“Fine,” Suguru hissed, hesitantly pulling out of you but not before throwing Satoru a heated glare. 

“I can keep your concubine company,” she smiled, blue eyes sparkling with satisfaction as Suguru unceremoniously shoved his cock back inside his pants, storming past her to go off and search for an advisor who was likely already tucked into his bed. 

He would just come back for you once he figured it out. 

But by then, Satoru was sure she could kill the mood enough that he wouldn’t get to have you tonight. 

Not without her in the room. 

“I’m sorry,” you softly apologized once he was gone, hastily pulling your dress down, embarrassed that she’d seen you so exposed. 

As if it wasn’t the first time. 

She was well aware of her husband’s preference for you to not wear any undergarments when he was planning on seeing you. Had walked in on the two of you in their marital bed more times than she could count. 

At first, she thought it was better you than her. 

Held no interest in having sex with him herself or making any heirs, no matter how much the court tried to convince her that it was necessary. 

Why would she ruin her body for a man she could barely stand? Who she was forced into a political marriage with? 

Lately? 

She was growing tempted to just take her clothes off and offer herself up if it meant Suguru would go a single day without insisting on having sex with you. Even if she’d be resisting the urge to gag and roll her eyes at every one of his groans.

“I’ll return to my chambers, Your Majesty,” you respectfully murmured, averting your gaze with faint shame creeping into your fair features. You were trying to not make this strange or strained, smoothing out your dress as you pushed your palms off the blanket. 

“How many times must I ask you to call me Toru, hm?” She teased, breaking the tension with an easy laugh. 

It used to be breezy to be around you. 

Before he snatched you from her grip. 

Back when you were both girls growing up together, as a princess and her maid. Your delicate hands brushing her hair and working all the knots out with nimble fingers at the end of every day, chatting about the scullery gossip before Satoru would pull you into the blankets and demand that you sleep next to her. 

To keep the nightmares away. 

Everyone always let Satoru do what she wanted. 

Except for having you. 

Sure, she could drag you around, take you everywhere she went, but instead of simply being hers, you were more of an accessory. 

The most you could be was a maid. A servant. 

Not a lover. 

Satoru tried to be content with that. Truly. 

Accepted it from an early age that you weren’t going to be hers when she was destined for a political relationship and your stare often lingered a little too long on knights instead of ladies.

She told herself that at least she got to bring you along to this palace to be by her side for this marriage, but the moment Suguru saw you standing next to her, he stole you. 

Made you his concubine within the week, put you in your own room and dolled you up in gowns and gems. Satoru had been sneaking blue dresses in your new closet, replacing the jewel tones and purples with the shades of the sky, of the ocean rather than the rich hues he had such a proclivity for. 

But it didn’t make much of a difference when you were tending to him now instead of her. 

“Toru,” you said her name so sweetly, chewing the inside of your cheek now as you reluctantly met her stare. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” 

“You are not the one who should apologize,” she exhaled, shrugging her shoulders as she walked over to where you were sheepishly staring at the blooming flowers. 

Skimming a delicate hand over your arm, appreciating the warmth of your skin as she stopped just shy of your shoulder, tracing a little heart with the edge of her thumb as she soothed you. 

“Come with me,” she murmured. 

Your head snapped up, your eyes wavering and wide. Unsure. “Where?” 

“My room,” Satoru hummed. “Like old times.” 

Back when the only hands that ever had the fortune to brush over your body were hers. When you belonged solely to Satoru. 

Funnily enough, you were still sleeping in her bed. Just with her husband. 

What would she have to do to keep his calloused palms off her prize? 

“Are you sure Suguru will be-” 

“No man would complain about two beautiful women in his sheets,” she rolled her eyes, interlocking arms with you and pulling you forward. 

It wasn’t exactly true. 

Suguru would have plenty to grit his teeth and groan about when he wouldn’t get the chance to put his dick inside of you. 

But you were naive enough to not realize that, smiling back at Satoru the way you used to, leaning against her arm and sighing with relief, relaxing once it struck you that she wasn’t upset with you. 

“I’m not nearly as beautiful as you,” you wistfully mumbled under your breath, and Satoru’s heart soared. Pale cheeks heating up at your compliment, squeezing you reflexively as she laughed. 

She knew she was beautiful. Blessed by the gods in nearly every aspect from the moment she was born. 

But even when they had given her a face any male would love, they had cursed her with a heart that could only belong to a female. 

To you. 

Had been stamped with your name and sealed to be yours from the first day she found you. 

It wasn’t fucking fair that Suguru got to just reap everything she sowed. 

Got to be the one inside you, on top of you, beside you. Who could just openly want you with no repercussions. 

If his smug smirks and sly remarks weren’t enough for her to loathe him, Satoru still would have hated him for that fact alone. 

“I think you are far lovelier than any of these lousy flowers,” Satoru spoke softly, tilting her head around the garden she’d grown to only feel disgust for too. 

It had been beautiful at first. A work of art she’d taken to walking the winding paths through in the evenings to calm her chaotic mind when the two of you first came here. 

But all it had taken was to walk in on Suguru mounting you on a patio table the third week in for every last petal and blossom of this place to become tainted.  

He was making a fucking fool of her. 

Freely flaunting how much he adored fucking you wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. 

No doubt she wasn’t the first to catch the two of you. 

“You flatter me,” you blushed, turning away from her as you picked up the pace. 

You already knew the way back to her marital room.

Even if she wasn’t the one you usually came there for. 

Satoru had separate chambers, of course, ones that were made solely for her, but she knew that Suguru would retaliate in some petty fashion if she brought you there instead. 

“I am merely being honest,” Satoru hummed, lips curling up in an easy smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

She knew you well enough to know you were too embarrassed to respond. That you weren’t truly taking her seriously. 

Shouldn’t you know by now that the only person she saved her sincerity for was you? 

“I find myself missing you more and more,” Satoru slowly added, heart thumping so hard she was sure it would somehow end up lodged in her throat as you looked back at her with those big, apologetic eyes. 

Guilt-ridden. 

Weighed down by the obvious worry you carried for fucking her husband. 

“I miss you too,” you murmured quietly, lip curling up in your best attempt at a smile before it immediately fell again. 

“You seem tired,” Satoru observed, reaching over with her free hand to brush the hair away from your face. Treasuring the few seconds her fingertips skimmed across your soft cheeks. “Let’s get some rest.” 

“But Suguru-” 

“Do me a favor,” she purred, offering her most reassuring grin. “Do not worry about him.” 

She could deal with it. 

It was worth whatever trouble would come to watch you trade your dress for one of her silky blue nightslips, staring at the bare expanse of your exposed back as you bent over to shimmy it on, holding her breath as you turned around, looking absolutely delectable. 

The sweetest dessert she could ever dream of. 

And the only one she wasn’t allowed to taste. 

“Do you want me to do your hair?” You asked, fiddling with your fingers as you nervously looked around the room. 

Satoru wished she could wipe your anxieties away. 

“I would never say no to that,” she said instead, putting up a far more carefree front than she truly felt. 

Perching on the edge of the stool of her vanity, passing you her hairbrush as you slowly pulled all of her long, silky white strands back over her shoulder. You took your time brushing it out, carefully separating it as you went and making sure there were no tangles before you slowly began to braid it, nimble fingers working to twist the parted hair. 

She could see your reflection in the mirror, the way you bit your kiss-swollen bottom lip, brows pinched together tightly in focus as your practiced hands made an easy job of it. 

“There you go,” you hummed once you finished, tying a white ribbon at the end as you looked in the mirror back at her. “Do you like it?” 

“I like everything you do,” Satoru replied on instinct. 

Except for Suguru. 

Your face flushed, smiling as you stepped back away from her, glancing over to the bed. 

“Good night then,” you muttered. 

“Good night,” Satoru replied, shoving down the lump in her throat as she tried to discreetly dry her clammy palms on her own nightdress as she stood up. Snuffing out a few of the candles so that the only light was from the flickering fire, crawling into bed after you, pretending to be unaffected by your proximity as she got under the sheets next to your body.

But she wasn’t quite as good at it as she used to be. 

Unable to slow her breathing, chest rising and falling far too fast as you tossed and turned, the short hem of the slip riding up on your thighs under the covers as Satoru desperately stared at the ceiling of her four-poster bed and ignored the heat ignited in her core. 

A steady pulse, an irritating throb straight to the center of her, speeding up each time your leg brushed against hers, or your hand accidentally grazed along her arm. 

“Sweet dreams,” she belatedly whispered, but you had already fallen asleep, soon snoring on one of her pillows like you once did so long ago, hair sprawling out that Satoru couldn’t stop herself from softly stroking. 

Her pretty maid, right where she belonged once more. 

But for how long? 

When would Suguru do something that would fully free you of her? 

God, what the fuck was she going to do if he knocked you up? Forced you to bear his heir? Make you raise a whole brood of miniature hims? 

That asshole would surely move you to a separate palace, maybe claim that Satoru made threats or something equally absurd to justify giving you a title or some security. 

Satoru refused to let any of that happen. 

You were more than just a breeding mare. 

More than just a pawn to be played with – no matter what her husband attempted to turn you into. 

Like she summoned a demon, the door swung open, and Satoru immediately removed her hand from by your head, sitting up in bed to stare at the intruder.

The real interloper here. 

Suguru scowled at the sight of her next to you, his lips pressing in a thin line as he peeled off his expensive robe. 

“Return to your private chambers,” he dismissed, irritation heavy in his voice. 

“This marital bed is mine too,” Satoru retorted, patting the spot next to her to gesture for him to join. 

She’d prefer not to spend the night suffering the masculine scent of his cologne, but she supposed she could just roll closer to you to inhale your much sweeter smell. It was always light, flowery, like some intoxicating summer bloom she wanted to pluck and preserve.

He laughed at the idea of sleeping together too, a low and cruel one. 

Satoru wanted to snarl back that if she were a man, if they were both vying for your hand, you would have chosen her without a blink. 

But she just had to bite her tongue and stare at the one person who had everything she wanted. 

“Funny that I only find you in here when it’s with her,” he knowingly scoffed. 

“Is it?” Satoru feigned ignorance. “I was the one who brought her here.”

Her husband didn’t care though. 

No, he just walked over as if she had no place in this room, no right to her spot in the bed beside you, stripping his shirt off before removing his pants, as if a little bit of nudity would scare Satoru off. 

“What do you think our love would do if she knew you lusted after her even more than I do?” Suguru mocked, barely making an effort to disguise his thinly-veiled threat. One corner of that irritating mouth of his curling up in a crude smirk, casually dismissing the weight of her affection for you to a simple sin. 

His love? 

Satoru almost laughed back at him. 

You were hers. Had always been. 

And would be once again. 

“Shall I tell her?” He asked, tilting his head towards your sleeping figure as he pulled back the blankets to get in too.

“She would think it’s just a jest,” Satoru rolled her eyes, her nose scrunching up as he actually got in next to her. 

It didn’t matter how obvious she made it to you. 

You were blissfully unaware. 

Clueless to the hunger she harbored in her heart to chain you to her. 

“I suppose we’ll find out soon,” he muttered under his breath, and despite the shield she’d prepared, it splintered with sheer panic at the thought of you taking his word. 

At the risk of you being repulsed by the realization, rejecting her and refusing to exist in the same space for the rest of her life. 

That wouldn’t do. 

Suguru was already a persistent problem. 

But now it appeared she had no choice but to solve it before he could screw her over. Before he could wreck what she’d spent so long building. 

She’d prefer to prepare a guillotine for his cock, to punish him for the crime of being inside you, but she refused to be the one put in prison for it. 

No, Satoru needed a plan. A foolproof way for this to end with you in her arms. 

Perhaps some poison to put His Royal Majesty in a grave while she was at it.  

ε✿з

“Morning, beautiful.” 

You wondered who your king’s groggy morning voice was meant for. You? 

Or his wife? 

Your true master. 

“Good morning, husband,” Satoru replied, her usually sweet voice cold and clipped. 

Of course.

You weren’t exactly surprised. 

But what did throw you off was the two very different arms strewn across your waist, one thick and muscled slung low towards your hips while the other far daintier one was delicately tangled just below your breasts. 

Somehow, you had ended up in between them. 

Rather fitting, wasn’t it? 

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Suguru scolded her, and your stomach just curdled at the annoyance in his tone. 

The weight on your midsection disappeared, and you tried to roll on your side, to pretend you were still asleep, but then he was pulling you against him, and you could only bite the inside of your cheek and focus on the taste of blood on your tongue to hold it together as something hefty and hard pressed into your spine. 

It was just wrong to do this in front of Satoru. 

You didn’t understand what Suguru saw in you anyway. 

It wasn’t like you truly were stunning. Not compared to her. 

You weren’t blind. 

You’d always been rather plain put next to Satoru’s perfect face.

She was the one people stopped to stare at when she walked in a room, the subject of whispers and wishes and fools willing fate to just give them a single chance for the pleasure of one conversation in her presence. 

And beneath her beauty was the sort of one-of-a-kind soul someone could spend the rest of their life searching for. 

Even now, when you were sleeping with her husband, she was still being sweet to you. 

Swearing that she knew you couldn’t do anything about being his concubine, bringing you back to her bed for a sleepover like she hadn’t caught you having sex with him. 

You didn’t deserve her. And you really couldn’t comprehend why Suguru wouldn’t want her. 

Yet, she always tried to spare your feelings. 

Sent away any maid who mocked you and scolded any staff member that attempted to tease you ever since you were children. 

Going from dismissing any knight that tried to flirt or feel you up as teenagers to stripping some lower noble of her rank simply for speaking ill of you two weeks ago over suggesting that she should punish you for trying to steal her husband. 

You hadn’t asked for any of it. 

All you wanted was to watch her fall in love. To stand by her side and see her find her happily ever after. 

Instead, you were embroiled in an affair with the man she married. 

And now the guilt was gnawing through your bones, shame shattering you every time she saw you with him. 

You sort of felt like your life could be divided in two groups. 

Before Satoru. After Satoru. 

She saved you. You were born into servitude, to parents who worked in the worst kind of noble homes. The ones where the money was passed down with generations, belonging to spoiled gamblers and drunks who didn’t know how to do anything other than spend it — and couldn’t care less about their staff members. 

You learned how to scrub baseboards and sweep instead of how to read and write. To never speak unless spoken to. To make yourself smaller than a speck of dust just to survive. 

It didn’t matter. 

They had a son a year older than you. 

One that was particularly fond of pulling your hair and ripping up your uniforms every time you hung them out to dry. 

Who found a passion in pushing you down and pretending to his family that you had committed every variety of petty crimes against him. 

Your life was a living hell. 

Until your angel showed up. 

In a pretty white dress that matched her soft hair, the sun shining on her pale face as she blinked down at you with big, blue eyes. She was visiting with her parents, supposed to be attending a play date with your personal tormentor, only to walk in on him attempting to cut off a chunk of your hair with a knife he’d stolen from the chef. 

He had accidentally cut you with it, a thin streak of blood trickling down your throat as you sobbed hysterically, unable to stop yourself as you curled up against the tree he cornered you against. 

“Drop that,” she commanded, an air of authority to her even when she was still a child. 

He did, even though his obedience seemed to surprise him. 

“You’re not the boss of-”

She was already stepping forward though, kicking the knife away before graciously approaching you, unbothered by the sniffing mess you’d become, just squatting down and drying your tears with her sleeve. 

“You’re coming home with me.”

And you did. 

She had half-dragged you inside, forcing herself to fake tears of her own before crying to her parents that he had attacked her, and that you’d gotten hurt defending her. 

They believed her lie. 

And she bought you from the hellhole you were born into. 

You would probably be dead without her. 

Starved or beaten for not performing your duties well enough, discarded like some cheap possession instead of a person. 

The boy was punished, his family’s status revoked — although you never learned what happened to them after that. 

At least with Satoru, you could be her doll. 

Someone she dressed up and dragged around to tea parties and meals, forcing everyone to have a chair for you like it was normal for a mere maid to dine with royalty. 

She grew out of it when she got a little older, when people began to look down on you for her behavior instead of her. 

But when they announced her marriage, she still refused to go unless she brought you with her, insisting that she wouldn’t adapt without a familiar face before whispering to you in private that she’d never leave her favorite friend behind. 

Did she regret that now? Wish she never took you in to begin with?

You felt like a nuisance.

It was impossible to ignore the whispers of the court here, the constant discussion of the heir that didn’t currently exist. All of it felt like your fault.

Surely, if you weren’t here, if you weren’t imposing, then Satoru might have already gotten pregnant, or perhaps have even had a child already. 

As far as you knew, they had yet to even consummate their marriage. 

You used to whisper about what it would be like to have sex. So sure that she would be the one to experience it first. Giggling under the covers about how the whole thing seemed sorta gross. To let a guy stick it inside of you and listen to him grunt and groan?

Honestly, you never thought it would be you giving up your virtue before her. 

Sugugu hadn’t been shy about the fact you were the only one he was intimate with. 

Turning his nose up and scoffing when you inquired about the status of their relationship, the same way Satoru did, as if it was simply absurd that they could ever have a baby together. 

And now his royal advisors had started whispering suggestions that he should plant his seed in you instead, murmuring that if Satoru was too stubborn, he must secure his line another way as if you weren’t in the same room when they said it. 

As if your loyalty hadn’t always lied with her. 

But she wouldn’t listen to your warnings. 

How were you supposed to convince two people who acted like they couldn’t stand each other to not only have sex, but create a child? 

You knew you were a fool. Naive to still presume that there must be some way to make this work without making Satoru suffer. But you couldn’t stop trying. 

“I would like you to leave,” Suguru snapped at her, and years of experience had engrained the instant impulse to protect her in you. 

To interrupt and insist that she had every right to be here too. 

Even if Satoru had never once needed you to defend her. Not the same way you needed her. 

“Will you drag me out if I do not?” She cheekily returned, and you finally forced yourself to start to stir, to stop the argument already in progress as they both immediately fell silent. Satoru’s soft hand skimmed over your forearm, delicately dragging her fingertips up to your shoulder before yawning, “Good morning, sleepyhead.” 

“Morning,” you muttered, slowly cracking your eyes open and beginning to sit up just for a second hand to shift to the small of your back. 

“Did she bother you with all her tossing and turning?” Your king asked, concern veiling his contempt for his wife as he peered down at you with those dark purple eyes. Devoid of the light you were used to seeking, swirling with something you weren’t quite comfortable enough to name. 

Sometimes, you wondered how much he wanted you, and how much he wanted to piss her off. Equally unhappy at the situation he’d been thrusted in, forced to marry a stranger he didn’t know or want and finding refuge in pissing off the one person that was also innocent in this. Taking it out on her instead when he had no way to punish the system he was stuck in. 

“Satoru never bothers me,” you answered honestly, still doing your best to mend the bridge between them as you peered up at him with an expression you hoped would earn some empathy from him. 

Or at the very least, get him to not toss her out before she even stepped foot out of the bed. 

“You’re too sweet,” he muttered, sitting up straighter to let the blankets fall down around his bare waist. Tenderly caressing your cheek as you stilled, thinking of what he seemed to leave unsaid. Too sweet for whom? Him? Or her? 

You supposed you were just overthinking it, blinking nervously before he leaned down to kiss you on the lips right there in front of her, pushing his tongue in as you tried not to scrunch your nose up at the thought that he had yet to brush his teeth before slipping his tongue in your mouth. 

But you returned it, accustomed to going with the tides instead of swimming against them, allowing him to possessively splay his fingers across your back as if Satoru’s fingers weren’t still sinking into your shoulder. 

And by the time he pulled away, you had collected yourself enough to smile sincerely back at him when he rested his forehead against yours. 

It wasn’t that you disliked him, or harbored any hatred for him. 

The feeling swirling in your stomach was closer to pity. You felt bad for him. 

He felt like a flip side to Satoru. Reminded you of her in his own strange way when he spoke to you like you were more than just a maid. Even if he only saw you as his own accessory instead of hers.

“Meet me in the gardens at noon,” he instructed, slipping out of his bed as you both stared. His back muscles flexed as he bent over, only throwing a look back to wink at you while Satoru made a quiet gagging noise next to you. 

You nearly giggled, only holding it in when his dark brows pinched together in a glare back at her. 

“Of course, Your Majesty,” you murmured, nodding dutifully as his chest puffed back out with pride. Finishing redressing quickly, his mouth twitching down at the two of you in his bed, but he didn’t say anything to disprove Satoru’s theory about men and beautiful women. 

“Alone,” Suguru added, starting towards the door before Satoru could add something snarky. 

The moment he was out the door, you could hear his voice calling through it for a servant, and you already pictured the way a few were likely stationed at the end of the hall, ready to accompany him and do whatever he wanted.

“Meet me in the gardens,” Satoru mimicked him, rolling her bright blue eyes as her long lashes fluttered dramatically as she twisted you back around to face her. “He’s so insufferable.” 

“Satoru,” you said her name, face heating up at the way the syllables felt rolling off your tongue, still strange to address her so intimately when she was so far above you. “It worries me-” 

“No,” she interrupted you sternly, your shoulders slumping at her unexpected scolding. “There is nothing for you to worry about.” 

“But the two of you-” 

“I know,” she sympathized, knowing what you were about to protest before you had to say it. Seeing through all of you the way no one else ever did, or probably ever would. “But you should just keep doing what he asks.” 

Like you couldn’t see how much it hurt her to even suggest that. 

Satoru was more sensitive than she’d ever show. Feelings hidden under her carefully crafted shield, always pretending to be the perfect princess on her towering pedestal, protected by some impenetrable glass that never let you touch her. 

She could say she couldn’t stand Suguru. But who wouldn’t be hurt at the man they married so blatantly disrespecting them?

“I just want you to be happy,” you softly said. 

“I will be. Eventually,” Satoru stiffly said, dragging her thumb over your bottom lip like she was wiping off his kiss. “We just have to grin and bear it for now.” 

“And things will get better?” You hopefully asked, reaching up to clasp her hand. Feeling a little bit like a child again, looking up to her with blind trust, faith that she could fix problems that seemed far too big for you. Imagining all three of you a few months from now, getting along and grinning over lunch in the garden, sitting underneath the shade of an umbrella and snacking with Satoru on one side and Suguru on the other. 

“I promise they will.” 

There was nothing you craved more than for her to be correct.

But your blind belief in her started to fizzle and fade when the days refused to stop dragging on while you rarely got to see her. Only catching glimpses of her from across the room, usually when one of you was being flaunted on Suguru’s arm and the other was left to stand on the side and stare. Barely getting a chance to speak to her when the king you were both supposed to obey had decided you were better kept in your bed chambers or his private office, away from the wife he pretended didn’t exist around you. 

You tried to tell yourself what she had. 

To just bear it. 

Comforting yourself with the handful of smiles she snuck you, reassuring yourself that you didn’t have to be wracked with guilt every second you spent with Suguru. That you shouldn’t hate yourself for the moments with him where you found yourself actually enjoying his company, or genuinely giggling at a joke he made. 

It didn’t make it easier to stop loathing the parts of you that liked the attention. Being doted on and deemed deserving of more than just the monotony of being a maid. 

Underneath it all, you still knew what was coming. 

A girl like you was only measured by what uses she was good for. 

Could taste his expectation in the air long before Suguru delivered the curdling news over tea, sitting there like a brainless doll as he informed you that he had the maids brew the kind that helped fertility. 

Casually suggesting that you make a fine mother as you feigned agreement, running off to a bush to throw it up the moment he left to attend to other business. 

You couldn’t do that to her. 

No, you wouldn’t. 

You refused. 

It wasn’t like you had any idea how you would refuse, not when you were sure he would be back in your bedroom tonight. Stripping off his robes with that easy smirk of his, placing his crown on your head as he buried his cock in you, probably already planning on no longer pulling out but plunging himself deep enough to make sure the seed he planted was sowed. 

That it would sprout into an heir he could use as an excuse to remove any power his wife politically held. 

You puked again. 

Bile rising that you couldn’t push down, getting sick until you finally managed to suck in enough deep breaths to pull yourself together, wiping the corner of your mouth and standing back up on trembling legs, looking around to make sure no one had seen you. 

But a few maids were standing nearby, wide-eyed and whispering to each other before scampering off in a hurry once your stare caught theirs, surely off to spread rumors about what they’d seen. 

You were stumbling away too, walking back inside the cobbled halls and hurrying through the twists and turns, ignoring the pointed looks you received from staff members and guards passing by. You weren’t sure where you were going until you were there, nervously tapping your knuckles against the door to Satoru’s office, hardly able to keep your breathing steady until you heard her call out in an annoyed tone, “Come in.”

You pushed it open, holding your breath as you peeked inside to see her head hanging down behind her desk. Her cheek resting on her hand, silky hair falling around her shoulders as she sighed and scribbled something into a thick book. 

“What is it-” 

“I’m sorry,” you half-whispered, your voice coming out as a croak from your sore throat. 

She immediately stopped what she was writing as her head snapped up at the realization it was you, shutting the book and placing her palm over it. Her blue eyes were razor sharp, freezing over in a flash under furrowed brows. 

“What happened?” She demanded to know without a pause. Ready to go to war with just two words. 

“He wants me to have his heir,” you blurted out, still panicking as you looked to her like there was something she could do about it. 

In all the years you’d known her, the only other time you’d seen the expression that was on her face now was the day you first met her. 

Focused and flat at the same time, not betraying anything as she just blinked at you once more. 

“Tell me you don’t want it,” she requested, completely serious as you struggled to tear your stare away. 

“Of course I don’t,” you answered, shaking your head as your fingers nervously clutched at the skirt of your dress, fiddling with some of the fine embroidery as you struggled to catch your breath, the taste of vomit lingering in your mouth as you thought about what your life would look like a year from now if you did. A black-haired baby on your hip and a hole punctured straight through your heart. 

You almost added that you had only come here for her, but you couldn’t bring yourself to when all that had resulted in was you warming her husband’s bed. 

What would her life have been like had you stayed behind? Would you have been kicked out of the palace you’d spent years by her side in? Left to start over in some quaint village, maybe starting a small farm or working in a local shop instead? 

You would choose any of it over being the reason she was suffering. Even if it meant struggling and scraping by all alone. 

“I will take care of it,” she stiffly said, her nose upturned in the air as she pushed a plate of cookies someone had left on her desk away from her. “You should go now.” 

A piece of you shattered. 

Some deep internal wound ripping open at her quick dismissal, despite your instinct to believe that her words were more binding than any oath. 

“But-”

“Trust me, princess,” she softened her tone, smiling now, like you couldn’t see how tight of a line her mouth made. Using a nickname she hadn’t called you in years, back when she tried to make you feel better about the difference in your status, late night promises that you could be her princess and she could be yours. 

“Toru,” you murmured back, watching her eyes crinkle for a second before she shook her hair and pointed a delicate finger towards the door. 

“Please leave,” she asked, and you had never been good at disobeying her. 

Feeling like a mutt that had been thrown out in the rain, tail tucked between your legs as you walked all the way across the palace to your own chambers. Pacing the floor there in a panic, wringing your hands and wearing out the carpet as you tried to think of some solution. 

Stupid nobles and their moronic obsession with bloodlines. 

Why couldn’t they just adopt a child and raise it correctly? 

You would have his child if Satoru asked you to. If she said she didn’t want to do it herself. 

But you were scared for her. Terrified that she would somehow end up thrown out if you had an heir and she refused to. 

Maybe it would be easier if one of them were less stubborn. If Satoru was less prideful and Suguru more agreeable. 

Was that asking for the impossible? 

Just an idiot jammed between a rock and a hard place and wondering why you couldn’t squeeze out? 

You prepared yourself that evening anyway, going through the motions of putting on the thin style nightdress Suguru preferred, but picking one in a soft shade of blue that reminded you more of Satoru. Carefully applying a thin layer of makeup, exhaling at your reflection as you wondered to yourself where the girl from a few years ago had gone. 

She probably would have strangled you for suggesting sleeping with Satoru’s king, no matter the circumstance. 

And right now, you would give just about anything to go back to those days. Where the most important thing you had to worry about was how to style Satoru’s hair the next day, or what would be served for breakfast in the morning. 

