“You could take me with you,” you hummed, giving him your best set of pleading eyes as he felt the once shriveled organ he called a heart squeeze at how sincere you looked. 

“I-” 

“Shouldn’t I be there anyway if it’s about our wedding?” You insisted, and despite his reservations, the only thing he was weak to was you. 

So he dragged his finger over the ribbon, slicing through it and the thick fabric easily as he cleanly cut each and every restraint keeping you tied to his bed. 

You had requested your own chambers when he first abducted brought you here, but these days, you rarely even stepped foot in them when you’d taken to staying up sleeping in his sheets. He liked your little scowl when you peeled off the now torn dress from your body, getting out of bed and rubbing your wrists with a haughty huff befitting your status. 

His future queen. 

“Happy?” He grumbled, shoulders rolling back as his greedy eyes dragged over the shape of your breasts, mouth watering enough he had to swallow his own spit. 

“No,” you sharply scoffed, striding over to your now-shared closet as you swiped through the selection of outfits he had made for you. “That was my last pink dress from home.” 

“I think these suit you much better,” he dryly replied, having to keep himself from snarling at your disdain for the clothes he’d chosen. So what if they showed a little more skin? “But if you wish, I’ll kidnap your dressmaker.”

“Can’t you just hire him?” You asked, giving him that look, like he was somehow testing your patience. 

Personally, he found that most prisoners, or well, workers only did their best after some time in the dungeon. 

But he didn’t mind bickering with you about it. 

Not when it made him almost feel like you were already married. 

“I guess,” he begrudgingly grunted, making a mental note to send a koopa down to find him tomorrow for you. 

Watching you get dressed was nearly as intoxicating as seeing you strip, studying the lines of your body, the way you moved your limbs as you squeezed into the tight outfit he was absolutely correct in assuming would look fantastic on you. Eyes glazing over as he committed and etched the image of you in his head, content to capture you like this in a painting later, frame it and hang it up in his private study as a new permanent fixture. 

Sukuna was not accustomed to compliments. 

But he found himself awkwardly clearing his throat, reaching out for you right as you glanced over your shoulder at him. 

“My bride is beautiful,” he muttered, his voice coming out all low and gravelly as heat creeped up his neck and threatened to color his cheeks in an obvious blush. 

Forcing himself to look back at the barred windows, biting the inside of his mouth until it drew blood. The thick taste of iron on his tongue as a delicate digit tapped his much larger hand. 

“Thank you,” you softly said, tempering your tone as you laced your fingers through his. “Shall we go?” 

He wasn’t stupid enough to assume you truly loved him back. Not the way he loved you, at least. 

Knew damn well that this could just be some attempt to get his guard lowered enough for you to escape. 

You might just want to know what their plans were. Where he’d send his troops of koopas to claim the land that used to be yours. Figure out any weak points. 

It didn’t matter. 

He wasn’t going to give you the chance to take advantage of it. No matter how much he might loosen your leash. 

Still, the walk through the air ship was rather peaceful. 

The warmth of your palm pressed against his, your skin brushing against his, those quick glances you’d steal up at him when his shell bumped into you. 

The koopas were already waiting for him there, crowded around the table and chattering before they all froze at the creak of the door swinging open. 

Turning to bow down before him, his ego inflating at their easy obedience while he caught a glimpse of you rolling your eyes to his right. 

“Oh no,” he deadpanned. “It appears there aren’t enough chairs.” 

It would be easy to have a koopa scramble to fetch one for you. But just lazily walked over to his throne and sat back in it, spreading and patting his thighs while you stared at him with an adorable attempt at a stern expression. 

He could picture you presiding over meetings like this back in your own Kingdom, addressing those morons in your dominion as if they even deserved to speak to you at all. 

And now here you were, climbing on his lap in a tiny outfit, looking more like a concubine than a dignified princess. 

“You did this on purpose,” you muttered, not that you actually seemed mad. More like you were pretending to be – acting out a role you knew you were supposed to fill.

“How?” He dryly mocked. “I didn’t know you were coming.” 

Well, sure, perhaps part of him suspected you’d protest being all tied up and ask to tag along. But the chairs were just a coincidence. 

You shuffled on his lap, trying to get comfortable like he couldn’t feel the way you were quivering already. 

That was the part you were horrible at hiding. Because despite that sweet mask you liked to wear of a proper lady, you couldn’t disguise your attraction to him, couldn’t pretend to be distinguished when he’d seen how much you craved his cock every night. Derived a certain degree of pleasure in him ruling over you instead of the other way around. 

“You’re cruel,” you half-whispered, as if he somehow humiliated you when he could smell how horny you were. 

You were cute when you were trying to be strong. 

What would that plumber of yours think of you on his lap like this? 

He supposed he’d take care of that business after the wedding. Once he had bound you to him for good. 

“Lord Sukuna, we received a report from the koopas stationed-” 

He waved it away, shaking his head before he could even finish. 

“We’re discussing the wedding tonight,” he interrupted, running a calloused palm across your waist, feeling the way you shivered at his touch. “Since my bride is here.” 

It would all belong to him soon enough anyway.

Your heart. Your home. 

He’d conquer it all. 

ཐི♡ཋྀ

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. 

He was meant to be the monster in the tale. 

The scary villain that needed to be slain. 

A beast you were supposed to hate by the end of the story. 

You’d grown up with plenty of fairytales. Romances spun about princesses who were saved by brave knights and lived happily ever after. 

You had always thought you would marry a guy who wields a sword instead of spewing fire, someone steadfast and pure hearted. 

Sukuna was stubborn. Strange. Hot-headed with that horrible temper of his, with claws that looked made for slashing rather than clumsily clutching the stems to bouquets you could hardly believe he picked for you. 

You stared at his sleeping figure. The tattoos inked against his tanned skin as his chest slowly rose and fell. 

His mouth parted, the low roar of his snore starting up as you untangled yourself from his heavy limbs. 

The meeting had run far longer than either of you had anticipated, heavy eyelids drooping from exhaustion with you still on his lap. And even when it ended, he just yawned and threw you over his shoulder, carrying you back to your room with one hand while the other rubbed his exhausted eyes. 

He didn’t even try to fuck you. To your disappointment. 

Just plopped you down in bed and joined you there, strong arms wrapping around you before he promptly passed out. 

But no matter how many sheep you counted in your head, or how hard you shut your own eyes, you couldn’t bring yourself to fall asleep.

Your brain was buzzing, hyperaware of his touch, of his breath, a big ball of tension coiling tight in your core as you tried to ignore the familiar ache between your thighs. 

For a guy who kinda kidnapped you, the least he could do was have a smaller dick so you didn’t have to think about how good it felt to be fucked full of him constantly. 

You bit the inside of your cheek, shuffling off the bed slowly, stare still trained on him as you avoided waking him up. 

Usually though, once he was out, he wouldn’t stir until the sun was slipping through the cracks in the porthole he called a window. 

Now, there were only a handful of candles lit to illuminate the dark, your engagement ring glittering in the low light. It was big, and well, a bit gaudy, a ridiculously large pink sapphire glinting in the middle surrounded by small diamonds embedded into a gold band. 

Something that screamed you were taken from a mile away. 

He’d gotten down on one knee, the spiky shell on his back seeming even bulkier when he was all bent down like that, popping open a velvet box to propose to you like you were a normal couple. 

A year ago, you would have scoffed at the idea of him bowing to anyone. Laughed that someone might say yes to him.

But your own affirmation had come a bit too easily for even you to conceal your own crush. 

Could you call it that? 

Shrink your feelings down to something more comfortable to swallow? 

He rolled over, and you froze, throat constricting as you waited for his body to realize you weren’t there and wake him up. 

Instead, he grabbed the pillow, squeezing it tight as his nostrils twitched. Sniffing the scent of you left there before he let out a soft sigh and settled back into dreamland. 

When you watched him like this, all peaceful and pleased, you could almost trick yourself into thinking that this could last forever. 

But your feet were creeping closer to the door, heart thumping rapidly as you tried to quell your troubled mind with reassurances that you wouldn’t get caught. 

This could be the only opportunity you ever got. Your only chance to just leave. 

Your parasol had just been lazily stashed in a storage closet by one of the koopas, so it wouldn’t even be hard to snag it and slip off the ship. 

All you’d really have to do is find the courage to jump and float down. 

Of course, you’d need to hope that you weren’t drifting over anything dangerous. 

But considering you were sharing close quarters with someone as feared as him, who had enough strength to probably split your former plumber in two, you supposed whatever was below couldn’t be much scarier than what you’d be leaving behind. 

Were you scared though? 

Truly? 

Did his pointy teeth hold any terror anymore? When was the last time those sharp claws of his inspired even a sliver of apprehension? 

You had started to see them differently. Him differently. 

Anticipating the next time he’d sink his mouth on your skin and leave love bites. Fantasize about him scraping his claws down your back. Intoxicated by the weight of the restraints he liked to tie you down with. 

Was it fucked up to be horny instead of frightened? 

Yes, but that wasn’t exactly something you wanted to unravel while you were tiptoeing across dim hallways thinking about the logistics of an escape plan. Where would you even run to? 

Find some tropical island to take shelter in and hope none of the ape-ish men there would make things worse? 

You couldn’t just abandon the mushroom kingdom either. 

Leave the land you’d sworn to protect behind for him to seize in your absence. 

If you stayed, you could still rule over them. Ensure their safety – and your own. 

Although, you were sure it was only a matter of time before a certain someone attempted to take you back. 

Gojo seemed to think simply saving you was enough. 

He was always busy with Suguru or racing karts or doing other stupid shit that made you feel more like a second thought than a lover who was special to him. 

Sacred.

You wanted to be worshipped. 

Not strung along or simply sucking it up to see how long you could suffer. 

You were a princess after all. 

What purpose did you have if you weren’t born to be revered? 

Perhaps that was why when you opened the door you stopped in front of, the first thing you saw wasn’t your parasol staring back at you – but your own face. 

A hundred of them. 

Canvasses of different sizes, some hung up on the walls and others lined up against each other, one still on the easel in the center of the room as you stepped on the crinkly plastic tarp laid out and covered in paint splatters on the floor. 

Who said a villain couldn’t have hobbies? 

You hesitated as you gazed at his latest portrait of you, the soft strokes, the delicate touches that seemed incapable of coming from his massive hands. Each one was deliberate. This painting captured you in a candid moment, your head turned to the side as you leaned over the edge of the ship, the sky behind you and the sun on your face. Some of the others featured a…more flattering version of him next to you. 

Ones that made him look more regal.

More like a man instead of a monster by your side. 

Gojo would have scoffed. 

Said it was cheesy or stupid or came up with some other cheap insult to diminish his work. 

But it made your heart stutter. 

Slam faster into your ribcage the longer you stared at yourself. 

This was how he saw you. 

And it was how you wanted to be seen. 

You could blame it on reason. 

Say you had a responsibility or you were just doing what was rational. 

But you simply didn’t want to run away. 

Would it truly be so horrible to marry him? To be his wife and rule two kingdoms instead of one? 

Maybe give him a Sukuna Jr.? 

A loud bang exploded in the distance. 

The sound of wood splintering and faint crashes that seemed to get closer by the second. 

Oh well. 

It seemed your groom-to-be had woken up. 

You didn’t budge though. 

Just folded your arms across your chest as a chill ran down your spine and waited for him to find you – even as his gruff voice barked orders for his koopas to start sweeping over the ship for any sign of you. It didn’t take him too long to find you, the door thrown open so fast it hit the wall behind it and made an awful noise. You stilled, only throwing him a bored look over your shoulder.

“You’re making a racket,” you commented, pretending to be casual as you returned your attention to your own portrait. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He demanded to know, stomping over and grabbing your wrist to spin you around. It was hard to hide the hint of a smirk your lips attempted to curl up into, but you managed, fixing him in your most unamused stare. “You’re trying to fuckin’ run away, aren’t you?” 

You didn’t know whether to deny it or offer the admission that you at least changed your mind.

The feral scowl etched into all his rough features was pretty hot.

“I’m admiring your art,” you murmured softly, wondering how difficult it would be to make him melt for you. 

“Liar,” he accused, thick brows pinched together tightly. “You left me.” 

“How could I leave you if I’m right here?” You pointed out, tilting your head to the side. 

For all his fire, he faltered when you offered him a small smile, his own mouth curving down to form a disgruntled frown. 

“Stop playing dumb,” he hissed, barring his teeth as if it would work on you now. 

“Are you calling me dumb?” You asked, arching a brow up as if you believed he was. 

His free fingers curled into fists he immediately shook out, jaw clenching as his red eyes seared straight through you. 

“I am not-” He stopped himself, maybe realizing he was falling into your trap before angrily shaking his head. “You little-” 

“Little what?” You dared him to actually finish his curse, but he had clamped his lips shut. Pulling you closer to him before unceremoniously scooping you up bridal style, muttering to himself as he stormed back in the direction of your now shared bedroom. 

“Thought that fucking idiot came and stole you,” said the man who stole you first. You had to hold in your snort, keeping your head down as you tried to not let him see you roll your eyes. 

But his intense stare was fixed on you, his nose scrunching up, lips parting in an annoyed scoff. 

“You think this is funny,” he grunted. 

“Is it not?” You asked, tempted to test just how crazy you could drive him. 

“You are-” Sukuna grimaced, biting down on the inside of his own cheek so hard you knew he probably drew blood.

“You’re really having trouble finishing your sentences tonight,” you commented, pushing your luck further. The vein bulging across his forehead ready to burst at your trivial giggle was a cute perk to pissing him off. “Tell me, my king, what exactly were you going to do if I had run away?” 

“Get you back,” he grumbled, as if you somehow could miss the glint in his eyes when you called him your king. 

You wondered how long it would take for him to ask you to say that in bed. 

And got your answer a lot sooner than anticipated. 

The moment you had crossed the threshold, he was ripping the barely-there clothes off of you and pinning you to the bed. 

Bites buried into your skin as he travelled from your stomach up to your breasts, teeth skimming against every available inch of skin until he was sinking the deepest ones into your throat, a low growl rumbling from his chest as you squirmed underneath his heavy weight. 

