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kabuki-writes · 4 months ago

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A Reflection Of Venus

chapter: 1 chapter 2 | 3 | 4

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: For years Acacius was able to keep his precious and only daughter away from the Emperor's eyes. But after his latest victory, he couldn't evade the already inevitable.

Note: Reader is the daughter of General Acacius and his wife, which is not Lucilla in this fanfiction.

word count: 3.1k

General Acacius was a hero for the Roman Empire, a sun that was burning brighter with every new victory he won in a new war campaign ordered by Emperor Geta and his twin brother Emperor Caracalla. The reign of the twins was nothing compared to one of their deceased father Emperor Septimius Severus, who was once one of the closest friends and brother-in-arms of Acatius. While Severus fought wars mainly to protect the borders of the already massive Empire, his sons' hunger for expansion became clear from the very first day they inherited the title "Emperor". And general Acacius became their tool in this project. Nothing was too expensive, they backed him with legions, war-ships, the best equipment and supply, and the capable general became an unstoppable force, a soldier of the God Mars himself. But at what cost?

As the years went on, he'd rarely been home, always travelling with his marching soldiers and being on the front line of every battle he fought. And when he came back, he felt sick from all the pomp and gold the Emperor's threw at him, the victory processions through Rome, while the smell of blood still lingered in his nose and the cries of the women and children echoed in his mind. It was one of those days. The sun stood high over the wide street that lead to the Palatin, the sides filled with the cheering crowd - common people, soldiers, slaves, senators, merchants, they all celebrated his victory in a triumphant procession. His marching soldiers were led by Acacius chariot, clothed in the white armor of a victor. His face could've been one to be carved in marble, stoic and upright, facing the great Palatin, where the Emperors would await him.

Geta and Caracalla - the twin-sons of Septimius Severus, Emperors of Rome. They stoof there in golden Armor like sun gods with their golden crowns on top of their short gingerblonde hair. Their unusual pale skin was a testament to their wealth as they could afford to stay out of the sun, which burns especially hot on summer days like this one, and of course on the battlefields in Africa, where Acatius' men had to fight against the rebellious Nubians. They awaited their victor with proud smiles on their lips, while Acacius' procession ended at the footsteps of the Emperor's palace. He walked the marble steps towards them, his long cloak moved in tact with his walk. He didn't look forward to see the faces of Rome's tyrants again, but they hadno idea.

Instead, he greeted them as he was used to. His hand on his chest, speaking the words.

"I greet you, my Emperors. Nubia is no more. I present a new victory to you, to the realm and to the Roman people."

With a proud look on their faces and a wide smile, the twins stepped forward. Emperor Geta hold the laurel wreath of victory in his hands and places it on top of Acacius' greying hair.

"And Rome rewards it's heroes with gratitude and admiration. We bow to your victories, General Acacius."

With those words, he offered him to turn around and face the celebrating crowd. Geta and Caracalla took their places at his side, giving him a moment of spotlight, applauded by the people, while they did benefit from it as well. Acatius was their general, their armored knight. Every victory he presented was another triumph for their own reign and power. After the earned celebration in front of the common folk, the Emperors and Acacius retreated inside, where servants quickly served them wine for a toast.

"Another great victory, you never disappoint us, dear Acatius," Geta expressed and hold his glass up for a toast, his brother Caracalla following the gesture. "To the glory of the Roman Empire".

"To the glory of your reign", Acacius lied and took a sip from his glass, trying to numb himself a bit with the taste of the alcohol. How he hated conversations with both of them.

" But don't get too comfy here, my brother and i were already discussing another campaign soon. You'll get everything you need, just tell us how many soldiers and ships and it will be granted," Geta explained, which left a bitter taste in Acacius mouth. His jaw clenched for a moment, while he tried everything not to show his distaste about another war campaign.

"Please forgive me, my Emperor, but isn't the realm big enough already? Rome has already difficulties to feed the people. Further expansion would-"

"They can eat war", Emperor Caracalla threw in with an almost diabotical grin, while Acacius got a warning eye from Geta. It was clear that his words weren't the ones both wanted to hear right now.

"Don't worry about things like that, Acacius. You're a military general, your job is to win battles - nothing more. Do you understand?"

"I understand," he answered, even though he hated to hear that he was reduced to this. He'd experienced war and peace alike and therefore he knew about the dangers of continuing this madness. Moments like this really let him question if those maniacs were of the same blood as Septimius Severus.

"But you're right, you've earned yourself at least a bit of rest - one or two weeks. Don't worry, we've taken care about the wellbeing of your family. They got everything they needed and more in our attempt to show our gratitude for your service to the throne. Speaking of which.... we expect you to join us for a great feast tonight - here in the palace. A party to celebrate your victory, it is accompanied by a couple of fights in the arena tomorrow," Geta explained joyfully, while Acatius tried to keep his mask up.

"I am incredibly honored, but would prefer to spend time with family after being away for such a long time."

"The Emperors show you their gratitude and you're insulting us. We expect you to come and you will come", Caracalla hissed with a sudden shift of tone, his eyes staring at Acacius in clear anger, while his brother placed his hand on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. But his staring eyes were warning Acatius once again.

"Of course, we don't just invite you, but your whole family. Bring your wife and... you have a daughter, if i'm not mistaken? We haven't had the pleasure of getting to know her yet, since you never brought her to any festivities. I am sure she will be delighted, if you don't plan on hiding her again."

Acacius stood there in silence, a reaction that made Caracalla burst out into laughter as if he'd just heard the funniest joke from his brother. The respected general didn't even look at him, why should he. Standing here in front of them should've been an honor, yet it felt like a disgrace. They were nothing but spoiled kids with the power of an empire in their hands. And now they even forced him to reveal his dear daughter to them. Something he tried to avoid for too long, knowing fully well about the debauchery and excessiveness of Geta and Caracalla.

"We're waiting for an answer, Acacius?", Caracalla purred with a wide grin on his pale face, revealing his gold tooth.

"It will be an honor to be your guest... together with my daughter."

_____________________________________________

You watched the face of your father sunken away in his thoughts, as you made made your way to the palace in a palanquin carried by a couple of slaves and protected by soldiers. The city was painted in darkness which made the palace seem like a temple with all the lights that welcomed you. It was an exciting moment for an upper-class lady to be a guest at the palace, especially for you, a woman that usually stayed away from the most parties. Not because you wanted to, but because it was an order from your father. You obeyed, yet it bothered you, even more when you'd reached the age of a young woman - the age in which it was expected from you to find a proper husband.

"Why are you so worried, father?", you finally managed to get off your lips, pulling Acacius out of the battle he fought in his head. He couldn't just tell you that he despised all of this and especially the Emperors himself as he couldn't be sure if someone outside this palanquin could hear him. So he simply took your hand and placed a soft and caring kiss on the ring that had been a present for your last name day.

"I guess I'm rather tired than worried. The parties in the palace are always quite excessive, music, dances, feasts... i just came back from the desert and now i have to enjoy all those things", he sighed and looked at you. "And i don't want to stay too long, especially not till the orgy starts. The servants will come and bring us home before that." And even you knew he would rather go and murder Dyonisos himself than allowing his daughter to stay and witness this.

All those words and yet you knew it wasn't everything.

"I'm glad that you take me with you this time. I've only known the imperial palace from afar," you confessed, while you straightened the long, blue dress you wore. It was decorated with all sorts of silver embroidery and jewelry, encapturing the stars and moon. Your long hair was styled by your servant Yanna into a high braid and finalized with a silver diadem. For the first time you really got the chance to make yourself so presentable that you almost felt like a princess. In the end, you were about to meet the Emperors which made it important to look like the woman you were - the daughter of a general. And you also presented his household tonight, because your mother felt sick tonight. She often suffered from migraine, which kept her a prisoner for days sometimes.

"You really look beautiful", your father said to you, it was honest, but there was a hint of worry in his eyes, which you still couldn't grasp. But there was no chance to take this conversation further as the palanquin stopped. Acacius got out first to help you out. He knew the way as it wasn't the first time for him to attent an official ceremony or party here. Through a long corridor you reached a large room with with an open access to the garden terrace facing the beautiful gardens. It was packed with people from the Roman upper-class, wealthy merchants, politicians and military officers, who were accompanied by their wives, sons and daughters. While they chatted and feasted on the large selection of delicious looking food, a group of musicians played their melodies to which professional dancers moved their bodies.

All those private parties at the homes of your friends seemed to vanish straight from your mind, nothing could be compared to what you were seeing now. It nearly took your breath away, while two royals were watching you from the other side of the room.

_____________________________________________

Geta and Caracalla were sitting on a higher ground, which was highly decorated with two golden chaise longues, cushions and velvet drapes. They were accompanied by a selected group of slaves, women and men, who were assigned to bring them anything they wanted, to do anything they wanted.

While Geta was in in a conversation with one of the senators, which clearly bored him according to his facial expressions, it was Caracalla, who noticed the new guest first, while he fed his little monkey Dondus a grape.

"Such a shame that he hid his daughter for so long. She is a gorgeous looking bird, don't you think? ", he whispered to his brother with a mischievous grin, patting his arm so that he would turn his attention to Acacius and you. Geta's eyes quickly went to you, admiring the way your dress hugged the shape of your curves.

"The gods must've sent us Venus herself to honor us with her presence," Geta answered, while an unreadable smile played on his lips. „No wonder our dear General is so protective of her. Is she already promised to someone?“

„Why do you ask me!?“ Caracalla snapped back, as if his brother didn’t know that he had a lot of spies around the city, who delivered him the newest gossip from the streets of Rome. With an annoyed eye roll, he leaned forward, adjusting the golden laurel wreath on his head. „No, she is a blank parchment. Probably untouched too.“

Geta still watched you with an intense interest as if you were a rare diamond, he needed to claim. But he was not the only one in this room, because Caracalla stared at his brother, noticing the way he looked at you. There it was again, the old melody. Whenever he wanted something, Geta wanted it too. They already shared the title of Emperors, their wealth, their whores… It was already something that cooked in him for a long time. But now he had an eye on you and wasn't happy about the fact that Geta might try to get you too.

Before he could even bring this thought to an end, his twin brother Geta already stood up from his chaise lounge and made his way through the crowd, the direction was clear. Caracalla's nose twitched in a mixture of nervousness and anger, and he got up quickly as well, not as gracefully as he wanted to, but he didn’t care. He had to tame the inner urge to backstab his brother before he could even reach you.

_____________________________________________

You still stood at the side of your father sipping on your first goblet of fine wine, while your eyes went over all the different guests and the excessive decor. Your father was sunken in a conversation with another general, Marcus Galbanus, an old friend and brother-in-arms of Acacius. But their conversation quickly stopped as soon as the Emperors approached them. Both your father and Marcus Galbanus lowered their heads and greeted them according to the etiquette, while you curtsied deep. This was the very first time you got the chance to meet the Emperor's of Rome Caracalla and Geta. And given the importance of those two figures, you even felt a little nervous.

"We almost feared you wouldn't show up to your own party, Acacius. But we're happy you made your way here... we already heard that your dear wife lays sick. Please, send her our best wishes. Nonetheless we would be delighted if you could introduce us to your company tonight", Geta demanded in a playful tone, knowing how much Acacius had tried to delay this. Caracalla stood at his side, his staring blue eyes drilled themselves into your appearence. Even though he was a man that had tasted a lot of men and women, one even more sensual than the other, your whole appearence, your face, your lips, your smile, everything - you reached a sentience in his mind that could only be gifted by the gods. The mere thought of having you infected his brain like a curse.

You could sense the tension that raised in your father as if everything in him resisted the situation. Yet he placed his hand softly on your shoulder and did as they wished. "This is my daughter, y/n..."

"I'm honoured to meet the Emperors of Rome", you said in a soft voice, earning you an appreciating smile by Geta and an unreadable grin of Caracalla.

"Oh the pleasure is on our side, my dearest. How do you like this Ceremony in honor of your father's victories?", Geta asked. But before you could even answer, his brother added, while he took another sip of his wine "Your father is a Roman hero through and through, isn't it right Acacius?" His tone had something else in it, almost as if it was some kind of mistrust. But you needed to ignore the irritation you felt and simply nodded.

"It is breathtaking. I've never witnessed something like this and it makes me incredible proud to see the gratitute he earned himself through the love he has for Rome and its people," you answered, trying to remind the Emperor's of Acacius loyality, which was undoubtful.

"Then you'll enjoy the ceremony in the arena tomorrow as well, i'm sure. Please, we invite your father and you to be our guests."

"I don't think that such entertainment is suited for a young woman of her status," your father suddenly interfered in a calm yet set tone, only earning the laugh of Caracalla. "Let your daughter decide for herself, General."

The atmosphere shifted to an unspoken intensity. You could sense your father's worries and given all what you've heard from the colosseum, you didn't really think of it as something worth to witness. Seeing people die in such a terrible way only for the pleasures of the masses seemed like a farce. Acacius always called it the most needless form of brutality amongst humans, he despised this himself and therefore avoided going into the arena whenever he could. But you also read the eyes of Geta and his brother, who waited for your answer and would not accept a simple 'No'.

"It would be an honour," you answered, and Geta leaned forward a bit, which made your father's jaw clench in anger. Not because of your answer, he was aware that a choice was not existing, when facing an Emperor, but because the way the twins looked at you as if you were a price they could simply claim. But you were a smart girl and definitely not naive, so he fully relied on that.

"So this is a 'Yes'?", Geta asked again and you looked him straight in the eyes, not backing off. "Yes."

"Excellent!", Caracalla shouted and clapped into his hands. "We'll have a lot of fun tomorrow."

The corners of Geta's mouth twitched to a smile and he nodded in response to his twin. Yet he hid his displeasure of having him as a rival in this little game. It was clear that Caracalla had layed his eyes on you too, but he won't allow him to simply take and fuck you like you were a common whore. Maybe you could've potential for something more and strenghten his position as well as his popularity. Because both Emperors were still unmarried - and it was expected from them that this would change sooner or later.

#gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #emperor caracalla #emperor geta #general acacius #geta x reader #caracalla x reader #joseph quinn #pedro pascal #fred hechinger #gladiator ii imagine #kabuki writes

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jjkssin · 1 month ago

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Embrace of Ruins. Jk

Pairing: King jk x widowed (fem) reader.

Character count: 14,962

Genre: Dark Romance | Historical

Tropes: Dominant , controlling jk, forced proximity, obsession , captive romance, war , fragile female lead, mentions of death, mature.

Summary: When ruthless warlord Jeon conquers a rival kingdom, he slaughters its royal bloodline including the cruel king who once claimed Y/N as his wife. But instead of casting her aside, Jeon takes her as his own, stripping her of her former title and making her his possession. She was never meant to be a queen. She was meant to be his.

The air reeked of blood and burning wood, the sky dark with the smoke of a fallen kingdom. Screams had long since faded into silence, leaving only the sound of victorious banners fluttering in the wind.

The Kingdom had fallen.

This was not just another kingdom swallowed by his empire. No this war had been waged with a purpose far beyond power. It was her. The ghost of a woman he had never seen, only heard of in whispers the famed beauty of the lost kingdom, Y/N.

People had spoken of her ethereal grace, of her skin that glowed like moonlight and eyes that held galaxies within them.

At the heart of the carnage, Jeon sat upon the grand throne, one boot resting on the fallen king’s lifeless body and the golden crown of the fallen king crushed beneath his boot.

The scent of blood and smoke lingered in the air mingling with the screams of the last remnants of a dying dynasty.

His victory was absolute. The kingdom now belonged to him. And so did everything within it.

Including her.

She was a vision in a silk dress , the color of winter’s first snow.

___

Amidst it all, She ran.

Bare feet against the cold marble, her silken gown now soaked in the lifeblood of her people, dragging behind her like a ghostly shroud. The palace corridors, once familiar, had become a maze of death and ruin. She barely noticed the bodies, the shattered glass of once grand chandeliers. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat, the rasp of her breath and the distant clamor of armored boots in pursuit.

She had seen him.

He had stood amidst the wreckage of her throne room, a wolf in the den of slaughter, dark eyes scanning the ruin with calculated indifference.

He had looked at her like a claim already made, and that had been enough to send her fleeing.

She stumbled through the grand doors of the palace and into the frozen night, her thin gown no barrier against the relentless cold. Snowflakes kissed her tear streaked cheeks as she pushed forward, her breath rising in desperate clouds.

The forest loomed ahead a tangle of frostbitten branches and endless dark. She plunged into its depths without hesitation. The crown she had once been forced to wear had been torn from her head, her hair cascading around her face in disheveled waves.

The trees whispered around her, the wind howling like a grieving specter. Her feet tore through the frozen undergrowth, bare skin sliced by unseen thorns but she did not stop.

She could not stop.

She knew they would come. She had seen it in his eyes obsidian pools that swallowed light, a gaze that spoke of possession and a hunger far more dangerous than the battlefield he had razed.

She tried to be silent, tried to disappear into the vast expanse of snow and night but her body betrayed her. A misstep her foot catching on a hidden root sent her tumbling forward. She crashed into the snow, pain exploding through her limbs as she gasped, clawing at the frost with trembling hands.

She scrambled to rise, but it was too late.

A shadow loomed over her, swallowing the pale light of the moon.

Him.

The air shifted with his presence, heavy with something she could not name. His breath came steady, controlled, unaffected by the chase. He had known this would happen. He had allowed her to run, entertained her futile escape before closing in like a beast playing with his prey.

"You thought you could run from me?" His voice was velvet over steel, dark and slow, as though savoring the moment.

Y/N trembled, her body wracked with exhaustion, yet she found herself inching back, her palms sinking into the snow.

Jeon crouched before her, gloved fingers tilting her chin upwards, forcing her to meet the gaze she had so desperately tried to avoid.

"You should know better" he murmured, his lips brushing against hers. "I do not chase what I do not intend to catch."

The rumors had not done her justice.

She was exquisite, a masterpiece carved by the gods themselves.

Even in her disarray, she was ethereal.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she did not fight. She had nothing left to fight for.