“You’re wearing blue.” 

Your head turned to find Suguru standing there in the doorway, his lips turned down as his hazy stare slid over your body. You hurried to stand, forgoing spritzing the fancy perfume he gifted you across your skin as he strode over to you. Ready to fake moans and feign devotion. 

“Is this not one you gave me?” You innocently asked, tilting your head to the side. 

It wasn’t like you could purchase your own dresses. 

Truthfully, you had no idea what even happened to the funds you saved up before Satoru brought you here. She had said she would take care of the transfer, but within days of coming here, you were being whisked off your feet and away from her by the man in front of you now.

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his fingers plucking one of the straps off your shoulder and pulling it down with a sigh as he ignored your inquiry. “I’m taking it off of you anyway.” 

His hands shook while he removed it, his fingers unsteady for once as he tried to shimmy your panties down your thighs next. He kissed you, but the sour taste of wine was still on his lips, and you ached to pull away. 

To ask him to reconsider what he wanted from you. 

Even if you knew that wasn’t your place. 

To your surprise though, he retreated first, your mouth still hanging open as he let out a low groan. You knew something was wrong at the sound of it. How guttural it came out when you hadn’t even touched his cock yet. 

You blinked up at him only to see red. 

Blood dripped down his lips as he stared at you without really seeing you, fear glittering his dark eyes empty in the candlelight as your own fingers reached out to wipe it away. Had you bitten him without realizing it? Was he hurt? 

Before you could even touch it, he coughed hard, and your face was suddenly wet.

Your hand was still outstretching towards him the moment he collapsed. 

Someone screamed, but it wasn’t until servants began running into the room that you realized the horrible sound was coming from you, ripped from the back of your throat as the scene immediately morphed into a mess. Maids shouting for doctors and rushing around to try and stop the bleeding that was still pouring from his mouth, propping him up. But even if his eyes were open, they weren’t blinking. 

Had his soul already separated from the still shell he left behind? 

Something damp hit your palm, your fuzzy vision struggling to focus as it belatedly struck you that you were still dripping with the red, your palms shaking, refusing to stop twitching at the unnerving sight of it. 

Steady drops begging to drop down to your bare breasts, staining your skin as you stumbled back, running from the inevitable as your shattered gasps wouldn’t allow enough air into your lungs. 

This wasn’t happening.

It couldn’t be.

This must be a nightmare. Some awful dream you’d gotten dragged into as you tried to wake yourself back up, desperately wiping your face as you struggled to get it clean, but nothing was working. Nothing was changing. 

Hyperventilating as a maid shouted, calling in guards while your back hit the wall, your fingers trembling as you buried your face in your hands, as if you could hide from what was happening. 

“Is he still alive?” 

No. No no no. 

If he was gone, what the hell would happen to you? 

There were too many people in the room, too much going on for you to focus on what was happening in front of you. Your ears filling you in no matter how much you desperately wanted to shut it all out. 

To rewind the clock, even if it was just for a few minutes. Bring it back to where everything was still normal. 

The palace doctor arrived out of breath as you peeked back up at your world unraveling only to find him shaking his head as he checked the limp body on the floor’s pulse. 

You knew it before he said it though. Had from the moment he coughed and collapsed. 

“The king is dead.” 

The only person in power now was his wife. 

Someone was probably on their way to get Satoru now, to shake her awake from her bed and notify her that her husband was no longer among the living. 

Even if you didn’t want to have his baby, you still never would have chosen this. 

Curling up with your bare knees to your chest, staring at your blood-splattered blue nightdress left in a crumpled pile on the floor, eyes wild as you watched people rush in and out. 

Guards filing in, one of them ripping you up from off the ground with a rough grip on your arm, barking some question you didn’t understand as you tried to shake your head, dragging you out of the room as you got one last glimpse at Suguru’s still form staring up at the ceiling. 

“Did you do this?” 

“What?” You blinked, turning back with disgust as you rebuffed it. “I-I wouldn’t-” 

The guard wasn’t listening, pulling you out only for you to nearly run into someone else. 

Your pounding heart stopped the second you realized it was Satoru. 

Her pretty face pinched up with disdain, long hair loose and cascading down her back, an intricate amethyst-colored gown draping over the cobbled hall as she looked down at you, her mouth twitching as her gaze drifted across your exposed skin. 

You were about to beg her to tell them that it couldn’t have been you, bottom lip trembling as you tried to get the words out, but she cut you off, looking to the knight by her side as she solemnly shook her head. 

“Lock her up.” 

She couldn’t mean it. 

It honestly felt more far-fetched than Suguru’s sudden death. Unable to understand those three sharp words that left her lips until another man was yanking you away, pulling you down corridors. 

Humiliation burned through you as the initial shock started to fade and the reality of your situation began to sit in. Being dragged naked across the palace until you were led up a long spiralling staircase to a tower you’d never stepped foot inside before. 

Spared the cruelty of the cold dungeons only to be shoved inside a tiny room at the top, a heavy door slammed shut as your eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness surrounding you. A barren space with only a small bed pushed against the wall, a small window that was only big enough for you to peek out of, the bitter night breeze blowing in through it as you stood there, waiting for, well, you weren’t sure what. 

Satoru to show up and swear this was all some awful joke? To tell you that she didn’t mean to scare you and that everything was fine? That this was all a part of some plan of hers? 

Wishful thinking, wasn’t it? 

If they thought you were responsible, that you somehow killed him, you would be executed within a month. 

Maybe not even offered a trial, just dragged out to be hanged or beheaded without a chance to defend yourself. 

Who would have sympathy for a traitor? 

A poor maid masquerading as a concubine, one who truly should have never had a place beneath the king to begin with. 

All you were was an ignorant idiot that was born to take the blame. No matter your innocence. 

And yet, when you finally heard footsteps approaching your lonely room, you were still rushing towards it, ready to plead your case to whoever showed up. 

When you heard Satoru’s voice, you nearly sobbed. 

She must be coming to let you out. To explain everything away and bring you back to her room the way she once had. Whisk you away and remind you with that charming smile that she had told you not to worry. 

Satoru wasn’t your knight in shining armor. She was better. 

A hero with her white-haired halo, your blue-eyed angel in a gossamer gown. 

“Toru, please,” you called out, peeking up to discover a rectangle carved out of the thick wood of the door, wide enough for you to look back out into the barely-lit hallway. 

“Make sure no one comes up here,” Satoru coldly instructed the knights outside, your heart stalling as you stared at her through that thin slat. The heavy click of several additional locks followed while her sharp eyes watched you back, your heart shattering into even tinier bits with each one. 

And then Satoru did something that stomped on all the remaining shards of it. 

She left. 

You broke down, sobbing on the floor until there wasn’t anything left in you to cry out. Curling up on the frigid ground instead of the bed, unable to even summon the strength to get up and crawl towards it. 

At some point, you supposed you fell asleep like that, because when you woke up to a fraction of the sun slipping in through your tiny window, there were clothes and food delivered, along with a cold bucket of water and a washrag. 

Too numb to feel thankful, as if someone had scooped every part of you out as you ignored the food in front of you, about to cup a handful of water and drink it before you looked down at your hands and saw all the dried blood still staining them, your stomach shifting once again as the memory of Suguru’s face before he died floated up in your brain. 

You scrubbed your skin, washing Suguru off of you until the bucket had run red, staring at the liquid sloshing around. Refusing to stop until you were certain there were no traces of him left, your hands raw and trembling when you dropped the rag back down. 

Putting clothes back on didn’t make you feel any better. 

Not when you had traded the fancy dresses you had just begun to get used to for a plain one, the material scratching your skin as you finally managed to get yourself up into the bed. 

But even just trying to go back to sleep didn’t work when a knight came barging in to conduct an interrogation. 

Which essentially just meant hours of him asking the same questions and getting angry when you kept giving him the same answers? 

“Did you conspire to kill the king?” No. 

“Did you poison him?” No. 

“Did you have any reason to want him dead?” Yes. No. 

It didn’t matter what you said though. 

As long as it didn’t align with what he was hoping to hear, he wouldn’t give any of your words credence. 

And by the end of it, you were being dragged back to your cell, waiting for a fate far worse than simply being the mother of the future heir to the kingdom. 

Even if you used to think there was nothing worse than betraying Satoru. 

Being abandoned by her was the cruelest sentence of all. 

A raw throbbing ache taking up residence in your chest, reminding you of her absence with every short breath you sucked in, no blankets to curl up and hide under as you waited for the inevitable. 

You knew what the cold felt like. How brittle it could be when it settled into your bones. Knew how starvation felt when your body started to break down bits of yourself for sustenance. 

But knowing her warmth, how full she could make you feel, only ate at you more. Shoved off the pretty pedestal she placed you on, no longer sparkling or polished as you stared at your bitten-down nails and numbly craved pieces of her you knew would never be yours. 

Perhaps this was punishment for dreaming too big. 

For ever thinking that you could have her while you were still catering to Suguru. 

A day passed. 

And another. 

The hours slipping past you in a dull daze, food delivered that you refused to take a bite of. A little voice in your head that was quickly growing delirious suggested that it could be poisoned, and it was the only thing that tempted you into taking a small bite. 

But then you thought of the fear in Suguru’s eyes when he died, and you dropped it again, returning to your uncomfortable bed, curling up to stare at the same wall you’d been studying the cracks in since you first crawled into it. 

You were losing it. 

About to start speaking to yourself just to stop the silence from driving you crazy, only your thoughts to keep you company as you tossed and turned, no energy left in your exhausted limbs as you tried to think of all the ways this could end. 

Unable to come up with a way out of this when the only person you ever found worth living for had decided you weren’t worth it anymore. 

Satoru had told you to trust her. 

But you never had anything to offer her other than loyalty. 

And what good was that when you would’ve had her husband’s baby if he hadn’t died? 

She must hate you. 

“Oh, princess.” 

Great. 

You had lost it. 

Were you hearing things now? Sanity slipping away with every day you decided not to eat? 

“Won’t you at least look at me?” Satoru’s sweet voice called out to you. 

You weren't going to, stubbornly keeping your head forward until you heard the locks actually unlatching. Sitting up on the thin mattress and turning just in time to see the door opening, and your angel returning to you. 

An easy smile curling up on her glossy lips, her ethereal eyes sparkling in the fading light of the day drifting in from outside, a white dress softly fluttering around her frame as she leaned against the wall like she was waiting for you to get down on your knees and thank her. 

“I didn’t do it,” you breathed, almost automatically. 

You needed her to believe-

“Sweetheart,” she softly shook her head as she sighed. “I know.” 

Then why did she throw you in a tower and lock you up like this? Leave you a broken mess, laid bare and bloody? 

“I just had to take care of a few things,” Satoru cooed. 

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. 

Unable to speak when you stared at her, feeling like a stranger in your own skin as you studied her back. 

“Did you think I would just let you rot?” She teased, as if you weren’t still a prisoner while she tilted her head to the side, appraising you like you were some fruit she had finally decided to pluck. 

It hurt. 

A small wound ripping open beneath the surface, one you were quick to bandage up and come up with excuses for. 

Almost immediately telling yourself that surely, she came to you as soon as she could, relief washing over the fresh sting at the realization she truly didn’t think you were behind Suguru’s death. That she hadn’t abandoned you after all. 

“Don’t just sit there and stare at me,” she huffed, sick of your silence, folding her arms across her chest and frowning at you. 

“Toru?” You croaked out her name, wanting to trust that it still had a place on your lips as you waited for her to disappear. Standing up on unsteady legs, muscles sore from how little you’d used them lately as you took unsure steps forward. A piece of you still convinced that you might be imagining this, or drifted off to some pretty dream where she played the same role she always did. 

Your savior. 

But when you got to her, hesitantly reaching out to touch her face, your fingertips trembling as you touched her cheek to discover it was solid. 

Soft. 

“I missed you too,” she murmured affectionately, reaching up to hold your hand there. Relaxing into your touch as you felt something inside you instantly crumble at the tiniest show of regard. 

And before you could stop yourself, you threw your arms around her neck, tears welling up as you inhaled the sweet scent of her perfume, burying your face in her throat as a rough sob escaped you. 

She let you. 

Didn’t push you off or give you that look like you had overstepped some boundary. 

No, she just slid a hand over your back, holding you closer and letting you cry into her collarbone. Stroking your hair, slowly picking out the tangles and knots in it as your body shuddered with the force of your tears. 

You didn’t think you had anything left in you to cry. 

But apparently there you weren’t dried out yet, and she held you through all of it. Murmuring soft words into your ear, coaxing you to calm down as you struggled to piece yourself back together after you let it all fall apart. 

“I swear, I would never do anything that could put you at risk,” you added, anxiety still swirling around your thoughts as you shook your head. 

“Don’t worry,” Satoru purred, squeezing you as another shudder wracked through your body. “The right person will be imprisoned soon.” 

As terrible as it sounded, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care who had done it, or even why, as long as it meant you and Satoru would be safe. 

The rest was just noise. 

You could go back to being her maid. Waiting on her hand and foot if it meant you wouldn’t have to be away from her side again. 

And if the court tried to take her crown, or shipped her back to her own palace after the rightful king had been killed, well, you both could get through it together, couldn’t you? 

“I thought you left me,” you mumbled, your voice cracking as she tenderly hummed your name.

“I would never,” she swore, petting your head as she pulled you into her chest, your shoulders slumping at how tightly she held you.  

“Promise?” You hopefully asked, needing to know. Needing her to say she wasn’t going anywhere. 

Simply needing her. 

“I promise.” 

You believed her with just two words. 

Under her spell in a handful of moments, your heart pounding in your chest when she eventually pulled away, cupping your face and wiping away your tears like it hurt for her to see you crying. 

“Come with me,” she spoke slowly, her thumb skimming lightly over your cheekbone.

You would follow her anywhere. 

Across the kingdom. To another, or even over the sea to some small countryside village. Any place was fine. 

As long as she wanted you there. 

Skipping down the long stairs after her, your pulse thrumming in your eardrums as you waited to get stopped by some guard, for a knight to pop up and point a sword at you for absconding with their queen. 

No one else was around however, the halls barren and silent as her soft fingers interlaced through yours, tugging you ahead as she navigated through them with ease.

“Were you starving yourself for my attention?” She half-whispered, her voice hushed and husky as she threw you a look you didn’t understand. 

Was she disappointed in you? 

“I haven’t been hungry,” you mumbled, shaking your head. You never thought she’d come check on you. Or even be keeping tabs through whoever came to drop off the food for you. 

“That’s no excuse,” she softly scolded you. 

“I’m sorry,” you automatically apologized, hanging your head lower as she opened a door and ushered you into a room you’d never been in before. 

It looked like it was actually fit for a princess. 

Ornately designed and filled with expensive furniture you couldn’t fathom the cost of, your body freezing just two short steps inside as she shut the door behind you. Quickly making herself comfortable, slipping off her short heels and walking over to the massive bed against one wall, looking back at you with barely concealed excitement, searching your face to see if you shared

“You can stay here for now,” she whispered, winking at you as she ran her palm over the soft fabric of the blankets adorning the bed. “It’ll be our secret.” 

Your secret. 

The words echoed in your head, unable to shut your open mouth as you struggled to take your eyes off of her. 

“Much better than that dingy tower, hm?” Satoru goaded, pride glittering in her brilliant stare. 

“What is this?” You asked, looking around at the intricate tapestries hung on the walls, the plush carpets laid over the floor, the carvings into the wooden dressers and the canopy of the bed. 

“Your room,” she happily hummed. 

“My-” You couldn’t even say it out loud. 

It had to be a joke. 

“There’s a warm bath waiting for you,” she murmured, nodding towards an adjoining door you’d been too overwhelmed to notice before. “And some fresh fruit on a platter by the tub. Your favorites.” 

What were you meant to make of this? 

Her belated apology for locking you up for days? For leaving you behind to handle affairs far bigger than you? 

Something itched at the back of your conscience, telling you to second guess this gift. 

But how were you supposed to listen to your better judgement when everything left of your sensibility had been broken? 

“Please eat something,” she added, and all you could do was nod your head like a moron. 

“I will,” you dutifully answered. 

Who were you to disobey your queen? 

“Do you need help getting out of that?” She asked, glancing towards your dress, nose wrinkling at the dirt on it before she dusted herself off like perhaps you’d gotten her filthy too. 

“No, I can do it,” you insisted, slipping into the bathroom before you could somehow end up even more self-conscious. 

But your muscles were already aching for relief, a throbbing pain beginning in your shoulder when you lifted your dress up and over your head. 

One that was thankfully soothed by the still warm water in the tub, a welcome relief to the frigid water buckets you’d been sticking using the last few days. Flower petals floating on the surface, bath salts mixed in as you sank yourself in neck-deep. 

True to her word, there was a platter of food set up by the tub, and you forced yourself to take a few bites, nibbling on just enough to satisfy her request. 

Satoru was trying to take care of you. 

Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

Offering your shoulder for her to cry or cling to after her husband died horrifically? Of course, you knew she didn’t like him. Or well, more accurately, she loathed him. But his passing put her in a precarious position, her own life most likely hanging in the balance when she had no heir to guarantee her safety or status here. 

You didn’t know what she was going to do. 

Which also meant you had no idea what you were going to do. 

A piece of you wished you were born a man. That you’d been given the chance or opportunity to learn swordsmanship, or got to train with the knights. That you would be able to protect Satoru, shield her from these petty and cruel court politics instead of getting caught in the crossfire. 

Washing yourself of the last few days did not help quell your feelings of inadequacy, or solve a single one of your problems, no matter how soothing it was to soak and scrub yourself clean properly this time. 

You didn’t linger in the tub. 

No matter how much you might have liked to, a far greater part of you longed to be around Satoru. Craving her company after you’d been deprived of her presence for so long. You wanted to curl up in her lap like you used to, back when you were children and she’d be the one to comfort you over every skinned knee and scraped elbow. 

Stepping out of the tub with a heavy sigh, squinting when you discovered something wasn’t quite right. 

“Toru?” You called out, glancing around the small room searching for something that was evidently forgotten. “There’s no towel.” 

Or change of clothes. 

Nothing but your discarded dress from before to cover up, although you weren’t exactly inclined to pick it back up. 

You thought she’d just open the door and toss something to put on. 

Not just swing the door open and saunter in a second later, not even blinking as her eyes swept over your bare form. Lingering on the swell of your breasts and the way the water droplets were still rolling down between them. 

“The maid must have forgotten,” she hummed, dragging her stare off of you to do a courtesy sweep of the room. “Give me a moment.” 

You were overthinking it. 

Nodding obediently as you glanced down at your legs, shuffling on your feet as heat rose to your cheeks, thankful for the soft thud of the door shutting. She returned a couple minutes later, a towel in one arm and a white gown that looked an awful lot like a short version of her own in the other, passing both to you with that practiced smile of hers she usually saved for when she was up to something. 

“There you go,” Satoru chirped. “I’ll wait for you.” 

It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen you naked before. 

But this felt decidedly different.  

And you didn’t know what to do about the strange fluttering in your stomach at the idea of her watching you dress, at the way her eyes had drifted so dangerously slowly over the shape of you. 

Was this a dream? 

Were you still asleep? Still stuck in that tower? 

Wishing for something you had never once been able to admit to yourself that you wanted? 

You took an extra few minutes to dry off, adjusting the way the dress hung over you five times too many before you paused to brush your teeth in the mirror, avoiding your reflection as you spit in the sink, watching the tinged pink drool disappear with a soft exhale. 

Satoru was pristine. Pure. 

And what were you? 

You opened the door, fiddling with the hem of the dress she’d given you as you nearly ran straight into where she was waiting right outside of it. 

“I was getting worried,” she lightly joked, and you were brushing past her, a painful surge of panic bubbling back up. 

“Why are you doing this for me?” You asked, hyper aware of how undeserving you were as you padded barefoot back into the overwhelmingly lovely room. “It’s too much, I-” 

“You should know by now that nothing is too much for me when it comes to you,” Satoru chided with a soft chuckle. Refusing to let you step away from her, grabbing your wrist before you could slip away. 

She was so close. 

That familiar scent of her lulling you back in, daring you to breathe her in again. 

And god, you wanted to. 

Satoru said your name, and before you knew what you were doing, you were leaning up on your tip toes and pressing your lips to hers, impulsively planting a kiss to her strawberry-flavored mouth. 

You knew within half a second that you shouldn’t have done it, but you couldn’t stop yourself, deepening it as your fingertips tenderly grazed her impossibly perfect skin. It took every ounce of self restraint for you to pull away from her, shaking your head as you tried not to cry at the thought you would never get to do that again. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, immediately wishing you could take it back, sure that she would throw you back in the tower for the crime of presuming you could possibly deserve anything as sweet as her lips. “I shouldn’t have-” 

But before you could so much as finish your sentence, Satoru was cupping your face and pulling you back in, her nose nestling against yours as her blue eyes sparkled with something you’d never seen in them before. 

“Do it again.” 

ε✿з

You were kissing her. 

For a moment, Satoru was sure she had died and this was heaven. 

How often had she scrawled into diaries her deepest dreams of getting to experience the taste of you on her tongue? 

Your gentle hands on her face and your heaving chest pressed against hers, lips slipping between her own with desperate affection. 

You. Desperate. For her. 

Her brain only conjuring her small words and short sentences, too overwhelmed by the sensation of your soft mouth to think straight. 

God, you tasted so good. 

Fruity and sweet at the same time, your delicate fingers sifting through her hair as you let out the quietest squeak Satoru immediately wanted to hear over and over, sure she’d never get sick of the sound. 

And behind the lovestruck haze, a jealous voice scoffed that she should’ve killed Suguru far sooner for getting to taste you like this first. 

Slipped the poison in his cup the moment he set his sights on you and made his intent to steal you clear. 

Of course, cleaning it up would’ve been much messier, but red hot jealousy coiled and cut through all her cold logic when she thought of his massive mitts manhandling you instead of treating you like the rare flower you really were. 

Satoru was the one who spent her life watering you, taking care to tend to the soil and fertilize it, making sure you’d bloom so beautifully for her, and he tried to rip your roots out like you wouldn’t just wither away without her. 

“Satoru,” you whispered her name, sucking in a sharp breath as you pulled back, eyes shining with surprise. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you,” she swallowed hard, spit pooling in the back of her mouth. 

From the day you looked up at her like some wounded lamb, you had been hers. 

Perhaps it had just taken a little separation for you to see that too. 

“You were waiting for me?” You repeated, that dazed, dreamy look in your eyes as you looked up at her, as if you thought she was going to change her mind. 

“My heart has always been yours,” she proclaimed, although the confession she used to imagine came out far more shaky than it had in her head. Not nearly as cool or collected or calm as she pictured when your cheek was so warm beneath her palm. 

Praying that you wouldn’t change your mind now that she had no way to take back the words. 

“But I’m-” You were about to put yourself down. To diminish the light inside you that she loved so much. 

“You’re mine.” 

And no one else’s now. 

Before you could protest, claim something silly about the difference in your status, she was pulling you back onto the bed, your form landing on top of hers as the feathered mattress cushioned the fall. You tried to wiggle back, but Satoru simply gripped your waist, refusing to let you budge as she pushed her bottom lip out in a pout you immediately softened for. 

“Say it for me,” she requested. 

“I have always belonged to you,” you acquiesced, and Satoru wanted to bury herself inside of your heart to make sure there really was no space for anyone else inside of it. 

That it was wholly hers the way you already occupied every nook and crevice of her body and brain. 

She was craning her neck up to kiss you again, your mouth meeting hers a little slower, more hesitation creeping in as your body began to melt against her. A possessive hand sliding up your spine, already annoyed at the fabric separating your skin from hers. 

Needing to feel you properly, for your soft flesh to dimple beneath her fingers, to leave lovebites scattered across every inch of you that you offered. 

“It killed me to see you with him,” she muttered, chest seizing at how vulnerable the confession came out. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, shaking your head before she abruptly flipped you over, pinning you beneath her and pushing your dress up to expose-

Oh fuck. 

Was every part of you so pretty? 

Your pussy glistening as she nudged your thighs further apart, her pulse pounding in her ears as she finally got to see all of you up close. Presented perfectly for her, your nose scrunched up like you might be scared she could possibly find something wrong with you instead of being awestruck by the simple sight of you splayed out for her. 

She might not have a cock, but Satoru was sure she could make you cum hard enough to forget about any petty insecurities that might be plaguing you. 

“Take your gown off,” Satoru instructed, only realizing how stern it came out when you faltered, hesitating as you bit your bottom lip. “Please.” 

Before she had to break down and beg for you to strip. 

Satoru sat up and started lifting off her own dress as well, watching the way your eyes hung onto the heave of her breasts, how they kept shyly flickering back up to her face as your fingers slowly moved to remove the fabric. 

You weren’t girls anymore. 

Not kids playing husband and wife, or king and queen. 

Exploring each other for keeps, hands tepidly traveling across hips and thighs and breasts at first, although it didn’t take much time for the touches to turn needy. 

Hungry for something you’d both been starving yourselves of for years. 

Could you really blame Satoru for not being able to stop herself? 

For hooking one of those soft thighs of yours over her shoulder and dragging her tongue along the inside of it before the last little tendril of self-control she possessed snapped? 

She had to have you. 

Slipping two fingers inside you slowly, feeling the way you squeezed around her digits, your mouth forming a delicious little ‘o’ she wanted to kiss again. Already shaking before she even began to swirl her fingers around inside of you, barely able to contain the heat rolling through her core just watching your reactions as she pushed in deeper. 

You whimpered, and every single thing that led up to this in Satoru’s life was suddenly worth it. 

The mocking, the marriage, every mistake she made on this meandering path, she’d do all of it again if you were waiting for her at the end of it. 

Your lips swollen and kiss-bruised as you let out soft sounds of pleasure that were because of her. Your naked form shivering in the same bed as you reached down to run your fingers through her hair, holding it back as she found herself half-delirious with lust she couldn’t hold back. 

Slotting in a third finger the second she thought you could take it, watching your eyes widen and start to water as they rolled back, your hips bucking up to drive her fingers as deep as possible. 

“My princess can take more,” she purred, spreading you further apart, greedy eyes gazing on your stripped bare body, the thin sheen of sweat sticking to your skin as you moaned her name. 

“S-S’toru,” you cried out, and she was a little tempted to just do this for hours and count how many times she could make you say it precisely like that. 

Satoru must have imagined this moment a million times. What your face would look like all scrunched up, how you would shiver and shake as she swirled her fingers in, feeling for all those sensitive spots that had you immediately trying to squirm and wiggle away. 

Pushing and pressing into them while she pleaded for you to stay put in her sultriest voice. 

“Be a good girl for me,” she hummed, and you nodded, loyal as ever. Itching to please her as badly as she wanted to please you. “Let me love you.” 

Let her hold you. 

Fuck you. 

Make you cum as many times as you could in a single night and then give her the rest of them. All your nights. All your days. Everything. 

Satoru had always been greedy. 

And you satiated her sweet tooth more than anything else ever did. 

Sinking her teeth into the inside of your thighs just because she could, feeling your muscles twitch and spasm as you gasped, caught off guard. 

You didn’t stop her. 

No, you let her bite and lick and kiss, her mouth latching onto your swollen clit, swirling the tip of her tongue over it as you let out a raw noise. As if someone had just ripped it from your stomach, pulled it out of you too fast for you to soften it. 

Her fingers continued to thrust in while she nipped at your clit, just for your body to confirm what she suspected by clenching around her hand like you wanted to trap it in there. You were cumming for her already. 

She’d seen you do it with Suguru. 

But this one was so much more visceral, no dramatic or drawn-out moan, just your body melting into a puddle for her to mold as you fell apart for her. 

You were shuddering, limbs trembling, as you tried to pull her back by her hair. 

But you had never been good at telling her no. 

Even when she was driving you right to the brink of overstimulation, and then pushing you well past it, greedily sucking on that sensitive bud, pressing her tongue flat against it as she pumped her fingers in-and-out, finding a steady rhythm to ruin you too. 

Satoru had never had sex before. Her purity protected well into the marriage she was supposed to save it for. No experience of her own to truly compare this too. But she’d touched herself and pretended it was you enough times to have an idea of what would make you unravel just right. 