His tongue dragged over your neck, leaving a lewd line over the sensitive spots he’d just been sucking on until his mouth was positioned right by your ear. 

“Say it again,” he commanded, all husky and hot as your stomach found a way to tie itself in an even tighter knot. 

“Say what?” you played just as dumb as he accused you of, the tension just building on top of itself as his warm breath fanned over your skin, claws sinking into your hips just careful enough to not hurt, but to make you feel the pressure. 

“You know what,” he hissed, too prideful to admit what it was he really wanted.

“You want me to call you my king?” You hummed, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair, softening your voice. 

Sukuna might not say it. But his heavy cock pressed up and throbbing against your thigh surely told you the truth. 

“I want you to mean it,” he murmured, his defined jaw catching the candlelight while you watched the lump in his throat bob. 

You hesitated. 

Considered giving up this charade the two of you had been embroiled in. 

Him dutifully playing your captor while you pretended to be a damsel in distress as if you hadn’t been having sex like partners instead of just lovers.  

He might not know the difference. 

But you did. 

Because even after he came, he didn’t just roll over and conk out. And when you woke up together, he didn’t just abandon you to handle his own affairs. 

He took care of you, fed you only the best foods and offered the best baths, pampered you in luxuries and made sure you wouldn’t want for anything when you were with him. 

What else could a girl ask for? 

So what if he was a little…sharp around the edges? 

You could love him and all his spikes. 

It wasn’t like you were ignoring him, but you’d been so swept up in your own thoughts you were caught off-guard when he abruptly buried his face between your thighs. 

Mercilessly shoving his tongue inside you, diving in without a sliver of reluctance, with a single obvious goal in mind. 

Making you moan what he wished to hear if you wouldn’t just outright say it. 

Swirling his tongue around with the precision of someone who was determined to drag you to an orgasm. The thick muscle working you open ruthlessly, his fingers pressing down and pulling you into his mouth. 

Groaning into your cunt to make your body unhelpfully spasm, giving into those maddening patterns he was painting inside you as those reverberations traveled up through you. 

Resisting felt pointless. 

Holding back was so much harder when the pleasure he was providing was overwriting all your common sense. 

You were tugging hard at his roots, hips arching off the soft surface of the bed to drive him in even deeper. But it simply wasn’t enough. 

He made you just as greedy as him. 

“M-more,” you moaned, swallowing hard as the heat started to get to your bed, the warmth he was radiating making beads of sweat roll down your forehead. 

He pulled out, laughing crudely as he looked up at you with wild eyes. 

“More?” 

Ah. 

Maybe that was a mistake. 

But you couldn’t find an ounce of regret when Sukuna was roughly flipping you over onto your stomach and nudging your thighs further apart with his knee next. Making sure you were properly spread as he climbed back on top of you, trailing the sharp edge of his claw up your spine before grabbing the nape of your neck. 

You couldn’t look back. 

Could barely breathe. 

Stuck there with your face pressed against the smooth blankets as you waited for him to make his move. 

“You want more?” He echoed his previous sentiment, disbelief still ringing in his tone. 

“Do I have to ask again?” You teased, even if your question came out half an octave too high. 

You would. 

But only if he made you. 

“Say it then,” he growled. 

“My king is mean,” you wryly mocked, knowing that he would fuck you harder for it. 

“I’ll show you mean,” he muttered, the swollen tip of his cock pressing right up against your slick entrance as you tensed up. 

You used to think you were smart. 

But considering how soaked you were waiting to have sex with him, you supposed you weren’t half as intelligent as you’d been before. 

And the moment he was sliding in, you were losing even more IQ points you didn’t know if you had to spare. 

Thoughts getting all fuzzy as they faded away to be replaced with mantras of his name, desperation bleeding into each one as you ached to be full. 

He was still gracious enough to ease you into the first thrust, slowly splitting you open on his length before pulling out and doing it again. 

Walls clamping down and straining to get accustomed to all his ridges, to his sheer size. 

But he was bottoming out before you could get your sanity back in check, all your rationality dissolving in a puddle of raw need as he hit a spot that made you jolt. 

“Not running from me now,” Sukuna snarled, pulling your hips back down as he plunged his cock even deeper, grinding it up, up, up for you to practically feel him in your lungs. 

Air squeezing out with each one of his rough thrusts no matter how desperately you tried to quickly suck more back in. 

A snarky piece of you wanted to argue that you hadn’t technically run away at all, but you didn’t think he had any reason left in him either. 

This was just about you and him and fucking until he felt better. 

Until you were both so enmeshed you would never want to leave him again. 

The connection between his cock and your cunt driving you nuts as he drove it in again and again. 

“Being real quiet now,” he taunted, and you just scoffed back at him, unable to form any coherent words to bicker back. 

But before you could try to find him, he was pulling back out right as you were getting edged closer. 

He flipped you over in a second, impatient fingers digging meanly into your thighs as he folded them against your chest. 

Sukuna didn’t have to verbalize it. Mutter a word for you to understand the why. 

He wanted to see your face when he made you cum. 

Cock sheathing itself back inside you as if it was the most natural fit in the world. 

His other hand reached for your throat, big fingers wrapping around it like your own personal necklace as he squeezed just enough to steal some of your air. “You just like punishing me,” you breathlessly moaned, gripping onto his muscled biceps as his thick cock stretched you to the limit, rubbing just right on all those sensitive spots. Contrary to the filthy words he was spewing, he was still fucking you precisely how he knew you liked. 

“You liked being punished,” he retorted, thumb rubbing over your tendon, feeling the faint indents of his teeth he’d left behind. 

Was that what you liked? 

Or was it simply him? 

“What would your plumber do if he saw you like this?” He grunted, gritting his teeth as he fucked you harder, hips smacking into your skin in harsh thwaps. “Panting and begging me for more.” 

“Probably ask to join?” 

Sukuna froze, brows furrowing as he opened his mouth to snarl something nasty before he changed his mind and decided to just fuck that thought out of you instead. 

Letting go of your throat to move his big hand south, his thumb finding your clit to toy with that too. Drawing more practiced circles over the sensitive bud, keeping a steady rhythm of pounding into you as he dragged you towards a cliff. 

You wanted him to throw you off. 

To jump off with you and fill you up. 

The pressure mounting higher, your thighs tensing and toes curling in anticipation as your limbs began trembling. 

You weren’t sure what the last straw was. Whether it was his warmth or his touch or the way his mouth crashed into yours for a messy kiss right as he pressed just right on your clit, but you crumbled. 

Cumming with his name on your tongue, shuddering as the pleasure wracked through you – just for him to pull out midway through, cum leaking out all across your skin. Steady drips falling on top of you as he stroked his shaft, your vision hazy in the corners before you shut your eyes and let go of the tension still lingering in your bones.

“Fuck, you’re so-” He started to groan, his head tilting back to expose the seductive line of his collarbone, the tattoos standing out across his chiseled chest. Your husband-to-be. 

“Perfect?” 

ཐི♡ཋྀ

What good was a wedding without a bride? 

Sukuna touched your hair, unable to wipe the scowl still lingering on his face while he huffed and puffed over your disappearing act a full hour after you fell asleep post-sex. 

He didn’t believe you. 

Even if he wanted to.

You were as clever as you were cute. Crafty. 

There was a chance for you to go. To get as far from him as you could. 

But he found you standing there in your own shrine. 

Unbothered by the commotion and the chaos, just staring at yourself before throwing him that annoyingly attractive glance. 

Were you trying to piss him off? 

Had you simply come to your senses and realized fleeting would be futile? 

He didn’t know. 

And you wouldn’t tell him. 

You were still wearing your ring though. 

It looked rather good – especially when you weren’t wearing anything else. 

Sukuna sighed, chewing his already bitten raw bottom lip as he tasted the iron in his mouth. 

Fingers flexing as he possessively held you tight, unable to loosen his grip in fear you’d just slip away again. 

You had made him a fool. 

And he didn’t think there was any way for him to undo it. 

He didn’t think he made a noise, but you began to stir, sleepily blinking up at him and yawning as you started to pull away, wait no, snuggle closer? 

Nuzzling your nose against his chest as you draped a lazy arm around his side, your scent invading his system and frying all his synapses. 

“Just go to sleep,” you murmured, delicate fingers decisively patting him. “M’not going anywhere.” 

Yeah, not under his watch. 

“You’ve done it!” you cheered, clapping your hands in delight. But then your eyes widened in feigned terror. “Look, another one approaches!”

Choso spun around at your warning, his attention diverted just as you had planned. Seizing the moment, you imagined the dreadful beast closing in on his unguarded back.

“Watch out!” you exclaimed, grabbing a fallen branch to defend him. With a bold leap, you placed yourself between Choso and the imagined peril, brandishing your twig as though it were a knight’s blade.

“I’ve got you!” you declared, laughing as you swung your newfound weapon, the pair of you lost in the unrestrained joy of childhood.

Of course, while the king, your father, appreciated you so closely acquainted with his general’s son, your mother did not seem to think it wise that you become estranged from the daughters of nobles; after all, you would need to forge relationships early on to strengthen your future court. This led to many a playdates being interrupted.

“You didn’t need to save me!” Choso whined, pouting while crossing his arms. 

However, you held out a pudgy hand, patting his hair as if to soothe him. “It’s okay, Choso. If you ever need saving, I’ll always be there—” “YOUR HIGHNESS!” You heard footsteps running towards where the both of you were sitting idly. When parrying the imaginary monster’s attacks, you had tumbled on top of Choso, your dress and limbs entangled with his and both of your hair unruly. Hearing your governess’ voice led you to pout, for you were sure to earn a scolding for fooling around with Choso rather than practicing the violin for the nth time. Alas, you couldn’t escape her—as well as Choso’s nannies, who had appeared—and you both looked sheepishly at their horrified faces.  

Frowning, Choso’s nanny stomped towards the both of you, untangling you both impatiently and, once you were both standing, giving Choso a light smack on his head while bowing towards you. “Your Highness, I apologize, but the both of you mustn’t do such things anymore. You both are far past the age that this is appropriate.”

“What?” You pouted, disappointed in having to back to your room, confined to practice your violin with those dreadful, boring tunes. “What isn’t appropriate about this? We’re just playing—”

“Your Highness,” your governess began, her strained smile barely masking her displeasure. “It is not fitting for a princess to engage in such… undignified behavior. You must remember your station. A young lady of your rank is expected to conduct herself with grace and decorum at all times.”

Choso’s nanny, now tidying his tousled hair with brisk, efficient motions, added in a sharper tone, “And you, young master, should remember your place. You are not her equal but her servant’s son. Such familiarity is unbecoming.”

At her words, Choso’s face turned pale, his gaze dropping to the ground. His hands clenched into small fists at his sides, but he said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together. You could see the effort it took him to remain still, his shoulders stiff with tension.

“Choso?” you called softly, tilting your head to catch his eye. 

However, he did not look up, though his voice came, quiet and steady. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I… I won’t do it again.”

Your brows furrowed, your chest tightening at the sight of his downcast expression. “What are you apologizing for?” you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended. “You’ve done nothing wrong! We were only playing.”

“Your Highness!” your governess interjected, her tone scandalized. “Such defiance is unbecoming. You must understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” you snapped, cutting her off. “I understand that I don’t care for these rules. Choso is my friend, and I decide what is and isn’t proper!”

Choso’s nanny inhaled sharply, but he quickly stepped forward, shaking his head fervently. “Please, Your Highness,” he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. “Don’t… don’t say such things for me. I’ll… I’ll do as I’m told. I promise.”

“Choso!” you exclaim, betrayed as the sting of his words settling in your chest. His gaze still refused to meet yours, fixed instead on the ground between you.

Your governess, sensing her victory, straightened. “Your Highness, you must return to your chambers immediately. Your music tutor is waiting. And as for you, Master Choso, your training will resume at once. I trust there will be no further disruptions.”

Neither of you spoke as the governess and the nanny ushered you away in opposite directions, their sharp voices ringing in your ears. Yet, as you glanced over your shoulder, you caught one last fleeting glimpse of Choso, his hesitant gaze finally meeting yours for the briefest of moments. It held a quiet resolve that only deepened your frustration.

“Wait and see,” you muttered under your breath as you were dragged back toward your chambers. “I’ll change this someday.”

That was the last time he ever spoke your name aloud; now, you were only Your Highness and The Royal Princess. It irritated you to no end; you were his friend, not his superior. But he insisted, falling deeper and deeper into the depths of social proprietary and hierarchy his nannies and parents were no doubt pressuring him into. You could only take what you had; if he was refusing your affection, he would at least not refuse royal commands of rendezvous.

Years had gracefully unfolded since that day, and now, as teenagers, your clandestine meetings in the royal gardens had blossomed into cherished rituals beneath the cloak of night. The gardens, adorned with that glowed under the moon's gentle gaze, became the sanctuary where you and Choso could momentarily escape the rigid expectations of courtly life.

As you approached the secluded alcove near the ancient marble fountain, your heart fluttered with a mixture of anticipation and nervous excitement. 

And there he was.

Choso waited beneath the willow tree, his dark eyes darting between the swaying branches and the dimly lit path beyond. The shadows stretched long in the garden, and the faint sound of patrolling guards put a furrow in his brow. He shifted on his feet, arms crossed tightly as though bracing himself for some reprimand.

When you finally appeared, dressed in your lighter night robes, he let out a small breath of relief. “Your Highness, you shouldn’t—”

“Can you stop that?” You whine, brushing him off and making a move to sit in the swing right by the tree. You lightly swing your feet, establishing a gentle rhythm while you grin mischievously at him, meeting your lighthearted eyes with his furrowed, slightly worried ones. “Don’t be such a spoilsport, Choso. No one’s going to catch us.”

He can only shake his head, for after years of friendship had led him to know one universal truth: if there was one thing, it was that your mind, once resolute, could not be changed. “I don’t know how you keep wanting to risk them discovering this.” Then, he sighs, lamenting weakly, “and why I have to dragged into this.”

You flash him an innocent smile, about to give a cocky response about how you’re the princess and it’s not like Choso doesn’t want this…right? but both of you pause, deadly still, when you hear the undeniable clinks of armor.

