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Anya is LIVE right now
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NOTE: she’s baaaaaaackkkkkk. This might be my favourite au yet!
From the high, arched window of the Red Keep’s inner courtyard, the world looked like a beautifully painted tapestry. Down below, Prince Valarr Targaryen was performing his finest role: the Perfect Prince.
You watched him charm a cluster of noble ladies, his chestnut hair catching the afternoon sun, making it look almost bronze. His laughter light and musical. He was the hope of the realm, the beloved grandson of King Daeron II, polite to a fault and graceful beyond measure.
But you knew better than the mindless flock. You knew the weight of his hands, and the darkness that lived just beneath that lovely porcelain smile
Valarr had been the first of your cousins to hold you when you were born. While your own father, Maekar, had been away doing whatever it is he does, Valarr had cradled you as a babe. You grew up wrapped in his shadow. When you were children, the others thought he was simply being a doting older cousin. Though they would never see the things he brought you in the secret, shaded corners of the Godswood.
He would press wild roses into your palms, followed by sticky honey sweets, and then, with the very same gentle hands, he would present you with a dead lizard, its neck cleanly snapped, or a small bird with its eyes meticulously plucked out.
"For my little star," he would whisper, his two-toned eyes glassy, and entirely devoid of the warmth he showed the rest of the court. "Beautiful things for a beautiful girl."
You had found it strange, even unsettling, but a child’s love is a malleable thing. You grew to accept his macabre gifts alongside his affection. You loved him after all. You always had.
Down in the courtyard, Valarr suddenly tilted his head up. As if sensing your gaze, his eyes locked onto your window. The charming, raucous smile he gave the ladies vanished for a fraction of a second, replaced by a look of hunger that sent a shiver straight down your spine. Then, with a blink, the prince was back, bowing to his admirers.
"You spend too much time in his pocket," your brother Aerion spat later that evening, swirling his wine. "It’s uncouth. You are a maiden grown now, sister. People talk."
"He is our cousin, Aerion," you replied softly, keeping your eyes on your embroidery.
"He is a man," Daeron muttered from the corner, surprisingly sober for once. "And Valarr dotes on you like a dog with a bone. Father says it ends now. You are to be married soon."
The needle pricked your finger. A single drop of blood bloomed on the white fabric.
Your father, Maekar, had finally arranged it. By the end of the summer, you were to wed the son of the Lord of Casterly Rock. A young Lannister. He was your age, a master of poetry and song, gentle and perfectly amiable.
You had met him once; he was perfectly fine. Not cruel, not abusive (which was rare). You had resigned yourself to your fate: you would marry him, give him a few golden-haired heirs, and live out your days in the warm stone of the West.
But the thought of leaving King’s Landing—of leaving him—felt like a slow choking.
That night, you slipped away into the dark woods on the edge of the kingswood, your favorite childhood hiding spot. The canopy blocked out the moonlight, leaving the forest thick, black, and suffocating.
"You shouldn't be out here alone, little star."
Valarr materialized from the shadows, stepping so silently he might have been a ghost. He wore a dark riding cloak, his eyes gleaming in the dark.
You didn't hold back. The tears spilled over your cheeks as you confessed your woes, weeping over the impending summer wedding, the Lannister boy, and the terrifying reality of being sent away to Casterly Rock.
A dragon caged is what you were.
Valarr listened in chilling silence. He didn't dare interrupt. He only stepped closer, lifting a gloved hand to brush the hair from your face. He leaned down, his lips pressed against your eyelids, gently kissing your tears away. His skin was unnaturally warm.
"Do not weep, please. You know I hate to see you cry." Valarr murmured against your skin, his voice a low, rhythmic purr that made your heart hammer against your ribs. "Do not worry your little heart out, sweet girl. Valarr will fix everything. I always takes care of my own."
Three days later, the news arrived from the Westerlands.
The young Lannister heir had fallen suddenly, violently ill. The maesters claimed it was a sudden, tragic season’s illness—a racking fever that caused him to bleed from his nose and ears until his heart simply quit. He was dead within forty-eight hours.
