voice cracked, the floodgates threatening to break. She turned her face to the side, not wanting him to see the conflict swirling behind her eyes, the tears she couldn’t afford to let fall. She wasn’t a child anymore. She couldn’t afford to show weakness.

Lime Juice let out a breath, like the weight of her question had pressed against his own heart. He shifted closer, his shoulder brushing against hers, a steady presence beside her in the stillness of the night. His hand reached out, not to comfort, but to anchor—to remind her she wasn’t alone, even when she felt like the world was slipping through her fingers.

“I never stopped trying to stay,” he said, his voice quiet but unyielding. “You’ve always been worth it. Even when you pushed me away, even when you built those walls around yourself. I’m not going anywhere, Saram. Not now, not ever.”

Her chest tightened, and for the first time that night, she let herself breathe—deep, shaky breaths that couldn’t quite expel the weight inside her, but at least slowed it down.

“I’m... too much sometimes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, like she was confessing something even she couldn’t fully admit to herself.

Lime Juice’s hand came to rest on her shoulder, warm and steady, the contact grounding her. “You’re never too much, Saram,” he said softly, his words threading through the chaos in her heart, bringing a strange sense of peace. “You’re just perfect, even when you don’t think so. You’ve always been perfect.”

A shudder ran through her, and she drew in a shaky breath, her mind reeling. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard him say those words, but tonight, they felt different—like they were cutting through the years of pain she’d buried, chipping away at the defenses she’d spent so long building.

“Perfect...” she murmured softly, the word tasting foreign on her tongue. She let out a small, bitter laugh, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t think I’ll ever be perfect. I’m... too messed up for that.”

Lime Juice chuckled, a soft sound that made the air around them feel a little lighter. “You don’t have to be perfect. You never did.”

His eyes softened, full of understanding, and Saram felt a crack in her chest, as if something fragile and buried was slowly coming to life.

She didn’t know how to explain it—how Lime Juice, of all people, made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as lost as she thought. She didn’t know how to ask why he never gave up on her, how he always seemed to see something in her even when she couldn’t see it herself. But then again, she didn’t have to explain it. Because Lime Juice had always understood her in a way no one else had.

“You’re not too much for me, Saram,” he said, his voice steady. “And you never will be.”

The tall man stood in front of her, his eyes going over her, the girl everyone had believed was dead for the past twelve years. The girl who was left behind. The girl who had saved Uta and many others at the last moment. The girl who was trying to slip away.

"It's been a while."

Saram's voice was soft, almost drowned by the whispers of the dying sunset. It should’ve held weight—twelve years of silence breaking like glass—but she said it like a passing breeze, light and fleeting, like she was already halfway gone.

Beckman didn’t move. His eyes stayed on her, unwavering, sharp in a way that made her stomach coil, but she didn’t let herself falter. Instead, she turned away, her steps quiet as she crossed the broken ground, moving back toward Uta, she didn't have time to be dwelling on old feelings when Uta was on the brink of collapse.

She crouched beside the younger girl, pulling another vial from the pouch strapped to her thigh. The glass caught the orange hues of the sky light as she uncorked it, tilting it carefully to Uta’s lips. She worked gently and steadily, the golden liquid sliding past parted lips.

Uta stirred slightly, her lashes fluttering weakly against her pale skin, but she didn’t resist. Saram let out a slow breath, adjusting her grip as she smoothed the damp strands of hair away from her forehead.

She felt it then—eyes on her.

The weight of them pressed against her shoulders, heavy, suffocating. She didn’t have to look to know how they were staring. Shanks, Beckman, Yasopp, Hongo, Lucky, Rockstar—all of them. They were staring like she was a ghost; like she had risen from the ashes, from a place she had no right to return from.

And wasn’t that the truth?

Saram exhaled sharply and pulled her hood back over her head, fingers clenching around the fabric. The worn material felt safe, a shield between her and the weight of their gaze. If Gordon were here he would scold her for hiding behind her hood again, the old man didn't like when she used the hood as a shield, mainly because no one exactly, clearly, see her properly due to it.

She stayed there, kneeling beside Uta, keeping her hands busy. She pulled out more vials, setting them in a careful line on the ground. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, adjusting the device strapped to her wrist, tapping through its interface as if she weren’t keenly aware of their silence.

Keep moving. Keep working. Don’t look up.

“Tot Musica is gone,” she said finally, her voice even, practical. “They should be coming back in around three hours.”

Her eyes remained on the device, flicking through readings, but she knew the words had landed like a drop of water into a still pond.

A shift.

A crack.

She could hear the way the air thickened. Could feel the moment Shanks’ presence tensed, the way the Red-Haired Pirates seemed to breathe all at once.

Twelve years of silence.

Twelve years of believing her dead.

Twelve years of leaving her behind.

And now here she was, kneeling at the side of his other daughter, speaking like nothing had happened, like her existence wasn’t something they had already buried, like she wasn't a person who was deemed dead.

Like she wasn’t a corpse crawling back into the light.

Saram didn’t give them the satisfaction of looking up. She didn’t want to see their expressions, didn’t want to decipher whatever mix of grief, guilt, or recognition lingered in their faces. It had been twelve years too late for that, her anger, her grievances, all had faded away: not like there were many to begin with.

The sound of pistols being pointed caused Saram to freeze, her hand instinctively pulling down the hood further over her face, looking down.

"Now, then, how about you hand Uta, the arch criminal who almost destroyed the world, over to us?" She could feel the Marine's eyes on Uta before he looked at her, Saram felt her chest tighten as she clenched her fists, "And that woman, too, who seems to be an accomplice."

The Red Haired Pirates turned around pointed their guns at the Marines with determination and smirks, Saram blinked in surprise as Lime Juice stood in front of her, she looked away and back at Uta, giving her another vial.

"You people..."

"I take it, you won't cooperate, then?"

"Everyone...." Uta said weakly, leaning against Shanks, Saram glanced at her and Shanks, a familiar rotten feeling in her chest.

"This girl..." Shanks spoke, garnering attention as Uta looked up at him, "is my daughter."

Saram's hands paused briefly from mixing the vials at his words, blinking slowly, her heart clenching.

"She's a precious part of our family." Shanks spoke seriously as Uta tore up, eyes filling with years, Saram quietly mixed the liquids in the vials, eyes downcast. "If you wanna take her.... you'd better be ready to die!" He used his Conquerors Haki which knocked out more than 80% if the Marines.

"That even took down a handful of vice admirals. So, this is Haki of Shanks, one of the four Emperors." His voice paused before looking back at Saram, "And that woman?" Her hands flinched, "Give her up then, she is nothing to you pirates."

Saram kept looking down, biting his lower lip, about to move when two people stand in front of her, she looks up in surprise, gasping quietly, eyes wide and slightly glossy, Beckman and Yasopp. Why? Why were they standing like that?

"This girl is ours, too." Shanks glared as Saram swiftly turned her head towards him, eyes wide, surprised, and in disbelief, "She's my oldest daughter, so keep your hands away from her!"

"Let's stand down. I'd rather not go to war with so many civilians around."

Finally the Marines leave. Saram quietly tends to Uta, giving her the liquids slowly, as she leans against Shanks. She could feel eyes on her, even Shanks'. Her skin crawled, she wanted to run, to leave.

"Are my fans gonna be okay?" Uta asked quietly.

"They'll be fine. People aren't that fragile. Besides.... a new age is dawning soon." Shanks says.

Saram paused as Uta looked at her with a small smile, the former shook her head, "No."

"Only one... please?" Uta said weakly, Saram sighed before pulling a small knife from her holster. Hongo’s eyes sharpened the moment Saram pulled out the knife. His hand twitched, instinct telling him to stop her—but he didn’t. He only watched, silent, as she pressed the blade to her palm and dragged it across the skin with practiced ease.

A thin line of red welled up. A few drops of blood slipped from her palm and fell into a clear vial filled with a faintly glowing blue liquid. The moment the blood made contact, the liquid inside shifted—swirling, deepening, until it darkened into a rich violet hue.

Hongo’s breath hitched. “What—”

“Give her this one.” Saram’s voice was steady, indifferent. She pressed the vial into his palm without looking at him, as if the act meant nothing.

As if her own blood meant nothing.

Hongo curled his fingers around the glass, feeling the residual warmth from where her fingers had held it. His grip tightened. He stared at the liquid inside—at the way it pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.

“…What did you just do?” His voice was quieter now, not demanding, but careful.

Saram didn’t answer right away. She only wiped the blade of her knife against her sleeve, flicking the blood away before tucking it back into its sheath.

“It enhances the stabilizer’s effects,” she finally said, fastening the last vial into place. “It'll act faster that way, give her enough strength to stop her body from collapsing.”

Hongo’s eyes flickered to her palm. The cut wasn’t deep, but he could see the way it still bled, a slow trickle of red against pale skin.

“You could’ve used anything else,” he muttered. “There are other catalysts—other compounds.”

Saram met his gaze for the first time.

A quiet moment passed between them.

“This was the fastest way.”

Hongo’s jaw tightened. He looked back down at the vial in his hand.

“…Is this the first time you’ve done this?”

Saram didn’t answer. She didn’t need to because the answer was written in the way she moved. In the way she wiped her palm against her cloak without flinching. In the way she had done it all so quickly, so effortlessly—like she had done it before.

Like it was routine.

Hongo exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, “Damn it,” he muttered.

But he didn’t argue; instead, he turned back to Uta, rolling the vial between his fingers before carefully pressing it to her lips. Saram watched as he tilted it just enough for the liquid to slip past her lips, disappearing down her throat. Then, only after the last drop had gone—only after she saw the faintest ease in the tension of Uta’s weak form—did she exhale.

"I hate when you give me this one...." Uta chuckled quietly at Saram, "It's bitter and you add blood to it, yuck."

Saram sighed at her words, "Because you're troublesome."

"Where did this wind come from?

Where could it be taking us?"

Uta's voice sang out, the melody quiet and soft, Saram wasn't worried because at this very moment, the medicine was already fixing her body, she knew it. She knew it because she has spent years perfecting the medication for Uta, spent years for this very moment to stop her body from crumbling.

Uta leans more into Shanks' chest, his arm around her as she sings, seeking his warmth. Saram kept her eyes on the ground, despite how much Uta said she hated Shanks, the younger could never quite live up to it. She loved him too much to hate her and that was the irony of it all.

With practiced ease, she reached for the remaining vials and began slipping them back into her thigh holster bag, quietly as the younger sang, nimble hands putting things back.

"Let's row out to the open sea, far as we can go."

Uta fell asleep singing, body finally going into rest, Saram swallowed as she felt movement, Shanks slowly stood up, Uta over his shoulder, holding her with one hand. Her hands stilled over the straps of her bag, fingers half-curled around the last vial.

The world had quieted, the only sound being the rhythmic crash of waves against the distant shore and the soft creak of shifting boots on ruined ground, evening fell across the skies. Uta’s voice had faded into stillness, and in its absence, the weight of everything pressed against Saram’s ribs, heavy and suffocating.

She watched, behind the shadow of her hood, as Shanks adjusted Uta against his shoulder. His only hand cradled her weight with ease, firm yet gentle, his grip steady despite the unconsciousness of the girl in his hold.

His daughter.

His beloved daughter.

Saram’s stomach twisted, a sick, curling thing. Something like bitterness crawled up her throat, but she swallowed it back down before it could fester into something uglier.

Twelve years.

Twelve years since the fires of Elegia burned everything to ash. Twelve years since she had been left behind, a forgotten ember in the wreckage of a life that was never meant to be.

Twelve years of silence.

Twelve years of nothing.

'You had twelve years to look for me.' The words burned the back of her throat, acrid like rotten fruit left too long in the sun. But she didn’t say them aloud. She only thought them, over and over, as she curled her fingers into her sleeve. You didn’t even try. You just believed, I was dead and left it at that.

And maybe she had let it be. Maybe she had let that reality settle into the marrow of her bones, had let herself accept it, because that was easier than hoping.

Even now, after twelve years, he stood before her, flesh and blood, close enough to touch, close enough to see. And yet, she still wasn’t the one in his arms. Still was not the one he looked at first. Still was not the one he would run to save.

She never would be.

And that was the tragedy of it all.

Saram’s fingers curled tighter around the straps of her bag. She turned her gaze away, fixing it on the dirt beneath her boots, denial was easy when it was realization. Her whole life chasing after something that would never chase her, even at this moment, the father she thought she had stopped chasing, that feeling of rot blooms in her mouth as she stared at the crumbled grass under her boots.

“Saram.”

His voice.

Shanks.

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t lift her head.

Shanks took a step toward her. She heard the crunch of his sandals shift against the earth, the quiet weight of it so much heavier than it had any right to be.

“You—” His voice was careful, hesitant, like he didn’t know what to say, like there were too many words and none at all. He stopped just short of her, close enough that the hem of his coat brushed against her knee where she still knelt.

Saram inhaled through her nose, sharp and steady. Don’t look up. The weight of his presence was suffocating, she was drowning again, water invading her lungs, sea shells breaking her bones but she refused to let herself react.

A moment passed.

“…Come with us.”

The words were quiet but they shattered something all the same. Saram flinched before she could stop herself. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, knuckles going white, ears ringing, mouth dry.

Come with them.

Now? Now he wanted her to come with them?

She wanted to laugh.

Instead, she exhaled slowly, schooling her face into careful neutrality.

“I’m not one of you,” she said evenly, finally lifting her chin just enough to meet his eyes beneath the shadow of her hood.

Shanks stared at her, his expression unreadable. “You are.”

“Am I?” Her voice was soft, laced with something too light to be anger, but too bitter to be anything else. She didn't feel anger, Saram never did, that part had been quenched long ago, she felt only emptiness, and that was worse.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His grip around Uta’s back tightened. “Saram—”

“Enough.” Beckman’s voice cut through the tension like a knife, even and firm. “Talk later. For now, let’s get out of here before the Marines decide they want a round two.”

Shanks hesitated. His eyes lingered on her, as if memorizing her face, as if trying to find something in her that had already withered away. She saw that he still looked at her as if she were some puzzle and not his blood. Never his daughter, always a puzzle. Then, finally, he sighed. “Yeah.”

Saram turned away first, gathering the last of her supplies and standing in one fluid motion.

She wasn’t sure how it happened, wasn’t sure when she became part of the movement. Maybe it was Beckman, giving her a subtle push in the direction of the ship. Maybe it was Yasopp, nudging her forward without a word.

Or maybe—maybe it was just the sheer exhaustion of it all.

Because the next thing she knew, she was stepping onto the beach, sand giving away under her feet as she walked.

Saram stopped at the base of the gangplank.

Her feet wouldn’t move.

The ship loomed ahead, the Red Force as steady and unwavering as she remembered, its pristine white-lined sails catching the salty sea breeze. The faint glow of lanterns lined the railings, warm light spilling across the deck. The crew was already moving, securing ropes, and preparing to depart.

And at the center of it all, Shanks.

Saram’s gaze locked onto him before she could stop herself.

He was halfway up the gangplank, Uta still cradled against his shoulder, her breath barely visible in the cool night air. His grip on her was steady, his single arm supporting her weight like it was second nature—like it had always been second nature.

Her throat tightened.

He hadn’t even looked back.

He was walking forward, as if it was just another day, as if nothing had changed, as if he hadn’t left her behind all those years ago, as if she hadn’t spent the last twelve years learning how to live with the weight of being forgotten.

