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fushitoru · 3 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

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@soobssedwithyourex @manyno @samkysnks @stefnarda @bbqsauceonmytitties2

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luminiamore · 23 days ago

Text

sweet.

(universe)

warnings: kento being oblivious, gojo flirting with reader (3sum in the near future), jealous reader, soft sex, mirror sex, heavy praise, bare with me noww, this isn’t directly related to part one but it is from the the same universe. im temporarily back lols, enjoy!

for the first time ever in your life, you find yourself filled with jealousy. over a man. the realization is like a poison you can’t shake off, sitting uncomfortably in your chest. you decide then and there that you don’t like this feeling at all. far from fond of the way your blood boils, the way you feel an almost primal urge to fight another woman—over him. your glossed lips crinkle into a nasty scowl as your ears hyper-fixate on the sound of her obnoxiously high-pitched laughter. he wasn’t even that funny.

you swear your eye twitches when she trails her manicured nails down his shoulder, her movements slow, deliberate, teasing. she’s not ugly—not even close. you can admit that. but you’re by no means insecure. in fact, you’re painfully aware of how stunning you look tonight. still, the thought burns: why isn’t he pushing her away?

they clearly know each other; this is a business work event, after all. a secretary, maybe? his assistant? your mind races trying to place her, but no name or face comes to mind. kento never mentioned her before. you would know—he tells you everything about his long, draining work days. he’s also so precise in recounting every detail, you’re there to listen to them as you massage his scalp.

you distinctly remember names like leiri, suguru, utahime. even that guy, gojo. he talks about him the most, despite how much he apparently irritates him to no end.

but this woman? her perfectly styled red hair, the way she clings onto his words like gospel- she’s a mystery. one he conveniently forgot to mention in his stories.

is this why he invited you? to watch him let another woman touch him, laugh with him, lean into him in ways that make your stomach twist?

his face bears his signature stoic expression as he speaks to her, but you can’t unsee the way he smiles occasionally. even the small, intimate gesture of fixing the strap of her dress has your jaw clenching.

kento is a gentlemen, you know this. but does he really have to display it like this? with each passing moment, your heart sinks further, the pit in your stomach growing heavier. it’s sickening.

you’re too pretty for this.

especially tonight, with your strapless light pink bubble dress that hugs your waist like a second skin, sculpting you into a vision of perfection. every step you take, every slight movement sends your high, sleek barbie ponytail swishing behind you in defiance, like a crown that refuses to let you forget who you are.

your makeup is immaculate: fluttery lashes that make your eyes impossibly doll-like, catching every flicker of light, and a soft blush dusting your cheeks, enhancing your angelic glow.

you weren’t brought here to be ignored.

yet here you are, simmering with jealousy, your perfectly manicured white nails digging into your palm as you stare them down from across the room. this won’t do. you weren’t dressed to perfection to be overlooked. not by him.

it seems your prayers were answered, faster than expected too. gojo sauntered toward you with the kind of confidence that bordered on arrogance. his snowy hair was nicely tousled, as though it was styled enough just enough to look effortlessly undone. a smug grin was already plastered across his no doubt beautiful face.

the air seemed to shift around him. his tailored black suit hugged his tall frame perfectly, the satin lapels catching the low, golden light. the collar of his crisp white shirt was left slightly undone, offering a subtle glimpse of pale skin beneath. polished black oxfords clicked softly against the floor.

you hadn’t even noticed him at first—too busy glaring daggers into the back of the redhead currently stealing your kento’s attention. but the moment gojo entered your periphery, the energy changed. this time in your favor.

he was impossible to miss as he approached you where you sat in the middle of the bar. he could sense your simmering frustration from across the room—no doubt about your date letting another woman throw herself on him. and of course, decided to intervene.

“is this seat taken, or should i just assume this drink is for me?” his voice was smooth, too easy.

he leaned against the high barstool you occupied, one arm resting on the polished surface of the bar while the other toyed with the edge of your untouched glass. his tone carried a playful lilt as if he’d already decided the answer didn’t matter—he’d stay regardless.

your brows knitted together in confusion as you turned to face the source of the bold interruption. your pretty glossed lips, which had been set in an irritated scowl mere moments ago, softened and shifted into an involuntary pout

your voice, smooth yet edged with a hint of incredulity, carried the weight of your surprise as you spoke, “um, excuse me?” the words hung in the air as you tilted your head ever so slightly.

the moment he spoke, you recognized him. the confident, almost cocky grin, paired with that signature tousled white hair—it was unmistakable. gojo satoru.

“didn’t mean to startle you, doll,” he said, his voice low. he motioned toward your drink, still untouched, the ice inside barely melted. “this drink is still full, and from where i’m standing, you look like you could use some company.”

he paused, his gaze locking with yours, his smirk growing ever so slightly. “but if you prefer the solitude… i can always grab my own drink.”

his words lingered in the air, but you couldn’t help but notice the challenge behind them, the underlying invitation. he was perfectly at ease, as if this were just another conversation.

you blinked at him, momentarily taken aback by his audacity. the corner of your mouth twitched into a small smile as you tilted your head again, batting your long lashes. “and you are…?”

you asked, drawing out the words with just the right amount of innocence, pretending you didn’t already know exactly who he was.

as of his smirk could stretch even wider, gojo’s gaze sharpens with amusement. kento had mentioned you before— you’re like a doll, a fragile, perfect little thing. and god, was he right. you were exactly what he painted, even more striking in person if he was honest.

your brown skin caught the light in the most mesmerizing way, a subtle shimmer that seemed to radiate with every movement you made. it was as though your entire being was illuminated. every curve and contour of your body glowing with a soft, ethereal radiance. to him, you weren’t just beautiful, but something more—almost otherworldly, like an angel walking among them.

his eyes flickered from your drink, still untouched, and then back to you, his gaze slow and deliberate. he took in every detail, memorizing your every move. the subtle pout on your glossy lips, that almost imperceptible shift in your posture, and the way your eyes glimmered, measuring him up.

he couldn’t help but wonder—how could kento leave you alone like this?

his voice smooth as honey, “gojo satoru. maybe kento’s told you about me? he’s mentioned you a bunch of times.” he pauses, letting the words hang in the air for a moment longer than necessary.

if you’re surprised, you don’t show it. you keep that perfect, aloof air about you, your gaze never once wavering from his.

“but don’t worry,” the white haired man continued, that stupid charming grin still there. “i’m not here to step on his toes. just thought i’d say hello to the beauty he left alone tonight.”

he’s flirting with you. there’s no mistaking it. the playful tone in his voice, the way his eyes linger on you, all of it signals the intention behind his words.

you can feel a warmth crawl up your neck, a subtle thrill coursing through you at the sudden attention. it’s a spark igniting within you, something you only felt with kento. you try to hold back, but your lips betray you, curving into a small, involuntary smile.

for a split second, your gaze shifts over to kento. your heart skips a beat when you find him already looking at you, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. his gaze feels like a weight, heavy and unyielding, pressing against your chest. it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what it is—anger, concern, or something else entirely.

it’s the kind of look that makes you feel exposed. he’s dissecting every tiny movement, every flicker of emotion crossing your face. despite his distance from you.

you quickly tear your eyes away from kento, a twinge of guilt flooding your chest as you force your attention back to gojo. his playful gaze never wavers.

“something the matter, doll?” he asks, his voice light, but the tone betrays an undercurrent of amusement.

you finally respond, your voice a little breathier than you intended, and a warm flush creeps up your neck, coloring your cheeks. “he talks about me? i didn’t really think he was the type to gossip.”

you’re still processing the idea of kento mentioning you to someone like gojo. he talks as if he despises the man, always with a hint of irritation and sometimes even disgust. as if even mentioning his name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

you always assumed the two were at odds, maybe even enemies of some kind with how often he complains about how insufferable he can be.

a deep chuckle fills your ears, it’s like the sound of a well-aged wine being uncorked. “oh, he’s not,” gojo starts. “but trust me, when it comes to someone like you, he can’t help himself.”

his eyes flicker to kento for just a moment, his gaze lingering briefly, before it’s back on you, “i can see why, though,” he adds, his lips curling into a knowing smile. “you’ve already got me hooked on you.”

his way of nonchalance is almost unsettling. doesn’t he know how territorial kento can get? or does he just not care?

you glance over at kento again, his expression unreadable, but the slight tension in his jaw betrays his quiet disapproval.

“you’re not worried about kento?” the question slips from your lips before you can stop it, your voice barely above a whisper, though you’re not sure whether you’re asking gojo or yourself. it feels strange to voice it aloud. you’ve always thought of kento as someone who would take any threat to his control seriously, and here gojo is, flirting with you in plain sight, with no hesitation.

“worried? about him?” he grumbles, “trust me, doll, kento’s a big boy. i’m not sure if i’m the one he need to worry about.”

what did he mean by that? you’re still processing his words, but as gojo holds your gaze, that familiar feeling of being seen—really seen—creeps up on you. it’s unnerving, but you don’t want him to look away somehow.

for a moment, the room around you fades as you focus solely on the man before you. it’s crazy how easily he’s made you forget about everything else. you want to respond, to call his bluff, but something about how intense he is stops you. instead, you simply blink.

before you can even begin to gather your thoughts and formulate an answer, a heavy hand lands on your shoulder. you feel a warmth run down your spine. that scent—woodsy, with a hint of something clean and crisp—fills the air around you.

your breath catches in your throat slightly and without needing to look, you know it’s him. the very essence of kento’s controlled demeanor has momentarily broken the charged bubble that gojo created between you two.

you glance over your shoulder, and there he is—kento, standing tall, stoic, his usual composed self. his sharp eyes lock onto gojo with an unreadable expression, though there’s a subtle tension in his jaw, the only giveaway of how he’s truly feeling. his presence towering over you in a way that feels protective—if not a little possessive.

gojo, however, doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. in fact, he leans back into his seat, his grin widening into something more smug, as if this is exactly what he’s been waiting for.

you can feel the heat of both men’s attention on you now. what is happening?

kento’s voice breaks the silence, cool and measured, like he’s carefully weighing his words.

“gojo,” he starts, his eyes still locked onto the white-haired man. his hand on your shoulder shifts slightly, he’s trying to keep a lid on whatever’s simmering beneath. “if you’re done with your little game, i think it’s time for you to let her breath a little, hm?” he doesn’t look at you as he talks.

gojo is savoring this moment. “what game?” he replies smoothly, raising an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this more than he probably should. cerulean eyes flickering between the two of you, “i’m just saying hello to the beauty you ditched tonight.”

“you’ve said your hello, and now it’s time for us to leave,” kento says flatly, a hard edge to his tone. his grip on your shoulder tightens just a fraction, a silent cue that he’s ready to move things along—away from gojo, away from whatever this is.

before you can process it fully, you make a sound—a soft, almost instinctive protest. it escapes before you can stop it, you don’t want to leave yet.

you were just starting to enjoy yourself. the night had only just begun to shift into something fun—why does he get to bask in the attention of someone else but when it comes to anyone showing interest in you, it’s time to go? that’s not fair.

gojo, ever the perceptive one, picks up on the subtle shift in your energy almost immediately. the way your body tenses, the slight flicker of uncertainty in your eyes as you glance back and forth between him and kento.