Patrolling guards.

Choso’s head snapped toward the sound, his body going rigid. It kind of dazes you, in a way, how his curriculum as a warrior leads him to be so alert. It’s also this moment that you realize how grown you both are becoming; it feels as if you’re stuck as a dainty princess, while he’s steadily growing taller and bigger, a smaller picture of his formidable father.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.

You froze, exchanging a wide-eyed glance with him before instinctively ducking behind the grand marble fountain. The cold stone pressed against your back as the guards’ footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the bobbing light of their lanterns.

“Who’s there?” one of them called out, his voice sharp and commanding.

Choso shifted beside you, his breath quick and shallow. Your hand brushed against his arm in reassurance, but it did little to ease the tension radiating off him. The guards’ lanterns swept methodically across the gardens, their shadows flickering on the trees.

“Stay still,” Choso mouthed, his dark eyes fixed on the approaching light.

The guards drew closer, their boots crunching against the gravel path. You could feel your pulse hammering in your ears, each second dragging on unbearably.

Then, a faint rustle to your left—a squirrel darting across the underbrush. The guards turned toward the noise, their lanterns swinging wide.

“Must’ve been an animal,” one muttered, though he sounded unconvinced.

“Keep looking,” the other replied gruffly. “The king’s orders were clear—no one’s to linger in the gardens after dark.”

The pair continued past, their voices fading as they moved toward the far side of the grounds.

You let out a shaky breath, but before you could fully relax, Choso grabbed your hand, pulling you to your feet. “We need to go deeper,” he said urgently, his voice low.

Without waiting for your agreement, he led you away from the fountain, weaving through the hedges and into the denser parts of the forest. The shadows thickened as the soft glow of the garden lanterns disappeared behind you. Branches brushed against your arms, and the earthy scent of moss and damp leaves filled the air as you ran.

“Choso!” you whispered breathlessly, struggling to keep up with his longer strides. “They’re gone!”

“Not far enough,” he replied, glancing back at you. “We can’t risk them doubling back.”

The forest grew darker the deeper you went, the canopy above blocking out most of the moonlight. Finally, when the sound of your own breathing seemed louder than anything else, Choso slowed to a halt beneath a towering oak.

“We should be safe here,” he murmured, releasing your hand.

You both sank to the ground, the soft carpet of moss cushioning your fall. For a moment, neither of you spoke, too winded to do anything but sit there, catching your breath. Then, a stifled giggle bubbled out of you, unable to contain the absurdity of the chase.

Choso shot you a warning look, but his resolve cracked when you pressed your hands over your mouth, failing to muffle your laughter. A small laugh escaped him in turn, and soon you were both doubled over, trying in vain to quiet yourselves.

“Shhh!” Choso whispered, though he was grinning. “You’ll get us caught.”

“You’re the loud one,” you whispered back, nudging him playfully.

Soon, the laughter slowly subsided, leaving only the sound of rustling leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. Choso leaned back against the tree, his expression softening as he glanced up at the canopy. His eyes caught on something above, and he pointed. “Look—fruit.”

Following his gaze, you spotted the cluster of small, round pomengrenates hanging from a low branch. Choso stood, brushing dirt from his trousers, and reached up to pluck one. He examined it briefly before biting into it, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

“Are you just going to eat that without offering me one?” you asked, crossing your arms.

He smirked, holding another pomengrenate aloft. “You want it?”

“Obviously.”

But instead of handing it over, Choso lifted it above his head, his smirk widening. “Come and get it.” You stood up, moving closer to him to make a motion to grab the fruit. Alas, the effort was not fruitful. 

“Choso!” you hissed, glaring at him as he kept the fruit just out of reach. You try many things: you grab his shoulder, tickle him on his stomach, and arms. However, it all is in vain.

“You’re the one who wants it,” he said, his head peering down at you in amusement.

You stood, determination written all over your face. “Fine. If you think I can’t—”

You leapt, swatting at his hand, but he easily moved the fruit higher, his height giving him the upper hand.

“You’re insufferable!” you said, laughing despite yourself as you tried again, this time jumping with more force. Still, you missed.

“Perhaps you should’ve been born taller,” he teased, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Or perhaps you should stop being such a—” Before you could finish, he lowered the fruit suddenly, pressing it into your hand.

“There,” he said, smirking. “Satisfied?”

You took a triumphant bite, your glare softening into a grin. “For now.”

Settling back down, you both shared the fruit in companionable silence, the earlier tension of the night dissipating in the quiet forest. Yet, as you sat side by side, something about the way his gaze lingered on you—or perhaps the warmth blooming in your chest—made you wonder if these late-night meetings were becoming something more.

And then, years later, he left for war. Choso left for the battlefield, summoned to serve alongside his father as the general’s son. 

The morning he departed was etched into your memory with painful clarity. The air was crisp, the kind that stung your lungs when you breathed too deeply, and the courtyard was alive with the sounds of preparation. Soldiers moved with purpose, their boots striking against the cobblestones in rhythmic determination. Horses snorted and pawed at the ground, their breaths rising like smoke in the cold air.

You stood at the edge of it all, your hands clasped tightly in front of you, trying to keep your expression composed. This was no place for a princess to display her feelings, no matter how tightly they knotted in her chest. Your father was nearby, speaking with the general in low, serious tones, his gaze sweeping over the troops with pride. Your mother was absent, as always, too preoccupied with courtly matters to concern herself with the departure of soldiers—even one who had once been your constant companion.

When Choso emerged from the crowd, his figure clad in the red, utilitarian uniform of a soldier, it was as though the rest of the scene blurred. The boy who had once darted through the gardens with you, his hair wild and his hands dirtied by mischief, now looked every inch the man his father had raised him to be. His hair was tied back, his face set in an unreadable mask of calm, and he carried himself with a solemnity that felt foreign.

He always did make you feel like a child. While you were still delaying acceptance of your fate as the princes—future queen—-he had grown into a man, fated to be a war general. 

He approached slowly, each step deliberate. When he stopped before you, he did not smile. Instead, he bowed low, his dark eyes briefly meeting yours. “Your Highness—”

But you had enough of that godforsaken title. “Why must you leave?” You cried, your voice breaking as Choso stood before you in the courtyard.

The image of the steeled soldier crumbled as his eyes softened in fondness and melancholy. “You know I must.”

You shook your head fervently, as if to vehemently deny what was undeniably the truth. “You know that’s not true.” And it wasn’t, for it would only take an imperial command of yours to bar him from ever entering the battlefield.

But it was his dream; you saw the way he looked at his father. To deny Choso the sword and the glory he was destined for was to chain him down, and you knew that. So instead, you shook off the idea, then blurted, “You’ll write to me, won’t you?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with expectation. He hesitated, a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—crossing his face before it smoothed back into neutrality. “If time allows.”

That was all he offered. No promises. No reassurances. Just a vague, distant answer that left your heart sinking.

Outraged, and a bit petulant, you exclaimed. “What do you mean if time allows? Will you be so busy that you won’t have time? Are you not at least going to grant me some peace of mi—what is that?”

In the corner of your eye, you see something in his hand catch the sunlight, and glimmer. He hesitates, his hand clenching before inevitably opening his palm. A timid, “For you, Your Highness.”

An instinctual don’t call me that dies out in your throat as he shows you what he was hiding. In it he uncovers a small, delicate object—a pin shaped like a blooming flower, its petals carved with meticulous detail and painted in hues of white and gold.

You stared at it, your hands trembling as you took it from him. “What is this for?”

“It’s a symbol,” he explained, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Of where I’ll always be, even if I’m not here. Keep it with you, and you’ll know that... that I’ll do everything I can to return.”

“Oh, Choso.” Your bottom lip trembled as tears welled in your eyes, threatening to spill over. Your fingers closed around the pin, the intricate craftsmanship biting into your palm. Somehow, the weight of it felt heavier than it should’ve been. “I don’t want a pin, Choso,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I want you to stay.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, it seemed like he might reach out to you. But then he stilled, the rigidity in his posture a clear reminder of the boundaries he refused to cross.

Even so, you didn’t want to seem ungrateful. The gift, despite your pain, was beautiful, and its meaning wasn’t lost on you. You sniffled, brushing a tear from your cheek with a trembling hand. “But it is beautiful, regardless,” you murmured, holding it up to the light. The golden edges of the petals gleamed softly, like sunlight captured in metal. “Put it in my hair?”

Choso blinked, caught off guard by the request. His gaze flickered between you and the pin, uncertainty etched into his features. “Your Highness, I—”

“Please,” you interrupted gently, tilting your head slightly toward him. “Just this once.”

He hesitated for a long moment, his fingers flexing at his sides as though he were battling some internal conflict. Finally, with a barely audible sigh, he reached out and took the pin from your hand.

You held your breath as he stepped closer, his presence steady and grounding despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. His hand brushed against your hair and your neck as he carefully gathered a small section, his touch warm and deliberate. You could feel the calluses on his fingertips, earned from countless hours of swordsmanship, yet his movements were painstakingly gentle.

“There,” he said softly, stepping back to examine his work. His gaze lingered on you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his formal mask cracked ever so slightly. There was something in his eyes—something raw and unspoken—that made your chest tighten.

You reached up instinctively, your fingers brushing against the cool metal of the pin now nestled securely in your hair. “How does it look?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light, though the lump in your throat made it difficult.

Choso’s lips parted, but no words came. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting away as if he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer. “It’s beautiful,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The horn sounded again, louder this time, breaking the fragile moment between you. Choso stepped back, the walls of propriety rising between you once more.

“Thank you,” you managed, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

He bowed deeply, avoiding your eyes. “Goodbye, Your Highness.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone with the faint scent of earth and steel, the pin in your hair a bittersweet reminder of the distance that now separated you.

For weeks after, you found yourself restless, wandering the garden paths where you had once talked and laughed together. You scribbled letter after letter, pouring out questions and updates, recounting bits of palace gossip and even sending sketches of the places you’d been. But no reply ever came.

At first, you tried to excuse it—surely, he was too busy, too occupied with the rigors of war to respond. Still, you kept writing, sending your letters to the front lines with the faint hope that one day, you’d receive one in return.

“Any news of the general’s son?” you would ask your father over dinner, feigning casual interest.

“He’s doing well,” your father would reply, distractedly cutting into his meal. “His tactics in the northern campaign have earned him commendation. A fine young soldier.”

You pressed further, ignoring the disapproving look your mother shot you. “And... is he safe?”

Your father raised a brow but indulged you. “Of course. The reports say he’s advancing quickly through the ranks. A promotion to captain is already under consideration.”

Your chest swelled with pride at the thought, but it was quickly eclipsed by frustration. If he was receiving such accolades, surely he could find the time to write a simple letter?

“Why do you trouble your father with such questions?” your mother chided later, her tone clipped. “The general’s son is serving the nation. You should focus on more important matters, like preparing for your duties.”

But your concern for Choso only grew. Whenever news from the front lines arrived, you would listen intently, hoping to hear his name mentioned. When you did, it brought a fleeting sense of relief, but it never lasted long.

The silence from him felt heavier with each passing month. You couldn’t understand it—how could someone who had once been your closest companion, who had sworn to always protect you, sever that bond so easily?

And yet, you never stopped writing. Each letter was folded with care, sealed with your personal wax stamp, and sent off with the same unwavering hope. Even if he didn’t reply, even if you didn’t understand why, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

The city was alive with celebration, a symphony of cheers, music, and the occasional crackle of fireworks that lit up the night sky. The soldiers had finally come home after a long winded war, and you just couldn’t miss out on the excitement. After Choso’s departure, you had grown. Before you were a gangly teenager, but now you were a young woman. With this came you forming your own opinion, independent of our parents, and had developed a habit of frequently sneaking out of the palace.

You couldn’t bear to stay confined to the palace, not when the air was thick with excitement and the news of the army’s triumphant return had set the entire city alight. The soldiers, clad in polished armor that gleamed even in the dim light, strode through the streets in small groups while the people cheered on the sidelines. They carried themselves with the confidence of men who had seen battle and emerged victorious.

Young ladies lingered at the edges of the crowd, their eyes alight with hope as they watched the soldiers pass. Some called out to them, their voices playful and lilting, while others merely smiled shyly, clutching kerchiefs or flowers they clearly longed to offer. The soldiers, for the most part, maintained a stoic demeanor, though a few exchanged grins or nodded in acknowledgment, their faces betraying a mix of pride and exhaustion.

Children darted between legs, waving tiny flags and shouting in delight, while their parents looked on with a mix of relief and gratitude. The scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced wine wafted through the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the soldiers’ armor. It was a night of unity, of celebration, where the lines between commoner and noble blurred in the shared joy of victory.

Draped in a simple cloak to conceal your identity, you slipped past the guards at the palace gates, your heart pounding with both exhilaration and trepidation. The anonymity of the cloak felt liberating as you merged with the crowd, the world suddenly vast and unguarded in a way it never was within the palace walls.

Laughter surrounded you, the contagious energy of the revelry lifting your spirits as you wandered farther from the familiar confines of royal life. You paused to admire a street performer juggling flaming torches, your cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. But before you could move on, a sudden gust snatched the handkerchief tucked into your cloak.

You gasped, your fingers grasping for it, but the delicate fabric was already airborne, dancing above the heads of the crowd. You watched helplessly as it soared higher, carried by the playful wind. Instinctively, you gave chase, weaving through the throng of revelers as your heart raced with the thrill of pursuit.

The handkerchief drifted out of sight, disappearing beyond the swell of people. Your steps faltered, and you stood on tiptoe, scanning the crowd in vain. It was only then that a firm hand shot up above the sea of heads, catching the fluttering fabric mid-air. The sight of your handkerchief, caught in a strong, gloved grip, sent a jolt through you.

Your gaze traveled upward, and there he stood—a figure that was at once familiar and startlingly different. His broad shoulders and proud stance were unmistakable even before he turned, his dark eyes locking with yours.