A cruel smile tugged at Jeon's lips as he leaned forward.

"Your king is dead. Your kingdom is mine"

With that his hand moved lower, gliding down the torn fabric of her gown, feeling the tremor beneath his touch. And then without warning, he slid his arms beneath her one under her knees, the other wrapping around her back.

She gasped as the ground disappeared beneath her, the sudden closeness of him knocking the breath from her lungs. Her hands instinctively grasped at his shoulders, clutching at the thick fabric of his cloak as he lifted her effortlessly.

The world around them blurred as Jeon carried her back, his strides slow, deliberate, savoring every second of the act.

His men stood waiting at the forest’s edge, their eyes carefully averted, knowing better than to interrupt.

Jeon was the master of every inch of this kingdom now but she was a different kind of victory.

A victory he would not let slip from his grasp

Jeon had wanted her from the moment he had laid eyes on her. A forbidden desire had taken root deep within him when he had first seen her beside the now dead king , a man unworthy of even touching the hem of her gown, much less claiming her as his.

The journey from the snow laden forest to Jeon’s kingdom was a silent one. His kingdom loomed ahead like a fortress of stone, walls that could never be breached.

When they finally crossed the threshold into the warmth of Jeon’s kingdom, the heavy iron gates closed behind them with a resounding clang, sealing off the outside world.

He called for his servants, his voice firm and authoritative.

“Take her to my chambers,” he ordered coldly. “Strip her of the dead king’s colors. She wears only what I give her now.”

The scent of lavender and jasmine filled the air as the maids scrubbed away the blood, the dirt, the remnants of her former life.

But no matter how many times they washed her, no matter how many hands gently soothed her skin, there were things that could not be erased.

The marks on her body. The scars both physical and emotional that she had borne under her husband’s cruel reign.

Afterward, Y/N was dressed in a delicate white nightgown. It clung to her thin frame, the silk soft against her skin, but it did nothing to ease the chill in her bones. The gown was far more modest than the opulent dress she had worn in her past life but it was far too intimate for her current circumstances.

As the maids finished their task, they led her down the stone corridors of Jeon’s castle to his private chambers.

The room was enormous, warm with a roaring fire. She stood silently before him, her eyes cast downward. Jeon stood by the bed his posture strong, unyielding and as always, a palpable aura of control surrounded him.

He moved toward her without a word, his presence overwhelming.

His eyes narrowed as they settled on her shoulders and arms.

His fingers hovered near her shoulder, brushing against the faded remnants of bruises.

“That pathetic excuse for a king,” he spat, his voice dripping with disgust.

“A man unworthy of a throne, unworthy of a crown and certainly unworthy of you."

Jeon growled, his hands flexing as if he longed to tear apart a man who was already rotting in the ground.

"What did you call him?" he mused, tilting his head. "My king? My husband?" He laughed, dark and mocking.

"No king allows his castle to fall while he cowers in his chambers. And a husband…" He paused, his fingers ghosting over the fading bruises on her wrist.

His expression turned cold. "A husband does not treat his wife like a common whore to be used and discarded. I barely had to lift my blade before he was groveling at my feet, begging for his life like a spineless dog"

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, the image flashing in her mind. She had not loved the king, but his death had been brutal. The sound of steel slicing through flesh, the gurgled choking as he bled out it haunted her.

Jeon exhaled, stepping back slightly.

"I should make you my whore," he mused. "A slave to warm my bed, nothing more. It would be fitting for the widow of such a disgraceful man."

Her stomach twisted in fear.

"But no," he murmured, as if reconsidering. "Though your husband was a disgrace, you are now mine"

His gaze darkened, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

"Did he ever touch you properly?" Jeon murmured, his voice turning low, almost teasing.

Jeon chuckled darkly. “Of course not. I imagine he was just as pathetic in bed as he was on the battlefield. Weak. Incompetent.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her ear. “Did he even know what to do with you? Or did he fumble like the fool he was?”

Y/N’s breath stuttered. The air in the room felt heavy, suffocating. She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to think about it.

Jeon chuckled at her silence.

“You will no longer be a widow,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather.

“You will be my wife. You wil bear my mark and sleep in my bed and by the time I am done with you, you will forget you ever belonged to anyone else.” His voice low in command.

Y/N's breath caught in her throat. "W-what?

Jeon smirked, amused by her reaction. "You are still royalty, no matter how pathetic your bloodline is. And I do not waste what has value." He reached for her again, his fingers brushing over the fabric of her underdress.

Before she could protest, Jeon grasped the thin strap of her underdress and pulled, the silk slipping from her shoulder with ease.

Y/N gasped, instinctively clutching the fabric to her chest.

"Still shy?" His fingers trailed down her arm, his touch deceptively soft.

"Your husband must have taken his pleasures without care. Rushed. Unskilled."

His gaze flickered over her, unreadable.

"A shame. I prefer to savor what is mine."

Y/N trembled as he grasped the other strap, slowly sliding it down her shoulder. The silk pooled at her collarbones, threatening to slip further.

Y/N’s throat tightened, a tear slipping down her cheek . Heat rushed to her cheeks, shame and something unfamiliar twisting inside her.

"You were wasted on him," Jeon murmured. "But you will not be wasted on me."

His hand gripped her waist, pulling her closer. She gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"You will be my wife before the sun rises. And no kingdom, no force in this world will take you from me."

Jeon murmured, his voice laced with something deeper, something unshakable.

“I could touch you in ways that pathetic fool never could. I could make you beg, make you forget he ever existed.”

His hands slid lower, gripping her thighs holding her still.

“You will know what it means to be wanted,” he promised. “To be craved.”

She closed her eyes as his lips descended, as his touch deepened, as the last of her old self was stripped away like the silks of her gown.

She had been the queen of a doomed king. A nameless ghost in a gilded cage. A woman forgotten by the very man who had sworn to own her.

But Jeon was not a man who forgot what belonged to him.

He pressed her back against the silk draped bed, his gaze burning into hers as he loomed above her, all shadow and heat, all power and intent.

"You will curse me," he whispered, his lips hovering just above hers, "and you will crave me all the same."

His mouth claimed her then, slow and consuming, as if proving his words true. As if sealing the vow between them with something far more binding than marriage, more damning than devotion.

She let herself sink, let herself be undone, because there was no kingdom left to fight for, no crown left to bear, only this. Only him.

And as his hands traced a path of ruin and worship alike, she realized something with aching finality.

She was not lost. She had simply been claimed.

The first light of dawn crept through the towering windows, painting the stone walls in hues of muted gold. The warmth of the sun did nothing to chase away the lingering shadows of the night before.

She stirred, her body aching not from pain, but from the imprint of him.

Her body heavy with exhaustion.

Her skin burned where his touch had claimed her, the memory of his hands and his voice still lingering in her senses like a lingering scent, impossible to escape.

She blinked against the morning light, the thick, heavy silence of the room pressing down upon her. The bed was empty beside her, the space where Jeon had been only a ghost of heat.

A low voice broke the silence. “Did you sleep well?”

Her body tensed, her muscles still trembling from the storm of the night before. Jeon stood near the tall windows, his silhouette framed by the light, his presence as imposing as ever.

He looked unchanged powerful, untouchable.

"Get up," he commanded, already reaching for the black silk robe draped over a nearby chair. "We have matters to attend to."

She hesitated, sitting up slowly, the silk sheets slipping from her bare shoulders.

"What matters?"

Jeon turned, fastening the robe around his waist, "Our wedding."

Her breath caught.

Jeon chuckled, "What? Did you think I would leave you as a nameless concubine?" He stepped closer, gripping her chin between his fingers.

She searched his gaze, trying to understand, to make sense of this shift. "Then... I will be the queen of this place?"

"You wish to rule?" His voice was measured but there was an edge of something deeper beneath it.

Y/N swallowed hard. "No. But.." She hesitated, unsure how to put the ache in her.

She trailed off, shame burning in her throat.

Jeon studied her, a thoughtful hum vibrating from his chest. "You are not meant for war," he said at last.

"Not meant for bloodshed and for dirty politics." He tilted his head, his gaze heavy.

"You are meant for me."

His words did not soothe her as he likely intended them to.

She had listened. She had obeyed. She had surrendered in body.

But she would not surrender this.

"I will not marry you," she said, her voice quiet, yet firm.

"I will not be your wife unless I am your queen," Y/N said, her voice trembling but unwavering. "You took my kingdom, my home, my name. If I am to be bound to you, I will not be just another possession. "

His fingers curled slightly, then relaxed. Slowly, he turned, dark eyes locking onto her with something unreadable something slow-burning, something dangerous.

"You will," he said simply.

She lifted her chin, a flicker of defiance breaking through her usual obedience.

"Not if I am not to be queen."

A slow, mirthless smirk tugged at his lips. "Is that what you want?" He stepped toward her, his presence suffocating, the air in the room shifting like a storm about to break.

"A throne?"

She clenched her fists in her lap, her pulse thrumming against her throat. "I was a queen before you tore my kingdom apart." Her voice did not waver, though her breath did. "I will not be cast aside as some nameless wife while you rule alone."

Jeon studied her in silence, the weight of his gaze heavy, assessing. Then, without warning, he moved.

Faster than she could react, his fingers closed around her throat not choking, not hurting, just a firm grip, possessive, commanding. He tilted her head back, forcing her to look up at him, his thumb pressing lightly against the delicate pulse at her neck.

"You speak as though you have a choice."

She gasped softly but she did not break away.

Jeon’s other hand traced the curve of her jaw, his touch deceptively gentle, a contrast to the quiet fury simmering in his dark eyes.

"You were not a queen," he murmured. "You were a prisoner in a cage, a wife to a spineless rat who did not deserve you. You wore a crown but it was never truly yours. "

His fingers tightened slightly around her throat, enough to remind her of his power, enough to send a shiver down her spine.

"And now, you demand a throne beside me?" He leaned closer, his breath fanning against her lips. "No. You will kneel before it instead."

Her heart pounded, her breath shallow, but she still managed to whisper "If I mean nothing more than a body in your bed, end this now."

The air shifted violently.

Jeon’s grip tightened for the briefest moment just long enough to make her dizzy before he released her completely. He exhaled sharply, stepping back, his jaw taut, his gaze dark with something volatile.

For the first time since conquering this land, since taking her, someone had denied him.

And he did not tolerate defiance.

"Very well," he murmured, his voice eerily calm. "If you will not walk to the altar, you will be dragged to it."

Today, she would become his wife.

Not his queen.

He would marry her, not as a political arrangement, not as a necessity but because he wanted her.

He was a conqueror. He alone was enough to rule his land.

The silk gown clung to Y/N’s trembling frame, the deep red fabric as heavy as the chains she could not see but could feel in every step she was forced to take. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails pressing into her palms as the realization settled deeper into her bones. The room was deathly silent, the air thick with the scent of incense and candle wax.

Jeon stood before her, a predator draped in black and gold, exuding dominance with every breath. His patience was a thinly veiled thing, stretching dangerously as he watched her remain still, unmoving, unyielding.

"Come forward," he commanded, his voice steady but edged with warning.

Her feet refused to move.

In a single, fluid motion, he closed the distance between them, his fingers wrapping around her wrist in an iron grip. He yanked her forward, forcing her to stumble against his chest.

“You speak of power as if it is something I would give you,” he murmured, his voice deceptively soft, venom laced beneath the words. “You forget your place.”

She gasped, struggling against his grip, but he was relentless, his fingers digging into her wrist as he pulled her through the vast hall.

"You will stand beside me, Y/N," he said, voice cold, final. "But a throne is not something I share."

He did not stop until they stood before the officiant.

A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Jeon studied her for a moment before sighing, almost in disappointment.

“I was willing to grant you this wedding without force. To let you walk beside me, instead of dragging you like a conquered spoil of war.”

“I did not win this kingdom with patience. I won it with blood.”

Then, louder, he addressed the officiant. “Begin.”

The ceremony was as empty as her heart. No grand feast, no celebration. Just her, him and the officiant bearing witness to the binding of a vow. She repeated them in a hollow whisper, her voice barely her own.

But as he pulled her in for the final kiss, sealing her beneath his name, his rule.

He tasted the salt of her tears on her lips.

For a moment, just a moment, he felt the bitter sting of something less than victory.

Because despite binding her to him, despite claiming her, despite stealing her body, her name. He felt the weight of something he could not conquer.

He had burned kingdoms for her. Killed kings for her. Stolen her from the ashes of a life she never wanted. Yet her sadness was a wound he could not stitch.

Jeon had indeed won the war.

But he had not won her.

(End)🤍

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bold-princess-baela · 1 month ago

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✧══════•❁❀❁•══════✧

Baela was starting to feel slightly by the time her wedding feast was dying out. She couldn’t deny it was one of the most important days in her life, as well as one of the happiest. She had danced three songs with Jace, one with her grandfather, and many of songs with a long line of eager young lords and knights who had waited all night for their turn to dance with the newlywed Crown Princess. It was certainly charming, in its own way, but she couldn’t help but wish the feast would finally come to an end.

It caught her by surprise when her father had asked her to dance a song with her and, though she really had wanted to dance at least a song with him before the feast came to an end, she couldn’t help but feel slightly puzzled when he had come to her. He really wasn’t that fond of feasts and parties and very much preferred to stay in the background, when he would probably go unnoticed. She couldn’t blame him for it, feasts were extremely taxing, and she often found herself preferring to retire early most times, though it was an extremely rare sight.

So, she danced with her father. Just one song, but it was enough to make her smile and feel utter happiness. She cherished those moments with her father dearly. When she was little, he used to read her stories before she had to go to sleep at night. She still remembered that time she grew infatuated with having a crossbow and, even when her Muña Rhaenyra had arranged for her to have archery lessons, her father was the first in encouraging her dream and got her one. She still had it, to this day.

When he mentioned her mother would be proud of her, Baela’s frame saddened slightly. Somedays, she felt like she was losing her mother, her voice, her face, her warmth, everything. It filled her with dread, but she couldn’t help but feel it most days, a lingering fear that stuck around and never left ever since her mother’s passing all those years ago. It was still there, but she had grown around it.

“I know she would…”, she managed to say, her voice tinged with sincerity and warmth.

Her father made her twirl, and she let out a giggle whilst he did so. It reminded her of all those times she showed him her new dance moves for the feasts and balls that were organized and he laughed telling her she had the grace of a goose, in a playful way, of course, to then twirl her around in the air.

But, alas, her childhood was long gone, and the responsible young lady that was the Crown Princess of Westeros had taken the place of that cheerful little girl that used to play with Jace and her twin. Such was the process of growing up, but the sweetness of childhood remained deep within her.

Daemon needn’t tell her he loved Jace like a son, she knew he did. Yet, she understood his predicament. He was concerned for her safety, for her well-being, and she couldn’t blame him. Every father, to some extent, was concerned about his daughters. And he was right, though, happiness was not a warranty of safety or stability, she knew. But Jace wasn’t like that. He was kind, and sweet, and gallant, and he had always treated her with respect and love.

“Jace will be a good husband to me”, she said with a small smile. “You worry too much, Kepa, it’ll wrinkle you before time”.

She paused for a second.

“But I know you’ll always be there for me”, she admitted. “You’ve always been there for me, as a child and now. And I know you can’t help but worry, but you know Jace. He’s a good man”.

She wasn’t a girl anymore, and Jace was no longer a boy. They were a man and a woman now, husband and wife. She loved him, and he love her, there was no doubt of it. And, even though she would’ve liked to return to the days of her childhood, she wouldn’t trade her present for anything. Not many girls and women were lucky enough to marry those they loved. She was hoping to change that, one day.

Daemon kissed his daughter’s forehead when the music subsided, a protective and tender kiss that lingered for a second longer than necessary. Baela knew her father was holding back his tears. He might seem scary to the Court, but, deep down, she knows he’s just as soft as a pillow. At least, he is with her and Rhaena. She kissed his cheek in return and went to look for Jace, hoping that he wasn’t sulking much. After all, it wasn’t becoming of a prince to pout.

༄ NO MATTER THE STORM ྐ❤︎

(Starter with @bold-princess-baela)

The feast had begun to wane, the clinking of goblets and the hum of conversation fading into the subdued murmur of after-dinner repose. The air still clung to the rich aromas of roasted meats and spiced honey, but the revelry, sustained more by duty than delight, had lost its earlier sheen.

Baela had danced with Jace, with her grandsire, Lord Corlys, and with a dozen eager young knights, their honor gleaming like newly forged blades. She had smiled where smiles were expected, laughed when laughter was called for, and accepted congratulations with practiced grace. Yet, with each passing moment, the weight of her role—beloved princess, radiant bride, the jewel of the evening—settled more heavily upon her shoulders.

She wanted to breathe. Daemon saw it from across the ballroom.

The crowd parted for him instinctively, as it always did. Even here, even now, he was a force that demanded space, a blade slicing through silk. His hand extended toward Baela, the silent invitation unmistakable. “Dance with me, sweet girl.”

It was a rare sight, Daemon stepping into the rhythm of the celebration. Ordinarily, he stood apart, a sardonic observer of the dancers, content to let others bear the burden of merrymaking. But this was Baela’s wedding, and though she had grown into a woman in her own right, there was something in the sound of her laughter, in the way the light caught in her eyes, that tugged at him.

Once, he had been her protector, when she was a child who clung to him, when the world seemed simpler, more certain. Now, she stood at the threshold of her own life—married, bound to another, yet forever tied to the legacy of her family.

Daemon’s gaze softened, just for a moment. “Your mother would have been proud,” he murmured, the words more for himself than for her. His hand settled lightly on her waist, drawing her close, his presence enveloping her like a familiar cloak. “As proud as I am. As proud as Nyra is.”

The dance began, slow and deliberate, mirroring the cadence of the music. But to Daemon, it was more than mere movement. It was a quiet declaration, a reaffirmation of what had always been true: his bond with her, the tether that could never be fully severed.