It was happening again.

She was standing at the edge, watching as Shanks walked away with Uta.

Again.

The world felt smaller, pressing in around her, an invisible force curling around her limbs like seaweed dragging her under. The scent of salt filled her nose, mingling with the faintest trace of old, charred wood—a ghost of a memory that had never left her.

She was a child again, standing on the edge of the world, watching as they left, knowing she would never be able to follow them. They didn’t even see her. They didn’t even know she was there.

Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back before they could fall. Not that anyone could see from the way her hood covered her. She had learned long ago that no one needed to see her cry. That’s not what they wanted from her. No one ever wanted to see her. No one ever cared.

But Uta… Uta had always been different, hadn’t she?

She was always so easy to love.

Saram clenched her fists around her jacket, the fabric crumpling under her grip, trying to hold on to the last thread of herself.

She wasn’t a child anymore. She had learned to survive without them. Without him. Without anyone. But it still hurt. The wound still bled, even if she tried to pretend it didn’t. The ache, the distance—nothing had changed. She was still the same girl left behind on the sidelines, watching as the world moved on without her.

A child with no place in their future, stuck in a past she couldn’t escape. She curled her fingers into the fabric of her cloak.

Move.

Her legs refused.

Saram, move.

But she couldn’t.

They'll hurt us again.

Because stepping onto that ship, onto his ship, meant stepping back into something she wasn’t sure she could survive. Something that would once again turn her into a cold cave and leave her stranded.

I don't want to be alone anymore.

Her breath hitched, her fingers trembling slightly at her sides. The voice of her ten-year-old self who celebrated her birthday in silence, alone in her room due to the crew forgetting.

Her heart stammered; could she do it again? Could she hurt that little girl hiding inside her again? Could she bury that crying girl under layers and layers again? Could she force that little girl inside her to quiet again? Could she-

A hand settled on her head.

Warm. Solid. Calloused fingers ruffled her hair, just briefly, before retreating. Saram startled, her breath stalling as she glanced up.

Hongo stood beside her, his face unreadable, eyes shadowed beneath the dim lantern light. He didn’t say anything at first, didn’t offer soft words or empty reassurances.

Just that one, steady touch.

One touch and the crying went quiet.

“Let’s go, kid.”

His voice was quiet, almost casual. But it left no room for hesitation. Saram swallowed. Her fingers twitched against her cloak. Before she could react, his hand closed around her wrist—not tight, not demanding, but firm enough that she felt it, that she knew he wouldn’t let her slip away.

A light pull.

Not dragging. Not demanding.

Just guiding.

Saram’s fingers twitched, her gaze falling downcast. She focused on the contrast between their hands—his, rough with age and experience, steady with the kind of certainty she had never quite managed to find in herself. Hers, smaller, lighter, still curled into a half-clenched fist like she was bracing for something.

She tensed.

Her pulse stuttered under his grip, years of habit screaming at her to pull away, to turn, to run.

But she didn’t.

She couldn't.

Not yet.

“Hongo, I…” Her voice wavered, a rare thing, almost fragile.

She dropped her gaze to the ground. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, not when her mind was spinning, not when the weight of everything was pressing against her ribs like an anchor sinking too fast.

Hongo didn’t let go. He didn’t tighten his grip, didn’t force her forward. He just held on. And for some reason— That was enough. Saram inhaled sharply, clenching her jaw, and forced her feet to move.

One step.

Then another.

Up the gangplank, past the edge of the ship, onto the deck where the scent of sea salt and gunpowder wrapped around her like something familiar, something almost like home.

Hongo let go the moment her boots hit the wood.

And just like that—

She was on the Red Force again.

Twelve years too late.

The moment Hongo let go, Saram felt it.

That sudden, sharp absence.

His touch had been brief—just long enough to steady her, just long enough to pull her forward—but now that it was gone, now that she was standing on the deck alone, it left her with nothing but the cold weight pressing down on her ribs.

She had made it onto the ship, but she had never felt farther away from solid ground. Her throat felt tight. Her fists clenched around the fabric of her jacket, gripping it so hard her knuckles ached. Her heart ached.

This was how it always was - they caught her just enough to keep her from falling. A steadying hand, a firm grip on her wrist, the briefest touch to remind her that she still existed.

Then — they let go.

Left her to find her own footing, left her to pick herself back up, left her to stand alone. She had learned long ago that this was how it worked. The Red-Haired Pirates were not cruel. But they were not gentle. They held kindness and love for everyone - everyone except her, she was to adapt, lick the scraps of love from knives.

She had taught herself how to be weightless. How to exist in the space between their attention and their absence.

She had taught herself how to survive without them. How to not expect from anyone, how to keep herself from needing them the way Uta did.

She had taught herself to be dead.

So why did she feel like she was drowning?

Her chest felt heavy.

Rotten.

Like something had been left out in the sun too long, like spoiled fruit crushed beneath careless footsteps. She turned on instinct, moving without thought, her feet carrying her toward the edge of the ship. She needed space. But she was far from it with the senses of her on high drive.

The scent of salt and gunpowder filled her nose, the gentle creak of the ship beneath her feet grounding her in something familiar. She ignored the crew, ignored the way their eyes flickered to her, lingering with something she refused to acknowledge.

Instead, she made her way to the railing, slipping into the shadow of the crates stacked nearby.

And she watched.

Elegia.

The island grew smaller in the distance, its ruins silhouetted against the darkened sky. The broken remnants of a place that had once been hers. Her peace, her solitude, her quiet little world.

Left behind.

Just like her.

She swallowed, staring at the fading horizon, at the last pieces of the only home she had known for twelve years. Of the only place she had ever found peace in. She had spent so long convincing herself she was okay there. That it was fine, that it was enough.

That she didn’t need them.

Yet, after twelve years here she was.

Back on this ship.

Back on his ship.

Back on the ship where she spent the best and worst of her life.

A place that had once been home, a place that had once been hers. No. Not hers. Never hers. Saram had nothing of hers in this world except for the clothes on her back and the skills that she learned in the libraries of Elegia.

The ship rocked gently beneath her feet, a rhythm she should have remembered, something buried deep in her bones from years long past. But it felt wrong now—like a song played out of tune, a melody half-forgotten, the notes warped by time. She curled her fingers tighter around her jacket, the fabric stiff beneath her grip. Her knuckles pressed into the worn leather, nails biting into her palm, but she barely felt it.

She barely felt anything.

The voices of the crew drifted around her, low murmurs, unspoken questions, words she didn't care to decipher. They were there, but they weren’t for her.

Not really.

Not anymore.

Not ever.

She stayed by the railing, letting the ocean wind press against her back, staring at the waves that stretched endlessly behind them. Elegia was gone now. Fading into the horizon, swallowed by distance, swallowed by time.

She should have felt something about that.

Sadness. Grief. A sense of loss, maybe.

But all she felt was quiet. The kind that pressed down on her ribs, thick and suffocating. The kind that had nothing to do with peace.

You had twelve years.

The thought came unbidden, sharp as a knife, settling in her chest like a stone.

Twelve years to look for me.

Her fingers twitched against her coat.

You didn’t even try. You just said, ‘Saram is dead,’ and left it at that.

She swallowed, but the lump in her throat refused to fade. Of course he had. She wasn’t Uta.

Uta was bright, loud, unforgettable. Uta was someone you looked for, someone you missed, someone you mourned.

Saram was quiet. Easy to forget. She had always been good at slipping through the cracks, at making herself small enough to be overlooked. It was easier that way.

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself, forcing her lungs to expand, forcing the air to press against the tightness in her chest. It didn’t help. Her body felt heavy, like seawater filling her lungs, dragging her down with each breath and yet she stayed there, silent, unmoving, the wind tugging at the edges of her hood. She could feel their gazes on her—fleeting glances, brief hesitations.

Saram shifted, her fingers curling absently around the cool glass of a vial tucked in her palm. It wasn’t full—half-empty, like her thoughts, like the weight in her chest that never quite settled. She rolled it between her fingers, feeling the faint slosh of liquid inside, the delicate clink of glass against her rings. It gave her something to do, something to focus on, even if it was meaningless.

The wind brushed against her cloak, ruffling the fabric ever so slightly. The sea stretched endlessly before her, dark and restless beneath the stars. A familiar sight. A familiar sound. It should have been comforting. It wasn’t.

She shifted her weight against the railing, barely moving, barely breathing. And yet—

Footsteps.

She heard them before she saw him.

A familiar gait, steady, purposeful. Not hurried, but not slow either.

She knew who it was before he even got close.

Yasopp.

She didn’t turn to look at him. She didn’t have to. She could feel it—the way his presence settled beside her, close enough to be noticed but not close enough to be comforting. He wasn’t here for that.

She already knew why he was here.

The last conversation they’d had –

“She was gone, and there you were—a crying, helpless kid with nothing but her name left behind!"

She tightened her grip around the vial.

The silence stretched between them, thick and unspoken, the weight of years pressing in at the edges. He didn’t speak right away, didn't force her to acknowledge him. He just stood there, like he was waiting for something.

She wasn’t sure what.

She was sure she had anything left to give.

Not like she ever had anything to give.

Her thumb traced over the smooth surface of the vial, pressing against the cool glass. A distraction. A pointless, fleeting thing. But it was easier than looking at him. Easier than seeing whatever expression lingered on his face.

Because he knew it would be something that would make her skin crawl again. They all had that effect on her, making her feel lesser than, making her feel that she was a chore, a headache that refused to go away.

Until she did.

The waves crashed against the hull, steady, unyielding—relentless in their rhythm, as if time itself was carved into the endless motion of the sea. Each wave was a reminder of the world's constant flow, undisturbed by the chaos or stillness that might surround it. The Red Force creaked under the pressure, its wood groaning in sync with the waves, but it held firm. Above, the sky stretched wide and indifferent, vast and endless like the ocean below.

In contrast, she stood still, her body and soul suspended in time. While the world around her kept its dance of relentless progress, moving forward without hesitation, she remained frozen, a spectator in her own life. Her heart beat steadily, but each pulse felt like it was no longer part of the world’s rhythm. It was as if the ocean, the boat, and the sky were moving on without her, leaving her to linger in a quiet space where nothing seemed to change. The world kept moving, even when she couldn’t.

“You’re quiet.”

His voice was the same as ever. Low. Rough. Holding that slight drag from his hometown, he always had it. Saram exhaled through her nose, a slow, measured breath.

“I usually am.”

Yasopp huffed a quiet laugh.

“Yeah. Guess that’s true.”

Silence again.

He shifted slightly, the wooden planks creaking beneath his weight. She didn’t look at him, still staring at the horizon, still watching the last traces of Elegia fade into the night. Twelve years of her life, of her existence, reduced to nothing more than fleeting moments. The question haunted her, gnawing at her mind.

Was anything of her truly permanent? In a world that shifted so constantly, with things fading and being replaced, what of her would remain? Would she ever leave a mark on this world, something that wasn’t just another fleeting moment in the vastness of time?

Would anyone remember who she truly was, or would she be just another forgotten shadow, lost to the night like the silhouette of Elegia fading from view?

“…I never thought I’d see you here again.”

A beat passed, the silence stretching long enough for her to feel the emptiness of it, filling the space between them with memories she couldn’t escape.

Her fingers stilled around the vial, the smooth glass cool against her skin, her touch frozen for a moment, as if the world had stopped with that simple statement. Never see her again.

Right. Saram had died. Burned away with Elegia. Her body buried under the fiery depths of debris, nothing left to mark her existence but ashes. Sulfur raking her skin as she slept in a dark dream.

Saram died. She remembered it. The sensation of the world turning to fire, to smoke, to ruin. Her last breath swallowed by the chaos, her final thought buried under the rubble. She could almost feel it again—how she had let go, slipping away into that dark, endless sleep.

Another beat.

She almost laughed. The absurdity of it. The impossibility of it. That ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but it never fully formed.

Almost.

What about you? Won't they come for you too? The two questions that Gordon had asked her as a child, the questions she always knew the answer to. Saram died. That day, that night, twelve years ago, she had burned, rotted away and buried deep down in the soils of Elegia to never return again.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly, gaze still fixed on the water, voice quieter than before.

“Neither did I.”

The words were truthful in a way that no one else could understand. She never thought she’d see this moment either—not as she was now. Not with all the parts of her left behind, scattered across a world that no longer made sense. She had never expected to return, to survive, to be.

She felt him shift again, felt the way his posture tensed just slightly, like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

Good.

Let him sit with it.

Let him feel the weight of twelve years, the weight of every word left unsaid.

She wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

Not anymore.

Yasopp didn’t answer right away.

Saram finally turned to look at him, hood still casting shadows over her face. Her eyes—they were a different story. They were sharp, too sharp, too knowing. They pierced through the dim light, unwavering and cold. It was always unsettling, even as a child, the way she could look right through people, like she could see every thought before it formed. She saw him, saw everything—the uncertainty, the regret, the hesitation—and she made no effort to hide that she did.

She tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable, detached, “Why are you here, Yasopp?”

Her voice was quiet. Not soft. Just quiet. A blade smoothed over, honed until it no longer needed to cut to be sharp.

Yasopp exhaled, running a hand over his face before shoving it into his pocket. He looked at her then, really looked at her—at the set of her shoulders, the way she held herself.

She didn’t look angry.

Didn’t look anything at all.

“…I wanted to talk.”

Saram let out a quiet, almost amused huff through her nose, glancing away.

“Twelve years too late for that.”

Yasopp flinched, but she didn’t give him time to dwell on it. She lifted the vial again, rolling it absently between her fingers, watching the liquid swirl inside. It caught the faint lantern light, reflecting off the glass.

“Twelve years and now you suddenly want to talk?” She hummed, amused in a way that didn’t reach her eyes. “Spare me, Yasopp. I don’t need your guilty conscience weighing me down.”

Yasopp sighed heavily, “I know, alright? I know I screwed up.”

Saram arched a brow, unimpressed, “Oh? And did you come all this way just to tell me that?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He looked tired. Older. He looked at her like a ghost—like something lost that he had somehow found again but didn’t know how to hold.

Saram didn’t waver. Didn’t let the weight of his regret touch her.

He had made his choices.

She had made hers.

They weren’t the same people anymore.

She wasn’t the twelve year old girl who was told that her birth was a mistake anymore. That girl was dead.

Yasopp ran a hand through his hair, looking away. “Look, kid, I—” He stopped, sighed, then started again. “I thought you were dead. I didn’t—I didn’t even think—”

“That’s right,” Saram cut in smoothly, voice as even as ever. “You didn’t think. None of you did.”

Yasopp clenched his jaw.

She just shrugged, rolling the vial between her fingers again, the faint clicking of the glass against her skin the only sound that punctuated the silence. Her expression remained neutral, but her words sliced through the air, deliberate and final.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.” She turned her attention back to the sea, her gaze distant, unfocused as it drifted across the dark expanse. The waves whispered, undisturbed by the tension that clung to the air around them. “It’s over. I’m here. You don’t need to waste your breath pretending you care.”

Yasopp’s brows furrowed, a flicker of frustration flashing across his face. His jaw clenched slightly, as if the words stung him more than he’d expected. He took a step forward, his voice edged with an earnestness he couldn’t quite hide.

“It’s not pretending.”

Saram didn’t answer. Didn’t react. She kept her eyes fixed on the horizon, her face turned away from him, like she hadn’t heard him at all. The cold distance between them felt thicker now, more suffocating.