“i don’t think the little doll here wants to leave,” gojo comments, his voice dripping with a teasing drawl.

kento barely flinches at gojo’s remark. without missing a beat, his expression hardens just slightly, and he steps fully into your space. “we’re leaving. now,” kento states, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument.

you open your mouth to protest, the words forming on your lips, but before you can voice them, kento’s gaze sharpens, and the intensity of it pins you in place. your protest dies in your throat.

gojo, watching this exchange, can’t help the intrigued look that tugs on his entire face. there’s something interesting about how easily kento exerts control over you, how effortlessly he can shut you down with just a look. it makes gojo wonder—would you react the same way to him? would you let him dominate the space between you, take charge and make you follow his lead like kento does?

a flash of something darker flickers in gojo’s gaze and another flicker of curiosity about what it would take for him to have that kind of influence over you.

you stand from your seat, your so kate heels clicking against the marble floor. you move reluctantly, and gojo watches every step, his eyes never leaving you.

when you glance up and send him an apologetic look, something in him shifts. you look almost delicate in that moment and then something twitch in his dress pants. the very idea of you stirs a response in him that he can’t quite ignore. he doesn’t want to.

“hey, don’t look so sorry, doll,” gojo murmurs, leaning forward just a little, his gaze fixed firmly on kento, his eyes sharp with that unrelenting amusement. “i’m sure i’ll see you again, sooner than you think.”

his presence lingers in the air, like an invisible thread pulling at you, even as you turn away. you know, without a doubt, that his eyes are still on you as you step out and kento opens the door for you, that ever-present smirk never leaving his face as he takes a sip from the drink you left.

the ride back to kento’s penthouse is suffocatingly quiet. the hum of the car is the only sound in the air as the night wraps around you both. your body is turned as far away from him as you can manage, trying to press yourself into the cool, unyielding door as if putting distance between you two will somehow ease the frustration you feel.

the silence grows heavier before kento finally speaks. his voice is low, careful, like he’s trying to gauge your reaction.

“you seem upset,” he starts, the words almost too casual, too calm. “care to tell me why?”

there’s a sharp edge to his tone, barely noticeable but enough to let you know he’s waiting for something—some kind of explanation, maybe.

you don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. you keep your gaze fixed on the window, the lights of the city blurring past as if you’re not even there.

kento’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles turning white as his gaze flickers over to you. his patience thinning, but he tries to keep himself calm, measured as he speaks.

“are you upset with me?”

you remain silent, your gaze fixed out the window, refusing to acknowledge him. but this time, the silence isn’t enough for him. he sighs—deep and almost tired.

“is there a reason why you were letting gojo satoru flirt with you?” his voice is low.

you don’t give him any silence this time. without missing a beat, you turn slightly toward him. your voice uncharacteristically sharp, “is there a reason why you were letting some redhead throw herself on you?”

he knows exactly who you’re talking about—the redhead, his secretary, the one who had been working under him for a while now. honestly, he hadn’t thought much of her beyond the occasional brief interaction. to him, she was just another colleague, someone he’d see around the office now and then, exchanging pleasantries and handling basic tasks.

but hearing you mention her like this makes him pause. was she really throwing herself at him? kento, though sharp in many ways, was infamously dense when it came to detecting romantic interest.

he’d never picked up on the subtle hints or the flirty undertones that others would easily recognize. he’d always just chalked up her attentions as professional, after all he is her boss.

“were you jealous, sweetheart?” he can’t help but take the opportunity to tease you. and despite how frustrated you are, you still shy away from his words. your kento always had that effect on you. jealous? no way.

you quip, “no! not jealous. it’s just weird that you never told me about her, that’s all.”

he watches as you look away, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. there’s something about the way you try to brush it off that only makes him want to poke at you more. he’s used to you being a little oblivious, and honestly, he finds it kind of endearing.

“mm, is that so?” he muses, “it’s weird that i didn’t tell you about her?” his eyebrow raises, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement. “and here i thought you wouldn’t be interested in a measly secretary.”

to kento, when he’s describing his day to you, he only feels the need to mention the important things. why would he ever need to mention someone as insignificant as a secretary?

but he’s not done yet. his gaze softens, and there’s a small, almost tender shift in his expression as he watches you carefully. you almost forget that you two were still on the road. “you really don’t think i’d keep something like that from you on purpose, do you?”

you hesitate, your lips parted for a moment before you mutter, “don’t know.”

a slight chuckle escapes as if to reassure you that it was never anything worth mentioning. you know kento wouldn’t lie to you, and his tone conveys that sincerity. he’s just not the type to complicate things with unnecessary details.

he watches you, eyes soft but intrigued, as he can tell you’re battling what to do in that pretty little head of yours. it’s a look he’s grown used to, and, strangely, he finds it oddly charming. the way you’re focused on him, trying to process everything he says, more concerned with the things you don’t quite understand than with anything else.

it’s a kind of sweetness he doesn’t even realize he’s craving.

you finally make it to his home, a sleek, minimalist penthouse that mirrors kento’s composed demeanor. the dim lighting casts a soft glow across the space, highlighting the clean lines and neutral tones of the decor. the subtle scent of his cologne still lingers in the air as he leads you through the entryway.

his hand never leaves yours, his firm grip guiding you effortlessly up to his top-floor suite. you follow him without question, your heels clicking softly against the polished marble floors. the weight of the evening settles over you, and you don’t dare speak—not because you’re afraid, but because you don’t know what to say.

your thoughts drift, circling back to the restaurant, to gojo, to the way kento’s jaw had tensed ever so slightly when he saw you exchanging words with the white-haired man. the memory sends a flush of heat to your cheeks, but you push it aside, grateful that kento hasn’t brought it up again.

you almost let yourself relax, eternally thankful that he didn’t press further—didn’t question why you hadn’t pushed gojo away or why you seemed so unsure in the moment. maybe he understood that you were caught off guard, or maybe he simply chose to spare you the embarrassment of having to explain yourself.

he leads you into his bedroom, the expansive city skyline visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. the silence between you feels as if kento is giving you space to collect yourself.

you don’t dare look at him directly, instead letting your gaze wander over the room. you can feel his presence behind you, steady and unwavering, and you know he’s watching—assessing you in that quiet, observant way he always does.

still, he says nothing about gojo, and you’re not sure if that makes you feel relieved or unsettled.

however, kento isn’t the type to let something like that slide—not because he’s angry, but because he’s curious. intrigued. at the way you didn’t immediately recoil from gojo’s teasing, the subtle way your lashes fluttered and your lips quirked, had left a faint, simmering heat in his chest.

it wasn’t jealousy, not entirely, at least. it was way more complicated than that.

he watches you for a moment as he helps you undress. he starts with your heels, carefully pulling them off as his hand rests on your soft ankle. his look is sharp, like he’s carefully dissecting the situation.

you’re so sweetly oblivious to the weight of his business partner’s attention and how you seemed to react to it. kento isn’t sure if he should be annoyed or interested at the possibilities it stirs in him.

“you seemed to enjoy the attention earlier,” he says at last, his voice soft and deliberate.

“what? no,” you protest immediately, shaking your head and giving him that wide-eyed look he knows so well. “i didn’t—i mean, it was just—he was being weird.”

his lips twitch slightly into a shadow of a smile that doesn’t quite form. his brown eyes narrow ever so slightly as he stands up, pulling you with him and spinning you around to start unzipping your tight dress. there’s no urgency in the way he moves.

“hm,” he hums, the sound low and thoughtful, like he’s pondering something far more complicated than he’s letting on. the sound of you dress hitting the floor is deafening—and now you’re just left in your white thong standing in front of his tall mirror.

“but you didn’t stop him,” he continues. his words hang in the air, heavy with implication. “you didn’t seem to mind it.”

you blink up at him, flustered, your mind scrambling to catch up with the weight of his words. his gaze feels heavy, pulling at you, and it only makes the heat in your cheeks burn hotter. your lips part, but the words don’t come right away.

finally, you stammer out, “i… i didn’t know what to do.” your eyes flicker away from him, unable to hold his piercing stare for too long, as if it’s too much to handle.

you fidget slightly, your fingers twisting on the tiny band of your panties as the weight of his attention settles heavily on you. “is he usually so forward like that?”

you sneak another glance at him, hoping your words might deflect some of the intensity of his focus. it doesn’t and its making your heart pound a little faster.

he doesn’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch between you for a moment longer than comfortable. it’s on purpose, you can tell—like he’s savoring the way you’re squirming under his attention, trying to find your footing.

then his hand moves, covering your fidgeting fingers with his own, stilling them. “you’re going to ruin those if you keep twisting them like that,” he murmurs.

before you can respond, he leans in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your collarbone. the softness of his lips against your skin sends a shiver through you, and you gasp, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

a warm and deep chuckle follows, leaving a throbbing ache between your thighs.

“usually,” he answers at last. “you liked that, didn’t you?”

your lips part as if to respond, but no words come. his hand slides lower, settling on your inner thigh, so close yet not nearly close enough to where you need him most. it’s eating at you.

you swallow hard, your breath hitching slightly, as your mind struggles to piece together what he’s really asking.

“i’m not upset,” he says after a moment, his voice softening just enough to make you meet his gaze again. his thumb starts tracing slow circles that make your skin burn. “i just want an answer, sweetheart.”

you nod slowly, unsure of what else to do, though you should know better by now.

a sharp pinch lands on the plush curve of your thigh. the sensation startles you, and a soft yelp escapes your lips before you can bite it back. his breath is warm against your ear as he leans in,

“words, doll,” he murmurs, the faint gruffness in his voice making it clear he’s not asking. he’s using gojos words against you and it makes the slick pooling in your panties increase tenfold.

“come on,” he urges softly, “use that pretty mouth of yours. i know you can.”

you messily breathe out, “yes ken, i really liked it.”

you’re so consumed by the weight of your confession that you fail to notice the subtle shift in kento’s expression. there’s a flicker in his eyes, a deepening intensity, as if something has just snapped into place.

he would really do anything for you. anything.

you might not fully understand the depths of it yet. and you don’t need to. in this moment, kento’s world seems to orbit around you, and it’s clear that he’s willing to give everything for your pleasure, your trust, your everything.

that’s all he needed to press two of his large fingers on your panty covered cunt, quietly groaning at the wet patch that seemed to have accumulated during his talking. who knew talking about gojo would get you this soaked?

it seems you’re thinking the same thing as you try to muffle your whine with your hand, covering your face because you’re just so embarrassed. “none of that, sweetheart. eyes on the mirror, understand?”

your legs are shaking, twitching really at the sensation of his subtle rubbing on your sensitive clit. your pretty nipples perking up due to the contact of the cold air. and kento notices, of course he does.

your eyes hit the mirror swift, your hands dropping instantly. your eyes are hazy, staring back at him with desperation, “yes, ken”

“such a good girl. the most perfect girl.”

kento moves to face you directly. with precision, he presses you flush against the wall, the cool surface biting against your back as the heat of his body contrasts sharply against your front. his hands settle on either side of you, caging you in.

his movements are unhurried, savoring every second of you like this. slowly, he lowers himself, his knees hitting the floor with a purposeful thud.

his focus is no longer on you, rather your twitching brown heat. he can even see your arousal dripping down your glistening thighs. your lower lips are plump and sticky, practically begging for him to place his mouth on you.

how could he ever deny you?

he uses his tongue swiftly, harshly, and unrelentingly to attack your dripping mound. starting from the base of your hole to where your clit was poking out of its hood, his senses overwhelmed with the sweet taste of you.

still, he can’t help but bring it up again, “you’d let him taste you just like this, wouldn’t you?”

“kennn,” a cute whine eludes you. but you can’t hide the way you leak even more at the idea. he laps at you more rapidly, sending the sounds you make echoing across the room.

he emits a deep, guttural groan, the sound vibrating through you and making your thighs clench around his head involuntarily. his large hands grip your hips firmly, keeping you firm against the wall as his tongue penetrates your wet hole. “hm, doll? you’d let satoru ruin you like i always do?”