The court plunged into mourning for the alliance that could have been. You wore black and offered your condolences, but deep in your chest, a dark, wicked spark of joy ignited.
Heavens above knew you weren't sad. If anything, you were relieved.
That very night, you were startled awake. A heavy hand clamped gently over your mouth.
You gasped, eyes flying open to see Valarr leaning over your bed. The moonlight cut across his face, illuminating a wild, ecstatic grin. He smelled of sweat, leather, and something metallic.
"Dress quickly," he whispered, his fingers lingering on your lips before pulling away. "The horses are saddled. Let us ride in the dark. I know how much you have missed it."
You didn't ask questions. You followed him into the night, the wind howling in your ears as you rode side-by-side, his laughter echoing through the trees like a madman's song.
—
A year later, your father tried again. A Tyrell cousin. A handsome boy who promised you a garden of winter roses.
You found yourself weeping in the woods yet again. And again did Valarr kiss your tears dry.
Two weeks later, the Tyrell boy suffered a horrific fall from his horse during a hunt, his neck snapped cleanly in two—much like the lizards Valarr used to bring you.
Then came a Bracken. A sudden, fatal choking fit on a piece of venison during a feast.
Every time a match was made, you would cry, Valarr would promise to "fix it," and the stranger would vanish from the earth, leaving you blissfully unbetrothed. The court began to whisper that you were cursed, a black widow before you could even reach the altar.
Your father grew frustrated, and your brothers suspicious.
Sitting at your window, you watched Valarr down below. He was laughing with the Kingsguard, the picture of chivalry and royal grace. But you knew what lay beneath the velvet and silver. He was a monster wearing the crown of a prince.
And as he turned his head, catching your gaze yet again from the high window, he offered you a small nod. A sort of silent promise that no one else would ever dare to claim what was his.
A cold dread pooled in your stomach, but as you looked at your perfect, terrifying cousin, you couldn't help but smile back.
—
The tension at the family supper had been thick enough to cut with a dagger, but it wasn't until the servants began clearing the heavy silver platters that the true shift occurred.
Your uncle, Prince Baelor Breakspear—the Hand of the King and the heir to the Iron Throne—stood up and caught your eye. With a gentle but firm nod, he gestured toward the quiet privacy of the adjacent council chamber. "A word, niece," he said softly.
Before you could even push your chair back, a shadow fell over you. Valarr was already on his feet, his hand instinctively dropping to the back of your chair, his eyes darting sharply between you and his father. "I will accompany her," Valarr said, his voice smooth, but carrying that underlying, rigid edge you knew all too well.
Baelor placed a heavy, warning hand on his son’s shoulder. "No, Valarr. This conversation is meant for her ears alone. Remain here."
Valarr’s jaw tightened. For a fraction of a second, the polite, obedient prince vanished, replaced by the dangerous, volatile thing that lived beneath his skin. His grip on your chair turned so white his knuckles popped. But he forced a tight, agreeable smile. Leaning down under the pretense of adjusting your cloak, his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath ragged.
"I will be right outside the door," he whispered, a low vibration. "If he makes you uneasy, if you feel even a flicker of fright, you call for me. I am right here."
When you stepped into the chamber, Baelor closed the heavy oak door, shutting Valarr out. The Hand of the King looked tired, but his eyes were filled with a profound, paternal kindness as he took your hands gingerly in his own.
"It has come to my attention," Baelor began, his voice echoing in the quiet room, "that Valarr has been systematically refusing courting visitors of all kinds. Highborn ladies from the Reach, the Westerlands, the Vale... he turns them all away. He finally came to me, niece. He made his intentions entirely clear. He wishes to marry you."
A sudden, fierce flush crawled up your neck, burning your cheeks. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird, and suddenly you couldn’t meet your uncle’s gaze any longer.
Baelor sighed, squeezing your hands. "To be the wife of the future king... it is not an easy task, sweet girl. The court is a nest of vipers, and the crown is heavy. But I love my son, and I care deeply for you. If you love him, and if you are willing to take on this burden... I will allow it. I will speak to your father, and let the two of you marry."