The silence stretched between them, thick and taut, as if the very air had become a barrier. Yasopp stood there, torn, unable to bridge the gap, his words lost in the vastness of everything unsaid.

Finally, he exhaled, his breath a quiet sigh of defeat. He shook his head, like he couldn’t believe how far they had drifted. His voice, when it came, was quieter now, softer, more vulnerable than it had been before.

“Damn it, kid…” His voice was low, barely above a whisper, but there was no mistaking the sincerity in it. “I do care.”

Saram didn’t move. Didn’t look at him.

For a moment, Yasopp thought she wouldn’t answer at all. The stillness between them stretched, a chasm that seemed impossible to cross. He wondered if she would just let it linger, that unspoken truth between them, a silent judgment that he could never undo.

“…Too bad for you, then.”

A simple statement. Cold. Detached.

It was the final word, the one that closed the door without ceremony. No anger, no bitterness—just a flat, matter-of-fact tone that told him everything he needed to know. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need his guilt, his apologies, or his care. The world had moved on without him, and so had she.

Yasopp stood there, silent once more, his eyes narrowing as he took in the finality of her words. Something inside him clenched painfully. Twelve years ago he had torn her heart apart, ripping through the delicate threads of trust she had woven so carefully. In a single, devastating moment, he had shattered the fragile foundation of her world, leaving nothing but jagged pieces scattered in the wake of his actions.

He had walked away, leaving the twelve-year-old girl to bleed. To bleed not just from the wound he had created, but from the agony of abandonment, from the searing pain of being discarded without even a second thought. She had been too young, too innocent to understand the complexities of what had happened, but not too young to feel the deep, gnawing emptiness that followed.

She had been alone in that moment, facing the vast, hollow silence of a world that no longer felt safe. She had bled in ways that weren’t visible, bleeding out her hope, her sense of security, her belief that the people she loved would never leave her. The wound had festered in the years that followed, never truly healing, just buried beneath layers of walls and defenses she had built around herself.

Yasopp wondered if this was payment of his sins.

He opened his mouth, but before the words could even take shape, the heavy sound of boots meeting wood reverberated across the deck, breaking the fragile silence. The slow, deliberate rhythm of footsteps told her all she needed to know before she even turned around. Beckman.

"Saram." His voice was steady, a familiar timbre that always carried the weight of expectations without the need for further explanation. There was no warmth in it, no softness—just that same unyielding, unreadable quality that had defined him since she had first met him. It was a voice that neither invited nor rejected, just… was.

She glanced over her shoulder, her senses already sharpening to the subtle shift in the air. The slight increase in pressure at the back of her neck. The weight of his presence, like a shadow that had stretched over the space between them. Beckman stood a few feet away, his figure cutting through the dim light with the same composure he always wore like armor. His gaze, though fixed on her, was unreadable—impossible to decipher. And in that moment, she realized with a quiet certainty that nothing about this would be easy.

Yasopp looked between the two of them, his eyes flicking back and forth, but she didn’t need to see him to know that the frustration in him was growing. He couldn’t understand why Beckman was here now, why he had shown up at this moment, but Saram didn’t need to ask. She knew.

Saram exhaled slowly, the weight of the air in her lungs pressing against her chest. The coldness of the night air mixed with the salt of the sea on her skin, biting through the fabric of her cloak. She could almost taste it—the sea, sharp and distant, like a memory she couldn’t quite reach. Her fingers brushed the smooth glass of the vial one last time, then slid it back into its holster, the action deliberate, almost automatic. She could hear the soft click as it settled into place, a sound so small, yet it seemed to resonate within her.

Turning fully, she caught one last glimpse of Yasopp, his expression tight with something she couldn’t quite place—regret? Anger? Maybe both, or neither. It didn’t matter.

The silence between them hung heavy, like the pressure before a storm. Beckman didn’t have to say it—he never did. She could feel it, feel the weight of the unspoken command in his presence, the way his eyes never wavered from hers. He expected her to follow, and she would. She always did. There was no point in resisting, no point in questioning.

Saram didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The decision was made in the quiet space between the thrum of her pulse and the cold breeze against her skin. She followed without a word, her boots tapping softly against the deck as she walked toward him, her steps steady.

The Captain’s quarters were dimly lit, the soft glow of lanterns casting long, wavering shadows against the wooden walls, their flickering light doing little to ease the heavy atmosphere that had settled within the room. The air was thick with something unsaid, something that seemed to hang between the walls as much as the people in it.

Shanks stood near his desk, his back turned toward them, shoulders slightly hunched, as if the weight of the moment—or something else—was pressing down on him. He had always exuded a certain calm, a confidence that made the crew trust him implicitly, but now, there was something different. Something quieter, more burdened. He didn’t need to turn to know they had entered. Beckman had already moved in, followed closely by Saram, whose footsteps were almost inaudible.

The door shut behind them with a soft, almost reverent click, sealing them in. The silence stretched, a tension in the air as palpable as the scent of saltwater creeping in from the sea. Shanks didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just exhaled, the sound more like a sigh than a breath, and finally, slowly, he turned. His eyes landed on Saram.

She stood still, her form cast in shadow, her expression unreadable. The room was quiet enough that every second seemed to stretch, the minutes hanging heavy like lead. Neither of them spoke. The years between them, the questions left unanswered, hung like a shroud in the air, too thick to be sliced through with a simple greeting.

Then, almost to himself, more a murmur than anything meant for her, Shanks finally spoke, his voice low. “…You’re really here.”

Saram didn’t flinch, didn’t twitch. She simply stood there, unmoving, her gaze unwavering on him. Her fingers twitched at her sides, the only sign of life in a body otherwise still as stone. She said nothing, her silence sharp, purposeful, waiting for him to fill the gap.

He didn’t. For a long time, he just looked at her, like he wasn’t sure where to start. His gaze wavered slightly, almost lost in the years of absence between them. He looked at her as if he had spent those years rehearsing this exact moment, but the words he had practiced, the ones he had wanted to say for so long, had dissolved into nothingness now that the time had come.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she lifted a brow, her head tilting slightly as if to prod him.

“Well?” she asked, her voice cutting through the silence with the precision of someone who had long stopped waiting for answers.

Shanks exhaled again, rubbing the back of his neck. His fingers pressed into the base of his skull, as if trying to loosen the tension there, but it wouldn’t give. He looked tired, more than tired. Worn down in a way that went beyond exhaustion. His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. The years had taken their toll on him, on all of them, but especially on him.

“I thought you were dead,” he admitted quietly, the words slipping out almost without him realizing it. There was no relief in his voice, no hope. Just the raw honesty of something that had been buried for far too long.

Saram’s expression betrayed nothing. Her face was a mask, a calm, quiet surface that hid everything beneath. Her fingers didn’t twitch again. She didn’t react. She just looked at him, the silence hanging between them heavier than anything she could say.

“Yes,” she said simply. “You did.”

The words were flat, too calm, like a dead thing spoken aloud, but they struck him anyway. He flinched. A sharp, almost imperceptible movement, but it was enough for Saram to see it, enough for the gravity of the moment to shift just slightly.

Beckman, leaning silently against the wall, watched the exchange with that same unreadable expression. His presence in the room was steady, solid—a silent observer to a history unraveling in front of him. But he didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt. This was theirs to navigate, not his.

Shanks took a slow breath, a long pause as he seemed to collect himself, the weight of those years catching up to him in one sharp inhale. His gaze flickered between Beckman, who stood motionless, and Saram, who still remained utterly still, her face as unreadable as the night sky outside the window.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quieter than before, almost rough. The words felt heavier than they should have. Too heavy for a simple apology, as if everything—everything—was pressed into that one fragile syllable.

Saram didn’t answer immediately. She didn’t need to. The apology hung in the air like an offering she wasn’t sure was worth accepting.

Saram tilted her head slightly, her gaze cool, as though she were examining something distant, something far beyond the man in front of her. Her expression remained unreadable, but her voice—her voice was like ice, cutting through the thick tension of the room.

“For what?” she asked, her tone flat, as if the question itself didn’t warrant much thought.

Shanks frowned, confusion flickering in his eyes, the question clearly not what he’d expected. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came, as if he were trying to piece together an answer that didn’t feel like it would be enough.

Saram didn’t give him time to find his words. She lifted her chin, her gaze piercing, unflinching.

“For leaving me?” she continued, her voice still calm, almost bored, the sharpness of her words hidden beneath that cool facade. “For forgetting me? For never looking for me?”

The words hit Shanks like a physical blow, each one sinking into him deeper than the last. He swallowed, his throat tight, like he couldn’t breathe properly under the weight of it. He wasn’t ready for this—wasn’t ready to face the raw truth of what he had done, what he had left behind.

“I never forgot you,” he finally managed, his voice thick, hoarse, but firm. His eyes held hers, desperate for her to believe it, desperate to make her understand the depth of his regret.

Saram’s eyes flickered, but they remained unreadable, her face a mask of calm detachment.

“No?” Her voice was soft, like she didn’t care, but the question still carried the weight of everything left unsaid, everything left behind in the wake of his actions.

Shanks didn’t look away. His gaze held steady, unwavering. “…No.”

Saram’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she exhaled through her nose, shaking her head with a small, almost imperceptible movement.

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said, her words cold, final, like a door being shut quietly but firmly in his face.

Shanks’ brow furrowed, confusion and frustration mixing in his expression. “Of course, it matters,” he replied, his voice tinged with desperation, like he couldn’t understand why she was refusing to let him apologize, why she wouldn’t allow him to make it right. “It always matters.”

Saram just shrugged, her shoulders barely moving, like she was shrugging off his words as easily as she might shrug off a layer of dust.

“It’s over,” she said, the finality in her tone leaving no room for argument. She lifted one hand, gesturing vaguely toward the space between them, toward the ship, toward everything that had happened. “I survived. Uta survived. Everything worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

Shanks’ frown deepened, a mix of guilt and anger starting to creep up in him, but before he could form the words to respond, she stepped forward. The movement was slow, deliberate, like she was walking toward him just to prove something—a point, perhaps, or maybe something she had already decided.

Saram stopped a breath’s length away from him, close enough for the tension to crackle between them. She didn’t look at him, didn’t let her eyes soften. Her voice was steady, cold, but there was something sharp in it now—something cutting.

“…If I had died,” she asked, her words slow, careful, like each one carried the weight of everything she had never let him see, “would you have ever known?”

The question hung in the air like an accusation, and as soon as the words left her mouth, Shanks froze. His entire body went still, like he had been hit with a blow that left him breathless. His throat closed around the truth of it—he couldn’t answer her. He couldn’t make her feel anything different, not now. He had failed her, and this… this was the consequence.

Beckman, who had been watching quietly from the wall, inhaled sharply, his breath catching as the gravity of Saram’s words hit him, too. Even he couldn’t hide the tightness in his chest, the way his jaw clenched, like he could feel the sting of the unspoken truth.

Shanks opened his mouth, but no words came. He wanted to say something, anything, to explain himself, to beg for her forgiveness, but the silence between them had already become too thick, too suffocating to break.

The weight of the question she had asked hung in the air, suffocating him. Would he have known? Would he have even cared if she had died? The answer was too painful to face, too much for him to bear. Because part of him already knew that in those long years without her, without anyone, he had simply forgotten.

His eyes searched hers for any sign, any sign that she would give him a way out, but there was nothing. Just the cold, steady gaze of someone who had survived, someone who no longer needed him.

Saram met Shanks’ gaze head-on, her eyes piercing through him like a blade. The room felt smaller, the air thicker with every second that passed. She didn’t look away, didn’t give him an ounce of softness. Her voice was calm, almost too calm for the weight of the words that followed.

“No one looked for me, dad,” she said simply, her words cutting through the silence like a knife. “No one even thought to. I was just gone. Dead. Like I never even existed.”

Shanks’ breath caught in his throat. He clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth ground together, his hand trembling at his side as he looked down, unable to meet her gaze. He had thought of her every day, in his own way, but hearing her say it—hearing her say it like that—shattered something inside him.

“I should have—” he began, his voice thick with regret, the words fumbling out like they had been trapped for too long.

But she didn’t let him finish. She stepped forward, just a little, and her voice, though quiet, was sharp as it sliced through his half-formed apology.

“But you didn’t,” she cut in, her words biting. “And that’s all there is to it.”

The finality in her voice rang louder than anything else. The silence that followed felt suffocating, thick enough to swallow them both.

Shanks stayed silent, his eyes downcast, his hand hanging limply at his side as he tried to breathe through the weight of her words. His heart felt heavy in his chest, too heavy. His stomach churned with a mix of guilt, shame, and loss. Finally, his voice came out in a whisper, barely audible, cracking under the strain of everything he hadn’t said. “…Saram.”

She shook her head, a soft, almost imperceptible movement, but it was enough to stop him.

“I don’t need your guilt,” she said, her voice unwavering, a slight tremor in it, but nothing more. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t angry.

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Shanks didn’t know what to say. He had wanted to apologize, to tell her everything he had kept buried for so long. But it was too late. The damage had already been done. He had failed her—and she didn’t need him to carry his remorse for her anymore.

The words hung in the air, thick as smoke, curling through the dim lantern light like something burning slow, like something left too long in the embers. The air inside the Captain’s quarters felt suffocating, like the walls had been pulled too close, like there wasn’t enough space for all the things left unsaid.

Saram stood still, gaze level, shoulders squared. But inside—inside, something was rotting. Foul and sickly sweet, a slow decay of something that had once been whole. She had thought she had buried it deep enough. Thought she had burned it all away.

But standing here now—

Looking at him—

It was all still there.

Shanks swallowed, his throat working around words he couldn’t yet shape. He took a step forward, slow, hesitant, like he was approaching something wounded, something liable to lash out.

Beckman’s gaze flickered between them, sharp, assessing, reading the tension in the space like cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. He didn't interrupt. Not yet.

Shanks exhaled, the sound quieter than it should have been. "It wasn’t supposed to be like this."

Saram scoffed under her breath. "Oh? And how exactly was it supposed to be, Captain?"

The title was a blade, slicing between them. She had not called him that since she was a child. Since the days when she still believed that this—this ship, this crew, him—was home.

Shanks flinched, his hand twitching at his side, like he had thought about reaching for her and decided against it. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter, heavier.

"You were supposed to be safe."

Saram's lips curled into something that wasn’t a smile.

"Safe," she echoed, voice dipped in something bitter. "You mean forgotten."

Shanks shook his head, fast, too fast. "No. I—"

"You left me," she said, cutting him off, voice steady, sharp. "You left me there, and you didn’t come back. You didn’t even look."

Shanks' breath hitched. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, to tell her it wasn’t that simple. But how could he? How could he say anything when she was right?

Beckman took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke that coiled through the tense air. He knew this storm had been waiting to break. Knew there was no stopping it now.

Saram stepped forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between them just enough for Shanks to see the fire smoldering behind her gaze.

"Tell me, Captain," she murmured, voice quieter now, more dangerous. "Would you have done the same if it were Uta?"

Shanks' whole body locked up.

The answer—his answer—was written across his face before he could even think to hide it.

And Saram?

Saram laughed.

A breathless, empty sound that held no real amusement. It tasted like ash in her mouth. Like something dead.

"You don’t even have to say it," she murmured, stepping back, shaking her head. "I already knew."