“Your Highness?” His voice was deep, steady, and entirely too familiar. Then, his eyes went to your hair—you, still wearing the hairpin he gave you that day—and they filled with a conflicted, longing sort of expression.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you froze. He looked so much…bigger. He always had muscles due to his frequent physical lessons, but he was so much taller now, his face a lot more sculpted. Before you could interpret what the lurching in your heart meant, he took a step towards you. But before he could take another step toward you, you turned and ran instinctively, the sound of his voice chasing you as surely as his footsteps.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK! If Choso knew you had sneaked out, he would send you right back, citing useless things about duty and protecting you. While your traitorous heart started beating faster as soon as you saw him—different, but still undeniably Choso—you knew your liberty was at an end if he sent you home and informed your parents of what you did.

You bolted as fast as you could, your cloak billowing behind you as you darted into a narrow alley. Footsteps echoed against the cobblestones, heavy and deliberate, chasing you down. You reached the end of the alley and stopped, your chest heaving, unsure whether to keep running or face him.

“Your Highness,” the voice came again, closer this time.

You spun around, and there he was. Choso. But he wasn’t the boy you remembered—he was a man now. Broad shoulders filled out his uniform, the insignia of his rank glinting on his chest. His hair was tied back, revealing a face hardened by battle and time. Yet his eyes, dark and intense, still held the same quiet depth you’d known as children.

He dropped to one knee, his hand over his heart. “Your Highness.”

You gaped at his display. Since when did he start kneeling? “What are you doing?”

His voice came out, devoid of the warmth you had once known. “It’s protocol, Your Highness.” His head remained bowed, his knee pressed to the uneven cobblestones, the hand holding your handkerchief resting against his heart.

But you were in denial, scrambling to pull him up by his arms. It was futile; he was way stronger than you, and at your touch, he jumped back, as if stung. Wounded, you urged him. “Get up,” you stepped closer, “Choso, it’s me. You don’t need to—”

“I must, Your Highness.” His tone was calm but resolute, his gaze fixed on the ground. “Unless you are issuing an imperial command, I have no choice but to honor the rules set forth by your station.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “An imperial command?” The words tasted bitter on your tongue. You didn’t want commands; you wanted familiarity, the easy camaraderie you once shared.

“Yes, Your Highness.” He finally lifted his gaze to meet yours, his dark eyes steady and unreadable. “If you do not wish me to kneel, then say it as such. Otherwise…” He lowered his head again. “This is my place.”

“Your place?” You felt a flicker of anger rise in your chest. “Choso, your place is by my side, as it always has been! Don’t—don’t treat me like some distant monarch.”

His shoulders tensed, and you thought you caught a flash of something—guilt, perhaps?—in the way his fingers tightened around the handkerchief. But still, he didn’t move.

Frustrated, you stepped even closer, your voice rising despite your efforts to remain calm. “Get up,” you said, reaching out and tugging at his arm. “I said, get up!”

“I cannot,” he said softly, the words cutting through your frustration like a blade. “Not unless you order it as my superior.”

You stared at him, a mix of hurt and disbelief swirling in your chest. “Fine,” you said, your voice trembling. “If that’s what it takes, then I command you—get up, Choso. I command you to stand!”

For a moment, the tension lingered in the air, thick and suffocating. Slowly, reluctantly, he rose to his feet, towering over you with a presence that felt both familiar and foreign.

But as you looked up at him, your frustration only grew. “This isn’t you,” you said, your voice softer now, tinged with sadness. “You’re treating me like I’m just your princess, like I’m someone you barely know. Do you even know how much it hurt when you never wrote back to me? I kept sending letter after letter, but it was like you didn’t care. Like you forgot about me.”

Choso’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “It wasn’t my place to respond, Your Highness.”

It was that damn phrase. “Your place?” you echoed, now even more bitterly. “You were my friend, Choso. My closest friend. Now you stand here, calling me Your Highness like I’m a stranger, like we never ran through the gardens or talked under the stars. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

For a moment, his expression softened, but it was fleeting. He straightened, his demeanor distant once more. “It’s dangerous for you to be here,” he said quietly. “I need to call for a carriage to take you back to the palace.”

Your heart sunk to your derriere. If Choso did indeed send you back, your parents would undeniably discover that you’ve been sneaking out. “No!” you snapped, stepping forward. “You can’t. If my parents find out I was here, they’ll—”

“They’ll ensure your safety,” he interrupted, his voice steady but firm. “And that’s what matters.”

You stared at him, now anger bubbling in your chest. “So you’ll just hand me over like I’m some burden to be dealt with? What about you?” Then, in a strong fit, you bursted out. “Are you going to stay here and fool around with girls while I’m locked away in the palace?”

His eyes widened briefly at your accusation, a flicker of surprise breaking through his stoic mask. But then his expression hardened, and he took a step back. “That’s not fair,” he said quietly.

“Fair?” you shot back, your voice trembling. “What’s fair about any of this, Choso? You’re not even trying to fight for us—for the friendship we used to have.”

He hesitated, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “It’s not that simple,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then make it simple!” you demanded, your heart aching with every word. “Stop pushing me away. Stop acting like I don’t matter to you anymore.”

For a moment, you thought he might say something—something real, something that would bridge the growing chasm between you. But instead, he turned away, his voice steady and distant as he said, “Wait here. I’ll call for the carriage.”

You watched him walk away, the ache in your chest spreading until it felt like it would consume you entirely. The handkerchief in your hand trembled as you clenched your fingers around it, your anger and sadness swirling into a storm of emotion.

And yet, even as he disappeared into the bustling streets, a part of you refused to believe this was the end. You couldn’t let it be.

Ever since his return to the palace, Choso has been ignoring you.

It’s not that you were spending every hour and every minute with him before, when he was just your childhood friend. However, you would meet everyday, whether it to be sneak off into the gardens at night, or meet for lunch or dinner. Even a request of yours could’ve secured a visit to town, the both of you going to town to eat pastries and street food while accompanied by a chaperone. Of course, that was due to your incessant pleas to your disapproving mother, but you could score an occasional playdate outside the palace every month or so.

But it feels…different. And he feels different.

You oft find yourself daydreaming about him, older and a decorated soldier. And before you can catch yourself, you find your cheeks heated and your heart set aflutter. It’s a bit mind-boggling, really. Ever since Choso left, none of the future dukes and lords had ever caught your attention, even at balls. Their gentle, weak disposition didn’t compare to your Choso, you always thought. Back then, you had always thought of it as pride for your best friend, but now…..

Musing aside, you’re tired of this distance Choso has created between you. So you choose to seek him out.

The castle courtyard was alive with the sharp clang of swords and the rhythmic stomp of boots on hard-packed dirt. You leaned over the balustrade of the upper terrace, concealed behind a stone pillar, watching the soldiers below. It wasn’t the sparring or the strategy that captivated you—it was Choso.

The sun bore down on him as he moved with precision and power, his blade a silver blur as he sparred with one of the veteran knights. His whole torso is bare; damp with sweat, the sun shines against the cords and cords of muscle that then lead to a string of hair that trails into his trousers. The muscles in his arms ripple with every swing and parry. You bite your lip, feeling a warmth creep up your cheeks that you stubbornly attributed to the summer heat.

He had changed so much. Gone was the boy who had laughed with you under the willow tree and run with you through the gardens. In his place was a man who carried the weight of war on his broad shoulders, his every movement deliberate, his expression unreadable. And yet, despite the distance he put between you, you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

When the sparring session ended, Choso handed his sword to a squire and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. You straightened as he turned, half-expecting him to glance up and spot you. But he didn’t. Instead, he spoke briefly to the knight, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. You couldn’t keep hiding and watching from afar. You had to speak to him, to demand answers for why he had been avoiding you since the day in the alley.

Quickly, you made your way down to the courtyard, your pulse racing as you rehearsed what you would say. But when you reached the training grounds, Choso was already heading toward the barracks.

“Choso!” you called out, your voice echoing across the courtyard.

He froze mid-step, his shoulders tensing before he turned slowly to face you. His expression was neutral, guarded, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something he quickly masked.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing his head. “What brings you here?”

You frowned, frustrated by the formality in his tone. “I wanted to speak with you,” you said, stepping closer. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

He shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been busy with training and my duties.”

“That’s a lie,” you said, crossing your arms. “You always find a reason to leave whenever I try to approach you. You didn’t even look at me after the alley—”

“Your Highness,” he interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not proper for you to be seen in the training grounds.”

“Proper?” you repeated, anger flaring in your chest. “Since when do you care about what’s proper? You didn’t care when we were sneaking out or when we were running through the gardens—”

“That was different,” he said, his tone softer now. “We were children. Things aren’t the same anymore.”

“Why not?” you demanded, your voice trembling. “Why are you pushing me away?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the soldiers milling about in the distance. “I’m not pushing you away,” he said finally. “I’m doing what’s best for you.”

“What’s best for me?” You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “How can ignoring me and avoiding me be what’s best for me?”

Choso didn’t answer. Instead, he bowed his head again, his hands clenched at his sides. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I need to return to my duties.”

And before you could stop him, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the courtyard, your heart aching with every step he took.

You paced the length of your chambers, clutching the skirts of your dress. It’s been two times that Choso dismissed since his arrival. Did he abhor you so?

It was as if an invisible wall had been erected between you, the builder of it Choso for some mysterious reason. Proprietary aside, it would be okay for the occasional chat, would it not? After all, he was still a noble in his own regard, and a conversation or two wouldn’t be frowned upon. So why was he ignoring you entirely?

You couldn’t take it anymore. If he wouldn’t come to you, then you would ensure he had no choice but to stay by your side. If he truly detests it, you will let him go, no matter how painful it would be and how ardently you would mourn your friendship. But you needed to know.

Resolved, you marched to your parents’ audience chamber, where they were seated in quiet discussion. Your father looked up first, his brows furrowing slightly at your abrupt entrance. “What is it, my dear? You seem troubled.”

Your mother glanced at you as well, seated right next to the king, her sharp gaze assessing. “Has something happened?”

You straightened your shoulders, facing them both, willing your voice to remain steady. “Father, Mother, I have a request.”

Your father tilted his head, curious. “Go on.”

You hesitated for only a moment before speaking. “I would like Choso to be assigned as my personal guard.”

The queen blinked, her lips pressing into a thin line, and questioned, “Choso?”

“Yes,” you said quickly to prevent your mother from getting a word in. “He’s proven himself in battle, hasn’t he? He’s been promoted several times for his skill and loyalty. Who better to protect me?”

Your father leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “It’s true he’s risen quickly through the ranks. He’s a fine soldier.”

“And he’s someone I trust,” you added, stepping closer. “He’s been by my side since we were children. I feel safer with him than with anyone else. With me growing into adulthood, there would be no one better to be by my side.”

Your mother’s gaze sharpened. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with his recent return to the palace, would it?”

You met her eyes, refusing to back down. “It has everything to do with the fact that I need someone I can rely on. Someone who knows me.”

Your father exchanged a look with your mother, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. I will speak to the general about the arrangement.” Then, a little wryly, he adds, “Although, I did hear that it was him that reported you when you were sneaking out in public. Perhaps it would be a fine match.” At that, your mother visibly bristled at the memory of hearing that you were out, unguarded.

At the king’s words, relief washed over you, but it was quickly tempered by your mother’s stern voice. “This is highly unusual, you know. A princess requesting a specific guard. People will talk.”

Inwardly, you rolled your eyes, but showing sass to your mother would mean that she would argue further.  Instead, you went and showed her your pride. “Let them,” you said, lifting your chin. “I don’t care what they say.”

Your father chuckled softly, knowing you would say something of the sort. “Spoken like a true princess.”

“Thank you,” you said, bowing your head. “Both of you, Father and Mother.”

As you left the chamber, your heart raced with a mix of excitement and nervousness. This was your chance—your chance to bring Choso back into your life. Whatever walls he had built between you, you were determined to tear them down.

The water was warm, steam curling gently around you as you leaned back in the large marble tub. The golden light of the setting sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting vibrant patterns across the tiled floor. It was one of the few moments you had to yourself, free from the watchful eyes of attendants and the endless constraints of royal duty. You closed your eyes, sinking deeper into the water, allowing yourself to relax—until the door to your bathing chamber slammed open.

“Your Highness, why did you—” At first, Choso raised his voice slightly, storming in. Then, he stopped right in his tracks as he noticed you, and your face, your neck and then the rest of your body engorged in soapy, steamy water. Blushing furiously, he turned, scrambling for the door. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to—”

He was rigid as he stormed toward the exit, and you couldn’t help but stifle a giggle at the sight. “Choso, wait,” you called, your voice laced with amusement. He stopped abruptly, halting awkwardly in his tracks. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm for your new title,” you teased, “I’d prefer if you didn’t barge into the bathing chamber. Let us count ourselves lucky that you had not seen… more.”

It was nearly impossible not to laugh now. Even the back of his neck was flushed a deep crimson, and it struck you as absurdly endearing. The aloof and stoic soldier who had spent weeks ignoring you had crumbled into a shy boy at the mere sight of you in a tub. You supposed it made sense—he’d likely not had much interaction with women, what with his rigid dedication to the army. Still, his reaction felt... exaggerated.

Choso let out a shaky exhale, his voice strained when he finally spoke. “I apologize,” he said, his tone clipped as though to mask his discomfort. “But I must ask—why did you instate me as your guard?”

The answer was simple, and you played absentmindedly with a soap bubble as you replied, “Because there is no one I trust more than you.”

For a moment, the room was silent save for the faint dripping of water. Then, Choso spoke, his voice low and almost pained. “Why must you do this to me? Why must you torment me so?”

What?

His words pierced through the lighthearted atmosphere, leaving you stunned. A pang of hurt welled in your chest at the sharpness of his tone. “Does it torment you to be in my company?” you asked, laughing scornfully to hide the sting.

When he didn’t answer, the silence was louder than any words could have been.

“If it torments you,” you continued bitterly, “then so be it. You have already had my one liberty stripped away. Mother and Father have doubled the surveillance on me, all thanks to you.” The memory of your recent restrictions only added fuel to the fire of your frustration. “Is this not fair? An eye for an eye, then. Perhaps your torment will teach you to stop pretending you know what’s best for me.”

Still brimming with anger, you lifted your chin and gestured to the door. “You may leave now.”