You could barely think straight. The blood rushed to your ears, a dizzying, intoxicating wave of pure relief and euphoria. The nightmare of being shipped off to a stranger, of being torn away from Valarr’s dark, protective embrace—it was gone. Erased with a single sentence.
"Yes," you breathed, the word slipping out before he could even finish. "Yes, Uncle. More than anything."
—
Suddenly, the grim, oppressive walls of the Red Keep seemed to glow with a brilliant, blinding light. The news of the betrothal swept through the castle, and with it, a profound shift in the young prince. Valarr was absolutely beaming, a radiant, blinding sun that left the court in awe.
He had started to permanently attached himself to your side.
Every morning brought new treasures to your chambers. Rare Myrish lace, ropes of perfect pearls, silks dyed the color of dragon’s blood, and baskets of your favorite honey sweets.
When he had been forced to court other ladies in the past, he had been a model of polite etiquette. But with you? It was a far cry from his past behaviour. It was entirely transparent to the entire court who his favorite girl was.
He doted on you, brushed your hair, kissed your knuckles in front of lords and smallfolk alike, and you absolutely lavished in it. You felt entirely safe, wrapped in the golden bubble of his obsessive devotion.
But outside your little bubble, the shadows were growing longer.
"They say the young Crakehall boy was found in the harbor," Aerion muttered around a mouthful of roasted boar, his eyes glittering with a malicious, drunken amusement. "Bloated like a toad. And that Mooton heir who dared to send her a poem last moon? Disappeared from his inn. Not a trace left but a puddle of blood on the floorboards."
The laughter around the supper table died down slightly. Your father, Maekar, frowned deeply into his wine cup.
"It’s a curse," Daeron hiccuped, slurring his words. "Any man who so much as looks at our sweet sister ends up feeding the crows."
Aerion leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Valarr, who was sitting right beside you, calmly cutting a piece of meat on your plate for you. "I have a theory," Aerion sneered, his voice dripping with mock secrecy. "I think our dear cousin Valarr doesn't sleep at all. I think he turns into a demon dragon at night. He flies out the window, hunts down every single one of her past suitors, and tears them to pieces in the dark."
The table erupted into jests and uneasy laughter. Even Baelor offered a amused shake of his head at his nephew's wild imagination. Valarr chuckled softly, a light, aristocratic sound, and popped a piece of perfectly cut meat into your mouth. "A demon dragon, Aerion? You cut me deep. I prefer a quiet night's rest."
You chewed slowly, the food turning to mush in your mouth.
Everyone else was laughing, treating it as one of Aerion's cruel jests. But as you looked down at Valarr’s hands—the beautiful, pale hands currently pouring you a cup of sweet arbor gold—you noticed a faint, missed trace of dark, dried crimson buried deep beneath his fingernail.
He wasn't a demon dragon. He was just a man in love.
—
The night before the royal wedding, the Red Keep was suffocating. The castle was bursting at the seams with lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, heavy perfumes, and a manic, festive energy.
But inside your bedchambers, the air was cold, and your chest felt tightly bound. Anxiety, sharp and relentless, clawed at your throat. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't sit still.
A faint click broke the silence of the room. From the hidden passage behind the tapestry, a shadow stepped out.
Valarr slipped into the room, locking the heavy door behind him. He looked exhausted, yet his eyes blazed with a desperate, frantic hunger the moment they landed on you.
"I couldn't stay away, little star," he murmured, rushing to your side and wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest. "Tomorrow will be madness. The septons, the feasts, the crowds... I won't be able to look at you, not truly, until the vows are said. I couldn't stand a whole day without seeing you."
He smiled, a soft, boyish thing, and began to untie his tunic. He had already announced his intention to sleep in your quarters, promising to slip back out through the hidden tunnel before your handmaidens arrived at dawn. He unlaced the fine velvet, slipping his arms out. Valarr always preferred to sleep bare-chested, his skin naturally radiating a strange, feverish heat.
But as the fabric fell away, a flash of jagged, angry red caught your eye.