“y-yes- oh! i would!”

kento quickly swaps his tongue with his index and ring fingers and curls them to your favorite spot. finding that the sound you make is something he would honestly kill for. he bets on you making those sounds for satoru too.

he opts to suck, hard on your beautiful pearl with his mouth.

you breath stutters, little gasps and chokes of a moan being stolen from you, “oh christ- ken! ken, baby- m’so close.”

the feeling starts low, deep in your core, like a slow, simmering warmth that makes your body feel electric. ever hypersensitive, you more heavily start to feel that intoxicating pressure in your lower abdomen.

your breath quickens, coming out in soft, airy gasps, and you can’t stop the way your body arches, your back curving as you chase every ounce of pleasure being given to you. your manicured nails dig into kento’s broad shoulder, still covered by his dress shirt.

“will you, sweatheart? make a mess for me, yeah?” you don’t know how but his fingers move faster, jabbing and poking precisely in that sensitive spot that makes your head spin.

“make a mess for satoru.”

then it happens, the release washing over you in a cascading rush that steals your breath and leaves you trembling. behind your closed eyes, you could’ve sworn you’ve see a white light. your legs shake and your glossy lips part with loud, breathy moans that you can’t control, too lost in the waves of pleasure crashing over you.

the intensity leaves you lightheaded, dizzy even. your body swaying as if it can’t bear the weight of such pleasure.

you feel kento’s strong hands on your waist, steadying you, his hold being the only thing keeping your legs from crumbling beneath you. every muscle turned to liquid.

“easy, sweetheart,” he watches you, utterly captivated by the way you’re still trembling in his arms, your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath.

he knows he should give you a moment to recover, to let your body come down from the high that’s left you so drained. this orgasm clearly took so much out of you-it’s written all over the way you slump against him as he stands in front of you.

but kento... kento can rarely contain himself when it comes to you. he strokes a hand down your back, the warmth of his palm possessive, his lips gently grazing your temple.

“you’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick with want. “so good to me, doll. you’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

he tightens his grip on you just slightly, his fingers pressing into your soft skin like he’s staking his claim.

you nod weakly, the response instinctual because you know he’d never do anything to hurt you. kento sees it in your eyes, that sweet look, that unwavering willingness to let him have his way with you-and he can admit, it drives him insane.

“good. good girl,” he whispers.

that’s all you hear before you feel him lifting your body up and your legs wrap around his hips. it’s hard not to pay attention to the pressure of his thick tip pressing at your creamy entrance.

when had he even taken his pants off? you’re not sure. in fact, you’re not even prepared for the way he suddenly presses into you, your slippery folds stretching its best to accommodate to his massive size. fuck, it was all too much!

kento releases a shaky breath, his mind scrambling to figure out how can one person feel so heavenly, “always so tight aren’t you, sweetheart?”

you mewl at his words, mewl at the way you feel so full yet he’s not even halfway inside you yet.

“s’too- too much!”

as if to disprove your trembling protest, kento pushes in deeper, his hips meeting the backs of your thighs with a force. your breath catches in your throat, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as the new angle overwhelms you completely.

your legs dangle limply over his broad shoulders, your knees pressed tightly to your chest, leaving you utterly at his mercy. the position forces you to take all of him, every inch sinking deeper, stretching you in a way that borders on unbearable. but it’s so addictive.

he’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat, stealing the air from your lungs and leaving you dizzy.

“fuck,” he groans, his voice husky, vibrating through your entire body as he holds himself there, buried so fully it feels like there’s no part of you he hasn’t claimed. “look at you, doll. taking me so well.”

his large hands grip your hips, keeping you in place as your body twitches beneath him. the stretch is a sinful combination of pain and pleasure that leaves tears prickling in your eyes.

“can feel you squeezing me,” he mutters, his breath hot against your ear as he leans over you, pressing you deeper into the wall with his weight. “so fucking pretty like this, sweetheart... it’s almost like you were made for me.”

you can’t respond-you can barely think. all you know is you want more. and more. and more.

like he’s read your mind.. he starts to pull out, the slow drag of his length leaving you gasping, each inch pulling at every overstimulated nerve within you.

his hair brushes lightly against your cheeks as he bends down just slightly. his gaze drops to where your bodies are joined, watching with unrestrained hunger as your slick clings to him, coating his entire length.

“look at that,” he murmurs, his voice low, sending another pulse of heat straight to your core. he shudders at the sight, his fingers tightening their grip on your thighs as if to steady himself.

then, without warning, he thrusts back into you with a brutal force that knocks the air from your lungs. your back arches against the wall, a broken cry spilling from your lips as he buries himself to the hilt once more, the sudden fullness making your head spin.

“you feel that, sweetheart?” he groans, his breath hot against your ear as he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, as if determined to remind you just how completely he owns every inch of you. “my perfect angel.”

you’re helpless against the wave of pleasure building within you, dragging you under with every deep stroke.

your warmth is making his brain scramble, causing him to start rambling now. “maybe i should let satoru take you like this.”

the way you tighten around him is his incentive to keep whispering against your panting lips. “bet he wants to own this sloppy pussy like i do, hm?”

you’re not sure what he’s saying. your mind is currently clouded by the way his tip repeatedly taps your cervix. nevertheless, you swiftly nod your head at his words. you’d agree to anything if it meant he would keep giving you pleasure like this.

you feel that familiar heat stirring deep in your lower abdomen, a subtle warmth that quickly intensifies, growing more forceful, more urgent with every passing second.

this time, though, it’s different. there’s something more uncontrollable about it. you recognize the signs — the way it tightens and twists inside you, a sure signal that you’re about to squirt. you’re about to make a mess.

“gonna cum, doll?” kento makes a grunt and directs his hips to directly punish your gummy spot. if he had neighbors, they would probably hear you cry out bloody murder.

you mumble out through your shaky moans, “y-yes! m’gonna cum, for you! for ‘toru!”

you’re so fucked out, you barely recognize the little slip of the nickname you cried out. you’re a precious thing, fuck. his hand slips down to find your little nub and rubs tight circles so quickly, it almost feels like whiplash when the pleasure hits you.

“go ahead, sweetheart. kenny’s got you. let it all out.”

at his command, you do. you gurgle, letting out clear streams of your juice that spray all over his dress shirt, lightly sprinkling over his open mouth, tasting you. your chest heaves, back arches closer to kento, legs tremble as you lose all sense of your surroundings. you can’t even recall your own name. the only thing you know at this moment is this feeling of pure euphoria.

kento pace starts getting uncoordinated, sloppy as he ruts into you. it’s not long before he follows after you quickly, a deep moan rumbling from the depth of chest as he spurts out thick ropes of his seed into your awaiting womb. and you take it all. because yore his good girl.

it’s so much you can feel like overflowing out of your heat, small streams dripping down your spasming other hole.

he gradually pulls out and quickly kneels down to observe how his cum drips out of your cunt like thick paste. it’s mesmerizing. he slides two fingers up your slit, collecting a nice glob of his aftermath before pushing it back inside of you.

you exhale in a mixture of a whine and a choke, even going as far as to whisper that you’re too sensitive. you don’t know that kento had planned this, you also don’t know that satoru is on his way to you both right now. with his eyes still focused on your pulsing mound, he tuts at you.

“don’t be like that, doll. you need to give me at least one more before ‘toru gets here.”

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snaileer · 1 year ago

Text

Wrong Number? Wrong Answer.

It was the usual deal that the Justice League Dark dealt with… way too often honestly.

Initially, it had been just Wonder Woman, investigating a cult that had attempted to abduct her earlier in the month.

Diana had defeated them. Easily. Of course. But upon questioning them, their reasoning had concerned her.

They had attacked her for a ritual to open the ‘Sarcophagus of Eternal Sleep’, a ritual which required ‘a blade blackened by the ichor of time.’

Once again, she was being targeted for her parentage. Did it ever end?

Of course, she questioned them further, what other ingredients did they need, what artifacts they would be hurting others to create.

A ring carved from the bone of an unfreed slave.

A crown made of lava untouched by human hands.

And sand directly from the pouch of Dream of the Endless themself.

It was an eclectic collection of items.

And yet, they had told her that only the blade remained to be created.

Again, it was concerning.

So Diana left the fools to be taken care of by men’s authorities, and focused on tracking down just what they were doing and if necessary, how to stop it.

After depleting her academic resources, and her connections within with nothing to show, Diana finally called in her friend through the league, Zatanna.

Zatanna had been frazzled by it, showing up in her living room before they’d even finished the call.

Together they tracked down the cult to Gotham… which was also a problem.

It was the reason why Diana was running through the caves beneath the crime ridden city with one of her closest friends in men’s world and a magician by her side.

All too quickly, they were surrounded by fanatics, each carrying sharp blades solely focused on her.

Working in sync with Batman and Zatanna throwing spells above them, Diana believed it would be a well-won battle.

Until a golden light flashed across the cave, blinding her for a precious second as she felt a sharp sting cut across her arm.

When her vision cleared, her arm was dripping blood and John Constantine stood in front of her.

“Sorry about that, love,” Constantine smirks, “No harm done?”

Diana’s teeth grind together as she turns away from him, fighting her way through more followers. The one who had injured her is nowhere to be seen, and the blade with them.

Even once the rest of the swarm is beaten, their numbers no longer being replenished, Diana does not feel content. The sense of danger lingers.

“Constantine.” Batman growls, “What are you doing in Gotham?”

The Brit rolls his eyes as he lights a new cigarette, “You know I don’t actually have to tell you every time I enter the city right? But besides, that’s news to me, portals are a tricky business, I’m tracking my own problem.”

Batman glares at him.

“Someone stole from me mate. And whatever they stole it for can’t be good, so I’m here ta get it back. Thought you’d be proud of something like that, Batsy, insteada leavin’ it for someone else?”

Batman’s eyes darken, “We’re tracking a group trying to open the Sarcophagus of Eternal Sleep, is your artifact related to that?”

“Fucking shit it is yeah! Bollocks I didn’t think they’d be using the dream sand for something like that, what sort of mannies are these?!” Constantine exclaims, hastily grinding his cigarette beneath his shoe.

“Hn.”

Suddenly, there’s a rattling boom, the ground and walls shaking around them as dust rains down and they are all forced into stabilizing stances.

They barely share a glance before all three are running down the hall to the source, Constantine left scrambling to keep up.

The scene they come to is equal parts confusing as it is problematic.

The cultists are each in states of disrepair, crusting on the edges or yelling at their leader. The leader is the first to notice their arrival.

“You! You say you are a child of Zeus and yet your blood does not work! You lie of your ancestry!”

Diana steps forward, “I do not! I am the daughter of Queen Hippolyta and Zeus, grandchild of Kronos! The fault of your magic does not lie with me!”

The leaders face twists, mouth open to shout, but a flash of gold slams into him.

“Z, the book!” Constantine yells, arms outstretched as he flings more spells at the surrounding people, glowing ropes binding each.

“On it! Etativel em dna eht koob!” Zatanna shouts, lifting into the air as a book the leader had been holding flies into her hands.

Immediately she begins turning pages with desperation, “Wohs em eht stsitluc lleps!”

The book flips to a distinct page, and Zatanna’s face drains of color.

“Batman, we need to be careful, this spell looks legitimate, we might still have a risk on our hands.”

Batman hummed, looking at the chalk lines of the summoning circle drawn out before them, drawing Diana to do the same. Looking closely at the artifacts placed at each cardinal direction, including a short dagger with her blood nearly completely dry on the flat of the blade.

Batman moves towards the gathered and bound cultists as both magicians whisper over the spell.

