✰ pearl!

he took a breath, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. the bells jingled softly with the movement. "why did the knight bring a ladder to the bar?"

you waited.

he stared at you, waiting for you to ask why. when you didn't, he shifted his weight, the bells ringing again. "because he heard the drinks were on the house."

silence.

absolute, crushing silence.

you stared at him, blinking once, twice. the punchline hung in the air, limp and lifeless. a few courtiers near the front snorted, but it was clearly out of pity, not genuine humor.

choso’s ears—hidden somewhat by his messy hair—turned a shade of crimson that rivaled his motley. he looked at you, his dark eyes wide with a desperate, pleading hope that you might find it funny. when you didn't crack a smile, he looked down again, his shoulders slumping.

"i see," you said, your tone dry as dust. "well. that was... informative."

"i-i have another," he rushed out, panic edging his voice. "what do you call a fake noodle?"

"an impasta?" you guessed, reciting the most basic joke in the kingdom.

he nodded vigorously, the bells on his hat jingling with the motion. "yes. that is... that is the joke."

"you bore me," you said, cutting him off before he could offer another stale pun. "and your jokes are older than the stones in this castle."

he winced, looking genuinely wounded. "i... i’m trying, your highness."

"try harder," you snapped, though there was no real heat behind it. you were just bored, and he was an easy target. "you’re annoying. the bells are annoying. your face is... serious. you look like you’re attending a funeral, not entertaining a princess."

his jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. he just bowed again, deeper this time, careful not to trip. "i will endeavor to improve, your highness."

"see that you do," you waved a hand dismissively. "you’re dismissed for now. go practice. somewhere far away from here."

he bowed a third time, retreating backward toward the doors, clumsy and stiff. the bells rang with every step, a dull, rhythmic tolling that followed him out of the room. the heavy doors shut, silencing the sound, and the court resumed its murmuring, the new jester already forgotten by most.

but you remembered the flush on his cheeks, the way his large hands had trembled slightly.

—

later that afternoon, you were in the gardens, walking the hedgerows with your ladies-in-waiting. the air was crisp, the scent of roses heavy and sweet. you were discussing the upcoming harvest festival, the tedious details of decorations and feasts, when a flash of ugly red caught your eye near the fountain.

it was him. choso.

he was standing by the stone basin, staring at the water as if it held the secrets of the universe. he wasn't juggling, wasn't tumbling, wasn't doing anything remotely jester-like. he was just... standing there, looking like a misplaced gargoyle.

"oh, look," elara, your closest lady, giggled behind her hand. "it’s the gloomy jester."

"perhaps he’s waiting for the fish to tell him a joke," another maid added, earning a ripple of laughter.

you felt a strange urge to defend him, which was ridiculous. he was annoying. but as you drew closer, you saw him reach out a hand, his fingers hovering over the surface of the water. a dragonfly landed on his knuckle, and for a second, his expression softened. he didn't crush it. he didn't flick it away. he just watched it, his dark eyes curious.

then he saw you.

the softness vanished, replaced by that familiar, panicked stiffness. he jerked his hand back, the dragonfly flying off, and immediately tried to execute a bow. he managed to dip low without falling, but the bells on his shoes rang out sharply against the cobblestones.

"your highness!" he said, his voice tight.

"still here?" you asked, stopping before him. you looked him up and down. the motley was even more daunting in the sunlight, the red fabric clashing violently with the green of the hedges. "i thought i told you to go practice."

"i was... practicing," he said, gesturing vaguely at the fountain. "observation. humor is rooted in observation, they say."

"and what have you observed?"

he paused, thinking hard. his brows furrowed in concentration. "that the water is wet. and the stone is hard."

elara snorted, quickly covering her mouth. you fought the urge to roll your eyes.

"riveting," you said. "truly, the court is lucky to have such a keen wit."

he looked down, his ears turning pink again. "i’m not... i’m not naturally funny, your highness. i was hired for my... other skills."

"other skills?" you raised an eyebrow. "can you juggle? tumble? swallow fire?"

he shook his head. "no. but i can... stand very still. and i have good reflexes."

"that is not what a jester does."

"i know," he said quietly.

you sighed, stepping closer. the scent of him was unexpected—not the cloying smell of cheap perfume or sweat, but something earthy, like old paper and rain. his hands were clasped behind his back, knuckles white.

"look," you said, softening your tone slightly. "my father hired you to make me laugh. or at least, to distract me. you’re failing miserably."

"i’m sorry," he said, and he sounded it. genuinely, deeply sorry. "i will try harder. i can... i can learn a new routine. i can tumble. i can try to be... louder."

"louder isn't better," you told him. "you’re stiff. you move like a soldier, not a performer. relax."

he blinked, looking at you as if you’d spoken a foreign language. "relax?"

"yes. loosen up. stop looking like you’re about to be executed."

he let out a breath, a short, sharp exhale. "i’m not used to... this. the bells. the colors. the expectation of joy."

"what are you used to?"

his eyes met yours, and for a second, the mask slipped. there was a hardness there, a history of violence and loss that didn't belong in a garden. then it was gone, shuttered away. "nothing important, your highness. just... the quiet."

you studied him for a long moment. he was an enigma, this jester who couldn't joke, who stood like a statue, who looked at dragonflies with tenderness.

"fine," you said finally. "you may follow me for the rest of the walk. but no bells."

he looked confused. "no bells?"

"take them off. they’re grating on my nerves."

he hesitated, then reached up to his hat. he unhooked the small, tarnished bells one by one, placing them carefully into a pouch at his belt. the silence that followed was profound. without the constant jingling, he seemed... larger. more imposing. the silence around him was heavy, but it was a comfortable silence, not the awkward one from the throne room.

"better," you murmured. "now, walk. and try not to look like you’re marching to war."

he nodded, falling into step beside you, keeping a respectful distance. he walked quietly, his boots making soft thuds on the path. for the next hour, he followed you through the gardens, silent and observant. he didn't try to tell a joke. he didn't try to tumble. he just walked.

and strangely, you didn't mind his presence.

—

it became a routine, then. not a comfortable one—not yet—but a routine nonetheless. every afternoon, like clockwork, choso would appear in your solar. he'd knock twice, wait for your curt "enter," and then take his place in the furthest chair by the window. sometimes he brought nothing. sometimes he brought a book he clearly wasn't reading, just holding it in his lap like a prop, his dark eyes flicking up every few seconds to check if you'd noticed him failing at the one thing he was supposed to be doing.

you noticed. you always noticed.

"you're staring at that page like it insulted your bloodline," you said one afternoon, not looking up from your embroidery. the fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm shadows across the room. outside, rain streaked the windows in silver lines.

he startled, the book nearly slipping from his grasp. "i'm reading."

"you've been on the same page for twenty minutes."

he looked down at the book, then back at you, his expression caught between guilt and defiance. "it's a... complex passage."

"it's a cookbook."

the silence that followed was excruciating. you could see the exact moment the realization hit him—the way his shoulders sagged, the way his nose turned pink beneath the messy fall of his hair. he closed the book slowly, setting it on the small table beside him with exaggerated care.

"i was hungry," he said, which was such a blatant lie that you almost laughed. almost.

"you're supposed to be humouring me," you reminded him, threading your needle with a sharp, precise motion. "not reading cookbooks in the corner."

"i know."

"so entertain me."

he opened his mouth. closed it. opened it again. "would you like to hear about the history of bread-making?"

"no."

"the proper way to knead dough?"

"absolutely not."

he slumped back in his chair, looking utterly defeated. the motley he wore today was a deep purple and gold, the colors rich but somehow making him look even more out of place, like a crow dressed in peacock feathers. the bells on his hat—he'd started wearing them again, a small rebellion or perhaps just forgetfulness—jingled softly with the movement.

"i don't know what you want from me," he said quietly, and there was a raw honesty in his voice that made you pause.

you set your embroidery down, turning to face him fully. he looked miserable. genuinely, deeply miserable. his large hands were clasped in his lap, knuckles white, and he wouldn't meet your eyes.

"i want you to be what you were hired to be," you said, not unkindly. "a jester. someone who makes people laugh. someone who brings lightness to this... heavy place."

"i'm not light," he said, still staring at his hands. "i've never been light."

"i can see that."

he looked up then, surprised. his dark eyes searched your face, looking for mockery, for cruelty. he found neither.

"you're not light," you agreed. "but you're here. and you're trying. and that's... something, i suppose."

he held your gaze for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. not quite hope, but perhaps the ghost of it. "something," he repeated softly.

"don't let it go to your head."

he almost smiled.

—

the rain continued for three days straight, turning the castle grounds into a muddy, dripping prison. you were confined to the indoors, pacing the halls like a caged animal, your ladies-in-waiting trailing behind you with their endless chatter about needlework and court gossip. you loved them, truly, but sometimes their voices were like nails on a chalkboard.

you found yourself in the library on the third day, seeking solitude among the towering shelves of leather-bound books. the room was vast and quiet, lit by the pale gray light filtering through the high windows. you ran your fingers along the spines, searching for nothing in particular, just needing to move, to think.

"your highness."

you turned to find choso standing at the end of the aisle, looking as out of place among the books as he did everywhere else. he was holding a small, battered book in one hand, his other hand fidgeting with the hem of his motley.

"what are you doing here?" you asked, more curious than annoyed.

"looking for... material," he said, holding up the book. "jokes. humor. something."

you raised an eyebrow. "you're researching jokes?"

"yes."

"in the library."

"…yes."

you couldn't help it. a small laugh escaped you, sharp and surprised. he blinked, looking startled by the sound.

"what?" he asked, defensive.

"you," you said, shaking your head. "you're researching jokes. like they're a subject to be studied!"

"they are," he insisted, his cheeks flushing. "humor is a skill. it can be learned."

"not like that!"

"how, then?"

you thought about it, tilting your head. "i don't know. it just... happens. you see something funny, or you say something without thinking, and people laugh. it's not something you can read about in a book."

he looked down at the book in his hands, then back at you, his expression crestfallen. "so i'm hopeless."

"i didn't say that."

"you didn't have to."

you sighed, stepping closer. up close, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. he looked tired. not just physically, but tired in his soul.

"choso," you said, and it was the first time you'd used his name without the title attached. he looked up, startled. "you're trying too hard. that's the problem."

"i'm not trying hard enough. you just said—"

"i know what i said. but you're so focused on being funny that you're forgetting to just... be. be yourself. be present. the humor will come."

he stared at you, his dark eyes wide and uncertain. "what if myself isn't funny?"

"then you'll be the world's most serious jester," you said dryly. "and at least you'll be original."

he huffed, a sound that was almost a laugh. almost. "original. great. that's what every jester dreams of."

"you're not every jester."

"no," he agreed quietly. "i'm not."

you stood there for a moment, the silence stretching between you. it wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it was heavy with something you couldn't quite name. then you turned away, back to the bookshelves, dismissing the feeling.

"fine," you said over your shoulder. "you can stay. but no more research. just sit. and be quiet. let the silence do the work."

"the silence?"

"yes. sometimes silence is funnier than any joke," you lied.

he looked skeptical, but he didn't argue. he moved to a chair in the corner, settling into it with a grace that belied his size. he didn't open the book. he just sat, watching you browse the shelves.

the minutes ticked by. the rain drummed against the windows. the fire in the library's hearth crackled softly. you pulled out a book at random, flipping through the pages without really reading, hyperaware of his presence in the corner of your vision.

"your highness," he said finally, breaking the silence.

"what now?"

"why do you stay in here? in the library. you could be in your solar. it's warmer. more comfortable."

you shrugged, not turning around. "i like the quiet."

"you like the quiet," he repeated, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "the princess who complains about my silence likes the quiet."

"it's different," you said, defensive. "your silence is... heavy. oppressive. the library's silence is peaceful."

"oppressive," he echoed, and now he was definitely smiling. "that's a big word."

you turned to glare at him, but the expression died on your face when you saw him. he was leaning back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, the book forgotten on the armrest. his posture was relaxed, his face softer than you'd ever seen it. and he was smiling—not the small, hesitant almost-smiles he'd given you before, but a real smile, reaching his eyes.

"what?" you demanded, feeling heat creep up your neck.

"nothing," he said, still smiling. "just... you're funny."