Across his forearm was a deep, raw gash, the edges poorly bound and weeping slightly. Your breath hitched. "Valarr... what is that? What happened to your arm?"
He didn't even look down at it. He merely offered a dismissive, airy chuckle, pulling you toward the massive four-post bed. "Nothing to worry your beautiful head over, my love. A minor mishap during a late-night ride through the woods. A stray branch. It’s nothing serious, I promise."
You wanted to believe him, but the image of the trace of blood under his fingernails from days ago flashed through your mind. Still, you let him pull you down into the feather mattress. He wrapped his long arms around you, pulling your back against his chest, his chin resting in your hair. It was a position you had found comfort in a thousand times before.
But tonight, the comfort wouldn't come.
Your mind was a roaring storm. You shifted to the left. You turned to the right. Your legs twitched under the heavy furs. Every time you tried to close your eyes, your heart hammered against your ribs.
Valarr endured the relentless squirming for an hour, his grip tightening slightly each time you moved, until finally, he shifted. He leaned over you, his hair falling like a curtain around your face, blocking out the rest of the dark room. His eyes were wide, swirling with worry.
"What is it?" he whispered, his voice frantic, his fingers tracing your jawline almost too hard. "Why are you so worried, little star? Tell me. Is it the wedding? Is it the crowd? Are you afraid of tomorrow? Tell me who is upsetting you. Give me a name."
"I... I don't know, Valarr," you stammered, your voice trembling. "I don't know why. I just can't calm down. My chest... it won't stop hurting."
Valarr stared down at you, his pupils dilated so wide his eyes looked almost black. He seemed to be searching your face for a script, an answer, until suddenly, a spark of absolute madness lit up his features. It was as if a brilliant, terrible idea had just struck him.
"Ah," he breathed, a breathless, ecstatic smile breaking across his face. "I know. I know what will fix it. Wait here."
He scrambled off the bed, his bare chest gleaming in the moonlight. He rushed over to his leather satchel resting on the table, digging inside until he pulled out a small, heavy iron ice box. It was the kind maesters used to transport delicate, volatile medicines. He brought it back to the bed, setting it right in front of you on the silk sheets.
You shuffled closer to the edge, your legs swinging over the edge of the bed.
"Open it," he whispered, his breath coming in short, excited pants. "Open it, my love. See what I brought you."
With trembling fingers, you reached out and popped the heavy iron latch. You lifted the lid.
The smell of copper and frost hit your nose instantly. Resting on a bed of melting ice was a jagged, horrific mass of raw flesh. A human heart, freshly carved, the vessels severed and frozen in dark, coagulated crimson.
A gasp caught in your throat. Panic flared in your veins—it was a visceral, terrifying sight. But years of growing up by Aerion and Valarr’s side had taught you how to master your face. You forced your expression to remain perfectly still, staring at the gory offering.
Valarr didn't wait for a reaction. He slid off the bed, sinking to his knees on the floorboards right before you. He reached into the box with his bare hands, lifting the heavy, cold heart out of the ice. Dark, melting blood spilled over his knuckles, dripping onto his pristine white linen riding pants, staining the fabric a horrific, deep scarlet.
"Do you see it?" Valarr looked up at you from the floor, his face completely unhinged, flushed with a manic, intoxicating adoration. He looked like a madman, a beautiful, terrifying creature entirely consumed by a holy fervor. "I did this for you. I’ve always done this for you. That Lannister boy? The Tyrell? The Bracken? Every single one of those pathetic, sniveling lords who dared to look at you, who dared to think they could take you away from me? I rid you of them."
He pressed the bloody heart closer to his chest, his hands entirely coated in the thick, crimson fluid.
"They didn't deserve you," he hissed, his voice a ragged, breathless purr. "They didn't know how to worship you. They bothered you! I saw how you cried in the woods. I saw how their names made you weep. I couldn't let them breathe the same air as you. This one—this is the Crakehall boy. The last one who dared to eye you at the feast. I tore it right out of him, little star. For you. Everything I do, every drop of blood I spill, it is an altar built for you."