Baela, so like Laena in her grace, had always been the steady one, the one who would bear the weight of the world without faltering. But Daemon knew better than anyone that the world had a way of testing even the strongest. It would break her in ways he could not shield her from. No matter how high she soared, how far she flew, there would come a time when the weight of her name, the weight of her love, would feel like an anchor.

“I know you love Jace. I love him, too.” He exhaled sharply, not quite a sigh, not quite a chuckle. “But love is only part of what makes a marriage, darling. I know what it is to be bound to something larger than yourself.”

Baela opened her mouth to protest, as he had known she would, but before she could, Daemon twirled her, his movements fluid and precise. She was too much like him, the firecracker.

“Don’t mistake happiness for safety,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “If ever the time comes when it falters, when the weight of all this feels too much, remember: no matter what, you’ll always have a safe harbor in me.”

The rogue prince, the Queen’s Justice, the man of legend and whispers, was not one given to sentiment. He wielded his affection like a sword—sharp, deliberate, meant to protect. Baela squeezed his hand in reply, the silent understanding passing between them like a vow. I know.

The dance slowed, then ended, but Daemon did not release her immediately. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek for a brief, tender moment.

“Good,” he whispered, pressing a familiar kiss to her forehead, the gesture imbued with both love and finality. The Rogue Prince couldn’t afford crying at his daughter’s wedding.

“Now, you should find your husband before he starts brooding. It runs in his blood.”

#a song of golden fire and black blood #Crown Princess Baela Targaryen #King Consort Daemon Targaryen #~~I Had The Best Day With You Today: Family #~~And I Don't Know How It Gets Better Than This: Threads

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lale-txt · 11 months ago

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❥ falling asleep besides you for the first time ↳ w/ Toji, Naoya, Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Higuruma, Sukuna & Choso

a/n: this came over me like a fever dream during another episode of insomnia. some of those drabbles are a little sad, i apologize. it's what you get with all those tragics characters. reader is gn!

word count: 1.4k

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 doesn’t even want to fall asleep; it’s not like he had a good night of rest ever since… well. He tells himself he’s just gonna close his eyes for a bit, stretched out on the couch next to you, his weary head in your lap. There’s still blood on his hands and on the side of his face, he’s gonna get cleaned up in just a bit, he mumbles, but the words come out heavy and drowsy, and your fingers are tangled in his hair now and your voice is this sweet whisper, baby, I love you anyway, and Toji–Toji just gives in. For the first time, sleep doesn’t come over him as a heavy veil, as if he’s drowning; for once it’s something peaceful, something quiet. Something he welcomes. Next to you, you with your fingers woven between his, you who loves even the broken parts of him, you with quiet love and reassurance that you’re still gonna be there when he wakes up again.

𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐀 hasn’t had another warm body next to him under the covers in a long time. He doesn’t realize how much he missed this until your body melts into his, one leg swung over his thighs, your arm sneaking around his waist and your head finding its spot in the crook of his neck. His cheek falls softly against your forehead when he pulls you closer, breathing in the scent of you that’s the closest to home he ever felt, pressing kisses on the crown of your head. It’s not just lust–oh, he wants to devour you, but there’ll be time in the morning–it’s the absence of loneliness and unspoken confessions. Higuruma can tell when he’s falling in love and in this moment he’s wading deep, deeper through his feelings for you, biting his tongue so they don’t spill out all over the pillows and into you. You already know anyway, and when the sun comes up again, you’ll lick them from the cave of his mouth like a prayer.

𝐍𝐀𝐎𝐘𝐀 can’t fall asleep, not on his wedding night, not when your mouth is whispering all those words he’s demanding from you. His cheek is pressed against your palm while he’s pinning you down, almost nuzzling into it like a touch-starved stray, golden eyes lingering on you. Say you’re mine. Again. Say who you belong to. Mine. Mine. All mine. He isn’t aware how pleading he sounds, how raspy his voice gets the more you obey, every time you sigh his name so softly into his open mouth. Naoya doesn’t care if you’re lying, as long as you wear your wedding band on your ring finger for everyone to see. You’re his to keep now, and if he could have it his way, you would be forbidden to leave this bed forever; he wasn’t aware just how much he had craved the presence of another being by his side at night, one who doesn’t leave once he had his share of pleasure. No, you’re his now, and before sleep eventually finds him, he’ll make sure to sink his teeth into you till his name rolls off your tongue like a lullaby.

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 doesn’t let go of your hand; he’s afraid it’ll go cold if he allows himself to let his guard down even for one second. This isn’t how he had imagined spending the first night with you. Not under the fluorescent lights of the infirmary, not with your body wrapped in gauze and machinery monitoring your heart rate. It dawns on him as he’s sitting on your bedside–how attached he’s gotten to you, then: How he had almost lost you today. He squeezes your hand tighter and sighs, his weary head sinking down on the mattress. Your fingers twitch and find their way into his hair, combing through it weakly. As if they say, it’s okay, I’m alive, you’re not to blame. So please don’t leave and take all your love with you. And Nanami takes your hand once again and kisses your fingertips, pressing promises against your skin, promises of a future where you and him can just be, one where he can finally put all of these feelings down, down in your open and gentle palms for you to keep.

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎 is clingy throughout the day, but even more so at night. He doesn’t like the eerie quiet that settles in once the sun has sunken, not when he can listen to your steady breathing next to him instead, so naturally he feels a rush of joy when you push your futons together for the first time. His heart is beating way too fast to find sleep now, his eyes taking in everything about your sleeping figure, from the way your chest rises and falls to how your nose scrunches slightly for a moment. Choso wants to know what you’re dreaming about, what colors your dreams are, and if he’s ever in them. He wants to engrave himself into your being, wants to keep you wrapped in his arms forever. His kisses feel light against your skin, careful not to wake you but enough to fill his desire. Choso loves you with his entire being, and sleep is merely an obstacle, cutting away from your time spent together–though he must admit, his eyes flutter shut quite easily in your embrace.

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 realizes that his idea of ‘sweets in bed’ now has a double meaning, seeing you sprawled out in his sheets with candy wrapping paper clenched between your fist and more of it lying on the floor. Cute, he can’t help but murmur as he lays down next to you on his side, mustering you with an amused smile on his lips. When he told you to knock yourself out on the sweet souvenirs he brought, he didn’t assume you would take it that literally. His thumb brushes over the corner of your mouth, collecting some of the powdered sugar that’s still stuck there, and Gojo could swear he never tasted anything sweeter than this when he brings it to his tongue. He gently replaces the trash you hold onto in your sleep with his fingers, woven between yours, and pulls you close to him, his tall figure embracing you; and for the first time in a long time, Gojo feels a wave of calm wash over him, allowing him to exhale and sink into a dream almost as sweet as you.

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 doesn’t know why he keeps entertaining your antics. Sharing a bed, sleeping together side by side? How utterly foolish, but as to be expected from a mere human; they’ve always been like this, seeking comfort and warmth when they’re the most vulnerable. Of course a predator like Sukuna wouldn’t have to worry about sleeping safe and sound. Yet still; he can’t help but let his gaze linger on you, wrapped up in his embrace, four arms holding you in place on top of him. Everyone else would freeze in fear, but you? You snore quietly without a single worry in the world, knowing you have a king watching over you in your slumber. Sukuna huffs but still brushes a strand of hair out of your face. Maybe he’ll tell Uraume that you’re off the menu, for now. As long as you know your place–in his embrace, wearing his marks with pride, providing a sense of comfort Sukuna had never known before. Fool, he mutters and rests his chin on top of your head, not sure if those words were for him or you.

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 doesn’t question when you knock on the door of his dorm room, asking for shelter after a particular nightmare. He hasn’t found any sleep yet anyway. When he lifts up the covers for you to slip under, he’s surprised that you don’t even hesitate to do so, wrapping yourself around his body as if it was molded for that only. Geto can tell that you’re trying not to tremble, but the nightmare still lingers. He knows it all too well. His fingers brush through your hair when he pulls you closer to his chest, as if this could prevent you from falling apart–though deep down he’s aware that he might be the one on the verge of breaking. You know it too, don’t you? Geto is tired, oh, so tired. The kind of tired sleep can’t fix, and he can’t help but wonder if this would also be the last time that you’re in his arms, clinging onto someone who is long gone; a version of him that he shed together with his dream of letting himself love you.

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ataleofcrowns · 3 months ago

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New Chapter Released!

Hello again! Hope your winter has gone well ❄️

With the public release of this new chapter we’re continuing with the Crown's development as a monarch, while romance and courtly intrigue build further:

Friendship scenes to deepen your Crown's relationship with the other characters outside of your main love interest

Diverging paths depending on whether you chose to meet the peri trader in disguise, or arrange a meeting with Kham instead

Within those diverging paths, you will make further decisions on how to handle the peri trader and/or Kham, with big consequences for future chapters

Romance specific scenes, of course, with your chosen love interest!

A and R both have very different scenes for their high romance and low romance routes! D and X romancers are in the clear... for now

If you find any coding errors, typos, pronoun mistakes and such while playing, you can report those through this form! Thank you for all your patience and support, I hope you enjoy the new chapter with the nearing end of 2024 💖

For those that are unfamiliar with the game

A Tale of Crowns is a high fantasy romance story, told in the form of a text-based interactive novel with choice mechanics. The setting is inspired by Kurdish culture as well as other historical settings in the Middle East such as Ancient Persia, but it also draws heavily from other cultures and countries in the region.

Your character is native to Arsur, a vast empire overseen by a single ruler known as the Crown. Unlike traditional monarchies, however, the title is not inherited through blood. Whenever the Crown dies, their famed golden eyes pass on to the one chosen by the Spirits of this world to be the new Crown. In this story, your MC takes on that role.

There are four different love interests to choose from, whose genders will be customized to suit the preferences of your Crown. You can find more info about them on the blog page!

Also note that this current version of the game is safe for those 16 years and older.

Like the premise so far? Play it and give it a try! The entire game is free!

If you enjoyed the game, please reblog! Share it with your friends! Recognition and reader interaction is just about the only thing I get in return for creating it ❤️

#a tale of crowns #interactive fiction #interactive story #interactive game #interactive novel #if game #if wip

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fushitoru · 6 months ago

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chapter 5: the fall a bridgerton!au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary ⸺ dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, duke gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

warnings ⸺ nsfw, enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, SUGGESTIVE, eventual smut, jealousy, misogyny, description of injury, concussion, blood, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly

chapter summary ⸺ gojo comes up with a strange yet tempting arrangement, but the accident that follows it may cause epiphanies for the both of you. (11.8k)

a/n thank you to pookies @/sinn-clair and @/yasu-1234 (they are awesome and here are her works) for beta reading my work :3 ahaha pls forgive me for yapping so much in this chapter. i’ll meet you after the chapter is over for EVEN more yap

prev. the game | next. the house party

general masterlist | series masterlist

Dearest Gentle Readers,

It is well known across town that a certain gentleman, long absent from London’s bustling thoroughfares, has not graced its streets for a year. One cannot help but ponder how Mister Sukuna Itadori’s travels have fared, as he embarked on what we all know to be that of most enlightening of ventures–a Grand Tour of Europe. Those familiar with such journeys will know that for most young men of the ton, a tour of Europe offers more than just art and culture—it is a playground of indulgence and mischief. Will Mr. Itadori reappear as the brash and impetuous young man we once knew, or has Europe’s charms softened and tempered his spirit into one more befitting of a mature gentleman? This Author has her doubts, but one can never say for sure until a man reenters Society.

Yet, Gentle Reader, while Mr. Itadori’s return may provide fodder for speculation, there is another gentleman who has quietly yet decisively captured the attentions of the ton this season: His Grace, the Duke Nanami. Not only does His Grace possess a title and considerable inheritance—both of which set many hearts aflutter—but he is also known to be a most genteel and dignified young man, whose decorum and good sense have only enhanced his reputation. Many an eager mama and her hopeful daughter now look to him as the ideal suitor. His Grace, however, has been nothing if not a model of decorum—distant, polite, and entirely too elusive.

But therein, dear reader, lies the dilemma. The Duke’s refusal to engage in more than the most cursory conversation with any lady has led many to wonder: has he already chosen his future Duchess in secret, or is he simply too discerning for any of the eager young women who have presented themselves thus far? One thing is certain, though: the house party in the countryside promises to be most entertaining, especially if the Duke chooses that moment to make his intentions clear. One can only hope the object of his affections is prepared to be swept off her feet—or at the very least, that her mama is! Only time will tell, but one thing this Author assures—his next move shall be watched with the greatest anticipation.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

Dawn breaks out, bathing the land in a rich, golden hue. It seemed as if the very air of the Gojo estate had significantly altered your sense of slumber; before, it would take you fairly long to wake, preferring to stay well rested until Nobara barged in your room, bellowing at you to get ready.

The rhythmic clatter of hooves on the cobblestone path echoed as you guided your mare along the estate’s carefully tended gardens, resplendent in their display of colorful blooms. The thought flashes across your mind—whichever lady of the ton unfortunate enough to inherit the Gojo surname would certainly find herself living an enviable, lavish lifestyle. If nothing else, the manor, with its outstanding grandeur, would offer sufficient distraction from the trials of an insufferable marriage.

Horse-riding had always been of your taste, providing solace when you needed time to ponder upon your thoughts. The fresh morning air was so different from the stifling confines of your room’s walls, soothing your spirit in a way a fitful sleep could not. Inhaling deeply, the cool morning breeze carried with it the scent of flowers and morning dew, offering a reprieve and reminding you of freedom found in quiet moments.

Mornings always feel like new beginnings to you. The sounds of the chirp and the peace of the feeling that you are currently the only person in the world, suspended in time, soothes you. You walk the path laid out in front of you, getting closer and closer to the woods that were next to the Gojo gardens.

The same ones you had the encounter with Gojo in the river.

You tensed slightly, the memory of your embarrassing fall washing over you like a cold splash of water. Gojo had yet to jest at your expense over it was nothing short of miraculous. No doubt, the teasing would come in time, as inevitable as night following day.

The distant sounds of hooves break you out of your thoughts, as you still, turning your head around to see where the sounds originated. When you finally manage to curve your head (almost) fully to the back, in the soft light of the morning, you see a flash of silver hair.

And groan internally.

"I would not have thought the great Lord Gojo so lacking in charm as to resort to covert stalking," you quip, turning in your saddle to face him.

"Stalking?" His familiar, lazy drawl carried across the air as he approached. "Surely you underestimate me, my lady. A mere smile is all it takes to win hearts."

Reluctantly, you wheeled your horse around to face him properly. "Ah, yes. How could I forget? Your captivating smile alone is surely enough to send every lady into a faint, and not at all the rather handsome fortune attached to your name." You eyed him critically—his attire was casual, much like that day in the library: a white shirt carelessly unbuttoned at the collar, black trousers tailored perfectly. There was a hint of weariness in his eyes, though his insufferable smirk remained firmly in place. His hair was fairly polished–in comparison to his clothes–as if he had gotten ready to go somewhere that didn’t require extravagant garments to be worn.

He tilted his head, his gaze moving past you as he urged his horse toward the woods ahead. "Ah, so you find my smile captivating?"

You bristle, realizing his play of making you follow him to continue the conversation and get the last word. “I find your opinion of yourself entirely too high. I never mentioned that I thought you captivating but that of the handsome sum tied to your name.”

“All I heard was handsome.”

You take a deep breath and hold it, your eyes narrowing at the man trotting carefree in front of you. “Are the ladies really so naive that they would fall for just a captivating smile rather than acknowledge your lack of wit?”

Gojo glanced back at you with a raised brow, his grin only widening as he slowed his pace slightly. "Naive, perhaps. Or maybe they’re wise enough to appreciate the finer things in life. Not everyone is so immune to charm.”

You rolled your eyes, clicking your tongue in mild irritation as you spurred your horse forward, coming level with him. “Charm without substance only lasts so long, my lord. I daresay one day you’ll meet someone immune to your tricks.”

He chuckled softly, the sound lazy and unbothered, as though you’d merely entertained him with a light jest. "And yet here you are, still engaging with my so-called ‘lack of substance.’ Could it be, perhaps, that you find me more interesting than you care to admit?”

"I find you no more interesting than a mildly amusing book—one that I can close whenever I please," you shot back, though your eyes flicked over his disheveled appearance. “But you, Lord Gojo, do seem rather underdressed for a morning ride. I hope you’re not planning on inflicting yourself on some unsuspecting lady like this.”

His eyes gleamed with that familiar glint of amusement. "Underdressed? Why, I thought you might prefer me this way—unpretentious and free of the heavy trappings of society." He gave a careless wave toward his shirt. "Besides, I’ve work to do today. I’m making rounds over the dukedom."

You raised an eyebrow. “Work? You?” you echoed, voice laden with playful disbelief.

“Hard to believe, I know. I’m more than just a pretty face, as you’ve so kindly pointed out,” he teased, eyes flicking to you briefly before turning back to the path ahead. “Would you care to join me on my rounds? You might learn something about the ‘substance’ you claim I lack.”

You hesitated, but only briefly. The truth was, the Gojo manor had begun to feel more like a cage with each passing day. The endless routine of polite conversations, tea under the watchful eyes of your mama and Duchess Gojo, and waiting for the upcoming house party with the maids and doormen watching for your every move was beginning to wear on you. The walls of the estate, grand as they were, could only offer so much distraction before they imposed on you. The gardens—beautiful and sprawling—had already been walked, the library somewhat explored. You had gone through the motions of being the perfect guest, yet none of it stirred the thrill of adventure that your heart craved.

Your mind drifted back to London, to a time before all the expectation and decorum had weighed so heavily on your shoulders. A year ago, Sukuna had been your partner in rebellion, the one who shared your disdain for society’s rigid rules. The two of you had stolen mornings together, sneaking out on horseback, galloping through the streets and parks as if the ton’s eyes couldn’t reach you. Sukuna, with his wild streak and brash charm, had always encouraged you to live for the moment, to taste freedom in a way that felt dangerously exhilarating. At night, you and him would enjoy stolen moments on a swing.