Diana continues to look out on the evidence of the ritual, confusion warring in her.

She lays a hand on the lasso at her side. She knew she had not been lying about her heritage, so then why….

‘A blade blackened by the ichor of time.’

She looks at the bloodied dagger once more. It didn’t make sense, even if they had managed to harm a godly descendent, pure ichor would be gold; and even her blood was simply a humanly deep crimson red, not black; not until it-

Diana lunges towards the knife, fingertips brushing its hilt just as her blood dries a flaky black.

Her body slams into the cave walls in the next second, percussive force rippling through the air.

She crumples to the ground, struggling to lift her head.

White boots pass in front of her eyes.

She watches as they move towards her colleague, her friend, only to be surprised as they stop in front of the cultists instead.

As the air returns to her body, Diana lifts herself up, shaking arms supporting her as the weight of the atmosphere presses down.

She looks at the being, the sight almost making her collapse once more.

Mist curls around its form like a mountain peak, iridescent light glowing near its head, pitch black night covering its body, the pinprick of stars so small you can’t see them straight on, claws like a falcon’s beak: unhidden and meant to tear apart. And more importantly, wrapped around the leaders neck.

““̵̨̮̣̀͊̓Y̷͖̊̒o̸̤͈͍͌̈́͘u̶̗̭̲̍ ̵̬̤̞̀̑ā̴̟r̸̹̝̉e̴̞̦̮͑̍ ̴̣̩̖͑̓͛a̷̮̞͍͊͆͝ ̶͍̀̈́́f̷̖̄ò̸͈̓͝ǫ̷̅̀̔l̶̹̥̹̋͌͠.̴̤̲̈́͋̀”̶̛̫̺̈́”

The voice rattles her heart within her chest. She watches as Batman continues to try and stand.

The cultist struggles against the hand, mumbling screams behind Constantine’s bind. The creature tears it off with one claw.

“We summ-moned-… the king! Pa-pariah-!“

The creatures hand barely twitches, but the cultist breaks off in a scream. She is surprised to note the other cultists react exactly alike. As if linked.

“̵̻͝Ý̷͚o̶͈͝u̷̦̐ ̶̆͜d̶͈̄ǐ̸̢d̵̲̓ ̴͖̽n̴̘̅ȯ̸͍t̵̛̯ ̴̫̐ŝ̵̗u̴̹̇m̶̨͠m̴̡̽o̴̱̐n̵̘͝ ̴̪̈h̴̨̀i̶͝ͅm̸̰͗.̴͍͆”̸͔̔ The creature growls, “À̴̳n̸̛̜d̶͒ͅ ̴̤̃y̸̬͝ǫ̸̒u̵̫͗ ̶̘͛a̴̫̐r̷̠̈e̶͂ͅ ̶͔̋ḽ̶̔ủ̷͜c̷̥̍k̴̲͊ÿ̸̯́ ̶͓́f̷͇͝o̷͎͒ŕ̴͇ ̶͔͝t̶̞̀h̸̲̉ȧ̸̮t̷̩͝.̷͔̍ ̵͙͐I̸͎͌f̶͖͛ ̶̜̇y̵̜͗o̴̩̍ṵ̶͆ ̵̫̈́h̴͛ͅā̴̼d̸̤͆…̵͍̈́i̵͍̐t̸̡̉ ̴̭͂w̷̥̔o̷̟̅u̴̪͂l̸̞̏d̵͚̀ ̵͓̃b̴̢̽e̵̗͠ ̸͕̉m̸̠͆u̶̖͘c̷̯͘h̴̤̎ ̸̥́w̷͚͝o̸͐ͅr̶̦͐s̵̨̿e̸͕͆ ̸̙̑f̴̧̂o̶̱̓ȓ̷̟ ̴̠͗ÿ̸̥́ö̵͜ŭ̶̟.̵͎̉”̶͍̀

The man whimpers under the claws.

"I̴n̷s̵t̴e̷a̵d̸,̶ ̵y̸o̷u̵ ̴g̵o̷t̶ ̷m̸e̸,̴I̴ ̶g̵u̸a̷r̶d̴ ̶h̶i̷s̵ ̶p̸r̸i̵s̵o̵n̶ ̶b̶e̷c̴a̷u̴s̶e̸ ̵I w̴a̸s̴ ̵t̴h̸e̷ ̸o̴n̸e̴ ̷t̸o̶ ̶p̵u̴t̵ ̴h̸i̴m̶ ̵t̴h̷e̸r̶e̴ ̵o̶n̵c̸e̵ ̶m̶o̸r̸e̸.̵”̴ The creature leans into the cultist, arching ever higher, angles sharpening, body distorting, "“̸̝͋a̵̱͋n̶͓͛d̵̘́ ̵̡̍f̷̱͊o̵͚̓r̷̪̎ ̴̭̑a̷̬̓s̷͙̅ ̷͍͌ĺ̵̫o̸̻͆ņ̵̀g̶̚ͅ ̷̬͌a̶̮̿s̵̩͊ ̸̫̌t̸̲̕h̸̢̉e̷̖͗ ̴̰̋c̸̹̀ȍ̸͎s̷̡̃m̵̥̍o̷̜͋s̷̗͐ ̴̜͆e̷̛̙x̸͓̑i̶͉̿s̸̹̀t̵̛̺,̴̡͠Í̷̢ ̷̣̽w̵̠͋i̶̺͒l̴̠͐l̸̮̃ ̴͍͌k̴̰̑e̸̠͐e̷̟͋p̵̲̏ ̸̙̂h̷̘͋ị̸́m̸͕̚ ̶̳̋t̶̡̒h̷̩͆e̷̪͝r̷̒͜e̵̡̔.̵̭͗”̵̮̔

There’s a dull flash as light flashes beneath the cultists skin, beneath all of the cultist’s skin, before they drop to the ground unconscious.

All too quickly, air returns to the room, pressure lifting like a deep breath into the room.

The creature turns, eyes meeting Diana’s for just a second as he turns towards the chalked lines of the circle. Diana lifts herself to her feet, drawing closer to Batman as they both watch him, hesitant.

On the other side of the room, Constantine and Zatanna also struggle to their feet, eyes filled with fear and caution as they take in the scene.

As the creature moves, mist still rolling off him in waves, his features fall away with it, gradually smoothing to a more human visage. It looks… young. Boyish.

Those same white boots crush down on the formed crown, the cooled lava rock crumbling under one step. Next is the ring, held carefully in two hands the creature whispers over it, breathy wind carrying it away as it turns to dust. He holds the blade with one hand, flakes disintegrating off as he lifts it.

Diana’s arm tingles.

Then the creature is standing in front of the last point, holding the small brown pouch of sand with consideration.

Silence reigns in the room.

Constantine, of course, is the one to break it.

“I believe that’s mine, mate,” he cuts in, stance still laden with suspicion.

“Oh?” The creature smiles, almost mockingly as he turns to Constantine, “Is it? If I wasn’t mistaken, this ritual calls for Dream’s sand. Are you Dream of the Endless, little magician?”

Constantine visibly swallows, “I’m not.”

The creature huffs a laugh, fangs glinting in his smirk. He moves swiftly, pivoting on one foot to toss the pouch at Constantine, “Catch.”

Constantine lurches forward to try and catch it, only to find it vanish in the air before it reaches his fingers.

The creature cackles, floating backwards, “What did you do to get your hands on such an amount of Dream’s sand, magician? I’m curious.”

“It was a family present,” Constantine grinds out as he turns back to the gently levitating humanoid form, “You can drop the kid facade by the way, you’re not tricking anyone here looking like that.”

The creature shrugs, “And if I’m comfortable like this?”

Diana steps in to stop Constantine from snapping back, “Who are you, spirit, to be summoned by such a ritual?”

The creature watches her for a beat, “I am Phantom of the Dead City, Protector of infinite realms. They did not bring me here, but I knew who they wished to summon and came because of it.”

Batman steps forward, voice interrogating, “The Sarcophagus of Eternal Sleep-“

“Remains sealed. The Tyrant King remains trapped and at rest, do not worry.”

Somehow Diana does not think that soothes Batman, even as a great a warrior as he is.

“Hn.”

“Now, about that spell book,” Phantom turns to Zatanna, waving a hand and the book flies to him. He hovers a hand over it, and Diana watches in fascination as the chalk on the floor begins to burn away, the drawing in the book following.

Phantom looks at her once more, eyes too wise and strong for the age of his face, and then from one moment to the next, he is gone.

The book drops to the floor with a slam, cover open to aged blank pages as the last of the sigil burns away.

Hesitantly, Constantine goes to it, the rest of them following. When Constantine lifts the book with careful hands, they watch another image fade into view on the paper.

A cool colored image of Phantom rising over a city skyline outlined in green against a deep violet sky. Even on paper, his visage shifts constantly between the boyish figure and the ethereal danger of the form he’d appeared in.

Beneath the city lays a large coffin covered in chains.

The lock glows a pulsing toxic green before fading to a steely gunmetal grey and going still.

“Well that was the best encounter I’ve had with a dangerous dimensional figure and I still lost the dream sand.”

Zatanna’s slap echoes in the cave.

#batman #danny phantom #batfam #dc #danny fenton #batman and robin #danny phantom crossover #young justice #bruce wayne #wonder woman #dpxdc #cryptid Danny fenton #John Constantine #Zatanna Zatara #dpdc #dp

3K notes · View notes

ladymercysletters · 2 months ago

Text

Synopsis: Reader has just been given the all clear by the maesters to be with her husband again. There is however the issue that her husband has taken to leaving their chambers before she wakes in the morning, and only coming to bed well after sleep has taken her. Fed up with only ever seeing her husband briefly at dinner, where he is still deep in conversation with one of his bannermen or pouring over papers, y/n takes matters into her own hands.

Word Count: 3,656

Rating: 18 + NSFW (no minors!!)

A/N: I seem to have written a 1980's Mills and Boon. Though I do like the idea of Cregan as Heathcliff!

_____________________________

“Well My Lady” said the maester, putting his instruments carefully back into his bag, “I would say you are fully healed.” He congratulated, looking up at you as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“So I can? We can?” you asked eagerly and unabashed. You had been without your husband for so long and these last few weeks of healing from your latest childbirth had been torture.

“uh, yes. My Lady.” Said the maester bashfully, head immediately dipping down to hide the reddening of his face. You thanked the maester once more before he left, calling in your maids to run you a bath and dress you. Now that it was safe for you to enjoy your husband once more, that is exactly what you intended to do. For almost two moons now you had been parted from Cregan, or at least that is what it felt like. Since you had given birth, though you still shared a bed, you found that he would be already gone by the time you awoke – and in the evening when you would stay up late into the night reading to keep yourself awake for when he did return, he would still manage to only return to bed once you had been taken by sleep. The only reason you knew he did still sleep beside you, was because you could smell him on your sheets and would sometimes still feel his warmth in the space beside you.

You sat in the milky bath as your maids paraded various dresses in front of you. Mabel held up a pale violet crushed velvet dress; it was loose and skimmed over your curves, allowing your skin to breath whilst still catching the candlelight. You had almost decided on that when Florence pulled out one of your old favourites, it was a dress you had brought with you when you first moved to Winterfell after marrying Cregan, a deep blue layered dress with a creamy silk underskirt. You had had it made especially as you had heard of how cold the North was; golden bronze fur lined the low neckline before raising higher at the back. Your eyes lit up as you remembered when you first wore it. That was the dress to seduce your husband.