"i'm not trying to be funny."

"i know," he said, and his smile widened. "that's what makes it funny."

you stared at him, your mouth opening and closing like a fish. he thought you were funny. him. the man who couldn't tell a joke to save his life thought you were funny.

"that's—" you sputtered. "i'm not—you can't just—"

and then, despite yourself, you laughed.

it burst out of you, unexpected and bright, echoing off the high ceilings of the library. you laughed until your sides hurt, until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, until you had to lean against the bookshelf for support.

choso watched you, his smile softening into something warmer, something that made your chest ache in a way you didn't want to examine.

"there it is," he said quietly.

"there what is?"

"the sound i've been trying to earn."

—

after that, something shifted. not dramatically, not all at once, but slowly, like the turning of a season. you still complained about him. he still failed spectacularly at being a jester. but the edges of your annoyance softened, worn down by the quiet afternoons and the unexpected moments of levity.

he started appearing in more places. not just your solar, but the gardens, the hallways, the kitchens. he was always there, a silent shadow in motley, watching you with those dark, intense eyes. you'd be walking to a meeting with your father, and you'd turn a corner to find him standing there, waiting.

"following me now?" you'd ask, exasperated.

"the king requested i attend to you," he'd say, which was a transparent lie and you both knew it.

"the king doesn't care where i am."

"perhaps i care," he'd say, so quietly you almost missed it.

you didn't know what to do with that. so you did nothing. you just kept walking, and he kept following, and the silence between you grew more comfortable with each passing day.

one afternoon, you were in the throne room, sitting in on a council meeting. it was tedious beyond measure—trade agreements and tax disputes and border negotiations that made your eyes glaze over. you sat in your chair on the dais, trying to look engaged, while your mind wandered.

you glanced to the side and saw choso standing against the wall, trying to blend in with the tapestries. he was failing miserably. the motley was too bright, his presence too solid. but he was trying, standing so still that he almost looked like a statue.

you caught his eye. he looked panicked, like a child caught stealing sweets. you fought the urge to smile.

the council droned on. lord something-or-other was explaining the intricacies of grain tariffs, his voice a monotonous buzz. you felt your attention slipping, your eyelids growing heavy.

then you felt it. a small, light touch on your ankle.

you looked down. choso had somehow moved closer without you noticing, and he was holding a small, folded piece of paper. he pressed it into your hand, his fingers cold against your skin, and then retreated back to his spot against the wall.

you unfolded the note under the table, hiding it in your lap.

if i have to listen to one more minute of this, i'm going to fall asleep and roll off this wall. please save me. :c

you bit your lip to keep from laughing. you glanced at him. he was staring straight ahead, his face a perfect mask of innocence.

you scribbled a response on the bottom of the note and waited for him to pass by again. when he did, pretending to adjust his hat, you pressed the paper into his hand.

he unfolded it later, and you watched from the corner of your eye as he read it.

you're the jester! make a joke. save us both. :D

he looked at you, horrified. and you raised an eyebrow, challenging him.

he swallowed hard, then stepped forward into the center of the room. the council members stopped talking, turning to look with confusion.

"forgive me, my lords," choso said, his voice steady despite the flush creeping up his neck. "but i couldn't help but notice... we've been discussing grain for over an hour."

lord something-or-other frowned. "yes, and your point is?"

"my point," choso said, "is that i now know more about grain than i ever wanted to. and i'm a jester. my job is to know about things like... i don't know, juggling. and funny hats." he gestured to his own hat, the bells jingling. "but apparently, i'm also an expert in agriculture now."

silence.

then, unexpectedly, your father laughed. a deep, booming laugh that filled the throne room. "the boy's right!" the king said, wiping his eyes. "we've been at this too long. let's take a break."

the council members murmured their agreement, standing and stretching. you sat there, stunned, as choso bowed and retreated back to his spot against the wall.

when the room had cleared, you approached him. he looked nervous, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his motley.

"that was—" you started.

"terrible," he finished. "i know. i'm xi. i just—"

"that was perfect," you interrupted.

he looked up, surprised. "what?"

"you made my father laugh. you made the whole council stop. you were..." you searched for the word. "you were yourself. and it worked."

he stared at you, his dark eyes wide and hopeful. "really?"

"really."

he smiled, that small, genuine smile that was becoming familiar. "thank you, your highness."

"stop thanking me," you said, but there was no bite to it. "just keep doing that! being honest. being real. it's better than any joke you could study."

"i'll try," he said. "for you."

the words hung in the air, heavy with implication. you turned away before he could see the flush on your cheeks, before he could see the way your heart had stumbled in your chest.

"come on," you said over your shoulder. "i need air. and you're going to walk with me."

"yes, your highness," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

you walked through the castle halls, side by side, the silence between you no longer heavy or oppressive. it was just plain old silence. comfortable and easy.

and if your hand brushed against his as you walked, neither of you mentioned it.

—

the days turned into weeks. the routine solidified. choso was everywhere— he was your shadow, your silent companion, your failed jester who was slowly, inexplicably, becoming something more.

you still teased him. he still complained. you still told him he was annoying and unfunny and too serious for his own good. but the words had lost their edge, softened by the warmth that had begun to grow between you.

one evening, you were in the gardens, watching the sun set over the castle walls. the sky was painted in shades of orange and pink, the air cool and sweet with the scent of roses. you sat on a stone bench, your embroidery forgotten in your lap, lost in thought.

"a penny for your thoughts?"

you looked up to find choso standing before you, his hands clasped behind his back. the setting sun caught the gold threads in his motley, making him glow.

"they're worth more than a mere penny," you said, but there was no heat in it.

"then i'll owe you," he said, sitting beside you without invitation. he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, despite the chill in the air.

"you'll owe me a lot," you said, turning back to the sunset.

"i don't mind."

you sat in silence for a while, watching the sky darken. the first stars began to appear, faint and distant.

"choso?" you said finally.

"yes?"

"why do you stay? you could have left by now. found another position. somewhere you didn't have to pretend to be something you're not."

he was quiet for a long time. when he spoke, his voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "because you see me."

you turned to look at him. "what do you mean?"

"everyone else sees the jester. the motley. the bells. the failure. but you..." he met your eyes, his dark gaze intense. "you see me. the real me. and you don't taunt me. well, not as bad as the servants do."

your breath caught in your throat. you didn't know what to say. so you said nothing. you just sat there, side by side, watching the stars come out.

and when his hand found yours in the darkness, his cold fingers intertwining with your warm ones, you didn't pull away.

the stars were multiplying now, scattered across the darkening sky like spilled salt. the air had grown colder, but you barely noticed. all you could focus on was the weight of his hand in yours, the way his thumb traced slow, absent circles against your knuckles.

"choso?" you breathed, and his name felt different in your mouth now. softer. more intimate.

"yes?" he turned to face you fully, and the distance between you shrank to nothing. his dark eyes searched your face, looking for permission, for confirmation, for something he seemed too afraid to name.

your heart hammered against your ribs. this was wrong. he was a jester. you were a princess. your father would—

you didn't care.

you leaned in, just slightly, your eyes flicking down to his lips. they were slightly chapped, parted, waiting. his breath hitched, warm against your cheek. his free hand came up, trembling, to cup your face. his palm was cold against your flushed skin, and you shivered, but not from the cold.

"princess," he whispered, and it sounded like a prayer.

you closed your eyes.

"choso!"

the voice boomed across the gardens like a crack of thunder. you jerked apart so fast you nearly fell off the bench. choso's hand dropped from your face like it had been burned, and he was on his feet in an instant, bowing low.

your father stood at the garden entrance, his massive frame silhouetted against the torchlight from the castle behind him. his face was flushed—from wine or anger, you couldn't tell—and his eyes were fixed on choso with an intensity that made your stomach drop.

"y-your majesty," choso said, his voice steady despite the panic you could see in the rigid set of his shoulders.

"the guests are waiting," your father said, his tone clipped. "the duke of the northern provinces has traveled three days to be here, and you're skulking in the gardens like a common servant. get inside. now."

choso didn't look at you. he couldn't. if he did, if your father saw the way his eyes lingered, the way his hands still trembled—

"at once, your majesty," choso said, and bowed again before turning on his heel and striding toward the castle. the bells on his hat jingled with each step, a mocking, cheerful sound that made you want to scream.

you sat there on the bench, your hand still warm from his touch, your lips still tingling with the ghost of what almost happened. your father watched choso go, his expression unreadable.

"daughter," he said finally, turning to you.

"father."

"inside. now. you have your duties to attend to."

you stood, gathering your embroidery with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. "of course, father."

you followed him into the castle, your mind racing. the warmth of the garden was replaced by the oppressive heat of the great hall, where torches blazed and the air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and spilled wine. the long tables were filled with nobles and dignitaries, their laughter and chatter a cacophony that made your head pound.

choso was already there, standing at the center of the hall, surrounded by expectant faces. he looked small somehow, despite his size. the motley seemed garish under the torchlight, the bells absurd. he caught your eye for just a second—a fleeting, desperate glance—before turning to the crowd.

"ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice carrying across the hall. "i hope you're enjoying the feast."

a few polite chuckles. most of the guests barely looked up from their plates.

"i thought i'd start with a little something to... lighten the mood." he reached into his sleeve and produced three wooden balls, beginning to juggle them with surprising dexterity. the balls arced through the air, catching the torchlight, and for a moment, you forgot to breathe.

he was good. really good. the balls moved in perfect rhythm, his hands a blur, his expression focused and intense. the guests began to pay attention, their conversations dying down as they watched.

then he added a fourth ball. then a fifth. the crowd gasped, impressed. choso's face remained serious, but you could see the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

"impressive," the duke of the northern provinces said, leaning forward in his seat. "but can you do it blindfolded?"

choso caught the balls one by one, tucking them back into his sleeve. "i can try, your grace!"

someone produced a silk scarf, and choso tied it around his eyes with practiced ease. he took a breath, then began to juggle again. the balls moved in perfect arcs, his hands finding them by instinct alone. the crowd erupted in applause.

you watched from your seat at the high table, your heart swelling with something you couldn't name. pride, maybe. or something deeper. something dangerous.

your father leaned over, his voice low. "he's adequate, i suppose. better than the last one."

"he's more than adequate," you said, not looking at your father. "he's talented."

"he's a jester!" your father said, dismissive. "talent is irrelevant. he serves a purpose. nothing more."

you bit your tongue, saying nothing. but inside, something hardened. a resolve you hadn't known you possessed.

choso finished his act to thunderous applause, bowing low. as he straightened, his eyes found yours across the crowded hall. the blindfold was gone, and the look he gave you was raw, unguarded, full of everything he couldn't say.

you held his gaze, letting him see the truth in your own eyes. i know. i feel it too. this isn't over.

he looked away first, bowing to the crowd and retreating to the edge of the hall. but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

the feast dragged on. course after course, speech after speech, toast after toast. you sat at the high table, smiling and nodding and saying all the right things, but your mind was elsewhere. on a garden bench. on cold hands and warm breath. on a moment that had been stolen from you.

when the feast finally ended, when the last guest had stumbled to their chambers and the hall had emptied, you found yourself alone. the servants were clearing the tables, their movements efficient and silent. you stood, your legs stiff from sitting, and made your way toward the door.

"your highness."

you turned. choso was standing in the shadows by the wall, half-hidden behind a pillar. he looked exhausted, the motley rumpled, his hair disheveled.

"choso," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

he stepped closer, checking to make sure no one was watching. "i'm sorry. about before. in the gardens. i shouldn't have—"

"don't," you said, cutting him off. "don't apologize for that."

"but your father—"

"my father doesn't own me," you said, and the words felt like a declaration of war. "he doesn't control what i feel. who i—"

you stopped yourself before you could say too much. but the words hung in the air anyway, heavy with implication.

choso stared at you, his dark eyes wide. "princess—"

"don't call me that," you said, stepping closer. "not now. not when we're alone."

"i have to," he said, his voice strained. "if anyone hears—"

"let them hear."

"you don't know what you're saying," he said, but there was no conviction in his voice. only fear. and longing.

"i know exactly what i'm saying," you said, and you reached out, your hand finding his. his fingers were cold, as always, but they curled around yours without hesitation. "i know what i want."