Operating on instinct, on need, peering up at you from her position between your thighs as pretty tears welled up in your eyes. Satoru wanted to soothe your ache, to kiss them away and drag her tongue over the streaks they left on your cheeks. 

Perhaps she should’ve planned a little better, found something bigger to stick in you, to make you moan and murmur for mercy with, watching you fall apart while she teased and toyed with your body now that you had finally given yourself fully to her. 

You were so beautiful like this. 

Being brought to the heights of pleasure, worshipped the way you should’ve been from the start, her tongue and fingers working together as she clumsily made out with you, only pulling off to drag the thick muscle over your slick folds for a better taste.

“I-I-” You hiccuped, your voice half an octave too high as your thighs clamped down around her head, your own thrown back as you wiggled your hips, chasing a second climax. “I c-can’t-” 

“You can,” Satoru hummed, rubbing her own thighs together to soothe the aching need between them. “Want you to cum for me again, princess.” 

You wouldn’t deny her. 

You never did. 

Desperately groaning as you gave in, sweat making both your bodies sticky as you tried to not to tug too hard at her hair, still holding back to not hurt her as you crumbled into a crying mess. Tears slipping out that she was quick to climb back on top of you and wipe away, kissing your lips to swallow your whines, enjoying the way you fit so nicely beneath her until you started to come back down. “You look so pretty like this,” she softly complimented, tracing her thumb over your lip, already missing your kiss the moment your mouths were apart. 

“Toru,” you whispered her name, and she was sure that she would never get sick of hearing it. Far fucking better than the way you used to say Suguru. 

“Mhm?” She hummed, chewing on the inside of her cheek as you stared straight through her. That fuzzy look in your eyes fading as understanding replaced the daze. 

Like you’d suddenly gained some clarity.

“It was you, was it?” You asked, and you didn’t need to say what when you were both well aware of what you were accusing her of. 

Were you really just now considering it? 

Was your judgement clouded from your unconditional love? So devoted that you were deluding yourself into ignoring the obvious? 

“No,” Satoru lied, still in the habit of hiding the truth if it meant sparing your feelings. Refusing to lose you after she just got you. “It wasn’t me.” 

ε✿з

You were flying far too close to the sun. 

You knew that somewhere deep inside of you as Satoru snuggled against your collarbone, her warmth wrapped around you as she burned you up. Her scorching touch seared into your skin as she refused to let even an inch separate the two of you. 

Sooner or later, your wings were going to fail you, and send you tumbling out of the sky back to the ground. 

Would she catch you when you crashed?

Or would you be left to stare up at her until she was just a beautiful bird flying high out of your reach? 

All you were doing was damning yourself by dreaming of a happy ending with her. 

You guessed you should just be grateful for what you had while you had it. 

That she hadn’t cut your tongue out for daring to slip it between her lips.

It hadn’t been the first time you had thought about it. 

But even entertaining the idea of her choosing you had always been so preposterous you pushed your budding feelings down deep, refusing to let them devour you no matter how often she occupied your dreams. 

Your life had been built around the pristine pedestal you placed her on.  

Your world revolved around her smile, her laugh, hearing your twinkling voice in your ear and feeling her soft fingers brushing over your skin. 

Everything you’d ever done had been for her. 

So why did it feel like you’d just gone from warming one ruler’s sheets to another? 

As if you were just in her bed for the comfort she brought, the security of her position. 

You hoped she wouldn’t think that. That she understood that if she asked you to run away with her today, you would accept without hesitation. 

Next to her now, her sleepy eyes fluttering open as she hummed your name, it just made you think of how stupid you were not to have been doing this all along. For not seeing this for what it was sooner. 

“You’ll be safe here,” Satoru murmured, snuggling against you as you rolled onto your side. Keeping herself glued to you, her lips lingering on your skin with a content sigh. 

“What happens next?” You murmured, watching the morning sun beginning to rise through the stained glass window, slowly chasing the dark away as your personal sunshine faltered for a moment. 

“They’re still investigating his passing,” she mumbled, refusing to say Suguru’s name. Or call it for what it must have been. An assassination someone wanted to make you the scapegoat for. “You haven’t been officially cleared yet.” 

And still, she’d showed up for you, hadn’t she? “But I will be?” You hopefully asked, your heart thrumming at the thought of this being ripped from you too. 

“Nothing will happen to you,” she swore. 

You had given her your heart. Your soul. Your body. 

Those were all you really had to offer. 

But handing her your trust? 

That was…tricky. 

Especially when she wouldn’t offer any more details about your detainment as the minutes melted into hours and the hours twisted into days that just kept passing. 

In the dark moments, a cold voice suggested that you should at least consider the chance she could have done it. Orchestrated it from the shadows. But she had told you she hadn’t. 

She would’ve confessed it if she had. 

Suguru had his fair share of enemies. Disgruntled rulers from other kingdoms, angry nobles and dukes who wanted more power than he allowed. 

It wasn’t like it was outrageous that one of them had grown sick of his antics and took matters into their own hands.  

So you tried to be content too, Satoru trading your tower for more comfortable quarters, her trusted knights stationed outside the room you caught glimpses at when she slipped in-and-out, leaving you to attend to her duties most days. 

She brought you meals, insisting on hand feeding you half the time, murmuring under her breath that you couldn’t be trusted to do it yourself before she had you for dessert. Hands spreading your thighs apart as she lapped and licked you up, refusing to pull off until you had cum on her tongue or come undone with her fingers, falling apart for her to mend back together. 

Still, it had started to feel like you were becoming more a part of her schedule than like her partner. 

Perhaps that was wishing too much though. 

Wanting more than you had any right to ask for. 

At the end of the day, you would still always be a maid in everyone’s eyes. 

Her pet. 

Her people wouldn’t exactly be pleased to know that their queen was more interested in women than securing another king or providing them an heir? 

Were you a price she was willing to pay for political control? Would there come a day where she would remarry another man? 

Was it already being arranged while you wasted weeks lounging around in her bed and longing for her to join you, smelling her scent on the pillow and aching for her return? 

The worst part was how Satoru was so hesitant to let you hold her, doing everything on her terms as she came up with excuse after excuse to keep your hands either bound behind your back or tethered in her hair instead of tracing over her soft skin. 

Did she think you were too dirty? 

That you would stain her supple flesh if you so much as squeezed her close? 

No matter how much it stung, you still shoved down your discomfort. Told yourself that you should be grateful for what she was giving you and ignore how much she withheld. 

You had to plead with her just to be allowed to visit her office during the days to keep yourself from going insane. A trusted knight always had to accompany you there, a shawl hiding your face as they carefully took you there when no one else would be around. She stocked extra books for you, a basket left next to one of the armchairs with embroidery supplies, sometimes making you write letters for her that she couldn’t care to do herself to foreign kingdoms and nobles to settle their unrest. 

And after a month, you began to settle. 

Setting aside old foolish hopes and accepting your new routine. 

Waiting for her to join you in her office, curling up in one of the other chairs as you tried to tell yourself that she’d come back soon. She had run off to attend some important meeting, patting your head and telling you that it was nothing when you tried to ask what it was about.  

So what if it made you feel a little pathetic for waiting around like a poor puppy dog abandoned by her owner? 

Satoru would return to you. 

And she made all of it worth it. 

Your body was beginning to fall asleep though, pins and needles pricking your limbs when you stood to shake it off, walking around in a circle and wondering if you were just destined to be on her leash before you decided to slump yourself in her chair instead. 

It smelled like her. 

Your body relaxing at the scent, already trained as your eyes skimmed over her cluttered desk space, papers strewn around from the hurry she left in before. 

Curiosity pricking at you as you found yourself slowly opening up drawers and peeking inside to see if there was anything interesting hiding from you. And slipped underneath thick ledgers and blank papers was a plain black leather-bound notebook you’d seen her writing in before. 

You pulled it out, a not-at-all small piece of you hoping that maybe it was a secret diary as you started flipping through it, that you’d find your own name scribbled down with hearts drawn next to it. 

It turned out your name was there. 

But it was the words that were with it that sent your stomach through the floor. 

The contents of it were cold. 

Sharp. Each word punctuated so deeply that the ink bled between the pages. 

The confirmation that she loved you was there. Just sandwiched between white hot anger that someone else had gotten to touch you first. To fuck you in the bed you belonged in with her. 

Queasiness slowly building in your core, something thick and slimy coiling around your heart as you skipped from the earlier entries to the more recent ones, knowing what was coming before you found the entry for the day Suguru died. 

And there in between the lines, the truth stared back at you. 

She had dinner with Suguru. 

Shared a meal together right before he went to join you that she never once mentioned to you. 

No.

This couldn’t be right. 

Satoru couldn’t have-

Or well, if she did, she wouldn’t have framed you for it. 

She loved you.

Swore that you were hers and that she’d never let anything awful happen to you again. The idea that she’d put you through hell just to have you all to herself was crippling. 

Maybe she didn’t outright admit that she’d done it, maybe you still didn’t know precisely how, but you knew it was her with a scary sort of certainty. 

Your body freezing as you read and reread the five short lines in front of you detailing her evening, forcing yourself to turn the page and read ahead, to see her absolutely unaffected as she offered just a single line about Suguru dying. Images of his face, that awful look in his eyes before he collapsed floating back up as you choked on the stomach-churning memory of him. 

An awful thought crept in that she left it here for you to find. That some part of her hoped you’d be nosey enough to snoop and come across it. 

For you to see all of her. 

Was it a test? 

Her attempt to see if your devotion to her was strong enough to stay despite what she’d done. 

You closed the book, shoving it back where you found it and standing up as the knowledge started to sink in, to seep through and cast a darker shade on your days together as you rushed to return to your chair. 

What if it had all been designed to keep you firmly in your place beneath her? Confined to her chambers and chained to her heart? 

Didn’t she already know she didn’t need to do any of it for you to stay? 

The door opened with a creak, and you were reopening the forgotten book you’d been reading before you found the forbidden one. 

“Hi, beautiful,” Satoru greeted as she walked over, bending over to press a soft kiss on your cheek before breezing past to her desk. 

“Hi, Toru,” you echoed, pretending to be absorbed in the book in your hands, hoping she wouldn’t notice you were holding it upside down. 

You closed it, placing it in your lap as you looked up at her with easy obedience, praying she wouldn’t pay any mind to the suspicion now lingering underneath it. 

“Was I gone long?” She earnestly asked as she slid into her seat, scooting it up close to her desk and leaning across it as her blue eyes focused solely on your face. 

“It felt like it,” you confessed, swallowing hard. 

“I must make it up to you tonight then,” your Toru teased, her perfectly cruel mouth curling up as she delivered a cute wink. 

She did make it up to you. 

But it didn’t make you forget what you found. 

What were you meant to do about it? 

Pretend you hadn’t? Pray that no one else would ever discover what you had? 

You wished she would abandon this. Abdicate the throne and take you away somewhere warm. 

But it was Satoru. 

Hadn’t you learned already she refused to give up anything once it was hers? 

The privilege, the power, the promise of a gold gilded future with you waiting on her. 

She would never let it go. 

It was you that didn’t know how to move forward. That could figure out where to go from here when she didn’t seem to notice your indiscretion. 

You spent two days torn over it. Treading softly with her, feigning that you were fine overnight until she left you again and you unraveled in her absence. 

Opening the bedroom door an hour after she left, already knowing who’d you find on the other side. A brute of a man standing guard, his back to the opposite wall as his ruby red eyes narrowed at you with pure annoyance. 

“No.”

You hadn’t even spoken yet. 

Eying him with the same irritation he showed for you, nose scrunching up as you stopped yourself from huffing. 

Most of the guards she had stationed outside your room changed, unaware of who they were even protecting, a rotating roster of men ready to keep you from breaking free. But not him. 

He was always the one posted directly by your door.

Dark pink hair falling down in his face, scarred and marked skin always creased in a stern scowl when he caught you staring at him, one foot about to fall forward before he shook his head.

“Stop,” he grunted as you peeked out of the door, and you feigned innocence, shrugging your shoulders. 

“I just want to go to her office,” you pleaded, and he glared at you, refusing to even entertain your request.

“No,” he deadpanned. 

But there was something underneath his rude facade that you didn’t like. Your brows pinching together as you tried to pout at him, to come up with something persuasive enough to change his answer. 

Before you could, there was the click of heels, and you glanced back to see Satoru returning, a platter prepared with desserts. Her pretty face was pinched up with obvious displeasure though, her mouth twitching down as you hurried to step back inside your room. 

She was slamming the door shut after you a few seconds later, half-shoving the tray into your hands as she turned to you with a disgruntled hiss. 

“Why were you speaking to him?” Satoru snapped, and the only thing you could properly think about was how pretty she looked when she was jealous. 

The downturn of her lips, the way her blue eyes glinted with unfettered annoyance, blowing air out of her nose as she tilted her head to the side all dramatically. 

“I wanted to see you,” you murmured, cupping her face just for her jaw to clench. 

Torn between taking you at your word and questioning it. 

“You know I would be here with you all the time if I could,” she softly said, despite how cold her stare still was. Her hands still held warmth for you though. Delicately picking up a slice of a cake she must’ve requested the chef make, bringing it up to your lips. 

You opened up for her. Holding her stare as she pushed it through, taking a small bite as she watched you swallow it. 

“I worry about you,” you confessed as she wiped the icing from the corner of your mouth. 

“Don’t.” 

You never thought Satoru could possibly ask too much of you. 

But that was simply impossible. 

And the longer you went without any answers, the more you found yourself starting to spiral. To unravel as you waited and waited for something to change. 

What could you do? 

It wasn’t like the court you’d never found any friends in would support what the two of you shared. Satoru had kept you completely clueless to what was happening outside of the two rooms you could be in, ignorant to how much trouble she might be in with no husband to wear the crown. 

Truthfully, you had no plan. 

No magical solution that struck you in the middle of the night. 

But you wanted to help. 

Peeking back out into the hallway a week after you first found her book, ready to prod and press her knight for more information on what you’d been missing, but to your surprise, the hallway was empty. 

No sign of anyone as you slipped out, your heart thrumming loudly in your chest as you started down the familiar path to her office. 

It was a short walk, but every step made your chest constrict, pulse pounding so loud you were sure someone had to hear until you were finally there, her office door cracked open just enough for you to steal a glimpse inside. 

The knight was there, his brows knitted together tight as he looked through all the books lining the shelves, walking over to her desk and carefully looking through the documents on it with that permanent scowl of his. 

Searching for something.

Oh no. 

You had a feeling you knew exactly what he was hoping to find. 

He was going to betray her, wasn’t he? Looking for proof of what she’d done 

His hand reached for the drawer her notebook was in, and you were pushing the door open before he could discover it. 

Your suspicions were confirmed with how straight he abruptly stood, acting as if he hadn’t just been snooping. 

“What are you doing out of your room?” He snarled at you, his voice hoarse and harsh as you refused to tremble or back down. 

“What are you doing in here?” You returned the question, throat constricting at the intensity of his glare.

You weren’t brave. Not nearly as strong or stubborn as Satoru.  

It wasn’t like anyone would ever be intimidated by you. 

But you would try for her.

He didn’t answer your question, just grinding his back molars as he stepped out from around the desk, starting to stomp over as if he planned to drag you out and toss you back into your room. 

If he did that though, he might just come back and find precisely what he was looking for. 

So while he started towards you, you walked the opposite way around to where he’d been, a lie slipping off your tongue like you were used to telling them, “I just wanted to grab some books I left in here.” 

“Hurry up then,” he scoffed, biting his tongue, probably not pushing it so you wouldn’t go and tattle to Toru about him being in here. 

He thought you were stupid. 

Just a brainless fool who was only good for getting fingered and fucked. 

Not batting an eye when you grabbed a couple books you’d set aside on Satoru’s desk before pulling open the drawer and grabbing her diary, sliding it in the middle of the pile as her knight impatiently looked outside the door. 

She would notice it was gone. 

And you would have to fess up, admit that you’d read it enough to know to take it. 

You’d rather her be mad at you than to get caught for her crime. 

Stoking the flames in the fireplace the second your guard half-pushed you back into the room you were supposed to be in, ripping out the incriminating pages first and using them for tender before tossing the rest of the book in. Watching it go up in flames, ashes sputtering out as it turned to dust in front of your eyes while you paced the floor and planned out the speech you would give her. 

Or would have given her had she actually returned for dinner.

The sun setting and the moon replacing it through your window as you waited and waited for her to come for you. Debating and drowning in your anxieties over what could be taking her so long, your eyes compelled back to the burning papers, using the fire poker to keep the flames going before you were finally forced to face the reality that Satoru might not be showing up tonight. 

Climbing back under the freezing covers, the bed so much bigger without her there to curl up against. 

It didn’t matter how silky the sheets were or how comfortable the mattress was. 

You couldn’t sleep anymore when there wasn’t the scent of her perfume and the softness of her skin to comfort you.

Was she upset with you?

Had something awful happened to her? 

To make everything worse, you started to hear a…commotion on the floor below you. Voices and the sound of things moving around, shouts and scuffles that only served to heighten your nerves. 

You almost opened the door to go find out what was going on. Sneak out again to search for the truth, but every time your hand settled on the knob, you couldn’t bring yourself to turn it. 

Ignorance could be bliss. 

But the truth would come out sooner or later. 

Curled up on the edge of your bed, hands clasped together as your eyes stuck to the door, shadows dancing across the floor as the sun rose once again. 

When it opened again, you were immediately standing, wiping sweaty palms on your nightdress as your breath got stuck in your throat, a hot lump forming the moment Satoru actually walked through. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” she softly greeted, exhaustion obvious in the dark circles betraying her beautiful face. 

“What happened?” You asked, studying her features for some clue, heart slamming into your chest as you tried to figure out what the chaos beneath you could possibly be. What could’ve taken her so long to come to you. 

“They discovered who killed our dearly departed king,” she said, a faint hint of amusement shimmering before she turned away to lock the door behind her. 

“What?” Your throat closed up, the word coming out as a stunned squeak as your brain tried to add together everything you knew. 

The person who killed Suguru was standing in front of you. 

If they knew that, she would be on her way to the gallows. 

Not turning around so you could undo her corset. 

You automatically stepped forward, fingers trembling as you undid her dress out of habit. 

“One of the knights slipped poison into his wine,” Satoru apathetically huffed, as if it was a waste of time to even talk about it. 

“One of the knights?” You echoed, reaching for something you didn’t know if you were confident enough to confront her about right as you unlaced the final part. Satoru stepped out of it with ease, her perfect body on display as she twisted back around to look over her shoulder at you. “Which one?” 

“Does it matter?” She scoffed, arching up an eyebrow, clearly unhappy with your question. 

But you still had one more left. 

“Why?” 

Her hesitation to answer gave you a different one. 

“You know as well as I do what he was like,” she said, a little too snappy as she squinted at you. 

But the moment the words were out there, you could see she regretted her response, her fingers skimming over your waist and squeezing you tenderly. “It’s all over now.” 

You stared at her. 

Satoru was lying to you. 

You didn’t know why it surprised you. Couldn’t explain why it left you so shocked, staring at her in silence as you struggled to find something to say that wouldn’t give away what you knew. 

“The knight was executed over night,” she added, your heart stilling as you realized the toll had risen to two. 

But could you be upset when the other option was one, or maybe both of you taking their place? 

“How did-” 

“He stole something of mine,” Satoru muttered, and you knew what must’ve happened without her offering anything else. 

She must have returned to her office first and realized her journal was gone.

And there were only two people she trusted enough to have access to the office it was kept in. 

So she pinned the blame on her knight and beheaded him before he could speak about any of its contents or piece together what she’d done for you. 

“He didn’t,” you breathed, your lungs shrinking as you struggled to get any more air in. 

One of you had to be honest here.

She blinked at you, not comprehending what you were saying. 

“What?” “It was me,” you admitted, stiffly shrugging your shoulders. “I saw him searching your office. And, I, um, took it and threw it in the hearth.” 

“You burned my-?” 

“I read it,” you swallowed hard, that hard lump still there, still choking you up as you avoided her stare. “Before. I know-” 

“No,” she cut you off, grabbing your chin and forcing you to tilt your face up to meet hers. “You, you were supposed to stay out of this.” 

You knew in an instant all she wanted was to protect you. To shield you from the nasty politics and petty games these awful people liked to play. 

But you couldn’t stand the idea of her doing anything at the expense of herself. 

“You should have told me from the start,” you insisted. “I-I would’ve-” 

“Your hands were supposed to be clean.” And your head empty. 

Did she think you wouldn’t have loved her if you knew what she had done? 

And now you had helped her conceal it. 

“We could have-” You started, about to tell her that as long as you were together, you could work out the rest. 

“If I told you before, you would have said there was another way,” Satoru solemnly said, her eyes narrowing as her fingers tightened around your wrist. 

You couldn’t really argue that. You would have said precisely that. Told her it was too risky. Tried to dissuade her from taking drastic measures and attempting to convince her to run away with you. 

You used to wish that the two of them would find a way to work it out. That you could find a happily ever after where everyone would get along. 

What would your reaction have been if she touched your face and told you that she was going to murder her husband? 

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” She pressed when you took too long to reply, her fingers pinching your chin to draw your attention back to right now. “I was not about to let you carry his child.” 

It wasn’t like you could have hers. 

Even if you’d do that in a heartbeat.

“He would have just kept putting babies in you and pushing me away from you” Satoru hissed, jealousy and anger rolling into her raw voice. “I couldn’t-” 

“I know,” you interrupted her this time, softening as you leaned into her.

“Now it’s just us again,” she whispered conspiratorially, pressing a clipped-short nail against the tip of your nose. 

How were you supposed to be mad about that? 

You held your breath though, still searching for anything that could stand in the way.

“These people, they are not going to just let you rule forever,” you whispered, thinking about what could befall both of you if her treason was ever discovered. Sure, she’d found someone to blame, but there must be other loose ends. Whoever she obtained the poison from. The subjects who never supported her as queen to start with. “If they find out or-” 

Satoru pressed her finger against your mouth, stopping you while you spiralled. 

“Princess,” she murmured, clicking her tongue as her initial emotions swirled into that cocky confidence of hers. Pride returning as she realized that you weren’t going to condemn or curse her, but that you were concerned for her. “Don’t you know me?” 

You hoped that meant she had already considered every side of your fear and took care of every conceivable problem. 

“I love you,” you offered instead, your voice trembling as you put your trust in her hands. 

“His throne is mine,” she smiled softly. And his concubine. 

“What if someone else challenges it?” You pressed. 

“There’s going to be a baby born with dark hair and purple eyes in a few months. His child. The mother doesn’t want the child, so I made a deal. She gets her own estate. We will get our heir,” She explained, speaking in short sentences like it would make the revelation easier to swallow. 

“Someone else was pregnant with his child?” You breathed, taken aback. 

When the fuck did he have the time to plow someone else’s field when he pretended to be so preoccupied with you? 

It was wrong, especially when it wasn’t like your heart had ever wanted him, but it wounded your own pride a little bit at the idea you hadn’t been enough for him.

You supposed you should’ve suspected it, if Satoru wasn’t enough for him either. 

“You weren’t his only-”

“Whore,” you finished for her, the word coming out a little strangled as you saw the situation for what it was. 

All you’d been was a warm body to Suguru. 

You were both disposable, to be used and discarded when his interests drifted. 

“We’ll tell everyone the baby is yours,” she added, as if she had already planned every last detail out. “And until the child is old enough, I can still rule as a regent.” 

Was that why she’d been hiding you away? 

Faking a pregnancy instead of keeping you prisoner? 

“Do you think they’ll accept a child they think is a bastard?” You asked, needing her to say yes. 

To assure you that your fears were unfounded. 

That she’d take care of you the same way she always had. 

“I will give them no other option.” 

When she spoke like that, that cold look icing over her eyes as she steeled her resolve, you knew she would. That she would do anything necessary to make sure of it.

“And what? We live happily ever after?” 

Say yes.

You needed it. Craved her confirmation. 

Looking up at her as your trembling fingers reached out to trace her waist, holding your breath as she nodded slowly. 

“Forever.” 

Your angel was standing in front of you promising you everything you ever wanted.

How were you ever meant to say no? 

Even if she would lead you straight to Hell. 

“You can be my queen,” Satoru murmured, giving you that pretty puppy dog pout you always fell for, placated as she leaned down to leave a soft kiss to your forehead like it was all settled.

Regret still lingering in your body as you ached to actually be that for her. Wishing your circumstances had been different from the beginning. 

That you were never cursed to be so far below her, and in the body of a woman that could never wear a matching ring or recite wedding vows to her. 

“I wish I was a-”  

“Do not,” she scoffed, shaking her head. “You are perfect precisely the way you are.” 

“Then why don’t you let me love you like you love me?” You asked, almost immediately annoyed at yourself for sounding a little whiney. 

But you wanted to be inside of her. 

To feel her squeeze and squirm around you, to hear her dissolve into messy whimpers and whines because of you. 

“W-what do you mean?” She stuttered, her white brows arching up high as her lips got stuck in the sort of ‘o’ that made you itch to slip your tongue inside of her. 

“I want to make you feel good,” you simply said, cheeks heating up as you swallowed the spit pooling in your mouth. 

You had never seen Satoru nervous before. 

Her mouth opened and clamped shut a few times before she started trying to ramble off reasons that she was better at giving, but you were sick of them. Sick of all the stupid things that had kept you apart. 

All the years you could’ve spent in her warmth that you missed out on. Mourning what both of your lives could’ve been if you were born as other people. 

But she had sworn you were enough for her. 

Was it wrong to want to show her how she was far more than enough for you? 

“I-I just like the way you taste and-” 

You kissed her mid-sentence, shutting her up before she could stall this any longer. 

Grabbing her this time, guiding her back to the bed one step at a time, tangling your fingers in her soft, silky hair as your tongue slipped past her lips, tracing the sharp tips of her canines until her back hit the mattress. 

And god, the moment you climbed on top of her, straddling her soft waist and pausing to peel your nightdress over your head, you hated yourself for not doing it sooner. 

For missing out on the view you were currently taking in, eyes slowly drifting over the swell of her breasts, the pink peaked buds of her nipples as she sucked in uneven breaths, staring up at you with those dazzling blue eyes. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered, the words ripped from you as you struggled to keep yourself steady. 

It felt like you were defiling something holy. 

Her sacred body below you, your fingertips skimming over her pale stomach, swirling slowly across her nipple as you bit your bottom lip. 

If she was an altar, a god, you’d pray to her every day. 

Swear your faith and undying devotion, shower her with offerings and pray for just a sliver of her favor. 

You couldn't believe she was yours. 

“I’m a virgin,” Satoru suddenly blurted out, your fingers freezing as you drifted them back down below her belly button. 

“Oh,” you blinked. 

You suppose it should’ve been obvious. 

But you had never really thought too hard about it. 

You never exactly prized your virtue. But hers was different. 

Special. 

“Do you want me to stop?” You tentatively asked, about to climb back off of her before her hand gripped onto your hip to hold you there. 

“No,” she answered a little too quickly. 

So you came up with another solution to, ah, quell her nerves. 

The ribbons you used to tie her hair with now strewn all over the bed, a long one in your hands as you adjusted her head forward. 

“I’ll be gentle,” you promised. 

Even though she practically jumped at every tiny touch you delivered to her skin, shivering at just a brush of your thumb over her nipple and when you leaned close enough for your breath to ghost across her throat. 

You wrapped the ribbon around her eyes, excitement tingling between your fingers as you fixed the silk ribbon into its proper place, tying a pretty bow around the back, careful not to get her hair caught in it. 

“Can you see?” You asked, humming softly with satisfaction as you lifted her wrists up next, positioning them above her hair as she writhed in the sheets. 

“No,” she echoed, her voice shaking a little no matter how cocky she still tried to sound. 

“Good.” 

You tied her wrists next, watching the way she tested how strong the knot was by flexing them as you smiled to yourself. 

“You know, you’re so mean,” you murmured, tracing your fingertip across her sharp features, brushing your thumb over her defined cheekbones before drifting down to her soft lips. “It’s only fair I get to play with you too.” 