For a moment, he stood there, the weight of his presence filling the room. Then, with a stiff nod, he turned to the door. “Your Highness,” he murmured, his voice cold and formal.

And then, he was gone.

You really do abhor dinner parties.

There’s much wrong with them, and if you had to, you could do a systematic rundown of every single grievance. The first and foremost was the absurd inability to properly enjoy the food. The chefs’ hard work deserved to be indulged in, not nibbled delicately with those ridiculous little spoons. And then there was the matter of breathing, which you could barely manage with your waist cinched so tightly and your bodice forcing your chest up like some cruel display. Sitting down practically demanded you forgo the simple luxury of air.

But the worst part? Having to entertain men.

“And I have acquired double the profits of Lord Gojo,” Lord Naoya declared, puffing his chest like a rooster preening in the henhouse. His voice boomed with self-importance, his words spilling out in a showy, rehearsed cadence.

You couldn’t help yourself—you smiled. And while it appeared to him as admiration, it was born of pure amusement. The man clearly thought you were too dim to know better, but you were well-versed in state finances. Lord Naoya’s exaggerated claims were as transparent as glass.

On your right, Choso sat silently, his role as your personal guard justifying his unusually close position. He had been quiet all evening, his eyes scanning the room more than his plate.

“And surely, a woman as lovely as yourself would agree that business acumen is the truest mark of a man’s value,” Naoya continued, leaning closer to you with a smirk you found utterly punchable.

You giggled, not at his words, but at the sheer absurdity of them. You bit your lip to stifle a laugh, but your amusement couldn’t be fully hidden.

When you finally turned to glance at Choso, however, your mirth faltered. He wasn’t looking at Naoya anymore—his dark eyes were locked on you, his brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

He looked very upset.

You blinked, confused, before glancing back at Naoya, who was still prattling on, utterly oblivious. Was Choso… angry at you?

It didn’t make sense. After you had initiated him as your guard, he’d been resigned after that confrontation in your bathing chambers. Ever since, you’d seen him stoic, protective, and even exasperated, but this—this was different. The weight of his gaze lingered on you like a reprimand, and it unsettled you in ways you couldn’t quite explain.

“Your Highness, I trust you’d agree,” Naoya pressed, oblivious to the charged air.

“Agree?” you echoed, snapping back to attention. You hadn’t been listening, too distracted by Choso’s silent brooding. “Oh, of course,” you said vaguely, waving your hand with a polite smile. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Naoya looked pleased with himself, but you barely noticed. Your focus shifted back to Choso, who had turned his head forward, his jaw tight. You leaned closer to him, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “Is something the matter?”

He didn’t look at you, his tone curt. “Nothing, Your Highness.”

Your stomach twisted at the formality. The night had already been exhausting enough, and now Choso was acting like you’d personally offended him.

“Choso,” you pressed, your voice softer now, “if I’ve done something to upset you—”

“It’s not my place to say,” he interrupted, finally looking at you. His gaze was sharp, cutting through your defenses. “But if I may offer counsel, I’d suggest not wasting your smiles on men like him.”

You blinked, taken aback. His words weren’t loud, but they struck with the force of a hammer.

“What does that mean?” you whispered, your amusement long gone, replaced by confusion—and something else you couldn’t quite name.

“It means,” Choso said, his voice low, “that he’s not worth it.”

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication.

Before you could respond, the clinking of glasses drew everyone’s attention, and you were forced to look away as a toast was made. But even as the room filled with polite applause and laughter, your thoughts were consumed by Choso’s quiet but pointed remarks.

When you glanced back at him, his focus was elsewhere, his expression carefully neutral. Yet something about the tension in his shoulders told you that the conversation wasn’t over—not really.

And for the rest of the evening, Naoya’s words became nothing more than background noise, drowned out by the quiet storm brewing in Choso’s eyes.

The air in your chambers was warm, the faint crackle of the fireplace soothing you as your maid finished tugging the laces of your nightgown into place. The fabric was delicate, thin enough to feel the cool evening breeze against your skin despite the room's warmth. With a bow, the maid excused herself, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Ever since that dinner party with Naoya, Choso had been more distant than ever. Before, it had seemed that he had warmed up to the task of being your guard; whenever you walked through the garden, you eventually warmed him enough that the both of you could converse during the stroll. Of course, it hadn’t returned to what it was like before, but it was still progress. However, now it seemed that all he had to offer was curt responses and avoidant stares. 

The change grated on you, more than you cared to admit. You weren’t naïve; you knew something had shifted that night. The way he had looked at you, the way his words had cut—it all lingered, a splinter in your chest that you couldn’t pull free.

Still, tonight was meant to be routine, a brief reprieve from the emotional turmoil. You always ended your evenings with a massage, a small luxury that helped soothe the tension from the day. Summoning Choso to your chambers, you intended for him to call for the maid who usually performed the task.

When he arrived, his expression was as stony as ever. “You called for me, Your Highness?”

“Yes, Choso,” you said, smoothing your hands over the hem of your nightgown. You lazed back on your chaise lounge, head against pillow as you looked at him. “I need the maid for my massage. Could you fetch her?”

He hesitated. “The maids have retired for the night. Shall I summon someone from the servants’ quarters?”

You frowned. The thought of disturbing anyone at this hour felt excessive. Then, your gaze drifted to Choso, his broad shoulders rigid, his hands clasped behind his back in his usual formal stance. An idea struck you, and you spoke before fully thinking it through.

“Then you’ll do it.”

His dark eyes snapped to yours, wide with disbelief. “Your Highness, I—”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence but unable to fully hide the mischief in your smile. “Oh, come now, Choso. You’re stronger than any maid. Surely, your hands would be better suited for the task.”

For a moment, he simply stared at you as though you’d just declared the sky was green. His lips parted, but no words came out, his gaze darting nervously around the room before settling back on you. “I don’t think that’s… appropriate,” he said carefully, his voice low and strained.

You leaned back slightly, arching a brow. “And why not? It’s just a massage. Surely, as my personal guard, it’s your duty to ensure my comfort, no?”

“Your Highness—”

“Choso,” you interrupted, your tone softening as you leaned forward slightly, letting your hair cascade over one shoulder. “You’ve sworn an oath to protect me. Are you really going to deny me such a simple request? Besides,” you added with a teasing smile, “I trust you. Who better to take care of me?”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, his shoulders visibly tensing. It was rare to see him so uncharacteristically flustered, and you found it almost endearing. Still, you could see the war waging behind his eyes—the struggle between his rigid sense of propriety and his inability to deny you.

“Choso,” you said again, gentler this time, “it’s just us here. No one else needs to know. Please?”

The word seemed to undo him. After a long, weighted pause, he exhaled sharply, his hands clenching at his sides before he gave a stiff nod. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

You smiled in satisfaction and shifted, lying down on the chaise lounge with your head resting on your folded arms. The thin fabric of your nightgown clung to your back and shoulders, leaving little to the imagination, but you paid it no mind. Choso, however, hesitated, his gaze flickering over you before he finally moved to kneel beside you, his movements almost painfully hesitant.

You settled onto the chaise lounge, lying on your stomach and pulling your hair over one shoulder to expose the curve of your neck. The thin fabric of your nightgown clung to your body, leaving little to the imagination, but you paid no mind to it. Choso, however, lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his dark eyes flickering over the exposed skin before quickly darting away.

The tension in the room was palpable, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could feel his hesitation. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, until finally, he knelt beside you, his movements stiff and deliberate. His hands hovered just above your shoulders for a moment, as if he were debating whether to go through with it, before he finally made contact.

The first press of his palms was firm, his calloused hands warm against your skin. He worked in silence, but his touch was tentative, almost reluctant, as though every movement was a battle against himself. His fingers found the knots in your shoulders, but his grip tightened slightly as you let out a soft sigh of relief.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured, your voice languid. “I should’ve asked you sooner.”

Choso didn’t respond, but his hands stilled for the briefest moment, his jaw tightening. He resumed a beat later, his touch growing more confident as his fingers moved lower, kneading along the length of your spine. Yet, there was something almost possessive in the way he worked, his hands lingering at the curve of your back, brushing the edges of your nightgown with an intimacy that felt deliberate, even if unspoken.

Heat pooled in your belly, but the mood shifted when Choso spoke, his voice low and edged with something that made your breath catch.

“Do you let all your guards do this to you?”

Your eyes snapped open, the sharpness of his tone cutting through the haze. You turned your head to look at him, frowning. “What?”

He straightened, pulling his hands away, anger visible on his face. “Do you let all your guards touch you like this, or am I just the special fool?”

The accusation in his voice stung. You sat up on the chaise lounge, clutching the fabric of your nightgown to your chest. “What are you implying?”

“I’m implying,” he said, his eyes dark and filled with something unnameable, “that you smiled at Naoya like he was the only man in the room. That you entertained his nonsense—his lies—like you actually enjoyed it.”

A sharp laugh escaped you, incredulous and hurt. “You think I was flirting with Naoya? That I would ever entertain a fool like him?”

“You did tonight,” Choso shot back, his jaw clenched tightly. “You smiled and laughed at him, as if he deserved it. As if you weren’t above him. The you I knew wouldn’t have entertained someone like Naoya for a second. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

That cut deeper than it should have. Your breath hitched, and frustration welled in your chest, bursting free before you could stop it.

“You don’t know me anymore?” you echoed, your voice trembling with emotion. “Well, Choso, I don’t know you either! You’re the one who left me without a word. You’re the one who never answered my letters, who pushed me away for no reason. You didn’t answer them for years, Choso. For years! How can you stand there and talk about me changing when you’ve done everything you could to shut me out?”

He flinched, as if your words struck a nerve. His gaze fell to the floor, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I didn’t answer because I thought it was better that way,” he said quietly. “Because I knew… whatever this was—whatever we were—it couldn’t last. I didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

Your heart cracked at his words, tears threatening to spill over. “You didn’t want to make it harder for me?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You made it unbearable, Choso! You didn’t just leave me, you abandoned me. Without explanation, without closure. You were my friend, my closest ally, and you just… disappeared!”

“I was avoiding the inevitable,” he said, his tone low and bitter. “I was saving us both from something that could never be.”

“And why not?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Why couldn’t we have stayed friends? Why couldn’t you have stayed as someone I trusted, someone I could rely on?”

Choso let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, his head bowing as his hands rose to rub at his temples. When he looked back at you, his eyes burned with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You think I just want to be your ally?” Choso’s voice cracked, his tone harsh and trembling, a storm barely contained within him. He stepped closer, his shadow stretching toward you in the dim light. His dark eyes blazed, raw and unguarded, piercing straight through you.

“Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life standing at your side, pretending it doesn’t destroy me every time you smile at another man?” he continued, his voice rising with emotion. “Do you think I want to be some nameless figure in your life, someone who exists only to bow, to nod, to follow orders while the rest of the world gets to bask in your warmth?”

Your breath hitched as he took another step, the space between you shrinking.

“I don’t want to be your ally, your friend, or some loyal servant,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “I want you. I have always wanted you.”

His confession struck you like lightning, setting every nerve ablaze. You could see the anguish etched into his features, the way his hands shook as if he was struggling to hold himself back.

“I want to touch you without wondering if it’s inappropriate,” he went on, his words tumbling out, unrestrained. “I want to kiss you without the weight of the crown between us. I want to wake up beside you every morning, knowing you’re mine—truly mine—and not just some unattainable dream I’ve been foolish enough to carry.”

“Choso…” you whispered, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

“I want to tear apart every damned rule, every line drawn between us,” he continued, his voice thick with frustration and desire. “I want the world to see that you’re mine—not Naoya’s, not some prince’s, not anyone else’s. Mine.”

He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair, his composure unraveling further. “But that’s not what the world allows, is it?” he said, his tone laced with venom. “Because I’m not a prince or a duke or anyone worthy of you. I’m just a man—a soldier. And the world says I can’t have you.”

His chest heaved with the force of his confession, and his eyes—God, his eyes—burned with a pain so deep it was almost unbearable to witness.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as his words sank in. “You could have had me,” you said, your voice trembling, tears stinging your eyes. “If you’d just stayed, if you’d let me in instead of shutting me out. We could have figured this out together, Choso. I would have fought for you.”

His expression faltered, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his anger. “And what would you have me do?” he asked hoarsely. “Stand beside you while everyone whispers that I’m unworthy? Watch as suitors line up for your hand, knowing I can’t stop them because it’s my duty to protect you, not love you?”

“I don’t care what the world says!” you burst out, stepping closer, your voice rising with desperation. “I don’t care about duty or station or rules. All I ever wanted was you, Choso. You, as my friend, my ally, my—”

“Your what?” he interrupted, his voice low and rough. “Say it. Say what I’ve been longing to hear and dreading all at once.”

Your breath hitched, tears streaming down your face as you met his gaze. “My everything,” you whispered.

For a moment, the tension between you hung thick and electric, the weight of years of unspoken words pressing down on you both. Then Choso stepped back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight.

“That’s why I stayed away,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. “Because I knew if I didn’t, I’d lose myself in you completely. And I wouldn’t be able to let you go. This is why I must stay away.” 

For a moment, he lingered there, his hand flexing at his side as if fighting some invisible force. His gaze dropped, and when he finally turned away, it was slow, deliberate, each step a struggle. He didn’t look back as he crossed the threshold, the heavy sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the silence.

The silence in your room was suffocating. Curtains drawn tightly, the dim flicker of a single candle cast wavering shadows on the stone walls. Plates of untouched food sat on a tray near the door, abandoned by the maids you had dismissed hours ago. The only sound was the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted on the edge of your bed, your arms wrapped around yourself as if trying to hold your broken pieces together.

A soft knock broke the stillness, tentative and almost hesitant. You didn’t answer. You didn’t want to see anyone, let alone speak. Whoever it was would surely leave if you didn’t respond.

But the door creaked open.

Your heart twisted. “I told you all to leave me be,” you said hoarsely, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“I’m not one of your maids,” came a quiet reply from a voice that was all-too-familiar.

Your head snapped up, breath catching in your throat as Choso stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. His dark eyes, always so steady and unreadable, now held an uncharacteristic uncertainty.