There had been no chaperones then, no one to watch your every move or to remind you of what was ‘proper.’ You had been free, in a way you never thought possible—a freedom that felt distant now, almost like a dream.

You studied him for a moment, curiosity beginning to outweigh the slight irritation you felt toward his smug demeanor. What exactly did a duke like Gojo do when he wasn’t parading through society, charming every lady within reach? Despite yourself, you were intrigued by the possibility of seeing him in a different light, away from the polished halls and pretenses.

Here, far from the city’s strict social rules, you felt a flicker of that same wildness returning. There were no watchful eyes in the countryside, no endless stream of whispers and gossip to navigate. The Gojo estate, for all its grandeur, was isolated. Out here, you could indulge in a fleeting taste of freedom once more—especially if it meant escaping the suffocating sense of propriety that came with every room of the mansion.

With Gojo, the stakes were different. He wasn’t Sukuna, who lived on the fringes of the ton with his devil-may-care attitude. No, Gojo occupied the very heart of society’s structure—a duke, a man of immense power and wealth, a figure who could easily sweep up any lady of the ton with a glance. Yet here he was, offering you a glimpse of his world beyond the ballroom, beyond the pretense of polite society.

The thought of accompanying him into the village—unaccompanied, and without the constant pressure of reputation—was thrilling in a way you hadn’t expected. It was as if you were being offered another chance to experience the freedom you once shared with Sukuna. Out here, away from the prying eyes of the ton, you could simply… be. There would be no eyes to judge, no chaperones to pull you away. For a few hours, you could escape the suffocating decorum that bound you so tightly, and just breathe.

And perhaps, just perhaps, there was a part of you curious to see what lay beneath Gojo’s surface. Despite all his teasing and arrogance, there had to be more to the man than his carefully cultivated charm. What did the world of a duke truly entail? What responsibilities lay hidden beneath that confident smirk?

“Well?” Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts, a hint of amusement dancing on the edge of his words. “You could always go back to the estate. But if you join me, you might learn something. Something real.”

You met his gaze, curiosity stirring. How much freedom could you taste before the world pulled you back into its orbit?

“And what, pray tell, does this so-called ‘work’ of yours truly entail, my lord? Are you certain it isn’t merely an excuse for you to idly saunter about?” you asked, feigning disinterest even as your heart began to quicken at the thought of leaving the mansion’s confines.

Gojo shrugged. “Managing a dukedom is more than just attending parties, my lady. There are land disputes, tenant needs, crops to inspect. All terribly boring, I assure you,” he drawled, though his teasing tone did little to hide his satisfaction.

“And yet, here you are, inviting me to partake in such ‘dreadful’ tasks.” You arched an eyebrow, testing the waters of this strange proposal.

He cast you a sidelong glance, that insufferable smirk playing on his lips again. “You seemed in need of something less tedious than idle conversation. Besides, I can’t let you think I’m all charm and no substance.”

You scoffed lightly, but the temptation was undeniable. A morning spent away from the watchful eyes of society, away from the restrictions that had grown more suffocating with each passing day, sounded like exactly what you needed.

And so, you nudged your horse forward. "Very well, my lord. Lead the way."

As Gojo turned his horse toward the village, you followed, anticipation swirling within you. For just a little while, you would forget the rigid expectations that clung to your every move. And who knew? You might learn something about the man who was far more than just a smile—or at least, you hoped so.

As you and Gojo rode along the countryside road, the gentle thrum of horse hooves against the dirt path filled the early morning air. The village lay just beyond the hill, but the tranquil quiet of the ride had settled between you for now. You looked at the open landscape, enjoying the rare opportunity to simply exist outside the bounds of society's expectations. While Gojo glanced at you, his gaze briefly lingering before he forced his eyes forward again.

To Gojo, you are an enigma.

There was something about you that drew him in—something beyond the usual appeal of a pretty face and a sharp tongue. He had been thinking and rethinking your diary entries ever since he had discovered them, going over every word in his mind like an irritating riddle. Of course, he knew better than to admit that he had read them, let alone how much those words had unsettled him.

Your thoughts, penned in those private moments, had been both surprising and dangerously radical. They spoke of dissatisfaction with the very society that had molded both of you. Critiques of the ton, its shallow expectations, and even its treatment of women—thoughts that, if discovered by the wrong person, could ruin you. Lady Whistledown wouldn’t need much to twist those words into a scandal, to paint you as a rebel, a woman too difficult for any suitor to consider. You would be exiled from the marriage market in an instant, no longer the diamond the people adored.

Realistically, he could do it, in fact. That is, ruin your image for the rest of high society. Gojo knew he had power over you. He could destroy you if he wanted to, could slip a few words into the right ears and watch as your pristine image crumbled like delicate glass. A small, vindictive part of him—perhaps the part that still bristled at your quick wit and frequent jabs—almost considered it. With the way you have been snarkily snapping back, making a fool out of him, and in general being not a very agreeable person, he, in fact, should have incentive to do so, as a payback.

Of course, Gojo could always be the bigger person. He should let you go, keep his distance, and find a more agreeable match—someone easier, someone less troublesome. It would be the rational thing to do. He was Lord Gojo, heir to the Duke of Gojo, after all. He didn’t need to deal with a woman who questioned him at every turn, who might even challenge his reputation just by association.

He knew he should stop courting you, stop this dance before it spiraled into something neither of you could control. And he didn’t know what exactly to choose.

He cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence. “You seem deep in thought, my lady. I do hope I’m not boring you already.” His tone was light, though there was an undercurrent of curiosity.

You quirked an eyebrow, as if debating whether to entertain his question. “No more than usual, my lord.”

He grinned at your response, but then his expression softened, just slightly. “And here I thought you might have enjoyed escaping the estate for a bit. Surely the quiet countryside must be a relief after the pressures of town.”

You gave a small nod, but your guardedness remained. “It is a relief, but one must still be careful, even out here. There are no watchful eyes, but gossip has a way of traveling regardless.”

Gojo smirked, leaning slightly in his saddle. “I doubt anyone could catch up to us before we make it back for breakfast.”

He watched you from the corner of his eye, gauging your reaction. The morning wasn’t extremely windy, but his eyes took in your hair, how the wind shifted it so that your nape—and the slopes of your back and body—was uncovered. Your torso rocked as both your horses moved on, and you were fidgeting with the reins of your horse with gloved hands. You were a puzzle he couldn’t yet solve, but for some reason, that only made him more determined to try.

With a measured tone, he added, “Tell me, do you ever tire of it all? The expectations, the constant scrutiny. It must be exhausting.”

He watched you closely, curious how you might respond, wondering if you would offer something more than your usual sharp wit. Even if you didn’t, Gojo was prepared to nudge you, just enough to see what truly lay beneath the surface.

You turned your head slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your neck as you gave him a searching look. Unconsciously, your horses had drifted closer together, and as you moved your hair, revealing your simple, unadorned hairstyle from the morning ride, Gojo caught the intoxicating scent of your shampoo.

Sandalwood.

The notes lingered in the cool morning air, drawing him in. He found himself momentarily captivated, closing his eyes to take in the fragrance. It wasn’t until he regained his composure that he realized you were watching him expectantly, waiting for him to respond.

“My apologies,” Gojo cleared his throat, flashing you a semi-apologetic smile. “You were saying?”

You arched a brow at his absent-mindedness but chose not to press the matter. “As I was saying,” you continued with a subtle edge of humor, “it is a lady’s duty to endure the endless gossip and scrutiny of society. After all, we are part of it, are we not? I am a part of that society—diamond or not.” Then, you snarkily remarked, “Though I imagine you know as much about gossip as I do, my lord.”

There it is. Gojo felt the familiar flare of irritation rise within him as you brought up, yet again, that night on the terrace. How many times would you throw that back in his face? Instead of showing how it bothered him, he slipped into a mocking stance, clutching his chest in an exaggerated display of faux hurt. "You wound me, my lady. Can a gentleman truly not express his true sentiments in private company?"

His smirk faltered slightly, but he pressed on, unwilling to let you have the upper hand. "However, I do know more than you think. I hear things all the time. Not everyone is as... mysterious as they pretend to be."

There was an edge in his voice that hadn’t been there before, and he knew you noticed. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not now.

You narrowed your eyes, your tone sharp. "Is that so? Or are you simply adept at making people feel small, my lord?"

Gojo shrugged, keeping his expression casual, though his jaw tightened. Why did you always know exactly how to get under his skin? "I do not belittle, my lady, but observe. And if you're concerned with my words, rest assured I never speak ill of a lady unless she has thoroughly earned it. After all, gossip, for all its flaws, often carries a kernel of truth."

"I see," you replied, voice clipped. "So you place your trust in whatever the ton whispers, so long as it serves your purposes?"

Gojo met your gaze, his voice lowering with intent. "It is not a matter of convenience, my lady, but discernment. Knowing who is genuine and who is merely playing a part."

He saw the way his words hit you, the way your expression flickered. Good. Let it sink in. You’d been sniping at him for days now, and it was about time you felt a little of the sting you so effortlessly delivered.

"And you, Lord Gojo, are the arbiter of what's 'real'?" Your voice rose, sharp as a blade. "Tell me, then—what’s real about you, besides your title and your incessant need to make others feel beneath you?"

The smirk that usually danced on his lips vanished. He felt something sharp coil in his chest—defensiveness, maybe, or frustration. He wasn’t sure anymore. His tone turned cold, dangerous. "Tread carefully, my lady. You are not as untouchable as you might believe. Perhaps others coddle you, treat you with delicacy because they think you fragile, but I am not of their number."

He saw the way his words cut, deeper than he’d intended, and a part of him regretted it. But another part—the part that was tired of always being one step behind in this game you played—felt a grim satisfaction.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he wasn’t finished. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to an almost dangerous softness. “You think you are the only one who carries burdens? I have duties too—my name, my estate, my people. You may despise me for all you like, but at least I do not pretend that none of it matters."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the weight of the truths neither of you had spoken before. For a moment, you were speechless, and Gojo couldn’t quite read the expression on your face.

There was a vulnerability in your eyes, something real beneath all the snark and bitterness. It was unsettling. He hadn’t expected to feel any sympathy for you, but seeing that flicker of something raw, something that mirrored the exhaustion he himself felt, made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t like.

You finally broke the silence, your voice quieter now. "I never asked for any of this."

Gojo let out a long breath, some of the tension in his body loosening. His voice softened, the sharp edge gone. "Nor did I."

The moment of mutual understanding was fleeting, fragile, and Gojo wasn’t sure if he wanted to dwell on it or forget it entirely. The silence that followed wasn’t quite hostile anymore, but it wasn’t comfortable either.

Straightening in his saddle, Gojo cleared his throat and gestured ahead. "The village lies just ahead. We should proceed before the shops open, unless, of course, you would rather remain here, basking in your righteous discontent."

He smirked, but it felt more like a mask than anything genuine. He needed the banter, the distance it created between you. It was safer than whatever had just passed between you—a moment of weakness he couldn’t afford to dwell on.

You rolled your eyes but gave a small nod, your expression still guarded. "Lead the way, my lord."

Gojo nudged his horse forward, the tension easing just enough for the both of you to fall back into their usual roles. But the memory of that brief, unguarded moment between you lingered in the back of his mind, nagging at him as they rode towards the marketplace.

Soon enough, the dirt road gradually transformed into cobblestones beneath the horses' hooves, the soft clatter of stone replacing the muffled sound of earth. Up ahead, the village began to unfurl itself, a bustling marketplace coming into view, vibrant with the daily hum of activity. Stalls lined the streets, laden with goods—fresh produce, meats, textiles, and trinkets. The air was thick with the mingling scents of fresh bread, roasting chestnuts, and the subtle hint of herbs from the nearby apothecary. Your stomach twisted sharply at the realization that you had yet to break your fast, and the sweet aroma of bread, freshly baked and still warm from the ovens, stirred your hunger even more.

It was a small comfort that you had chosen to appear on Gojo’s rounds in a simple dress. While far from a maid’s garb, it was enough to blend in with the modest attire of the villagers, allowing you to remain somewhat inconspicuous. You imagined what a spectacle it might have been if you had arrived adorned in the usual finery expected of a lady of your status—a diamond strolling through the marketplace like some exotic bird, plumed and out of place. Even if that interpretation wouldn’t be completely wrong.

You stole a glance at Gojo. His attire, though far more refined than that of the villagers, was practical enough for the countryside—a waistcoat and riding cloak that spoke of wealth but not ostentation. He moved with ease through the marketplace, his presence commanding attention without demanding it. Residents and shopkeepers greeted him warmly, others calling out his name with familiarity. It was clear that he was well-known and, more surprisingly, well-liked among the people here.

You, on the other hand, felt like an outsider—acutely aware of every gaze that lingered a moment too long in your direction. Although the villagers were preoccupied with their own business, there was no mistaking the subtle glances thrown your way as you rode alongside Gojo. Perhaps it was the curiosity of seeing a noblewoman in such a humble place, or perhaps it was simply the oddity of your pairing with him.

“Ah, Satoru!” A baker called out from a window in his store, a wide grin on his flour-dusted face. “Come for your usual loaf, I presume?”

Gojo chuckled softly, bringing his horse to a gentle halt. With practiced ease, he dismounted, his movements graceful and assured as he swung his leg over and landed lightly on his heels. The smoothness of the motion caught you off guard—it was almost unsettling how effortlessly he moved, as if every action was calculated yet unforced. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of irritation, knowing full well that you would never manage such a feat with half as much elegance, even with assistance.

He strode toward the baker with the kind of natural ease that spoke of familiarity and comfort, offering the man a warm, familiar smile as they exchanged pleasantries. There was a certain charm in his manner, a fluidity in the way he blended himself into the simple rhythm of village life, so unlike the polished and sometimes disingenuous world of high society. You found yourself watching their conversation, noting how easily he made himself a part of this world—something that unsettled you more than you cared to admit.

You brought your horse to a stop beside his, watching as Gojo clasped the baker’s hand in greeting. “Not today, I’m afraid,” Gojo remarked with a light laugh, his tone amiable, yet restrained, “though the aroma is tempting enough to make one reconsider their resolve.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, though the tempting aroma of freshly baked bread was almost enough to make you forget your irritation. You remained silent, feeling somewhat out of place amid Gojo’s easy banter with the villagers. There was something about the way he interacted with them—so at ease, so familiar—that unsettled you. The way the baker addressed him by his given name, Satoru, only added to your bewilderment, and you couldn’t help but wonder how much of this was genuine and how much was part of the façade he wielded so effortlessly in society.

“And who might this lovely young lady be?” The baker’s voice drew you from your thoughts. Both men were now looking at you, you the center of attention as the baker looked between you and Gojo expectantly.

Gojo had his arm resting casually on the baker’s shoulder, his usual smirk slipping for a brief moment as he scratched at the back of his head—a gesture that seemed oddly boyish for someone of his station. It was so unlike him that you blinked in surprise. “Ah, this is—”

“Satoru!” Before he could finish, a sharp voice rang out. The next moment, Gojo winced as an older woman smacked him on the back of the head, leaving him clutching it in exaggerated pain. “You’ve found yourself a wife and didn’t think to inform me?”

Gojo turned with a dramatic groan. “No, Mrs. Tanaka, she is not my wife. Must you always strike me so?”

The woman—short in stature but brimming with fiery energy—had her arms crossed, looking up at him with a mixture of affection and reprimand. “And what reason would I have not to, given how you leave everyone guessing?”

Her gaze then shifted to you, her stern expression softening instantly as she hurried over. Taking your hands in hers, she smiled brightly. “Ah, so this is the young lady who’s finally tamed our Satoru.”

You looked between Mrs. Tanaka and Gojo, bewildered, searching for any explanation or protest that might spare you from the implication. But Gojo merely shrugged, an amused—though slightly embarrassed—expression on his face.

Before you could respond, Mrs. Tanaka waved off any attempt at explanation, placing a finger to her lips as though she already knew the truth. “Say no more, my dear. A fine match, indeed.” She then turned to her husband, giving him a pointed look. “Dear, didn’t you say you had some business with Lord Satoru today? Why not invite them into the bakery?”

At the mention of business, Gojo’s expression shifted, and it was almost unnerving how quickly his lighthearted, carefree demeanor gave way to a more serious and focused air. He turned to the baker, his brow slightly furrowed. “Mr. Tanaka, is there another issue with the ledgers? I had thought that those troubles had long since ceased.”

The baker scratched his head sheepishly. “Well, my lord, there have been further claims—false ones, no doubt—regarding the ledgers, particularly in reference to the debt I incurred when I purchased the bakery. I did not wish to trouble you, especially as,” he cast a quick glance at you and nudged Gojo with a knowing grin, “you have a fine lady with you today. But your assistance in resolving the matter would be most appreciated, my lord.”

Gojo’s expression darkened slightly, his jaw tightening as the gravity of the situation became apparent. “Of course, Mr. Tanaka. We shall address it at once. Let us discuss the matter inside.”

Mrs. Tanaka, turning to you with a motherly smile, cooed, “Why don’t you come inside as well, my dear? You look positively famished! Let me prepare something for you.”

As the men disappeared into the back of the bakery to attend to their business, Gojo offering you a brief glance as he followed (as well as an exchange with the baker to have your horses carried to a stable in the village), you were left to follow Mrs. Tanaka’s lead. She guided you to a chair with a gentle, yet insistent, manner, ushering you to sit as though you were a guest of the highest importance. Though her attentiveness was kind, you couldn’t help but feel slightly out of place.

Sitting down, you couldn’t shake the thought—why were you being treated with such familiarity? Yes, Mrs. Tanaka assumed you to be Gojo’s wife, but was the lord you knew, so self-assured and pretentious within society, truly capable of leaving such an impression on these villagers? The notion seemed almost laughable.