“I’m never mean to you,” Satoru huffed, and you were a little tempted to grab another ribbon and gag her with it for playing dumb. 

“I hate it when you hide things from me,” you muttered, shaking your head with a soft tut of your tongue. 

“I do it because-” 

“You love me?” You asked, slowly shuffling down her body, pressing kiss after kiss across her heaving breasts down her slender abdomen.

Hoisting one of her thighs over your shoulder, sucking in a breath before you leaned in to leave on the most sensitive spot on her body. 

“S-so much,” her cute voice cracked, nearly crumbling at the soft contact.

All her strength quickly melted into a puddle of pure need, her hips bucking up when you shifted down to start sucking on it, a gorgeous whimper escaping her – and immediately making you greedy for more. 

You never thought Satoru would be at your mercy. 

Her pretty pale body shivering, perfect skin glistening with sweat as she shuddered for you, her soft thighs trying to close around your head as you dragged your tongue down across her soaked cunt. 

You didn’t think anything could ever taste so goddamn good. 

No better than a man, wiggling your own hips down into the mattress to chase friction you couldn’t find, pushing your tongue in-and-out as her muscles twitched and tensed beneath your fingertips. 

Suguru had never gotten you half as wet as her. 

Never worked you up like this, left you soaked and squirming without even being touched. Your thighs pressing together to push down the heat stirring in your core, your pulse pounding so hard you nearly couldn’t hear her whining over it. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I-I-” 

You knew Satoru loved to chatter. 

But once you were inside her it was like she physically couldn’t shut up, stammering and stuttering out curses, straining against the binds on her wrists and whining about not being able to see you. 

“P-please, wanna see you, want to, oh god,” she begged, the beautiful arch of her back nearly breaking your resolve as heat soared straight up to cloud your head. 

And before you could stop yourself, you were twisting around, angling your hips down to put your own pussy perfectly above her mouth, shutting her up by giving her something to lick and suck instead. 

“Oh, fuck, ngh-”

Her words traded in for another heated moan as she shoved her tongue inside you, swirling it in with a desperation you found yourself quick to succumb to. 

It really wasn’t fair that she was so good at everything you tried. 

But you still refused to completely lose yourself, working harder to make her cum first, slipping your thumb up to her clit, only pulling off to start cooing and condescendingly coaxing her into coming undone, copying the same methods she so expertly pulled on you. 

“C-come on,” you murmured, dragging your thumb in a slow circle as she shifted to suck on your clit just right, driving you right to the brink with her eagerness to give you everything she had. “Show me how much you love me.” 

Preferably by falling to pieces on your tongue. 

Sweat practically dripping off her, her moans reverberating through you as her body began to shake. On the very brink of breaking, pushed closer and closer as she started to cry out your name. 

Her soft voice was music to your ears, a soft purr that made all the knots in your stomach pull tight instead of making them curdle like Suguru’s sometimes had. 

You slipped your fingers inside her, feeling the way her walls squeezed down on them, trying to keep you in as you worked her oversensitive bud. She made a cute little squeak, her tongue lolling out as she began to babble again, “S’too much, I-I-” 

“Shhh,” you murmured, pressing your tongue down as she spasmed and whimpered desperately at the sensation. “Can’t you cum for me?” 

You glanced back over your shoulder to see the sight of her nodding hard and fast, the blindfold slightly crooked and her hands clawing at the pillow as she chased her climax. 

“Put that pretty tongue of yours to better use,” you softly suggested, ignoring the initial discomfort at your reversed roles as you grinded your hips down on her face. 

Apparently, your Toru could be a good listener too when she tried. 

Doing her best to devote her tongue to you right up until the moment she couldn’t hold herself together anymore, cumming with a cry into your clit as your fingers found a sweet spot right below her cervix, pressing on it as you teased her swollen bud with the tip of your own pink muscle.  

She was trembling, her legs twitching and toes curling as she let out devastated little whines that it wasn’t fair, squirming as you cleaned her up, enjoying the way she whimpered every single time your tongue dragged over her skin. 

You could spend eternity buried between her thighs. 

Or with hers between yours. 

So what if it might be too much to ask?

She would make the universe give it to you anyway. 

ε✿з

“My pretty princess.” 

And her not terribly ugly son. 

Satoru traced your face with her fingers, sighing to herself as the morning sun kissed your face, bathed you in beautiful warmth – oh, and the baby in your arms. Both of you snoozing softly, drool leaking out on your nightdress as you slept on your side, blissfully unaware of the outside world. 

You made a pretty mother. Loved the little bastard Satoru did her best to tolerate. 

Cradling an infant that neither of you had to carry, kissing his forehead and proudly showing him off to the other members of the court after he was born. 

He’d never know he wasn’t yours. No one would. 

Satoru would make sure of it. 

His mother had been more than happy to take the estate. Especially when she knew the alternative would be Satoru taking her tongue to ensure she’d never talk. 

She was still keeping tabs though. Just to be safe. 

To make sure that this happy little family of hers would stay that way. 

The nobles had protested. Insisted that she had no place as queen with Suguru dead. But his son, with his soft purple eyes and dark hair, well, that was enough to buy her eighteen more years. 

Of course, there were still whispers. 

Rumors swirled that she quickly snuffed out, either with quiet compensation or cold force. So what if a few more people had to be poisoned to protect your life together?

Rewriting history hadn’t been that hard. 

No one needed to remember how much she hated Suguru. Or how rocky the marriage had been. 

She got to be the mourning widow. The gracious wife still honoring her deceased husband by letting his bastard child be the heir. Raising him with a concubine instead of throwing both of them out. 

That was how she’d be remembered.

“Good morning,” you yawned, slowly cracking your eyes open as you smiled at her. 

“Sleep well?” She inquired, tempted to pick up the baby and place him back in his cradle so she could be cuddled instead. 

You still had nightmares sometimes. Ones where you’d thrash around and she’d have to scoop him up and call for a wet nurse to take him until morning. 

Waking you up to soothe you, stroking your hair and pretending not to know she was the reason for them. 

And yet, you looked at her like she hung the sun in the sky and shined bright enough to chase away all the shadows. To bury the skeletons somewhere you’d never see them. 

“Mhm,” you hummed, affectionately glancing between his chubby cheeks up to Satoru’s persistent pout as she puffed air into them. 

“Have any attention left for me?” She pleaded, craning her neck over them to dramatically wait for you to press a gentle kiss to her nose. 

“Always.” 

Secrets are burdensome, heavy little things.

There’s a secret that Y/n constantly keeps close to his heart.

It’s something he keeps locked under his fragile tongue, never to be said aloud. He’s not even sure if he should know about the secret, considering the terrible contents of it; but at the same time, he often thinks to himself that it is impossible that he’s the only one he knows about it. Y/n cannot help but wonder often if other people are blindingly oblivious, or if they’re like him and simply too scared to say anything about it.

After all, no one dares to claim that the crown prince, heir to the noble, grandiose empire, is a demon. Or a more accurate description: no one can claim that the crown prince is a madman who stalks the corridors of the palace every night murdering and killing, skulking for prey. Those words are blasphemy; they are traitorous: and yet they are right.

The Crown Prince, Rein Sterling — is blessed, beautiful, and beloved. In the same vein of those adjectives; he is malignant, malicious, and merciless. He’s a brilliant actor, Y/n thinks, in the sense that he masquerades perfectly in midday; all light, genteel smiles and graceful movements. The servants giggle over him — fawning, adoring, and his parents fuss and praise. He is a paragon of a ruler, generous and cheerful.

Y/n wonders if he’s the mad one, for being so terrified.

But how can everyone treat that like a human, like His Highness? Does no one not see the terrible, foreboding glint in his purple eyes? Do they not see the crimson matted on his golden hair; the blade he pushes through the numerous fallen bodies? How about his bloodied attire? Surely some must see it in the morning; when it is to be washed. What about the corpses?

Y/n wonders if he’s hallucinating the scenes that plague him; the scenes turned nightmares that keep his goosebumps prickling on his skin, that tighten his throat and tears the oxygen from his lungs. He remembers them. The sound, the view — the crunch of the bones, the soft laughter, the mutterings. Y/n remembers the crouched figure; the bloodstains pooling on the floor, the wrangled limbs. He remembers fleeing; his steps clumsy and on his breaks erratic and oh god, Y/n thought he wouldn’t survive.

His mornings are unpleasant, filled with sticky sweat and choked breaths, days peppered with awkward moments of ducking his head when the prince walks by. Y/n keeps his head bowed and chalks it up to respect and manners when really, he’s fucking scared.

He’s unsure when he started being so acutely aware of this. Y/n remembers mentioning to a fellow servant flippantly: of the disappearances in the palace. Unnamed servants, advisors, nobles disappearing; bodies undiscovered. He remembers the shaking of the head, the genuine confusion. He remembers thinking he’s hallucinated, before the next night rolls by and the killing is back again.

Y/n remembers the first time he’s stepped out of his room, hearing that thud outside; he remembers — him. He remembers rubbing his eyes; and then finding out that the figure bathed in blood and rubbing his cheek absentmindedly— smearing red all over his pristine skin — was the prince.

And the prince had turned around, his purple eyes glowing and oddly red. They seemed to miss Y/n completely, looking at him but not quite seeing. And Y/n had realized immediately that there was something else within the prince. Something menacing had taken his body — something that was wearing the prince’s skin but wasn’t him.

Something so awfully wrong. Something shaped in the wrong form; like it shouldn’t have been created. Like an endless, black hole had taken the place of something else. Instinctively the word grew in Y/n’s head.

Demon.

A demon had taken over the crown prince’s body.

The prince — that innocuous thing — had continued to look at him, unmoving; unbothered. He had smiled. And when Y/n had done absolutely nothing in return, just staring stupidly at the figure — the demon had let out a soft sigh, rolling his eyes. He had dropped the body and had licked the blood on his fingers, turning around. Y/n caught the back of his figure; saw the way the red stubbornly clung to his luxurious clothes.

“Pity,” the prince had murmured in that silky tone of his, “For a moment I thought he did see through me. That would’ve been nice, but it does not matter anyway… I shall let him go. My appetite is sated.”

Y/n had been spared, in a lucky turn of events. That day, the demon had been full, his hunger whetted.

And now Y/n lives, but he will not tell the tale.

**

Y/n can recall some things about the crown prince — the real one. He’s not too sure when the exact switch occurred, or why it happened. But he remembers the crown prince being almost meek; though everyone took it as a delicate, endearing trait. He’s so sensitive, they said. They took it as gentleness, though Y/n had always rather disliked it; the passiveness of the prince’s nature.

It doesn’t surprise him that much, in a way, that the weak crown prince would allow a demon to take over his body. Y/n’s read about it in storybooks; supposed legends and fables — of summoning circles supposedly making your wishes come true. Perhaps the crown prince had been sick of this perennial cycle where there was only endless coddling. Perhaps he had wished to be strong, and had gotten sucked into the insipid, insidious world of demons. It is safe to assume, probably, that the real crown prince is long gone and dead, his soul buried in a grave.

The issue is that the way the demon and the crown prince acts is light and day, but no one seems to notice. It’s not a flawless transition at all; everything about the demon screams madness and power — and yet, and yet —!

The demon must find all of this painfully amusing, watching the humans be blissfully unaware of these obvious changes. Y/n wonders if the demon chuckles and laughs about their foolishness to himself. He wonders if the smiles on the demon’s face are genuine in the sense that he’s mocking them: the humans, that is.

Y/n reads of demons with his curtains closed, candle flickering feebly. His fingers catch minuscule paper cuts where his hands palm through weathered, old pages of diaries and journals. If anyone catches him they’ll say he’s plotting, he’s mad. He gets his books from forbidden sources: the warded off places in the Imperial Library where he will be executed if anyone finds out of his activities.

Why is he researching? Why is he entertaining this foolishness, this innate curiosity that will herald his demise; that will usher in his downfall? Is it because Y/n’s life is so boring, he must tempt it with a little game of death?

He does not know what will happen. He does not know what can transpire. The nightmares do not stop. The research does not stop, either; neither will relent. Y/n thinks he is going a bit mad, a bit drunk on delirium, on the dark knowledge he breathes into his own soul, the evil that he invites into his body, that he nurtures.

Y/n knows this is sinful. Y/n knows dabbling in this will change his life. Y/n knows that he should stop, that he is lucky to have been spared that day during the killings.

But he can’t. He won’t.

**

“His Highness has a fiancée, and she’s coming to visit,” someone tells him one day, when Y/n is wondering about the origin of the new decorations along the walls, opulent and gorgeous. He’s been clueless about the things going on in the palace, far too distracted by Rein Sterling. It’s a bit embarrassing to be so wholly consumed.

Y/n almost laughs, but he stops himself in time.

“Oh…I see,” Y/n chokes out.

A demon, having a fiancée. She’ll be lucky if she survives the wedding night, if they even get married. Rein’s probably going to kill her, the demon that he is, and then wipe everyone’s memories and pretend it never happened. Y/n’s learned that demons are capable of manipulation, the altering of memories; the nasty work of changing and erasing them completely. Memories are what makes a person whole. They consisted of a patchwork of events: of people, of emotions. You rip that away, and they become hollow, inhuman.

This work of disassembling the memory is why no one ever suspects the demon. Y/n’s still a little confused on why the manipulation hasn’t worke on him.

The person he’s talking to is called Mark. Y/n sees the name on his badge; Mark’s popular, he finds out, and he likes to gossip and socialise. Y/n might have cared a little in the past, but he’s too absorbed in all of this finicky evil things to focus on anyone else right now.

Mark looks sympathetically at Y/n. “You had a thing for His Highness, didn’t you?”

Y/n’s eyes widen until they look like saucers — impossibly big, comically large.

“What?” He sputters out.

“You look at him all the time,” Mark teases him. “It’s alright; everyone’s got a little crush on His Highness. It’s one of those inevitable things you grow out of.”

“I do not have a crush on that thing,” Y/n manages to say, his words soft and horrified. He forgets his manners.

Mark looks at him reproachfully; “you’re lucky nobody heard that. Don’t be so defensive to the point you’ll use such derogatory language.”

If only everyone knew of his true identity, Y/n laments. If only they knew the truth that their beloved crown prince is a monster.

“I actively avoid his gaze.”

“You used to,” Mark says, “quite funny; you being so shy. But recently it’s like you’re fixated. Like he’s so interesting that you can’t keep your eyes off him. Smitten, hm?”

Oh. Has it looked that way, then? Rather unfortunate; rather creepy, but Y/n supposed it comes with the fiery curiosity. He hadn’t even realized it; he’s still too terrified to actively look at the prince — the demon. He still can’t sleep, not with those horrid nightmares. Not with his blankets twisting and turning around his body like they’re a noose and he’s stepping to his death. Not with the silent screams and murders happening in the corridor, with those red eyes.

“He is beautiful,” Y/n shakes his head. “But you have the wrong idea.”

Mark sighs dreamily. “He is, isn’t he?”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“You have work to do,” Mark says, miffed, “don’t be so spaced out. You’re been…” he chews her lip, suddenly looking nervous, “I don’t know what you’re doing, actually, and… well, be careful.”

“Thanks, Marcus.”

“Mark.”

Y/n’s brain is like mush; all soft and tender and strangely distant from the world. He thinks of the malevolent, vile things swirling in his head, thrumming beneath the surfaces. Pulsing, alive, unpleasant.

He feels like he might throw up. All of a sudden he shivers, and the good natured spirit leaves his body, and Y/n feels somber, quiet, dismal. Y/n rubs his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Y/n manages, but he stumbles as he walks away, and he wonders if he will remember the conversation he just had.

**

The dark magic he’s been researching is obviously affecting him in some way. It’s an unquenchable thirst. Something he keeps in his mind now. It’s distorting the relationships he has, bit by bit, the ultimate destroyer, the ultimate weapon. The one that will kill him. Y/n must have been friends with countless of these people before, but now he does not — he does not remember their names, their faces. He does not —

(He does not even see them anymore. They are dead bodies.)

Y/n sobs at night, encumbered by bitterness and misery. He wonders why he had chosen to step out of the door at night. Y/n, for all his bravado in searching up all those demonic things— is a coward; he trembles; he cries. He’s bruised, battered, torn, hopeless.

Do they not see, is the thought that haunts him, that continues to do so. Do they not see that a demon has taken over the crown prince, do they not —

He repeats his name to himself, lest he forgets.

“I am Y/n,” he says, and the first sentence is usually understandable, legible if he would write them down, “I am Y/n.” He feels foolish, petulant, a little dumb. There’s mirth, at first.

And then afterwards; in quick successions; “I-I-” Stammering, trembling, remembering the unholy splatter of blood, the absolute gruesome macabre; the waltz with death; his own dead body —

Y/n, Y/n, Y/n. That is his name.

He moans, groans, rolls around in pain. He regrets it. He refuses. He throws up; the bile rises in his throat. Y/n agonizes. He longs, yearns, to be comforted; to have this darkness coaxed out of him, to have it tamed and leashed. I didn’t have this at first, he thinks. But associating with these demonic forces changes your mind. I knew it then, but from the moment I locked eyes with Rein, I was cursed; doomed.

Y/n wonders if the demon knows of his pain, his horror, and if he laughs at it; all teeth glinting with flesh wedged inside. Demons are not cannibals; but they are not impervious to human flesh. They will hunt, they will eat, they will seek pleasures in earthly things and toss them away. In the end, demons cannot exactly feel, they lack the capacity for that. They are non altruistic beings drunk on the capability to inflict pain on others.

“Why,” he begs, “why does this happen to me?”

The shadows slinking around his room will not answer his questions. They seem to mock him. Laughing. Scowling. Giggling. Naughty, naughty, naughty, for venturing into such territories. You knew this would happen! But you are getting claimed! You are getting taken; Y/n!

Y/n clutches his head and rocks himself into an unpleasant sleep. He wakes up with a scream — he does not know if it belongs to him.

**

Layla is her name — the prince’s fiancée. She is beautiful and too innocent to be a victim. She hooks her arm around Rein and she is oblivious to the darkness swirling in Rein’s eyes. The prince seems cheerful at the prospect of her prey — he is hardly angry. Y/n stares at Layla, seeing her beautiful black hair and glittering blue eyes. If blood gets stuck in her hair, nobody will notice. The princess catches Y/n’s gaze and her cheeks turn pink. She manages a little wave, thinking Y/n is ogling at her, but he is not. The man beside her — his presence is suffocating.

Y/n doesn’t want to turn his head. He doesn’t want to move. He will not — he will not have eye contact with the absolute monster who shouldn’t be here and who’s only pretending and how cruel and callous and completely wrong.

He sees Rein’s mouth open. Y/n must leave; he must leave now before his gaze will be forced to trickle upwards to see his full face, and Rein’s expressions will be the death of him. Rein’s tiny eyes that are not purple; gleeful and glittering as he derives joy from fooling all of these humans. From wearing this human’s skin and earning their love.

Words are forming. Rein raises his hand, fingers curling. He points.

Y/n is at the receiving end of it.

“You there,” his voice is light, and Y/n feels tears already welling up in his eyes, “it appears Layla needs some drink. Will you fetch some for us?”

Y/n cannot move. He thinks he might cry; this sudden explosion of tears that will startle Layla and will blow his cover. His lips tremble; his knees feel like they must give out —

And they’re heading into his direction now, and they’re —

“Poor thing,” Layla says, “he’s shivering all over!”

“Ah, yes,” Rein murmurs, and his lips curl into a smile, “nervous, isn’t he?”

Y/n steps back; Rein steps forward.

“Let’s not trouble him,” Layla says prettily, scratching her neck, “He looks unwell. Is he feverish?”

“You are thirsty; you say?” Rein looks at Layla then, his voice sweet. “Absolutely parched, is that so?”

Layla sighs. “Yes. The trip here wasn’t the best. Before leaving, I only had a single glass of lemonade, and I have yet to sit dow here for a cup of tea. I hear that the rose tea in this Empire is absolutely excellent —”

Rein looks bored, that empty smile still on his face. Y/n shakes all over, clutching the edges of the fabric of his clothes.

“Y-Y-Your Highness,” he finally says, “I-I can get you the drink you want; I can —”

“That won’t be necessary at all,” Rein says in an oddly fond tone, one so sickly sweet it could give Y/n decay in his teeth. “Thank you.”

Layla looks confused, opening her mouth to speak, but then —

Rein flicks his hand in a lazy, smooth motion — and for a moment nothing happens. Y/n is ready to exhale — yes, of course; nothing can happen, it’s broad daylight and it’s foolish to think that Rein could do such things when it’s not at night, he can breathe easy and still fetch the drinks and escape —

Layla chokes a little.

“Pardon me,” she starts, looking surprised, “something is in my throat.”

“I must really get you a drink,” Y/n begins, “if you would let me…”

“Y/n,” Rein says, and the weight of his name on the demon’s tongue sends complete shudders down his spine. It should not sound this sacred, it should not be so whispered, so intimate, so sensual. It should not sound —

“Look,” Rein whispers excitedly, “marvel at her.”

Layla begins scratching her throat. Then she starts to dry heave, and tears form in her eyes.

“It’s unpleasant,” she starts to murmur feverishly, “it’s uncomfortable. Ah, I’m so sorry for my lack of manners. I don’t know what has come over me. My throat feels so strange…”

“A miracle she can still talk,” Rein’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “Don’t you agree, Y/n?”

(How, how, how does the wretched demon know Y/n’s name?)

And then there’s red. Swimming in her jaw. Coming from the gaps of her teeth. She gurgles like something's absolutely choking her, and she starts to cough. The red keeps pouring out non-stop, like she’s a broken faucet and it won’t turn off.

“Her thirst should be sufficiently satiated,” Rein turns to Y/n, and Y/n’s eyes cannot leave the gruesome sight. It’s either that or Rein, and so he cannot — he cannot tear his eyes from the convulsing princess, the poor delicate princess who was so polite, so needlessly innocent.

He stares. A corpse lies before him, and the other side, the grin reaper, the sinful demon.

Y/n flinches.

Rein’s fingers travel to his jaw, pressing down on it. His fingers are tender as they caress his skin.

Y/n dissociates. The fear that blooms underneath his skin cannot be quelled; it’s like a poisonous branch, with tendrils spreading deliciously through his skin, coursing through his veins. They thump and burn.

“It took me this long to find you,” Rein says, and his voice sounds so adoring, so light — jubilant, merry, “I should’ve known that night. You saw me that day, didn’t you?”

Y/n snaps his head up — he knew — and shakes his head repeatedly. “Y-Y-Your Highness,” he stammers, the tears slipping from his face now, “n-no.”

Rein sighs and shakes his head. He clicks his tongue. “You tremble,” he says, “it’s cute that you think you can lie. How could you? You liked me enough to research about me.”

How did he know? How did he find it out? Why? How? Will he torment me now, will he kill me? I don’t want this; I don’t want to die — or perhaps I do, to be released from this — ever since that day I’ve been living in hell —

“I thought I would observe you for a little while longer,” Rein continues, pleased. Ah, his arms are moving now, his voice cruelly soft. His hands are wrapping around Y/n; his palms neatly fitting around his waist. It feels like the demon can devour him whole, tear him apart with his veiny, strong hands and dig into his carcass, sink his fangs in. It feels like Y/n can break, fragile thing that he is; flesh and bones all surrendered to Rein.

“But I was afraid you would get the wrong idea…” Rein continued, “seeing me with Layla. I saw your crestfallen look as she approached you. So I decided perhaps it was time for me to finally embrace you; shower you in my affection.”

It was you who I’m terrified of, is what Y/n wants to say, but every inch of his body won’t move. He can’t speak, he can’t defend his name. His body is still being crushed into a hug, a boneless, mindless sensation. His lips are dry. He can’t see now; his vision is blocked but that image of dead Layla is still there, and the noises of he gurgling, choking —

Y/n whimpers, and it only makes Rein — it only makes this demon — kiss the top of his head, and lightly tousle his hair.

“Poor thing. Are you tearing up?” Rein giggles, “poor darling; you must have been so scared.”

“You’ve got the wrong person,” Y/n says, his voice hoarse. The tears fall from his eyes. “Your Highness —”

“I have not,” the tone spirals into one of utter seriousness, “you have a rather sly tongue,” Rein hums, “worry not; I could always do you a favor and cut it off. It would make your life far easier; wouldn’t it?”

“Your Highness, why —”

“Why?” Rein echoes. Another kiss, this time plastered on his forehead. The hug is bone crushing. “Do you know how tiresome it was to inhabit this rather useless body?” His hands brush against Y/n’s back, and he trembles. “He wanted to be stronger, but it was a far-fetched goal for a boy so weak — which is why I ended up being summoned. This body is handsome, beautiful; yes,” Rein says carelessly, “but demons are always beautiful, so it was not exactly a bonus. I was so bored out of my mind…”

Y/n is silent. He stills. Even his thoughts are quiet. He cannot think, he cannot…

He wants to throw up. Take his blankets and cover him. Hide.

“…but you came!” Rein says cheerfully, “you looked at me that day; all frozen and terrified. How adorable. I’m glad I didn’t kill you that day. Then seeing me wasn’t enough for your darling heart: you went on to do your own little research. You allowed the darkness to take your mind; your dreams. Your soul. An exceedingly romantic declaration,” he says dreamily, “what a brilliant proposal, Y/n. And your stares have been so noticeable.”

“I —” Y/n stops abruptly, words dying in his mouth.

Stupid, stupid him. He has pored over those books but failed to read the most important part. He neglected the most crucial part, the most interesting and intricate and intriguing.

What else but courtship? What else but vows? Demons cannot feel wholly; but they have passion; they have desires. They are twisted; utterly wrong, they are like gangrene with rot that sticks to their souls. But it is there. It is present.

And now Y/n had teased it out of Rein through his fear, through his foolish budding curiosity. He’s splayed out the demon’s soul and has imbued it with this webbed emotions. With this desire; the hot headed, feverish rush of desire.

“Ah, no take backs,” Rein frowns. Y/n feels that lips move against his hair, “are you disturbed? You must have been, by Layla. Or by Mark, even though I’ve sufficiently gotten rid of him. You must rest,” Rein cajoles softly, “come, my darling; shall I lead you to the bedroom?”

“Scared,” Y/n shakes his head and continues to hiccup, “I’m scared.”

“Of who?” Rein says, fondly exasperated. “I am right here, my sweet.”

Of you.

Y/n is not exactly pliant under Rein’s touch: he’s frozen stiff; his muscles commanded by the demon, every contour, every inch surrendered to him. Or perhaps it’s better to say that it’s been ripped from him; this merciless act of giving something to him without consent, without permission. But consent is no concept to a demon; it is a fickle social abstract invented for the comfort of humans. The demons will not care of the ramifications of stealing; to them — humans are inferior, humans are theirs from the start.

The act of ownership.

That’s the first moment that Y/n truly feels he does not belong to his own body; that his own body does not belong to him. He’s a leashed lamb, trailing after the shepherd, rope around his neck.

He feels it tugging. Y/n cannot go the other way, or his neck will snap.

Death or suffering. Not much of an option, really.

**

The room is magnificent, befitting of a prince.

That’s the bed that Layla was supposed to be ravished. Dainty, delicate, demure maiden who slinks under the covers, who waits for her equally perfect husband. They both shall be meek; peering at each other in the dark, kissing each other tentatively, with mutual, endearing inexperience. Their lips will find each other and miraculously become hungry, slick, greedy, and they will indulge in pleasure.

That is not the case tonight. The bride is dead, and Y/n looks at the expansive room, his pupils wavering. Wondering what he’s done to deserve such a crude fate.

Rein is nipping at his ear, humming a tune that Y/n doesn’t recognize. It sounds like death.

“Humans are quite weak,” Rein says, and Y/n feels his limbs weaken, nearly collapsing on the floor. He can feel, he can very vividly feel Rein’s hot breaths against his ear, voice sickly sweet. He does not know if this is considered lucky, if this horrid misunderstanding — courtship, of all things — is to be laughed at.

The demon had kissed him. Whispered tenderly to him, called him pet names. He had taken him so gently, with that firm grip of his — had led him to the bedroom, had —

“You’re quite a fragile thing, hmm,” Rein says, “beautiful. Look at the way you shake.”