“Get out,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended, though the hurt behind it was impossible to mask. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“I know,” he murmured, taking a hesitant step forward. He held something in his hands—a small stack of parchment, edges worn and yellowed. “But I have something to say to you.”

You frowned, your gaze darting to the papers he carried. “What is that?”

“Letters,” Choso said, his voice thick with emotion. He swallowed hard before continuing, “The ones I wrote to you but never sent.”

You stiffened, your heart lurching painfully in your chest. “Why are you showing me this now?”

“Because I should have given them to you a long time ago,” he said simply. “And because I need you to know… what I couldn’t say before. But what I feel I must say now, for I am done with pretending I am not a selfish, selfish man.”

He stepped closer, setting the letters on the bed beside you. For a moment, he hesitated, then knelt before you, his hands resting on his thighs as he looked up at you with a mixture of guilt and determination, as if he had made a decision. And you fight desperately to not yourself believe that, perhaps, he has changed his mind, that he will finally take you in the way you desire.

But you steel your heart as you cautiously look at him. 

“Read them,” he said quietly. “Please.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the stack, the paper cool and rough beneath your touch. The first letter was dated years ago, the ink slightly smudged, as if his hand had lingered too long on the words.

My dearest friend,

I’ve written and torn up this letter a dozen times. How do I explain the ache I feel every night I march under foreign stars? How do I explain that even on the battlefield, amidst the chaos, my mind drifts to you? I think of our secret meetings in the garden, the way you’d laugh as you dared me to meet you in the willow tree every night. Do you remember that night we barely escaped the guards? Your laughter, your gown splayed across the forest floor. I dream of those nights—of you leaning close to steal the fruit in my palm, staring up at me, the world disappearing, and wishing I could ask for more. For you close to me not under the pretense of stealing the pomegranate in my hand, but for something more.

Your voice broke as you read, tears pooling in your eyes. Choso remained silent, his head bowed, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You moved to the next letter.

The scent of jasmine haunted me on the journey here. Every step of the way, I remembered you crouched beneath the trellis, daring me to pluck the flowers despite the gardener’s wrath. When I handed you the bouquet, your smile made me feel invincible, as though I could conquer kingdoms just to see it again. I wished then that I could have told you the truth—that every reckless moment we shared was a reprieve from the weight of duty. I wanted to kiss you in the moonlight, to tell you that you were more than a dream to me. I tried to, in part, with the hairpin I gave you, one that amplified your gentle beauty even more than I thought possible. But how could I ruin what little time we had?

“Choso,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Why didn’t you send these?”

“I was a coward,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I thought… I thought it was kinder to stay away. To bury how I felt. But it wasn’t kinder, was it?”

You shook your head, unable to speak as you continued reading, each letter peeling away the walls you’d built to protect yourself from the pain of his absence.

When you reached the last letter, your breath hitched.

If I were braver, I’d tell you this to your face: I love you. I’ve loved you since the first time we ran barefoot through the gardens, laughing until we couldn’t breathe. I’ve loved you since you bandaged my hand after my sparring lessons, scolding me and treating me gently as if I weren’t a warrior, as if my rough, damaged hands were worth your care. I love you with a desperation that terrifies me, that kept me awake in camp as I replayed your smile over and over. If I lose you now, it will be my own doing. But still, I love you.

Your tears fell freely now, soaking the parchment. Choso rose slowly, his hands lifting as if to touch you but stopping just shy of your skin.

“Say something,” he pleaded, his voice raw.

Instead, you surged forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to meet you. Your lips found his in a kiss that was fierce and unrestrained, pouring every ounce of longing, anger, and love into the connection.

Choso froze for a heartbeat before melting into you. The kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that matched your own.

His hands moved to grasp your waist, as if afraid you might vanish. Before they could touch you, he paused as if doubting his ability to be able to touch you. To your frustration, the heat of his almost-contact pulled away. “Your Highness—”

“Choso,” you pleaded, grasping his hands in yours and placing them on their rightful place: your body. You dragged his hands down your torso, helping him explore your curves sensually, intimately as he squeezed his brows together, eyes shut, conveying his inner turmoil. His resolve almost cracked as you begged him, “Take me. Please.”

With agitation, he withdrew his hands from your grasp, painfully clenching them by his sides as he groaned. “Your Highness, you’re playing with fire. I mustn’t. Your body is of a thousand gold, and I would never dare to touch you with my hands—”

But you interrupted him by snorting. “If it is of a thousand gold, or whatever archaic term the royal legends have invented, then you are a thousand gold richer.” You gently took his face in your arms, kissing his forehead. “I am yours, and if you believe that anyone will have my heart after you, then you are most grievously mistaken.” 

He still looked at you, both kneeling on your bed, with a conflicted expression. You gave him a reassuring look before pressing another gentle kiss to his lips. Then, you teased him softly. “Will you not fight for my hand? Will you truly let me be promised to another man after this?”

His eyes darkened in a possessive manner, as he joined his lips against yourself furiously. “I would never,” he punctuated his interruptions with a searing kiss. “let anyone have you after this.”

With tender hands that heavily contrasted his desperation, he slipped the shoulder of your dress, dragging the hem down and down until your breasts were bare to the air. “So, so beautiful,” he whispered before enclosing your nubs in his mouth, kissing them both tenderly.

You could only but gasp, victim to his ministrations as he sneaked another hand up your legs, gently caressing your thighs until he met your core. He groaned, louder than ever, when he was met with the bare heat, wet with your desire and arousal all for him. With painstaking gentleness, he eased a finger in, drinking in your moans and sounds of pleasure. 

He couldn’t help but smile at the small scream that escaped you when he curled his fingers up. It seemed he had found the place that pleasured you most, one that you had stayed unbeknownst to. And he definitely couldn’t stop himself from torturing and repeatedly hitting against it with the way squeals of his name left your mouth whenever he did so.

Before you knew it, an unknown feeling washed over you as Choso kept continuing his touches, one that seemed like worship with how he was looking for your reactions, for your pleasure. A gush of slick escaped you, and Choso kissed your breasts one final time before drawing out his finger.

You peered down at him, flushed, as his eyes stayed trained on you while he slowly drew his finger inside his mouth, seeming to savor your taste. At last, he pulled it away from his mouth and asked, voice hoarse, “how are you feeling?”

You laugh bashfully and look away, blushing. “You know you don’t need to ask that. But,” and you pause, looking at him through your lashes, “you know I want more.”

The flush that was only apparent on his cheeks spread to his entire face and neck and he whines as he buries his face in your breasts once more, now to evade eye contact. “Don’t say things like that. It makes holding back even more arduous.”

You stroke his hair, smiling softly. “Would you have any qualms about taking my…maidenhood if you were my husband.”

His answer is immediate. “Absolutely not.”

“So you want to…make love with me?” You heat up at your own words, nervously looking at him in fear of his rejection.

He pauses, but then slowly nods. “Well, yes, but—”

“Then we shall put archaic traditions aside. Choso,” and you look at him mischievously as he squints at you, “I command you to make love to me.”

The reaction is immediate. As if animated again, he pins you down against your mattress, eyes feral as he takes your lips with his once more. With both hands, a riiiip echoes across the room as he entirely tears your shift in his bare hands. Mind you, it was not weak material, and you lay dumbfounded as he strips his shirt off.

You don’t even have time to admire his bare torso, muscled as you knew it would be. Your eyes automatically trail down to the string of hair that leads down to his v-line as he rids himself of his trousers. 

What gets uncovered makes you pray for your life, and you gasp, eyes wide. “How is that even supposed to go inside—”

He says your name, reassuringly, as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “I will take the utmost care of you. I promise.” He lines his length with your entrance, and, with another kiss, he pushes in gently.

When his member first breaches you, you gasp, dizzied by the fullness. Then, as he slowly bottoms out, you whine while impaled on his cock. “More.”

Basking in the euphoria of your clenching heat around him, at your request, he curses. He pulls out his length—slowly, gently—and then slams back in, and you squeal, whispering a breathless utter of his name once more. 

He continues making love to you, the sounds of his devotion echoing across the room. When you both climax, it is down with a prayer of the other’s name, as a promise. That you are both each other’s, and no qualms about proprietary and status could any longer apprehend either of you.

When the both of you settle down, him having gently cleaned you with a cloth, he collapses next to you in bed, bare arms engulfing you and pulling you closer. As you both lie there, skin to skin, you giggle at your own thoughts.

At the sound, Choso perks up, looking at you in soft amusement. “What’s the matter, my love?”

Ignoring the way your heart fluttered at the nickname, you replied, “I daresay you will be the strongest prince consort in the history of our kingdom.”

The mention of the weak nobles that had ascended the throne in centuries past makes him snicker smugly. “I would agree,” he muses, amused like you. “They would not have been as tall as me, or as strong, or as good in bed—-”

“Choso!” you squealed, grabbing a pillow and smacking him with it.

Grinning like a devil, he dodged with ease, catching your wrist and pulling you down onto the bed. Before you could protest, he wrestled himself on top of you, pinning your arms above your head and smothering you in kisses.

After his barrage was over, he turned solemn once more. “I’m serious,” he murmured, his tone softer, more sincere. His dark eyes searched yours, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. “I’ll protect you, stand beside you, love you until my last breath. You’re my queen in every way that matters. And no matter what, I’ll never leave your side again.”

Your breath hitched, his words settling deep in your chest. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you smiled, warmth flooding your heart. “And I’ll hold you to that, my love.”

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was equal parts promise and devotion. It wasn’t hurried or frenzied, but slow, a tangible declaration of everything you both had endured to reach this moment. Here, in the quiet of your chamber, with his weight grounding you and his lips marking you as his, you found the only place you wanted to be—by his side, now and always.

general masterlist

a/n AHH HI POOKIES!! I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED MY FIRST CHOSO FIC?? let me know if i do him justice this was written with my pussy and me having a specific hyperfixation :3 anyways i really enjoyed writing this and i hope you guys did too :')

Exhaustion. Your head aches from a lack of sleep. The pressure behind your eyes is unrelenting and you find yourself wanting to keep them closed once your tears finally stop. Yet your mind won’t let you, caught up on loss and grief. Your limbs don’t feel like they belong to you. You’re like a ghost within your own body and nothing feels real. How could it, without Saya?

The second consistency is that Sukuna is a constant worry. Your brain seems to concoct countless ways in which the world could tear him from you, thus tearing you from your fleeting moments of rest too. 

When you wake in the remains of Saya’s home while your parents care for her mother every day, you shake in the night and crawl closer to your parents.

This house is a hole like that left in your heart.

You don’t want to be here anymore.

It’s a miracle your body carries on in the barely functioning state you’ve been living in leading up to Saya’s funeral.

After a long week of rebuilding and trying to pick up the pieces of a farming village whose crops were razed and a tense conversation with Zen’in sorcerers who no longer live up to tales you know now as fallacies, at last the village is able to put the time into the funeral that the fallen deserve.

Your mother dresses you. It’s nothing fancy. She tells you it’s a kimono that survived the fire.

It’s not.

It’s Saya’s.

And when you stand at the burial plot outside the village, it’s a weight on your shoulders you aren’t sure you can bear.

The tears come again. Warm down your cheeks, long before the ceremony even begins. It’s the first time your mother has left your side in the past week in order to help prepare a pyre, and your body protests being alone, dropping to your knees. Your limbs are cold, your chest hot. Pressure behind your eyes. Shallow breaths. Panic. The kind of thoughts reserved only for nightmares. Sobs choke you, sputtering past your lips as you try to keep them in when you hear footsteps behind you.

Wiping your eyes as you attempt to hold it together, you only fall further apart at the sight of striking red eyes that also bear the evidence of tears. Pallid, your friend stares as though he’s finally been given something to grasp. Like if he doesn’t let go, he might not crumble under the pressure he, too, feels.

For as sickly as he looks, hidden by that same straw hat from the week prior, he pushes himself to keep control. He doesn’t collapse beside you, he makes the effort to stay steady at your side as he lowers himself to his knees. You can’t be sure whether he’s trying to stay strong for you, or for himself. Neither answer is ideal.

You’re both far too young to be grappling with the weight of a loss so great.

He’s far too young to be holding up the blame, on top of that. But how could you possibly know that much when you have yet to witness the transgressions committed against such a young child?

For all the control Sukuna exhibits in spite of his own pain as he settles at your side, the moment you collapse against him, his reaction is immediate. Your remaining best friend’s muscles release as he falls into you as well. Neither of your pain is being shouldered alone for the first time in days.

You appreciate your parents for their support, but they’re not who you needed.

“My mom wouldn’t let me see you.” Your voice scrapes in the back of your throat, raw. With your ear against his shoulder, you hear his breath catch as he stifles a sob.

“I wasn’t allowed to leave,” he murmurs in a voice equally broken.

It’s the first time an admission from him has come so easily. There aren’t layers of protection under lock and key, he simply gives in. When you wipe your cheek and lift your head to stare at him, there’s a small scowl pulling at his features, his jaw set as he keeps his gaze down, avoiding your shocked expression.

“Why?”

For a beat, he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even react. Then, like porcelain, he cracks. Small at first, a downward twitch of his lips. Then his chest heaves as everything hits like a wave.

His voice is barely a whisper. Had you not been leaning against him, you might have missed it. “It’s my fault.”

You shake your head, small and adamant. “No it’s not.”

His jaw shifts. The tension in his muscles rises under your grip.

“No it’s not, Ryo.” You give him a little shake that has him pulling away slightly with the faintest hint of that mildly irritated boy you’ve always known. The one who would butt heads with Saya at the first sign of a challenge.

He doesn’t fully pull away, though.

The breeze shifts. The clouds give way to the sun briefly enough to allow it to slant down over the both of you. It doesn’t feel like warmth bathing you in its gentle embrace like it might have a week ago.

It paints golden over the straw of his hat in a streak. When he glances up, the straw hat sitting atop his head slides back from where it unevenly sat, hanging by its string from his neck. His crimson gaze squints, blinking as the sun assaults the eyes that don’t sit over skin but rather the protrusion from his face. All four eyes respond in kind as he looks away, briefly focused on you before he finds the grass at his knees of interest.