You concluded that Gojo must have performed some extraordinary deed—something grand yet deceptively simple, like saving their child from rolling down a hill. A gesture that, while not heroic by any noble standard, had been enough to secure the couple’s undying gratitude. Of course, you mused with a bitter edge, only Gojo could manipulate such a mundane act into a permanent place in their hearts. The thought soured your mood further. It was just like him to charm even the most unsuspecting, innocent villagers into adoring him, using that devilish smile and unearned charisma to weave them into his—--

You were jolted out of your spiraling thoughts, your internal conspiracy theories evaporating at the first whiff of fresh bread. The warm, buttery aroma wafted throughout the room as Mrs. Tanaka made her way towards you, carrying a tray of fresh loaves that looked as good as they smelled–moist and buttery. The sight of the golden-brown crusts made your stomach clench painfully in hunger, reminding you that you had yet to break your fast because of your rendezvous with Gojo.

Mrs. Tanaka set the basket down before you, settling herself across the table, leaning back in her chair with a look of comfortable familiarity as her eyes studied you with quiet observation. Sensing your hesitation, she waved a hand, smiling warmly. “Go on, my dear, help yourself. You’ve yet to break your fast, and it’s no good going hungry.”

With a silent nod of gratitude, you took the invitation, though some part of you briefly wondered what your mother would say if she were to catch you eating so eagerly. But knowing she was nowhere near to scold you for indulgence, you wasted no time. The moment the warm, fresh bread touched your lips, you had to suppress the urge to devour it outright. Though you tried to remain composed, you could not help the small, contented sigh that escaped as the heavenly taste spread across your tongue.

Mrs. Tanaka watched you with delight, the sparkle in her eye showing how your evident enjoyment amused her. You chewed as gracefully as possible, closing your eyes in brief bliss, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Once you had swallowed and could speak without impropriety, you offered her a sincere, “I am deeply grateful to you for your kindness. This bread is truly unlike any I have tasted before.”

The woman waved off your praise with a hearty laugh. “Oh, my dear, you flatter me too much. Have some more! Your words are as sweet as your disposition.”

A flush crept up your neck at her compliment, and for a moment, you were flustered. Despite being praised endlessly by members of the ton for your beauty and title, there was something undeniably genuine in Mrs. Tanaka’s words—an absence of ulterior motives or expectations. She did not seek anything from you: no favor, no power, no advantageous marriage proposal. Her compliment felt simple, warm, and real.

Mrs. Tanaka continued to smile warmly, her gaze soft as she leaned in a little closer, clearly intrigued by the presence of a lady beside Lord Gojo. She took a sip of tea, her fingers tapping lightly against the table as she asked, “So, my dear, where did you meet our Satoru? He’s never brought a lady to our village before.”

The question caught you off guard. You paused for a moment, careful not to reveal too much or seem overly invested in his affairs. “We met in... social circles,” you answered simply, averting your gaze slightly, trying to keep your tone neutral. There was no need to elaborate or dwell on how precisely your paths had crossed—certainly not to Mrs. Tanaka, no matter how kind she seemed.

But Mrs. Tanaka was undeterred by your hesitance, her eyes lighting up with fondness as she spoke again. “Ah, yes, I suppose that would be the case. Though I’ve known him far longer than most in those circles.” She chuckled, a motherly gleam in her eye. “I’ve been with him since birth, you know. I was his nurse—watched him grow from a babe to the man you see now. Heaven knows it wasn’t easy.”

You glanced up, startled at the intimacy of her revelation. The thought of this woman, now sitting across from you, having been a part of his life since his earliest days struck you in a way you hadn’t expected. Gojo had always seemed like an enigma—a man of privilege and power, impossible to know beyond his title and public persona. But here, in the humble setting of this village, Mrs. Tanaka spoke of him as if he were not some distant lord, but a boy she had raised, a person with a story you had never even considered.

“He was the most energetic child,” Mrs. Tanaka continued, her voice fond and nostalgic. “Always getting into mischief, running circles around everyone. He had so much spirit, but oh, the responsibilities placed on those little shoulders were heavy from the start. Even when he was just a boy, his father had him learning the estate's business, sorting through documents before he could properly read some of them. I remember once—he couldn’t have been more than ten years old—his father handed him a stack of contracts to review. The poor lad spent hours poring over them, brow furrowed like a little man.”

You listened intently, the bread in your hand momentarily forgotten. It was strange, hearing Gojo being spoken of this way—no longer just a lord or rival, but a child burdened by duty far too early.

The woman continued, “I remember thinking how much that experience must’ve aged him. He always carried that burden with such grace, but you could see it—it weighed on him.”

A strange turmoil began to stir in your chest. You had only ever known Gojo as the man he presented to society—arrogant, infuriatingly self-assured, with a grin that could cut like a knife. But now, you were being offered a glimpse of someone else entirely: a boy who had been shaped by forces beyond his control.

Mrs. Tanaka’s voice softened, her gaze faraway as she reminisced. “It was not easy for him, growing up with so much expected of him. He would act out sometimes, just to remind everyone that he was still a boy—still someone who needed room to breathe. But even so, he never shied away from what was asked of him. He understood his duty, perhaps too well.”

“I see.” You swallowed, a strange sensation creeping up your spine.

“He’s a good man, Satoru,” Mrs. Tanaka said softly. “He’s had to grow up faster than most, and he’s been shaped by that weight. But I hope you can see that there’s more to him than what’s on the surface.”

You offered her a polite smile, but inside, your thoughts were a storm of conflicting emotions. Gojo, a man burdened by duty? The notion seemed almost laughable... and yet, there was a part of you that couldn’t dismiss it so easily.

Your gaze then wandered to the man of the topic itself. The baker and him were poring and scanning endlessly over sheets of paper, an uptick in his jaw visible as his eyes remained concentrated, oblivious to your observation from across the bakery. His hand raked over his hair, the muscles in his forearm clenching and unclenching due to the action, as he discussed something with the baker. Whatever matter they were discussing, it was clear it a serious matter, for you could hear the gears whirring through his mind through the calculative look on his face.

The scene felt oddly intimate—watching him in such a serious, unguarded moment. His usual carefree demeanor was replaced by something sharp, calculating, as if the gears of his mind were turning at full speed. He pointed at something on the paper, his brow furrowing, and exchanged a few terse words with the baker. From the look on their faces, the issue seemed grave, but Gojo handled it with a calm decisiveness that surprised you.

Finally, after several moments of quiet but intense discussion, there was a visible shift. The baker nodded, sighing in relief, and Gojo’s posture relaxed, the tension in his frame unwinding. He stood a little taller, rolling his shoulders as though shedding the weight of responsibility that had pressed down on him so heavily just moments before. He glanced at the baker with a reassuring smile, offering a firm pat on the man’s back. It seemed the matter had been resolved.

As Gojo turned his head, his eyes caught yours from across the bakery. Your heart leapt unexpectedly, and you quickly averted your gaze, heat creeping up your neck as you pretended to be fascinated by the contents of the breadbasket in front of you. Despite yourself, a faint flustered feeling bloomed in your chest, and you couldn’t shake the sense of being caught staring.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Gojo making his way toward you, his steps slow but deliberate. You could feel the gentle thud of his boots against the wooden floor, the sound growing louder with each stride. Your back straightened instinctively, your gaze fixed firmly on Mrs. Tanaka, trying to distract yourself from the awareness that Gojo was now directly behind you.

Then, a hand placed on the back of your chair as Gojo effectively leaned over you, peering down to look down at you and Mrs. Tanaka. “Ah, I see you’ve been well entertained,” he drawled, a teasing lilt to it, though quieter and more casual than before.

You manage a polite smile to Mrs. Tanaka despite the teasing intent behind Satoru’s words. "Mrs. Tanaka has been a most gracious host," you replied, avoiding meeting his eyes directly, though you could feel his presence and the heat of his hand behind you, on the back of your chair.

“Well, the business is settled for now,” Gojo turned slightly so that he was addressing Mrs. Tanaka as well. "I’m glad we could clear it up."

Mrs. Tanaka nodded, her expression pleased. "That’s good to hear. I don’t know what we’d do without you, Satoru. You always manage to set things right."

Gojo shrugged modestly, though the smirk playing on his lips told you he was aware of his importance in the village. "I do what I can," he said with an exaggerated sigh, though the humor in his tone softened the boast.

You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes at his self-satisfaction, but Mrs. Tanaka was having none of it, laughing and swatting at his arm. "Enough of that, lad. You’ll give yourself a swollen head.”

Gojo laughed heartily at that, the sound easy and infectious. For a moment, it was almost disarming how comfortable he seemed in this setting, a far cry from the lord who prowled through the ton with that arrogant air of superiority. The contrast gnawed at you, but you pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on Mrs. Tanaka, who now wore an expression of mild concern.

Curiosity piqued, you glanced over to Gojo, only to find a matching look of confusion on his face, his eyebrows slightly raised as he too turned to the woman.

Mrs. Tanaka’s frown deepened as she folded her arms, the lines of worry clear upon her face. “Satoru,” she began, her tone earnest, “is your wife pregnant yet?”

The question landed between you like a stone dropped in still water.

Gojo sputtered, his usual composure vanishing in an instant, and you—taken aback—choked on nothing but air, coughing violently as the shock of the statement hit you squarely.

"P-Pardon?" Gojo stammered, eyes wide, and for once, his usual glib charm utterly failed him.

You managed to recover just enough to speak, though your voice came out hoarse and incredulous. “I—I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

The tension in the room skyrocketed as Mrs. Tanaka blinked innocently between the two of you, utterly oblivious to the awkwardness spreading like wildfire. "Well, it’s just—he’s always been so strong and healthy. I thought, surely by now…"

You quickly attempted to intervene, “No, I assure you—”

But before you could get a full sentence out, Mrs. Tanaka turned to Satoru, her gaze suddenly serious as she leveled him with an intent stare. “You’re doing your task correctly, I presume? You have to apply a bit of force, or you're not performing the act quite right.”

She then turned her concerned frown toward you. “Is he not doing his job properly? You do feel pleasure, don’t you, my dear?”

You blinked, utterly baffled, and turned to Gojo, seeking some kind of explanation. But to no avail—he was conspicuously avoiding your gaze, a rare flush creeping up his neck. The sight of him, normally so self-assured, now visibly flustered, did nothing to quell your rising confusion. “Pleasure?” you echoed, unsure of what she was referring to.

“Satoru!” Mrs. Tanaka scolded, her tone growing more exasperated. “You must conduct the marital act properly!”

Gojo finally intervened, cutting Mrs. Tanaka off with a polite but decisive, "Thank you, Mrs. Tanaka. We shall consider your counsel. I have many errands to get to, so we must take our leave now." His voice was calm, though firm, signaling that the conversation had reached its conclusion. Offering her a swift bow, he gestured for you to follow, and you did so with a quiet, grateful nod.

Once outside, the air between you both felt lighter, though a strange silence still lingered. Both of you took to the streets again—Gojo didn’t seem to make motions towards the bakery’s stable to grab your horses, so you assumed the medium of travel was to be foot for the rest of his errands.

However, after a few steps, curiosity gnawed at you, and you could no longer hold back your question.

"What, exactly, is the marital act?"

Gojo stopped abruptly, turning to face you with a look of utter bewilderment amidst the bustle of the market traveling around you both. "You cannot be serious."

You met his gaze earnestly. "I am entirely serious. My mama hasn't…enlightened me, simply skirting around the topic. I was wondering if you could, given that it has arisen in our conversation."

He blinked, seemingly at a loss for words, before letting out a startled laugh. "It is... how children are conceived."

"Oh," you responded, thinking on it for a moment. "So... one must marry, then?"

Gojo stared at you, incredulity plain on his face. "What?"

"You sign the contract," you explained, as though clarifying something obvious, "and then you lay in bed and embrace, do you not?"

Gojo’s mouth fell open for a moment before he threw his head back with a short, disbelieving laugh. "Just embrace?"

You nodded, though your cheeks had begun to burn under his astonished gaze and you averted your gaze to look at the shiny, red apples a vendor was presenting. "Yes, merely embrace."

Shaking his head, Gojo let out another incredulous chuckle. "And you believe children are delivered by storks as well, I suppose?"

You crossed your arms, feeling your face grow hotter. "I most certainly do not. I was present when my mother gave birth to Yuji, and I heard every scream, thank you very much."

Gojo ran a hand over his face, stifling his amusement as he tried to gather his thoughts. "Clearly there is more to it than simply embracing. It is... a rather more intimate affair."

"More intimate? You mean like wrestling?"

At this, Gojo choked on his laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. "No, not wrestling. It’s... well, I hardly know how to explain it delicately. But it is how one begets children."

You frowned, now growing frustrated with his vagueness. "You speak in riddles. If I am mistaken, then kindly explain what the act entails!"

Gojo sighed deeply, clearly struggling between frustration and amusement. "The marital act is not simply laying beside one another—it involves a... a physical connection, far beyond mere affection. It is, indeed, how children come to be."

You blinked, still not fully understanding, though you refused to let it show. "You could simply say so, instead of dancing around the matter."

Gojo’s lips twitched into a grin. "Ah, but where would be the fun in that?"

"Fun?" you repeated, exasperated. "This is a matter of knowledge!"

"Indeed, a matter of knowledge I did not expect to be imparting today," Gojo said with a wry shake of his head. "Suffice it to say, it is more than an embrace, and when the time comes, you shall learn well enough."

You glared at him, cheeks still warm with embarrassment. "I shall inquire elsewhere, then."

“I would advise you not to,” Gojo remarked wryly, tilting his head to indicate that both of you move, which you surmise is a wise move given that a heavy and big cart was moving towards the general direction of the both of you, and your feet followed him through the market. Roving his eyes over the general treats and food available, you see–from beside him–that his eyes fixate on some sweet smelling pastries on a cart. Not taking his eyes off of them, he adds, “It’s quite a sensitive topic among the ton. I suspect your mama would faint if she heard you were out and about inquiring the true nature of the marital act.”

“I can…consult texts,” you say, offhandedly, but you are equally as enraptured towards the sweets stall you both are walking towards.

“Mmh,” Gojo hums, “You could, I’m sure. However, you might encounter more…scientific things, rather than the personal.”

You shrugged, eyes locked in on the pasty bursting with apples. “Makes no distinction to me.”

In your…focus on the pastry, you failed to hear the upcoming hooves against the street, steadily getting louder and louder towards you. Just as you were reaching the pastry stall, the thunderous clatter of hooves on cobblestones cut through the air, snapping you from your reverie. A carriage barreled down the narrow lane, far too close for comfort and ready to crush you.

Before you could react, Gojo’s hand shot out, firm and unyielding, pulling you back toward him with a swift motion. He held you against his side, shielding you from the oncoming threat, his grip steady and protective. The world seemed to spin for a moment, your senses heightened by the closeness, the warmth of his touch, and the rapid beat of your own heart.

"Must I be responsible for keeping you from walking into trouble?" he murmured, his voice tinged with both relief and a hint of exasperation. You could feel his grip on your arm and waist as he breathed heavily, the sheer strength he possessed making you shocked, even dizzy. The carriage rumbled past, stirring up a cloud of dust, and you were left standing so near to him that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath.

You opened your mouth to stammer some excuse, your cheeks hot with embarrassment, but his expression had already softened into that infuriatingly familiar smirk, and he let go of the contact he had on you. "I shall have to keep a closer watch over you, lest pastries and carriages both be your undoing," he teased lightly.

You huffed, stepping back from his person with as much dignity as you could muster. "I was merely... distracted by the sweets, as were you," you replied, sounding petulant even to your own ears.

"Ah, yes, distracted to the point of self-endangerment. Truly, the pastries of this market wield extraordinary power over you."

"I am hardly so careless. It was a mere lapse of focus." Your lips twitched, fighting the smile threatening to surface despite your annoyance.

"If you say so," he drawled, his tone full of mock skepticism. Then, with a more serious note, he added, "Perhaps it would be wise to focus on the task at hand, rather than leaving your life in the hands of apple tarts."

You flushed slightly, more from his sheer perceptiveness than the scolding itself, and cast your eyes away, suddenly unsure of what to say. It was so much simpler when he was mocking you, but this unexpected gentleness was a new kind of challenge altogether.

"Come then," he said, his voice returning to its light, teasing timbre. "Let us continue our quest for knowledge—or, at the very least, for pastries that won't lead to your untimely end."

Moving towards the stall, the smell of various fruits baked into sweets with delicious sauces sprinkled on top. The treats were clearly crafted with care, the kind of sincerity and dedication that no gilded manor kitchen could quite capture. The young couple behind the stall radiated a warmth and pride that spoke of a passion for their craft, one that valued love of the work over the cost of the ingredients.

Gojo, ever at ease among the townsfolk, exchanged pleasantries with the couple, his attention split between their conversation and the tempting selection of tarts. He spoke with the man about some local issue, but you found your focus entirely absorbed by the golden-crusted apple pie that seemed to call to you.

“Would you like to try these?” You looked up to see the presumed wife of the man, smiling at you and eyes twinkling with genuine hospitality.

Returning her smile with a polite nod, you said, "There is no need, truly. How much do you ask for one of these?" You thanked God for remembering to carry your small coin purse—a habit drilled into you by Sukuna’s lessons on self-sufficiency, even if Judgement day came in, you always carried money on your person so long as you were not within your family’s vicinity.

The lady named her price, and you promptly began to search for the correct coins in your purse. Just as your fingers brushed against the cool metal, a gloved hand caught your wrist, halting your movement.

"You must be the only lady in all of Christendom who insists on paying for her own tarts whilst her husband stands idly by," came Gojo’s teasing voice. You didn’t need to look up to know that his familiar smirk was firmly in place, brimming with that infuriating mirth that seemed to accompany his every word.

Without relinquishing his gentle hold on your wrist, he smoothly handed over the coins to the stall owner, then deftly picked up a golden apple tart. His eyes gleamed with something unreadable as he offered the pastry to you, the corners of his mouth twitching as if daring you to protest.

But you didn’t give him what he wanted; rather, you took it without protest—not without rolling your eyes—and looked it over appreciatively.

Gojo bent over to lean his face close into yours, ever so playing the part of a husband wanting to spoil his wife. “Happy?”

You gave him a hum, sticking your tongue out and then taking a bite of the pastry in front of you.