“Your Highness,” the plea falls from Y/n’s lips. “Your Highness, I —”

“Shh,” Rein smiles, “I apologize,” he says flippantly, and the ironic thing is that he doesn’t sound very sorry at all, and Y/n isn’t even sure if demons can feel sorry in the first place; “did you feel neglected? Isolated? I shouldn’t have waited so long.”

“I didn’t mind at all,” Y/n stutters his answer out, and he’s being honest: of course he wouldn’t mind one bit. He won’t mind if Rein drops dead now by some miraculous action, if he himself passes out and if Rein ignores him —

“I have realized this thing the humans call fondness,” Rein looks at Y/n, “why, seeing your efforts: how could I not reciprocate?”

It is a terrible mistake, is what Y/n wants to tell him. Everything is. Everything is a lie, a hoax, messy jigsaw puzzles all now together but placed in the wrong order. This wasn’t supposed to happen, when Y/n had read those books and had studied them vigorously, convincing himself it was for education, to survive better. Studying the dark magic — looking at the spells, researching about demons is a risky move; he knows that: but oh, how could Y/n ever anticipate this morbid turn of events?

Rein leans down, and his breaths are hot against Y/n’s; coalescing, entangling, intertwining. Y/n’s heart drops when he realizes soon after that the demon has kissed him; thankfully chaste; though the hunger swimming in Rein’s eyes speak otherwise. Demons love pleasure, after all: they will bask in it. And pleasure is different from love.

The kiss is soft — not entirely unpleasant, in a sensory way — though it makes the tears in Y/n’s eyes burn; it makes him recoil and shudder, though the firm touch around his body will not allow him to do so.

Trapped, he thinks dismally, I’m trapped.

Rein seems to study him delightfully — Y/n’s reactions, horridly, seems to give him a wild, unfettered delight; and he does that again — pressing his soft and yet firm lips onto Y/n's. There’s no obscene sheen of saliva just yet, no tongue, no wet noises — but still, Y/n —

“You are inexperienced,” Rein smiles. “Wonderful; darling. I was afraid that if you had spent time with another, it would’ve been rather foolish. After all; you don’t court someone after having already tainted yourself, right?”

Y/n just stares at the ground, unable to move. Rein’s fingers press on his lips. It’s not yet bruised.

“I’m tired,” Y/n manages, and it’s not even an excuse; it’s the truth. His bones are heavy and so is his heart. He wishes for the bed to come to his coffin, for his lungs to stop working.

Rein tilts his head. “Tired,” he repeats tonelessly.

This is when Y/n feels absolute fear, the feeling climbing up his spine, his body wrenched by a sleazy, sudden burst of pure terror—

“Of course,” Rein sighs, “I did bring you here for you to sleep well. I forgot how weak humans were,” he mutters.

“W-Weak,” Y/n repeats, stammering. Please, let him sleep. Please, let his body remain his for a little while longer; his sanity is gone, his heart is breaking. Let his body remain his own.

“They die so rapidly,” Rein continues, and his eyes are bored into Y/n’s own, “so quick; like lightning. Didn’t even put up that much of a fight, when I surprised them at night. And nobody noticed the disappearing, except for you,” he clicks his tongue. “Not much of a good species —” he smiles at Y/n, “though perhaps that is subject to change. You’ve been immensely impressive, my dear.”

Y/n swallows. “T-Thank you.”

“So modest,” Rein remarks. “Well, you should dress and sleep. Do you want me to help you?”

The correct answer is yes, hanging tautly in the air between the two of them. But Y/n can’t bring himself to say those words. To begin with, it’s hard; terribly hard, Y/n finds, to reconcile the fatality of the man’s gaze along with his tender actions.

“I’m all dirty,” Y/n says at last, “please don’t — trouble yourself, Your Highness.”

“Hmm, I am disappointed,” Rein says quietly, “but —” an abrupt crescendo of his tone, “but! Since you’ve been so darling; I shall let it slide.”

Y/n breathes a shaky sigh. Thankfully, Rein doesn’t seem to notice, and instead presses one more feathery kiss on Y/n’s forehead, his tight clutches slowly loosening. He looks adoringly at Y/n.

“My little human,” Rein says silkily, “I shall join you in bed later. Fret not: if your anxious mind is worried about what others might think, they shall not know.”

Rein’s treating him like a pet to be reared. Y/n supposed that these are all humans are to him; pets. Like dogs, cats — are humans just that, too? In the way yes, as all animals are living things and they eat and breathe.

For now — Y/n — has slipped out from any immediate danger. He doesn’t know if that’s a thing to be grateful for, but the truth is; everything is simply delayed.

Rein is inevitable.

That much has been established.

**

When Y/n’s all washed, he climbs reluctantly to bed. The sheets are soft; softer than anything he’s ever experienced before (the idea of him being in the prince’s bed is laughable), to the point he feels a sharp feeling of envy — quickly replaced by dread — as he lies there, heart thumping against his chest.

He can’t help but feel he’s waiting for death. Lying there, like a sacrifice, like a piece of meat. Like a hunk of flesh ready to be devoured; like he’s waiting for his life to bleed out from every orifice. Y/n swallows, his throat filled with bile. Despite the comfortable bedding, he feels incredibly uneasy — tonight, he wishes to be left alone. He prays for nothing to happen. Oh, god please, let nothing happen.

He’s tired, Y/n knows. Bones heavy, eyelids slowly shutting. Like there are forceful, gentle hands pressing down at his eyes, willing him to fall asleep — willing him to be a willing prey, because he knows that demons do not care about the state of their prey. Or would it be better for Rein to take him when he’s already asleep, so he won’t feel the pain, the unmerciful act of having something wholly taken away from him? The act of ripping off his body, feeding it to Rein. Pushing it into his mouth, surrendering his claim over to him, handing over the reins.

Someone else, take me away, Y/n begs, body curled around the pillow, body crumpled. He’s terrified, he knows, the sense of horror permeating through his exhaustion, keeping his mind awake whilst his body cries out for rest. He does not know yet, but the dark magic is swirling, dormant, eager. Eating away at his soul with a sadistic soft glee.

Of course, his pleas go unanswered: nothing happens.

Y/n lets out a little sob, wondering where it all went wrong. Where he fell so prettily into the hands of Rein. When the demon decided to spare his life just to stake a sleazy, slow claim on him.

When his life decided to spiral downhill, from the moment it took over him.

I’ll join you in bed later, Rein had told him. Sort of a promise. Y/n tosses and turns, sleep refusing to wrap around his mind.

At last, after a stretch of torturous minutes — or hours, Y/n does not know: he hears the soft footsteps of someone coming into the room. Y/n’s eyes burn, and he readies for this inevitable act of having himself taken apart —

But a soft kiss pressed onto his forehead, his breaths hitched — arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him closer. A breath exhaled.

No attempt being made. Just — just holding him, like they exist in a domestic, delicate space.

Which they don’t.

Y/n notices the fingers holding his waist, colored with blood. With red. His nose stings at the smell.

“Sweet dreams, darling,” Rein whispers into his ear, and Y/n forces himself to relax against the steady thrum of the heartbeat pressed against his back.

That night, Y/n had waited in anticipation, he waited with bated breaths, thoughts scrambling for purchase, body trembling. He had felt phantom pains littered across his body; sacred parts not meant for taking, and he had felt it anyway: thighs shivering, lips shaking, eyelids burning.

But Rein had not made a move.

**

When Y/n awakes, he cannot help but wonder if it was all a cruel, crude dream.

He must have dreamt this line of events. The demon, finding out about his existence — the demon, seeing through him, mistaking his feeble attempts or survival for courtship. The demon, recognising the black tendrils of darkness spreading through Y/n, a quick disease — and loving it, adoring it.

The demon, who had held him in his sleep like he was something precious, with carmine stained fingers; a life for a life. The demon who —

The demon who could not feel, and yet claimed he did.

This cannot be real. This must be his imagination working overtime. Surely, Y/n will awake from this dreadful day, and he will be awake in his solemn servant chambers, feeling cornered again as everyone around him sings praises of the prince who is not who he truly is. But even then, feeling cornered is better than — than being cherished in this nonsensical manner by a malicious, malevolent being.

Anything is better than what went down. Anything…

Y/n stares at the luxurious ceiling.

A tear falls from his eyes. He reaches out, a fragile attempt to test his body health — and he does not feel any muscle ache, except the full throbbing of his head, so he knows he was lucky last night.

This is reality, he thinks with despair. The endless beauty of the room that surrounds him: it’s the prince’s room, after all. So this means he is still a prisoner. But —

Y/n reached out to press his fingernails against his skin. A strangled groan falls from his lips: his nails are so sharp that they leave a faint trickle of blood, and the mild pain is enough for him to realize that he’s still here, that he’s still a victim to all of these frankly ridiculous happenings, and…

Y/n sits up fully, and numbly, completely numbly, he punches the pillow. His knuckles burn, despite the softness. He does it again; and again — and when the agony becomes a murmur in the back of his brain, he slams his head against the headboard, pain whizzing through his muscle.

Y/n gasps, tearing back and clutching his head. And yet the agony is such a darling respite: he does it again; doing it until the red soaks his skin and he stares at it in horror.

His vision blurs. He feels his vision sway, and watches as the pristine bed sheet is matted with his blood, his pain, his sorrow…

Y/n wants to howl. Wants to make an animalistic, wretched sound that will tear from his lips.

But it continues to burn, everything does.

“F-Fuck,” he manages to stutter out, wheezing, “ah, fuck!”

The vulgarities bring him some sort of clarity. Evil goes to clarity for him to completely still when the doorknob shakes, and the door opens.

Fear encumbers him. Y/n starts to tremble when Rein stares at the mess — all bloodied sheets, his messy hard —

Rein starts to laugh, shaking his head.

“Is this a gift you prepared for me so early, Y/n?” Rein says calmly, walking over and brushing Y/n’s hair lightly. “I didn’t know you would even offer your own blood as a treat.”

Rein licks a stripe on Y/n’s crimson cheek, humming. “So sweet, darling,” he whispers hotly, “so sweet of you. And your bed hair is so adorable. You are so cute…”

Y/n’s breaths catch in his throat, especially when Rein releases Y/n from his grip and turns around, unbuttoning his shirt.

Y/n stares. The previous prince had been weak, but clearly, the demon has been putting in the work. Does he get vitality from the humans he kills? His muscles are evident, arms having swelled up impressively, and his torso is refined, and —

Rein catches Y/n’s stare and he tilts his head. “Is it a pleasant sight, Y/n?” He says sweetly. “I have yet to see yours; your undressed body; that is.”

Y/n immediately whips his head around.

Rein only laughs; an empty, hollow sound that sounds too much like he’s mimicking how it’s like.

“Feel free to roam,” Rein sighs softly, “within the place, of course. And of course, the imperial physician will have to attend to your injuries. Does it hurt terribly?”

In all his fear, Y/n has forgotten that he has bashed his head in. The sudden pain startles him — he groans, and Rein clicks his tongue sorrowfully.

“What a thoughtful gesture, but you are too careless,” Rein says, “but remember; your body is mine, which means that your injuries are too. Don’t be too reckless with your body, alright, Y/n?”

Y/n nods his head shakily. Rein doesn’t seem to care about him being in pain, only about the act of ownership — which is — to be expected, of course, considering how he genuinely can’t feel and empathise and the only string connecting the two of them is —

“I’ll be off, then,” Rein says, smiling lightly at Y/n. “Take care.”

Feel free to roam, he had said.

But it’s a reminder; the palace is nothing but a golden jail. A golden birdcage. And only Rein had the keys to them.

**

After the physician attends to him, leaving Y/n a bandaged mess, akin to a mummy — he stumbles out. Rein has made no effort to elevate his effort despite his claims of love, and Y/n has duties to attend to. People send him glances as he shamefully steps out of the chambers.

He has worked so hard to be invisible, yet here Rein was, undoing all of his hard work. Y/n’s mood sours, and a wave of bitterness takes over his body; he bites his lip.

“He spent the night with the prince…”

“Who knew His Highness’s tastes would extend to even the lowly folk of the palace? Does this mean that I had a chance —?”

“Don’t be daft. Perhaps —”

The mutterings are endless, ceaseless. Y/n thinks scornfully to himself that they do not notice the fact that their prince is a demon, and yet they gossip about these events so tritely. All of this anger only makes his headache even worse, and he clutches the wall to regain his balance.

“Fucking hurts,” Y/n manages to hiss out. The fear is deflating. Rein isn’t here right now. He isn’t —

Y/n managed to squirm and move slowly towards a little corner of the palace. He has a broom and a bucket next to him, if anyone stumbles upon him and accuses him of not doing his duties — but for now, those stay useless as he sinks to the floor in relief.

Finally alone, Y/n thinks, and his body relaxes. A shudder escapes from his lips, as he thinks about Rein’s touch, that hot, warm touch — the lips pressing to his body, the tongue licking —

He groans, a pitiful, guttural sound. He has a few minutes of reprieve, laying on the cold, comforting ground, before his peace is interrupted. Y/n doesn’t feel the deadly fear that encompasses his body whenever Rein draws near to him, and so he sighs in relief — before he looks at the person who has entered.

It’s the young butler. John is his name; an innocuous, plain one. He must be here to chastise Y/n for not doing his duties. He operates like a head maid — he keeps his eyes on the servants, and manages them well.

“Sorry,” Y/n says tiredly, “I was just resting.”

To his surprise, John seems — he seems hostile, like he’s ready to lash out at him.

“You mere bedwarmer,” he hisses out, “you do know that you’re a lowly servant; right?”

“I- I did not —”

“Lies,” John says, “everyone says that they saw you stumbling out from His Highness’s room. His Highness is so pure, so delicate. How have you tainted him?”

At these words, Y/n cannot help but — he cannot help but keel over and laugh, and then he huffs. An anguished scream nearly leaves him, but Y/n keeps it in.

“Pure,” Y/n repeats, the anger growing, “delicate?”

“Say it. What dastardly methods have you -”

“You’re blind!” Y/n screams; “you’re all blind and foolish. You clearly do not see that frolicking in him. He is the one who has — the one —”

Why? Why? Why? Why am I so unlucky? What have I done to deserve this, why is it that all I can do is lament my fate? Why is it that all I can choose to do is wallow in my sorrow; drown in my misery? Why?

He feels it, rather than acknowledging it. The spread of something insidious, swirling around him, threatening to burst. Y/n feels his vision black out for a moment — he sees his hands raising themselves up, even though he doesn’t think he’s in full control of them, he hears a faint whoosh, sound, descending from above; he hears a terrified shriek and the darkness is —

Do it, Y/n! Use me! Use the darkness you’ve been cultivating every night with your almighty curiosity! Use it!

Snuffed out.

Now the indomitable fear creeps into his chest; and Y/n whirls around, his vision having cleared —

“Ah, ah,” Rein says cheerfully, nuzzling his head into Y/n’s neck. “That would’ve been brilliant, but don’t waste it on people like that, hmm?”

Rein mutters something, and in a flash: John disappears. There is no blood, for once, only…

Only nothing.

Y/n tries to catch his breath, his chest heaving up and down. He tries to speak, except that — except that he doesn’t know just what happened; and he’s all out of breath; and Rein….

Rein looks extremely pleased.

“I’ve never been so proud of these urges.” Rein purrs, “of your urges. You have the darkness at your fingertips, despite being a mere human. Just like you have made me fall for you, you have seduced the darkness, too.”

But I did not ask for that, Y/n thinks desperately to himself, but you must know; that I did not ask for any of this.

**

I had been proud of those urges. What did that mean? That little comment sprinkled in the midst of his excessive praise — evidently, it had referred to that moment when Y/n could not think, and when he had completely fallen apart, giving his body to that darkness, letting it control him.

Y/n breathes out. He must be a hypocrite. He must be some sort of fool, for being so terrified of Rein, when he himself had been dabbling so freely in fake magic, and letting himself fall prey to it. When he had nearly become the murderer and Rein — the demon — had been the savior, the one to — take that sin away from his heads before its anatomy had been fully carved out.

Before Y/n had become a full sinner. But he already is one, is he not, toying with the biggest evil in the world: a demon.

The laugh he heaves out is completely despairing. He can’t escape from the dark magic which he had invited. He's in danger, Y/n knows: he feels his moral compass collapsing, and it doesn’t help when Rein praises him for that, when Rein cajoles him and tells him that he is proud.

After that, Rein has taken his mouth again, a wet, heated kiss — and Y/n had been completely consumed by it, eyes blazing over and his body burning.

And they had broken apart, and Rein had looked at him so lovingly then, and Y/n could not help but wonder which human he mimicked, with that love-stricken expression.

So, so proud of you, Y/n.

Y/n had soaked in that feeling for a while, letting the feeling fester in him, slather over her his skin.

So, so proud of you.

**

Later, Y/n finds that everyone — the people of the palace — calls him the consort. The prince’s betrothed; most beloved — a title just held by Layla, who nobody remembers. She is nothing now; only someone remembered by Y/n. He doubts Rein bothers to remember the victims. John is another name scraped onto the surface, having disappeared. At least, with Layla, there had been blood. But with John; absolutely nothing.

No evidence to show that he had ever been alive.

Y/n feels his sanity break little by little.

He weeps.

He cries.

“I d-d-don’t know,” Is what he slurs when a bottle of alcohol accompanies him, “what’s real. Am I living in a constant delusion, am I — am I even alive?”

Y/n won’t remember it when he wakes up, but Rein will pluck that bottle of alcohol from his hands, studying the cold, hard glass of it, seeing his reflection. And he’ll smile longingly at Y/n’s madness, thinking that it’s awfully cute, and he’ll shatter the bottle.

With a glass shard, he’ll prick Y/n’s hands. So blood falls out; so Rein’s doing a favor: that he’s reminding poor Y/n that he’s alive.

“You are, my sweet,” Rein coos, and he will keep smiling, because everything is so amusing and of course, only Y/n is beloved and worthy enough to provide such joy in his otherwise mundane life, “you are alive, and you are mine.”

Y/n; descending into madness. Y/n, as he scrambles for clarity in his darkness and despairing mind, trying so hard to find memories that aren’t broken and shattered.

“You are mine,” Rein repeats, tilting his head. He traces the blood on Y/n’s palm, spreading it and smudging it all over his human, brittle skin.

“Mine.”

He has not taken Y/n yet. No; he’ll let Y/n wait, so Y/n and him can fully enjoy it when it comes. After all, a prize must he earned; and oh, Y/n is so close to that.

**

In his bouts of madness that plague him at night, Y/n remembers his past. Something he hadn’t thought about ever since the demon had overtaken the prince’s body, but now he is reminded of it.

They say that everyone has demons of their own. Before Rein, there had been his family. His family who tormented him, who broke him before he morbidly repaired himself, the family who had first made the darkness in Y/n’s heart appear.

Yes, the darkness had been there, already. Rein; Y/n’s curiosity — had only drawn it out, made it all the more obvious. But it had existed; floating around aimlessly in his chest. In his soul.

Y/n remembers his family passing away, never really atoning for their cruel sins towards him. An iron pressed to his heart when he misbehaved; the heat that made him shriek, the lashes on his legs that leaked blood and grew into terrifying monsters that would haunt Y/n for the rest of his life, until Rein.

The yearning, the desperate need for warmth. The want for tenderness. The shame in wanting those things. Thinking of tenderness as pain as it was easier to see it that way.

One night Y/n grows desperate, as the nightmares that aren’t Rein make him sob.

He remembers Rein, who had held him before. Who had given him that warmth so readily.

I’ll take anything, the darkness whispers, I’ll take anything at all. I’ll take anything to fill up that hole your fault left. Replace them.

And so Y/n clutches at Rein deliriously, his brain feeling like it’s been shattered. From the time he smashed his head into the headboard — his head feels like it’s never been completely healed. He cries like a petulant child.

Like a lonely one.

“Help me,” Y/n begs, “the nightmares will not stop. Comfort me, please, caress me; love me.”

He strips away his dignity then. Offers it to Rein.

And so Rein does; he does it in a frenzy, he rushes in and captures Y/n’s lips and he pushes and pushes and he craves —

He adores this. Poor, pathetic Y/n finally comes to him for help.

“You have sacrificed plenty for me,” Rein whispers, “for your endearing little courtship. How could I not?”

Y/n’s hands loop around Rein. It’s warm. It’s—

It should not be. And yet. And yet.

The fingers that stroke his hair so slowly. The ones that sweep over the expanse of nape, making Y/n tremble. The hands offering comfort, though they should not —

Y/n sleeps, finally, a peaceful one. He exhales.

**

The next day the shame is absolute, unforgiving. Y/n remembers the way he had clinged to Rein, the way he had — had surrendered himself. And now he is in the room, seeing the food that Rein has left behind, obviously as a reward. A reward for giving my dignity and self respect away, in embracing the man I’m scared of; terrified of. Of pushing my humanity away.

And just like Y/n has abandoned his humanity, he abandons the food; he pushes the plate away abruptly, digs his fingers into his throat in revulsion. His eyes burn, disgust twisting though every fibre of his body, woven within his heart.

I had wanted it, needed it, Y/n thinks, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. I don't want it.

He rushes to the bathroom, throwing it all up. Each heave, each time he throws up — he thinks to himself, he tells himself, he assures himself, that this vomit — is his shame.

He’s throwing it all up.

**

Rein continues to be sweet. Little kisses pressed against his bare skin, and the way he smiles, brings dessert that Y/n later throws up. Y/n wonders where this patience has come from; why Rein hasn’t —

But the illusion of safety; of tenderness is broken when one day Rein saunters in, his smile still fixed onto his face but there’s blood everywhere, and Y/n can smell it, and Y/n can almost taste it; how unholy it is, how demonic it is —

Rein reaches out to Y/n and shoves his tongue down his throat, and Y/n’s eyes burn with unshed tears. He struggles, tries pushing Rein off, but the prince’s hold is completely unrelenting, not moving an inch.

Y/n can feel the prince’s arousal hastily pressed against his, he can feel the prince pushing apart his thighs and feels it wedged in between them —

He can’t speak; for his mouth is used.

And when Rein finally releases his mouth, Y/n crumbles, trying desperately to regain his breaths. Inhale, exhale —

“Mmh,” Y/n makes a moan, when Rein’s tongue expertly presses against his and when the pleasure is spurring his own body on, when he’s lost inside it like a pleasure puppet, when he’s —

“I’ve been so patient,” Rein nearly growls in Y/n’s ear, “I’ve been so patient and my patience wears thin.”

“Y-Y-Your Highness —”

“I’ve been so laughably human in the sense that I’ve waited, like a dog. Like a human.”

Rein’s teeth skims against throat; thumbing over the ridge of his jaw. It’s unrelenting, pushy in the sense it continues to take and offers nothing in return. It’s needy; he’s needy and greedy and his hunger is growing, it’s spiraling out of control.

At last, Rein takes his cock out, forcibly using his fingers to open Y/n’s mouth to push it in. Y/n shivers and trembles, shaking as he feels the length and girth of it completely push him to his limits — he feels how it presses to the back of the throat and makes him choke —

Rein smiles, breaths in, satisfied.

“Look how pretty you are.”

Of course, Y/n cannot answer.

**

That instance fills Y/n with contempt. Fills him with a sense of desolate despair. His mouth is raw and hoarse, and he can’t speak; he can’t even talk before the taste of it fills his senses and he wants to sob, cry.

What does he have left, when he’s stripped of everything he has? Is it a crippling sense of darkness, nothing else? Is he that —

Rein leaves him alone after that, for a while. He’s busy, Y/n finds; and it explains his desperate, heated rush for something. But it leaves Y/n to his own devices.

I’m human, Y/n tries reminding himself, I’m still human; and I still want to be human. I will not — I will not surrender to this taunting darkness that simply wants to take everything away from me.

And so he becomes utterly selfish (ironically, the most human he can be): and he befriends someone.

It is a death sentence for the person; Y/n knows. Him becoming close to someone else means death for them, because demons are possessive, and they crave, and they crave and crave, and they never let go. They will never relent. Never repent.

It makes Y/n sober to know that this is his fate. Death might be a better option. This is his life now; the empty end before him spreading to god knows where, the endless darkness.

Y/n cannot even remember the person’s name. But the person brings him temporal comfort, in the sense that — in the sense that he finally has normal conversations about the weather; about the food they eat, about their duties.

The comfort is short lived.

If anything this attempt only proves to Y/n how far gone he is: in the way that he cannot find any interest or budding curiosity in anyone else; not the way Rein and the darkness had completely taken hold of him.

I must be growing mad, Y/n knows.

A blistering, upsetting admittance; I am growing mad.

**

This act comes with its own repercussions and consequences.

Y/n doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rein furious, but he now does.

Oh, oh, the prince’s touch is absolutely bruising as he clasps Y/n’s hands, smile now deranged and not empty in the sense that it’s oozing anger; it’s oozing madness.

“I leave you alone for a while,” he snarls, “and this is what you do. Is that right, Y/n?”

Rein stalks towards him. His hands go around his neck; Y/n wheezes — the prince is strangling him. And yet Y/n knows that Rein will not kill him — no, this demon is far too entrenched in him.

Rein brings Y/n for a kiss, and this time it’s painful, as Rein bites on his tongue with vicious desire and draws blood out. Their lips are a mess; all bleeding and bruised when they part, and Rein’s hands press against Y/n’s hips, so painful and tight that Y/n lets out a pained groan. But Rein swallows that sound greedily and aggressively pulls his hair to make Y/n look at him.

“Look,” Rein says giddily, “look, Y/n, look at his dead body. Look at his eyes that I’ve gouged out for you. Look at his tongue which I’ve cut off for talking to you. Look at his wrangled limbs. Look at this sight.”

Y/n blanches, face turning white.

“You are mine,” Rein whispers, hysterical as he’s still smiling, absolutely mad. He breathes in Y/n’s scent, bites his neck so hard that blood trickles out. Leaves hickeys all over.

“You did this to me. You took my heart; you made it yours. You courted me. You were so sweet; so darling, so beautiful.”

Y/n feels sick to his stomach, for all the wrong reasons.

He yearns for this. He craves this darkness. He sins, wondering if running away is an option —

And at last, Rein takes him, fucking him roughly, not as a reward, but as a punishment. His cock is painfully large as it pushes into Y/n’s entrance, and the sounds are obscene and wet as the thrusts grow faster, as Rein completely consumes him; pleasure riddling both their bodies and as the tears continue to fall from Y/n’s lips.

Oh, oh. How dirty this is. How ruined Y/n is. How —

“Don’t you dare ever do that again. Remember,” Rein smiles, but it is now so empty; completely mirthless. “You are mine. Do not ever do that again.”

Y/n can’t respond, and so Rein coaxes him, tone now far gentler, “you’re learned your lesson, have you?”

The heat of his mouth enraptures Y/n again; he returns it with a pleading kiss, a desperate one. Take all of me, ruin me, so I have no parts left of myself to look at, to hate. Destroy me whole, not partially. Finish your job.

**

Y/n is reminded that Rein is a demon when Rein is unable to grasp the telltale signs that he’s upset.

Rein, after that brief altercation yesterday, has resumed to be merry and happy. Demons, after all, do not understand emotions, and Rein is no exception. He praises Y/n, saying that Y/n has made up for his mistake, that he wants to take him again, that he wants to love him again — and Y/n is subdued, wondering why he’s allowed this to happen.

I’m allowing him to do this to me, Y/n thinks angrily, I’m letting him do all of these to me. And I am upset, but of course, Rein shall never understand. He will never comfort me unless I beg for it; unless I throw myself to him.

Rein does impart him with a warning:

If you do that again, Y/n, I’ll rip the heads off everyone in the palace and fuck you in front of them.

**

Y/n obeys for a while (how could he not)?

He’s completely claimed by the darkness. Absolute non negotiable, brooking no argument; allowing no reason. He's ensconced in it, swallowed by it.

Who was he before all of this? Does he remember? Does he want to remember?

**

“The prince is a demon.”

The sentence sends Y/n scrambling for purchase, as he stares at the owner of the voice.

He stares.

Once upon a time Y/n had yearned for this to happen.