"and what do you want?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

you looked up at him, at this man who had stumbled into your life like a storm, who had turned your world upside down with his silence and his seriousness and his unexpected, devastating warmth.

"you," you said simply. "i want you."

his breath hitched. his hand tightened around yours. for a moment, you thought he might pull you close, might kiss you right there in the empty hall, consequences be damned.

then footsteps echoed from the corridor, and the moment shattered. choso dropped your hand like it had burned him, stepping back into the shadows.

"tomorrow," he whispered. "meet me inthe gardens. at midnight."

"choso—"

"please," he said, and the desperation in his voice made your chest ache. "i can't... i can't do this here. not where anyone can see. but tomorrow. i promise."

you nodded, your heart pounding. "tomorrow."

he melted back into the shadows, disappearing as silently as he'd appeared. you stood there for a long moment, your hand still tingling from his touch, your lips still burning with the memory of what almost happened.

then you turned and walked to your chambers, your mind racing, your heart full.

tomorrow at midnight in the gardens.

you couldn't wait.

—

you woke with the sun, which was unusual for you. normally you'd sleep until your ladies-in-waiting came to rouse you, groaning and pulling the covers over your head. but today your eyes flew open before dawn had even fully broken, your heart already racing, your body thrumming with an energy you couldn't name.

you threw the covers aside and rang for your maids before you could talk yourself out of it. elara arrived first, her hair still mussed from sleep, blinking at you in confusion.

"your highness? is everything alright?"

"everything is perfect!" you said, and the word came out breathless, giddy. "everything is perfect. i need my sewing basket. and the blue silk. no—the green. the green with the silver thread."

elara stared at you like you'd grown a second head. "you want to sew? now? it's barely dawn."

"yes, now. please."

the maids exchanged glances but didn't argue. they knew better than to question you when you had that look in your eyes—the one that said you'd already made up your mind and the world could either get on board or get out of the way.

they brought your sewing basket, the green silk, the silver thread. you settled by the window where the light was best, your fingers already moving, stitching with a focus and precision that surprised even you. you were making a handkerchief. a simple thing, really. but you embroidered the edges with tiny roses, each petal perfect, each leaf delicate. your best work. the kind of work that took hours, that demanded your full attention.

but you didn't want your full attention. you wanted to think about cold hands and dark eyes and the way choso's voice cracked when he said your name.

"you're humming," elara observed from across the room, where she was mending one of your gowns.

you stopped. you hadn't even realized. "am i?"

"yes. you rarely hum."

you started again, unable to help it. the melody was aimless, wandering, the kind of tune that came from a heart too full to contain itself. you stitched and hummed and watched the sun climb higher in the sky, marking the hours until midnight.

the day crawled. you sewed through breakfast, through lunch, through the afternoon. your fingers moved automatically, the needle flashing in and out of the fabric, while your mind wandered to gardens and starlight and the almost-kiss that had been stolen from you.

"your highness, you've been at this for hours," elara said, concern creeping into her voice. "your fingers must be sore."

you looked down. she was right. your fingertips were red, the skin tender from the needle. but you couldn't stop. if you stopped, you'd have to think. and if you thought, you'd have to confront the enormity of what you were feeling, the danger of what you were planning.

"just a little longer," you said. "i want to finish this tonight."

tonight. the word sent a shiver down your spine.

the afternoon bled into evening. you ate dinner mechanically, tasting nothing, your mind already in the gardens, already by the stone bench, already waiting. your father sat at the head of the table, discussing trade agreements with some lord or other, and you nodded and smiled and said nothing.

"you're quiet tonight, daughter," your father observed, his eyes narrowing.

"just tired, father," you said. "it's been a long day."

"hm." he didn't look convinced, but he let it go. "early night, then. you look pale."

"yes, father."

you excused yourself as soon as politeness allowed, retreating to your chambers with a flurry of excuses about headaches and early mornings. your maids helped you out of your gown, into your nightdress, brushing out your hair with practiced efficiency.

"will you need anything else tonight, your highness?" elara asked, pausing at the door.

"nope! sleep well, elara."

"you too, your highness."

the door closed. the lock clicked. and then you were alone.

you sat by the window, the finished handkerchief in your lap. it was beautiful, if you said so yourself. the roses were perfect, the silver thread catching the candlelight. you'd made it for him. a stupid, sentimental gift that you'd probably never have the courage to give.

you watched the moon climb the sky. nine o'clock. ten o'clock. your heart hammered with each passing minute.

then, soft as a breath, a knock at your door.

you froze. no one knocked on your door at this hour. no one dared.

another knock. three taps, a pause, then two more.

you were at the door in an instant, your hand on the lock, your breath caught in your throat. you shouldn't open it. you knew you shouldn't. but your hand was already turning the mechanism, already pulling the door inward.

choso stood in the corridor, still wearing his motley, his dark hair damp from the night air. his eyes were wide, wild, desperate. he looked like a man who'd been drowning and had finally broken the surface.

"choso?!" you breathed. "what are you—it's only ten. i thought—midnight—"

"i couldn't wait," he said, and his voice was raw, stripped bare. "i tried. i waited in the gardens for an hour, but i couldn't—i needed to see you. i needed to know if last night was real. if you meant what you said."

you stared at him, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst from your chest. "you came to my chambers. choso, if anyone sees you—"

"i don't care," he said, and the words were fierce, almost angry. "i don't care about the rules, or the risk, or what your father will do if he finds out. i just... i needed to see you."

you should have sent him away. you should have closed the door, locked it, pretended this never happened. but you were already reaching for him, your hand curling into the fabric of his motley, pulling him inside.

the door closed behind him. the lock clicked. and then you were alone together, in your chambers, with nothing but candlelight and moonlight and the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you.

"hi," he said softly, and the word was so simple, so human, that it made your chest ache.

"hi," you whispered back.

he looked around your chambers like he was seeing them for the first time. the canopy bed, the sewing basket by the window, the embroidery hoop with the green silk. his eyes lingered on the handkerchief in your lap, the one with the roses.

"you made that," he said, his voice wondering.

"yes."

"for me?"

you nodded, unable to speak.

he crossed the room in two strides, kneeling before you like a knight before his queen. his hands found yours, cold fingers intertwining with warm ones, and he looked up at you with those dark, intense eyes.

"i'm sorry," he said. "for coming here. for being reckless. for putting you in danger. but i couldn't—i couldn't stay away. not after you said—"

"i meant it," you said, cutting him off. "every word."

his breath hitched. his hands tightened around yours. "but i'm nothing. a jester. a failure. a man who can't even make people laugh. you're a princess. you deserve—"

"i deserve someone who loves me," you said, echoing his words from the garden. "someone who doesn't look away."

he stared at you, his eyes shining in the candlelight. "i see you," he whispered. "i see all of you. the sharp tongue and the soft heart. the crown and the girl underneath. i see you, and i—"

he stopped, the words catching in his throat.

"you what?" you prompted, your voice barely a breath.

"i love you," he said, and the words tumbled out like a confession, like a prayer, like a man jumping off a cliff and trusting the wind to catch him. "i love you, and i know i shouldn't, and i know it's wrong, and i know your father would have me executed if he knew, but i can't—i can't not say it. not after last night. not after you looked at me like i was something more than a fool in motley."

your eyes burned. your vision blurred. you were crying, you realized. tears streaming down your face, hot and fast, and you couldn't stop them.

"choso," you said, and his name was a sob, a laugh, a benediction.

he reached up, his cold thumb brushing the tears from your cheeks. "don't cry," he said, his voice breaking. "please don't cry. i didn't mean to make you cry."

"they're happy tears," you said, laughing through the sobs. "you idiot. i'm so happy!"

he smiled, that small, genuine smile that was becoming your favorite thing in the world. "happy tears," he repeated, like he was testing the words. "i've never made anyone cry happy tears before."

"there's a first time for everything," you said, and then you were leaning down, your hands cupping his face, your lips finding his.

the kiss was soft at first. tentative. a question and an answer all at once. his lips were chapped, slightly rough, and he tasted like rain and something sweet, like honey or wine. his hands came up to frame your face, trembling, holding you like you were something precious, something that might shatter if he held too tight.

then the kiss deepened. his tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you granted it without hesitation. he groaned against your mouth, the sound low and desperate, and pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist.

you tumbled off the chair, landing in a heap on the floor, laughing and kissing and tangled together. he was above you, his weight pressing you into the carpet, his hands everywhere—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your sides.

"wait," he gasped, pulling back. his eyes were wild, his lips swollen, his hair a mess. "wait. we should—we should talk about this. about what this means. about the consequences."

"later," you said, pulling him back down. "we'll talk later. fuck— i need you, cho."

something in him broke. or maybe something in him finally came together. he kissed you again, harder this time, his hands sliding under your nightdress, cold fingers against the warm skin of your waist. you gasped into his mouth, arching up into him, your fingers tangling in his messy hair.

"god—" he breathed against your lips, his voice wrecked. "you're so soft. so perfect."

his mouth trailed down your jaw, your neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. you tilted your head back, giving him access, and he took full advantage—nuzzling the sensitive spot below your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

"cho!—" you whimpered, your hips rolling up against him instinctively. he groaned, grinding down, and you could feel how hard he was through the layers of fabric between you.

"i know—i'm sorry—" he panted, but he didn't stop. his hands slid higher, brushing the underside of your breasts, and you moaned, the sound louder than you intended.

"shh," he whispered, pressing a finger to his own lips. "we have to be quiet. if anyone hears—"

you nodded, biting your lip to keep from making more sounds. but then his thumb brushed over your nipple, and a small, helpless noise escaped anyway. he swallowed it with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, and you felt him smile against your mouth.

"i can't help it," you mumbled against his lips.

"i want to hear you," he said, his voice low and rough. "i want to hear every sound. but not tonight. not here."

his hands continued their exploration, mapping your body like he was memorizing it. every curve, every dip, every place that made you gasp or shiver or squirm. he was attentive, careful, his touch reverent—like you were something holy.

then the door burst open.

"your highness, i forgot to—"

elara stood in the doorway, her hand still on the doorknob, her eyes wide as saucers. she took in the scene in a single, horrifying glance—you on the floor, choso above you, his hands under your nightdress, your hair a mess, your lips swollen, the two of you tangled together in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

for one frozen moment, nobody moved.

then elara screamed.

it was a high, piercing sound that shattered the silence like glass. she stumbled backward into the corridor, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes still wide with shock.

"the king!" she shrieked. "someone get the king! the jester—he's—the princess—"

"elara, wait!" you scrambled to your feet, your nightdress falling back into place, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might explode. "elara, please— don't!"

but she was already running, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, her screams growing fainter but no less terrifying.

choso was on his feet too, his face pale, his eyes wide with panic. "i have to go," he said, his voice tight. "i have to—if your father finds me here—"

"choso—"

"i'm sorry," he said, and the words were desperate, anguished. "i'm so sorry. i never should have come. i put you in danger. i—"

"stop," you said, grabbing his hand. "we'll figure this out. we'll—"

"there's nothing to figure out," he said, and his voice was hollow. "your father will have me executed. or exiled. or worse. and you—god, what will he do to you?"

"i don't care," you said, and you meant it. "i don't care what he does to me. i just—"

"i care!" he said, and his voice broke. "i care what happens to you. and i won't let my selfishness destroy your life."

he pulled his hand from yours, stepping back. the distance between you felt like a chasm, widening with every breath.

"choso, please—"

"i love you," he said, and the words were a goodbye, raw and ragged and final. "i love you, and that's why i— i have to go."

he moved to the window, throwing it open. the night air rushed in, cool and damp, carrying the scent of rain and roses. he looked back at you one last time, his dark eyes full of everything he couldn't say, everything he'd never get the chance to.