Mabel and Florence dried and dressed you, plaiting strands of your hair to curl around the crown of your head like a maiden and lacing the front of the dress as tight as it would go. Unfortunately, given your many children, the front would not do up as tightly as it once did. Mabel had suggested a modesty layer for your chest, surely to keep out the cold in such a warm dress. Florence just elbowed her and gave her a look as though she was missing the point.

--x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x--

Cregan yawned as he sat at his table, eyes drifting as he tried to stay awake. He had awoken early as he had every day since the birth of his latest child, dressing quietly and leaving before you woke. Every morning he’d stay and watch you a little: his wife, tucked up in the thick, soft furs of their bed, before tearing himself away. The maesters had come to him shortly after the birth. They had expressed deep concern over the struggle of this birth how weak you were. Given that you had fallen pregnant with this one only three moons after the birth of your second child your body had not been given a lot of time to recover, which they felt contributed to the long labour and your subsequent bed rest.

The sight of you weak in bed; skin drained of much blood and not even able to hold your babe as you had your others. Cregan had berated himself no end at your state, blaming himself and his recklessness that you almost died. So, he did the only thing he could do: he distanced himself from you, leaving your chambers before you awoke and returning only when he is sure you must have fallen asleep.

--x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x--

The first place you looked for your husband, you knew you’d find him, was the great hall. He was surrounded by his men at the high table, no doubt meeting to discuss what more they have left to de before winter comes. You glide into the room as the Lady of Winterfell ought to; nodding to the guards as they opened the doors before taking a slow turn about the room. One of your ladies in waiting came with you, arm in arm you walked slowly about the room, breathing deeply to allow your bust to spill a little over the soft fur neckline of your gown. Some of the ladies of court were scattered about the room: some sitting by the large open fire grate with their embroidery. Greeting them all you sat with them, moving your hair subtly over one shoulder to make the best of your exposed neckline.

Your eyes flickered over to the top of the room, where you see Cregan’s already on you. His brow is down as he looks up through his lashes; eyes raking over your body and nostrils flaring at the sight. Giving him a small smile you hold eye contact as you trail a light hand down your neck, watching as he huffs a breath and turns back towards Lord Burley. Slightly frustrated at his dismissal you stood again, this time walking towards Cregan and his seat. He watched appreciatively though subtly. He could see that dress you had on was one you had worn when you were first made man and wife, the bust was tighter than it had once been and Cregan steadied his breathing once more as he thought of your breasts, full of milk for his babes and practically pouring out of your dress.

“Husband” you greeted lowly as not to disturb him. You picked up the jug to fill his cup. Ever the stoic Northman he paid little mind to you as you greeted him, so you went a step further: leaning over him jut a bit too much you steadied yourself on his thick thigh as you leaned into him to pour his drink. Your warm scent filled his nostrils and his eyes fluttered closed, only opening to see the soft pure skin of your chest so close to his face that all he would have to do would be to lean a little closer to taste you.

Pulling back with a sigh you placed the jug down and drew your hand slowly up his thigh, just grazing his inside seem that wasn’t covered by leather, before retiring from the room. If he wanted to pretend he didn’t see you then you would do what you did best: be a nuisance to him.

--x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x--

You took some time before finding him again, taking tea with your ladies in one of the viewing towers whilst you plotted your next move.

The training yard was where you found him that afternoon. The winter had faded into a slightly less harsh winter, so you and your ladies were safe from having to wrap yourselves up too much as you sat on the viewing platforms. Cregan and his men had clearly been in battle for some time; even with the milder weather you could still see the steam rising from their bodies. You watched as Cregan swung his sword over his head, shoulders rolling as he brought it down onto the shield of the man cowering beneath him. You bit your lip as you watched his muscles move under his shirt. Thick fingers gripped the hilt of his family sword when several men approached at him at once. There was no denying your husband was a warrior: his broad back twisted as he fought from all sides, body turning with ease in his leathers and sweat dripping from his brow as grunts filled the arena. Moving over to where he had left a cloth you took a seat nearer the edge of the grounds.

Giving him your best sultry look you breathed deeply, making the most of your heaving bosom as he stopped for a break, his chest heaving as he strode towards you.

“Wife.” He growled, almost annoyed at seeing you again. You shot him a wry smile as you stood and took a step towards him. Picking the cloth from his hand you stepped up to him and swiped it over his brow, watching as his eyes closed. You leaned forward just a bit too close to be innocent as you trailed the cloth over the back of his neck for him. A low groan rumbled from Cregans throat as you massaged the back of his neck. “It is good to see you out and about my dearest.” He murmured, head tilted back at your touch to watch you down the bridge of his nose.

“Husband. The maester visited this morning.” You let your words drift. He knew what that meant.

“My darling” Cregan growled, cupping your waist “Are you sure?” you nodded, grinning widely at his unhidden enthusiasm. The breath he released almost contained steam itself as he looked you up and down. Your lips quivered to kiss him, but you restrained yourself; simply smiling once more as you left him to his training, his knights calling him back to practice.

--x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x--

You didn’t see each other again until your evening meal. Dinner was quiet. You ate with a few of his bannermen and their families: yourself and Cregan sitting at the head of the table. Though the grip of his hands around your waist had indicated his need for you earlier, you were disappointed to find your conversation at dinner lacking. Instead, he has been distracted by the lord to his left causing you to sit in a haff by his side. Bored, and ready to tease him some more you placed your hand on his thigh, just low enough to not garner any notice.

Your hand rested over the thick material of his trousers before pressing firmer into the flesh of his leg, slowly making your way up his thigh - the only reason you knew he noticed your hand was the subtle twitch in his leg when you pressed closer to the centre of them. Your gentle hand brushed at the thick length buried deep beneath his layers when his quickly slipped below the tabletop to stop you.

His head turned sharply to you, eyes glaring a warning. You had never been a brat before and he certainly wasn’t going to allow it now, in front of everyone. Your hand flexed under his grip as his attention was drawn from you again. Your fingers moved subtly to stroke him – his length thickening in his breeches as your fingertips managed to surround the head. His thighs snapped shut at the stimulation, breathing deeply to avoid making a sound.

Dinner could not end soon enough, Cregan thought as your hand finally retracted from him. His prayers weren’t answered though as, just as the meat was taken away, small plates of sweet treats were brought out whilst drinks were further poured.

Dates shipped up from Dorne were your favourites; split open and filled with honey and chopped nuts they were one of the few sweet things you had craved through your pregnancy. You sat sweetly and eyed him as you ate; slowly biting into the fruit and licking the sweet nectar dripping from it from your lips. Cregan only looked up when he heard a faint ‘oops’ fall from your mouth, only to see you swiping honey from your cleavage, failing miserably as the sticky mess just spread further.

Cregan’s eyes glued to where your finger swiped - watching with thickening breath as your pink tongue wrapped around your finger and sucked. His thick fingers flexed on his thighs as he fought his urge to pull you into his lap and bury his face in your full cleavage to assist you. The shine of the honey distracted him when Lord Tully approached his table to congratulate your new arrival. It was only at the sound of his title leaving your lips that Cregan snapped out of the spell you cast over him and looked up, flushed.

When the last of the trays was finally taken away the Lord of Winterfell announced that the day had been long and everyone should rest, ready for a longer day tomorrow. He only hoped that his subjects did not notice the rigidness of his voice, or the clenching in his jaw as he leaned over the table.

No sooner had you entered your rooms than he was upon you.

“You think you can torment me like that wife?” he growled into your ear, pressing you against your dressing table. “You tease me. All day. In front of my men. And you don’t think I will do something about it?” he pawed at your dress, ripping open your bodice and pulling at the strings holding the rest of your gown together. You were left in just your stays and shift: back pressed against Cregan’s chest as he held you in front of your mirror. His hand held your neck and turned your face to him so he could kiss you, swiping his lips from yours up to your ear. “Watch yourself” he whispered.

The hand that wasn’t wrapped around your throat trailed down your body, over your thin undergarments where his hand bunched up the light fabric moving up your inner thigh - eyes watching you quiver in his embrace. Two thick fingers slid to part your slick folds, his thumb stroking gently over your exposed clit. He continued the slow movements, holding you in place as the pressure barely increased. Only when he could feel you dripping over his fingers did he slip the first one inside you, soon followed by the second when he heard broken moans pour from your throat.

“There’s a good girl” He growled into your ear. Despite the teasing and constant, unrelenting, movements over your little swollen bud the first thick breech of his fingers turned your legs to jelly. Having been without any touch of your husband for so long the rough texture of his palms on your heated flesh and the firm consistent push of his fingers led you to scream into the air – begging your husband for release.

“Please.” You gasped. “Husband!” you begged for gods knows what. Cregan’s lopsided smirk into your fragrant hair was enough to tip you over. The promise in the dark blown pupils of his eyes forcing your first high in months.

Your body went limp against his front, his strong arms coming around your body to lay you on the furs spread out in front of the fire. The thick pelts moulded into the curves of your naked skin and if the buzz from your first high hadn’t made you dizzy enough, seeing the broad frame of your husband staring down at you as he stripped himself of his clothes made you feel as if you would pass out.

Cregan lowered himself down to you, pulling your frame the small way up to his to kiss you properly: the rough stubble that had grown on his face grounded your mind, bringing you back into the moment to feel his body over yours. His kisses were as firm as his fingers pressing into your back, lips trailing down your neck to mark you, inhaling your scent whilst small - deep blooms appear over the swell of your breast. Cregan continued to worship his wife - over your stays and moving the remainder of your clothes out of the way as he did so. His kisses never ceased, beard rubbing deliciously over your newly expose skin when he settled his body between your thighs.

“Now. Wife.” Cregan’s breath puffed out against your sensitive flesh. “The maesters said you were healed?” you whimpered a yes. “Fully?”

“Yes husband” your high tensed voices spoke out.

“Well then…” Though you knew it was coming the high gasping moan that left your lips still did so in surprise. Cregan’s broad tongue swiped through your folds, bathing his tongue in your wetness. His eyes rolled to the back of his skull as he drank you in for the first time in almost half a year. Hands still gripping both your sides they slid down to brace your shaking legs over his shoulders.

He ate you like a man tasting food for the first time, curved tongue pushing as far as it could go before his lips moved to focus on your still sensitive clit. He sucked gently as his tongue continued to play – mimicking the actions of his fingers earlier. The consistent stimulation was driving you insane; legs shaking in Cregan’s strong hands you sought stability by running your fingers through his long dark hair, gripping a handful at the base making him groan into you.

He re-doubled his efforts when he heard your heavy breath and mewls; nose pressing into your pubic bone and tongue lapping generously over you. Your thighs shook and tensed – your high rolling over you in waves. The rush of your flavour on Cregan’s tongue had him groaning into you, lapping you clean in big strokes as your breath softened and you went limp in him arms once more.

“Don’t think you can rest yet my love.” He growled, pressing soft butterfly kisses up your thigh and hipbone as he rose above you. “You think after all the torment you put me through today, you’re only going to come twice?”

Cregan rolled you over and pulled you back up against his front. Your head lolled on his muscled shoulder as you caught your breath, looking up at him through your lashes to see the strong jaw of your husband. His large warm hands smoothed over your rumpled smallclothes; soothing your heartbeat as you relaxed back into him, only to feel his fingers flex into the small openings of your stays and rip them in two from your body.

Discarding the remains of your clothes, Cregan spread your legs further over the haunch of his thighs – pulling you back to settle your slick folds over his cock. Rutting his hips lightly he pushed his hard length through your folds, slicking it in your juices and brushing against your swollen bud before moving just slightly to impale you on his full length.