Gojo's smirk widened, clearly amused by your reaction, his blue eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and satisfaction. He watched you intently, as though gauging your every move, delighting in this little game of his. You knew he expected some sharp retort or flustered reaction, but you were determined not to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, you took a slow, deliberate bite of the tart, savoring its warmth and sweetness. The flaky crust gave way to the soft, spiced apple filling that practically melted on your tongue. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, relishing the taste, and let out a contented sigh. "It is quite satisfactory," you said, allowing a small smile to play on your lips as you met his gaze.

"Well, I should hope so," Gojo said with a chuckle, still playing the role of the devoted husband. "One does go to great lengths to ensure one's wife is suitably indulged."

You rolled your eyes at his theatrics, but there was no denying the way the scene had amused you, despite your best efforts to remain unflappable. “You enjoy this, don’t you?” you remarked dryly.

"More than you can imagine," he replied, his tone light and teasing. "Seeing you this flustered and yet so determined not to show it? Absolutely delightful."

You narrowed your eyes at him, though you couldn't quite suppress the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "You are insufferable."

"And yet," he said, leaning in ever so slightly, a touch of softness behind the humor in his voice, "you tolerate me still."

You huffed. "Only because you happen to be useful at times, particularly for giving me the opportunity to escape the confines of your godforsaken manor."

He laughed, a genuine sound that echoed above the bustle of the market. "Oh, I'll take that as the highest compliment, coming from you."

"Enjoy it while you can, Gojo. It may be the last time I am so generous."

"Noted," he said with a grin, giving you a playful wink. "I'll savor it as much as you did that tart."

"You know," you began, musing, "our mamas have truly squandered their efforts. We would never have made a compatible match."

Both of you rode side by side on horseback, the forest trail stretching out before you as you made your way back to the manor. The journey was not far now—the stone turrets of the Gojo estate were already visible in the distance. The both of you hadn’t had much time to do much other than two encounters you had, deciding to make your return before your rendezvous got behindhand. You turned your head slightly to study Gojo's reaction, expecting to find that familiar, self-assured smirk he always wore. But instead, his expression was... different. A touch more solemn, perhaps even conflicted.

At last, he spoke, his voice softer than usual. "And what, pray tell, do you consider a suitable match?"

You let his question hang in the air for a moment, taking in the rustling leaves and the steady rhythm of your horses' hooves against the well-trodden path. It was just the two of you here in the quiet of the forest, far from the prying eyes of society. There was a certain unspoken understanding between you—a truce of sorts—yet also a acknowledgement that either of you could easily betray this moment's candor.

So, ultimately, you chose honesty. Partial honesty.

With a quiet sigh, you chose your words carefully. "I think," you hesitated, your gaze caught by Gojo's steady, penetrating eyes, "I should prefer a life of tranquility once I am wed. Someone gentle, who would respect my desire to occupy myself as I please, who would allow me a measure of privacy." You quickly added, as to not seem too radical, "I mean to say, someone who would not object if I wished to practice my piano in solitude or to pursue a quiet hobby. Surely you understand, my lord, the burden of constantly being in the public eye."

Instead of seeming understanding, Gojo’s gaze on you was…pensive. Your heart sped up as the solace you needed from Gojo after being a bit vulnerable didn’t appear, leaving your mind running as to what he was thinking.The sunlight filtered through the trees, catching in his white hair, giving him an almost ethereal appearance as the two of you rode on in silence.

Then, the clouds covered the sun up, giving his figure a glum, ruminative cast.

After a long pause, he finally spoke, and his voice seemed to carry a note of something deeper, something unspoken. As if he was aware of something you weren’t. “What I do understand that is that you are being deceitful. Both your future husband and to yourself.”

His words hung in the air between you, more like a question than a statement, challenging in a way that left you unprepared. The forest around you seemed to hold its breath, the rustling leaves and birdsong fading into the background as his gaze locked onto yours, probing, almost too perceptive. It was the windiness indicative of rainfall, with the thunder of clouds above you to provide testament to the change in weather.

You straightened in your saddle, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. "I fail to see what you mean," you replied, a touch defensive, though you kept your tone level. "What else should one seek from a marriage if not harmony and respect?"

"You speak of privacy and quiet, of being left to your own devices. But tell me," he said, his voice barely above a murmur, "would that truly satisfy you? To be married to a man who treats you as if you were a painting—beautiful, yes, but best admired from a distance, untouched and unengaged?"

You opened your mouth to respond but found no words. There was a part of you, a stubborn part, that wanted to argue—to tell him he was wrong, that a peaceful life was exactly what you desired.

"I... simply wish to avoid the chaos that comes with too much entanglement," you said finally, more quietly. "I’ve seen what happens when people become too wrapped up in one another. It's a vulnerability I do not wish to expose myself to."

"Ah, I see," he said, nodding slowly yet mockingly as if he was piecing together a puzzle, making you bristle involuntarily. "So, you’d rather not risk the mess of it all—the unpredictability, the chance of losing control. You want safety."

You narrowed your eyes at him, both irritated and unnerved by his perceptiveness. "Is that so wrong?" you challenged. "To desire a life where I can control my own happiness, rather than leave it in the hands of another?"

He matched your tone and fervor. “Is that truly what you believe a marriage is for?”

You sneered. “And don’t you want an accountant for a wife, my lord? It is quite laughable for you to be advising me on the beauty of marriage.”

Enraptured in the heat of the moment, you hadn’t realized that you were nearly at the stables where you had to station your horses until Satoru grabbed his reins—-hands idle before, directing his horse in no particular direction—to now steer his into the stall next to the ones you directed yours.

“My stance on marriage and my character bear no relevance to this matter,” he replied, a rueful smile tugging at his lips as he tethered his horse. His tone was controlled, though a trace of irritation bled through. “Whatever my faults, they do not make your notions any more rational.”

“But you forget that it illuminates who you are,” you hissed, walking towards the exit of the barn, tired of the smell of manure and Gojo, unsure which was more repugnant. “A hypocrite. A whited sepulchre, if you will.”

Gojo barks out a laugh from behind you, following closely behind on your heels. “Any supposed sanctimonious nature of mine does not alter the fact that you are steering yourself into a life of misery. Not just you, but any poor fool incapable of seeing through your polished smiles to your true intentions.”

On a given day, had you not been so incensed or had your opponent been anyone other than Lord Gojo, you might have heeded the thunderous roar of the rain on the stable’s roof or the slick ground outside that awaited you. And on a given day, you wouldn’t have stepped so fast, as if daring the friction of the ground and force of gravity to make you fall flat on your face.

But, alas, it was not that said given day and your ankle made a sickening crunch! against the ground as you fell, your head and body hitting the wet grass. You felt the world tilt unnaturally as you hit the ground, the impact jarring through your body, sending a shockwave of pain radiating from your ankle to the back of your skull. A dull throb began to pulse at your temples, and the rain poured down, blurring your vision into a haze of grays and greens.

Through the blend of sensations, you heard a sharp intake of breath, and then there were hurried footsteps approaching. Somewhere above the din of the storm, a voice called your name, its usual calm fraying at the edges with alarm.

“Miss Itadori!” WIth that you jumped, eyes finally registering a Gojo clenching your wrists tight. “Can you understand what I am saying?”

Your gaze drifted over his face, focusing on the small details—his rain-slicked hair, the concern that flickered behind his eyes, the humorless smile that strained at his lips. Slowly, you managed a nod, though even that small movement made your head swim. “Yes,” you whispered.

Then, you became acutely aware of a warm, crimson fluid pooling around you, contrasting sharply with the rain-soaked earth. You began to feel faint, though not from the severity of the injury itself, but rather from the unfamiliar sight of so much blood. It was unnerving, especially for someone who had never experienced a wound of this nature. The lightheadedness must have been responsible for your sudden admission, “I am frightened.”

Lord Gojo’s eyes, which had moments ago glinted with amusement at your pitiful state, softened ever so slightly. His smirk remained in place, yet you noticed the way his fingers twitched restlessly at his side, betraying the composure he desperately clung to. “My lady, it’s merely a gash. You are not in danger of perishing,” he said, his tone light, almost too light, like a mask hiding something unspoken. “However, it seems I’ll have to carry you to a physician, lest you collapse entirely.”

He stood up from where he had been inspecting your ankle, bending slightly before you with his arms extended. But there was a slight hesitation in his movement, a momentary pause before his hands reached for you, as if he were weighing the consequences, considering the impropriety of the action.

Your eyes widened in alarm at the very idea of being carried by him. “Carry me? What--AHHH!” A sharp scream left your lips as Lord Gojo, without warning, scooped you into his arms. In the blink of an eye, you found yourself in a bridal carry, your gown catching the rain as he strode out of the greenhouse. He moved with a purposeful stride, though his grip on you was perhaps a fraction tighter than necessary, his jaw clenched just a bit too firmly.

You pounded your fists ineffectively against his chest, cheeks burning with indignation. “Gojo, let me down!”

He, of course, ignored your demands entirely, his voice annoyingly gentle as he cooed, “Now, now, it’s for your own good. You’re in no condition to walk, and I can hardly risk your injury worsening.” But despite his calm words, his eyes flickered nervously to your face and then away, almost as though he was afraid of what he might see in your expression if he looked too long.

“What if someone sees us?” you hissed, your mind racing at the impropriety of the situation. The two of you, unchaperoned, in such an undignified position—it would provide gossip for Whistledown and the ton for weeks.

Gojo’s smirk returned, though there was a tightness around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “I am wearing gloves, my lady. Fear not, I am not making contact with your bare skin.” His attempt at humor felt forced, his voice lacking its usual ease, and when he added, “Though I daresay, it would not be such an unpleasant thought,” the playfulness seemed almost like a deflection.

You narrowed your eyes, trying to distract yourself from the warmth of his arms. “Why do you always wear those?”

“Writing ledgers and doing a lot of work with pens make my fingers blister. It’s quite unsightly, so I prefer to wear them,” he said, his voice steady, though the hand supporting your back trembled almost imperceptibly.

You hummed, settling a little more comfortably in his hold. "You know, you’re quite strong to be able to carry me like this. What manual labor are your parents making you do to get the title of duke?”

“Well,” Gojo began, but his voice sounded tighter now, the rumble of it vibrating through his chest where your head was so near. The proximity seemed to unsettle him in a way his words could not hide; he cleared his throat as if to steady himself, but his breathing was just a touch uneven. My vindication for such close contact will be the blood loss, you thought, as you nestled your head closer to his chest, until your nose was almost grazing his neck. The scent of tobacco and vanilla filled your senses, lulling you closer to the pulse that beat a bit too fast beneath his skin. “I enjoy doing archery. I’ve been doing it ever since I was a child, which happens to strengthen your shoulders.”

You thought back to the night you were strolling in the garden the day of your debut, musing on the size of his shoulders, and mumbled, “Mmmm, I was right.”

Gojo stiffened almost imperceptibly, his gaze flickering down to you in a way that was almost too quick, too searching. His lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something, but he hesitated. "Right about what?" he asked finally, his tone a bit too casual, as though trying to mask the turmoil behind his nonchalance.

“Nothing,” you murmured, closing your eyes and leaning your head against his shoulder. You felt his gaze linger on you, as though he were trying to decipher a puzzle that was just beyond his reach, before he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding. And as he carried you onward, the rhythm of his heartbeat felt almost in sync with the rain, though you both pretended not to notice how fast it was racing.

As you leaned against him, the warmth of his presence enveloped you, a soothing balm against the chaos swirling in your mind. But the world began to tilt, colors blurring at the edges, and the sounds of the forest faded into a distant hum.

“Gojo…” you whispered, your voice barely a breath, a final plea for clarity before darkness crept in.

The last thing you registered was his grip tightening around you, a hint of alarm breaking through his facade. “Stay with me,” you heard, though his voice felt miles away, echoing in the void as consciousness slipped through your fingers like grains of sand.

Then, the world faded entirely, leaving only the warmth of his arms and the distant sound of his voice.

prev. the game | next. the house party

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n AHHH HI BRIDGERTON!GOJO READERS I MISSED U!!! im very sorry for the delay that happened with this chapter but for me it's so hard to write...development and angst and fluff becasue when you write it's so hard to know when any of your writing hits :(

but re-reading ur comments reblogs and asks inspire me a lot to continue so we all good :3 i think what happened was that i kind of went thru a crisis where i thought my writing wasn't good at all because of certain things i saw in other authors', i.e. writing longfics that have 10k+ words that led me to believe i wasn't writing enough, that my plotline was progressing too fast, etc. i might have long chapters going on, i might not because i realize how stupid that belief was lol. anyways moving forward i dont think we will see that type of delay because i have the best readers hehe <3 love you all and im kind of giggling in anticipation to all your funny comments because they make my day

ANYWAYS like always reblogs and comments are appreciated <333

meme time

gojo getting to business w the baker (credits to @/sinn-clair LOL)

TAGLIST:

@ncitygreen @backstagepaige @serinatly100986 @nappingmoon @coochellati

@extremelyexh4usted @yoshisaurmuchakoopas @nixiepixee @generalstephkenobi @vernasce-blogs

@byhuenii @geniejunn @a-girl-with-thoughts @dazedin2d @chuuqxs

@megumiivs @anthastudios @arranacosmist @arishaxml @jingyuun

@undercooked-chaos-noodle @jaegersity @camzzn @bluelai @1sweetheart1

@hyori2 @babyblue0t7 @iwanttoberich420 @rosso-seta @ladytamayolover

@kalulakunundrum @r0ckst4rjk @mo0sin @angelina7890 @jaeminaur

@yamiyas @cherry-blossoms-in-red @r3inae @lagataprrr @sasfransisco

@fortunatelyfurrygiver @aurora-tiny @gojonegs @luna-v-roiya @xxemmarldxx

@soobssedwithyourex @manyno @samkysnks @stefnarda @bbqsauceonmytitties2

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mybrothersanthem · 2 months ago

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“Is it just you and me in the wreckage of the world? That must be so confusing for a little boy.” 🪻

C!bedrockbros Adventure Time au where C!techno’s the ice king but make him the blood god and C!tommy is the vampire prince. Techno becomes the blood god with more time he puts on the crown but he keeps stopping himself because he wants to protect this vampire boy named Tommy.

The more time he spends with the crown, he turns more into a Piglin. He starts muttering about the voices and craving the need for blood. He doesn’t want to wear the crown but how can he protect them from the dangers of the world? He’s searching for ways to stop the change and ends up meeting this golden haired boy named Tommy, sobbing alone. Techno takes care of him, even finding him a little cow plushie in which Tommy lovingly names “Henry”

#bedrock bros #bedrockbros #ctechno #ctommy #technoblade #dream smp #dsmp art #dsmp fanart #dsmp techno #dsmp tommy #tommyinnit #tommyinnit fanart #Technoblade never dies #Technoblade fanart #Bedrockbros AT au

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beloveds-embrace · 3 months ago

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Until the Last Loop: the Execution

(How many times must you repeat the same song and dance before the curtain falls?

poly mercenaries 141 x princess reader, time loop

The crowd screamed for your blood.

Their voices rolled over the courtyard like thunder- sharp, frenzied, and hungry, sharks smelling blood in the waters. You didn’t flinch. You had stopped flinching a long time ago. Instead, you stood on the scaffold with your wrists bound in rusted iron and your knees aching from where you’d been forced to kneel, a once-proud back bent into prostration.

The cold bites through the thin silk of your dress. You feel the rough wood splintering beneath your knees, the way the wind stings your skin, the weight of the executioner’s shadow looming above you.

You were not allowed the dignity of a white dress, or a veil or a blindfold. You never were.

The wood creaked beneath you as the executioner shifted, sharpening his blade against a whetstone. Sparks flew, bright and vengeful. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at the crowd either, for they were all familiar scenes- so much so you were sure that if you were to be given a canvas and paint, you would be able to redraw it all simply from memory.

Instead, your gaze wandered.

You let your eyes drift across the sea of faces twisted in hatred, searching for the one thing that hadn’t changed in all these lifetimes-

And there he was.

You spotted him near the back, the man in the crowd. As always, standing just close enough to see the platform clearly but far enough to remain unnoticed by the mob. Hooded, broad-shouldered, and still. He didn’t yell. He didn’t jeer.

He just watched. He always did. The same stance, the same gaze.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to look away. He had been there in every loop, always standing in that exact spot, and you had stopped trying to understand why. Whatever answer you might have once craved had been buried under exhaustion and bitter acceptance, and the defeating knowledge of not knowing where to even start searching for him.

The executioner finished sharpening his blade and stepped closer, his boots heavy against the wood. The crowd’s roar swelled as the official stepped forward and began to read the charges- words you had heard so many times they no longer felt real. Were they here, you wondered, listening to your crimes?

“Treason against the Crown.”

Your nails dug into your palms.

“Conspiracy to overthrow His Majesty.”

You exhaled slowly.

“Attempted regicide.”

The crowd erupted at that, like oil meeting water, and you wondered- not for the first time- if they even cared whether the charges were true. It didn’t matter. They just wanted someone to blame.

And you had always been an easy target.

The executioner raised the blade. The sun caught its edge, and for a brief moment, you saw your reflection- tired eyes, hollow cheeks, and lips pressed into something that could no longer be called a smile.

The crowd roared louder. The executioner took his stance.

You closed your eyes.

And the blade fell.

You wake with a gasp.

The silk sheets cling to your skin, damp with sweat. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a wild animal escaping the clutches of its predator, and for one wild moment, you’re sure you can still feel the blade at your neck, the bite of steel against soft, tender flesh-

But there’s no blood. No pain.

Just sunlight streaming through the tall windows, warm and golden, painting the room in the soft golds and reds of the afternoon.

You stare at the ceiling, swallowing against the bile rising in your throat. The air smells like jasmine and lavender. It always does.

You force yourself to sit up even when your muscles ache, and your wrists burn with phantom pain from where the shackles had been. There are no marks, but the memory lingers, haunting every little move you make.

How many times now?

You stopped counting after twenty. It didn’t matter. It never changed.