Shanks looked sick. His fingers curled into his palm, nails biting into skin as he fought to breathe past the weight pressing down on his ribs.

"I loved you," he said, the words raw and unsteady. "I love you, Saram."

She exhaled slowly through her nose, lips pressing into a thin line.

"No," she said, quiet and firm. "You loved the idea of me."

Shanks inhaled sharply.

Saram kept going.

"You loved me when I was a child who needed you. When I was small and quiet and easy to carry. You loved me when it made you feel like a hero. When it was convenient."

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming in the lantern glow.

"But the second it wasn’t?" she murmured. "I was nothing."

Shanks opened his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to beg—but nothing came out.

Beckman’s fingers twitched, eyes dark under the smoke curling around his face. This was worse than he thought. This was deeper, rotting deeper than he had realized.

Saram’s hands were shaking now. She shoved them into the pockets of her coat to keep them still.

She didn't want to need this conversation.

Didn’t want to care about his words, his guilt, his regret.

But she did.

God, she did.

It burned, thick and ugly in her chest, an open wound festering with every second that passed.

The ship creaked around them. The scent of salt and old wood, of smoke and iron, filled her lungs. The place where she had spent the best and worst years of her life. The place where she had learned how to want—how to need—before she ever learned how to bury those things deep.

Shanks ran a hand over his face, his breath shaking. When he looked up again, his eyes were red at the edges, "I never forgot you," he rasped. "I never stopped—"

"But you didn’t look," she cut in, voice quiet, dangerous. "You didn’t want to look. It was easier to believe I was gone than to face what leaving me behind really meant."

Shanks exhaled, slow and shaky, like he was holding something together by sheer force of will. Beckman shifted, speaking for the first time. His voice was calm, but it cut through the tension like a well-placed bullet.

"You’re both still standing here."

Silence.

Saram’s lips pressed into a thin line. Shanks blinked, his breath uneven.

"You’re both still here," Beckman repeated, slower this time, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

"So what now?"

and THAT was part 2, I'm kinda excited for the next part

taglist: @acesdiary @chizu001 @nagislemontea @v1ennie @74zix47

#one piece #one piece x reader #akagami no shanks #akagami no shanks x reader #shanks x reader #hongo #lime juice #uta #one piece spoilers #one piece film red #red haired pirates #red haired shanks #Akagami Kaizoku #fic: sitp #benn beckman

164 notes · View notes

thepsychonyx · 5 months ago

Text

The Dagger is a representation of Solas Duty and Trauma

DRAGON AGE THE VEILGUARD SPOILERS AHEAD

I believe the dagger being left behind in Redemption endings symbolise Solas finally being freed of his duty & trauma whilst non-redemption endings force that pain to go with him. The dagger reminds him all he lost & sacrificed vs in Redemption he is free and regains his autonomy.

Before anyone yells at me that this is a reach, I get it- but walk with me. The dagger was commissioned by Mythal, he was against its creation and against its purpose to sunder the Titans, it was also used to kill Mythal and is essentially a symbol of all of Solas' original sins

Though some of us agree that none of these things sit solely on his head, they do sit on his conscience.

The grief of having a part of your autonomy irreversibly altered as they did with the Titans is a reflection of how he was forever condemned to himself. His one salve? Duty.

I've never thought Mythal's words in the Redemption endings were an indication of him prizing her affection above the chance Rook gave or Lavellan's pleading, she mutilated his spirit and perverted his purpose. For which, her taking accountability unbinds him of the emotional and mental toll. This is only one aspect of why the dagger is key to redemption. The important thing is he needed to be freed of his duty, he feels he has gone too far and taken too much. He knows the price has been too high and that is why he wants to be stopped, one way or another. Hence leaving hints for Inquisitor and Varric, as well as stating to Rook he fears becoming like Elgar'nan, too powerful with no one to check him. He never wanted to be this, and he is ready to die. Solas is exhausted of what this duty has taken from him as it has costed him everything.

Crucially, freeing him from his duty finally allows him to let go of the purpose he made himself physical for. He was brought into the world to give her wisdom, wisdom she denied and without her to unbind, his reason for being physical is left to trying to heal the wounds he made.

In DAI, if you drink from the Well, thus putting you into Mythals service, Solas is incredibly angry for valid reason. He just watched you make the same error he did!

He bears these words so heavily because this is also the burden he bears - he is stuck in the cycle of what this duty demands of him.

Solas asks you what will you do after Corypheus and he only *Approves* if you say "I'll restore what was" - he associates bettering the world with undoing the condition his actions have forced it into.

"You honor the past and work to recover what was lost, even if the cost is high." It is not all about Mythal, it is about fixing his biggest mistakes and restoring the world to what he, someone duty bound to the people for causing the problems, took away from *everyone.*

He knows the cost is high, that's why he wants to be stopped. That's why he leaves hints for Inquisitor. It's why he says to a friend, "I would treasure the chance to be wrong again" - he just cannot see another way because he is bound by his purpose for why he entered the world.

This is why the Trick ending also works because it forced Solas to see another way to atone, but the dagger - the grief and trauma - goes with him. The bad ending is him completely forced (stabbed) into becoming a manifestation of pride. His duty completely corrupting his values.

Whilst the Redemption ending is the most fulfilling as it finally let's him allow himself to let go. He is forgiven, for the first time ever by his friend or true love, he is absolved of the burdens and duty that haunted him, he is given the wisdom he has always been denied.

Someone who only wanted to free others finally being freed themselves, who endeavoured to unshackle the chains of others finally being unbound of his own, isn't that a beautiful ending? He is just a man, a faulted haunted man who did his best and I think that is worth something.

The beautiful thing, is with the Solavellan ending, Inquisitor Lavellan gives him more than just atonement to live for. Bereft of his original purpose of bestowing wisdom as he has confined himself to atone, she posits a new purpose. Their love, eternally, will be their new fate. He will never be alone again, and together work towards his new purpose. For a man who was enslaved by a friend (he wore Mythal's valaslin!) who used him and ignored him, to be given salvation from the love of his life who listened to him and wants to be beside him through everything - I cannot imagine a better conclusion and retirement from his Duty and the first crucial step into healing from his Trauma.

(Ignore me in the corner teary eyed lol)

This post by Trick states that the endings with the dagger mean it’ll be harder for him mentally to become free - it may be a simple association that no dagger = redemption, but this is DA it has to mean more. At least, it does to me.

#dragon age solas #solas dragon age #solas dread wolf #datv spoilers #da4 spoilers #solas is traumatised #solas is free #solas trauma #solas duty #dragon age veilguard #veilguard ending

208 notes · View notes

just-jordie-things · 1 year ago

Text

let the light in - ryomen sukuna

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 10k follower event special! ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

word count: 15.5k warnings: mentions of fighting and injuries, reader has a cursed technique but i don't describe it bc i'm lazy, she's actually pretty weak in this ngl i needed her to be a bit of a damsel in distress. sukuna is pretty out of character but he has to be. also sukuna can take control of yuji's body when he's asleep bc i decided so ok it's my first time writing for him so bare with me. summary: reincarnation!au with a twist. in every life sukuna finds you in, he has to remind you of who you once were- and who you once were to each other. it's a burden, but it's one he's carried for centuries and he wouldn't have it any other way. more info: slowburn enemies to ?? to lovers, sukuna is hopelessly in love with reader its very fun ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

[ ooh let the light in // at your back door yelling cause i wanna come in // ooh turn your light on // look at us, you and i back at it again ]

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Finding her in this life was the first thing on his mind as soon as his consciousness was manifested. Just like every era before this one, she’s always his first thought.

The second thought was- what the fuck?

In all of his centuries walking this earth, he’d never been quite out of body like this. As in, in a completely different body from his own. And much to his displeasure, he’d manifested inside of some brat jujutsu sorcerer that was a bit too strong for his own good. No worries, though, after they tracked down a few more of his cursed fingers he’d be able to take proper control and Itadori Yuji would cease to exist as soon as Sukuna regained his full strength.

So for some time, he played nice. Or, as nice as he could, that was. He sat back in his domain and waited. He’d never been one with a strong sense of patience- he may have been a man once but he was a curse now- but if it meant strengthening his chances in being reunited with her sooner, then he would play the long game. Besides, he could have some fun torturing the brat and his friends for a little while, right? No harm in some chaos and carnage along the way. He would need good stories to tell her when they were together again, anyways.

There were times where the brat began to wonder what it was Sukuna was doing there, quietly tucked into his domain. On the rare occasion that he didn’t rear his head into conversation with a nasty comment coming from a mouth materialized on his cheek or the back of his hand. Times passed where Yuji would cringe awaiting Sukuna’s inevitable filth, but instead he was gifted with silence from the curse inhabiting him. The young sorcerer could only assume that this meant he was doing something else- but what? What could he possibly occupy himself with while trapped in his own domain? Some days Yuji worried he was plotting something, but others he wondered if the King of Curses was just lost in thought. Did he daydream?

Sukuna wouldn’t call it that, but if anyone were able to catch him in the act, they’d know it was exactly that. All he could do with his time is imagine how he’d reunite with her in this life. It was one of his favorite parts of each new century or so, and after hundreds of lifetimes, there were plenty of memories to keep himself occupied with.

This time he knew he’d have to outdo himself, seeing as he was in an unfamiliar body, and he could only hope that she liked this one as much as the last. Perhaps the next time he took control of it he’d make sure everything was up to standard- he couldn’t have her rejecting him just because he was in some brat’s body this time. On the other hand, he knew her to be more playful and experimental than he was, so maybe she’d find a change in host exciting.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

To his delight, Sukuna is reunited with the great love of his life sooner than expected. To his great displeasure, it’s at exactly the wrong time.

He’d been irritated enough having his brat vessel tap out just because he couldn’t take on a measly little Special Grade. Of course, he wasn’t about to appease some righteous jujutsu sorcerer’s agenda by exorcizing the curse himself. But in the end, the curse disappointed him too, thinking that it could pick a fight with the King of Curses and come out of it alive.

Pride outweighed vengeance, and he found himself entertained with playing with the Special Grade. Playing, because of course it’s abilities were weak compared to real jujutsu, unlike the childish display the brat had put up first.

He’s so drawn in by his play fight with the curse that he’d completely missed her- that is until he’s using his Domain Expansion, and from the corner of one of his eyes he finally notices.

While it’s a shock that he’s managed to let the great love of his life go unnoticed, she isn’t exactly… conscious.

The special grade is sliced diced and forgotten, barely even a blip in Sukuna’s memory now once he recognizes the slumped over body on a pile of rubble a few hundred feet away. He’s delighted, ecstatic even. The bloodthirsty grin on his face is replaced by a beam of pure thrill. He’d previously thought it might take years to find her in this life, so to stumble across her now, after getting control of this body over a mere pest, was a real treat.

He approaches her limp body so quickly he’s practically teleported to her, and his beam begins to falter as he takes in her current state.

It’s not a matter of worry that she’s fairly beat up and knocked unconscious so hard there’s soft snores between heavy breaths, her mortal body working overtime to keep her alive at all- it was nothing a quick use of his Reverse Cursed Technique couldn’t fix.

The wince of disgust that contorts his features is directed solely at her attire.

Crisp black button up torn open to reveal the same shade of undershirt snugly fitting her underneath, paired with pants of the same material. He didn’t need to see the crest at the collar of her shirt to give him further context as to what she was up to in this century.

“Of course,” He utters through his snarl as he crouches down towards her, hands glowing as he promptly heals her wounds. She doesn’t awaken, her body growing even more exhausted after being put through the technique, but her muscles do appear to relax as she slumps further into the dirty ground. “You would be a sorcerer in this lifetime. Idiot,”

The cruel name falls from his lips with nothing but melted affection. No other person on this earth would be allowed to hear him speak this way and live to tell the tale. It was reserved only for her- and she wasn’t even awake to hear it now.

With steady hands Sukuna gathers her in his arms, trying to bend her into a more comfortable position. She doesn’t wince or complain when bruised limbs drag across broken slabs of concrete. If he wasn’t able to hear the steady beat of her heart, she would have easily been mistaken for dead already.

“A shitty reunion this time around, I’m afraid,”

Sukuna sighs before he sits fully on the ground. He’s not sure how much longer he’d be in control of this body, but any thoughts of fleeing to bring as much destruction to Tokyo is far from his mind. He wants nothing more than to sit here with his lover and hope that she’d wake back up before he’s dragged back into his domain.

With one arm wrapped under her shoulders to keep her limp body closely tucked to him, his free hand brushes the messy strands of hair away from her resting face. She looks peaceful, even though when she wakes she’d still carry the aches of her healed injuries. The tips of his fingers linger over her soft cheek as he admires her.

“Just as beautiful in this life as you were in every one before it, my love,” He murmurs, so quiet that even if she were conscious enough to hear it, she probably wouldn’t have.

He only gets a few moments of peace with her before he can feel a stir from inside of him, and he can faintly make out Yuji gaining his consciousness back. He snarls in his aggravation, wishing he could knock the brat out so he could get just a little more time with his long lost love, even if she wasn’t her usual lively self.

“Come, we have things to do” He tells her, before he pulls her closer and lifts her up.

He makes his way out of the destroyed building with leisure, knowing that the other sorcerer, Fushiguro, would be waiting outside for a fight. It wasn’t in his plans to end the kid’s life just yet, but with the reunion of his one true love coming prematurely, things might have to change. Oh well, he was flexible.

She fusses in his arms upon the lift, but even with her pinching brows and twitching eyelids, she never quite wakes up. Which was alright, they would have plenty of time to properly catch up in a bit. Sukuna had other things to handle first.

It would be some time still before she properly met the King of Curses face to face- in this life anyways- as shortly after his departure of the ruined building, he would have to set her aside to take care of a few of the weaker level shikigamis that the Fushiguro kid sent his way. After ripping the brat’s heart out of their shared chest, it would be a few weeks before things seemingly transitioned back to normal.

When (y/n) would finally come to in the infirmary a few hours after it all went down, Megumi would relay how the King of Curses had carried her out in his arms. She’d give him a bitter laugh, thinking he was trying to lighten the mood after the news of the death of their friend. But Megumi wasn’t usually very good at telling jokes, and after seeing his grave expression stay put, her face would fall.

“You’re serious?”

Megumi nods, the thin line of his lips unwavering.

(y/n) blinks a few times as she processes it slowly. She’s still not sure that she believes him, but she doesn’t have a reason not to either. If Gojo had told her this she’d have rolled her eyes, and maybe called him insensitive and unserious, but why would Megumi make something like that up?

“I don’t understand,” She tells him with a furrowed brow, and the way Megumi shrugs one shoulder unenthusiastically tells her he didn’t understand it any better than she did. “You’re telling me he saved me?”

“Maybe, I don’t know,” Megumi replies dryly. He should’ve known she’d ask him questions he clearly didn’t have the answers for, so he tried to provide her with what he did know so that maybe she wouldn’t torment him with more of her own questions. “But he brought you out, and set you down somewhere with your head propped up, and he didn’t try to attack you at all. At least, it looked like he didn’t”

Her tongue darts over the dryness of her bottom lip as her jaw hangs open at him. She doesn’t bother him with more useless questions, but that doesn’t mean the whole ordeal wasn’t plaguing her mind.