The shock of the sudden intrusion pushed a shrill puff of air from your lips; the stretch of his girth so welcome. Holding your hips down against him as he pushed up into you, his thrusts strong and firm as his hold. His hips snapped up into you at a steady, fast pace – your hands grasping out to steady yourself as your breath never fully steadied.

Falling forward you finally gained enough strength to start pushing back on him, desperate to get him deeper into you if that was at all possible. Cregan’s broad back folded over you, caging you in as he went to town; hand coming down in front of you to find your bud as he felt you spasm and clench around him. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he flipped you over, propping your legs over his shoulder and pushing back into you in one smooth movement.

His thick length was always a stretch in any position, but the friction brought about by your legs flung over his shoulders was something else entirely. The sparks shooting up your spine with each thrust made you keen and grope at the soft furs beneath you. Cregan watched like a wolf above you. Mouth hung open slightly as he panted, his gaze dragged down your body; from your hair splayed out over the grey black fur beneath you, over your soft breasts bouncing with his thrusts, down to where you connected. He stared at where you connected, groaning as he watched his length plunge in and out of you, your lower abdomen bulging slightly with each movement.

He leaned forward then, face to face with you in a position that just allowed him to brush that spongey spot inside you. Sliding his hands from your thighs, up your arms, he gripped your wrists in one hand and held them above your head, pressing you further into the furs as your legs hooked over his thick hips. The both of you clung to one another as he rutted into you, your hips angling to ride him from below as you both hurtled towards your ends.

Your high came first, Cregan peppering kisses down your next and biting into the juncture of your shoulder whilst you clenched and fluttered around him. He came crashing after you; groaning into your ear and holding his hips steadfastly into yours as he pumped ribbon after ribbon of cum into you, balls drawing up as they drained.

Whilst you came down from your high you felt the weight of your husband slowly drop onto you as he melted into the touch of your fingers rolling up and down his spine. After a moments reprieve Cregan pulled himself away, settling down at your side and pulling the throw at the end of your bed off and over the both of you. You both relaxed into each other, watching the glow of the fire whilst you felt your husband’s presence next to you for the first time in months.

“Never leave me for that long again.” You mumbled, bringing his knuckles to your lips, pressing a reverent kiss to them.

“Never” he murmured. Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head in response.

#cregan stark #cregan stark imagine #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #cregan stark smut #my writing #hotd #hotd smut #hotd imagine

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kabuki-writes · 28 days ago

Text

An Entertainment For The Gods

chapter: 2 chapter 1 | 3 | 4

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

summary: Through an invitation from the Emperors themselves General Acacius and his daughter attend one of the bloody Gladiator fights at the Colosseum. But this time it is not only the brutality of the arena that encaptures Geta and Caralla.

Note: -

word count: 2.5k

There was no bigger temple in Rome than the Colosseum. A monument to the Roman Empire, an architectural masterpiece as well as a slaughterhouse for humans and animals. They had to die for the amusement of the masses in the pale white sand and under the eyes of the Roman citizens as well as the Emperor's. You've never visited the arena before, it just wasn't the entertainment you usually seeked as you fancied the amphitheater and stage plays of comedies or tragedies. No one really died from a well-spoken dialogue and the stages weren't drown in blood afterwords. Your father was a similar soul with this. As someone who had seen war and death countless of times, Acacius developed a distaste for the useless killing, which he argued was the mere core of the collosseum's existence.

But while one would despise this form of humanity at its core brutality, other's simply loved it. First under Commodus the fights in the arena became more frequent, while Septimius Severus after him didn't change anything in that matter. Under Geta and Caracalla however Gladiator fights reached an all time high, especially those 'special' spectacles with exotic animals or ships. They themselves had an own Gladiator school under their wings, which was due to their wealth filled with the most skillful warriors and the best equipment, that it was almost unfair.

Given the fact that both twins enjoyed the performance in the arena and the bloody outcome, it wasn't surprising that they were frequent visitors. For the Emperor the colosseum had an own arena box with the best view over the inner pit and with two throne like chairs for each one of them to sit comfortably. It wasn't unusual for them to have guests here either and this time it was a special one. The moment Geta and Caracalla stepped out, the masses greeted and cheered for their Emperors, who - at least in Rome - offered them bread and games to forget the common sorrows of life. Both of them were dressed in the finest, colorful fabrics, while their golden laurel crowns throned on their heads. They waited for General Acacius at the balustrade to come forward, join them and speak to the people. He was still their celebrated hero, their triumph card, so to speak. It was an easy way to win the hearts of the people through a figure like Acacius, who was the ideal Roman.

After your father held a small, yet powerful speech about the braveness of the Gladiators they'll see today, a slave went forward to place a cushioned chair between the thrones of the Emperors. You hesitated a second, since usually you would be seated at the side of your father. "Since we've heard that you had never witnessed a fight in the arena befoe, we thought you might like a good view", Geta suddenly explained to you, before he sank into his own chair. "Please, sit down."

Your eyes went to your father for a quick exchange and you saw in them how he displeased this way of treatment, yet he nodded and you sat down. More and more you understood that the situation had a differnt tone in it. It wasn't mere courtesy why the Emperors treated you like that and given the way you'd read their eyes, it was more than clear that you've captured their interest. Usually any woman of the realm would fight for that privilege, but you had seen how your father acted in front of them, how worried he was when you first made your way to the palace - something was off. You knew you needed to pay attention and be cautious.

"Citizens of Rome, the arena welcomes you! Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla, we the people bow to your greatness and the mighty of our beloved Empire! Under the eyes of the sun the colosseum presents to you a spectacle like no other!", the high-toned, yet thunderous voice of the richly decorated announcer set the beginning of the show and drew all eyes on the white sand down in the arena pit, where a group of men in armor but with a limited equipment of weapons entered through a door from the Colosseum's catacombs. "First we present to you the brave Gladiators that will be our Theseus' today! They may not need to save their Ariadne, but they'll still have to face horde of Minotaurs today in an attempt to safe their own lives!" With those words a couple of other doors opened and six wild bulls entered the arena. Their massive and strong bodies stirred up the sands with every step of their big hooves. They may've been animals, but they had terrible weapons on their head with sharp horns that grew out of their heads.

Caracalla clapped with a joyful laugh. "Oh i love mythological pieces, even though they forgot the labyrinth!"

Your fingers nestled with the fabric of your dress in nervousness as you watched the men prepare themselves for the attack of the angry bulls, which were already pawing with their hooves. More than one set off to ran towards the Gladiators and given the fast but powerful movements of those animals, it didn't take long until the first fighter got overrun by them and another one faced the horns that drilled themselves like spikes into his torso, where blood spilled like a waterfall. The other fighters tried their best to ran or face the bulls with the few weapons they'd been given. One of them even striked down a beast by pressing his sword into its neck, when it was running towards him. You watched the spectacle with a neutral, yet pale face, while the Emperors seemingly enjoyed the show. Geta quickly noticed the way you followed the happenings down in the arena and leaned towards you.

"Are you not entertained, y/n ?", he asked you in a low voice, still loud enough to overcome the cheerings of the crowd. Your eyes went to him, facing the deep blue of his own, while you tried to put on a mask of apathy. "It is hard for me to understand, why useless killing is viewed as entertainment, I'm afraid," you answered, but it just got you an amused smirk in return.

"Oh it is not useless. You see, nothing is as entertaining as humanity itself. What lies more in our human nature than violence, power and the survival of the strongest? Without that, your father wouldn't be able to win all his great victories and our father would not have been able to secure the Roman Empire after the weak reign of the senate."

"And yet Emperor Marcus Aurelius believed that true strength isn't born in violence, but in mindfulness and kindness. The ability to speak, think and therefore to thrive for something higher than mere survival, is what distinguishes us from animals," you responded in a clear, settled tone. This sudden response surprised Geta clearly as his eyes widened and his fingers tensed up. Even Caracalla's eyes had left the arena for a moment and were locked at you. Even though he followed the fight down there, one of his ears had catched every word you'd said. What a sweet, naive woman you were... it made this whole moment even more interesting.

The corners of Geta's mouth twitched and at first you weren't able to tell if he found your words disrespectful or not. In fact, he'd not expected such a bold answer from a woman, especially not against an Emperor. And even though he wouldn't agree with you, it proved him right, that you were not a simple-minded girl. Naive maybe, but not dull.

"Interesting thought, my dear. But would you recite the words to one of these brave warriors down there too? Who will ll earn their freedom, if violence keeps them alive long enough? We offer them a precious gift, and in return they entertain us."

Your eyes went to the pit again, which was mottled in deep red blood now with only one man and one bull remaining. The moment was intense as both animal and human watched each other with intensity, before the bull stormed forward and the speer of the Gladiator, who waited for the perfect moment, hit his opponent. The massive body fell to the ground and the people cheered in Ecstasy. Geta and Caracalla clapped with admiration for the celebrated Gladiator, as he sunk to his knee and bowed to them.

The next round began after the exhausted and wounded 'hero' stumbled through one of the doors, back into the darkness of the catacombs, before he was replaced by a bigger group of Gladiators, who now had to face armed chariots. Their opponents wore the armory of old Sparta while they teared down one after one with their arrows. You leaned back in silence, watched by Caracalla, whose eyes were taking in her side profile for quite a while now. Even though he loved the fights down there, the blood, the violence... you encaptured him more right now. Your stern face, which carried a deep displeasure for this, while you tried so hard to hide it, it was captivating.

Everyone, even his own twin tend to underestimate Caracalla. Even though he was born a couple of minutes earlier than Geta and was therefore technically older than him, his stature was smaller and he wasn't as tall as his brother. This was accompanied by the fact that he enjoyed the pleasantries the god Bacchus had to offer him: wine, music, arts and sex - even more than Geta did. Together with his rather impulsive way of acting, it often led to the false thought that the more capable brother of them was Geta. Oh, Caracalla hated this, it was a misinterpretation weaved like a thread through his whole life. Because he had a gift, he could read people and together with his extensive web of information sources and spies within the city of Rome and beyond, he had a power that lied in the dark. And it was a preparation he did on purpose after he'd learned about the plot that was once set against Emperor Commodus. Some would've said it was paranoia, maybe it was, but he would call it 'preparation'. Nonetheless it came with the pleasant side effect of knowing a lot about the people around him.

"I've heard that you rather choose the theater over the arena", he said with a soft, yet unreadable smile on his lips. "You're a dreamer, aren't you?"

As you heard his voice next to you, your eyes quickly turned to him. "There is nothing wrong with dreaming, my Emperor...", you answered and he nodded quickly as if he'd hoped for that answer. Caracalla even grinned, his golden tooth gleaming in the light. "No, not at all." My Emperor. The way you've said it with your eyes looking at him. It electrified him, so much so that the cheers of the crowd almost faded in the background. You'd faced the pit and the fighters again, but he was still staring at you.

"Which play?"

"Octavia," the name almost shot from you mouth.

"And you consider yourself to be?"

"Octavia. And you?" You didn't even expected him to give you an answer on that, but meanwhile Caracalla's grin grew wider.

"Nero," he said just as fast as you'd answered before.

Your eyes instantly went back to the Emperor, whose eyes were now focused on the deadly fight between a Gladiator and a chariot rider. He couldn't hold back a chuckle, while he watched how the man pushed his sword through the neck of his opponent, ripping off his head.

Nero.

"Why?", you suddenly asked, this time it were your eyes, that watched him.

"I cannot blame him for setting himself free." His answer was almost like a whisper, yet you heard every word. It was a very unconventional way of interpreting the mad Emperor, one she herself would even despise, if he wouldn't seem to be so certain of it. It meant something more.