Bathed in a benevolent light that seemingly does not fit the status of a servant having just joined, this girl in front of him is radiant, gorgeous and beautiful. She has silky silver hair, illuminating golden eyes — and it makes Y/n’s heart ache.

Finally, a person who has recognized the fact he has been living with. And yet, too late. This makes Y/n bitter. Why is this happening now?

“I can help you,” she says, her voice desperate. “I see the darkness controlling you. You must have had a hard time.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Y/n manages, voice sore.

Her voice drops to a whisper. “I am the High Priestess. The saintess. I can sense demons — the temple has been targeting this place for a while. I’ve just been sent here to eradicate him: the man who has taken over His Highness.”

The darkness ripples in Y/n’s chest.

A while? He thinks — a while, and yet they couldn’t come to save him sooner —

“My name is Myra,” she says quietly, “Y/n, please.”

“Go away,” he says bitingly, not recognising the person who he has become, snapping away at a person who can save him — “you’re too late, don’t you think?”

“The one who has claimed the prince is the lord of the demons,” Myra says quietly, “the most powerful. That was why we could not act so soon.”

Y/n doesn’t react, and his empty state makes Myra anxious.

“I understand; you must be shocked —”

“If the prince wasn't the lord of the demons, I would’ve been even more surprised,” Y/n laughs, “no, it makes so much more sense. Only someone as cruel as that could’ve…” he trails off.

Cruel; yes he is. But that man…

“Don’t butt into this,” Y/n whispers; “don’t.”

“But —”

“Don’t try to help me,” Y/n shakes his head, distraught, “leave.”

“I am the priestess,” Myra says resolutely, “I—”

“You will be murdered,” Y/n says softly, “he is powerful beyond words. He cannot be denied. Leave, please.” A beat. “Please.”

If Myra is shaken, she does not show it.

“My duty is to eliminate demons anyway,” she swallows, “I have to do this. For the sake of everyone here, for the sake of the people, for the sake of the temple. For the sake of you.”

It’s a noble thing to say, but it only makes Y/n’s stomach churn. Why? Is it because he’s worried for her, or if he —

(Or he realizes that he doesn’t want to be saved?)

Secretly, he knows it’s the latter.

**

Y/n refuses to help Myra. It means punishment for him too, and again he’s selfish; being more human.

“You have to do this!” She raises her voice at him, “you’re just — you’re just letting this happen to you.”

“I am,” Y/n says blankly. He thinks of Rein’s hands around his throat, this time strangling him to death. Not a bad way to die. What if Rein thinks he’s colluding with the temple? He’ll be extremely angry then. Y/n doesn’t want — he doesn’t want Rein to be angry at him.

“You’re corrupted,” Myra spits out, completely beyond control. You’re evil. You’ve let the darkness corrode you.”

“Yes,” Y/n whispers, “when did I deny any of this?”

A beat. The two of them are staring at each other, and the clock is ticking. Y/n closes his eyes. Any moment, Rein will discover this and —

“I pity you,” Myra says sorrowfully, and Y/n’s eyes fly open. If there’s anything he’s expected, it wasn’t this.

“I pity that you were led to this. That your circumstances have changed you; that you’ve been forced to do this to yourself. That you’ve somehow been entangled into this relationship beyond your control, beyond your consent.”

“I did this,” Y/n’s voice is hoarse, completely ripped into shreds, “do not pity me. Curse me; hate me — but do not pity me!”

“Y/n —”

“I was not — I was not forced!” Y/n screams; and he’s in agony, his heart is twisting and turning and he’s — shit, he’s dying inside, “I used to think that,” he says breathily; his loud exhales with his chest rising up and down. “And I was wrong.”

“Y/n,” Myra’s voice is so painful, so soft, “do not say that.”

“It was right of you to call me dirty, unholy,” Y/n shakes his head, tears slipping from his face. “It was true. I am dirty. I am wretched; torn everywhere and broken in all the wrong places. But I did this. I invited him, I let the darkness crowd my mind…for goodness’s sake,” he looks shakily at Myra: “I let him bed me!”

“Oh, Y/n,” is all she can say.

Y/n continues to shake, the raw, awful admission falling from his mouth. “It’s; it’s fucking wrong. I know that. But I am wrong. I had a choice to run from it then, to never open the books,” he moans, a guttural, agonized sound: “I researched, Myra. I —”

He had kept blaming it on others. On his fate, on his luck, on — on a billion other factors. But the truth is; he had done it. Y/n had opened the walls of his soul, had taken darkness by the hand and had taken demonic spirits into it. He had cared for it. Had —

“So you mustn’t pity me,” Y/n whispers, “if you care for me, then don’t. You can continue to hate me, rebuke me. You made efforts, but as you can see, here I am. Unmoving; unwilling to budge. I will walk to my downfall with him. I will…”

“Is it too late, then?” Myra says very sadly, her eyes wet, “it is never too late.”

Oh, but it is. From the day their bodies had shared a communion; a shared bond. From the day Y/n had found warmth in the demon. From the day the fear had twisted into something more menacing…from the day Y/n realized that overtime he had accepted it; wanted it, even.

He shakes his head. “Give up, Myra; it’s futile. I never should’ve let you do this in the first place.”

Myra’s voice is broken. “Do you love him, then?”

Love. Loving a demon. Loving something so wrong everywhere, loving a monstrosity that will ruin him. Oh, but that’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s the wicked, heavy, and malicious truth. It’s cruel to admit, yes; it tears something from Y/n’s chest — but still, it’s the truth.

“I do,” he admits, and it’s sinful, rotten, and terrifying, “I’m sorry.”

Her face turns ghostly white, and Y/n sees it then; that Myra has finally acknowledged it.

That he’s beyond saving.

**

Myra will die. It’s a fact written in the stars. The temple can do nothing. Holiness can do nothing. Faith will shatter.

The world will do nothing, can do nothing. Y/n knows this.

Y/n stares at the mirror of the bathroom, watching as his reflection distorts and warps. Is Myra dead yet? Is she —

He’s tried cleaning his body, his hands, to rid themselves of the impurity. But no endless scrubbing can fix the mess that he’s become.

“Murderer,” he says shakily, looking at his reflection, “you’re a murderer, Y/n.”

He had practically led Myra to die. Led so many people to die, people who he can’t even remember the names of. He had done this.

“Wretched,” he says bleakly, voice so weak that it trembles. “You’re despicable. Fuck. You’re —”

Y/n stops, as he sees Rein appear at the corner of his reflection, leaning against the door. Their eyes meet each other in the reflection and Rein smiles sweetly. There’s blood splattered all over his clothes — Rein has made no attempt to wash himself off, instead wearing the blood of the divine like a badge of honour.

Y/n watches him, completely defeated, making no attempt to leave.

Rein comes to him, claiming him. He watches Y/n’s expressions and reactions in the mirror as he takes him all over again, as he elicits sounds of pleasure from Y/n and takes delight in them. As Y/n is sprawled, naked, on the bathroom counter as he’s forced to watch himself in the mirror as Rein ruins him; fucks him with a ruthless tenacity. Still covered in blood.

As usual, Y/n lets Rein take what belongs to him.

**

“You killed her, didn’t you?” Is what Y/n tells Rein one day, “Myra. She claimed she was a priestess. She was —” Y/n says tiredly, “a good person.”

Rein starts laughing, merry and light — but then he abruptly stops, watching Y/n’s expressions carefully.

“Oh, you weren’t joking,” the smile is completely erased from Rein’s face — and now he looks — he looks terrifying, face turned dark; face completely expressionless save for that smile on his face, that constant smile that —

“Y/n, Y/n, Y/n,” Rein exhales; the three words rolling off his tongue easily, “you really make me realize that patience is a virtue.”

“So you did kill her. The blood belonged to her.”

“You seem to forget,” Rein says softly, looking at Y/n, “that I’m a demon. Simply because I cherish you.”

Of course, Y/n thinks bitterly, I must always remember that he is a demon. I must always remember that he is cruel, that he is inhuman…

“I don’t forget,” Y/n says in response, tone listless. I can’t forget.

Rein hums, pleased.

**

Love is a terrifying thing.

Y/n is slowly making peace with the fact that he loves a demon. He is human. Love is possible for him. Love can happen to him.

And yet, Rein.

Rein is a demon. Rein is inhuman. Is Rein capable of love? Obsession and desire; yes, but love — that may be an obsolete concept. It may not be possible for Rein. Mercy and pleasure do not equate to love.

“Demons and humans share something alike,” Rein tells him one day, “they share souls. Demons are heartless, but humans have hearts. But souls…they are made one and the same.”

“Souls,” Y/n repeats, “souls…”

He wonders what they look like. Is he completely dark? Is he gone? Is this even — even human?

“They come in shapes and colours,” Rein says thoughtfully, like he has not brooded over this topic in a while, “I got to have a glimpse of it, for a moment.”

Y/n is curious. Of course he is. After all, it is his curiosity that has led him down this prickly, painful path. But the final stage of grief is acceptance, and he supposes he’s there now. Empty, but existing.

“What did it look like?”

Rein smiles at this question, reaching towards Y/n and hands circling around his wrist. The action bleeds affection, but Y/n wills himself not to believe in it. Desire and love are not the same.

“Ruby,” Rein says fondly, like he’s reminiscing a pleasant moment, “it was so red; so delightful. I even remember when it was made. A date that it was conceived. February fifteenth, if we go along a human’s perception of time.”

Ruby, like blood, Y/n thinks to himself, immediately shoving that awful thought elsewhere.

“Why do you ask?”

“I was curious.”

“What an endearing trait of yours,” Rein laughs quietly, “don’t you agree, my darling human?”

Y/n swallows. “Yes.”

**

The funny thing is; the date that Rein’s soul was made draws near. A birthday, of sorts. Y/n doesn’t think anything of it, at first, but in a startling turn of events he — he considers a birthday gift.

Deranged, he knows. The mere thought of it depresses him for a while immensely, as he’s acutely aware of how much he’s fallen. Going from someone who feared the demon, who condemned him, to wholly giving himself to him. To love him. What a joke; what a mess.

Y/n finds himself making a little ring that has the shade of ruby embedded on it. The date intricately etched upon it; a little line that only Rein’s sharp eyes would catch.

A gift. A ring. It’s such a tender, beautiful thing that doesn’t even make sense. Y/n laughs bitterly at it all. When he succeeds at it he feels the pride enter his body for a brief moment, and he allows himself to feel it. Another emotion besides the shame and pain and love he carries with him everyday, knowing he’s condemned to live the rest of his life entrapped by the demon.

Isolated from the world.

Y/n picks up the ring, admiring it, placing it upon his own finger before taking it off.

He is a demon. He is inhuman. He is completely —

(He cannot be in love.)

Don’t expect him to be sincerely touched by the gift.

If only.

**

Y/n is proven to be the most unlucky person in the world when the ring gets stolen on the 15th of February.

Of course it would; he was foolish in leaving it haphazardly. The ring — he had worked at it, had spent a considerable money to bring in the ruby —

What is it that he feels? Complete defeat, humiliation; that even after all the things that he’s endured the very thing that breaks him fully now is theft? That he’s shaking now, crying as he realizes that his effort is for naught?

Is this what truly breaks him? An act of theft?

It was my first admittance that I had fallen in love with Rein, Y/n thinks, made physical. A ring. But perhaps Rein wouldn’t have wanted that, anyway, would he?

Still. The thought of that glittering ruby ring, which he had slaved away at getting stolen:

It tears something at Y/n. It makes him distraught, shaken. He’s heaving, his tears bitter and his mind reprimanding him for his childishness, at how careless he was, that it is a ring and not deaths that made him wallow like this —

“What makes you so distraught?” Rein looks amused as he sees Y/n tremble, wiping away his tears, "what a crybaby you are.”

Rein’s — Rein’s teasing him; like this means absolutely nothing to him.

(He will never comfort me unless I beg for it; unless I throw myself to him.)

Rein has seen Y/n crying so many times that perhaps the meaning has been diluted and dissolved in his mind. But now it makes Y/n even more upset; when he is again reminded: this man is a demon. He cannot feel. He cannot love me —

“A birthday gift,” Y/n chokes out, because Rein does not like silence. “I got you a birthday gift. A ring. It’s what humans when they give it to the people they like.”

“…”

There is brief silence, before Rein laughs, and the hope finally plummets down Y/n’s stomach.

“You joke,” Rein says smoothly, “a birthday gift? I do not even have one. But that would’ve been adorable.”

“…15th of February,” Y/n says shakily, “you —”

“Then where is it?” Rein interrupts, “I do not not see it,” he smiles, “you are lying, then. Oh, Y/n. You had no need to lie. What are you trying to do?”

Another brief silence — before Y/n completely breaks down at the sheer unfairness of Rein’s words and the fact that this love he has denied for so long is the one that makes him so humanly weak and susceptible to emotions — though at the same time he’s so disgustingly selfish and inhuman —

“Rein,” he manages between his sobs, realizing he’s crying now, upset. Why can’t you be more human? Why can’t you truly love me? “I — someone stole it,” he gasps, “I wasn’t lying; there’s no point in me lying, I just thought it would be something nice to do —”

And in the most unexpected moment — Rein stands up abruptly, and Y/n peeks at him, expecting for the demon to be utterly bored, unaffected —

And he flinches.

Rein’s smiling still, but the anger now is different from the ones he’s displayed so far.

No; this one is dark, menacing, and…

Rein kisses his tears away, gentle and soft. “Oh, Y/n,” he says, “don’t be so upset. I’ll settle it. And I’ll bring you a little gift after that to cheer you up, alright?”

Y/n stares, his sniffles dying away as he just —

He watches Rein leave, with that unfamiliar brand of anger.

Almost like he had cared.

**

That moment that Y/n cries over the birthday gift — the ring, Rein feels something within him break, a thin, precious piece of his soul dying.

His voice is deadly when he speaks to Y/n. A sense of calm washes over him, though it’s false and it’s wrong and it’s utterly disgusting.

Humanity, he finds, is worming its way to the cracks of his soul. Rein feels rage, yes, rage, as an emotion; not as something he merely displays. He feels touched, painfully touched at the gesture of the present that his Y/n had so previously prepared, anger at the ring being stolen.

At someone daring to take Y/n’s previous effort and take it for themselves, even though everything that was Y/n’s belonged to him.

Humanity. This is what his humanity is. And yet this little piece of humanity will only serve to make him even worse. More evil, as now his — ah, yes: love, continues growing.

As now he is sure that he cannot live without Y/n.

Where had it started? When he had realized that someone had seen through the tiresome facade he put up as the prince? He had been bored out of his mind. And then, yes, there was that lovely courtship by Y/n. Y/n had always been so loving, and yet so endearing; in the way he had trembled and shaken.

Rein had always understood emotions in the literal sense. He didn’t know how they felt, but he could read them well. And yet, humans seemed to be the opposite. No one seemed to be able to tell who he was, all foolish and daft…except him. Even the sex, which was an inherently pleasurable thing — had stirred emotions within Rein. Had been insatiable, had made him crave endlessly.

The hunger that could not stop.

That would never be whetted.

Rein had not fully grasped it yet, that humanity was slowly beginning to bleed into him.

Y/n had scrapped him hollow. Made him anew.

**

Of course Rein finds the culprit and brutally tortures him.

Of course he does it slowly, ripping off his limbs, spearing him inside and out until his shrieks die beautifully in his ears. Until Rein tears his soul apart again and again and puts him back together so he can experience the same agony. Until the culprit’s blood rivals the ruby ring now sitting on his finger, precious and loved.

He does it until the man is a carcass, brutally mangled, beaten, tortured, unrecognisable. Until the man’s limbs stop twitching and the process repeats over. He took what I had, Rein tells himself, drunk on his power, on his rage; on his newfound humanity that will only make him ever more uncontrolled and incorrigible.

But he knows what this is now; beyond obsession, desire, and pleasure:

There is love.

Later, when he returns to Y/n, Y/n lights up when he sees the ruby ring placed on his finger. He has learnt not to ask questions, dutiful and obedient as he is. And yet Y/n too, has those flare ups of disobedience that are endearing all the same; that fiery spirit that the darkness loves too.

The darkness that they both possess are one and same.

**

Y/n has sinned, he knows. He’s been corrupted, damned for eternity — he’s filthy inside and out.

This love; this horrible, cruel, and disgusting he harbours, that he accepts — it will ruin him eventually. He knows that. It’s something he will not turn away from.

All of the deaths on his hands. A murderer, a wicked sinner, an executioner. The sin is grave, terribly grave. And so this is his punishment too, this is his debt to repay and this is his life to live. Choking, suffocating, filled with so much timorous pleasure and darkness he cannot even begin to comprehend it. His torment is his.

This love is his perdition.

**

A/N

THIS WAS NOT THE DATE THE TWO OF YOU HAD PLANNED OR AGREED ON EARLIER THAT DAY. You had planned to go to the mall to buy some things for your house and then eat in an Okonomiyaki restaurant, and maybe spend the rest of the night playing video games at his house.

But all the sudden, you were walking together to the train station right after school and suddenly, the idea came to you. You turned to your beloved boyfriend, volleyball ace Ryomen Sukuna and grinned at him with those bright big eyes, full of mirth and enthusiasm for something he doesn't know just yet.

For a moment, you had looked exactly like Cheshire cat to him, with your little knowing, shining eyes and your mischievous smile. He doesn't know how you got so bold, considering you hate the cold. But you squeezed his hand urgingly, starting a conversation.

"Hey, my love."

"What is it, babe?"

"We're not that far out from a coastal town, right?"

He narrowed his scarlet eyes. "Babe, you're gonna get cold."

You start making your eyes bigger, pout on your lips. "But the sea in sunset! It would be so cool to experience—"

He shook his head. "Absolutely not. I'm not risking you getting sick."

When he uttered those words, he thought he was being resolute. He was putting his foot down and for the best of intentions. For your health, first and foremost. And you hate the cold. Sunset and the sea means it is going to be cold. But somehow those words bend as easily as they utter as he found himself heading to the coastal town in that train with you, smiling at his side grinning.

"To the sea, here we go!" You cheered happily. "Wah, it's so gonna be so fun over there! It's been a while, since we've been by the sea. Oh, wait is that a soda shop? Let's go there later!"

"When did I end up so eager to say yes to everything?....." Sukuna whispered under his breath. ".....Yes, we can do to that soda shop."

You laughed, happy at his approval. "Because you love me the most in this world!"

Sukuna could not argue. "......Oi, wear my jacket."

"But's it's warm right now, my love. Later!"

"Don't say I didn't warn you." He shakes his head.

It took a while to get off the train, being the town was at the end of the tracks. But it wasn't all bad. You don't go to this part of the prefecture that often, anyway. The travel was going to be far, you know that much. Perhaps that's why you wanted to see it more than usual. You wanted to make it worth your while.

Maybe that's also why you didn't mind staying up too long either. It was going to be easy to convince your fuschia haired boyfriend. And it was Saturday tomorrow, so the concept of time was more than likely yours and Sukuna to do what you will with. And your parents won't be home until their shift ends tomorrow, so you probably will sleep at Sukuna's house tonight anyway. He can take you home afterwards.

The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent by the time the two of you reached the beach, melting into the horizon until the sea looked as though someone had poured liquid gold across its surface. You lean deeper into Sukuna's jacket, feeling your body shiver against the push of the seaside breeze.

Sukuna watches you take a breath then try your hardest to keep from sneezing. He shakes his head, but still couldn't help but smile at how adorable you looked. Before long, his long, strong arms wrapped its warmth against you, pulling you closer as you both walked.

It was so beautiful, you think to yourself. Everything about it is so picturesque, that you found yourself wishing you had brought your camera along. Just to record a memory here and there in better quality. But you supposed that this moment being recorded in your memory forever would be enough.

The two of you succumbed to relaxation as you both watched the tide rolling in with lazy confidence, waves folding over themselves before dissolving into white foam against the shore, and somewhere farther down the coast children shrieked with laughter as they chased one another through the shallows.

The ever expansive sea had always belonged to the two of you. At least it just felt like that. The traces of your enduring memories come flooding back to you in that moment, the sight holding a happy space in your heart over and over again, the more you walked towards the shoreline.

The first time Sukuna told you he loved you, the first time you both held hands. That first New Year's Eve together. After tough, exhausting exams. After long afternoons spent in the library while you buried yourself beneath university astronomy journals you definitely weren't supposed to understand yet. After Sukuna's volleyball practices, when he'd show up with sand still clinging to the soles of his shoes because he'd insisted on running here instead of taking the train.

Somehow, every road somehow led back here. It was the sea which you had allowed to be your silent witness to every little bit of your lives. It was the best listener. It always has been. But it was also the friend that had never failed you or your boyfriend. You sighed almost too happily, even if it was that cold. You were once more letting it be a witness to your joys together.

A little while later, you both found a bench and sat on it together. You were sat cross-legged with your notebook abandoned beside you, pages overflowing with half-finished calculations, crude sketches of constellations, and annotations squeezed into every available margin.

Your well drawn pencil had long since been forgotten in the sand, but your tender eyes still wandered instinctively upward every few minutes, as if expecting the first stars to appear hours before sunset.

Beside you, Sukuna lay flat against the warm sand, one arm folded beneath his head while his other hand lazily spun a volleyball over his stomach. His practice jersey was streaked with grains of sand, his hair still damp from sweat, and every now and then the breeze carried the faint scent of sunscreen mixed with the saltwater drying against his skin.

For several minutes neither of you spoke.

There had never been a need to.

Silence was easy with him all the time.

Comfortable in the love that belonged to you and only you.

Yet it was like always, the kind of silence that came only after years of knowing someone so completely that conversation no longer had to fill every empty space. When you have a look, when you have a smile or a frown or when the subtle ways your touch changes or stays, that was more than enough. That's what happens when you love someone so much that doing things, feeling things, it was just....easy.

Nothing was hard when you were together, when you hold each other, when you cherish each other. It becomes easy to exist in a world that is full of crashing waves that pulls you in to try and entrap you in its crashing sweeps. It was easy to have a language that was understood, a language that was known because of your love. It was easy to be someone. It was easy to belong.

"Babe, you know..." His voice was quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the rhythm of the waves.

You hummed without looking away from the horizon. "What is it?"

"I don't think I wanna play volleyball forever."

That caught your attention. You turned toward him slowly, lowering the notebook from your lap until it rested forgotten beside your knee. "You don't?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "I mean don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for what the game gave me...It gave me an outlet, it gave me a chance to reach for the sky, to reach you." He watched the volleyball spin lazily above him before catching it against his chest. "I love volleyball. I really do."

There wasn't a hint of uncertainty in those words. You knew he did. You'd seen it in every bruised knee, every taped finger, every practice that ran until the gym lights shut off around him. You'd watched him come alive the second he stepped onto a court, transforming into someone impossibly confident, impossibly bright.

"And I already know my goals because of it. I know I wanna go pro, I know that much." he continued. "I wanna play for Japan. I wanna make sure I contribute something to the sport. That's a driving force I've come to have for myself."

"That's the passion that you built for yourself." You whispered to him. "One that continues to grow because of your hard work."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, softer than the cocky grin he usually wore after winning a match. "That's true. You know me, babe. I wanna see how far I can go." He rolled the volleyball between his palms. "I wanna know what my limit is."

You smiled. "That sounds like you, my love."

"It is. And I know it will always be, in one way or another. But the concept of doing something like that forever?" His scarlet gaze drifted toward the aure blue ocean. The smile remained, though it changed somehow, becoming quieter. "Nah....I don't think I can do it. At least wholeheartedly."

The answer hung between you, carried away by the wind before either of you spoke again. "I think......I'll play a while, at least as much as I can." He paused, choosing his words more carefully than he usually did. "But if I'm lucky, then I'd probably play until I'm satisfied."

"And then? What does my love plan to do with the rest of his life after that?" You asked him, leaning against him, your eyes meeting.

He didn't need to think about it, as he laughed. "I know this might not be everyone's dream but....I wanna stay home."

Your eyes widened, stunned. "...Stay home?"

"Mhm. That's what I want. I want to stay home." He nodded, still watching the waves. "I wanna be a stay-at-home dad."

You couldn't help but stare at him. A moment later, you realized you have been in such a trance in the thought of his words that you forgot to breathe, or blink. You finally blink, trying to still process what he had said to you. The words were so unexpected that you wondered if you'd heard him correctly.

For as long as you'd known Ryomen Sukuna, he'd always been moving toward something. Every practice, every match, every impossible goal he'd set for himself had been another step forward, another challenge to conquer.

He possessed a relentless sort of ambition that refused to sit still, always chasing the next thing to perfect, the next skill to master, the next version of himself he thought he could become. It was one of the things you'd fallen in love with. That endless, unwavering drive, the certainty with which he threw himself into everything he cared about.

You had always imagined his future in the same way he spoke about it to you. You imagined the bigger arenas packed with banners to support him, the louder crowds screaming his name, the weight of a national jersey on his shoulders, the many gut-wrenching, bone aching years spent chasing every last dream volleyball could offer him.

So hearing him say, with such quiet certainty, I wanna be a stay at home dad...It's not a bad thing. Yet you can't help but admit that he caught you completely off guard. Of course, it's not because it felt unlike him. You think it's quite the opposite.

It sounded so honest that it made you realize you'd simply never thought to imagine this side of him. Beneath all that ambition was something impossibly gentle, something that had always been there, tucked behind his competitiveness and stubbornness.

The same boy who stayed after practice to help first-years clean up the gym, who remembered your favorite snacks without ever asking, who slowed his pace whenever you became too absorbed in pointing out constellations to notice how far you'd wandered.

His dream wasn't smaller.

It wasn't a concession.

It wasn't him giving up the life he'd worked so hard for.

It was simply......tender hearted for a world that wouldn't understand it.

A future measured not by medals or trophies, but by packed lunches, school pickups, scraped knees kissed better, bedtime stories, and children who would never have to wonder whether their father was coming home.

For someone who spent so much of his life chasing greatness, there was something achingly beautiful about discovering that, in the end, the place he wanted to be most was simply there, for the people he loved.

"...Really?" You finally heard yourself say to him. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure. Don't worry, you heard me right."

There was no embarrassment in his confirmation. Not even a sheepish laugh could be heard from him. And certainly no attempt to disguise it as a joke. If anything, he sounded relieved and happy to finally say it out loud. As if he was waiting for this moment to come out clean and be honest. This was not a joke for him. This was real. This was the reality he saw for himself at the end.

"I think it'd be nice, you know? I think it would be good to cook for you and to make sure everything is great in the house. You're a busy bee after all. I wanna go and make sure the only thing you do is clean yourself up, sit down or lay down. Eat the dinner I made. I like making sure you're well cared for."

His scarlet gaze narrows down to the sand, the sound of breaking waves coming and going. "Besides, I don't really remember my parents ever being around, babe. I told you all about it....so yeah. I know we're going to be together forever. If we do have kids....I do think it would be nice to just be around for them, you know? I think I'd like to watch them grow the way my parents haven't for me."

Your smile faded. You could feel your heart pounding as you move forward and lean closer to him. He just smiles at you softly and moves forward to kiss your cheek. You wish you could enjoy the warmth of his lips on yours but but you can't help but be so hyper aware. You knew. Everyone knew.

Ryomen Sukuna's parents were brilliant, successful people whose careers demanded more from them than most could imagine. And whose desire to change the world had led them to all corners of the world but home. They loved their son. You had never doubted that of them.

But the concept of their recompense for not being able to show that love in person, because of their chocies had always arrived in carefully wrapped birthday presents shipped from another country, in expensive souvenirs from airports around the world, in apologetic phone calls made from hotel rooms at impossible hours.

They were always working and always travelling. Every single time, there was always promises that next time would be different. But they never really follow through. The birthdays became video calls. School festivals became photographs sent after the fact. Volleyball tournaments became stories Sukuna retold over dinner at your family's house because there had been no one in the stands to watch them, save for you and his grandpa.

"They weren't bad people, I know that much....." he said after a while, almost as though he were defending them. "They just..."

"My love, you don't have to force yourself—"

"It's okay....I'm good." He searched for the right word before giving up with a small shrug, looking at you with morose surrender to the kindness he offers to them. "My parents...it's the truth. They just weren't there."