"i'm sorry," he whispered.

and then he was gone, disappearing into the darkness like a shadow swallowed by the night.

you stood there, frozen, your heart shattering into a thousand pieces. the sound of elara's screams still echoed in your ears, growing fainter as she ran down the corridor, but no less terrifying for the distance.

you had maybe seconds. maybe less.

you looked down at yourself—your nightdress rumpled, your hair a mess, your lips still swollen from his kisses. evidence everywhere. you grabbed a shawl from the back of your chair, wrapping it around your shoulders, trying to look presentable, trying to look innocent. your hands were shaking so badly you could barely tie it.

you smoothed your hair. you straightened your nightdress. you tried to slow your breathing, to calm the frantic beating of your heart.

but it wasn't enough. you knew it wasn't enough.

the footsteps came first. heavy, booted, multiple sets. the guards. you could hear them before you saw them—the clatter of armor, the jingle of weapons, the low murmur of voices.

then the door to your chambers slammed open.

four guards filled the doorway, their faces hard and impassive. behind them, elara hovered, her eyes red from crying, her hands wringing together.

she wouldn't look at you.

"princess," the captain of the guard said, his voice flat. "the king requests your presence. immediately."

"i'm not dressed," you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

"now, your highness."

it wasn't a request.

you followed them through the corridors, your bare feet cold against the stone floor. the castle was awake now, torches blazing in their sconces, servants peering from doorways with wide eyes and whispered gossip. you kept your chin up, your expression neutral, even as your insides churned with fear.

they didn't take you to the throne room. no, they took you to your father's private study.

the room was small, intimate, lined with books and maps. a fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. your father stood by the window, his back to you, his hands clasped behind his back. he was still wearing his dinner clothes, but his crown was gone, his hair disheveled.

and there, on his desk, was choso.

no—not on his desk. in front of it. on his knees.

two guards flanked him, their hands on his shoulders, forcing him down. his hands were bound behind his back with rough rope, his motley torn at the shoulder, a bruise already forming on his cheek. his head was bowed, his hair falling forward to hide his face.

but you could see his ears. they were red, just like they were on the first night you spoke.

your heart clenched.

"father," you said, your voice carefully controlled.

your father turned. his face was a mask of cold fury, his eyes like chips of ice. "close the door," he said to the guards.

the door closed and the lock clicked. you were alone with your father and the man you loved, kneeling on the floor like a dirty criminal.

"do you know why you're here?" your father asked, his voice deceptively calm.

"i can explain—" you started.

"can you?" he interrupted, his voice rising. "can you explain why my daughter's lady-in-waiting found a man in her chambers? a man with his hands under her dress? a man who is supposed to be a jester, not a—"

he stopped himself, his jaw clenching. the silence that followed was suffocating.

"he didn't force me," you said, your voice quiet but firm. "i wanted him there."

your father's eyes narrowed. "you wanted him there."

"yes."

"you invited a common jester into your bedchambers. willingly."

"yes."

he stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. then he turned to choso, who hadn't moved, hadn't lifted his head.

"and you," your father said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "you took advantage of my daughter's kindness. you betrayed my trust. you—"

"i love her," choso said, and his voice was steady despite the fear you could see trembling in his shoulders. "i love her, and she loves me. i didn't take advantage of anything. i would never—"

"silence!" your father's voice cracked like a whip. "you don't speak unless spoken to. you're a jester. a servant. you're nothing."

the words hit you like a physical blow. you stepped forward, placing yourself between your father and choso.

"he's not nothing," you said, your voice shaking with emotion. "he's kind, and he's good, and he sees me. not the princess, me!"

"he sees a way to advance himself," your father said coldly. "a way to climb above his station. and you, foolish girl, have given him the perfect opportunity."

"that's not true!" you said, but your voice wavered. doubt crept in, cold and insidious. was it true? had choso been using you?

you looked at him. he was looking at you now, his dark eyes meeting yours. there was no guile in them. no calculation. only pain, and love, and a desperate, aching sincerity.

"i would die before i hurt her," choso said quietly. "i would give up everything. my life. my freedom. my heart. anything for her."

your father laughed. it was a cold, bitter sound. "how poetic. how romantic. and how utterly irrelevant."

he turned to the guards. "take him to the dungeon. he'll be executed at dawn for the crime of defiling the princess."

"no!" you lunged forward, but the captain of the guard caught your arm, holding you back. "father, please! you can't—"

"i can, and i will," your father said, his voice hard as stone. "he's a traitor. a seducer. a man who thought he could touch what belongs to the crown. he'll die, and you will forget him."

"i'll never forget him," you said, tears streaming down your face. "i'll never—"

"you will!" your father yelled. "because tomorrow, you'll begin your betrothal to the duke of the northern provinces. the arrangements have already been made."

the world tilted. your knees buckled. if the guard hadn't been holding you, you would have fallen.

"what?" you whispered.

"the duke has agreed to the match," your father said, his voice matter-of-fact. "the wedding will take place in one month. you will be a good wife, and you will produce heirs, and you will forget this... indiscretion ever happened."

"i won't marry him," you said, your voice breaking. "i won't—"

"you will," your father said. "or i'll have the jester tortured before he dies. is that what you want?"

you looked at choso. he was shaking his head, his eyes pleading. don't. don't sacrifice yourself for me. please.

"your majesty," choso said, his voice raw. "please. punish me. kill me. do whatever you want with me. but don't force her into a marriage she doesn't want. don't make her suffer for my mistakes."

"your mistakes?" your father repeated, his lip curling. "you think this is about your mistakes? this is about order. about hierarchy. about the natural order of things. you are nothing. nothing, i say! and you forgot your place!"

he turned to the guards. "take him away."

the guards hauled choso to his feet. he didn't resist. he just looked at you, his dark eyes full of everything he couldn't say.

"i love you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "i'll always love you."

"choso!—" you sobbed, reaching for him, but the guard held you back.

they dragged him from the room. the door closed. his footsteps faded down the corridor, heavy and final.

you collapsed to your knees, your sobs echoing in the empty room. your father stood over you, his expression unreadable.

"you'll thank me one day," he said quietly. "when you're a duchess, with children of your own. you'll understand that i did what was necessary."

you said nothing. you just knelt there, broken, as the fire crackled and the shadows danced and the world you'd known crumbled to ash around you.

—

the morning of the execution came and went.

you didn't see the sun rise, nor did you hear the bells toll. you just sat in your window seat, wrapped in a blanket, staring at nothing, waiting for the moment when the world would end.

it didn't.

the hours passed. the sun climbed. the castle stirred to life around you. and still, you sat, numb and hollow, waiting for a grief that wouldn't come because you couldn't let yourself feel it. if you felt it, you'd shatter. and if you shattered, you'd never put yourself back together.

elara came at midday, her face pale. "your highness," she said softly. "the execution... it didn't happen."

you turned to look at her, your eyes blank. "what?"

"the king... he commuted the sentence. the jester is... he's alive."

the relief that flooded through you was so intense it was painful. your vision blurred. your hands shook. you pressed them against your mouth to stifle a sob.

"but," elara continued, her voice dropping, "the king has ordered him to perform tonight at the ball. for the duke."

the relief curdled into something else. something cold and sharp.

"perform," you repeated.

"yes. as... as punishment. to remind him of his place. to remind everyone." elara's eyes filled with tears. "your highness, i'm so sorry. i never meant—"

"leave," you said, your voice flat.

she obeyed, because what choice did she have?

you sat there for a long time, your mind racing. choso was alive! he was alive, and tonight, you'd see him. but not as yourself. not as the girl who'd kissed him on the floor of her chambers. as the princess. the betrothed. the prize being handed to another man.

the thought made you want to scream.

—

they came for you in the evening, a parade of maids and dressers and stylists, all chattering and fussing and pulling you in different directions. they bathed you in water scented with rose oil, scrubbed your skin until it glowed, brushed your hair until it shone like dark silk.

they dressed you in a gown of pale blue silk, the color of a winter sky. it was fitted through the bodice, cinched at the waist, the skirt flowing in soft layers to the floor. silver thread embroidered the hem, tiny stars and moons that caught the light when you moved. they placed a delicate silver circlet on your head, set with small sapphires that matched your eyes.

you looked beautiful, and yet, you felt like a corpse.

"your highness looks stunning," one of the maids gushed, adjusting the drape of your sleeve.

you said nothing. you just stared at your reflection in the mirror, at the stranger looking back at you. pale. hollow-eyed. dressed for a wedding that wasn't a wedding, a celebration that felt like a funeral.

"the duke will be enchanted!" another maid squealed, beaming.

you wanted to tell them that the duke could go to hell. that you'd rather throw yourself from the highest tower than dance with a man you'd never met, a man who was stealing you from the only person you'd ever loved.

but you said nothing. you just stood there, silent and still, as they finished their work and led you to the grand ballroom.

—

the ballroom was a blaze of light and color. hundreds of candles burned in crystal chandeliers overhead, casting a warm, golden glow over the assembled guests. the air was thick with the scent of perfume and wine and roasted meats, the sound of laughter and music and conversation a constant, buzzing hum.

you stood at the top of the stairs, your hand on the banister, your heart pounding. below, the crowd milled and mingled, a sea of silk and jewels and smiling faces. at the far end of the room, on a raised dais, sat your father on his throne, resplendent in his crown and robes.

and beside him, standing with an easy, confident posture that spoke of wealth and power, was a man you'd never seen before.

he was tall. impossibly tall. his hair was white—not gray, nor silver, but pure, startling white—and it stuck up in all directions, defying gravity and good sense. he wore a suit of deep blue velvet, tailored to perfection, with a high collar that framed his sharp jaw and high cheekbones. his eyes—

you couldn't see his eyes from this distance. but you could feel them. a weight. a presence. something magnetic and dangerous and utterly, infuriatingly self-assured.

the duke of the northern provinces. satoru gojo.

your betrothed.

your stomach turned.

"your highness," the herald announced, his voice booming across the room. "may i present the princess, first daughter of his royal majesty, betrothed to his grace, the duke of the northern provinces."

every head in the room turned. every eye fixed on you. the crowd parted, creating a path from the stairs to the dais, and you had no choice but to walk it.

you descended the stairs slowly, your chin lifted, your expression neutral. the gown whispered around your feet, the silver embroidery catching the light. you could feel the weight of hundreds of gazes on you, assessing, judging, admiring.

you reached the dais. your father stood, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

"daughter," he said, his voice warm for the benefit of the crowd. "you look radiant."

"father," you replied, your voice equally performative.

then your father turned to the duke, and you finally got a clear look at his face.

he was beautiful. there was no other word for it. sharp features, full lips curved in a lazy smile, skin pale and flawless. and his eyes—

his eyes were blue. not the soft blue of a winter sky, like your gown. but a vivid, electric, almost unnatural blue, like the heart of a flame. they were striking against his pale skin and white hair, and they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"your highness," he said, and his voice was smooth, rich, amused. "you're even more beautiful than they said."

"your grace," you replied, curtsying. "the rumors didn't do you justice either."

his smile widened. "oh, i like her," he said to your father, as if you weren't standing right there. "she's got spirit."

"she does," your father agreed, his tone warning. "which is why she needs a firm hand."

you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something you'd regret.

satoru offered you his arm. "shall we?"

you had no choice. you placed your hand on his sleeve, and he led you down from the dais to the center of the ballroom. the crowd parted before them, whispers following in their wake.

the orchestra struck up a waltz. satoru turned to you, one hand finding your waist, the other taking your hand. his grip was firm but not painful, his movements fluid and confident.

"relax," he murmured, his blue eyes searching your face. "i don't bite. unless you ask nicely."

you stiffened. "that's not funny."

"oh, come now! it was a little funny," he said, spinning you effortlessly. "try to smile, princess. we're supposed to be in love. or at least, pretending to be. you look like you're being led to the gallows."

"perhaps because i am," you said through gritted teeth.

he laughed. it was a bright, genuine sound that drew glances from nearby guests. "god, you're dramatic. it's refreshing. most women in this court are so boring."

"i'm not most women."

"no," he agreed, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes. "you're not."

the dance continued. he was a skilled partner, guiding you through the steps with an ease that spoke of years of practice. but there was no warmth in it. no connection. just two people playing their parts.

"sooo," he said, his tone conversational. "tell me about yourself, princess. what do you enjoy? embroidery? poetry? plotting the downfall of your enemies?"

"sewing," you said flatly. "reading. avoiding tedious conversations with arrogant men."

"arrogant?" he repeated, feigning offense. "i prefer 'confidently self-aware.'"