The sun should feel like hope. Like an extension of the warmth it provides. Rather, it doesn’t sit right with you. Like an ill omen projecting a warning across your friend’s sanguine eyes that warns of a future not unlike your last week.

Dread sits at the pit of your stomach as you see something dark stir behind his eyes, but it disappears before you have time to think twice about it. The look he fixes you with next, his lower eyes shut once more, is simply tired.

“They were looking for something. Someone. One of the villagers told Murata-Sensei that they heard the sorcerers looking for a monster.”

Adamantly, you shake your head. You don’t even think twice about defying the omen that seems to write itself across your friend’s face. “So? You’re not a monster.”

He shifts an inch away from you. The ways in which he struggles are foreign and in spite of the fact that he seeks your comfort as much as you chase his, it’s a reminder that he’s alone in all of this. You’re his closest ally, the one person left that changed his outlook on the world, but at the end of the day, your story’s pages are brighter.

“I’m Ryomen Sukuna. From the stories.”

Your nose wrinkles at the concept. “Just because someone called you that after the story doesn’t mean you’re a monster.”

The disparity between you feels larger than ever for the little boy. He doesn’t blame you for not understanding. What child would assume the beast with hooked claws and jagged fangs was only a three-year-old child, now ten? You’re right to think otherwise.

Still, his chest draws in on itself for this is his burden to shoulder.

Alone.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, small. Your hands curl into the hemp fabric tied around his waist as he gives in, allowing you to hug him properly.

Alone, maybe. But he’ll bear that burden if he can keep your friendship.

The sound of footsteps has your friend scrambling to pull his hat back over his head as he glances cautiously over his shoulder. Your head pounds too steadily to make much of the noise or your friend shuffling. It’s not until you make out familiar voices that you wearily lift your head from Sukuna’s shoulder.

Murata shoots you a brief glance, alongside your mother. Saya’s mother and your father are too busy with preparation to pay you any mind. Imai and another villager’s gazes linger too long.

Sukuna ducks his head, curling into your embrace.

Silence permeates the air surrounding you both. Weary to your bones and both lacking in sleep, the shared embrace of being near someone who understands your pain– what remains of your trio– gives your body a chance to relax. Your nervous system stops firing constant concern to your brain, and with the thoughts of losing your closest friend coming to a halt, the breeze soothes you into rest.

It’s not sleep, but your muscles loosen enough to allow your body a chance to recover, even if only for a moment. Sukuna’s weight is heavy against your side, each of you contorted in a weird way as you sit in the grass, but it’s the most at ease you’ve felt in a week.

Sukuna is still here.

The thought loops until you can believe it. The feeling of his robes scratches at your fingers until you can ground yourself in that thought.

The world continues on around you, but you pay it no mind. Saya and her father’s bodies are among those being honored today. The adults are joined by more members of the village as a pyre is put together, wooden graves prepared to be added to the burial plot once the ceremony has ended.

It’s not a breeze or your friend shifting that brings you back to the present, but the natural murmuring of the village gathering around you.

Sukuna’s head falls forward when you lift yours, an inconvenienced expression gracing his features when he’s harshly awoken by your movement. It fades as his head whips around, taking in the sights of the whole village surrounding you both. He shifts, leaning on an upper arm as his hidden ones wrap tighter around his torso while he evaluates the gazes taking in the sight of you and a child they scarcely know.

Imai’s gaze sears his back like hot iron. His instincts tell him to run without so much as looking at the man. His body tells him that he doesn’t have the energy to give. His mind tells him that blood is the cost of living. Static brews in his chest, the sensation of power roiling within. His fingers twitch against the sparse grass, clenching as he leans on the ball of his palm.

But it all dissolves when you yawn and slump forward. His fists loosen, his gaze falls to the dirt, and he pulls his knees to his chest.

When half of the things that keep you going are ripped from your grasp, the last half becomes sacred. The same is true for the small child, who never truly knew how much he had to lose until it was gone. Now, he doesn’t dare risk what’s left.

After all, he has to remind himself he’s never acted out of anything but self defense.

He’s still a good person.

Right?

Your mother makes her way to your side, lifting you to your feet and beckoning Sukuna to follow upon noticing he’s more present than you are. He pushes off of the grand, brushing loose dirt and leaf litter from his palms and knees, but he doesn’t stray far. Murata already explained that with the shrine keeper being among those who’ve passed, the ceremony is his to carry out.

The open fields of the village don’t seem to carry sound as the small gathering quiets down with all preparations made. It’s as though the trees themselves have taken up the role of guards, preventing even the birds from making commentary.

If only they could have taken up that mantle prior to the attack and warned the village before it was too late.

You suck in a breath at the sight that faces you as you stand. A pyre made of stacked logs is ready to be lit, all greenery cleared from its immediate vicinity to prevent the spread of fire. Atop it lies those who were lost, wrapped in off-white hemp fabric and cord. The sight is enough to reignite the grief of the past week once more, the breath you took serving little use when you’re already struggling not to sob.

But it’s the fact that among those who were lost is a body smaller than the rest that strikes you through the very heart. It still doesn’t quite feel real, like some part of your brain is clinging to a fragile thread that this could all still be part of a nightmare.

Your friend sniffles beside you, shaking as he keeps his head lowered. You reach for his hand, squeezing it as your mother did for you. His face flicks briefly to you, revealing puffy cheeks, before he stares at the dry soil below his feet again.

Murata’s words echo across the fields that extend long past the trees. He doesn’t need to project his voice, for the silence of the lands speaks the volumes he doesn’t.

As the ceremony begins, Murata sullenly presents small statements about each individual. Although personal, his words are somewhat clipped. Without the traditions of the shrine keeper, he keeps things brief as he goes over their lives as though they weren’t family to many of the people standing here.

Your chest clenches, your lungs constricting as Saya’s name hangs in the air too close for you to grasp.

“Our time with young Saya was brief, but she affected many. I hope that we are able to come together and support her family and friends in their time of need.”

He speaks so practically that your skin crawls. Part of your world is gone and there’s so little to say. You know it’s simply the way Murata operates, but it feels so disconnected you can’t bear it. You don’t even realize how hard you’re squeezing Sukuna’s hand until he shuffles closer, the warmth of his shoulder bleeding through your robes.

It quells the way your body shakes, if only for a moment.

As Murata moves on to more traditional aspects of the funeral, your brain fills with fog. Your ears ring, your eyes water.

You feel sick again.

It’s not until smoke billows through the air when the pyre is lit that at last you’re present again. The sensation that feels not unlike your head being ready to burst is thrust aside harshly when fire warms your skin. You stand on edge at the sensation, too close in feeling to a mere week ago when you thought the fire might very well take you.

Recoiling away from the sensation, you hide behind your mother. Shielded from the heat, it’s the smoke that assaults your lungs next, but you refrain from coughing. Somehow, the pain of your throat allowing soot to drag through it makes you feel more alive than you have in weeks.

As the taste rots against your tongue, it leaves with it a sour reminder that this isn’t a nightmare after all. The sensation is too real, like being pinched, that you’re thrust very suddenly before the realization that the world is cruel. It takes and it so rarely gives back.

You hate it.

You hate that once smoke and embers is all that remains of the pyre, the village returns to normal. You hate that condolences are the most anyone seems to offer. You hate that you can hear Imai’s boys already back to playing while you’re forced to grapple with the loss of your dear friend.

It’s not fair.

The only people who linger are those who lost family and friends during the attack. A scarce group who choose to remain mostly silent, milling about the area where smoke looks harsh against the vibrant greenery it contrasts.

Your mother allows you the chance to grieve, unmoving as she lowers herself to the ground and cradles you close.

Sukuna remains nearby, huddled into himself with no one to offer the same support for him. The contrast of the fiery warmth to the early morning air that follows leaves him shivering. He casts a sidelong glance to your mother, edging closer, but she doesn’t acknowledge him.

Swallowing, his gaze finds the closest thing he’s ever found to familial warmth. Saya’s mother’s hair is done up in a low bun that sits between her shoulder blades. It’s more unkempt than usual, but Sukuna supposes that’s not unusual when his hair has been long flattened by natural oils, sweat, and a lack of keeping up with self-care in his current situation.

The first step he takes towards the woman is cautionary, but he gains confidence as he approaches her, addressing her quietly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He can’t possibly expect the look he receives when she faces him. He’s seen it before– some part of him is accustomed to it– but to see it from Saya’s mother? Such scorn feels unbefitting from her.

He’s lost. Like an animal tucking its tail between its legs, he shrinks under the intensity of her contempt. “Sorry will never be enough, Ryomen.”

He stumbles back a step, shoulders raised defensively as he holds his hands protectively in front of him. “I’m–”

What the hell can he ever say in reply to that?

He’s a child. In his ten short years on earth, nothing could prepare him for the one positive adult influence in his life to turn on him in such a way.

“Don’t,” she hisses, “don’t continue that.”

His jaw hangs ajar, puffy cheeks throbbing as the blanket of grief he’s already struggling with is doused in fear, too. “I didn’t–”

“Do you know what kind of bad luck you’ve wrought on us?”

His chest rises and falls too quickly, unable to tear his gaze from the disgust that sears his skin. He knows Murata is making a move to interrupt, but the man’s movements seem slower than Sukuna’s current reality.

Undeterred, the grieving widow continues. “My husband is dead because of you. Saya is dead,” she pauses, the words hanging in the air long enough that they feel like a slap to the face of the already-crying child. He flinches, wincing as his body protests the movement. “Because of you.”

There’s no static in his chest. Energy doesn’t move through his body like electricity. This isn’t a village of nobodies with pitchforks and fire ready to burn him.

This is the only adult who’s ever extended her motherly instincts to him without questioning anything. Her words take a shovel to whatever light is within him, burying it where he’s not sure he’ll ever find it. “I really didn’t–”

“I do not want to hear it, Ryomen,” she spits, her words far more formal than you’ve heard from her.

“Stop!” You cry out, the horror freezing you to the spot in your mother’s arms finally dissipating enough that you connect what’s going on.

Saya’s mother’s brow twitches as you pipe in. She visibly swallows, but her words are no kinder as she addresses you. “This is not your place, child.”

Murata finally reaches her side, attempting to calm her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “That’s quite enough, this isn’t the time or–”

“I know they wanted you,” Saya’s mother ignores him, taking a step towards Sukuna that has the little boy stumbling as he trips over loose dirt in an effort to back away. You tear yourself from your mother’s grasp, your expression painted in equal pain as you steady your friend when he stumbles. You whine for her to stop through your own tears, but it’s no use. “I know it was you!” She cries scornfully over your protests.

Again, Sukuna stumbles, backing straight into you and tripping over your feet. You’re both sent toppling over into the dirt, his fall broken by you. Pushing up on your elbows, you don’t make a move to get up when Saya’s mother steps closer.

Murata shakes his head, interrupting with finality. “Enough.”

But Saya’s mother doesn’t listen.

“You did this! It’s all your fault!” She points her finger straight at the child. You can feel a subtle tremor move through him as he tries to insistently shake his head.

One way or the other, Murata’s had enough. His hand wraps around the woman’s wrist as he begins dragging her away from Sukuna, left with no options aside from this. Still, her cries echo through the trees and over the fields. The trees that stood as guardians now seem to push her voice inwards, like they want her words to haunt him.

“You killed her! You are a monster! You do not deserve this life!”

Your mother rounds the spot on the ground where you’ve toppled over, kneeling before each of you. Conflict breathes hesitation into her movement, her eyes flashing with something akin to uncertainty as she reaches out for not just you, but Sukuna too. You’re both dragged over ash-laden dirt into her arms, where she offers what little comfort she can.

Or, in Sukuna’s case, what little comfort she feels he deserves.

As his mind catches up to what’s happened, he shakes his head violently. “I didn’t do anything,” he insists, glancing up at your mother before staring pleadingly at you. He shifts, writhing in your mother’s grip as his fingers close around the material of your sleeves.

Your sleeves?

He blinks at the realization that the kimono you’re wearing isn’t yours at all. It’s Saya’s.

But your belongings burned to the ground.

So why does it still hurt?

His eyes burn, the lower pair blinking harshly against his best efforts to keep them shut when it feels like Saya is somehow here, placing the blame alongside her mother.

“I didn’t do it, I’m not a–” he chokes on the word ‘monster’. Would it be a lie to claim such a thing? He doesn’t want to be a fanged beast. He doesn’t want to be a story meant to scare children.

You pull him from his paranoia when you offer him real comfort, arms hugging him so tightly that he can feel your conviction through such a simple action. Or maybe you’re comforting yourself, but either way, his heart slows just enough to grasp at the frail footing that makes up his reality. He buries his face in your shoulder, and yours in his, all while your mother cradles you close.

“You’re not a monster,” you murmur into his shoulder, muffled by tears, sniffles, and fabrics. Your voice is so low he doubts your mother heard. “You’re my best friend.”

“I didn’t kill Saya,” he barely manages to push the words out between breaths.

“I know,” you murmur back, hugging him harder.

You believe him. It’s the one and only thing he clings to. His hope. His belief that the world isn’t all death, despair, and hatred.

But for how long can he keep the rest of the village at a distance when even the places he once considered safe exile him too?

The sun crosses the sky as you huddle into one another. Your mother is patient as the shadows you cast grow long. For all the time you’ve spent in the last week in and out of sleep and barely-awake states simply trying to make it to the next day, this is the closest you’ve come to rest. As minutes turn to hours, your heart finally manages to find a calm pace.

When your mother’s knees ache and her back begins to give out, once she’s certain your tears are dried and you’re both in a state where talking won’t feel like dragging your words through gravel, she finally speaks up. Her voice is hoarse from the day’s turmoil.

“Ryomen, why don’t we get you back to Murata-san’s? I think you both need some sleep,” she offers.

Sukuna still catches the way that kindness doesn’t easily roll off her tongue when it’s directed at him. He’ll take neutrality, but his heart pangs for what once was. He lifts his head from your shoulder, cheeks still puffy and exhaustion clear as day across his face. He yawns, casting his glance at you.

“Can she stay with Murata-sensei and I?”

You blearily stare up at your mother as well, whose lips press into a thin line. You find yourself yawning too, wiping at your eyes.

“No. We need to be with Saya’s mother.”