You didn't interrupt him then. You can tell that the moment he said that, he was already deep in the well of his feelings and he's trying to get out of it. You just took his hand onto yours and squeezed it, as if to tell him that it was okay and that everything was going to be fine. He smiled to you, mouthing words of thanks to you. You feel like crying for a moment, seeing that look on his face.

"I guess..." His thumb absentmindedly rubbed over one of the worn seams of the volleyball. "I decided a long time ago that if I ever had kids......I don't want to miss a thing." His expression softened in a way you rarely saw. "I wanna be there for all of it. Like my parents should have been. For the small things, the big things, the boring, the exciting. I wanna see it all."

He smiled to himself. You felt something tighten quietly inside your chest as he continues to speak. "I wanna make breakfast every morning and pack your lunch and our kids's lunch. I wanna go and make them cute everyday, you know with the bear characters and everything."

"You have such a dream, huh?"

Sukuna laughs, leaning forward, patting your head. "Of course, I do! I wanna make all the kids and their parents and your coworkers jealous that someone loves you at home."

You laugh, enjoying the warmth of his free hand on your head. "Oh stop! I don't think they'll stop asking me who makes them. But I'll brag every single day that you made them."

He grins, taking his hand off your head and letting rest at your knee. "You better keep that promise. Don't forget it!"

"I won't." You promised him as you smiled softly. You then use your free hand to tap his hand on your knee. "Go on, tell me more."

"Are you sure you wanna hear more of me going on and on about this? I'd never stop talking about it, babe."

You nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, I do! I wanna hear more of our future from your perspective."

"Alright, alright....what else? Hm....I wanna take them to school everyday and pick you up from work." His expression had become so earnest in that moment, shining brightly at the imagining in his head. "I wanna sit through every school play even if they're terrible. I'd like to get to know their friends, too. And make things for them."

"Now that you mention it.....my parents probably doesn't know many of our friends." You say to him in realization. "We should probably get to know them well, our kid's friends."

"Except the boys, I don't think our girls are going to be friends with any guys, babe."

You raised a brow. "Our kids are all going to be girls? And my love, they're going to have to interact with boys. Half the population in the world are boys!"

Sukuna looked at you and shook his head. "Our kids are all going to smart, sporty girls, babe. That's our fate. I saw it in my dreams once." He gets serious for a moment. "And no, they're not going to interact with boys. Boys suck. I refuse to subject our precious daughters to boys."

You start to laugh, lifting your free hand from his own and smacking his hand lightly. "My love, you met me when you were a boyish boy. You still are one! Well....we're going to be young adults soon. But that's besides the point! A boy like you became a friend to a girl like me. Then we started dating—"

He shakes his head and starts to sing loudly. "La, la, la, that's never happening. Our girls are never going to be subjected to that sort of situation. La, la, la. No boys are allowed!"

You shake your head, laughing aloud. "Yeah, yeah. We'll talk about that."

"No, that's final, no boys allowed near our girls. For eternity! Our girls are going to be precious and I won't let anyone." He vehemently declares. "Nothing is going to change my mind on that."

"Alright, fine." You snickered as you sighed contently. "What else do you want to do with them?"

"A bunch of other things. It will be trial and error for our girls and me. I'd like to get to know about the things they like and what they don't like.....I'm sure they'll like science and volleyball." He hums softly as he thought deeply about it. "If one of our girls decide to go into sport, I'm pretty sure I'd embarrass them by cheering too loud at sports day."

"You definitely will. You'll probably volunteer to coach too, whether or not if you know the sport." You snort, trying to lighten the mood. "You'll be really good at it too."

"I know I will." He grins wide, eyes full of mischief. "Your dad took time off to be on our team to help, so did grandpa. I think I learnt well from your dad and my grandpa. I learnt from the best....along with the dad jokes."

You playfully rolled your eyes. "Then save our children, cause good lord."

"Eh, they're not too bad." Your boyfriend argues to you. "The jokes are good! 片思いで肩重い!"

You gasped and lowered your head. "Oh my god....You can't be serious."

He playfully puts his hand on his chest. "Can you hear it, babe? My shoulders are so heavy from this unrequited love—"

"I swear, you need to stop spending more time with my dad....." You mutter to yourself. "......And maybe my brother. He says that stuff too."

"Hey, I'm already a bit orphaned here. Let me have my dad jokes with dad and bro too."

You stare at him, narrowing your eyes. "That's a bit of a low blow isn't it?"

He grins at you, pulling at your cheek. "Let this morose child have a family, he enjoys being part of one. He barely has one, after all. Let him enjoy the dad jokes! He enjoys your family!"

"Alright, alright, I get it. My love, my cheeks are not as elastic as yours—ugh, Ryo—"

"I'll behave." He says, as you nearly call him his real name. You pout, letting out a 'hmp' before resting your head on his shoulder. "You're so cute when you pout."

"Oh, shut it!" You say to him, in a cute manner.

He laughs softly as he leans closer to you. Silence engulfs the two of you in a few moments, the comfort of each other's body being closer shutting you both to any other words being said.

He looked away for only a second before meeting your eyes again. The breeze shifted, carrying loose strands of your hair across your face. He hesitated for a moment. He then admitted, almost too quietly for you to hear, with a tender hearted smile on his face.

"Besides....I don't want our kids wondering whether I'm coming home tonight, babe. Just wanna be there, like your dad was. Like your brother, who's always there for his kids, you know?"

The words knocked the breath from your lungs. Without thinking, you reached across until your palms reach to his face. He looks at you, scarlet eyes widened slightly and then gives you a small smile. His palms reach your own, warming you once more. You could feel the callouses in his hand, feeling those many rough years of his life given to volleyball.

Yet they were so tender and so kindly, and all you could think about was the many years of his touch being so gentle with you. So far removed from the harsh, brutish hits in the court. You could feel yourself melt at the thought of this man holding your children as warmly, as kindly, as tenderly as he does your hand now. You feel like crying now.

He curled his fingers around yours almost immediately, catching on. "It's okay. You don't have to cry about it."

"I'm sorry, my love." you whispered. "I just....I hope we do get to achieve your dream. I hope you don't ever get lonely again."

He shook his head, no bitterness in his expression. There was only certainty. "Hm, but don't cry about it, okay? We'll be happy together. It will all happen. Trust me."

Neither of you spoke for a while after that. You simply sat together, hands intertwined between you while the tide crept a little closer to shore. Eventually, Sukuna nudged your shoulder with his own. "What about you?"

"Hm? What about me?" You sounded confused, as if you hadn't just had the conversation. You suddenly realize and blush slightly. "Oh, about our dreams.....what about about it?"

"Never mind. Yours is obvious. You've got that look."

"What look?" You pondered, narrowing your eyes questioningly.

"The one you get whenever you're thinking about something ridiculously nerdy."

You gasped dramatically. "I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"I am deeply offended."

"You'll survive."

You bumped his shoulder with yours before following his gaze upward. The sky was still brilliantly blue. There was not a single star in sight. But you knew they were there. Hidden beyond the daylight. They were all there, waiting. Waiting for the dark echoes of night to let them shine. You let out a small thinking hum, before smiling at him and speaking your mind.

"Well, you already know me....being nerdy and all. But what I want to do, I think....I think I want to map them."

He followed your gaze. "...The stars?"

"The ones we haven't fully understood yet." You smiled to yourself. "I want to know how galaxies are born. I want to understand why some stars die the way they do. I want to study places humanity will probably never reach."

Your fingers drifted absentmindedly through the air, tracing invisible constellations only you could see. "I want to spend my life asking questions nobody's answered yet. I wanna figure it all out, my love. Make the map so everyone can walk it."

The words felt enormous. Far too enormous for a pair of seventeen-year-olds sitting barefoot on a beach. You laugh to yourself. "That was too dramatic for the simple thought to say that I want to become an astrophysicist."

You laughed softly at yourself. "It sounds impossible when I say it out loud, though—"

"It doesn't." He says, cutting you off. "You're too smart and too good at your shit, babe. Don't doen yourself for having a dream. Especially one I know you can achieve."

You looked at him, eyes blinking. He hadn't laughed. He hadn't smiled indulgently the way adults often did. He was simply watching you. "I'm serious, babe. You can do it. You can make it happen."

"I wanna do it, honestly."

Sukuna didn't answer immediately. He simply watched you in that moment. The wind lifted strands of your hair again, sunlight catching your profile in a way that made the whole moment feel strangely suspended in time. He leaned close and kissed you. Pulling away, he smiled wider than before. "Like I said, babe....You'll do it. I know you can do it. You'll be the best goddamn astrophyscist in the world."

"You think so?" Your eyes looked at him, shining at him. "You think I can do it?"

"I know you can, babe. You of all people can change the world. Better than I can, I think!" You laugh at his dramatics, shaking your head. He pushed himself upright, brushing sand from the back of his shirt. "And when you discover some new star or whatever..."

"Galaxy." You added at him.

"Whatever else there is." He waved dismissively as he grins. "I'm gonna become unbearable to anyone and everyone, babe."

"Oh?" You grinned at him. "Will you really?"

"Of course! I'm gonna tell everybody. I'l use a megaphone and stand in front of the city center and do it." He puffed out his chest dramatically. "I would be like, 'That's my wife! You better know it!' Or something like that. Give me a minute, I'll come up with slogans....."

You laughed at him. "You're ridiculous, you know that? Gosh.....imagining you doing that......" You shake your head. "But then again, we're still seventeen! That's a long time away, us getting married."

"So?" He retorts to you, a wider grin pressed on his lips. "I've already got it all planned, babe. That's where we're heading, after all."

You blushed, as red as a tomato. "S-so, then maybe propose first."

"I'll get there. I'll wife you up." He says to you, leaning in again to kiss. His cheeky grin got even wider when you became more flustered. "Thst's all my plan, babe. I'll be your househusband and you'll be my Nobel Prize winning astrophyscist wife!"

".......When you say it like that!....." You find your face in your palms, redder than any rosebush. You shake your head. "My heart can't take it!"

"My, my.....you have quite the imagination!" He teases, grinning widely as he looks at you with mirth in his eyes. "I didn't know you were so naughty, babe!"

You scream, showing your red face to him. "WAH, DON'T TURN MY PRECIOUS THOUGHT DIRTY!"

He raised his arms in defense, laughing. "Hey, hey. I didn't say anything. You thought that."

"I'm not a perv, you hear me!" You scream flusteredly, pulling at his collar. "Ryomen Sukuna, you—"

"Hey, that isn't my name to you! Besides, its normal to think—"

"WAH, SHUT UP!"

THE PODCAST ALWAYS SEEMS TO BEGIN THE SAME WAY, WHICH WAS OF COURSE, CHAOS. Ryomen Sukuna could see that look in his vice captain's piercing blue eyes as he watched him making notes on his script. Sukuna couldn't help but let his scarlet eyes flicker to the notes Gojo Satoru was making in a daze. He couldn't help but let out a frustrated groan as Satoru looks at him and grins.

"You've got to stop calling it The Two Idiots Podcast, six eyes." Sukuna said as he adjusted the microphone clipped to the collar of his shirt, not bothering to look up from the soundboard in front of him. "That isn't the name of this podcast and you know it."

Across the table, Satoru only grinned wider, drumming his fingers against the desk while one of the producers silently counted them in. The red recording light blinked to life. Sukuna lowers his head, knowing Satoru was just going to do what he told him not to do. Like a child being warned by their mother to behave with a list full of things and ends up not really doing any of that anyway.

"Welcome back, folks!" Satoru announced brightly, "This is The Two Idiots Podcast."

Sukuna sighed, long and suffering. "I'm surrounded by people who refuse to listen."

"I heard you, loud and clear." Satoru replied with a laugh. "I just chose not to care. I mean, we aren't in a court right now."

"I hope you choke on your seltzer later."

"Good thing that's not happening! I have Mountain Dew right now." Satoru showed him his tongue, as though he was a child. "Suck it!"

A snort escaped one of the producers behind the cameras. Satoru leaned comfortably into his chair, settling into the rhythm he'd perfected over years of broadcasting. Sukuna rolled his eyes as he put away his own notes to the side as Satoru pulled the mic closer to his lips.

"I'm your number one host, Gojo Satoru, and joining me is Japan's current national team captain, who's taken a few months off after the league season ended. And ironically, the reluctant second host of his broadcast, and the less handsome of the two of us, Ryomen Sukuna!"

"I can't believe I'm here again, when I could be home playing with Marin and Sukumi." Sukuna says, shaking his head. "And that introduction is just stupid."

"Hey, it's not stupid to introduce you like that. It's suitable! I am way more prettier."

Sukuna snickers at him. "Pretty boy and he's not even in a relationship."

"Hey! I'm getting there." He says to you, pouting. "My ex just needs time."

"I can't believe you're getting back together.....I can't believe she's giving you a second chance."

"Well, that's love for you!" Satoru grinned at him as the red eyed man shakes his head. "Anyway, apparently your recovery's going well."

"Yeah, its been going great—"

"Though from what I've seen, recovery mostly consists of making dinosaur-shaped pancakes, building treehouses and learning how to braid his daughter's hair."

"I'm already in the advanced stages of my recovery rehab." Sukuna argues. "My doctor said I can move too. I'm fine. I still need time to recover. But you know, I still want to do things with my family. And my daughter wanted to do something. I'm not saying no to her."

"You built a treehouse. With your barehands!" Satoru argues back. "Who the hell who does rehab does that?"

"Sukumi wanted one, she saw it on the TV." Sukuna shrugs, as if it was just a matter of fact. "I mean, I sat down while doing it and took breaks. My wife yelled at me to take it easy all the time throughout. But you know, it made her happy once it was done."

"That's not easy."

Sukuna snickers. "I know it's not easy. I just did it."

Satoru shakes his head. "And somehow, you found the time to go and take breaks and then go and fix and repaint your kitchen."

"It needed repainting.....I've been planning to do it but I've always been busy, so I thought, long stick with a paint roller, why not?" The fuschia haired man says as if it was a matter of fact, as if it was normal to do that while injured. "Besides, my wife and daughter deserve a fresh, bright kitchen. And repainting it makes that happen, you know?"

"You learned to French braid too, apparently. [name]-chan told me all about it." Satoru shakes his head as he looks at his volleyball teammate. "I really think its insane how you have so much time. I mean, you apparently also took Marin to the park to play day after day. Injured as you are, you don't act like it."

"Life just moves like that, man." He says as he takes his drink and takes a sip. He shrugs. "I'm her other parent, my wife had a work trip and my daughter had ballet. Had to do it. She was happy, my wife was happy. Win for everyone." The fuschia haired man said. "Also yeah, that's true. Marin did enjoy the park. She met other dogs to have playdates with. It's been brilliant."

"I just don't know how you find the energy to do all these things." Satoru shakes his head. He looks at the notes and suddenly grins. Sukuna raised a brow. "You also apparently wore something interesting. I have a picture—"

"Don't you dare!...Shit." Sukuna glared at Satoru, who looks like he couldn't contain his laughter anymore. "Listen, it was a gift. My daughter picked it out as a Father's Day gift with my wife. I used it, I still do—"

"It says Kiss the Cook." Satoru says as he motions for the monitor to show the picture of six foot tall Ryomen Sukuna making pancakes in the kitchen wearing the apron, half naked, yawning. "Courtesy of our beloved [name]-chan who took this picture."

Sukuna curses under his breath, feeling the rush of heat on his cheeks. "Look man, this is a gift from my wife and my kid. It was Mother's Day. I have to do something special....But I don't think you would understand. No one calls you dad."

".......Well, actually—"

Sukuna groans. "Yo, don't start that. Yuck, what the heck?"

Satoru laughs. "Hey, you started it! Just telling you the truth, buddy."

The control room dissolved into quiet laughter, and even Sukuna's expression betrayed him for a fraction of a second, the corner of his mouth threatening to twitch before he caught it. For a while, the conversation drifted exactly where listeners expected it to.

Satoru complained about his students speaking in incomprehensible internet slang; Sukuna retaliated by reminding everyone that Satoru had walked straight into a glass door because he'd been too busy reading fan mail to watch where he was going.

But then somehow that became a story about Sukumi declaring she would beat her father in volleyball before she turned ten, which led to Sukuna insisting she'd inherited your stubbornness and absolutely none of his. So far today's mood had been easy and comfortable. Another one in the books for a smooth sailing recording.

The sort of conversation that made people forget there were microphones involved at all. It was then one of the producers cleared his throat. Satoru glanced toward the monitor mounted just outside the frame and, almost instantly, the lightness left his face. "…Right."

Sukuna followed his gaze. "You saw it?"

"I saw it." Satoru confirms, looking just as upset. "I can't believe it. This again?"

"If people are not aware why Satoru's going, not this again, it's because one of the players we know personally, Chikafuji Masaki has just been announced to have gotten married." Sukuna explains, calm anger layered in his tone. "But along with this, there's just been an exposee that she's being forced to step down as captain of the national team, after saying she wants to stay on after marriage."

The headline filled the screen between them. One of the country's premier women's national volleyball players had announced her marriage earlier that week. At first, the coverage had been celebratory. Congratulatory messages from teammates, interviews about balancing life and sport, photographs of the ceremony. It was then the conversation changed.

The more they dived into it, the more it wss a headache. The anonymous officials began questioning whether she'd remain committed to the national team. Sponsors reportedly expressed concerns about her "marketability" on the team. As well as what would happen when she starts to have children and is off for most of the volleyball season, taking care of her kid and recovering from birth and other preposterous statements.

Television panels debated whether marriage and the possibility of motherhood had meant it was time for her to make way for younger athletes. Rumours circulated that people within the federation had quietly encouraged her to consider stepping away from the sport altogether.

As though saying "I do" had somehow erased everything she'd accomplished on the court. Sukuna read the headline once again and again and again. He just couldn't believe what the fuck he was reading on the headlines, at least not without feeling the rise of anger flow back and forth.

His jaw tightened and then shifted. "…What the hell is wrong with these people?"

It wasn't outrage for outrage's sake, Sukuna knew that well. This was malice for malice's sake. He could not believe this. He was genuinely bewildered that in this day and age, such a situation was still so prominent. He leaned back on his chair and quickly changed position again, unable to keep himself still, full of angst about the situation.

"I'm serious. I genuinely do not know why the fuck this is still a fucking thing. What the fuck is this headline? Are we serious?" he said, looking from the monitor to Satoru before finally settling on the nearest camera. "She's still one of the best players in the country. Last I checked, signing a marriage certificate doesn't tank your vertical or knock twenty kilometres an hour off your serve, so why the hell are we talking about her marriage instead of her volleyball?"

Satoru shook his head, letting out a mocking laugh. "Because apparently she's got 'different priorities now' as said by this one stupid newspaper spread. Bro, what the fuck does that even mean? Does she stop knowing how to lead the team because she has a family?"

"It's just such a lazy argument when it's just flat out misogyny." Sukuna says confidently angry "They're being fucking stupid. Maybe volleyball is still one of her priorities. Did it ever occur to them that people can have multiple priorities? This is insane."

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as though trying to understand a language he'd never learned. "But you know what gets me? When I got married, nobody asked if I was planning to retire. Nobody questioned whether becoming a husband meant I wasn't committed anymore. Hell, when Sukumi was born, all anyone wanted to talk about was whether fatherhood would make me a better captain."

His laugh was brief, humourless. "But a woman gets married and suddenly everyone starts treating her like she's halfway out the door. It's shit. Why does a woman have to deal with this double standard but a man like me who do what is natural, you know, doing my part as a father, is fucking praised? Are we serious?"

Satoru let the silence hang for a beat, studying Sukuna over the rim of his coffee mug. He'd known him long enough to recognize the signs. The tight set of his jaw, the way his fingers tapped once against the tabletop before going still. Sukuna wasn't angry in the explosive, theatrical sense people expected of him. He was offended.

"What's worse in all of this is that they think this is a good thing." Satoru said, finally breaking the quiet. "I genuinely can believ that half the people saying this think they're being supportive about her life choices and her needs when theyre just being dismissive."

Sukuna looked at him. "And that's what sick! They aren't aware of their misogyny. 'Oh, she should enjoy being a wife now!' Or 'She deserves to settle down and be away from the volleyball court!' Like shut the fuck up, you're misogynists!"

"I've seen them. Like remember when Mikaichi retired too? Same fucking text and line. All the hook line and sinker for the same shitty asd misogynistic bullshit."

"As if playing volleyball and having a family are mutually exclusive." Sukuna scoffed, shaking his head. "It's the way they frame it." He reached over to pull the monitor a little closer, eyes scanning another article before gesturing toward it with the back of his hand.

"I mean look at this bullshit. They're talking about her marriage like it's an obstacle the Federation now has to work around. It's stupid." He looked up, incredulous. "Nothing worth noting here. Their concerns aren't even anything great. Have they had genuine questions about how her ACL? Or if her body can still push for more work? No, instead it is the same shitty ass line about marriage and settling down."

Satoru leaned over to read the article himself, eyebrows climbing higher the longer he skimmed. "So many comments reiteraiting their 'concerns regarding long-term commitment' to the team and to the country." he read aloud, then snorted. "It's stupid. Theyre acting like she won't try to do her fucking job. Or at least thinking she's got commitment issues. Mind you, she turned down being offers from European teams to stay for Japan. She made the female team top five in the world. What the fuck do you mean commitment issues?"

"Commitment? I can't fucking believe....." Sukuna echoed, exasperated. "She was my clubmate for youths, even though we had different places to be at, because of gendered divisions. I know how hard she works. She's committed enough to spend nearly fifteen years tearing her body apart for this sport, but one ring on her finger later and suddenly everyone's worried?"

"I'm sorry to the team, to the staff here if we're having a melt down here. We just can't believe this is still happning." Satoru laughed once under his breath, though there wasn't an ounce of amusement in it. "She's been with her boyfriend for like what, ten years? She was so committed to her boyfriend that she got married to him. She's committed to things!"

"I got married and you fuckers didn't say a word about commitment issues or how Iong I've been married. You fucking praised me for it, dipshits!" Sukuna continued as he spread his hands in the air, unsure of what to do with them. "You know what changed for me? Everything. I stopped surviving on convenience store food. I sleep more. I do better in life. Marriage makes you strive for better."

"You became significantly less unbearable too." Satoru sneaks in.

"I—" Sukuna stopped himself, clicking his tongue. "...That's debatable."

"No, that's measurable."

A few chuckles rippled through the studio, but Sukuna barely acknowledged them. "Fucking hell...My point is simple." he continued. "Marriage didn't make me less of a volleyball player."

"If anything, it makes you focus." Satoru added, "You had the best season of your career afterwards."

"Exactly." He nodded once. "No one questioned that. No one asked whether my priorities had changed. No one pulled me aside and asked if I still had the hunger to compete."

He leaned forward again, resting his forearms on the desk. "They congratulated me, they called me mature. They said having a family would ground me." His expression hardened, angered. "They said it made me a more desirable player."

"But if it's a woman...." Satoru starts to say, shaking his head. "It's a whole different scenario."

"But when it's a woman..." Sukuna continued for Satoru, as he let the sentence trail off, searching for the right words. "It's like people stop seeing the athlete. They start to see so much other of the things and stop respecting her. They see all the things society forces on her. And thats fucking sad."

He looked back toward the monitor. "The incredible volleyball player becomes secondary. Just because she becomes a wife. I can't fucking..." Sukuna sighs, exhausted. "Aren't we tired of this?"

The studio had gone unusually still. Even the producers, usually whispering to one another behind the cameras, had fallen silent. Sukuna exhaled slowly through his nose. "My wife has spent her entire adult life studying stars." His voice softened almost imperceptibly. "She chased a dream that most people would've called impossible."

There was a faint smile when he spoke about you, one Satoru noticed immediately. "I've watched her disappear into observatories and conference rooms for weeks. I've watched her spend nights awake because a calculation didn't make sense. I've watched her miss holidays because a telescope halfway across the world finally had an opening. Even pregnant, she worked!"

"She did a lot, man." Satoru mumbles as he shakes his head, memories flooding back. "She refused to sit down during dinner prep over the holidays. Mind you, Sukuna was doing everything so she wouldn't and she still refused to sit."

"That's how she is. She's just so hardworking and so devoted, it just breaks my heart that...." Sukuna feels choked up as he speaks. "I tried to do what I could then, because seeing her struggle hurt me. It was hard for me to see her hurting so bad, even when she wants to do her part even more."

"Yet even through all that.... I never once thought..." He frowned as Satoru looks at him with understanding. "I never thought to tell her that she should stop. Just because we got married and had a kid. Why should I? She doesn't stop being a human being with hopes and dreams just because we started a life together."

"I married her because she's her. She's brilliant, she's funny, she's good natured. But she's also hard working and dedicated. She is a one in a million talent and we shouldn't lose it just because she got hitched to me." He whispers lowly as everyone intently listened, not speaking or interrupting, even if it was now time for a short break. They just let him speak his heart out. He needed this.

Satoru watched him for a moment before quietly asking, "Is that why this gets under your skin so much more than you think?"

Sukuna didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked down at the wedding band around his finger, turning it absentmindedly with his thumb. "...Partly. Okay, maybe more than that." The admission came quietly. "But I also know what it's like to have someone believe in your dream before anyone else does too."

His smile was small now, private. "Back in high school, she'd sit through every one of my matches, even the boring practice tournaments. And I'd sit with her while she rambled about black holes and galaxies I couldn't pronounce."

"You still can't."

"I still can't."

That finally earned a laugh from both of them. "But we never asked each other to choose." His expression settled again, becoming thoughtful. "It was always..." He searched for the memory, hearing the words as though they were spoken yesterday instead of decades ago. "It's always encouragements. We keep saying 'go do it' over and over again. We believe to hope the best for each other, saying 'I'll be here when you get back' and become happy with that."

He looked toward the camera. "That's what marriage is supposed to be. And thats how it should be. We don't stop being people just because we got married. Life is a big adventure and your partner cannot always be in the center of that. Women shouldn't be expected to center a man just because shes married."

"This is not healthy, this....whatever this is, its an illness." He gestured vaguely toward the articles still displayed on the monitor. "This idea that the second a woman gets married, her ambitions become negotiable."

His jaw tightened again. "And then I think about Sukumi." He smiled despite himself. For a moment, he looks like he's about to burst into tears. He clears his throats and blinks the tears away. "She's got this little notebook."

Satoru grinned. "The volleyball notebook? The red one that I gifted her for her birthday?"

"Yeah, that one." Sukuna nodded. "She was so excited for it. She was going to use it for her little drawings but she noticed I wrote things on a notebook too, when I have games. She...she asked me about it and now....now it's her volleyball notebook."

"Every time she learns something new, she writes it down. Everything I teach her is on there. 'Keep your elbow high' or 'Don't drop your shoulders' or 'Papa says footwork wins rallies' and so much more of that. I had a lot of things I say and that girl writes it all down to get it down."

Gojo Satoru felt his eyes warmed at the thought of his goddaughter enjoying what she's learning and doing with volleyball. For a moment, its reminding him of being so young, growing with Sukuna and playing the best games, the best plays, the best moves in the court.

But it makes him even more emotional at the thought that she had grown enough to be so eager to take a moment and reflect on that notebook he got her, all the things she's learning from her dad.

His eyes softened with unmistakable affection. "Satoru, she's completely obsessed." The smile faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. "And I keep wondering..." His fingers curled loosely around his mug. "If she keeps loving this game...If she gets good enough...If one day she wears the same jersey I do.......What happens when someone tells her that getting married means it's time to step aside?"

The question lingered unanswered. Sukuna looked straight into the nearest camera, his voice calm enough that it carried even more weight than if he'd shouted. "I don't care if my daughter becomes a volleyball player. I don't care if she becomes a scientist like her mother. And I don't care if she wakes up one day and decides she wants to do something neither of us has ever imagined."

"What I care about..." He paused, finally being overwhelmed and emotional. "What I care about is that nobody gets to convince her that loving one thing means she has to give up the other."

He leaned back in his chair. "If she's good enough to play, she plays. If she wants a family, she has one. If she wants both......Then we'll make damn sure she never has to apologize for it."