"of course you do."

he spun you again, and as you turned, your eyes swept the room. the guests, the decorations, the musicians. and then—

your heart stopped.

there, at the edge of the dance floor, standing in the shadows behind a pillar, was choso.

he was wearing his motley. the same garish red and yellow, the same floppy hat with its tarnished bells. but he looked different. thinner. paler. the bruise on his cheek had darkened to a deep purple, and there were shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.

he was staring at you.

even from this distance, even across the crowded ballroom, you could feel the weight of his gaze. it was heavy, aching, full of everything he couldn't say.

your breath caught. your step faltered. satoru tightened his grip on your waist, steadying you.

"careful," he said, his voice low. "you almost tripped."

"i'm fine," you said, but your voice was barely a whisper.

"who are you looking at?" satoru asked, his eyes following yours to the edge of the room

you forced yourself to look away. "no one."

"hmm, alright." he didn't sound convinced, but he busied himself with wrapping an arm around you waist.

the dance ended. the crowd applauded. satoru bowed, you curtsied, and then the herald's voice rang out again.

"and now, to entertain the happy couple on this joyous occasion, please welcome our court jester, choso!"

the applause was polite, scattered. choso stepped out from behind the pillar, into the light. the bells on his hat jingled softly as he walked, a sound that made your chest ache.

he reached the center of the ballroom, directly in front of the dais where your father sat. he didn't look at you. he couldn't. if he did, if your father saw the way his eyes lingered, the way his hands trembled—

"ladies and gentlemen!" choso began, his voice carrying across the room. it was steady, but just barely. "i have a few jokes for the happy couple!"

the crowd murmured, interested. your father leaned forward, his expression cold and expectant.

"what do you call a princess who's been promised to a duke?" choso asked, his tone light, almost cheerful. "sold!"

a few nervous laughs. your father's eyes narrowed

"why did the princess bring a ladder to the ball?" choso continued. "because she heard the marriage was a step up!!"

more laughs, louder this time. but they died quickly, swallowed by the tension in the room.

"what's the difference between a jester and a duke?" choso asked, and his voice cracked. just slightly. just enough for you to hear. "the duke always gets the girl, and the jester gets the whips!"

the courtroom fell into an awkward, void of silence.

choso stood there, his hands clenched at his sides, his shoulders rigid. he was looking at the floor, his hair hiding his face. but you could see the way his jaw was clenched, the way his breath came too fast.

your father stood. "enough," he said, his voice cold. "you've had your punishment. now sit down and be quiet."

choso didn't move. for a moment, you thought he might argue. might fight. might say something that would get him killed.

then he bowed. low and deep. a jester's bow, mocking and deferential all at once.

"of course, your majesty," he said, his voice hollow. "anything for the happy couple."

he turned and walked away, his bells jingling with each step. the crowd parted for him, their faces a mix of pity and amusement and discomfort.

you watched him go, your heart breaking all over again.

"well," satoru said beside you, his tone light. "that was depressing. your father's got a real flair for torture, doesn't he?"

you turned to look at him. he was watching you, his blue eyes sharp and knowing.

"you love him," he said. it wasn't a question.

you opened your mouth to deny it. to lie. to protect yourself. but the words simply wouldn't come.

satoru sighed, running a hand through his white hair. "this is going to be a long night."

you watched choso disappear into the shadows at the edge of the ballroom, the last jingle of his bells fading into the murmur of the crowd. your chest felt like it was being crushed under a stone. every instinct screamed at you to run after him, to find him, to hold him and never let go.

but you couldn't. not here. not with hundreds of eyes on you, not with your father watching from his throne like a hawk circling its prey.

"princess."

satoru's voice cut through your spiraling thoughts. you turned to find him studying you with those unnervingly blue eyes, his head tilted slightly, like a cat observing something curious.

"you're crying," he said, matter-of-fact.

you touched your cheek. he was right. tears had slipped free without you noticing, hot tracks down your flushed skin. you wiped them away quickly, glancing toward the dais. your father was deep in conversation with some lord, his attention momentarily diverted.

"i'm fine," you said, your voice brittle.

"you're not fine," satoru said. "you're standing at your engagement ball, crying over another man. that's the opposite of fine. that's a catastrophe."

you flinched. "please don't—"

"oh, relax," he said, his tone shifting. the lazy amusement was gone, replaced by something sharper. more serious. "i'm not going to tell anyone. despite what you clearly think of me, i'm not a complete bastard."

you stared at him, searching his face for the lie. for the trap. you found none.

"why?" you asked. "why would you help me?"

he shrugged, a fluid motion of his broad shoulders. "because i don't want to marry someone who's in love with someone else. call it self-interest. or call it basic human decency. i'm flexible with labels."

your heart hammered. "i didn't say—"

"you didn't have to," he interrupted. "the way you looked at him. the way you're still looking at the door he walked through. it's written all over your face, princess. you're not exactly subtle."

you opened your mouth to argue, to defend yourself, but the words died on your lips. what was the point? he was right. you were terrible at hiding your feelings. elara had seen it. your father had seen it. and now this stranger, this man you'd met barely an hour ago, had seen it too.

"what do you want from me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"nothing," he said. "i told you. i don't want a loveless marriage any more than you do. my father is pushing this alliance for political reasons. trade routes, border security, the usual boring nonsense. but i have no intention of forcing a woman to be with me against her will.

"then why agree to the betrothal at all?"

"because saying no to my father is... complicated," he said, and for the first time, something flickered in his eyes. something that might have been frustration, or resignation, or pain. "but that's my problem, not yours. right now, your problem is that jester, and the fact that your father looks like he's about to come over here and ask why you're having a private conversation with your betrothed instead of dancing."

you glanced at the dais. your father was indeed looking in your direction, his brow furrowed.

"so here's what's going to happen," satoru said, his voice dropping even lower. "i'm going to go distract your father. i'll challenge him to a game of chess, or bore him with stories about northern grain tariffs, or whatever it takes to keep his attention for the next ten minutes. and you—" he fixed you with a pointed look. "you're going to go find your jester."

your breath caught. "i can't. the guards—"

"are at the doors, not roaming the halls," he said. "the servants' corridor behind the tapestry on the left leads to the east wing. there's a staircase at the end that goes down to the lower levels. he'll be in the servants' quarters. third door on the right."

you stared at him, stunned. "how do you know that?"

"i make it my business to know the layout of every castle i enter," he said simply. "old habit. ten minutes, princess. that's what i can give you. use them wisely."

he turned to leave, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.

"and princess?"

"what?"

"when you see him—" his expression softened, just slightly. "tell him the duke said 'good luck'. it'll give you something to laugh about. you could use a laugh."

before you could respond, he was already walking toward the dais, his stride confident and unhurried. you watched as he approached your father, bowing with exaggerated flourish, his white hair catching the candlelight.

"your majesty!" satoru's voice carried across the room, bright and charming. "i was just telling your daughter about the chess set in my carriage. it's carved from ivory, imported from the eastern kingdoms. i'd love the chance to play you, if you're willing. i hear you're quite the strategist."

your father's face lit up. he loved chess. he loved it more than almost anything, except perhaps power. "is that so? well, your grace, i'd be happy to teach you a lesson or two."

"i look forward to it," satoru said, and as he followed your father toward the side room where the chess sets were kept, he glanced back at you. just once. a quick, almost imperceptible nod.

go.

you didn't hesitate.

you turned and walked quickly toward the edge of the ballroom, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. the crowd parted for you—the princess, the betrothed, the center of attention—and you smiled and nodded and said all the right things while your mind raced.

the tapestry was exactly where satoru had said it would be. a massive woven depiction of a hunting scene, hanging on the left wall near the musicians' gallery. you glanced around, making sure no one was watching, then you slipped behind it.

the servants' corridor was narrow and dim, lit by a single torch at the far end. the air was cooler here, smelling of dust and old stone. you lifted the hem of your gown and hurried down the passage, your wretched heels whispering against the floor.

the staircase was steep and winding, spiraling down into the bowels of the castle. you descended quickly, your hand trailing along the cold stone wall for balance. the sounds of the ballroom faded above you, replaced by the distant clatter of pots and the low murmur of servants' voices.

the lower level was a maze of corridors and rooms—storerooms, kitchens, servants' quarters. you followed satoro's directions, turning left, then right, then left again, until you reached a narrow hallway lined with plain wooden doors.

third door on the right.

you stopped in front of it, your hand raised to knock. your heart was hammering. your palms were sweating. what would you say? what could you say? i'm sorry? i love you? please don't hate me?

you knocked.

silence.

you knocked again, harder this time. "choso?"

nothing.

your heart sank. he wasn't here. satoru had been wrong, or choso had been moved, or—

the door creaked open.

choso stood in the doorway, and the sight of him made your breath catch. he'd changed out of the motley. he was wearing a plain white shirt, untucked, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. his hair was damp, like he'd just washed his face. the bruise on his cheek looked worse in the dim light, a dark smear against his pale skin.

he stared at you, his dark eyes wide with shock.

"princess?" he whispered, like he couldn't believe you were real. "what are you—you can't be here. if anyone sees—"

"satoru is distracting my father," you said quickly. "we don't have much time. ten minutes. maybe less."

"satoru?" he repeated, confused.

"the duke. my—" you couldn't say the word. betrothed. it felt like a betrayal just thinking it. "he knows. about us. and he's helping."

choso stared at you, his expression cycling through disbelief, confusion, and something that might have been hope. "why would he help?"

"because he's not the monster my father is," you said. "and because he doesn't want to marry someone who loves someone else."

choso flinched at the word. loves. you'd said it without thinking, and now it hung in the air between you, heavy and undeniable.

"you shouldn't be here," he said, but his voice was weak, unconvincing. "if your father finds out—"

"i don't care," you said, and you stepped forward, into the room. it was small, sparse—a narrow bed, a wooden chair, a single candle burning on a rough-hewn table. a prison cell dressed up as a bedroom. "i don't care what my father does. i don't care about the marriage, or the alliance, or any of it. i just—"

your voice broke. the tears you'd been holding back all night came flooding forward, hot and relentless.

"i just needed to see you," you whispered. "i needed to know you were okay. i needed to tell you that i'm sorry. that this is my fault. that i never should have let you come to my chambers. that i—"

"stop," he said, and his voice was rough, strained. "stop blaming yourself. this isn't your fault. it's mine. i'm the one who came to you. i'm the one who couldn't stay away. i'm the one who—"

he stopped, his jaw clenching. he looked away, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

"i'm the one who ruined everything," he said quietly.

"you didn't ruin anything," you said, stepping closer. "my father ruined everything. this castle, this life, this—" you gestured helplessly at the space between you. "this prison. you're the only good thing in it.

the words broke something open inside you. the tears came harder, faster, your shoulders shaking with sobs you couldn't control. all the fear, all the grief, all the helplessness of the past three days came pouring out at once.

"hey—hey, no—" choso's voice cracked, and then his arms were around you, pulling you against his chest. "please don't. please, baby— i can't—"

but you couldn't stop. you buried your face in his shirt, your fingers clutching the rough fabric, and you wept. for him, for yourself, for the future that was being stolen from you both.

"shh," he murmured, one hand cradling the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your carefully brushed hair. "shh, i've got you. i'm here."

"i c-can't marry him!" you sobbed against his chest. "i can't. i don't love him. i don't even know him. i love you. i love you and it's not fair—"

"i know," he whispered, and his voice was thick, strained. "i know, i know."

he held you tighter, his chin resting on top of your head, his heartbeat steady and strong against your cheek. you could feel the tension in his body, the way his arms trembled around you, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

"look at me," he said softly.

you shook your head, pressing closer.

"please." his hand found your chin, tilting your face up with a gentleness that made your chest ache. "please, look at me."

you opened your eyes. his face was blurry through your tears, but you could see the anguish in his dark eyes, the way his jaw was clenched like he was fighting his own breakdown.

"my heart aches when you weep," he said, and his voice was barely a whisper. "it physically hurts. right here." he pressed his free hand against his chest, over his heart. "like something is breaking. and i can't—i can't fix it. i can't make it better. and that's worse than anything your father could ever do to me."