The knock at the door comes exactly when you expect it, after you had forced yourself to clean away the sweat rolling down your skin and sat at your settee, begging your heart to calm down.

“Your Highness?”

Your maid’s voice.

You already know what she’ll say, what expression she’ll wear when she steps inside. But you don’t move.

The door opens, and she enters with a bow, her hands folded neatly in front of her, expression detached and polite. And behind her, four men follow.

You don’t need to look to know who they are. They’ve been with you every life, always the same tune and dance.

He stands at the front, broad-shouldered and commanding, streaks of gray in his beard and sharp eyes that feel like knives. You meet his gaze, by now fully used to him and his presence. Price- John, he’d said you can call him either in your last few lives, when your spoilt attitude had been stripped off you with each death.

“You ain’t so bad, princess. Not a hoity-toity piece of work.”

Slowly, the others trickle in after him.

The mask hides most of his face, but you don’t need to see it to know what’s underneath is Ghost. He watches you the way a predator watches its prey- calm, patient, and ready to strike, but you know that later, he will ever so slightly warm up to you.

“I don’t know what to do… I haven’t done anything! You have to believe me!”

“I know. But you’ll catch a cold if you stay out any longer, princess.”

Soap smiles when he steps inside, easy and disarming, but you see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rests near the dagger at his hip. That same dagger has saved you before, but not always. In some lives, he is not there with you when you get ambushed- you were such a hard thing to get along with before- and yet in other lives…

“Wee lass, tell me where ye’re goin’, and I’ll protect ye always, aye?”

Quiet, steady, and sharp, like a hawk out for hunting. Gaz’s eyes sweep the room, cataloging every detail before they land on you and he nods towards you. Polite, always polite, even when you’d been like a hissy, feral cat towards him in times. Gentle when you’d been a quiet, reserved version of yourself.

“…will you stay with me? Just tonight? Please, Gaz… I feel lonely.”

“Course, princess. You don’t have to ask.”

You exhale slowly.

They’re different from the crowd, from the nobles and commoners of the kingdom. Always have been, always will be. They don’t look at you with hatred, even if they have their own misconceptions of you. But they’re still here, still close, in this life and before and next and that makes them special to you.

And this time, you… don’t have the energy to keep yourself away from them.

Price steps forward first, always the leader.

“Princess,” he says, and there’s something heavy in the way he says it. Like it means more than just a title. Or maybe less; mercenaries care little for royalty beyond what they can offer them. “We’re here to protect you.”

You almost laugh. Hired by king for no knight wanted to work for you, the shameful stain no one wanted to acknowledge or favor too much.

Instead, you turn your head and stare out the window, heart still pounding against your ribs.

“You’re wasting your time.”

You expect them to leave, even if you shouldn’t. Most people do when you push them away. Though you told yourself you won’t keep yourself away from them, you also truly want to just exist quietly, unperceived, until the inevitable hour arrives and you return back to this point.

But Price doesn’t listen to you, unsurprisingly. You can see your maid scoff about his nonchalant manner out of the corner of your eye.

“We’ll see about that, Your Highness.” He says, unbothered by your attitude.

And when you finally look at him again, his eyes are lingering on you- steady and sharp.

And thus, the loop starts anew.

Part Two

Masterlist

748 notes · View notes

heliosunny · 29 days ago

Note

Hi hi! I really like your fanfiction style and plots!!

Can you write fanfic with a magician!reader and a crown prince!Phainon? Like, in their world, wizards are feared because they wield great power because of magic and can become a serious threat, and therefore they are wanted.

Phainon and his guards get into trouble and the prince is seriously injured. Reader finds them and, despite all the risks, brings them to their shelter and treats them. They intrigued Phainon, because he expected the reader to leave them to die. He was not going to leave, but he had to, because his guards did not want to be near the reader for more time.

After a while, when his wound has completely healed, he returns to the reader's house, but discovers that reader has left it. However, this did not prevent him from finding a reader and bringing him to the palace as his partner, to the horror of his parents and the nobles.

And no pressure! Take as much time as you need!

Yandere!Crown Prince Phainon x Wizard!Reader

The night was thick with mist, curling between the skeletal trees like ghostly fingers. The moon hung high, its silver light barely piercing through the dense canopy. You had learned to tread these woods without a sound, a necessity, really, for a wizard like you.

Magic was danger. Magic was hunted.

You kept to yourself, a mere phantom in a world that would sooner see you burned than thanked. Yet tonight, fate had different plans.

A low groan shattered the silence. The sound was close, just beyond the brambles lining your hidden path. Carefully, you stepped forward, parting the branches to reveal a scene of carnage.

A group of armored men lay scattered like fallen statues, their gleaming armor dulled with dirt and blood. Some still breathed, but your attention snapped to him, the figure at the center of it all.

The crown prince beloved by his people.

Even wounded, he was an imposing sight. A gash split across his side, the crimson staining his once-pristine attire. His grip on his sword was weak, yet his expression promised death to any who dared approach.

His men were conscious enough to move, barely, but none had the strength to rise. A group of assassins, perhaps? Or a botched ambush? Whatever had happened, Phainon had fought like a beast to keep them alive.

And now, he was dying.

You should leave.

But you hesitated.

Perhaps it was the sheer absurdity of it all. The prince, the future ruler of this land, bleeding out in the dirt like a wounded animal.

With a whispered incantation, the shadows thickened around you, concealing your presence from prying eyes. You stepped closer.

One of his guards stirred, his gaze sluggishly finding you through the haze of pain.

“W-Who…” he rasped, struggling to raise his weapon.

You lifted a hand and muttered a single word. His eyes rolled back, body sagging as unconsciousness took him. A simple sleep spell—one that drained you more than it should, given how careful you had to be. The others were too far gone to notice.

That left only him.

Phainon’s head snapped up at your approach. Even on the brink of death, his presence was suffocating. His lips curled into something between a sneer and a grimace.

“You…” His voice was hoarse, but sharp. “You are not one of mine.”

“No” you murmured. “I am not.”

His fingers twitched around his blade, but you had no intention of giving him the chance to use it. With a swift motion, you knelt beside him, already pressing your palm against his wound. His body tensed like a bowstring, every muscle coiled.

“What—”

Warm light pulsed beneath your touch, the air thrumming with unseen power.

Realization dawned in his blue eyes.

Magic.

The fear did not come, not like it did with most. No, Phainon did not fear you.

He was intrigued.

“Why?” he demanded, voice laced with something between suspicion and fascination. “You could let me die.”

“Because I choose not to.”

The warmth of your magic pulsed beneath your fingers, light seeping into the torn flesh at Phainon’s side. Golden runes flickered to life, weaving over his wound like threads of starlight, sealing torn skin and knitting muscle together.

“You wield powerful magic”

You ignored him, focusing instead on the lingering damage. It was deep, and healing him entirely would drain you too much. This would have to do.

The final rune faded, leaving behind only smooth, unbroken skin. You pulled back sharply, wiping your blood-slicked fingers against your cloak.

“You’ll live” you muttered. “Unfortunately.”

Phainon exhaled, shifting experimentally. The pain was gone.

Time to go. You stood, already murmuring the incantation beneath your breath. The ground trembled softly as a gust of wind whipped around you. Shadows curled, lifting you gently off your feet as your broom shot into your waiting grip.

His men stirred, one of them blinking awake with a strangled gasp. “P-Prince—”

But Phainon wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at you.

You didn’t give him the chance to speak.

With a sharp kick, you soared into the night sky, the forest shrinking beneath you as the wind carried you higher. The chill bit at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the weight that lifted from your chest.

You should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

You didn’t have to look back to know.

He was following.

You cursed under your breath. What was he thinking? His men were below, weak and vulnerable, calling out for him. He had a kingdom to return to. A duty to fulfill. And yet—he pursued you.

You spun midair, broom jerking to a halt. Your voice rang out.

“Go back.”

Phainon didn’t falter. His silver hair glowed under the moonlight, his eyes burning like ice set aflame.

“Why?”

“Because your men need you. Because your people do. Because I do not want to be followed.”

Below, his guards called for him again, their voices frantic.

A flicker of something crossed his expression—annoyance, reluctant acknowledgment.

For a moment, you feared he would refuse.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he exhaled and shifted away.

“Very well” he said. “For now.”

The last two words unsettled you.

But you didn’t wait to decipher them.

With a final, sharp glare, you turned and vanished into the night.

The temporary spell had done its work. Phainon had survived, but his wound still required proper treatment once he returned to the kingdom. His men had been too relieved to question how their prince had been saved, too eager to leave the forest and return to safety.

But Phainon had not forgotten.

Even as he lay in his gilded chambers, the finest physicians tending to him, his thoughts drifted back to you. To the warmth of your magic. The sharpness in your voice. The way you had looked at him—not with fear, not with awe, but with annoyance.

Once his wounds had fully healed, Phainon wasted no time. He demanded his parents search for you. The king and queen only exchanged weary glances before shaking their heads.

“You ask us to reward a wizard?” his father scoffed. “You should be grateful we do not send hunters after them.”

“Grateful?” He leaned forward, fingers tapping idly against the gilded armrest of his chair. “You would prefer I let the one who saved your heir vanish without a trace?”

“They did not save you out of loyalty” his mother interjected, her tone gentler, but no less firm. “They helped you and left. Be grateful for that.”

He heard the unspoken words beneath her breath.

Be grateful they did not finish you off.

But Phainon had never been one to accept things so easily.

The moment he was able, he searched for your hidden home.

Only to find it abandoned.

No trace of you remained. No remnants of the magic that had once lingered in the air. It was as if you had never been there at all.

That should have been the end of it.

But for Phainon, it was only the beginning.

He would find you.

---

Life in the shadows suited you.

After leaving your old home, you settled in a new place—far from the reach of the kingdom, hidden among the wild forests where few dared to tread. Your days were spent in quiet solitude, gathering herbs, tending to your spells, and ensuring your presence remained unnoticed. You moved often, never staying too long in one place. It was safer that way.

You had no interest in the affairs of royals. But even in the most remote corners of the land, rumors had a way of finding you.

Whispers of the crown prince’s survival had spread like wildfire. People spoke of it with reverence, how their beloved prince had returned from the brink of death, stronger than ever. How even the finest physicians had been baffled by his miraculous recovery.

Some said it was divine intervention. Others claimed it was his sheer will to live.

But one rumor, in particular, made your blood run cold.

The prince was searching for someone.

At first, the stories were vague. He had taken an interest in an unknown savior. A healer, perhaps, or a skilled mage who had vanished without a trace.

Then, the details sharpened.

He sought someone who wielded forbidden magic. Someone who had left him when he was too weak to follow. Someone who had defied him.

You stiffened when you first heard it, your fingers tightening around the basket of herbs you had been gathering. You had always known the risk of saving him, but you had thought that once he returned to his kingdom, he would forget you.

Clearly, you had been wrong.

----

The gathering was always held in secret, deep within the wilderness where only those attuned to magic could find it. It was a rare chance for wizards to convene without fear—a fleeting moment of safety in a world that sought to burn them.

You had never attended before. Too many eyes, too much risk. But this time, you had a reason.

You needed ingredients for a new spell.

The air buzzed with magic as you moved through the market stalls draped in enchanted fabrics and glowing sigils. Wizards of all kinds were here—some veiled, some bold enough to show their faces, all of them powerful in their own way. Incense and dried herbs filled the air with an earthy scent as you carefully examined a bundle of moonshade petals, their silver glow faint under your touch.

You didn’t notice the presence behind you.

Not at first.

A sharp inhale.

A breath against your hair.

Your muscles locked. No one got this close. Your first instinct was to lash out, to summon the wind and shove the intruder away. But before you could react, a voice brushed against your ear.

“I’ve finally found you.”

Stiffly, you turned your head.

The man standing behind you was different from the one you had last seen bleeding in the dirt. The pristine prince, dressed in silver and royal blue, was gone. This version of Phainon was something else entirely.

His white-silver hair had grown longer, strands falling over his forehead. His usual noble attire was replaced with something more discreet; a dark cloak, simple leather armor, a sword at his hip. But no disguise could ever hide him.

And as he leaned in ever so slightly, drinking in your scent once more, his lips curled into something between a smirk and a sigh.

“Did you think you could run from me?”

The moment Phainon reached for you, whether to grab your wrist or simply to keep you from fleeing, you moved. A sharp pulse of magic burst from your body, the force of it sending Phainon staggering back. The nearest stalls rattled violently, enchanted trinkets shattering upon impact. Gasps rippled through the gathering as wizards turned to watch, their whispers sharp with unease.

The scent of scorched air filled your lungs as you raised your hands, power thrumming at your fingertips. You should run. But something in you rebelled at the thought of simply letting him take you.

Phainon chuckled, his stance shifting as he caught himself. His blue eyes gleamed with something unnervingly fond.

“You’re still as breathtaking as I remember” he murmured, brushing off his cloak as if you hadn’t just blasted him. “But surely you knew this was pointless.”

“Stay away from me.”

He tilted his head, considering you. Then—he lunged.

You barely had time to react. You shot your hand forward, magic crackling in the air as a gust of wind slammed into his side, knocking him off course. He grunted, boots skidding across the dirt. The ground trembled beneath you as you pulled more power into your grasp, ready to strike again—

But he was fast.

The moment you blinked, he was upon you again, forcing you to jerk back just in time to avoid his outstretched hand. But he wasn’t trying to strike. No—his fingers curled, reaching for your waist.

You twisted away, fury igniting in your veins. Fine. If he wanted a fight, he’d get one.

The air around you shimmered as you sent another pulse of energy directly at him. This time, he wasn’t fast enough.

The spell struck him square in the chest, sending him flying backward. He hit the ground hard, coughing as dust billowed around him. A thin trail of blood dripped from the corner of his lips.

The gathered wizards scattered. Whatever curiosity they had harbored was now outweighed by the risk. A prince—a royal—fighting a wizard was dangerous. No one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.

Within moments, the ceremonial grounds were nearly empty. Only you and Phainon remained.

“You hurt me” he murmured. Not with anger. Not with resentment.

With delight.

Your fingers twitched, and the air around you shifted. With a whispered incantation, your broom shot into your grip, magic thrumming beneath your palms. You were ready to leave.

But so was he.

Phainon moved just as you did, his speed forcing you to take an extra step back, your heartbeat spiking. He was injured, yet still too fast.

You scowled, gripping your broom tightly. “What do you even want from this?”

His eyes never left yours. “You.”

“You should be grateful” you snapped. “I saved your life, and this is how you repay me? Ruining my work?” You gestured to the ruined ingredients scattered across the dirt. The delicate petals, the crushed herbs—all useless now.

“I’ll find more for you.”

You gritted your teeth. “I don’t want you to.”

You were done with this.

Without another word, you gripped your broom and prepared to take off again, but—

A glint of light. A flicker of magic.

Phainon lifted a stone between his fingers.

The sight of it made you pause.

Dark veins of power ran through its surface, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. A rare artifact, used only for temporary enchantments—but at what cost?

“Where did you get that?”

“Does it matter?”

It did. He must have taken it from someone—or worse.

But Phainon only watched you, waiting.

The moment the stone’s power wrapped around you, you knew something was wrong.

It was subtle at first—a numbness in your fingertips, a sudden silence where your magic should have been. Then, the realization hit.

Your magic was gone.

Temporarily, maybe, but it didn’t matter. That was all he needed.

Phainon wasted no time. He moved swiftly, catching you in his grip before you could even attempt to fight back. Without your magic, your broom was useless. Your strength alone was nothing against him.

The next thing you knew, you were here. Locked in the prince’s chambers, high above the kingdom you had spent your whole life avoiding.

You had tested the door the moment he left—locked, of course. The windows, too, were secured with enchanted glass. Even if you could break them, the fall would be too great. You were trapped.

And Phainon?

He was preparing.

You could hear the water running from the adjoining room, the faint splash of movement as he bathed. You didn’t have to see him to know what he was doing—cutting his hair, washing away the dirt of travel, shedding the rugged disguise he had worn just to find you.

You had to try.

Even if your magic wasn’t back yet. Even if the fall could kill you.

You pressed against the window, fingers searching for a weak point in the enchanted glass. It wouldn’t budge.

But he had underestimated desperation.

With a sharp inhale, you struck. A hard blow against the glass, then another, until finally—a crack. A surge of hope rushed through you. You struck again, harder this time. The glass shattered.

The wind howled against your skin as you gripped the windowsill. This was it. You would have to jump before Phainon—

A hand clamped onto your wrist.

Pain. A sharp gasp. A warm drop of something splattered against your skin.

Blood.

Phainon’s grip was ironclad, but his other hand—the one he had used to catch you—was cut deep, a jagged shard of glass slicing into his palm.

He didn’t seem to care.

With one fierce yank, he pulled you back into the room, his breath hot with frustration as he slammed you against his chest.

“Are you out of your mind?!”

You barely registered his words—because suddenly, you felt it.

A spark. Like a fire reigniting after being smothered for too long.

Your magic was back.

Instinct took over before you could think. Your hands, still trembling from the shock, moved over his bleeding one. A soft glow pulsed from your fingertips as the wound began to mend, closing rapidly as though it had never been there.

It was then that you noticed—the damp heat of his skin, the lingering scent of soap.

And the fact that he was only wearing a towel.

The sound of your struggle hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Footsteps—several of them. Voices murmuring outside the door, uncertain but growing louder.

“Your Highness?” a man called. “Is everything—”

The door cracked open, and you caught a glimpse of not one, but three men peering inside. Soldiers, perhaps attendants, all of them pausing in shock at the sight before them.

Phainon—barely covered.

You—flushed and breathless.

It took them less than a second to misunderstand.

For a long, agonizing moment, no one spoke.

Then, unable to help yourself, you raised an eyebrow. “Are you holding a bath model contest or what?”

One of the men choked.

Deciding you had more than enough of this, you snapped your fingers, letting your magic slam the door shut in their faces. A flick of your wrist and a rush of energy later, Phainon was fully clothed, his usual regal attire appearing in place of the towel.