Something was very strange about that behavior. But with Yuji gone, she figured it was no use trying to decipher it all anyways. Maybe after some time when her grief wears off into something she could live with, she could forget about it completely.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

With Yuji turning out to be alive and well, Sukuna’s plans shifted once more. He’d tortured him as best he could without the ability of taking control of the body, letting his friend be turned into a transfigured human, refusing to kill the spirit that called itself Mahito- as upsetting as it was to his brat vessel, Sukuna cared very little for such trivial events. In fact, if Yuji were to shut up about it, he probably could have forgotten completely. He only had one goal on his mind- to return to her again. Anything else was merely a stepping stone along the way.

Just as before, Sukuna spends most of his time in his domain without much noise. Except this time, Yuji starts to get an inkling of what he’s doing.

“It’s unbecoming and submissive of you to pretend to be dead,”

Sukuna taunts one day while Yuji’s working on his ‘training’ on Gojo’s couch while he invests himself with a romantic movie. His sudden appearance was a good test to his abilities, though, as the sleeping cursed puppet on Yuji’s lap doesn’t stir. It was safe to say that Yuji had gotten as used to sharing his body with the curse as he was going to get.

“What if your little sorcerer friends need you?” Sukuna chuckles. He quite enjoys the image of Fushiguro and the little red-headed girl struggling to keep up with mere Second Grade curses.

“They’re fine” Yuji replies casually, barely paying attention to the mouth on his face that wasn’t his. The movie was just getting good, after all.

“You think they can manage to hold their own?” Sukuna scoffs at the thought. “With half-assed cursed techniques like theirs?”

“Fushiguro and Kugisaki are the most cutthroat people I’ve ever known. Didn’t Fushiguro almost kick your ass?” Yuji mutters, more irritated than offended by Sukuna’s cruelty. “You’re just lucky you haven’t had to deal with (y/l/n)”

So is that what she was calling herself this time? Sukuna’s lips tilt into a smirk.

“She doesn’t seem like much to be afraid of,” The words themselves are harsh, but something in his tone changes. Enough that Yuji starts to lose focus on the television. “Last I saw her she was half dead. If it weren’t for me, she would have been dead-dead”

That finally catches Yuji’s full attention, and he misses the next few lines of the movie when he asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sukuna’s silent, thoughtfully so, as he tries to find just the right way to play his cards. Does he use his history with the brat’s friend as a scare tactic? Or does he keep that little fact to himself for a while longer? Either way, the longer he’s silent, the more Yuji begins to go stir crazy.

“Hey, you old curse!” He hollers suddenly, causing the cursed puppet in his lap to wake up and start to get aggressive. Yuji heaves as the tiny thing rears a heavy punch into his gut, but it doesn’t stop him from interrogating the curse inside of him. “What did you mean by that!?” He huffs out.

Sukuna chuckles, and just as quickly as he’d appeared on Yuuji’s cheek, he disappeared again, hiding away in his domain and entertaining himself with the sight of Yuji getting beat up by a little cursed teddy bear.

Perhaps he’d let the brat overthink for a little while longer, anxiety was a form of suffering after all, wasn’t it? At least watching the brat worry himself sick about it would provide him some amusement for the coming days. Until the sanction of his fake death is lifted, and he could go back to his goal of being reunited with his love.

(y/l/n). Her new surname rings in his head as he settles in his domain and lets his mind begin to wander again. As pretty as it was, he’d have to return it to the proper name. His name.

Yuji is attacked by Yaga’s cursed puppet a few more times that evening, but not due to the film changing his range of emotions. In fact, it was due to his complete lack of focus on the movie. All he could think about was what business Sukuna could possibly have with (y/n).

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

When he makes his surprise reappearance for his friends, Yuji debates on pulling (y/n) aside and asking her about what Sukuna had mentioned. But for all he knew, he very well could have been toying with him, and ultimately he decided to enjoy what little time he had to catch up with his friends before they dove into the Exchange Event. It just didn’t seem worth bringing up at this time.

But for some reason, when she takes her seat as the Tokyo students begin their planning, Yuji’s compelled to sit beside her. It’s not an odd choice, it’s not out of character for him, she is his friend after all, but he’s quite aware of the way his feet move on their own accord to carry him to the empty seat beside her. Yuji knows his body, and he knows he wasn’t the one commanding it to do that.

It makes him gulp when he unceremoniously plops into the seat. (y/n) gives him a look, something crossed between confusion and amusement, but she brushes it off and doesn’t say a word as she shifts her focus back to Maki. Yuji tries to ignore it as well, a bit embarrassed about the whole display. Was that really Sukuna? He tried to clear his mind, too, it was quite important that he took in everything Maki was saying, but his mind is wrapped up in whatever game the King of Curses was playing right now.

And finally, when he thinks he’s heard enough of the game plan for the event, he feels it.

The slit under his right eye opens, the side facing (y/n). Yuji holds his breath, hoping that Sukuna doesn’t open his loud mouth and bark out something insulting, but he doesn’t. His mouth never materializes. He simply stares.

It’s almost worse.

A few minutes pass and no one seems to notice, as the attention of the room is still commanded by Maki. Except for Yuji himself, as he’d stopped listening to her altogether while he anxiously awaited whatever was to come next. What was he doing? He began to bounce his leg.

His throat closes up when he sees (y/n) turn her head out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t meet her gaze, even though she’s clearly staring at him- or Sukuna, he supposes- but she doesn’t speak up. She’s just as silent as the curse he’s hosting. Still, her gaze remains on the dark eye peeking out at her. If they weren’t in a room with all of their peers, Yuji would’ve broken his ignorant demeanor by now, but something inside him tells him to keep his mouth shut.

When the group disbanded for a quick lunch before the event officially started, (y/n) remained seated while the others filtered out, and when Yuji began to stand, she stopped him. All she’s done is reach a hand out, she barely even touches his arm, but it’s enough for him to stop in his tracks, and he stays put in his seat.

They don’t say anything until the room is empty, and even then, (y/n) chooses to speak quietly, almost under her breath.

“What the hell is going on with…” She pauses, her eyes flickering between Yuji’s and the ones below, before she raises her hand in a small gesture. “Him?” She mumbles it so low, afraid that saying his name would be enough to summon him, even though he’s so clearly already there before her.

“I don’t-”

Yuji starts, but before he could say anything- or think of anything to say- Sukuna’s mouth is materializing on his cheek. It’s an unsettling feeling on its own, but Yuji always felt a certain chill on his spine whenever he’d feel that mouth forming a smile.

“Just missed lookin’ at you, sweetheart”

Yuji’s face is sickly pale in a matter of seconds, the fear that settles over him tenses up all of his muscles, to the point they ache, and as much as he wants to remove himself (and Sukuna) from this situation, he’s frozen in place. Too stunned to say anything, too stunned to move, he just stands there helplessly as (y/n’s) wide eyes dart between both pairs on his face.

(y/n’s) reaction comes first, the shocked expression wearing off into something else. Yuji can’t place what it is- anger, disgust- but she loses the desire to keep the conversation quiet as reality settles over her.

“What!?” It comes out in a screech, but it’s just as quickly followed by absolute rambling. “What the hell are you talking about? What the hell is he talking about?” She awkwardly shifts her gaze between both sets of eyes, unsure and unfamiliar with how to communicate with the both of them.

“I- I don’t-”

Again, Yuji’s interrupted before he can come up with anything.

“We still have all the time in the world, for now you just keep your pretty little head focused on this game of yours, hm?”

Just like that, the fanged mouth is disappearing and Yuji’s cheek is returned to it’s normal state again.

(y/n) blinks, going silent again while her face is flushing with color. Now her eyes seem to focus on the lower, darker pair of eyes. It’s hard to gauge what Sukuna is thinking, or feeling. With only a narrowed set of eyes to go off of, not to mention he’s a reckless curse, he’s not a man, she doesn’t know what to make of the interaction.

But with the memory of what Megumi had told her, a dread begins to weigh down her chest. Whatever this behavior was about, it couldn’t mean anything could. It was unwanted attention, that was for sure. No matter how warm her face felt, or how nervous she suddenly was just being around Yuji.

Soon enough the eyes shut too, but even though it appears it’s only her and Yuji in the room, she can still feel Sukuna’s presence. She swallows the lump in her throat like it’s lead.

“Let’s just…” Her eyes flit away from the closed lids, meeting Yuji’s warm but worried gaze again. She’s not sure if it’s a comfort or not that he seems just as anxious as she feels. “Let’s just get through the Exchange Event first” She suggests.

She’s sure that this is the right choice of action. There was simply no time to dwell on Sukuna’s out of character behavior- then again she didn’t know him, she didn’t know what was in character, he was a curse!- not with all of their peers relying on them to secure the win for the Tokyo Prefecture.

Although she couldn’t deny her head wasn’t exactly in the game during the event. When she finds herself getting sloppy, taking hits she normally should have been able to dodge, she begins to curse the King of Curses himself. Surely this whole thing was an act, that was what he was best at, wasn’t it? Torture? Mind games? He was probably laughing it up in his domain watching her struggle so miserably at an event she couldn’t have been more prepared for.

When shit really hit the fan and curses and curse users reared their ugly heads in the middle of a semi-light hearted game, it dawned on her just how out of it she’d really become. Suddenly it didn’t matter how Mai shouldn’t have been able to get that shot at her shoulder- or how she should’ve seen Miwa’s Domain Expansion coming. There was no way she was going to let a curse like him get in her head and keep her from protecting her friends and herself from a real threat.

And once this attack in the middle of their event was taken care of and the scores were settled, she’d find a way to give the King of Curses a piece of her mind.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

That time came sooner than expected, and it’s seemingly out of nowhere when he pays her a little visit.

Deep down she knows that she should be terrified when the King of Curses is at her door requesting her time for ‘a talk’ as he called it. A thousand questions should flood her mind, and after some time they’ll begin to register, slowly and one by one, far later than it’s appropriate to ask.

He’d gotten her alone, and this should terrify her further, she should feel like a lamb in the presence of a wolf- no- curse. But for some reason, when he enters the training room she’d been doing warm ups in, all she does is stare at him.

Sukuna knows that there’s no way she could have mistaken him for the brat, not with all of his markings, not with his vermillion eyes, not with the abundant amount of cursed energy he carried with him. Any other mortal would straighten up, freeze in place and stare at him in utter fear as they waited for whatever fate he bestowed upon them.

Not her.

Foolishly, he believes this is due to the lifetimes they’d spent together before this one. Even though he’s well aware of the rules of the courtship. He recalls many meetings before this one where he’d had to open her eyes to the Binding Vow that brought her back in every lifetime. Still, he naively held onto a hope that her lack of reaction to his presence now is because somewhere inside of her, she knows she doesn’t need to be afraid of him like the others.

(y/n’s) true feelings couldn’t have been farther from his assumptions. It may have been a moment of poor judgment, but the moment he’d materialized at that door, irritation overrode self preservation. It didn’t matter that the cursed energy he carried was so heavy it was palpable.

She took one look at the King of Curses and furrowed her brows like she was a child he’d wronged, and there wasn’t an ounce of fear for her life when she’s the first to speak.

“What the fuck are you doing out?”

Out, it’s a funny choice of word, isn’t it? Sukuna can’t help the chuckle of amusement. Did she mean out and about, casually roaming the sacred grounds, or could she have meant out due to his control over the brat’s body?

A frown settles on her lips when she sees he’s already enjoying himself. She should be wondering what he’s been up to before he came here, or when exactly it was he gained control over Yuji’s body.

“And what happened to-”

Before she could fully voice her worry for her friend, Sukuna’s waving a dismissive hand.

“The brat’s fine, not everything has to be about him, you know” He scolds her as if this was a conversation they’d had a hundred times before now. Her frown deepens.

“Forgive me for caring more about him than a curse like you” She scoffs back at him.

How was it that in every lifetime she had to have that same bad attitude? Of course eventually she’d always settle down and warm back up to him, century and century again. Some cases took days, others years, and Sukuna was starting to get a feeling that due to the circumstances they found themselves in this time around, this case could be the latter. He frowns at the thought.

He found her so quickly this time, why did she have to be so stubborn?

“Always such a brat, I can hardly tell the difference between you,” He replies.

The look of disgust on her face is washed away by mild surprise. Both from the soft and easy cadence of his usually rough and cruel voice, and from the realization that he probably should have killed her for talking back to him the way she did. Now she starts to wonder just how many buttons she can push before she sees the true side of the King of Curses.

Her brows pinch together as she watches him with calculations behind her eyes. Was this all a part of the act from before?

“How interesting could things have been if you’d swallowed the finger that day and not this brat, hm?” He muses, and he seems genuinely curious about it.

(y/n) can barely keep up with him, trying too hard to jump to conclusions before he’s revealed them. Then again, there might be nothing to understand at all- this was all a part of the mind games, wasn’t it? She makes a mental note to meet with Gojo about this. Sukuna must’ve had greater plans in mind that the strongest sorcerer should be looped in on. Even if so far… he hadn’t exactly done anything… just made her friendship with Yuji fairly awkward.

Sukuna hasn’t moved from the doorway. Her eyes sweep over him carefully as she wonders if this is purposeful. If his motive is to give her a false sense of safety.

“Humor me for a moment, (y/n)”

He sounds out her name like it’s an unfamiliar word, and for the first time since he’d appeared minutes prior, there’s a familiar hollow in her chest. At first she tags it as distress, but the way it lingers like a dull ache has her double guessing it’s cause.

“What?”

No should’ve been what came out of her mouth- if anything needed to be said at all. Would he let her leave if she tried? Would he punish her for it? However, despite every instinct begging to drag her in a different direction, she can’t help the intrigue she feels for him.

“What’re you doing here as a sorcerer?” He hums again with his question, eyes narrowing on her slightly as he takes account of her every reaction.

She’s holding her breath right now, it’s obvious in her tense jaw and unmoving chest. Not even a strand of hair waves in it’s place. Every part of her is so still, he could easily mistake it as her natural instinct to fear him as her natural predator. He knows this isn’t the case.

She opens her mouth to protest the question at first, but just as quickly, her jaw slacks, and she’s closing it softly as she sits on it a little more thoughtfully.

“Why do you ask?”

It irks him to have a question answered with another question. This was another quirk of hers that she always had in the earlier stages of their reunion. Even with the grain of irritation, Sukuna still finds himself amused in the way that she truly is the same person in every lifetime. She may have different names, and occasionally a feature or two isn’t quite how he remembered it- and trust him, he remembered- but her soul remained pure, unfiltered, unchanging. She was always his.

“The last we spoke, you had quite the unshakable opinion about a society that breeds and boasts of it’s powerful children to protect them, only to leave them in neglect…” He trails off, scanning her features in the search of any flash of recognition. If anything, she’s only more confused. Her brows are furrowed and her lips have formed a pout which he deemed as her sign of defeat in trying to understand him. “Something about creating the things you fear. But it was quite some time ago, and I see you’ve so clearly changed your mind” He raises a hand, palm up as he lazily gestures to her.

(y/n’s) posture straightens up, partially out of her defensive nature, but mostly due to the seriousness in his tone. Logic tells her she shouldn’t be taking anything he says as truth, it would be foolish, and in the end probably deadly too.

But that intrigue hits her, ignites a tiny spark in her chest that has her longing to learn more. The intensity tells her that if he weren’t this curse, that perhaps if he was just a man, she might humor him in the way he was looking for.

If she began the what if game now, she feared she’d find herself justifying her continuation of this conversation.

“You must have me confused, then”

Her words are clear and concise without being loud.