"choso—"

"let me finish." he swallowed hard, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheek. his touch was so gentle, so careful, like you were made of glass. "i need you to know something. whatever happens tomorrow, or next week, or next month—whatever your father does, whatever that duke does—i need you to know that these past months with you have been the best of my life. the only good part. you made me feel like i was worth something. like i wasn't just a fool in a motley. like i was—"

his voice broke. he looked away, blinking hard.

"like you were what?" you whispered, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. his skin was warm, slightly rough with stubble. "tell me."

"like i was yours," he said, and the words were raw, stripped of all pretense. "like i belonged to someone."

you leaned up and kissed him.

it was soft at first. a press of lips, gentle and trembling. a question. a promise. his breath hitched against your mouth, and for a moment he was frozen, like he couldn't believe this was real.

then he kissed you back.

his hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulled you closer. the kiss deepened, desperate and aching, tasting of salt and sorrow and something sweet underneath. you pressed yourself against him, your hands fisting in his shirt, trying to erase the space between you, trying to crawl inside his skin and stay there.

"i love you," you breathed against his lips. "i love you, i love you, i love you—"

"i know," he murmured, and he was smiling, you could feel it, even through the tears. "i know. i love you too. so much. too much."

"there's no such thing as too much," you said, and kissed him again.

he made a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a whimper, and his arms wrapped around you completely, lifting you slightly off the ground. your feet left the floor and you gasped into his mouth, your arms looping around his neck.

"you're so warm," he whispered against your jaw, his lips trailing down to your neck. "so gorgeous. i dreamt about this. about you. every night."

"choso—" you tilted your head back, giving him access, and he took full advantage. his mouth found the sensitive spot below your ear, then the curve of your throat, then the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse hammered.

"tell me to stop," he murmured against your skin. "tell me this is too much. tell me—"

"don't stop," you said, and your voice was stronger now, steadier. "don't you dare stop."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching your face. "are you sure? if anyone finds out—"

"i don't care," you said, and you meant it with every fiber of your being. "let them find out. let my father know. let the whole kingdom know. i don't care. i'd rather have this—have you—for one night than a lifetime with someone else."

something in his expression shifted. the fear didn't disappear, but it was joined by something else. something fierce and tender and achingly vulnerable.

"you mean that," he said. it wasn't a question.

"i mean it."

he kissed you again, slower this time. deeper. his hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine through the silk of your gown, and you shivered.

"you're so beautiful," he murmured against your lips. "so beautiful it hurts me to look at you."

"you're not so bad yourself," you said, and he huffed a laugh, the sound warm and surprised.

"not so bad," he repeated, shaking his head. "that's the best you can do?"

"i'm a little distracted," you said, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "you're wearing too many clothes."

"so are you," he said, and his hands found the laces at the back of your gown. he hesitated, his fingers trembling. "are you sure? once we—i don't want you to regret—"

you silenced him with another kiss, your own hands pulling his shirt free from his trousers. "i have never been more sure of anything in my life."

he groaned, low and desperate, and then the laces were coming undone, the silk loosening around your body. the gown slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a whisper of fabric, and you stood before him in nothing but your thin shift, the candlelight painting your skin in gold and shadow.

choso stared at you like you were the sun. like you were the moon. like you were every star in the sky, and he was a man who'd been living in darkness his entire life.

"you're staring," you said, suddenly self-conscious.

"i know," he said, and his voice was reverent. "i can't help it."

he reached out, his cold fingers tracing the line of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your shift. you shivered, not from cold, but from the intensity of his touch, the way he looked at you like you were something sacred.

"you're shaking," he said softly.

"i'm nervous," you admitted. "i've never—i don't know what to do—"

"neither do i," he said, and the honesty of it made your heart swell. "we'll figure it out together."

he pulled his shirt over his head, and you saw him fully for the first time. he was lean but strong, his torso marked with faint scars—old ones, faded to thin white lines. a life lived in hardship, written on his skin. you reached out, tracing one that ran along his ribs.

"what's this from?" you asked.

"bar fight," he said. "i was fifteen. thought i was tougher than i was."

"and this?" another scar, on his shoulder.

"knife. different bar fight. i was sixteen and even stupider."

you laughed, the sound watery but real. "you were a troublemaker."

"i was a disaster," he corrected. "you're the first good thing that's ever happened to me."

you kissed the scar on his shoulder, then the one on his ribs, then the hollow of his throat where his pulse hammered against your lips. he shuddered, his hands coming up to frame your face.

"you're going to be the death of me," he whispered.

"good," you said. "then we'll die together."

"that's not funny."

"i mean, it's a little funny."

he laughed, and the sound was bright and broken and beautiful, and then he was kissing you again, walking you backward toward the narrow bed. the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sat, looking up at him.

he knelt before you, his hands on your knees, his dark eyes full of so much love it made your chest ache.

"i want to remember this," he said softly. "every detail. the way you look at me. the way you smell like roses. the way your breath catches when i touch you. i want to carry this with me, no matter what happens."

"nothing is going to happen to you," you said fiercely. "i won't let it."

"princess—"

"don't call me that," you said, pulling him closer. "call me by my name. my real name."

he hesitated, then whispered it like a prayer. the name your mother gave you, the name only your closest family used. the name that meant you, not the crown.

"yes," you said, and pulled him down to you.

his mouth found yours again, hungry and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that made your toes curl. you arched up into him, your hands sliding over the hard planes of his chest, feeling the way his heart hammered against his ribs. he was trembling, you realized. this man who'd faced your father's wrath without flinching, who'd stood in a ballroom full of nobles and made them laugh—he was trembling beneath your touch.

"you're shaking," you whispered against his lips.

"i know," he breathed. "i've wanted this for so long. wanted you. and now you're here and i'm terrified i'll do something wrong, that i'll hurt you, that—"

you silenced him by pulling his head down and kissing him hard, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan. the sound vibrated through you, low and wrecked, and you felt it everywhere.

"you won't hurt me," you said. "i trust you."

something in him cracked open at that. his eyes went dark, almost black, and his hips rolled against yours. you gasped at the contact, at the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through the fabric of his trousers.

"fuck," he hissed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "you can't say things like that. i'm barely holding on as it is."

"then don't hold on," you said, and hitched your hip up against him.

he made a sound like a man dying—a choked, desperate moan that went straight through you. his hand slid up your thigh, pushing the thin fabric of your shift higher, his rough palm dragging against your bare skin. you whimpered, your legs falling open instinctively, and he groaned again, his fingers tracing the edge of your underwear.

"is this okay?" he asked, his voice wrecked.

"yes. god, yes. don't stop!"

his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and you both gasped. he touched you carefully at first, almost reverently, his fingertips exploring the slick heat between your legs. you were wet—embarrassingly, overwhelmingly wet—and when his finger slid through your folds, you cried out, your hand flying to cover your mouth.

"quiet, princess." he murmured, but he was smiling. that small, devastating smile. "remember? we have to be quiet."

"then stop touching me like that and i won't have to be quiet," you hissed.

"never," he said, and slid a finger inside you.

the sound you made was barely human. your back arched off the bed, your walls clenching around the intrusion, and choso watched your face like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

"you're so tight," he breathed. "so— fuck, you feel—i can't even—"

he added a second finger, stretching you slowly, and you bit your lip hard enough to taste blood. the stretch burned, but it was a good burn, a burn that made your hips roll against his hand, chasing the sensation.

"more," you gasped. "p-please, choso— ah! more!"

"i don't want to hurt you," he said, but his fingers were already curling inside you, finding that spot that made your vision white out.

"you're not—oh god—you're not hurting me— you fool!"

he worked you open with his fingers, two then three, stretching you carefully, his thumb circling your clit in slow, maddening strokes. you were making sounds you didn't recognize—whimpers and moans and broken little cries that you muffled against his shoulder.

"that's it," he murmured against your ear. "that's my girl, let me hear you. i want to hear what i do to you."

"we have to be quiet—" you panted.

"then bite me," he said, and you did. you sank your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder and he groaned, his fingers pumping faster, harder, hitting that spot inside you that made your legs shake.

"choso—i'm—i think i'm going to—"

"i know," he said, and his thumb pressed harder against your clit. "i can feel it. you're squeezing my fingers so tight. let go, baby. let go for me."

the pet name undid you. you came with a sob muffled against his shoulder, your walls pulsing around his fingers, your whole body shaking with the force of it. he held you through it, his fingers still moving, drawing out the pleasure until you were gasping and oversensitive.

"too much!" you whimpered, pushing at his hand.

he withdrew his fingers slowly, and you watched, dazed, as he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean. his eyes never left yours, and the sight of it—this serious, quiet man tasting you on his fingers with an expression of pure reverence—made your core clench with want.

"you taste like honey," he said, his voice rough. "i knew you would."

"choso," you breathed, pulling him down for a kiss. you could taste yourself on his tongue, sweet and musky, and it made you dizzy. "i want you. all of you. please."

he nodded, his hands going to the laces of his trousers. his fingers were shaking so badly he could barely work them, and you reached down to help, your own hands trembling. together, you pushed the fabric down his hips, and his cock sprang free.

you stared. he was hard—achingly, painfully hard—the tip flushed dark and leaking. he was bigger than you'd expected, thicker, and a flicker of nervousness ran through you.

"i'll go slow," he said, reading your expression. "i promise. if it's too much, you tell me and i'll stop. alright?"

"okay," you whispered.

he positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. you could feel the heat of him, the way he throbbed against your slick folds. he pushed forward, just the tip, and you gasped at the stretch.

"breathe," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. "breathe for me."

you breathed. he pushed in another inch, and the burn was intense, almost too much. your hands flew to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.

"shit—" he choked. "you're so tight. so fucking tight. you feel—god, you feel like heaven."

"m-more!" you said, even though it hurt. "i want a-all of you."

he sank into you slowly, inch by excruciating inch, giving you time to adjust. the stretch was enormous, bordering on painful, but underneath the pain was something else—a fullness, a completeness, like a piece of you that had been missing had finally clicked into place.

when he was fully seated inside you, you both went still. he was breathing hard, his arms trembling where they braced on either side of your head, his cock pulsing inside you.

"okay?" he asked, his voice strained.

"yeah," you whispered. "just—give me a second."

he kissed you softly, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that made your eyes sting. then you rolled your hips experimentally, and you both groaned.

"move," you said. "please move."

he pulled out slowly, almost all the way, then pushed back in. the slide was easier this time, your body accommodating him, and the sensation was—

"oh," you breathed. "oh, that's—"

"y-yeah," he agreed, and did it again. and again. and again.

he found a rhythm, slow and deep, his hips rolling against yours in a way that made your toes curl. each thrust hit that spot inside you, the one his fingers had found, and pleasure built in your belly like a wave gathering strength.

"h-harder," you gasped. "choso, please, harder!"

he obliged, his hips snapping forward with more force. the bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. you bit your lip to keep from crying out, but small, desperate sounds still escaped—whimpers and moans and broken little pleas.

"you feel so good," he groaned against your neck. "so fucking good. i-i never want to leave this. i never want to be anywhere but inside you."

"don't stop," you panted. "cho!"

he shifted his angle, hooking one of your legs over his arm, opening you wider, and the next thrust hit so deep you saw stars. you cried out, unable to help it, and he clapped a hand over your mouth.

"quiet, remember?" he said, but he was smiling. that devastating, beautiful smile. "or do you want the whole castle to know what we're doing?"

you bit his palm and he hissed, his hips stuttering.

"brat," he growled, and fucked into you harder.

the pleasure was building again, coiling tight in your belly, and you could feel your walls starting to clench around him. choso groaned, his rhythm faltering.

"you're squeezing me," he panted. "fuck, you're going to make me—i'm not going to last—"

"it's okay," you gasped. "let go. i've got you."

"not without you," he said, and his hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again. he rubbed tight, fast circles, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, and the combination was devastating.

you came with a scream muffled against his hand, your walls clamping down on him so hard he choked. the orgasm ripped through you like a storm, wave after wave of pleasure that left you shaking and gasping and seeing white.

"fuck—fuck—" choso groaned, his hips stuttering, losing their rhythm. "i'm—i'm coming—"

"yes," you breathed. "yes, come inside me. i want to feel it."

he buried himself to the hilt and came with a broken cry, his cock pulsing deep inside you. you felt the heat of it, the way he filled you, and the sensation pushed you into another smaller orgasm that made you clench around him.

he collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, both of you breathing hard. his face was buried in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

"that was—" he started.