Satoru grins. "Hell yeah! That's the spirit, dad!"

Sukuna looks to the camera, pointing at the news on screen. "If the people want to fine me or sanction me for saying all that shit, go for it. But you better fix this. I refuse to let this be the world my daughter knows. I'll quit if you don't do anything."

Satoru nodded. "These two idiots will stand firm on what we said today. If Sukuna's facing it, then I'm facing it too. I'm willing to stand ten toes with him on this. So, the ball's in your court."

"That's your warning." Sukuna nodded. "If you don't do it, then good luck finding better players than these two idiots. More of our idiots will say no to you too."

Satoru grinned. "Awww, you called us two idiots. How romantic!"

Sukuna shakes his head. "Shut the fuck up. We were having a moment and now its ruined."

"I mean we can start again, fellow idiot—"

"No fucking way, dipshit. I'm not doing that. Moment's gone."

"But, pookie—"

Sukuna motioned to the camera. "We're taking a commercial break. I need to cool down before I talk about stats. And a break from him."

Satoru freigned offense. "HEY!"

But Ryomen Sukuna was already standing.

He takes his drink and goes outside to take in the air.

He sighed, heavily and found himself lowering his head.

All he could do was pray to a god he doesn't believe in that his daughter will never have to deal with that.

He prays to to god and any god out there that they protect you and your daughter.

"I wish it was better.....fuck." He drinks his drink, exasperated. He throws the empty can away and leans against the wall. "Fuck....."

He knew he can't protect Sukumi from everything.

She will grow up and see the world for what it is one day.

But he hopes he can do a good job and make sure she always smiles.

That she always smiles like you do, when you speak about your maps of stars.

epilogue

The backlash arrived exactly as everyone had expected it would. Nothing was shocking about it. If anything, it was almost predictable in its timing, as though the country had collectively inhaled the moment the episode aired, only to exhale days of debate in return.

Ryomen Sukuna, however, found himself remarkably unmoved by it all. People were always going to have opinions. They were always going to disagree, to argue, to find fault with someone who spoke too loudly or too plainly.

That had never frightened him before, and it certainly wasn't going to start now. If people wanted to criticize him for saying what he believed was right, they were welcome to. Their approval had never been what guided him in the first place.

By the following morning, clipped segments from the podcast had escaped volleyball circles entirely. What had begun as another episode between two longtime friends and volleyball teammates had quickly found its way onto popular culture.

It was all over the evening news broadcasts, sports talk shows, university discussion forums, and social media feeds belonging to people who had never watched a professional volleyball match in their lives. It was just insane to watch.

Overnight, the conversation had stopped being about a single player and had become something much larger. Some praised them for saying what so many had quietly believed for years. Others accused them of turning sport into politics.

Many had insisted Sukuna and Satoru had stirred unnecessary controversy, arguing that active national team players had no business criticizing the very federation they represented. To some, they had crossed an invisible line between athlete and activist and to others, they had simply spoken an uncomfortable truth that those in power had spent years pretending not to see.

Every sports panel seemed to dissect the podcast sentence by sentence, replaying the same clips until viewers could recite them from memory. Newspaper columns questioned whether athletes still representing Japan should be speaking publicly against federation culture, while television pundits debated whether Sukuna had behaved like a responsible captain or an unprofessional employee.

Former players, no longer constrained by contracts, began offering their own opinions. Some defended him openly. Others urged caution, insisting that internal issues should remain behind closed doors. Current athletes, meanwhile, remained noticeably quiet, their silence speaking almost as loudly as everyone else's words.

Authorities in the sport responded exactly as authorities in organizations often did. Over the next several days, statements and carefully worded press releases appeared one after another, each emphasizing the organization's commitment to professionalism, respect, and the welfare of its athletes while gently reminding contracted players of their obligations regarding public conduct.

They spoke at length about appropriate channels for communication and the importance of preserving the integrity of the sport. And of course, no names were mentioned. They didn't have to be. Everyone knew exactly who those statements were for.

A week later, Sukuna and Satoru were called into a meeting. Neither of them expected anything different. They arrived together, exchanged polite greetings with the officials waiting inside, and spent the next hour listening to carefully rehearsed corporate language delivered in calm, measured voices. No one raised their voice. No one pounded a fist against the table or issued dramatic ultimatums.

In many ways, that almost made it worse to them. That's what left a bitter taste in their mouths after. The conversation was courteous from beginning to end, every criticism wrapped in professional language that disguised reprimands as concern and consequences as necessary procedure.

By the time the meeting concluded, they had each received an official reprimand that would remain on record. They were informed that they would be required to attend mandatory media training before conducting any further public interviews and that, effective immediately, both of them would be temporarily suspended from organization-sponsored media appearances.

The officials spoke at length about maintaining unity, protecting the image of Japanese volleyball, and addressing disagreements through the proper internal channels rather than in front of microphones. None of it was particularly severe on paper. But then again, that was the point.

The consequences were carefully measured, reasonable enough to avoid public outrage. After all, these two were legends in the field, and even beyond it. They represented the fabric of Japanese life and society. People couldn't avoid that.

But everything about this carefully measured response was also carrying an unmistakable message beneath the polished language. It always does. And both of them knew it. Speak like this again, and the next punishment won't be so gentle.

Neither Sukuna nor Satoru apologized, neither admitted they had been wrong. If anything, leaving the meeting only strengthened their conviction that the conversation had needed to happen in the first place.

Ironically, the response accomplished exactly what it had hoped to avoid. News of the disciplinary action leaked within days, reigniting public discussion with even greater intensity than before. Athletes, both current and retired, began sharing experiences that had remained buried for years.

Some spoke anonymously, fearful of damaging careers that were still unfolding. Others attached their names without hesitation, deciding that silence had protected no one for long enough. But that was more than enough.

Women's players described being asked during contract negotiations whether they planned to marry within the next few years. Others recalled subtle suggestions to postpone starting families until after major international tournaments or the end of their careers.

Retired athletes admitted they had delayed pregnancies out of fear that sponsors would quietly disappear or that roster spots would no longer be waiting for them once they returned. Stories that had once existed only as whispers between teammates suddenly became public conversations.

Meanwhile, fans and people outside the bubble had continued sharing clips from the podcast. One sentence, in particular, seemed to take on a life of its own. If she's good enough to play, she plays.

It appeared everywhere. They were printed across handmade signs outside league arenas. They were painted onto fan banners hanging over stadium railings. They were shared endlessly across social media as hashtags and profile slogans. Hell, they were quoted in newspaper headline and repeated by commentators.

Even athletes, especially women athletes, from completely different sports began echoing it, applying the same principle to conversations far beyond volleyball. It was bigger than volleyball. It was touching something that had been waiting for so long to be noticed.

For every person who called Ryomen Sukuna irresponsible or accused him of jeopardizing his career, there seemed to be three more thanking him for saying aloud what so many had spent years thinking in silence.

Husband and father, Ryomen Sukuna, meanwhile, paid very little attention to any of it. He wasn't interested in any of the opinion columns or the endless debates online. He's not that interested in finding out what others think, or what's under the tags of his name.

As far as he was concerned, he'd said what needed to be said. Whether people chose to agree with him or condemn him afterward was entirely their decision. It didn't change the fact that he believed every word.

By the following weekend, he was barefoot in the backyard, fully cleared by his doctors and was running around trying to make sure that his daughter could enjoy some good, genuine, well-guided volleyball.

"Papa!" Sukumi's voice rang through the warm afternoon air as the volleyball bounced awkwardly off her forearms before veering wildly into the flowerbeds. "I almost got it!"

"You almost launched it into the neighbor's yard." Sukuna pointed out.

"I was aiming high."

"Your papa can tell."

She stuck her tongue out at him before scrambling after the ball, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. You watched from the porch with a quiet smile, an iced tea sweating against your palm as the late afternoon sun painted long shadows across the grass.

Sukuna had spent the last twenty minutes trying—and mostly failing—to explain proper passing technique to his little child who seemed convinced that sheerand utter enthusiasm alone could compensate for her lacking in footwork.

"Bend your knees."

"I am!"

"Those are not bent knees."

"They're emotionally bent, just like your feelings."

Sukuna stared. "...Who taught you that sentence?"

Sukumi's guilty eyes drifted immediately toward you. You raised both hands, making a face at him. "It wasn't me, my love. I would never!"

"Uncle 'Toru, papa."

"I knew it." He pinched the bridge of his nose while Sukumi giggled, scooping up the volleyball before trying again. And this time it actually reached him. Well, mostly. He caught it one-handed before tossing it gently back. "Okay, baby. That was better."

"I know! I really tried my best!"

"You can still bend your knees more."

"They're trying their best."

"They can try harder."

She huffed dramatically before jogging toward the other side of the yard, determined to prove him wrong. The moment she was out of earshot, you stepped down from the porch and wandered over until you were standing beside him.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You simply watched your daughter chase a volleyball that refused to cooperate. Eventually, you reached for his hand. His fingers intertwined with yours without him even looking.

"They gave you another warning?"

He nodded once. "Mm."

"And Satoru?"

"The same. Not that he or I care, to be fair."

You let out a quiet sigh. "I'm sorry for that, my love."

He shrugged. "I expected it before I even said anything, so don't think too much about it, babe."

"I know."

That somehow didn't make it sting any less. You looked toward Sukumi again. She'd managed a surprisingly clean pass to herself. The little grin on her face made your heart swell. You sighed softly.

"You know, my love, I found myself eating breakfast earlier than usual." you said softly, "Then found myself watching the episode again while eating my food. It got cold because I got so deep in your episode."

Sukuna glanced sideways. "Oh?"

"I don't think I told you this yet."

He raised a brow. "About what?"

"Thank you."

He frowned. "...For what?"

"For saying it." You smiled faintly. "For speaking when it would've been easier not to."

His brows drew together as though the gratitude genuinely confused him. "Barely did anything."

"You've always been like that." You laughed quietly, shaking your head. "Ever since we were kids....If you loved something...you protect it. If you love something, you stand by it. You didn't care if it got hard or painful. You never looked away even when it came with consequences."

His thumb brushed absentmindedly across your knuckles. "You don't have to thank me, though. I'm serious. I didn't do anything revolutionary. The credit shouldn't be on me."

"I want to."

He shook his head, his voice is gentle. "No, I don't deserve it. I didn't do anything special to warrant it."

"You did."

"I did what anyone should've done." He watched Sukumi bump the volleyball with all the determination in the world and almost none of the technique. A smile found its way onto his face. "If something's wrong, then you say it's wrong. It's not complicated. Nothing about it should be."

You rested your head lightly against his shoulder. "The world would disagree."

"Well, the world's wrong."

You laughed. "Still impossibly stubborn."

"I've been called worse."

There was a comfortable silence between you after that, filled only by the rhythmic thump of volleyball against grass and Sukumi's triumphant cheers whenever she managed three passes in a row. Sukuna watched her with an expression so impossibly soft that it almost made him look like a different man.

"When she gets older, I know she's going to be sharp witted." he said quietly. "She's going to pay attention to what I do a lot more than what I say."

You followed his gaze. Sukumi had her tongue poking out in concentration, brows knitted together as she prepared another pass. "I know. It's going to be rough on both of us, but for you....."

"So if I tell her to stand up for people..." He bounced the volleyball once against the ground before catching it again. He shakes his head "...But she watches me stay quiet because it's inconvenient, then what does that teach her other than that its okay to be treated like that?"

"It teaches her that her papa is brave."

"I don't need her to think her papa was brave." He says to you, smiling softly. "I just need her to know that he tried to do the right thing and that is more important."

His gaze drifted back to your daughter. "I want her to grow up believing that if someone is being treated unfairly, you don't look around the room to see who's going to speak first...."

"You just do." His fingers tightened gently around yours. "Especially when the people who need someone the most don't have the power to say it themselves."

Across the yard, Sukumi finally managed five clean passes in a row. She spun around with both fists in the air. She finds herself dancing in celebration, clapping and giggling. You couldn't help but laugh and shout praise at your daughter. But no one was happier than your husband. Sukuna's face lit up immediately.

"I DID IT!"

"You did." He happily said, running up to her and scooping her up in his arms. "You were so good, 'kumi. That was impressive!"

"Papa, did you see?"

"Of course, papa saw. You were so cool out there, doing that." He praises her, leaning close and kissed her cheek. "I don't think I've seen a finer move, 'kumibear."

"Was that good?"

He grinned. "It was. Believe me, not many kids can do it the way you did."

You smiled widely and moved from your seat and towards your husband and your daughter. You wrapped your arms around them. You leaned in and kissed your husband's jaw and then your daughter's forehead.

"My two amazing players, you did so well!"

"Does this mean I get hot cocoa as a reward, mama?" Your daughter beamed at you.

You laughed, nodding. "Of course, 'kumibear can get as much as she wants."

"Yay! I'm going to drink a lot."

Sukuna laughs. "Be careful, though. It can get hot."

Sukumi pouts. "I know how to blow my hot drinks, papa!"

You and your husband laugh softly.

Sukumi continues to pout at your reaction.

The world can be cruel. The world can be unfair.

But in this world, your world, there is happiness.

Most of all, there is always going to be love.

You laugh while grabbing your purse, "Guys usually don't get flowers for their dates imaginary twin sisters." "What can I say? I'm all inclusive," He slings his arm over your shoulder and beams down at you. You both approach his sports car, you notice the suitcase in the back seat as you get inside. Satoru closes the door before jogging to the drivers side and getting in. "Planning to murder me or something?" you glance at the suitcase. "Duh. I just brought snacks for afterward," He says sarcastically before starting the engine and driving off.

"Well my curfew is at 11 so murder me before then." "Gocha," he winks.

At first you thought he was cracking a joke to maybe release some of the awkwardness of the entire ordeal, or maybe just a way to make you laugh.

That was, until, you saw him approaching the airport, which is precisely when you realized that this was not a normal date.

Then again, Gojo isn't a normal human being, so maybe it is normal. For him.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, telling you that he emailed you your itinerary and to make sure to have it ready because apparently your flight was leaving in 10 minutes.

Now you weren't the most educated person on first dates and what not, but you knew that going to the airport was not... ideal.

But, despite your hesitance and dull feeling in your gut that Satoru truly was going to kill you, you found yourself on Satoru's private jet for two and a half hours while he assured you that he was not, in fact, going to kill you.

You both arrived in Okinawa, where Satoru then took you to a park.

You got out of the car he rented, looking up at the endless expanse of stars in awe. Your eyes were glued to the marvelousness in front of you, the small white dots appearing as grains of sand.

You tried to make out constellations you recalled learning about briefly on YouTube before ultimately giving up and taking in the view. "...Satoru, where are we?" "A park! To stargaze. And stuff." He gestures behind him to the expanse of stars and sky in front of you both. "I remember you saying a few weeks ago that you liked looking at the stars and stuff so I thought you might like this since Okinawa is a dark sky community and stuff, but if its too much we can totally go back home I know you're probably-" "It's perfect." You cut off his rambling, giving him a reassuring smile. "You didnt have to book a plane ticket though," you laugh. "I only wanted you to have the best."

You both ended up finding a spot with no trees or mountains blocking your view, on top of a large boulder.

Satoru dragged his mysterious suitcase along with him, opening it up to reveal snacks and blankets.

"In case we got cold. Or hungry," He passes you a rice ball.

You both lay back, side by side and Satoru spends the whole night identifying constellations that don't exist, while also giving them origin stories.

"That one right there," He points in a completely random direction, "That one's us." "...Sartoru, that's a satellite."

"..." he pauses for a beat. "Still counts."

He scooches closer to you, inch by inch until his shoulder and legs are pressed to yours, turning his head to the side to look at the side of your face. Your gaze remains on the sky but you can feel his breathing against your face. "Do you like space?" he suddenly asks. "Yeah, it's cool. I think is fascinating to wonder what's out th-" "I like your space."

He's already violating it. And suspiciously closer.

You slowly turn your head.

You look at him.

Then at the two feet of empty rock beside him.

Then back at him.

"I can tell."

"Guess what else?" He whispers, shoving a gummy worm in his mouth. "What."

"You haven't told me to move." he smirks.

"Move."

"That wasn't genuine."

"I absolutely meant that."

"No because you're still talking to me instead of physically relocating."

"...I shouldn't have to evacuate every time you show up."

"Seems like you've accepted me into your personal space and you're just scared to admit it," he pokes your nose.

You sigh. "That's not what that means."

"Lets agree to disagree."

Somewhere between stargazing and sunrise, you both fall asleep. You wake up at four a.m to the ocean light peeking over the horizon, before deciding to fly back home.

Although, thinking back on it, you both could have teleported home, but you arrived back in Tokyo around seven a.m.

He drops you off back at your front door, his heart feeling like it's going to implode by looking at the sleepy look in your eyes.

"Thank you for tonight."

"My pleasure, princess," He bows dramatically.

You laugh, "I thought I told you my curfew was at 11 pm?"

"Well, you're home, alive, and safe so I don't see the problem?"

"You broke the rules," you gently push at his shoulder.

"Rules were made to be broken," he shrugs before stepping closer and tilting his head down to your ear, lips stopping by your cheek.

"See you on our second date," he whispers, pressing his lips softly to the side of your face before giggling like an idiot and running away.

Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.

Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.

You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.

Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?

You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.

You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes. 

Shit, how’re you supposed to—

“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.

He sets out two plates before sitting down.

He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar. His hair is newly washed, hanging in curly bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.

“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”

“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”

You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”

“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”

Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”

For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.

“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”

Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut. 

“What?”

A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly? 

“What the fuck’s going on?!”

He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life. 

“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”

Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with. 

Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”

Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?

“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you. 

The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.

“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”

Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind. 

Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar.

In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”

But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”

Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first. 

And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.

You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while. 

And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide. 

Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested. Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start piling up your plate.

While stuffing your face, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face. 

You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…

Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…

And that’s when it hits you.

“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…” 

You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering. 

“Malevolent Kitchen!” 

You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.

Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”

“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.

You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…

You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.

There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.

It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…

“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember. 

True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit. 

“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”

Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea. 

“A cannibal?”

You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.

But he doesn’t.

No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.

It fully dawns on you then.

“Oh God, that’s it, isn’t it?”

The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.

And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.

“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”

And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke. 

Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.

“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”

The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.

You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”

Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.

Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”

You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”

You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi is the least he could do.

You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”

You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”

So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.

In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.

But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”

To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”

—

You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you. 

Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be. 

He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him. 

But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.

He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun. 

And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.

Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances. 

But then again, you hadn’t proved to be very normal at all so far.

You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild curiosity, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.

By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.

You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way, at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.

“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.

Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.

“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well. 

It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is. 

But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.

It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.

Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”

You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.

He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.

Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.

“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”

Oh, so that had been your earlier concern. 

He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…

Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.

“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.

He halts. “What?” 

Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”

Oh, right. He chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.

“Hello? What’s so funny?” you ask again.

“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.

You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”

Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.

“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”

You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”

It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it. 

“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?” 

Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, looking for answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you. 

But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t actually buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”

He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”

You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”

You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.

No, not at all. 

Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.

And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”

It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.

And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.” 

“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.

He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”

You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.

Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…

—

True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night. 

The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep. 

Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.

Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.

Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.

He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.

“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.

To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”

You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.

You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.

In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.

“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”

“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.

You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”

You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it, given the man’s your cannibalistic captor you shouldn't be goofing around with. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”

He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”

“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”

You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”

Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll  take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”

You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.

“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”

You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.

“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”

He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.

“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”

You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,” 

Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.

You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you? 

“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”

You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”

With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.” 

You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”

He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as taking a fake sick-day just to get out of work.

But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”

His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”

You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind. “Anything else I can help with?”

He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”

You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual or abstinent while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”

—

A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.

He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.

In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.

Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself. 

He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.

“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to test your eye for precautions.”

He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.

“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time.

“No,” he answers shortly.

To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”

He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”

You drop back down with a pout at the boring response, staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…” 

Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”

He ignores you and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.

“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your stomach.

“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”

You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.

Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.

Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.

But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”

With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”

Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.

It’s boring, you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.

But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”

You lift yourself up from your slump, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.

You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”

As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”

It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.” 

—

More weeks pass. 

The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.

Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain. 

Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.

Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long. 

Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…

And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food.

“Not up to your standards?” he questions.

You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.

During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.

But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something more, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.

Lonely is the word that comes to mind.

“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—anything but this gourmet stuff…”

He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.

“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”

Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.

It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.

“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.

“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard before.

It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”

“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”

He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?

“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you. 

“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?” 

You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”

In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.

Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.

“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.

But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”

Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,” 

And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”

He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”

“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”

Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”

“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”

Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”

Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”

Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.

But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”

Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”

By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing.  “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.

“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.

But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”

He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”

His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding. 

You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”

“That’s it.”

It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think. 

One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.

“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him anymore to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”

And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.

“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”

“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”

Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.

“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”

—

“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”

He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.

No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”

You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”

Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”

He can only sigh and admit defeat.

Still, you got one thing wrong. 

“I’m not the freak here…”

Playing with the six eyes heir was something that the workers of the gojo estate found difficult.

For starters, due to the protectiveness of the clan, not many were allowed to even go near the baby at all. On top of that, his bright blue eyes intimidated some.

The clan servants would often say that playing games like peek-a-boo with the baby would be pointless, because nothing could hide from the powerful six eyes after all. The baby would probably find no fun in the game at all.

But all you could see was a lonely baby unaware of yet another childhood joy taken away from him because of his powers.

You sigh softly as you look down at the chubby baby in his blue yukata, sitting comfortably on your lap.

"What are you thinking about?" You coo at him.

Babyjo just stares at you. Show white lashes fluttering as he blinks.

You're bored, the baby probably is too so you just decide to do it.

You hide your face behind your palms and go,

"peek-a-boo!"

and suddenly you got your cheeks all puffed up, making a face at the baby.

Babyjo startles a bit but gazes at your puffed cheeks curiously, craning his little neck to take a closer look at you. Getting a satisfactory response, you do it again.

"peek-a-boo!"

this time you stick your tongue out, making another silly face.

Babyjo blinks once, then squeals in happiness. His little body erupts into joy, few tiny baby teeth all in display and chubby cheeks are scrunched in laughter.

You continue.

"Peek-a-boo!"

This time you've got a huge grin on your face and babyjo gurgles in happiness. His tiny body shakes from the fit of giggles and he flails his chubby arms in happiness. You watch in adoration as drool starts falling from the baby's mouth.

"Aww does that make you happy, honey?" You coo and wipe the drool from his face.

"Alright let's hope you are ready for this, satoru... Peek-a-boo!"

Your continue, making a few more faces at him. suddenly you see movement in his limbs, babyjo slowly lifts his tiny chubby arms.

"What is it, honey?" You coo at him.

Babyjo brings both his chubby palms up and tries to hide his face behind them like you did.

"Oh? Are you trying to imitate me?" You smile.

He makes a soft noise and goes,

"ba!"

"ba?" you ask, imitating him.

And there babyjo is trying to probably puff his cheeks or stick his tongue out, you can't tell. But all he does is accidentally blow a raspberry instead, startling both himself and you. He looks at you, bright blue eyes swimming in confusion, unsure of what to do now.

You coo at the silly baby and softly clap your hands,"Ahh you did so well, satoru you are such a smart baby, aren't you?"

The baby picks up on your happy mood and starts giggling again, drooling from happiness.

you softly wipe his mouth again and nuzzle his cheek as babyjo's happy squeals fill the air.

With babies you realize, they get tired easily. Or maybe in satoru's case, the sensations from his eyes tire him out more quickly.

Soon in your playtime, you see Satoru's eyes start to get droopy.

"You're sleepy," you say.

A soft noise is your answer.

You see his movements getting slower and how his eyes blink a little longer each time.

"And you're fighting it," you murmur softly.

The baby blows a spit bubble in response.

"Okay," you inch your face closer to the baby's,"One more game for my sweet baby."

You lift your hand slowly, brushing your fingers lightly over his cheek.

"Here we goooo," you coo and then very gently with one finger, you tap the tip of his little nose.

"Boop."

A pause.

His eyelids flutter at the movement. Confused eyes look at you.

You do it again.

"Boop"

You don't stop.

"Boop"

Soft, repetitive, gentle, you keep going.

"boop.. boop.."

Each tap lighter and slower than the last.

babyjo follows each tap carefully with his bright blue eyes, a little droppy from tiredness.

After a few more taps, his head tilts just slightly into your hand.

"There we go", you say almost inaudibly as you see the baby's eyes start to close.

Looks like a heavy playtime wears out even the heir of the six eyes.

a/n : im not kidding babies actually do start drooling when they are too happy they're god's silliest soldiers

babyjo taglist : @terisek-96 @luvr4gyu

He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things? 

One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark. 

That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way. 

“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery. 

He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this. 

“Oh hey, you’re home.” 

Home? 

He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.

You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago. 

You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”

First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?

Second, who even are you?

Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger. 

Fuck.

“Honey–”

Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again. 

“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”

Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth. 

There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru. 

Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.

“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”

He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”

“You also liked to argue, too.”

“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?” 

“No.” 

“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“

You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?” 

“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you. 

“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.” 

– 

“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”

The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere. 

“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”

Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”

“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”

“31.”

Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.” 

Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.  

“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”

“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody. 

Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude. 

“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion. 

He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”

Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?” 

“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”

“I tried my best! I swear!”

“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”

The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.

“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.

The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed. 

—

You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand. 

“Is the food good?”

“Sure.”

“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement. 

“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.” 

Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”

“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?” 

Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.

“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being. 

A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.

“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”

It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital. 

“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.

“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake. 

“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”

Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.

“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”

Sai wasn’t having that. 

Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite. 

But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.

“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”

“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself. 

You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous. 

“What?” 

There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”

“She’s weird.”

“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”

“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid. 

He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind. 

“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious. 

He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad. 

For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear. 

—

It’s been over a month. 

Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.

But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort. 

Over his dead body. 

Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.

So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.

Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising. 

Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married. 

Satoru looks over your body once. 

Twice. 

He totally understands his future self. 

He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks. 

It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you. 

You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure. 

“Hey… any good news?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.” 

“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“

“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”

You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.

After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”

“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”

The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine. 

But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him. 

You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?” 

“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.” 

It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here. 

“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered. 

He’s always had a thing for milfs.

Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now. 

“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”  

You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you. 

“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you. 

And you fucking miss that. 

He opens his mouth to respond. 

Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you. 

Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid. 

His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”

Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”

It’s starting to sound more natural.

“Y-yeah,” she sniffles. 

Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried. 

His little girl was a dream. 

—

Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.

It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world. 

He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does. 

It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.

With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table. 

The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions. 

You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off. 

“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”

He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?” 

“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.” 

You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact. 

Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.

It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake. 

Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”

Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now. 

“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone. 

Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”

“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”

“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“

“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”

“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“

“Kay’ good night.” 

Click.

Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head. 

He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning. 

“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?” 

“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.” 

“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him. 

“So is waking me up.” 

“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”

“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?” 

“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.” 

Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.” 

“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden. 

And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.

You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?” 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.

“I can take care of that, you know.” 

“What?” 

“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.

“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?” 

“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?” 

“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.” 

“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief. 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.” 

Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock. 

“Feel good?” 

His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”

You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.

“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask. 

“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient. 

His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”

“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”

You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are. 

His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all. 

"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.” 

“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.

It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that—  lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him. 

"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."

You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out. 

You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort. 

"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."

You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder. 

He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”

“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”

“You want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yeah.” 

Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper. 

“Better?”

He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”

“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.” 

He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life. 

Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”

“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”

He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch. 

Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you. 

“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself. 

When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him. 

You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.

And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.

—

It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back. 

What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?

He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.  

Acceptance. 

He likes his life here. 

You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.

No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second. 

With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life. 

You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache. 

He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start. 

You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.

“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.

There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”

He’s back.

“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”

—

Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.

Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers. 

Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly. 

Satoru was fucking devastated. 

Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo. 

God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point. 

One Year Later

“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone. 

It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job. 

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”

“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.” 

The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable. 

He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit. 

It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him. 

The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time. 

“And what can I get started for you today?”

His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.

“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”

“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie. 

“Name for the order?”

“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”

He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”

“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind: 

He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number.