“I haven’t confused you in any century before this one and I would never confuse you in the ones to come after,”

She tries to hide the surprise in her expression, but she knows she fails. Especially when Sukuna’s amusement in her reaction seems more genuine than before. He takes a step into the room, just a single one.

“Your brat friend is fine. He fell asleep. We have a sort of… deal,”

There is some comfort in his words, even if (y/n) is unsure about her trust in him, the words still hit her chest and her shoulders slowly begin to untense. She doesn’t question him, doesn’t make any comment at all. She supposes he’ll fill the silence eventually, and her assumption is correct.

“You and I have known each other for quite some time,” He continues. “Long ago, you made a Binding Vow to me. A vow that allowed your mortal body to be reborn in every lifetime, so that I may find you”

Her brows furrow, hardly believing this to be the truth. She’s supposed to believe a Binding Vow could hold the power to reincarnate her? A quiet scoff blows past her lips.

“Incredible,” She murmurs, but it’s clear her astonishment isn’t enthusiastic. It’s cynical. “What sort of entertainment do you really gain from this?”

She asks, crossing her arms over her chest as she dares a few steps forward. She’s not all that close to him, but at the end of the day it didn’t matter her distance from Sukuna, the radius of his danger could stretch for miles.

“You never believe me right away” He muses, his hands folding behind his back as he regards her curiously. It makes her feel like a specimen, like a wild animal he’s just stumbled upon, but she doesn’t shrink under the intensity of his gaze.

“Would you?”

It’s not the response he’s expecting, but his eyes light up with a flicker of excitement.

“Of course not,” He answers, his lips beginning to curl into a smile. It should send a chill down her spine, but she takes another step forward and tilts her chin up higher. So foolish, he thinks with an air of loveliness wrapped around it, don’t you see that the mere fact I let you live for behaving like this must mean there’s some truth in my words? Instead, he tells her “Yet, you fall every time”

“I fall for the trick?” She snaps, but her intrigue remains.

“You fall for me” He clarifies, a finality in his tone that has her shutting up, albeit momentarily.

No, she must’ve been right, it was all some grand trick. Some ridiculous, theatrical ploy he’d come up with just to deceive her. She’s not sure of the why yet- if he wanted to kill her, couldn’t he have done it already? If he wanted to torture her, couldn’t he have chained her up by now? She’s skeptical, but she would hate to admit that some part of her, deep, deep down, considers that he may not be lying to her.

Of course he must be lying, so she tries to shove that idea down.

“And why would I do such a thing like that?” She asks, her tone bored, but the wideness in her eyes as she awaited his answer didn’t go unnoticed.

Sukuna unfolded his hands in order to push them into the pockets of Yuji’s pants. His grievance in wearing a sorcerer’s uniform was obvious in the unsavory curl in his lips as he briefly glanced down at himself, but his attention returned to her just as quickly.

“A Binding Vow is a double sided contract,” He reminds her. “You entered it willingly,” He tilts his head at her as he watches her process this information, before he tells her the full truth. “In fact, you were the one who brought the idea to me, sweetheart”

“Don’t call me that” She mutters out quickly, not thinking twice about the consequences of scolding the King of Curses.

“It’s true,” Sukuna shrugs his shoulders with a lazy drag. “I almost didn’t agree to it. But you’ve always been… convincing”

She’s not sure what he means, because the memories he’s recalling aren’t shared- if they’re real memories at all- and yet, she continues to lay her questions on thick.

“And why wouldn’t I choose to remember all of this then, hm? If I chose to be reborn, over and over, why wouldn’t I have wanted to remember?” She’s challenging him, and Sukuna’s enjoying it, even if it means that right now the distance she puts between them is further than before he’d found her due to her distrust in him.

History has repeated itself for thousands of years, but no event was as perfectly cyclical as she was to him. Time and time again he would find her, and in every lifetime, she’d been his.

“You wanted to,” He tells her. “The vow took a bit of a different turn than expected. See, your soul didn’t simply leap into a pre-existing person with each reincarnate. You were born again. Every part of your being, physical and… otherwise, was reborn. It actually makes it all the more difficult to find you, you know”

“Seems like a copout” She says, her expression unamused.

“Well go on then, what else do you want to ask me?”

“I have nothing,” She lies. “Because I’m not entertaining this any further”

“Fine, then,” To her surprise, Sukuna actually accepts her rejection- if you could call it that. “I’ll give the brat his body back. But you’ll know where to find me once you start to remember”

He leaves without a word, not even a mere wave, and it’s not until he’s gone that (y/n) wonders if she should be worried about him roaming the grounds of Jujutsu Tech, but nothing happens.

In fact it’s such a quiet night that the next morning everyone seems well rested and rejuvenated, all in good spirits and ready to take on the day. Everyone but her. And she can’t stop her eyes from shifting towards Yuji every thirty seconds, always double checking the slits under his eyes, as if one of these times she’d find them open and focused on her.

She can’t get the image of Sukuna lounging so casually in that training room. It’s hard when one of her closest friends shares his face, so even when she’s not anxious about seeing that second set of eyes, her heart still skips a beat when Yuji’s eyes catch hers and he smiles politely.

Naturally, that skip in her heart was due to her nerves, and had nothing to do with the contents of her discussion with the curse inside of him.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Sukuna gives (y/n) what he believes to be an abundant amount of time to let their past settle in. He wants her to process it all properly. He wants her to come to her senses and realize that there were no ulterior motives in his reveal.

He still makes the occasional crude comment from Yuji’s cheek, but while they’re ever directed at her, she finds her posture straightening and her eyes trained on the skin where he’s materialized, always waiting for him to direct something her way. He doesn’t. He hardly even looks at her- when she’s looking, that is. While inside of his domain and perfectly hidden by Itadori Yuji, Sukuna spends as much of his time staring at her while he can. Some days, there’s an intensity so strong that Yuji finds himself not-so-subtly staring at her too. Sukuna doesn’t like this- if he had things his way then no one would lay there eyes on what was his- but letting Yuji sneak glances here and there was a small price to pay in order to make sure the pair remain close enough that Sukuna’s still able to have some sense of nearness to her.

Due to this silent period on his part, (y/n) decides against bringing Gojo’s attention to the situation. While she knows it hasn’t just disappeared, because she just knows that it will be brought up again, she hopes that enough time passes that she can learn to brush it off as nonsense spewed from a bored curse.

It nags at her, despite her best efforts, she never allows herself to forget it completely. It crosses her mind every day, if not every minute she spends with Yuji. The way he stood, the way he spoke, it would play on a loop in her mind until she was sure it would drive her to the point of madness. It very well could have, already.

And one night, she decides to take the reins into her own hands, and she approaches it first.

After watching a partial movie in the common room, Megumi had long gone to bed and Nobara had crashed on a makeshift pile of blankets on the floor, (y/n) feels an anxiousness settle over her when she hears Yuji begin to snore and he, too, was just as knocked out as the rest of her friends.

She debates on it for a moment, her eyes sliding between the flickering television and the resting boy sitting beside her on the couch. Her index finger taps at an unkept pace against her knee, and she lets as many minutes pass as she could, just to be sure Yuji truly was asleep.

Then she turned her head fully, eyes focused on that mark under his face where Sukuna’s eyes were peacefully shut. Not sure of the inner workings on how the whole vessel thing worked, her only choice was to take a shot in the dark and hope it worked.

“I was going to tell Gojo about what you said, you know”

Her whisper is so soft, her voice cracks and gives on certain syllables. Even if he could hear her from in there, she wonders if he could have heard something so silently spoken.

Slowly, the eye opens, and it blinks a few times before it slides towards her. She wonders if he sleeps in there, or if every introduction light when he leaves his domain requires an adjustment.

And then, Yuij’s stirs, and (y/n) freezes up, watching as he twitches before his eyes begin to blink awake, as well. Fear spikes in her chest at the thought of getting caught talking to the curse inside of him while he slept.

But when his eyes fully open and an array of markings begin to paint across his features, she realizes it’s not Yuji. It’s just his body. There’s a certain guilt that follows her relief from this. In no situation should she feel pleased to see Sukuna over Yuji.

“Am I supposed to be threatened by this?” He asks slowly, in a low tone of voice that she can’t decide the cause of. Was he trying to be considerate of the sleeping sorcerer on the ground? Or was he just trying to be as menacing and mysterious as always?

He doesn’t lift his head from where Yuji had been dozed off against the couch cushion, neck craned at an angle that couldn’t be comfortable to sleep in for the entire night, but Sukuna’s not exactly looking out for the brat’s comfort. He could use a good crick in the neck or two.

“I don’t think there’s anything I could do to threaten you,” (y/n) replies honestly, the hush in her voice making her sound softer than she would’ve liked. She doesn’t need him thinking she’s warming up to being in his presence, after all. “But… would you kill me if I was?”

“What do you think?”

It comes out fast enough to be taken harshly, like he holds a disbelief in how idiotic she could be, but their conversation began with a whisper and it seems to be carried on that way. A lump forms in (y/n’s) throat as she holds eye contact with the darkened vermillion ones that stare back at hers.

The deep feeling she’d buried, the one that told her maybe she trusted him whether she liked it or not, sparked and caught light, burned just a little bit brighter, caused just enough smoke for her to give some of her attention to.

If he truly wanted to kill her, he had millions of chances to do so before now. So she concludes that his goal wasn’t to do so. Of course, this begs the question,

“What is it that you want, Sukuna?”

She’s much calmer than the last time they spoke, he notices. She’s nervous, but not tense, and not nearly as defensive. He’s not naive, he doesn’t mistake this for trust, but he is pleased in her change in attitude.

An idle smile curls on his lips as his fixed gaze softens with familiarity.

Just like every time before now, she always, eventually, came around to him. It was like her curiosity couldn’t keep her away, and her heart always won over her mind.

“I believe you already know the answer to that” He refrains from letting an old pet name fall from his tongue, a courtesy to her that he allows this once, just so she wouldn’t flee from her seat next to him.

She hums, letting the sort-of-answer sit on her mind for a moment. An unknown feeling gnaws at her- or at least, a feeling she doesn’t want to put a name to.

“Why?” The word ghosts off of her lips, and even with the worried knot between her brows her eyes stay set on his. “Why does it have to be me?”

“You’re looking at it all wrong,” Sukuna muses, his lower set of eyes rolling just slightly before he can help it. “It doesn’t have to be you- it just is. It’s always been you, and it always will be”

“Because of the Binding Vow?” She questions, and he blinks at her, processing what she meant, before his brows furrow just a little bit, and he shakes his head.

“The only clause to our vow is that you will always be reborn,” His tongue runs over his teeth as he tries to bite back the amusement he feels when realization dawns on her. “Everything after that comes from your own free will, sweetheart”

“Don’t call me that” She snaps at him, but it’s a mumble, hardly audible, hardly threatening. Sukuna purses his lips.

“Like I said, you were the one who came up with the contract,” He huffs. “I would’ve never agreed to such a thing if you weren’t so persistent”

She perks up at that little comment, and suddenly turns in her seat, tucking her legs underneath her as she faces him. Sukuna’s barely moved at all, still slouched into the cushion in the position Yuji had fallen asleep in. His eyes follow her movements as she sets her elbow on the top of the furniture so she could prop her head in her hand. Her brows are drawn together again as she studies him.

“Then why tell me about it?” She blurts the question out.

“Because I’m the one burdened with the centuries of memories” He replies without missing a beat, voice dry and expression unreadable. He’s keeping it as neutral as possible, knowing her calculating eyes would see right through any sudden change, no matter how small.

“And you are?” She asks, and then in a softer voice, finishes the thought, “Burdened?”

Sukuna blinks, slowly, before letting his gaze wander the soft and curious look on her face. He fights the urge to smile at the loveliness of it all- the twitch in her nose, the small pout in her lip- he’s the King of Curses and there should be no force on this earth that weakens him the way her gentle gaze focused on him does. Even after all this time, she is his achilles heel, she is his greatest burden, and she is the only thing he could ever truly, completely, want.

“Yes,” His answer is quiet, and (y/n) lifts her head as she stares at him with her confusion. “There exists no stronger shackles a being could trap me with the way you have,”

Her face falls, and she’s silent for a long moment. With a dry throat and a mind too busy and overcrowded with thoughts, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. But that gnawing feeling was starting to make her chest ache, and the pounding of her heart in her ribcage was relentless.

“There’s no greater curse I could bear”

She hates the way he says these things so casually, without a strain in his expression or voice. She wonders if it’s because he’s done it so many times that it’s lost it’s value. Perhaps to him, this was just a part of the burden that was her existence, explaining these things to her was simply a chore that needed to be completed. She swallows a few times to ease the dryness of her throat.

“Does it get old?”

Sukuna smiles. It should trouble her- he knows that it unsettles Yuji- but if she feels unease it’s not shown.

“A thousand years of anything gets old,” He sighs, rolling his head over the cushion to stare up at the blank ceiling. “And I’d hate to admit the things that never get old”

It’s stupid. It’s ridiculous and foolish and naive, but she smiles.

“What doesn’t get old?” She asks, her curiosity blending with a sick sense of delight as she wonders just how many sides of Sukuna there really are.

He angles his head towards her again, narrowing his gaze as his lips twisted into a small smirk. It felt like his technique had the ability to see right through her- she wondered if he was really strong enough to do that.

“Last time we spoke, you said you wouldn’t entertain this,” He reminds her. “What’s changed?”

“Nothing,” She murmurs back without a moment of hesitation.

It’s the truth, and she has no reason to falsify an answer for him. Just as he had no reason to be so forward about their past. Even if she hadn’t gathered much, this conversation was much different from their last, and she felt as though she would walk away with this one overwhelmed by all of this new information. Her trust in him is precarious, and could easily be destroyed by one wrong move, but right now, she can’t see what reason she has not to take him at his word. It’s not as if he’s asking for anything in return, it’s not as if she won’t return to her dorm for the night and likely not see or speak to him again for some time. So, she supposed, what was the harm in entertaining the idea just a little?

“Nothing at all” She finishes the thought softly, before turning her attention back to the forgotten movie still playing across the room. It was nearing the end, and she’d missed enough of it to barely understand what was happening on screen now, but she didn’t have any more questions for the King of Curses tonight, and he kept quiet as she watched the movie.

To her surprise, Sukuna did sit and watch the movie. She’s not sure how much of it he actually listened or paid attention to, but it was clear that he had not given Yuji his body back, and was still very much alert and in control.

(y/n) doesn’t return to her dorm room until she finally sees Yuji asleep next to her, his face bare of any markings, and the extra eyelids under his eyes closed just as peaceful as his own.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

In the meantime, (y/n) didn’t feel so anxious around Yuji anymore, which they were both grateful for. Yuji wasn’t sure why the sudden chance came about, but he certainly wouldn’t complain. He was just glad to have his friend acting her usual self again.

He had no idea of the few chats she’d shared with the curse he hosted. While Sukuna wasn’t necessarily hiding his interest in her, he wasn’t forthright with the brat either. He didn’t need the kid interfering with what he was building on here. It was slow moving like a trail of molasses but Sukuna was more patient than most people gave him credit for. He could let a lot of things go.

Not this, however.

All of Gojo’s students had been sent on a seemingly standard assignment. Odd, unexplainable disappearances had been happening in a clearing in the middle of the woods, enough so to alert jujutsu society and send a few sorcerers to the scene to investigate.