The arena fight slowly came to an end, when only to oppontents were fighting for the right to claim the victory. Nearly all of the Gladiators and chariot riders were dead, their bodys laying in the pale sand and drowining it with their blood, a weird composition of death that accompanied your questions about Caracalla's answer.

After a final hit, one of the men went down on his knees. He was wounded, severely, and he now felt the tip of a sword against his neck. He surrendered and the gods had to decide what will happen with him. One of the Gods was Geta, who stood up from his chair and approached the balustrade, while the crowd called for a decision. The Gods need to decide, yet Geta suddenly turned his head to you. "What do we say,...? y/n, should he live or die?"

Your face grew even paler than it already was, your fingers were almost digging themselves into the armrests of your chair. You felt a thousand eyes on you, even though it was only Geta and Caracalla watching you, as well as the eyes of your father from behind. The Gladiator waited, while his opponent's arm was cut off and his head was bowed down as if he awaited death. And the crowd screamed and screamend. Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.

It rang in your ears, you didn't want to make this decision. But the moment you faced the Emperor, just as you opened your mouth, Geta simply bowed his thumb down - Death.

And the sword went down. Death.

The head dropped in the sand followed by the body, the cheers errupted in the arena, screaming the name of the victorious Gladiator. But you just stared into the nothingness that was in front of you, while you bit your tongue to the point of pain. "Don't pain yourself about this, my dear. There was only one answer anyways," Geta said while he suddenly reached out for your hand and kissed your knuckles, before he took his glass of wine. You didn't move, you couldn't.

Caracalla stared at this scenery and his fingers were shaking as his eyes darkened. The intense urge came up his mind: To simply take his brother and throw him from this box into the pit, his neck breaking from the impact. Those thoughts sometimes came and went, but they got more intense every time he saw Geta interacting with you. And this interaction hit a new high point in him that was only interruped by your form the moment you stood up.

"My Emperors, it was a pleasure to join you, but i need to leave now...", you said in a tone that tried so hard to be polite and not carry any emotion, before you turned your back and quickly stepped out of the imperial arena box, followed by your father General Acacius, who bowed and excused himself in an equally neutral tone.

Both Geta and Caracalla watched them leaving, before the taller one of the twins took a deep sip of his wine. "She'll learn to love it sooner or later."

______________________________

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beloveds-embrace · 2 days 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

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rafestify · 1 month ago

Note

OMG PLEASE WRITE SOMETHING WITH JJ X FEM READER WHERE HE SURVIVED I NEED HAPPY ENDING PLEASE

Blue Crown — JJ Maybank

**Season 4 part 2 spoiler alert! read at your own risks ⚠️

Summary : In which the only way to help JJ is by getting that blue crown back from Chandler Groff.

JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

Warnings : usage of knife, heavy language, violence, blood, gun, english is not my first language

A/N : im afraid this is my coping mechanism, oh btw rafe's not in this story i just dont know what i would do with him

The midday sun blazed high, unbroken and blinding, but the sandstorm approached like a golden wave, shimmering in the light. The air grew hot and dry, buzzing with an electric anticipation as gusts began to whip up the ground. In moments, the bright world transformed, the desert around cloaked in a chaotic dance of light and sand.

Grains swirled furiously, each one catching the sunlight, creating a blinding haze of gold and white. Visibility shrank to a few feet, the sandstorm casting the world in a strange, glowing fog. It was harsh, relentless, every breath filled with the sting of earth and sun, an unstoppable force of nature bearing down with brilliant fury.

JJ’s feet finally hit the dusty ground, the force of his landing sending a cloud of sand and dirt rising into the air. The narrow alleyway of Essaouira echoed with the sound of his boots hitting the cobblestones as he steadied himself. He clutched the wrapped blue crown in his hands, his knuckles white. “You good?” I asked, my voice full of concern as I stepped closer to him, eyes scanning his face for any signs of strain.

“I’m good, I’m good. I’m better, actually. I’m great!” JJ said with a grin that seemed to spread across his face like wildfire. He rushed over to me, pulling the scarf from the crown with quick, excited movements. “Cause look!” he exclaimed, his voice full of energy.

He held up the crown, now revealed, but it was covered in dust, the rich blue stones clouded by the grime of their journey. Despite the dirt, the crown’s intricate design was unmistakable, its value evident even beneath the layers of dust. My breath caught in my throat as I saw it, this relic, this symbol of everything we had lost. “No way, oh my god,” I whispered, my eyes wide with disbelief. My grin mirrored JJ’s as we both stood there for a moment, taking in the weight of the moment.

JJ’s loud cheer broke the silence, ringing out into the alleyway and bouncing off the high walls of the medina. “I... I did it!” he shouted, the sheer joy and relief in his voice undeniable.

I couldn’t help but laugh, my heart swelling with pride. “Do you know what this means?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, as if I didn’t want to jinx it.

“Oh yeah, I do,” JJ said, his grin widening. His eyes shone with an intensity that made everything feel possible again. “We’re getting it back. We’re getting back our home.”

His words hung in the air between us, full of hope and the promise of a new beginning. I couldn’t help but smile as I wrapped my arms around him tightly. “You did it, baby. You did it!” I whispered in his ear, my heart hammering in my chest.

For a moment, everything felt right, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from our shoulders. But then, a cold chill ran down my spine, and I sensed something shift in the air. JJ’s expression changed in an instant, his eyes narrowing as he looked behind me, his body tensing. Without a word, he grabbed my arm and pulled me back, hard. “Wait, wait, hey! Go, go, go!” he shouted, his voice urgent, his grip tight on my wrist.

Before I could react, a sharp crack echoed through the air. The sound of a gunshot. The bullet whizzed past us, a split second away from tearing through the space where we had just been standing. My heart skipped a beat, and my body went into full panic mode.

“Run, run, run!” JJ yelled, pushing me forward, his hand at the small of my back, guiding me with the force of his desperation. The narrow streets of Essaouira stretched out ahead of us, winding and twisting like a maze, but we had no time to think, only to move. The sound of the gunshot still reverberated in my ears as we sprinted through the bustling medina, the faded buildings on either side almost closing in on us, the warm air heavy with the scent of saltwater from the distant ocean.

I could hear the sound of heavy boots behind us, pounding against the stones. The mercenaries were closing in. I could feel my lungs burning as I pushed my legs harder, adrenaline fueling every step.

“C’mon, Y/N, we gotta find the others!” JJ shouted from ahead, his voice sharp but full of focus. He had a plan. I could tell by the way he moved, the urgency in his every step. He was determined, but so was I. We had come this far, and we weren’t about to lose everything now.

We reached a narrow staircase that led downward into the heart of the maze of Essaouira’s old city. The steps were uneven, some worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, others jagged and crumbling. We had to be careful as we descended, not just from the chase, but from the danger of slipping on the worn stones. My pulse raced as we moved, the sound of our feet pounding against the stone seeming deafening in the otherwise still air.

JJ called out to me, “Hey, Y/N! This way!” His voice came from behind, but I didn’t look back. I had a feeling this was our only chance to lose the mercenaries. I kept my head down and pushed forward, following the winding path through the narrow streets and alleys.

Finally, we reached a small open space near the bottom of the staircase, a brief moment of cover amidst the tightly packed buildings. The view of the city below was dizzying, the sea stretched out in the distance, and the maze of whitewashed houses. But I couldn’t afford to enjoy the view, or at least not yet. I turned to take a breath, my body trembling with exhaustion, “J!” I called out and just as I did, I felt a sharp pressure against my neck. A strong arm wrapped around me from behind, dragging me backward with frightening speed.

I gasped, my breath choking in my throat, as I struggled against the iron grip around my neck. My heart hammered in fear. “Shh!” The man behind me grunted, his grip tightening, cutting off any chance of air. My mind raced—how had they gotten so close? Where was JJ?

“Quiet, quiet. Shut—” His voice was low, guttural, as he squeezed harder.

“J!” I managed to croak out, each word a desperate gasp for air.

“Y/N,” I heard JJ’s voice, strained but strong, coming from the shadows. My heart leapt as I caught sight of him, standing firm, one arm shielding his face from the dust swirling in the air. “JJ!” I cried, relief flooding my chest, though fear still gripped me.

“Let her go,” JJ commanded, his voice cold but unwavering.

The man behind me stiffened, and I heard him growl, “Stop right there.” And that was when the weight of the situation hit me. The voice was unmistakable, Chandler Groff. JJ's biological father.

I swallowed hard, every muscle in my body tense, ready to fight back, but I couldn’t move. My body was locked in place, held captive by his suffocating grip. All I could do was let out weak grunts, trying to free myself from the hold, my hands instinctively pressing against his arm in a futile attempt to loosen it.

“Don’t move,” Groff ordered, his voice venomous as he squeezed harder. My lungs burned, and I gasped for air. His grip was like iron, and I could feel my vision beginning to blur. I tapped at his arm in a silent plea, trying to signal that I couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t seem to care.

“You know what I want,” Groff said, his voice laced with a twisted calm as he extended his hand toward JJ. “Give it to me.”

JJ’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it was full of resolve. “Just let her go.”

Groff chuckled bitterly, his breath hot against my ear. “You could’ve stuck with me, JJ,” he sneered, his words dripping with regret. “Think of what you could’ve had."

I felt the cold edge of a knife press against my cheek, and my breath caught in fear. “But now,” Groff continued, his voice growing darker, “you’re going to get nothing.”

I felt his grip tighten again as he hissed, “Nothing.”

JJ seemed distant, as if lost in his own thoughts. His eyes, focused but distant, flickered between Groff and the crown in his hand. Then, in a quiet but firm voice, he spoke. “No.” The word was resolute, cutting through the tension like a blade. He muttered to himself, barely audible, “I already have everything.”

I looked at him, confusion and worry swirling in my chest, but JJ didn’t seem to notice. His gaze grew distant, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And I already have everything I’ve wanted,” he continued, his voice almost hollow, as if he was saying the words to convince himself. “Things that you’ll never have,” he added, his smile somehow broken.

Suddenly, without warning, JJ held out the crown, the weight of it now settling between us like a silent challenge. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. “You want the crown?”

Groff’s eyes locked onto the crown, and for a moment, his expression softened, as if the object was the only thing that mattered. “Sure, take it,” JJ said, his words cold, almost dismissive. “Take it. I don’t want it,” he reassured, his eyes never leaving Groff’s.

“Just… let her go,” JJ’s voice was low, but there was a sharpness to it now, a finality. Groff’s hand shot out greedily, reaching for the crown. “Perfect,” he said with a grin, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Hold it out.”

“Take it,” JJ repeated, his voice unwavering, no trace of doubt in it. His eyes were locked on Groff’s, his stance firm. “Easy,” JJ added, the words low, but there was something steady about them. He was ready for this. He was ready for this moment to be over.

I could barely breathe, my chest tight as I watched them, my heart racing. My body was still trembling from the fear, but I could sense the shift in JJ’s demeanor. His resolve was unwavering now.

“Hold it out. Come on,” Groff urged, his hand outstretched, fingers grasping for the prize.

In that instant, JJ pulled me into his embrace, and I gasped as his arms wrapped around me, pulling me close to his chest. I buried my head in his neck, gasping for air, the pressure lifting from my lungs as I felt the safety of his hold. My hands instinctively wrapped around him, holding him tight, as if making sure this wasn’t a dream.

“I got you,” JJ murmured, his voice thick with relief. I felt his heartbeat against my cheek, steady and strong. His arms tightened around me as if afraid to let go. “It’s okay,” he whispered again, the words soothing, though his voice still trembled with the remnants of fear.

I pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes, and my heart swelled. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, the words heavy with all the gratitude and emotion I couldn’t fully express.

JJ’s grip tightened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt like everything would be okay.