Your work here was done.

“Right” you muttered, dusting off your hands. “This has been an experience. But now that my magic’s back, I think I’ll take my leave—”

A hand caught your wrist.

Again.

But this time, Phainon didn’t try to pull you closer. He just… held on.

“Don’t go.”

“…Why?”

He swallowed. “I need you to cure my sister.”

You hadn’t even known he had a sister. You crossed your arms, giving Phainon a skeptical look. “I’m not a healer.”

He didn’t hesitate. “It’s not an illness. She was cursed.”

That made you pause. Curses were a different matter entirely. If that was true, then perhaps—

“…Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll take a look.”

Phainon exhaled, as if relieved, and led you through the palace halls. He stayed close, but you ignored it, focusing instead on the task ahead.

Soon, you arrived at a dimly lit chamber. A woman lay motionless on the grand bed, her breathing faint, her complexion pale. Even from the entrance, you could feel it—lingering magic.

A real curse.

You stepped forward, examining her carefully. The energy clinging to her skin was thick, unnatural—a spell cast with intent, not by accident.

Phainon hovered behind you, silent, watching.

Minutes passed as you traced the curse’s signature, considering your options. Then, with a sigh, you straightened. “I can break it” you said simply. “But I’ll need time to prepare the spell.”

Phainon gave a slow nod, as if he had already expected that answer.

You left, mind already racing with the components you’d need.

Meanwhile, in the chamber you had just departed—

Phainon remained. Alone, save for the girl.

His expression shifted. The moment you were gone, the warmth vanished from his gaze, replaced by something else—something cold.

He stepped closer to the bed, his voice a low murmur.

“Make sure to play your role well.”

The girl flinched, unable to move much under the weight of the curse. Fear flickered in her wide eyes.

Because she wasn’t his sister.

She wasn’t anyone.

Just an unfortunate soul he had plucked from the streets. Just another piece in his carefully laid plan.

And you, his true goal, still had no idea.

The days that followed were suffocating.

Despite being assigned a maid, Anna, and a knight, Brant, to check on you and provide whatever you needed, Phainon was always there.

Even now, as you prepared the spell to lift the curse, he sat beside you, idly crushing the herbs you had handed him. His presence was oppressive, his knee brushing yours far too often to be accidental.

“…Why are you still sitting here?” you asked, side-eyeing him.

Phainon didn’t even look up. “I just love the warmth of people.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

“Is that so?” you muttered.

Fine. You’d test that.

You glanced toward Anna, who was tidying up nearby. “Anna, come here. Stand next to the prince for a bit.”

Anna blinked in surprise but obeyed, stepping closer. You moved away.

Phainon frowned. His hands, previously steady, hesitated over the herbs.

But just to be sure—

“Brant,” you called, turning to the knight. “Your turn. Stand beside the prince.”

Brant, ever dutiful, wordlessly approached. You took another step back.

Phainon’s entire expression darkened.

He barely glanced at Brant before abandoning the herbs altogether and standing—immediately closing the distance between you.

You exhaled, half-annoyed, half-amused. “You sure you like the warmth of people?”

“I do.” His gaze locked onto yours, unwavering. “But you’re the only one that matters.”

At this point, you were convinced that Phainon would literally do anything you said.

No hesitation. No complaints.

So, naturally, you decided to push it.

You plucked a random leaf from your ingredients and shoved it into his mouth.

"Chew" you ordered.

Phainon, without a second thought, did. His jaw moved, grinding the leaf to pulp, his blue eyes fixed only on you.

You narrowed your eyes. "That could be poison, you know."

He kept chewing. Unbothered.

It wasn’t poison, but he didn’t know that. And yet, there he was, completely unfazed, still obediently chewing like it was some kind of sacred duty.

"Spit it out" you snapped, reaching forward.

Phainon tilted his head slightly, waiting until your fingers were inside his mouth—

Then he shut his lips around them.

What.

You glared at him. "Let go."

He just stared at you, mouth stubbornly shut.

You tried pulling your fingers free. No luck.

You pressed his jaw. Nothing.

He wasn’t biting down, but he wasn’t letting go either.

Oh, for the love of—

Fine. Desperate times.

You took a deep breath, reached forward—and tickled his sides.

Eventually, pinching his side finally did the trick.

Phainon flinched, jaw loosening just enough for you to yank your fingers free. You scowled, wiping them on your sleeve before storming off to wash your hands.

“Handle the rest yourself” you muttered over your shoulder.

He just sat there, utterly unbothered, still chewing the remnants of the leaf like some devoted fool.

You exhaled, tired beyond belief. “I’m going to sleep.”

Phainon perked up.

“I want to stay here and sleep too” he said easily, like it was a completely normal request.

You turned to him slowly. “No way in hell.”

You had changed your mind. Without another word, you grabbed your broom, fully intending to take off and leave him behind.

Phainon, undeterred, followed. “Let me on too.”

You shot him a deadpan look. “It won’t hold us both.”

But before he could start another argument, you sighed and flicked your fingers, casting a spell to summon a second broom.

“There. Now go away.”

Phainon examined the broom for a moment, then climbed on.

Watching him struggle to stay balanced was the most satisfying thing you’d seen all day.

The two of you eventually landed on a tall tree, its thick branches sturdy enough to sit on. From here, the kingdom stretched out beneath you, its golden rooftops glimmering under the moonlight.

Phainon sat beside you, his usual cloying presence somehow softer in the night air.

“The kingdom has always feared wizards” he murmured, gaze fixed on the city below. “Power that can’t be controlled terrifies them.”

You stayed silent, listening.

“But now that you’re here,” he continued, turning to look at you, “I want to change that.”

You snorted. “Good luck with that.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “You don’t believe it’s possible?”

“I don’t care.” You leaned back against the trunk, stretching your legs. “I’m only here for one thing. When I’m done, I’m out.”

Phainon’s hands curled into fists, but he said nothing.

Satisfied, you pushed off the branch, summoning your broom with a flick of your wrist.

Without another glance at him, you flew back to your room.

Morning came too soon.

You were still half-asleep when Phainon dragged you out of bed.

Dazed and irritated, you barely managed to register your surroundings before you found yourself standing in an ornate hall—filled with too many people.

It didn’t take long to piece it together.

Phainon stood beside you, grinning. His parents—the king and queen—sat before you, their expressions frozen in shock. Nobles lined the room, their whispers filling the space.

He was presenting you.

To his parents.

To the nobles.

As his partner.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. You should have just stayed asleep.

The king was the first to recover. His sharp gaze narrowed on Phainon.

“Phainon,” he said, voice cold with disbelief, “what is the meaning of this?”

Phainon didn’t hesitate. “I’m introducing my partner.”

The room erupted into murmurs. Some nobles looked scandalized. Others glanced at you like you were a wild beast about to attack.

You? You barely cared.

The queen’s lips parted slightly, her grip on the armrest tightening. “This is sudden. You never mentioned—”

“I didn’t need to,” Phainon interrupted smoothly. “It was only a matter of time before we stood here.”

A noblewoman to the side scoffed. “A wizard? You cannot be serious.”

Your gaze flickered toward her—briefly. She flinched, looking away.

The king exhaled sharply. “This is absurd. You expect us to simply accept this?”

“I expect you to respect it.”

The tension was thick. The nobles muttered amongst themselves, their expressions ranging from outrage to uneasy calculation.

You, meanwhile, were just waiting for this nonsense to end.

A nobleman sneered, crossing his arms. “A wizard in the royal family. How ridiculous. Who’s to say they won’t curse us all in our sleep?”

Your patience was already thin.

You turned to him, “Watch your mouth.”

He tensed.

“You should feel lucky,” you continued, smirking. “I’m not a grumpy wizard, or you’d already be a pile of ashes.”

The room fell silent. Some nobles stiffened, others shifted uncomfortably.

Not wanting to waste another second in this mess, you turned on your heel and strode toward the exit.

If only Phainon had found someone else to obsess over instead.

That thought lingered.

Fine. If he wouldn’t let go, you’d make him.

You’d craft a love potion and set him up with someone else.

Back in your room, you wasted no time.

You gathered your ingredients—rose petals, moonlit water,.... Carefully, you mixed them in your cauldron, stirring with precise intent. The potion had to be subtle. Strong enough to shift his affections, but not suspicious.

The thought of finally being free from his overbearing presence fueled your work.

A few hours later, the potion was ready.

A single vial of shimmering, rosy liquid.

Now, all you needed was a target.

Phainon was constantly surrounded by nobles, maids, attendants—surely, one of them could do. Someone beautiful, someone obedient enough to make him lose interest in you.

After some observation, you set your sights on a noblewoman—Lady Elnora. Sweet, well-mannered, and conveniently harboring a quiet admiration for Phainon.

The plan was simple: slip the potion into his drink, then let nature take its course.

You prepared everything, waiting for the perfect moment.

But as you would soon learn—nothing ever went as planned when it came to Phainon.

Slipping the potion into his drink was the easy part.

A gathering had been arranged that evening—a small banquet among the nobles. Phainon, of course, had dragged you along, refusing to let you out of his sight.

You’d use it to your advantage.

While he was distracted speaking to his father, you subtly poured the shimmering liquid into his goblet. It dissolved instantly, leaving no trace.

Now, all you had to do was steer him toward Lady Elnora.

As planned, you struck up a conversation with her, making sure Phainon was close enough to notice.

She was warm, polite, charming. Exactly the type he should fall for.

And then—he turned toward her. His blue eyes softened.

It was working.

You let out a slow breath, feeling something close to relief. Finally, freedom.

But just as quickly, that relief vanished.

Because instead of stepping closer to Elnora—he turned back to you.

With the same, unwavering obsession in his gaze.

He reached out, his fingers grazing yours with sickening devotion.

"You look beautiful tonight" he murmured, voice softer than it had ever been.

The potion had worked.

But not on Elnora.

It had made him fall even harder for you.

Panic shot through you like lightning.

Without thinking, you shoved Phainon away.

His eyes widened slightly, but he barely stumbled. Before he could react further, you turned on your heel and ran.

You needed space. Distance. Sanity.

Your feet carried you through the halls, past startled nobles and confused servants. You didn't stop until you reached the room of the cursed girl.

The air inside was thick with lingering magic, but her condition was nearly resolved. The spell you had been working on was almost done.

Good. The sooner you finished, the sooner you could leave.

You didn’t dare return to your room.

Not when Phainon was undoubtedly searching for you.

So, for the next few days, you did your best to avoid him entirely.

You switched locations frequently, using whatever magic you could to mask your presence. The palace was vast, but not vast enough when the crown prince himself was actively hunting you down.

Every time you turned a corner, you half-expected him to be there—waiting.

The potion would wear off eventually. It had to.

Until then, you just had to stay hidden.

When the effects of the potion finally faded, you cautiously emerged from hiding.

You expected Phainon to come storming after you the moment his mind cleared. Maybe demand an explanation, maybe double down on his obsession.

But what you didn’t expect—

Was to find him collapsed in the bath.

His silver-white hair floated in the water, his breathing uneven. His usually sharp, possessive gaze was absent, unfocused.

With a sigh, you pulled him out of the bath, his body unnervingly cold.

Dragging him to a nearby chair, you grabbed a towel and started drying his hair with little patience. "You really don’t make things easy, do you?"

Phainon didn’t respond right away.

Once you were sure he wasn’t about to collapse again, you leaned back. "The curse is nearly lifted. A few finishing touches, and I’m done."

His blue eyes, now clearer, met yours.

"And once that’s over, I’m leaving."

Phainon blinked slowly, as if his mind was still catching up.

Then, he exhaled sharply. “...Leaving?”

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a firm look. “Yes. That was always the plan.”

His grip on the towel tightened. “And if I say I won’t allow it?”

You scoffed. “Then I’d say that’s not your choice to make.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t engage further.

Instead, you turned to leave.

You had work to finish. And if he wanted to fight you on this?

Let him try.

----

You didn’t expect the cursed girl to bolt the moment she was free.

But the second the last traces of magic dissolved, she barely spared you a glance before sprinting out the door, fear in her eyes.

Weird. But not your problem anymore.

What was your problem, however, was what happened later.

You had been watching from a distance, blending into the crowd as Phainon stood before the entire kingdom.

Then, he spoke. Loudly. Boldly.

"I declare myself the right-hand man of the wizard!" His voice echoed through the square. "And with their power beside me, I shall take over the kingdom!"

You went full mode: WHAT.

The crowd erupted into chaos. Nobles paled. The king and queen looked moments away from passing out.

And Phainon? Phainon looked entirely too pleased.

Without thinking, you stormed forward, pushing through the gasping spectators.

You reached him just as he lifted his sword—probably seconds away from actually beheading someone.

“NOPE.”

You grabbed him, yanking him back before he could do something irreversible.

Because clearly—this man had lost his mind.

The teleportation spell worked—kind of.

Instead of your current home, you landed in your old one.

Dust floated in the air, untouched furniture sitting exactly as you had left it. Clearly, something had gone wrong with the spell, but that didn’t matter right now.

What did matter was the crazy man in front of you.

Phainon stumbled slightly from the sudden shift, but instead of looking confused or angry—

He grinned.

“Running away with me?” he mused, tilting his head. “How romantic.”

“You absolute lunatic.”

The fight had been explosive.

"You have no idea what you just did!" you had shouted.

Phainon, still ridiculously pleased with himself, had only smirked. "On the contrary, I knew exactly—"

You had silenced him with a spell, shoved a leaf in his mouth, tied him up, and gagged him with another cloth for good measure. Then, with a deep breath, you transformed into him.

The plan? Fix this mess.

You returned to the kingdom, adopting his mannerisms, his voice, his smirk. Before the stunned court, you apologized, claiming you had been forced under a spell.

It was going smoothly.

Until it wasn’t.

His parents, their expressions unreadable, finally spoke. "We have no such son."

Oh.

Then came the swords. The arrows.

Instinct kicked in—you cast a defensive spell without thinking.

The room gasped.

And just like that, Phainon had magic in their eyes.

Now the kingdom believed their once-beloved prince was a wizard.

This was not how this was supposed to go.

So, you did the only logical thing.

You ran.

Back to where you had left the real Phainon.

You yanked the cloth away and retrieved the leaf from his mouth.

Before you could step back, he bit your ring finger.

You hissed, but before you could retaliate, he simply smirked.

“That’s like a wedding ring” he mused, tone infuriatingly casual. “For you.”

You nearly punched him.

Instead, you shook your hand free. "No. Absolutely not. And you are not coming with me, either."

He tilted his head. "Unless—" he dragged out the word, voice full of mock innocence.

"Unless you want me to return to the palace," he continued smoothly. "Start a little wizard hunt. Maybe collect a few as slaves."

Your jaw tightened.

"They’ll blame you, not me," he added, watching you. "You did impersonate me, after all."

He was baiting you. And worse—he wasn’t bluffing.

You barely had time to react when the door slammed open.

A ragged figure stumbled inside, looking around like a starving beggar.

You froze. “Princess?”

She barked a laugh. “Hell no.”

Your stomach dropped as she grinned, eyes glinting with something wild.

“Ahh, Prince Phainon” she drawled, turning to him. “Lemme tell you a secret. I ain’t no princess.”

Then she spilled everything.

Phainon. The curse. His plan.

You turned to him, “Is that true?”

Before he could answer, the girl suddenly lunged, a dagger flashing in her hand.

Snap

Her body slumped to the floor.

Phainon flexed his fingers, watching her lifeless form. Then, he turned to you with an easy, unbothered smile.

“Oops,” he said. “Sorry to let you witness that.”

You shoved Phainon aside, heart pounding as you crouched beside the girl.

No pulse. Dead.

Phainon stretched, completely unfazed. “Well,” he mused, “you can kill me, if you’d like. As long as it’s you, I don’t mind.”

You barely processed his words before—footsteps.

People. Coming closer.

You forced yourself to stand, hands trembling as you muttered the teleportation spell. The air around you twisted—

Then, darkness.

You woke up days later.

The scent of food. Soft sheets. A familiar ceiling.

Your house.

And Phainon, sitting comfortably nearby—completely at home.

You blinked blearily as Phainon extended a plate of food toward you. “You should eat,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “You were out for days.”

You took the plate, but your gaze narrowed. “You’re still here.”

He smiled, completely unashamed. “Of course. You’re here.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up. “I should just use you as a specimen” you muttered. “A homeless like you would be perfect for wizard experiments.”

His eyes lit up. “Gladly.”

Fine. You’d call his bluff.

With a flick of your fingers, a dagger flew from a nearby table into your grasp. You grabbed his hand. “Alright,” you said coolly. “I’ll cut your finger off for a potion. Deal?”

Phainon’s grin widened.

“That would be amazing,” he murmured, leaning his finger in closer. “As long as I can stay by your side.”

Without hesitation, you brought the dagger down.

A sharp slice.

His ring finger hit the floor.

Phainon barely flinched. His breathing hitched—eyes widening in thrill rather than pain—but he didn't pull away. Instead, he let out a breathy chuckle.

"Ah…" He stared at his bleeding hand, then at you, voice soft with awe. "You really did it."

You ignored him. Carefully, you picked up the severed finger.

But instead of using it for a potion, you placed it in a jar, sealing it tight.

"You're keeping it?"

"If you ever turn your back on me" you murmured, "I’ll make you suffer in the worst way possible."

He exhaled, almost giddy. "That just makes me want to stay by your side even more."

You sighed, grabbing a clean cloth and pressing it against his bleeding hand.

Phainon didn’t flinch.

“You really are kind”

You scoffed, tying the cloth tighter just to make him wince. “Don’t mistake this for kindness.”

He only laughed.

The room fell into silence as you finished dressing his wound. When you finally let go of his hand, he didn’t move away.

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling.

“You can stay.”

His eyes brightened.

Whatever this scenario was—whatever twisted bond had formed between you and Phainon—you knew one thing.

It wouldn’t end anytime soon.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #phainon honkai star rail #hsr phainon #phainon hsr #phainon #phainon x reader

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