Upon arrival, there was an undeniable heaviness in the air. The field that the group of four found themselves in didn’t stretch for miles, but it was no small clearing. It was a strange place for a curse to settle in and lure non-sorcerers towards. Curses often tucked themselves into hidden spots, within abandoned buildings or deep in the thick brush of the woods. Not a clearing of grass and wild daisies.

The entire situation was odd, it didn’t sit right in anyone’s mind as they went their separate ways to scour the area for any insight on what was happening here. It didn’t take long for something to turn up.

A curse that had to have been a First Grade, with a large, sharp toothed grin and gouged out eyes, materialized in the clearing’s center, and as soon as it clocked this evening’s prey as jujutsu sorcerers, it seemed to go into a mad state. (y/n’s) not sure if it possesses great speed or the ability to teleport when it’s suddenly before her. All she’s able to do in that amount of time is lift her weapon into an offensive position, she’s not even given the time to drive it forward in an attack before suddenly, she’s no longer on the ground.

She comes to mid air, just before she hits the ground and rolls a few times before her senses kick in and her hands brace themselves against the ground. She can faintly hear her friends calling for her in their shock, but it’s distant. Her head is spinning too fast for her to lift it to see just how far the curse had thrown her.

A few coughs erupt from her throat before she even tells her body to do so, brought on by the hit to her chest once she’s lifted herself up enough to relieve the pressure from the ground. Her arms are trembling from the adrenaline and a few drops of blood splatter from her mouth, but once she’s sat up enough, she drags the sleeve of her uniform over her mouth to dry the blood, and she finally gets a good look at where she is.

She’s been thrown clear out of the field, and she considers herself lucky that her body hadn’t been halted by a tree, and instead tumbled to the ground. Being thrown directly into one of the large oaks she’s surrounded by could’ve been fatal if she’d hit it just right, or at the very least she could’ve broken her ankle. With a rushed assessment she decides nothing feels broken, and therefore she can grab her weapon and-

Her weapon is nowhere near her. She scrambles to her feet, her breaths heavy and irregular as she searches around the grass, looking for the large blade she’d had in her hands less than a minute ago.

It had only been a minute, right? She hadn’t blacked out, had she?

Realizing there was no use wasting her time looking for a weapon now, she pushes herself to break into a sprint back towards the clearing. Her friends are blurry images moving about, trying to attack the larger blurry images that fends off their attacks with little struggle. She concludes this when she begins to hear the yelps and grunts of her fellow sorcerers, and yet the curse doesn’t seem to struggle at all.

Just when her vision begins to clear and she’s preparing herself to rejoin the fight with only her cursed technique and her fists, she sees the curse grab Megumi by the leg, and soon after he’s getting thrown into the air just as she did. His name is torn from her raw throat in an instant- but Megumi is more prepared to be airborne than she was, drawing his hands together to summon Nue to catch him.

Relief is short lived, and soon Megumi finds himself instructing Nue to catch Nobara and Yuji when shortly after, they’re being thrown as well. Nue’s a quick shikigami, but it’s only strong enough to carry one person at a time before it’s energy starts to deplete, and the curse keeps at it’s movements, chuckling the three of them into the air before they can land an attack on them on their decline. Yuji tries, using Black Flash on his descent in the hopes of striking it where it hurts, but the curse manages to catch him in a tight fist before chucking him again.

(y/n’s) still keeping an eye out for her weapon when she grows nearer to the fight, seeing as no one else’s techniques have caused any real damage yet, her cursed tool of a sword could be quite handy right about now.

She was hoping that with it’s attention focused on the other three, she could attack it from behind, and drive it more towards the clearing again. With how much movement and tossing it had done, it had driven them all deeper into the woods, which made it harder to land attacks, but had been good coverage for (y/n) to sneak up in her approach.

To her disadvantage, she hadn’t expected there to be a pair of large eyes on the back of it’s head. In the dark of the night she hadn’t noticed them until they’d opened and landed on her instantaneously. It must’ve sensed her sneaking around behind it.

She’s quicker in her movements this time, dodging it’s large hand before it could grab onto her, but it outsmarts her and snatches her up in the other. A yelp sounds from her when it squeezes harder than the last time, her air supply cut off just as she’d tried to take in a large breath, making her sputter and cough as it raised her in the air again. A sense of dread and failure washes over her when she realizes it’s going to throw her again. Whatever this curse’s deal was, it had a thing for throwing it’s victims around to torture them.

And torture it was- as this time when she’s launched into the air, it’s a clear throw over the trees. It’s harder than before, and faster. The cool air cuts over her face in sharp streams, bringing tears to her eyes before she could comprehend what would come of her fall. She could brace herself, but as she gets a watery glance at what’s below, she knows that shielding her face would provide no comfort to her fall.

Just past the cluster of oak trees is a steep overhang. Rock and the roots of old trees jutting out some thirty feet to the ground.

This is why her fall felt so long. A sharp gasp escapes her, and when her inhale gets caught in her throat, she wonders if this is the last breath she’ll ever take.

When she shuts her eyes to protect them from the harsh wind, a wetness spreads down her cheeks. In a last ditch effort at self preservation, her arms brace over her face, and she buries herself into them, not wanting to see the last thing that would break her fall. Hopefully she wouldn’t feel it, either.

Her jaw clenched tightly as her heart began to race faster, expecting the crash to come soon.

The sensation isn’t as expected. There is no slam against stone or cold ground that knocks the wind out of her. Instead something’s wrapped around her middle, and out of worry that the curse had grabbed her in order to throw her again, she withdraws her head from her arms in a jolt.

It’s not the curse that’s caught her mid-fall.

It’s Sukuna.

With one arm wrapped around her back and the other around her shoulders, his large hand braces the back of her head to keep her tucked close. They’re still falling, but the sensation feels different like this. It’s almost as if he’s carrying her to the ground, his posture as natural as it would be if he were standing there now.

Wide, watery eyes blink up at him in astonishment when she fully registers what was happening.

“You’re alright, I’ve got you, sweetheart”

If it weren’t for the rawness in her throat, she might’ve scolded him for the pet name, but her voice was taken away from her as soon as she’d been heaved into the sky a second time.

She doesn’t even process the way she’s gripping onto him until he lands on the ground, holding her up just a moment longer before carefully setting her on her feet. Her hands are holding onto the sleeves of Yuji’s uniform in fists so tight her knuckles are white, and her hands are trembling.

The others are nowhere in sight, or at least, she can’t see them right now. Her mind is so shaken up she doesn’t actually look. Her eyes don’t tear away from the stunning red of Sukuna’s once. She doesn’t even blink- hence the continued downpour of tears. From the wind and her acceptance of a brutal death, her emotions were slowly catching up to reality.

Her chest is heaving but there’s no relief in feeling like she’s caught her breath. Her heart is pounding so hard that it makes her ribs ache, but that very well could be the bruising from her previous fall setting in. Her mouth moves but it takes a few tries for any real words to come out, and when her voice does come back to her, she doesn’t say much.

“S- Sukuna-”

He silences her before she could even try to say something else. Prying her hands off of his arms and placing them at her sides, even though there’s still tremors in her muscles.

“I only have a minute,” He tells her, in a gravely serious tone that she’s never heard from him before. She blinks her wide eyes, leftover tears getting stuck on her lashes. “It’s been handled”

He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t get the chance to before his posture begins to weaken, followed by his eyelids twitching and the marks beginning to fade away.

Gasping, (y/n) surges forward, grabbing Yuji by the shoulders before he could stumble and fall. His eyes roll and blink a few times before he feels in control of his body again. Soon after his posture straightens, and then it’s Yuji who’s looking worriedly down at (y/n).

She’s close, very close. Her hands are gripping onto his shoulders for dear life. He can feel her panting against his chin as her worried eyes scan over his features.

Yuji’s disoriented, like maybe he’s just woken up from a dream, or maybe he’s just woken up inside of a dream, and he’s not exactly sure how to voice this concern. She makes it harder on him when one of her hands leaves his shoulder in order to reach for his cheek.

It’s so affectionate, the way she reaches for his face and presses her palm against it, that Yuji finds his skin heating up and a blush appearing over his cheeks before he could will himself not to. She’s never behaved this way with him before. He could only recall casual touches that occurred during training, or maybe a brush of her fingers when she handed him something, but nothing as intentional as this.

And she’s certainly never looked at him like that either. He can’t place his finger on it, but it makes his stomach churn to meet her eyes.

“Uh, (y/n)?” He mumbles out her name, and he finds himself doing a quick sweep of her, assessing her for a major injury. But she’s standing just fine, and he can’t see any blood. This had to be a head injury, right?

He asks himself that question once more then the pad of her thumb brushes under his eye. She faintly traces the incision of the closed eyelid just below his eyelashes. Yuji holds his breath, but he’s not sure who he’s doing it for. (y/n), whose eyes are glossing over as she’s gazing at the wrong eyes, which remained closed, or Sukuna, who Yuji was sure she was trying to reach to now.

And then she leans even closer, and the breath he’d been holding is forced out of him from the closing distance between them. Her hands remain where they are, on his shoulder with an iron grip and against his cheek with the gentleness of a butterfly landing there.

On instinct Yuji finds his eyes darting down to her lips, but he’s positive she’s not going to kiss him- right? She wouldn’t do such a thing on a whim, not like this, not now when they’ve barely completed their assignment. Not to mention their friends aren’t too far away- where are Nobara and Megumi anyways? Yuji’s thoughts are racing as fast as his heart as he struggles to figure out what to do as she grows nearer.

Before he has to come up with a decision, (y/n) stops, and Yuji swallows the lump in his throat out of relief that she wasn’t leaning in to kiss him. The ride home would have been so awkward.

“Thank you” She breathes out the words, her thumb stroking over the spot on his cheek one more time before she finally drops her hand, and she pulls away from Yuji completely.

He blinks at her in disbelief, waiting for his heartbeat to calm down, which it does the further she steps away.

“What happened?” He asks, louder than he means to, but when he finally collects his thoughts and processes what just happened, he can’t help but blurt out the question.

The pair begin to make their way back to the clearing, both realizing that the First Grade curse was gone, clearly exorcized with the amount of purple goo coating the surrounding plants and trees. They don’t discuss it right away, but they both have an inkling on how it was taken care of.

“Sukuna saved my life”

Yuji wants to ask more questions, but when he turns towards her to do so, he can tell that she’s not ready to talk about it. Her features had hardened, and she didn’t meet his eyes as they walked.

He knows he’s put off this conversation one too many times already… but once again he finds himself biting his tongue as they catch up with their other friends.

Something tells him that he’ll have to bring it up soon, though. Because the King of Curses wouldn’t save just anyone’s life twice- much less a sorcerer. And he has a gut feeling that (y/n) knows more than she’s letting on.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

This time, it’s only a few days since the last assignment when (y/n) crosses paths with Sukuna again. Well, this time around, he came to her.

She’s just slid her bookmark between the pages she’d decided to pause on tonight when there’s a knock at her door. With a quiet huff- she was just about to go to sleep after all- but before she can call for her visitor to come in, the door slides open and he’s inviting himself right on.

“Yu-! Sukuna?”

The initial scolding tone she takes drops as soon as she realizes he’s not who she thought. Her voice softens around his name in a way that it shouldn’t, but that she can’t help. She sits up a little further in her bed, brows furrowing as he slides the door shut behind him.

“You can’t just walk in here”

“I knocked”

“Okay well… well you have to wait for me to actually invite you in” She mumbles out, only to be met with a scoff and a humorless chuckle. But when her frown deepens, he sighs.

“Fine, I’ll knock for longer next time” He grunts, before he begins to wander around her room. He glances over the few things littered on her desk- a picture frame of her and her friends, an open and neglected textbook, a pair of bracelets she’d forgotten to put away- he almost forgets why he’d come in to begin with.

“Um… did you need something?” (y/n) asks after a minute of him wandering around and eyeing all of her things.

“You’re freaking out the brat,” Sukuna says casually, picking up a little porcelain cat on her shelf. His eyes narrow as he turns the small thing around in his hands, as if trying to decipher it’s purpose. “He won’t stop asking about you now”

“What?” (y/n) pushes the covers off her lap, moving to the end of the bed to sit a little closer to him. It doesn’t matter if she’s quiet, it’s only the two of them in the room, but she feels a sudden need to lower her voice anyways. “What do you mean he’s freaking out?”

He turns to her then, the figurine still in his hands. The tiniest of smiles purses on her lips at how silly a tiny cat looks in his large and tattooed hands. Despite how easily he could crush it to dust, his hold on it is gentle.

“I just thought that you should be aware, you know, that eventually you’ll have to decide if you want to explain yourself to your friends or not”

Her stomach twists and turns into dozens of little knots. The King of Curses was stopping by her room late into the night just for this? She shouldn’t be surprised, because she knew his motives, but still, she blinked at him with wide eyes.

“You haven’t…?” The question trails off as she shakes her head at him, unsure of how to word it just right.

“I don’t like the idea of the brat knowing all of my business,” Sukuna hums, finally setting the cat back down on her shelf. “You’ve always had a knack for collecting useless things” He comments, and the words are harsh but his tone is nothing but amused.

“So… you think I should talk to Yuji?” She asks, and Sukuna lets his shoulders rise and fall in disinterest.

“If that’s what you want” He says, but it doesn’t feel considerate. (y/n) frowns.

“Don’t you think he’ll be… upset?”

“With you?”

She nods.

“You’ve done nothing wrong. If anything, the brat would only worry about you. Seeing as he despises me, and all”

“You don’t exactly make it easy to feel otherwise” (y/n) mumbles, and her words hang in the air for a few long moments. She’s not sure if she means the insinuation behind them or if it’s just a coincidence, but she doesn’t try to backtrack to explain herself.

“Yes, well, he certainly cares more for you than he does for me. Too much so. Some boundaries might do you some good, you know”

“Boundaries?”

“Yes, boundaries. He almost kissed you”

Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head before her brows furrow and she scoffs in disbelief.

“What? What are you even talking about?”

Sukuna tucks his hands into his pockets, looking all the more out of place in her room at this hour.

“During your little gratitude session on your last assignment,” He says, his lips curling into a deep frown. “You got a bit too close and his brat-mind went a bit haywire. You don’t need to be so affectionate with him, you know. A plain thank you would have sufficed-”

“I wasn’t being affectionate with him,” She snaps back, and Sukuna raises a brow at the display. “I was thanking you, asshole. You pretty much saved my life?” She says it like she’s trying to jog his memory. “I wasn’t trying to make a move on Yuji, and I’m sure he knew that too. I don’t control his thoughts, he can think whatever he wants, doesn’t mean it’s happening”

Sukuna steps closer to where she sat before bending down to match her height. She’s still frowning, clearly annoyed with this interaction, but she had yet to ask him to leave, and he has a feeling she won’t.

“So if the brat had plucked up the nerve to make a move, you would’ve pushed him away?” He asks, and he’s smirking, almost as if he wants her to say otherwise. Her eyes narrow, not understanding what his mind games were getting at this time.

“Politely, yes,” She answers, shaking her head at him. “Why does this matter? Last I checked, in this lifetime, I’m not some cowering wife for you to boss around”

Sukuna laughs at that, genuinely laughs. He stands back up to his full height and throws his head back and cackles so loud that (y/n) can only pray Nobara doesn’t wake up from next door. She might not need to whisper to speak with him, but the walls weren’t exactly soundproof either.