“JJ.” Groff’s voice sliced through the tense silence like a blade, and JJ stiffened, his body reluctant but yielding. Slowly, he pulled away from me, his movements slow, almost pained, as if every inch away from me felt like a sacrifice. He turned to face Groff, his expression hardening, the relief of the moment slipping away as he steeled himself for whatever was coming.

Groff stood there, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, like a predator toying with its prey. “It’s a shame,” he said, his tone low and almost mournful, though there was no sincerity behind it. His voice carried the weight of a long-forgotten history, one that neither JJ nor I could escape from. “You and me,” Groff continued, his words heavy with regret or perhaps mockery, there was no telling. I stood silently behind JJ, my hands still gripping his shirt, my pulse racing.

Suddenly, I heard the sickening squelch of flesh, and JJ jerked forward, his body lurching as if the world had been ripped out from beneath him. My breath caught in my throat, and I let out a shaky, disbelieving gasp. No, no, no, this can’t be happening. My mind was scrambling to process what I was seeing, but everything seemed to slow, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

I heard JJ’s groan, a deep, painful sound that tore through the air. My stomach dropped, my heart racing. The knife had sunk deeper. “No,” I whispered, my voice trembling as my hands shook, my body frozen in place. And then, as if to mark the moment, I heard Groff’s voice, dark and cold as it slid through the air. “You could have given me the rope,” he murmured, his voice heavy with cruel satisfaction. His tone was like poison, dripping with malice.

Before I could even react, Groff pulled the knife out with a sickening, deliberate slowness. The sound of it tearing through JJ’s flesh was unbearable, sending a shudder through me. I watched as the dark blood poured from his side, staining his shirt, his skin. Groff didn’t even seem to care, his eyes devoid of any emotion as he took one last, final look at his son.

And then, with an almost casual air, he turned away, walking off as if nothing had happened, as if the pain he caused was nothing more than a fleeting moment in his day.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. My body moved without thinking, rushing forward, reaching for him just in time to catch him before he hit the ground. JJ crumpled in my arms, his body too heavy, too weak to stay upright. His hand instinctively clutched his wound, pressing desperately against the blood that poured from him. His face was pale, his eyes glazed, but still, he tried to hold himself together.

“JJ! No!” I cried out, my voice breaking. I lowered him gently to the ground, my hands shaking violently as I tried to arrange him, to make him comfortable, but nothing felt right. “No, no, no,” I whispered, over and over, as if saying it could somehow make the horror stop.

JJ’s breathing was shallow, ragged, every exhale more painful than the last. His lips parted, his voice barely a whisper, and the words that came from him shattered my heart into a million pieces. "I never told you my wish," he groaned, his hand trembling as he reached up to grab mine. His eyes searched mine with a kind of desperate pleading, but there was nothing I could do to stop the blood that poured from him, nothing I could do to undo the damage.

“JJ–,” I whispered, my voice cracking as tears began to well in my eyes. But his eyes were growing heavier. His body trembled, and I felt him sag against me, his hand slipping from mine. The breath he took was so weak, so labored. It was as if the world was slipping away from him, and I was powerless to stop it.

His lips parted again, and this time, the words that left him were barely a breath. "I already got it" The words were soft, too soft, as if he didn’t have the strength to say them. But in that moment, they crushed me more than anything else could.

“No, no, no, JJ.” I clung to him, my voice barely a whisper, but it trembled with all the fear and desperation I felt. I tried to hold him together, my arms shaking as I cradled his fragile body, willing him to stay with me. “You can’t leave, please don’t leave me.” My words cracked under the weight of the pain.

His breath was ragged, barely audible as he managed to speak, his voice strained and faint. "I love you, Y/N." The words came out in a broken gasp, as though they were the last thing he could say.

“I love you too, JJ. So much," I whispered through my tears, my heart shattering with every second. "Please, please don't go. I can't lose you, not now, not like this. You can’t leave me." My sobs wracked my body, the reality of the moment crashing down on me, but I refused to let go, even if I knew I was losing him.

And still, there was no response. His body became heavier in my arms, his head lolling to the side, and my chest tightened painfully as I realized how much I was losing. I pressed my hand to his wound, but I knew it was futile. His blood was everywhere, soaking through my fingers, and I could do nothing but hold him as he closed his eyes. I could feel the warmth of his fading life slipping through my grasp.

I felt the tears burning in my eyes as I whispered again, “JJ”

And all I could do was hold him, wishing for a miracle that would never come. The weight of his body in my arms felt like a thousand pounds, each breath he took growing more shallow, more labored. The world around me was nothing but a blur of pain, fear, and hopelessness. My hands were shaking, covered in his blood, and I could do nothing to stop it. "John B!" I screamed again, my voice cracking as I looked desperately around, hoping they would somehow hear me. "Pope!" I yelled, but the words felt hollow, lost in the chaos of my thoughts.

It was like time slowed as I held him, the seconds stretching painfully long. My heart was tearing apart with every breath he struggled to take. Suddenly, I heard footsteps, familiar voices calling out to me. I looked up through my blurry vision, and there they were.

John B and Sarah appeared first, their faces stricken with shock and confusion, but it was the moment they exchanged a glance that I knew they understood the gravity of what was happening. The look between them spoke volumes, a shared recognition that this was life or death.

Then, Pope, Kiara, and Cleo rushed in, their faces mirroring the same horror. Kiara’s eyes filled with tears, but she bit her lip, fighting them back, while Cleo’s hand trembled as she kneeled down beside me. Everyone was in shock, but the urgency in the air made it clear: something had to be done, and fast.

I couldn’t hold back any longer. My body shook with sobs, my chest tightening as I buried my face in JJ’s hair, whispering over and over, “Please... don’t leave me.”

Suddenly, amidst the haze of grief, it hit me, the crown. The crown! I gasped, my eyes wide with realization, my voice trembling as I turned to John B. “John B, the crown!” I nearly choked on the words. “Please get the crown back... It could save his life.” I reached for him desperately, my hands gripping his arm. “Please, it could save him. Groff took it. He has the crown!”

John B and Sarah exchanged a quick look, their minds already working, already on the move. John B nodded grimly. “We’re getting it back,” he said firmly, turning to Pope, who was already on his feet, determined.

Pope wiped the sweat from his brow, eyes steely with resolve. “Where is he? Where did Groff go?” he asked, voice low and steady, though I could see the urgency in his eyes.

“Somewhere nearby,” I whispered, choking on my breath. “He can’t be far. You have to find him... the crown can grant a wish... It’s our only chance to save him.”

They both nodded to each other and immediately sprinted off, their eyes scanning the surroundings, their minds racing to figure out where Groff would have gone.

Meanwhile, Kiara, Sarah and Cleo stayed with me, doing their best to comfort me. But nothing could bring me peace. I was too afraid, too consumed by the image of JJ growing weaker and weaker in my arms. Every second felt like an eternity.

John B and Pope moved through the winding streets of Essaouira with a precision born of desperation. They didn’t need words to communicate anymore, their shared focus on getting the crown back drove them forward. They knew the stakes were higher than ever.

After what felt like hours, John B finally spotted Groff’s silhouette in the distance. He motioned for Pope to follow him, and they carefully closed the distance. Groff was standing alone in the alley, the crown glinting in his hands, tucked safely within his grasp. His back was turned, unaware of the approaching threat.

Without a word, John B and Pope charged forward. “Groff!” John B shouted, voice cutting through the air. Groff turned, his face twisted into an amused smirk, as if he’d been expecting this.

“Routledge, you really are like your father, huh?” Groff sneered, his grip tightening around the crown. “You had your chance, kid, but now it’s mine.”

John B didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, throwing a punch that Groff barely dodged, but it was enough to send him stumbling backward. Pope followed, using the momentum to land a hard blow to Groff's side. Groff grunted but recovered quickly, his eyes narrowing with fury.

"You’ll never win, you know that?" Groff hissed, drawing a knife from his belt, the blade flashing in the dim light. "I’ve always been one step ahead of you."

John B and Pope exchanged a quick glance, knowing they had to act fast. John B charged again, dodging Groff’s swipe and knocking the knife from his hand. They were both quick, relentless, using every ounce of energy to fight him off.

Groff snarled in frustration as he tried to backpedal, but Pope tackled him from behind, sending them both tumbling to the ground. In the struggle, the crown fell from Groff’s grip, bouncing across the stone street. Without thinking, John B scrambled for it, grabbing the crown and standing up with it in his hand.

“I told you,” John B said breathlessly, looking down at Groff, “we’re gonna take back what's ours.”

Groff, seething with rage, scrambled to his feet, but he knew the battle was lost. He glared at John B and Pope with a venomous look, but he didn’t make another move. “This isn’t over,” he spat, before turning and disappearing into the shadows, leaving them standing victorious, but at a great cost.

John B and Pope rushed back to where I was, their eyes scanning the crowd. When they saw me still holding JJ, they didn’t need to ask. They knew. John B thrust the crown into my hands, his face filled with determination.

“We got it,” he said, panting from the exertion.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared at the crown, the only thing that could save him. I placed it gently onto JJ’s chest, my hands trembling. They all watched carefully as I closed my eyes, whispering a prayer to the universe. "Please, please let this work. I can’t lose you, JJ.”

And just like that, I felt a shift, a flicker of hope, a warm light growing from within the crown. The energy seemed to pulse, as if it was answering the wish I had silently made.

The moment the crown touched JJ’s chest, a strange warmth radiated from it, spreading through his body. I held my breath, my hands still trembling as I hovered over him, watching, praying for a sign. At first, nothing happened, just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the quiet whisper of his breaths filling the silence around us. But then, a soft glow began to emanate from the crown. It wasn’t bright or blinding, but it was enough to make the air feel charged, alive.

A shaky breath escaped my lips as I watched, my heart racing in my chest. I whispered again, my voice barely audible. "Please, JJ."

Suddenly, a jolt of warmth shot through my hands, and I felt the familiar weight of his body beneath me shift. His eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened, a faint groan escaping his lips.

"Y/N..." His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but it was there. He was still here. I felt a wave of relief crash over me, overwhelming and dizzying. His eyes met mine, and I saw the faintest hint of recognition.

"J" I gasped, my voice cracking as I leaned down, pressing my forehead to his. I couldn't stop the tears that drop from my eyes "Oh my god, I thought I lost you,"

He blinked a few times, as if trying to make sense of the world around him. His hand trembled as it reached up to touch my face, his fingers brushing against my skin as though confirming that I was real. His voice was still weak, but there was a clarity in his eyes now, a spark of life that hadn't been there moments before. "You're not getting rid of me that easy."

I let out a chuckle as tears streamed down my face, and I couldn’t stop them. "J.." I couldn’t finish the sentence, my throat too tight, my emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

JJ tried to sit up, but the movement caused him to wince, his hand pressing against his side where the wound still lingered. I gently placed my hand on his chest, stopping him. "Don't" I said sternly.

He gave me a small, weak smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I promise."

I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me, a sound of pure relief. I leaned down again, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "You can't kill a pogue" He mumbled as he looked around at his friends, his voice thick with emotion.

JJ reached up, his hand cupping the back of my head, his thumb gently brushing against my hair.

I closed my eyes, holding him close, savoring the warmth of his body against mine. The crown still rested on his chest, glowing faintly, as though it had worked its magic. I didn’t know how, or why, or what kind of power it had, but in that moment, I didn’t care. All that mattered was that JJ was alive. He was here. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

I looked around at all of them, my heart swelling with gratitude for the people who had fought so hard to get him back. We had all been through so much, but in that moment, we were together. And no matter what came next, we had each other.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

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