"incredible," you agreed.

you lay there for a long moment, tangled together, his cock still inside you, both of you trembling in the aftermath. the candle had burned low, casting long shadows across the room. somewhere above you, the ball was still going on. music drifted down through the floor, faint and distant.

"we should—" you started.

"i know," he said, but he didn't move.

"choso."

"i know," he said again, and pulled out slowly. you winced at the loss, at the ache between your legs. he rolled onto his back beside you, pulling you against his chest. you went willingly, curling into his side, your head resting over his heart.

"ten minutes is probably up," you said quietly.

"probably."

"we should get dressed."

"probably."

neither of you moved.

"i don't want to go back," you whispered. "i don't want to face them. my father, the duke, all of it."

"i know," he said, his hand stroking your hair. "but we have to. if we don't, they'll come looking for you. and then—"

"and then it'll be worse," you finished.

he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "well, it might be better."

you pulled back to look at him, your heart hammering. "what?"

choso was staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight, his dark eyes burning with something fierce and desperate. "what if we run away? right now. tonight. we sneak out through the servants' entrance, past the stables. i know a man in the village who'll sell us horses for cheap. we could be gone before anyone even realizes you're missing."

"no way!—"

"i'm serious." he sat up, turning to face you. his hand found yours, cold fingers intertwining with your warm ones. "we could go north. past the mountains, into the free territories where your father's reach doesn't extend. we could find a small town, somewhere quiet. i could find work—real work, not juggling or jesting. and you could—"

"sew," you finished, your voice barely a whisper. "i could sew."

"yes." his eyes were bright, almost feverish. "we could have a life. a real life. not this—" he gestured around the sparse room, the narrow bed, the flickering candle. "not cages and crowns and men who think they own us."

your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. the idea was insane. reckless. impossible. and yet—

"my father would hunt us," you said. "he'd send guards. he'd—"

"let him send them," choso said, and there was a fire in his voice you'd never heard before. "i'm not afraid of your father. i'm not afraid of his guards or his dukes or his armies. the only thing i'm afraid of is losing you. of standing in that ballroom and watching you marry another man. of living the rest of my life knowing i could have fought for you and didn't."

you stared at him, this man who'd been a jester, a fool, a man who couldn't make anyone laugh. but he wasn't a fool. he never had been. he was brave and fierce and so full of love it made your chest ache.

"you'd really do that?" you whispered. "give up everything? your home, your—"

"you are my home," he said simply. "you're the only home i've ever had."

your eyes burned. your vision blurred. you were crying again, but this time it wasn't from grief. it was from something else. something bright and terrifying and beautiful.

"yes," you said.

"yes?"

"yes. let's run. let's go. right now!"

his face transformed. the fear, the tension, the anguish—it all melted away, replaced by something radiant. something that looked like hope.

"you mean it?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"i mean it." you squeezed his hand. "i've never meant anything more."

he kissed you then, hard and desperate, his hands framing your face like you were the most precious thing in the world. you kissed him back with everything you had, pouring every ounce of love and fear and reckless, stupid hope into it.

then you pulled apart, both of you breathing hard.

"okay," you said, your mind racing. "okay. we need a plan. we can't just run out the door. we need—"

"clothes," he said. "money. supplies. i have a few coins hidden in my room. not much, but enough for horses and food for a few days."

"i have jewelry," you said, already thinking. "my mother's necklace. the sapphire earrings. they're worth a fortune. we could sell them in the village."

"your mother's necklace?" he repeated, his expression softening. "you'd give that up?"

"she'd want me to be happy," you said, and the words were true. your mother had died when you were seven, but you remembered her warmth, her laughter, the way she'd held you and told you that love was the only thing that mattered. "she'd want me to choose love."

choso's eyes glistened. he blinked hard, looking away. "okay. okay. so we get the jewelry, get the coins, get to the stables—"

"the guards," you interrupted. "there are two at my door. and more at every exit."

"the servants' entrance," he said. "it's unguarded after midnight. the servants use it to come and go. if we wait until the ball ends, until everyone is drunk and distracted—"

"we slip out with the servants," you finished. "yes. that could work."

"it has to work," he said. "because i'm not losing you. not now. not after—" his voice broke. "not after tonight."

you kissed him again, softer this time.

"we should get dressed," you said reluctantly. "before someone comes looking."

you both rose from the bed, and the absence of his warmth made you shiver. you found your shift on the floor, pulling it over your head, then stepped back into your gown. the silk felt different now. heavier. like a costume you were ready to shed.

choso helped you with the laces, his fingers steady now, no longer trembling. when he was done, he pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, and you felt it all the way down to your toes.

"there," he said. "perfect."

you turned to face him. he was pulling on his shirt, his trousers, covering up the body you'd just memorized. you wanted to tear the clothes off him again, to drag him back to that narrow bed and lose yourself in him.

but there wasn't time. there would be time later. a lifetime of time, if you were brave enough to take it.

"i need to go back to my chambers," you said. "get the jewelry. change into something less—" you gestured at the elaborate gown. "less conspicuous."

"meet me at the servants' entrance at two in the morning," he said. "that's when the last of the servants will be heading to bed. we'll slip out with them."

"two in the morning," you repeated. "i'll be there."

he cupped your face in his hands, his dark eyes searching yours. "if you change your mind—if this is too much, too dangerous—i'll understand. i'll go alone. i'll disappear. you can tell your father i kidnapped you, that you had no choice. he'll believe you. you can marry your duke and live a comfortable life and forget—"

"stop," you said firmly. "i'm not changing my mind. i'm not forgetting you. and i'm not marrying anyone but you."

his breath hitched. "you mean that?"

"every word."

he kissed you one last time, slowly and deeply, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. then he pulled away, his hands dropping to his sides.

"go," he said. "before i change my mind and keep you here forever."

you smiled, even as your heart ached. "at two in the morning."

"at two in the morning."

you opened the door, checking the corridor. empty. you slipped out, your gown gathered in your hands, your heart pounding. you made it three steps before his voice stopped you.

"princess."

you turned. he was standing in the doorway, backlit by the candle, his dark eyes full of everything.

"i love you," he said. "i love you so much."

you giggled. "you're such a sap!"

his face broke into that devastating smile. "if being a sap gets me that laugh, then so be it."

you turned and walked away, your heart so full it hurt. the corridor stretched before you, dark and winding, but for the first time in your life, you weren't afraid of where it led.

you were going to run. you were going to be free. you were going to choose love.

and nothing—not your father, not his guards, not the duke with his electric blue eyes and his easy smile—was going to stop you.

—

you made it back to your chambers without incident. the guards at your door barely glanced at you as you slipped inside, your cheeks flushed, your hair slightly moussed, your gown rumpled in ways that would have given elara a heart attack.

but elara wasn't there. the room was empty, the fire burning low, the bed turned down.

you moved quickly, pulling open the drawer of your vanity where you kept your mother's jewelry. the necklace was there, nestled in its velvet box—a delicate gold chain with a single sapphire pendant, the same blue as your eyes. you clasped it around your neck, feeling the weight of it against your skin.

the earrings came next. small, elegant, catching the firelight. you tucked them into a small pouch, along with a few other pieces you thought you could sell. a ruby brooch. a pearl bracelet. your grandmother's ring.

then you changed. you stripped off the elaborate gown and pulled on a simple dress—dark blue, practical, with a hooded cloak draped over the back of a chair. you laced it yourself, your fingers steady despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

you packed a small bag. a change of clothes. a hairbrush. the handkerchief you'd sewn for him, the one with the embroidered roses. you tucked it into the bag, your fingers lingering on the stitches.

then you sat by the window and waited.

the hours crawled by. you watched the moon climb the sky, watched the candles in the ballroom below burn low, watched the guests begin to drift away. the music faded. the lights dimmed. the castle settled into an uneasy sleep.

one o'clock. one-thirty. one forty-five.

you stood, slinging the bag over your shoulder. your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. this was it. the point of no return.

you opened your door. the guards were still there, but they were drowsy, leaning against the wall, their eyes half-closed.

"i'm going to the chapel," you said, your voice steady. "to pray. for my marriage."

the guards exchanged a glance. "your highness, it's nearly two in the morning—"

"i'm aware of the time," you said coolly. "are you going to stop me from praying?"

they stepped aside.

you walked past them, your chin high, your pace measured. you didn't run. you didn't look back. you just walked, calm and composed, until you were out of sight.

then you ran.

through the corridors, down the stairs, past the tapestry and into the servants' passage. your bag bounced against your hip, your breath came in short gasps, and your heart hammered against your ribs.

the servants' entrance was at the end of a long, narrow corridor. you could see it—a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar, cool night air seeping through the gap.

and there, leaning against the wall, waiting for you, was choso.

he'd changed too. he was wearing dark clothes—a simple tunic, trousers, sturdy boots. his motley was gone, and without it, he looked different. older. harder. like a man who'd made a decision and was ready to face the consequences.

he saw you and straightened, his dark eyes widening.

"you came," he breathed.

"i told you i would," you said.

he crossed the distance between you in two strides, his hands finding your waist, pulling you close. you went willingly, your arms looping around his neck, your forehead pressing against his.

"are you sure?" he asked one last time. "once we go through that door, there's no going back."

you pulled back to look at him. "i've never been more sure of anything."

he smiled. that small, devastating, beautiful smile. "then let's go."

he took your hand, his cold fingers intertwining with your warm ones, and together, you pushed open the door and stepped out into the night.

the air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of rain and earth and freedom. the moon hung low in the sky, casting silver light over the castle grounds. the stables were to the left, dark and quiet. the village beyond, a cluster of lights in the distance.

"ready?" choso asked.

you squeezed his hand. "ready."

and together, you escaped.

--

HEY YALL

tags :

babygirl : @sadisticslut666

Wandering fingers moved to trace at the marks and moles that graced his features, counting the freckles and gliding over the warm skin as your lover slept blissfully. Your thoughts wander, lost in a sweet reverie filled with him. 

You were aware you had to get up, the day not stopping to wait however basking in Taki’s embrace and tuning the world out seems like a fine plan so you kept admiring him. Your hands moved to card through his soft hair, a small smile on your lips as he snoozed.

Taki stirred a few times, your hands stopping and resting on his warm cheek when his eyes fluttered open. “Good morning, baby,” you whispered, thumb caressing his cheek softly. “Mm, that feels nice,” he murmured, voice thick and laced with sleep.

“Sorry baby, did I wake you up?” and he shook his head, arms tightening their hold around you and pulling you closer to him. “You should play with my hair more,” he nuzzled into your neck, “feels nice…” 

Your fingers moved to run through his hair, his breath steadying. “Are you sleeping again, baby?” you said softly into his ear, feeling him relax into your touches, “we have to get up, the day is starting ahead.” 

He groaned, making no effort in moving or getting up, still wrapped around you in a tight embrace. “Let’s just stay in, it’s already raining anyways…” Taki grumbled into your skin, placing a soft kiss afterwards.

Biting down a giggle, you kept playing with his hair, “hmm, but what about breakfast?” you questioned, feeling your own eyelids getting heavier, drowsiness seeping into your body. “Later… let’s just stay like this for a while.” and you caved in, Taki’s warmth and steady heartbeat lulling you back into sleep. 

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The rain has passed and the sun shines again, its rays filtering through the bedroom blinds, gently waking you up once again. You blinked, the lack of Taki’s warmth making you look around and right when you were about to get up, the sweet smell of pancakes filling up your senses. 

Your legs moved on their own, getting out of bed and heading straight to the source of the honeyed smell which was the kitchen. There stood Taki, working the stove and making pancakes, a stack of them placed neatly on the place next to him. 

Bare feet padding quietly against the floor, you moved to stand next to him not to startle him which didn’t seem to work as he flinched and yelped at your presence. “Fuck, you scared me baby…” he whined, making you giggle, muttering a “sorry pretty boy” and wrapping your arms around his waist in a tight hug.

“Did you sleep well, angel?” You peeked up at him, “Hmm, how could I not when you held me so warmly?” teasing, standing on your tippy toes with pursed lips. 