He leaned his head against your knee, staining your nightgown with blood, looking up at you with the glassy, devoted eyes of a dog begging for approval.
He was completely, and utterly insane. He was a monster who had painted the Red Keep red just to keep you smiling.
And as you sat there, looking down at your blood-soaked, crazed prince kneeling at your feet, the cold anxiety in your chest suddenly vanished.
In its place, a strange, dark heat began to bloom deep in your stomach. A wicked, thrilling shiver ran down your spine.
Everyone else in the world was fickle, bound by duty, laws, and fleeting emotions. But your Valarr? He would butcher the entire realm if you asked him to. He would tear the stars from the sky and drown the world in blood just to keep your heart beating fast. He was completely, dangerously, and entirely yours.
It was terrifying. It was unnerving.
And, faiths help you, it was the most intoxicating thing you had ever felt.
A slow, dark smile crept onto your lips. You reached down, ignoring the wet, sticky crimson, and cupped his cheek, tilting his beautiful, mad face up to yours. "You did all that for me, Valarr?" you whispered.
Valarr leaned heavily into your bloody palm, a soft, pathetic whimper of pure ecstasy escaping his throat. "Anything," he gasped, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly beautiful devotion. "Anything for my queen."
—
The night was alive.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a roaring ocean of noise, gold, and crimson. The wedding feast had bled deep into the small hours of the night, and the celebrations showed no signs of slowing down. Bards plucked frantically at their lutes, lords roared with drunken laughter, and the wine flowed like a river.
Yet, amidst the swirling crowd of dancers and well-wishers, the space beside you on the high dais sat entirely empty.
Your dear husband was nowhere to be found.
You had sat through a dozen toasts, your smile perfectly fixed, but the dark heat in your stomach from the night before was burning.
After questioning a handful of oblivious guests, you slipped away from the high table, cornering a tense Gold Cloak near the threshold of the hall. He stammered, bowing low, before admitting he had seen Prince Valarr slip down the quiet, left corridor moments ago.
You followed the path away from the noise, the music of the feast fading into a dull, rhythmic thumping against the stone walls. The corridor grew darker, lit only by flickering wall sconces. Then, you saw it. A dark, wet droplet on the cold stone. Then another. A small, smeared trail of crimson leading toward a secluded alcove.
You stepped around the corner and found him.
Valarr stood over a crumpled form, his chest heaving. The magnificent, pristine white wedding robes he had taken his vows in were now utterly ruined, drenched in deep, sickening red. His face, usually so clean and perfect, was splattered with a fresh coat of it, and his hands were stained entirely to the wrists. He was a vision of absolute butchery.
Hearing your soft footsteps, Valarr snapped his head around, his eyes wide and wild. The moment he recognized you, a flash of pure panic crossed his features—not because he had been caught, but for you.
"No, no, little star, don't step any closer," he breathed frantically, holding his sticky, red hands out to keep you back. "Your dress. Look at your dress. It’s too beautiful to ruin. Stay back, my love."
You looked down at your lavish, white-and-silver wedding gown, then up at him. A slow, dark thrill thrummed through your veins. Instead of retreating, you took a deliberate step forward, your delicate silk slippers stepping right over the fresh, cooling corpse of whatever unfortunate lord had dared to slight you tonight.
You reached out, entirely ignoring his warnings, and cupped his blood-splattered face in your hands. The copper smell was thick and suffocating, but you only leaned closer, a soft, scolding coo escaping your lips.
"Oh, Valarr," you sighed, tracing his cheekbone with your thumb, smearing the wet crimson across his pale skin. "Look at you. What am I to do with you? You are entirely drenched in blood. I still wanted to dance to so many more songs tonight, but you’ve gone and made a mess of yourself before the feast is even over. You must clean up first, my sweet prince."
Valarr stared at you, his breath hitching. Hearing your gentle, unbothered voice, seeing the utter lack of fear in your eyes, drove him into a state of pure, ecstatic delirium. A ragged, broken whine escaped his throat.
"My queen," he gasped. He seized your hands—instantly coating your fingers in the dead man's blood—and pulled you fiercely against him.