That stops you dead in your tracks. Your hands fall from your face as you vigorously shake your head. “I don’t wanna go back to their house,” you pull back from your mother’s grasp, remaining in her lap although you sit upright now. “What’s wrong with her? Why was she mean to Ryo?”

“Do not say that,” your mother reprimands you rather formally. Your shame is overshadowed by the need to do right by your friend.

“Why did she say that?” You ask again. “That was scary. And mean.”

With two pairs of wide eyes peering up at her looking for any sort of explanation, she sighs. At the end of the day, you don’t know better. You’re both just kids, and she’s forced to remind herself of such.

Running her tongue over her lower lip, she nods. “She lost her daughter and husband,” she explains. “She’s grieving.”

“So?” You speak up with that same boisterousness Saya always had. Sitting beside him in Saya’s kimono, Sukuna has to avert his gaze if he wants the weight in his chest to remain manageable. “We are too! I didn’t blame her!” You cry, one hand clinging to Sukuna’s sleeve, while the other points in the direction where you can make out the faintest of commotions still taking place.

Your mother nods slowly, pushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Everyone grieves differently.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” you mutter.

“It was unkind,” your mother agrees, keeping that formal lilt you’re growing to hate that every adult around you seems to enjoy throwing around. You may be a child, but you aren’t completely naive to the way Sukuna is treated anymore. You’re equally aware of the fact that you, too, are treated differently for simply being his friend. It’s unfortunate that it took Saya’s mother’s vitriol to realize it, but life is cruel in the worst of ways.

You don’t know yet that there’s a word for the mistreatment of Sukuna, as it’s still lost on you just what makes him so different, but someday you’ll learn of the deeply-ingrained prejudice the world harbors for him.

In spite of her agreement with your statement, your mother gives no real explanation, leaving you grasping at threads in an attempt to piece together what happened. When she begins shuffling, she dismisses any questions by guiding you both to your feet so that she can stand. “Come. Like I said, Ryo needs to go home. You both need rest.” She reaches out to take your hands and although Sukuna allows her with a weary glance, you snatch your hand away before she can take it.

“No.”

In a warning tone, your mother says your name.

“No!” You repeat yourself with an adamant step back. Your eyes flicker between your mother and the direction where Saya’s mother disappeared. Finally, you look at Sukuna, your small hands clasping around the cord tied around your friend’s waist. Relief washes over his face in place of the hurt, and his entire demeanor seems to relax as you choose him. “I can’t leave Ryo.”

“Ryo needs sleep and so do you,” your mother sighs, her irritation growing by the second.

“I can’t sleep at Saya’s place,” you shake your head, stepping closer to Sukuna. “Everything reminds me of her. You keep making me wear her clothes and–” Emotions swell in your chest like a violent storm. Wind whips everything to and fro until there’s nothing discernable but a tangle of hurt, pain, and grief. All at once, it’s too much to bear and the storm brandishes its face in the form of tears welling in your eyes. “I can’t lose Ryo too,” you sniffle, barely keeping the floodgates at bay.

“I am sorry about your robes, but our home burned down in the fire. Ryo will be perfectly safe with–”

But no explanation will ever be enough when the damn robes you’re wearing and the house you’re forced to live in smells like Saya. It’s no place to heal and what are you meant to do if all that’s left of your friends are memories? Saya’s loss already feels impossible to bear, how are you meant to shoulder that without Sukuna? How are you meant to shoulder it doubly, alone, should something happen to him?

It’s that very thought that has your ears ringing and your mother’s words lost on you. The storm in your chest acts like water filling your lungs, threatening to pull you under and knock your lights out before ever giving you a chance to fight. You cling harder to Sukuna as your knees threaten to give out under the duress of emotions pressing down on you.

You’ve known the fear of your parents or the dark your whole life, but the fear of loss is new. It’s new and somehow more terrifying than anything you’ve yet to experience. Sukuna must be able to feel the weight you’re holding up just by clinging to the cord around his waist as he tries to hold you upright, wide tumultuous eyes looking to the adult near him for help.

But what help have adults ever been for the likes of a child like him?

Your mother sputters for words, using reason and logic to tell you why Saya’s mother is in the right. She spits out facts and evidence. That your house is gone. Your clothes are gone. She can’t leave either you or Saya’s mother when you both need her. Words fall from her mouth like she’s searching for any reason to keep you from Sukuna, but your sobs only intensify.

Logic. Sukuna internally scoffs at the mere thought, his brow knitting together as he comes to the conclusion that your mother is as useless as his sensei. You’re struggling to find breath and the best your own mother can offer is endless drivel that only tears Sukuna down, whether inadvertent or not.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do. In the pocket of woods where the three of you remain alone, two extra arms emerge from his sleeves, tight enough that the seams pull taut as he wraps you in a tight hug. If not to comfort you, what good is having four arms anyway?

In spite of the tears that still burn his own eyes, he holds you tightly, four hands bunching the kimono that smells too much of Saya to quell his own sorrows. It smells like a damn reminder of what hugs used to feel like.

The thought shakes his body in a small sob, before his tears finally break the dam and he’s crying too.

“Fine! Fine,” your mother concedes with wide eyes, holding her hands out in defeat as she’s left with two sobbing children and no reasonable solution set out for her. “We can see about you staying with Murata-san for a bit. Would that be acceptable?”

Acceptable. The formality irks you. Still, your heart slows its pace to something you might call reasonable, and through comfort that isn’t provided by your own blood, you manage to nod between hiccups.

You won’t realize it until long after a straw mat has been laid out a short distance from Sukuna’s. You won’t realize it until long after construction on your new home has begun and the village comes together to rebuild. You won’t realize it until the village’s smaller numbers mean less time isolated in the outer edge of the farmland and more time surrounded by people you scarcely know.

But that was the night that killed the childish wonder your friend once had.

–

It’s several fortnights before your home is ready once more. Given that there was extra space in both Murata’s and Saya’s mother’s homes, your home took the least priority over the others.

You hardly mind. You’re just grateful to have some of your own clothes once again. Wearing Saya’s old clothes dredges up painful memories, and Sukuna, who grows like a weed compared to you, has already given away a majority of the clothes that might fit you. You practically swim in anything borrowed from him.

In fact, by the time the first day you can sleep in your home comes to pass, you find yourself staring up at the thatch roof with your heart pounding unevenly. Is it the new environment that has you shifting, the new bed? Is it the roof that you’ve already spotted a hole in that will reveal its inadequacy come rain?

For all of your ideating, you know the truth.

What if something happens to Sukuna while you sleep just as it did to Saya?

With the moon now partially across the sky and your eyes still wide as though it were daylight, you slip from beneath your new quilts and carefully cross the room to the door. It glides open without protest, allowing you to slip away unheard.

The dirt and newly-growing grass underfoot is a stark contrast to everything new that adorns what should feel like home. You jog the short distance to Murata’s, creeping up to the door. Listening intently through the thin door for any noise, your fingers curl over the edge as you slowly push it open, using small fingers to lift the inner latch through the small gap in the door.

Moonlight floods the interior as you pad to the back, revealing the spot where your old bed still remains. It casts a long shadow where Sukuna is already sitting up staring at you, two wide eyes roused to wakefulness as you try to sneak in. That is, if he wasn’t already awake himself.

Once he’s face-to-face with the one person he associates with safety, a second pair of stark crimson eyes blink open. It’s that very stare that trails after you as you slip into the bed a short distance from him. He doesn’t say a word as you curl under the blankets and shut your eyes without a second thought.

He doesn’t need to. Over the course of the last few cycles of the moon, you’ve come to notice that Sukuna is quieter and more observant, but he’s also far more perceptive. You want to say you’ve developed a sort of language where the unspoken is understood between you, but it’s truthfully one-way. Sukuna is somewhat of a closed book, his walls holding far too strong as he refuses to let even you in.

But from the moment you walked in, he knew. He knows you fear the sound of flames. He knows the quiet looms over you like an ill omen. He knows that distance between you sounds more like danger and approaching sorcerers than the nothing that it should sound like.

He knows the Zen’in sorcerers are no longer heroes to you.

He sees it all. He feels it all too, as much as he keeps those secrets close.

The moon has traveled far enough to say an hour has gone by before he speaks.

“You can’t sleep either?”

He knows you’re still awake. You’re shuffling too much to be asleep.

“No,” you murmur, rolling over to face him. With your eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room, you can make out the dark circles under his eyes. He seems more tired than you, even.

He nods, his gaze averting as though the straw hatch overhead is of sudden interest. “I’ve been getting good at archery.” He offers the thought casually like it might serve as a distraction, something to help you sleep.

Unfortunately, it does the opposite.

You sit upright, your gaze far brighter than the tired one that flooded with relief at the sight of your friend. “You haven’t taught me in a while.”

He shrugs. “Murata-sensei’s been busy. I haven’t been able to learn anything new.”

“I wanna practice too!” You insist, still hushed in an effort not to wake Sukuna’s guardian.

He peers at the frail wall that separates you both from the village leader, before pushing out from under his blankets. He pulls on the outer layer of his robes before returning to grab your forearm and drag you outside. He sneaks around the outer walls in order to grab both his old bow and Murata-sensei’s. In just the past year or so since he began teaching you the ropes here and there, he’s grown so significantly that he stands nearly a head over you and can already somewhat use his sensei’s bow as he comes to the man’s shoulders in height alone.

You, on the other hand, almost can use his old bow confidently.

With the bows slung over his shoulder like a sash and an ebira of arrows tucked under his arm, he leads the way into the forest, where you can talk without a hush.

Worrying your lip between your teeth, you find your anxiety growing the further you travel into the woods, regardless of the fact that he brought you north, rather than south where you were attacked from. His steps falter as you near the burial grounds, his body betraying him as he finds himself staring at the wooden planks emerging from the ground. His shoulders visibly fall as the hitch in his step brings him to a sudden halt.

You’ve spent so little time apart since the attack that you know he hasn’t visited. You have, twice now, with your mother. It doesn’t hurt any less each time. The remains of the pyre sit nearby too, which never fails to make your heart sink.

“Ryo?”

He blinks, looking back at you with two pairs of sanguine eyes. Storms brew behind them, tumultuous as his readiness to retreat to the woods the moment one of you doesn’t feel well.

“Have you visited her?”

His lips pull into a thin line, curling down at the edges. He doesn’t reply, fixing the burial site with a scowl instead. Grabbing the ebira from under his arm, you beckon him to take a seat before the wood where the dirt still seems as though it’s been recently disturbed.

His scowl is impenetrable, even as he takes a seat. He wears it like armor, as though it’s all that keeps the storm at bay.

The wood before you is plain, too much so for the little girl it means to represent. The only remnant of her is her name carved into the bowed wood.

“What’s the point of this?” Sukuna mutters under his breath, adjusting the way the bows sit across his chest now that he’s cross-legged on the packed dirt with you.

“Here,” you reach over for the bows, pulling them over his head and setting them aside with the ebira. “Sit on your knees.”

He follows suit without protest, though his expression remains hardened. Two of his hands sit in his lap, the others hidden beneath layers of cloth as he waits for your instruction.

“This is how you pay respects,” you explain, bowing your head. With a glance in your direction, Sukuna mirrors your display. “My mother likes to bring gifts as offerings as well,” you add. One pair of crimson eyes briefly flickers to you at the way you refer to your parent, more detached than he’s accustomed to. “She said it helps their spirits move on. That way–” Her mere name chokes you, but you press on. “Saya can be at peace.”

His heart hangs heavy at the explanation. He’s never thought of a spirit as something positive when the stories surrounding sorcerers so often depict cursed spirits. He’s never considered there are spirits that aren’t curses. The tight knit between his brows loosens as he bows further, his fingers clamping down on the material adorning his thighs. His lip quivers, giving in to everything he’s kept under wraps over the moon’s last couple of cycles, his shoulders shaking as he remains doubled over.

You shuffle closer, your warmth offering comfort as you suppress your own sniffles.

“If I had just–” It isn’t a sob that chokes him, but his bottled up frustrations. His knuckles are white under the sheer force with which he clenches them. “I could have done something if maybe–”

“It’s not your fault, Ryo,” you murmur, leaning against him with a sullen frown.

“Saya’s mother–”

“It doesn’t matter,” you shake your head adamantly. You know he feels the movement, rather than seeing it. Either way, it means something. “She was mean. I don’t know why.”

“Everyone looks at me weird.” His tone no longer carries sorrow, but malignance. You can sympathize with his frustration given how much time you’ve spent by his side lately. You have yet to understand where the disdain directed towards your friend comes from, but you’re no longer blinded by naivety towards it.

It’s not just Imai. Every time someone stops by Murata’s home, they eye Sukuna like something to be picked apart. Even your own flesh and blood doesn’t extend the kindness to him that they did to Saya.

The world feels several degrees colder.

“They’re wrong,” you declare adamantly. “All of them.”

He appreciates your kindness more than you could know. He holds your tenacity close, for he has none left himself.

Still, it still stands as a reminder that while he knows you’re more aware of the difference between Sukuna and the rest of the villagers, there’s dissonance in the way you both view the world. But the world will keep turning. And the child has to keep going. So he sucks in a breath and nods, tempering his grief in an effort to truly pay respect to Saya.

The moon grows closer to the horizon by the time you’re back on your feet. You already know you won’t get much sleep when your mother inevitably comes to reprimand you, but your mind is set on something else.

Sukuna pauses after pulling the bows over his head again, allowing them to hang from his shoulder. He holds the ebira in a hand, rolling one arrow between two fingers. Slowly, he leans over to settle the arrow at the base of the grave. You suck in a breath at the sight, somber with loss.

“An offering,” Sukuna echoes your explanation from earlier, like he’s internalizing it for himself. “To let her know her archers are protecting her spirit.”

You blink several times in an effort to keep your composure, nodding at last when Sukuna seeks your approval to leave. With one more glance back at the burial plot, you follow after your friend to practice archery until the sun kisses the horizon.

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➴ a/n ; we're baaack! ty as always for the love on this series <3 i also want to give a fair warning that the following chapters will deal with extremely dark content. while i don't want to spoil what will happen, please do read the warnings before diving in.

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