He leaned down and placed a kiss on your awaiting lips, “Made you your favorite pancakes,” shifting his focus back to the stove so as not to burn the cooking food. “Butter is in the fridge and I cut up some strawberries for you on the table” he gestured with the spatula in his hand.

You swear your heart almost burst from its place from his cuteness, leaning up to kiss his cheek before heading for the fridge to get the butter. “You’re the best!” you exclaimed happily.

Once Taki was done cooking, he set the fresh stack of pancakes on the table and sat next to you, picking up a serving and placing it on your plate and you returned the favor afterwards, making sure to put a lot of strawberries into his plate. 

You spent the rest of breakfast talking and giggling, a few occasional kisses slipped in between bites, your shoulder bumping against Taki’s. 

After eating, you and Taki worked together to tackle the dishes duty and worked efficiently to clean them all with him washing them and you whipping them dry. 

You both settled on the couch, you on Taki’s lap with your switch in hand playing and his head resting atop yours, watching you play with fascination. “Woah, Taki look at this!” you said excitedly whenever something happened, showing him and he always made sure to share your enthusiasm “That’s amazing, baby!” or “Woah this Pokemon looks so cool, angel!” 

Later on, once you’ve had enough of playing you’d lay on the couch snuggled up to Taki and your cat, petting his soft fur and eliciting happy purrs from the feline while your lover held you so closely and warmly. youtube playing on the tv showing a game Taki was excited about, telling you all about it and you listened to him attentively.

as quiet as possible, you leave your boyfriend in your shared bedroom.

you stumble to the couch and kick off your shoes, blindly searching until your fingers catch the lampshade switch. you yank it to provide some light, rattling as it flings back into place.

you pull your knees to your chest and press your forehead against your kneecaps. a numb part of your brain thinks oh, so this is where this was, when you think of the misery that quieted itself, replaced with a numbness that overtook you during the fight you had with him earlier.

the numbness that made your limbs feel like ice when he clicked off the phone call without even hearing you out.

you wanted to tell him so much, but in the face of his blank gaze and dismissive demeanor, you shut off. you have more fight in you, you know that. but tonight you just couldn’t. couldn’t listen to him tell you that he needed more from you—more support, more time, more patience.

you’ve given him that, right? your brain runs with thoughts you can't keep up with. you gave him yourself. you have, for months, for years. you did what you could. you’ve withstood lonely anniversaries, forgotten birthdays, broken promises. you’ve done everything you could. you gave what you could. you gave everything you could.

i want you to come home, you wanted to tell him eatlier tonight. come home. you’re never home. i know you’re busy at work and you’re doing what you love but please, ‘samu. please. 

love me, too.

your body wracks with a sob, the hurt fresh, as if the words that you never got to say wounded your insides instead. you wanted to tell him that, you wanted to beg for it, beg for his time, beg for his attention, beg for him to love you back. but time and time again he just turns and says he’s tired, he doesn't want to hear it, and the moment is gone, and now the fear of knowing that leaving things unsaid will destroy you, will destroy him. will destroy both of you.

you huddle closer into yourself and sob, a sharp sound in your ears making your head pound.

“babe?” you hear through the ringing in your ears, and suddenly warm hands are on your arms. “babe, what’s wrong?” his voice is calm against your turmoil. “are you having a panic attack?”

“’samu, i’m—” you shudder and he leaves for a moment, flitting to the kitchen to grab you some water. 

“drink, please,” he tells you, gently unfurling you to sit. you comply with shaky limbs, taking the water he’d given you in your delicate grip. a few sips are enough to calm you down, but the fear is still there.

he gingerly takes the glass and sets it aside. he kneels in front of you, taking your hands and soothingly rubbing his thumbs against your skin. his fingers are hot, almost like a furnace, but when you realize that he's not, he's fine, your hands are freezing, you resist the urge to pull away as he warms your palm.

when he looks up to smile at you, you see the exhaustion on his face, and, instantly, you hate yourself for it. for this.

"i'm sorry," you blurt out, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over.

his hand leaves yours and cups your cheek. "for what, baby?"

“i love you so much, osamu,” you tell him without thinking, voice thick and wet and miserable. you press the palm of the hand he let go of against his cheek, hiccuping when he closes his eyes to lean into your touch. 

“i love you, too,” he says, ready to apologize for the fight, but it's not about that.

not anymore.

you pull away. the confusion and hurt on his face is making everything worse.

“i love you so much,” you tell him, desperately wishing that he could understand. “but i—” you sob, “but, osamu, i can’t anymore.”

osamu presses his lips together, saying nothing. you hear him sniffle, and his fingers come forward to brush at the tears on your cheeks and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.

“i love you so much,” you confess. “i would do anything for you. and i have, i have for years. i’ve tried my best, but osamu, i’m so tired,” you sob. your voice feels like its giving out but the desperation makes the words claw themselves out of your mouth. “i’m so tired, i'm so tired and i'm so lonely, and—and—and i love you so much, but i have nothing left to give.”

you pull your hands away to hunch over and cry into your palms unable to face him. messily, you wipe at your face and push your hair back. you give him the most apologetic smile you can muster, but you're unable to see his face through your tears. “i’m so sorry i can’t give you more, osamu.”

you hear him sniffle and when you wipe your tears away with the backs of your hands, his eyes are glassy. then he closes his eyes.

the pain that washes over his face is absolutely unbearable. the furrow of his brow and the wrinkle of his chin, the lines by his scowl that you know is him trying his best to keep it together.

when he opens his eyes to look at you, his eyes are no longer glassy. your heart breaks for the pain he refuses to show. “what’s next?”

your smile is sad and wet with tears. “i think you know.” you brush his hair back and cradle his face with your hands. “let’s… let’s do this in the morning, okay?”

he nods, looking away. he licks his lips and shakes his head, and he turns to face you with a furrowed brow and a little more composure despite his watery gaze. but it doesn’t take long before his face crumples and he rushes to hide his face against your legs. his quiet sobs are pained and miserable, his chest shaking as he cries. 

you press your face against his hair and cry with him.

—

the morning greets you kindly, the soft sunlight bathing your room in a sweet glow. it’s early, but you can’t keep sleeping. there’s a lot to pack.

your eyes feel hot and swollen, and bones feel heavy beneath your skin, weighing you down from getting up from the bed. still, you fight. you push yourself up to sit and notice that you’re alone. unsurprising, really; osamu has been leaving earlier and coming home later. onigiri miya needs care, needs nurturing, so it’ll blossom and grow. you need to stop begrudging him for it.

you finish your morning ablutions in the bathroom and head out to the kitchen, but when you open your bedroom door, the smell of food hits your nose like a smack to the face. your stomach twists when you see a familiar broad back—osamu didn’t leave—and your fingers turn cold.

the door slides shut behind you and he turns. “good mornin’,” he says quietly, shutting off the stove.

“good morning,” you say, walking to your kitchenette. when you see the spread on the table, you gape despite yourself. “osamu. what is—what.”

he flushes, sliding a delicious looking steak unto a plate and setting it alongside the other plates—nearly every single plate you own, you note—and your dining table is bursting with food. “cooked breakfast.”

“for how many people?” you ask, incredulous. “i tried t'remember everythin’ you liked,” he said with a sniff, and your heart crinkles at the edges, because that means something.

“thank you,” you whisper, and you quietly take a seat while sets aside the dishware he used. 

when he finishes, he turns to look at you, leaning on the counter. it takes him a while. “when you leave,” he says, “i’m going to try again.”

you stare at him, confused. you say nothing and wait for him to continue.

“i don’t want you to leave,” he says, and he rubs his face in frustration. “but i know i’ve—i know i fucked up. i love you, and i never should’ve hurt you.” he inhales through his nose. “but i did, and i can’t change that.

“but i’m not giving up on you. not on us. you—” he clears his throat, and the dark circles beneath his eyes makes your heart feel tight. “i’ll… if i have to start all over again, i’ll do it,” he whispers, walking closer and taking your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “i’ll win you back.”

“osamu,” you whisper, and his face crumples again.

“i love you too much to let you go,” he says, voice breaking as he fights back tears. “and i know that makes me a jerk. but i’m… i love you, so much—so fucking much, and i hate myself for not making you feel that. for hurting you.”

he gets on his knees and tears are streaming down your face. “leave me if you have to,” he says brokenly.

“if you need space, i’ll understand. but please,” he begs. “please don’t give up on me.” 

he does the unthinkable. he curls over and bows, back curved and forehead pressed against the backs of his hands, pressed against the floor.

the horror that overtakes you is beyond words. 

you drop to the floor to pull him upright, not letting him do this. he won’t do this to himself, you won’t let him. not for anyone, not for you. you pull his face against yours and kiss him as hard as you can, crying as you do.

you won't let him do this.

later, you sit on the couch, arms around osamu’s middle as you lie on his chest. the idea that this could be the last time you held him like this made you want to burst into tears again.

“i’ll make it up to you,” he promises, pushing your hair out of your face, gently guiding your chin up. “please, just… give me another chance.”

you look up at him, and your eyes meet.

—

“hey!” atsumu greets warmly as soon as you enter the restaurant, spreading his arms wide to engulf you in a hug. “it’s so good t’see you!“

“hi, ‘tsumu,” you greet, returning the hug. 

he motions for you to sit as he picks up the menu. “know what you want?”

you nod, not even bothering to pick up the menu. “how are you? how’s training?”

“’m good! training’s good. teammates are pretty good, too.”

"yeah? like who?"

atsumu makes a show of looking at the menu. "oh, i don't you know them."

you roll your eyes at his obvious ploy to get you to start talking. “fine. ask me.”

atsumu instantly leans in, conspiratorially covering his mouth with the menu and whispering, “how are you two? it’s been over a month now, right?”

“oi.” you twist your head to smile up at the newcomer. “stop bothering them, ‘tsumu.”

atsumu glares at his twin. “i’m the one who invited ‘em to lunch!”

osamu rolls his eyes and lays down a platter of onigiri in front of you. he snatches the menu and smacks his brother’s wandering hands with it before they get to close. “these are not for you.”

“but that’s a lot!" atsumu whines. "can’t i have any?”

“no,” osamu says resolutely, then turns to you and gives you the softest smile he can muster, pinning the menu by his side and arm.

"i haven't even ordered yet!" atsumu complains.

osamu ignores him. “let me know what you think.”

“okay,” you say with a smile. 

“and let me know if you need to take out anything,” he continues, “i’ll wrap it up for you.” he leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. “enjoy.”

“thank you, ‘samu,” you tell him before he turns to leave. 

he smiles back at you and heads back behind the bar.

atsumu has evidently forgotten about ordering, because his eyes shuttle back and forth between you two before nodding considerably. “so i take it things are going well?”

“yeah,” you admit, picking up an onigiri. “going really well, actually.”

“you’ve been…” atsumu searches for the word, “is it still called ‘dating’? you broke up. but… entertaining each other…?”

“don’t hurt yourself,” you joke. “but yeah. let’s call it dating. and it’s going well, thanks for asking.” you take a bite of the onigiri.

“does he still have a chance?” atsumu asks, genuine curiosity on his face.

you chew thoughtfully as you look back at osamu, who’s smiling at a customer. you remember that bright morning, when he helped you pack, helped you move into your friend’s apartment. when he cooked all that food, and you found it neatly packed away in a thermal bag that had a handwritten note, reminding you to eat well.

you remember the next day, when he showed up at your friend’s door, holding flowers and inviting you out to get some ice cream. you remember his messages, his calls, his check ins on you, littered across the days, asking you how you are or if you’re eating or if you need any food.

you could call him if you needed any help, if you needed anything at all.

but reality sets in when you think of how one phone call could be a mistake, it stops you from searching his name each time you pick up the phone.

in your mind, you see his bent form, his begging, his tears. you remember his smiles and his hugs and his ‘see you later’s, his gradually growing list of unbroken promises. you remember the effort, the time he’s putting into you, putting aside for you. you remember how hard he tries for you.

it's like everything is new again.

his eyes catch yours and he gives you a small wave, and you wave back, your stomach fluttering.

it's not new, you think. it's better.

you swallow your food. it's delicious.

“yeah,” you say softly, “he does.”

—