“Sweetheart, you’ve never been a cowering wife,” He tells her once his laughter died down. “A wife, perhaps, but never some submissive weak minded mortal” He adds.

“So we have been married?”

She asks him with such peculiarity, and it makes him chuckle again. She sounds as though this has been the strangest thing he’s revealed thus far, and he can’t help but find humor in it.

“We have” He answers.

(y/n) shifts her position, pulling her legs towards her chest and staring up at him expectantly, waiting for a continuation that wouldn’t come. Sukuna merely stares at her with mild confusion.

“Well?” She asks, tilting her head forward. “Did we get married every time?”

He smirks.

“I’ve told you that you created a Binding Vow in order to be with me across centuries of eras. In the grand scheme of things, don’t you think marriage is a little… bleak?”

(y/n) shrugs a shoulder, resting her arms atop her knees as she gazes back at him curiously.

“It’s bleak in this lifetime,” She murmurs back. “Not to me, at least”

Sukuna hums, before shaking his head.

“You never change”

“Do I really?” She presses again. “For the last… thousand years… am I really the same?”

Sukuna ponders for a moment. This was a common question of hers, and each time, he struggled to answer it.

“You really want to know?”

She doesn’t say anything, but she pats her hand against the space on the bed next to her. Sukuna’s gaze shifts to it momentarily, before looking back at her. After a moment, he takes a seat.

“You are almost completely the same in every lifetime I’ve found you in,” He explains. “You’re always stubborn, you never make it easy. But you always… come around,” He turns to her. “Like now”

“You think I’m coming around?” She asks, a skeptical look in her eye that makes him smirk. He leans forward as though the next part he shares is a grave secret.

“You never want to admit it, but you always have a soft spot for me”

(y/n) raises a brow back at him in defiance.

“I think you’ve got that turned around,” She murmurs. “I think the King of Curses has a soft spot for me. And I think he’s making it everyone’s problem”

He chuckles quietly, his gaze sweeping over the gentle features of her face.

“I think the feelings you have for me in every beginning come from your soul’s memory,” He tells her, raising a hand, and gently pressing the pad of his thumb against the center of her forehead. The sudden touch makes her freeze at first, but eventually she relaxes as the rest of his fingers lay in her hair. “I haven’t quite figured it out yet, I don’t know how it is that you’re never able to keep your memories,” He tilts his head as he ponders it for a moment, his eyes focused on where he’s touched her head. “But I think deep down, you know that you trust me”

(y/n) doesn’t have a witty comeback for that one. She’s still reeling from the warmth of his touch, and the weight of his words. But she feels obligated to say something when his gaze met hers again.

“I never said I believed you in all this, you know” She whispers weakly.

“You don’t believe me?” He murmurs back at her, his voice a low rumble as his hand starts to fall from her head. He doesn’t remove his touch, he lets the back of his finger trace along her temple, before slowly moving down her jaw. Sukuna doesn’t seem displeased in her words. If anything, he seems intrigued by them. “You know, you almost look the same in every life, too”

“I do?” She asks, just as his fingers fall still against her cheek.

Sukuna hums, and nods his head.

“The last I saw you, your hair was different,” He tells her. “It was longer, to about… here,” With his free hand, he gently touches her waist, and the way she tenses doesn’t go unnoticed. “You would wear it in all sorts of different styles. Pretty braids and… whatever our servants would desire to do that day,” Her eyes widen at his use of the word servants, but Sukuna glides over it. “But that was a few hundred years ago, of course. It would all be outdated now,” He drops his hand from her waist, but the other remains against her cheek, his touch ghosting over it. “Not that it wouldn’t still be exquisite”

Her eyes shift between his, trying to decipher the emotion they hold. She can’t tell if he’s amused or sorrowful. Was he disappointed that she couldn’t remember?

“This is why I’m the one who doesn’t believe you” He murmurs after a few beats pass.

(y/n’s) brows draw together just slightly, just enough to pinch the skin between them.

“What do you mean?” She asks, her voice betraying her as it shakes just a little.

“Because you look at me like that” He says, nodding at her slightly.

(y/n) blinks, doe eyes resembling the glass of the porcelain cat he’d just been mocking. Her lips are parted, formed in the smallest of pouts as she gazes up at him, that look unrelenting.

She tilts forward, her gaze flickering over his face leisurely, mapping out the black markings, and all the small details that make him so different from Yuji. The way he insists on pushing the bangs out of his face, the broader jaw, the sharper canine that she only notices when he laughs or smiles- which is quite rare. She’s admiring him so openly that Sukuna’s not sure what to do under such heavy surveillance, so he just sits there and allows her to stare.

But eventually, she sighs, and drops her legs from her chest before she crawls across her bed, moving to get under the covers again. Sukuna remains in his spot at the end, watching her without an expression as she settles into her pillow.

“Does it disturb Yuji’s rest when you take over like this?” She asks quietly as she presses her cheek into the soft comfort of her pillow.

No, the brat’s completely dozed off, that’s why he could take over like this. It’s what he wants to say, but he doesn’t.

“I’ll be sure it doesn’t” He says as he stands, and walks around the bed, facing the side she’s just moved to. He crouches down to meet her eye level again, and (y/n) moves a little closer to the edge towards him.

“Okay, good,” She whispers.

She blames her exhaustion when she reaches out to him, the tips of her fingers barely prodding at the dark ink that follows the sharp curve of his jaw. Her eyes follow it as she traces it down to his chin, almost painfully slow. It takes every ounce of restraint for him not to lean into the touch.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do, Sukuna,” She murmurs, her fingers lingering on his chin, her eyes slowly meeting his. “I… I can’t…”

She can’t even say the words. She hardly wants to be thinking about them. But Sukuna knows her better than anyone who’s ever walked this earth, and he nods back at her in understanding before she could try to finish the thought.

“I’ve never expected anything of you,” He murmurs, before reaching up to pull her hand from his face, gently closing his fingers around her own as he moves it away. “You have been the greatest love of my life whether you’re able to remember or not,” He tells her, and she listens to him with her full attention. “And whether you believe me or not, you still will be,”

There’s the smallest of squeezes to her hand with his words, and a lump begins to build up in her throat.

“You can ask more questions another time, alright? You should get some sleep, sweetheart”

She gives him a faint nod, her eyes already feeling too heavy to keep open when she feels her blanket being dragged over her shoulders. Distantly, her mind registers that the King of Curses is tucking her into bed, but she’s too tired now to comment on it.

There’s another squeeze to her fingers, followed by a hesitation, and then the soft, unmistakable pair to two lips pressing against her knuckles. It’s not a lingering kiss, and it’s featherlight, over as soon as it began, and again, (y/n) keeps her eyes shut and doesn’t say anything.

Sukuna lays her hand down against her blanket with the gentleness of maneuvering a newborn. She hears him walking away towards her door.

“Goodnight, Sukuna”

It’s the softest call, but it’s enough to make him pause at the door and glance back at her. She still can’t look at him- she’s afraid she’ll burst into tears if she does, although she can’t quite explain the heavy emotion that’s bringing the tears to her eyes to begin with.

“Goodnight, my love”

It’s murmured so quickly before he’s hastily exiting her room that she could’ve missed it altogether, but she doesn’t. Her hand curls into her sheets as she pulls it close to her chest as she lets tonight’s conversation sink into her mind.

The truth was, she did trust him. She did believe him. And she was pretty sure this was the case for the entire time she’s known him. She’s pretty sure this was unavoidable.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Everything’s blurry when she first comes to.

And everything hurts.

She tries to move, but it only results in a strangled whine being pulled from her throat as soon as she tries.

She’s on the ground. It’s covered in rubble. There’s glass pricking her arms- or maybe the gravel was just that sharp. There’s a warmth pooling under the side she’s laying on. Likely blood.

Another groan when she at least tries to get on her back in order to assess the bleeding wound on her left side, but just as she’s about to roll her body weight, she catches something in her vision.

Yuji?

He’s slumped over against a wall, and he looks no better than she feels. Covered in bruises and blood that may or may not be his own- whatever went down was ugly.

She blinks a few times to focus her vision a little better. She tries to call for him but her throat is raw and all that comes out is another whine. Either way, he’s clearly passed out and wouldn’t have responded. The fight must’ve taken everything out of him.

Oh, the fight, it slowly starts coming back to her in flashing images. That Blood Manipulation Guy. He was rough. She’s not sure how they got out of it alive- she’s not sure how they got to this point at all. Her mind’s still foggy and the only thing that’s easy to focus on is the shooting pains in her body.

That is, until there’s the sound of clicking heels and hushed, feminine voices. (y/n) hadn’t even realized her eyes had slipped shut again until those two appeared, and she peeks her eyes open to see two girls whispering between themselves as they crouch before Yuji’s body.

They look harmless enough, no older than her, and not to mention they look anxious. So nothing about her blurry assumptions about them triggered any warning flags.

That was, until they pulled out a bag of fingers. Unmistakable fingers.

She needs to get up now and she knows it. She pleads with her body to move, wishing the throbbing hot pain in her left leg would disappear just long enough for her to get to Yuji, to stop these girls from what they’re about to do.

It’s unclear how much time lapses before she notices a third figure at Yuji’s body. A curse. And he seems to have a few fingers of his own, too.

No, her voice cries, but it’s only in her head. You can’t do that.

She’s never felt so weak, her fingers barely twitching against the concrete when she’s trying to tell her body to get up. She’s sure that means none of the rest of her limbs are moving. She’s trapped there.

Her heart is pounding, her breaths are labored, dread consumes her so completely she’d throw up if there was anything left in her stomach.

It’s tough to count just how many fingers are shoved down Yuji’s throat before the curse is clamping his large hand over his mouth and forcing his head back in order to make the unconscious boy swallow every last one. With tears in her eyes she knows it’s more than what’s safe, and there’s a turmoil in her gut as she doesn’t know how to feel about what comes next.

With her heart pounding in her ears she can’t tell what exactly the fighting amongst the curse users and the curse himself was about, but suddenly only the cycloptic curse remains standing over Yuji’s body. He’s grunting and growling, still pushing the boy’s head back. (y/n) wonders if he’s swallowed all those fingers by now.

These three were idiots. But they were idiots stronger than her, and even if she’d had the strength to stop them, it would’ve been futile.

However, now, they hardly made her list of things to be afraid of in Shibuya.

The blood that’s pooled under Yuji’s body startles her- when did that get there? But after blinking a few times to clear her sight and focus just a fraction of a bit better, she realizes it’s not human blood at all, but that awful purple essence that leaves a stench behind.

“I’ll give you one second,” Comes the familiar voice that doesn’t belong to the body it erupts from. “Move”

In a flash, the small crowd around him is a good ten feet back. (y/n) could almost laugh if her throat wasn’t bloodied raw. They chose to wake him up with all those fingers, and now they’re visibly afraid of what they summoned themselves? They truly had no idea what they were in for now.

It only takes one glance towards her before Sukuna’s suddenly before her beaten form, crouching down to assess the damages.

“Now, which one of these insolent freaks did this to you?” He asks, tilting his head as his Reverse Cursed Technique took effect over her wounds with haste. “I’ll start there”

“N-none of them,” She stammers out, even though it’s the truth.

For the first time, she considers that she should be afraid of Sukuna. The other three are still trembling even from their distance, barely letting themselves breathe in his presence.

All she’s ever felt towards Sukuna is irritation, perhaps mild vexation, but mostly he just confused her. But now, she can feel the abundant amount of cursed energy wafting off of him, and despite his history in sparing her life and taking an interest in her, she briefly wonders if this is the moment he changes his mind.

The thought passes in a matter of seconds, when a pair of hands are gently aiding her in sitting upright. Even with his technique healing her wounds, there are still aches and pains that make her wince. Shards of glass falling from her skin as the healing tissue forces them out, bruises that still sting when she moves too quickly before their nasty colors disappear completely.

And Sukuna regards her with an expression she’s never seen before, but it makes her heart lurch in her chest. It’s concern. His brows are knotted, and his eyes are scanning over her repeatedly to make sure no injury was left on her body. This was followed by sizable hands mapping over her carefully just to double check.

She should be afraid, but she’s not.

In fact, as soon as those vermillion eyes return to hers, all she can feel is relief.

And she doesn’t think twice before she’s darting forward on achy knees, her arms wrapping around his neck and the rest of her body colliding into his so harsh it knocks the wind out of her for a moment, but she doesn’t mind panting to catch her breath again. She embraces Sukuna as tightly as she can, as though he’s the only savior she’s ever known, an angel painted in pure white rather than the corrupted being he truly was.

Sukuna has half a mind to grab her by the neck and remove her from him with a snarl about how her injuries were still healing, but instead he wraps an arm around her, his hand smoothing over the tattered back of her uniform.

She could only imagine what the three at the end of the corridor were thinking, watching the King of Curses embrace such a weak sorcerer.

“You understand now, don’t you sweetheart?” He asks her quietly, and she manages a small nod against his chest, before her hands tighten into fists at the red hood that lies between his shoulder blades. “It’s been a rough night, hasn’t it?” He muses, and when (y/n) doesn’t give him a response this time, he uses his free hand to pry her face away from his shirt, hooking her chin under his finger so that she’d meet his eyes.

Rough night didn’t even begin to cover what she’d been put through, what was she supposed to say?

“It’s alright now, my love, I’m here,”

Those words from him shouldn’t bring her the amount of comfort that they do. The tears in her eyes begin to drip down her cheeks. Sukuna’s smiling as he brushes them away, and despite her better judgment, she leans into the touch, seeking out even more comfort. He chuckles at the sight, but humors her as he cups the side of her face in his palm, cradling her head with the gentleness of holding a flower by it’s petals.

She won’t admit it, not now anyways, but she knows deep down that there is no force on this earth greater than the swell of love in her chest right now. It’s something she’s not sure should ever be voiced, but she has a feeling that Sukuna will find a way to draw it out of her anyways. Just as he’s made her trust him, just as he’s made her confide in him, he’s bound to find a way into drawing the confession out of her as well.

Perhaps it’s her own fault, too. Hiding the way a part of her believed everything he’s ever said to her, hiding the way it made her feel to know that she was so loved by a force so strong and unstoppable that he’d scour the earth after every lifetime in order to find her again.

I think the feelings you have for me in every beginning come from your soul’s memory, he’d said. But I think deep down, you know that you trust me.

She stares at him now knowing all of this to be true, and Sukuna can almost see every thought in her dilated eyes, swallowed nearly whole by dark pupils as she clings to him now.

With a brush of his lips to the crown of her head, he makes her a promise that she’ll live through this horrid night yet.

She still holds onto him when he stands, and he lifts her up with ease, cradling her to his chest like she was merely a small and frightened child. The only unease she felt now was knowing what fates were in store for the three at the end of the hall, who Sukuna had set his sights on first.

“Now, let’s take this one on together, sweetheart, shall we?”

Her own fate was still unknown to her, but sealed in place long ago.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

[ cause i love to love to love to love you // i hate to hate to hate to hate you ]

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

xoxo ~ jordie

a/n: thinkin about writing a snippet of their past live(s) or something. i wanted to add something like that to this fic but i wanted the reader to feel unsure if they really could trust him soooo it went a diff route. idk don't hold me to it. i'm just a girl.

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader #ryomen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #ryomen sukuna imagine #sukuna imagine #jjk imagine #jujutsu kaisen imagine

1K notes · View notes