He kissed you. It was a feverish, desperate, and bruising thing. His lips parted yours, and the sharp, metallic taste of iron flooded your mouth, thick and overwhelming.
He kissed you until you were breathless, his face sliding against yours, deliberately coating the bottom half of your jaw and cheeks in the warm, wet blood of his latest victim. It was a horrific branding, and it made your head spin with an intoxicating rush.
When he finally broke away, panting, he looked down at your blood-stained face and laughed—a sound of pure, unadulterated worship.
"We will dance later," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous, possessive light. "We will dance for the rest of our lives."
With a sudden movement, Valarr grabbed the edge of the dead lord’s fine velvet doublet, quickly wiping the excess wetness from his own palms and yours. Before you could even protest, he swept you off your feet, lifting you effortlessly into his arms.
He didn't take you back to the Great Hall. Instead, he moved through the shadows of the Red Keep like a ghost, slipping past the distracted guards with the movements of a predator.
He carried you through the winding corridors, straight to your new, shared royal quarters, kicking the heavy oak doors shut and barring them from the inside.
"Valarr, wait," you breathless murmured against his neck as he set you down on the edge of the massive bed. "The feast... the guests will notice we are gone. I wanted my dances."
"Let them wonder," Valarr growled softly, descending upon you like a shadow. His hands, still stained a faint pink, pinned your wrists to the mattress, trapping you beneath his heavy, feverish frame. "The realm had you for the afternoon, little star. But now the night and its stars belongs to me."
Despite your playful pleas and teasing pouts about the missed music, you never did make it back to the celebrations. Valarr kept you entirely hostage within the confines of those silk sheets for the rest of the wedding night, claiming every inch of you.
The afternoon sun filtered through the high windows of the atelier, casting long, golden shapes across the wooden floorboards. It was a perfectly ordinary day, or at least, it should have been.
Instead, the quiet of the workroom was repeatedly punctured by the heavy, theatrical sighs of Tetia.
She was slumped over the desk, a piece of parchment blank before her, her chin propped in her hands. “Haaaaaaah…”
Richeh looked up from her book, her brow furrowing slightly. From her shoulder, Brushbuddy mimicked her movement, poking its fluffy head out to peer curiously at Tetia.
“You’ve been sighing like a deflating balloon for twenty minutes,” Richeh noted, her tone even but tinged with mild annoyance. “Why are you being so dramatic? It’s making it hard to read.”
Tetia rolled her head on the desk to look at her friend, her eyes wide and tragic. “Because, Richeh! I’m having trouble with my studies! Well… not magic studies. Feeling studies.” She sat up abruptly, leaning across the gap between their desks. “Tell me, Richeh… have you ever been in love?”
Richeh froze. Slowly, a vivid memory flashed through her mind, the feel of the carefully penned letters she had received for her birthday from Euini, hidden safely away in her room. A sudden heat rushed to her cheeks. Without a word, Richeh raised her book back up, completely burying her face behind the pages to ignore the question entirely.
“Hey! No fair!” Tetia pouted, puffing out her cheeks.
Realizing she’d get nothing out of her, Tetia scrambled up and trotted over to the other side of the room where Coco and Agott were organizing drawing instruments.
“Coco! Agott!” Tetia burst out, skipping the pleasantries. “Have either of you ever been in love? You know, that fuzzy, dizzy feeling where you can't stop thinking about someone?”
Agott’s hand slipped, dropping a container of drafting charcoal with a sharp clatter. She immediately turned away, her ears a bright, telltale crimson as she began furiously reorganizing the shelf. “Don’t ask ridiculous questions, Tetia. We have work to do.”
Coco, meanwhile, tilted her head, her round eyes blinking in confusion. “In love? Like how much I love magic? Or how much I love Tartah’s inventions? Or—”
“No, no, completely different!” Tetia groaned, throwing her hands up in defeat.
Sullen and utterly unsatisfied with her friends' answers, Tetia trudged out of the workroom and began walking back toward the living area. She was so deep in her own thoughts, mentally reviewing every interaction she’d had with Eoleo during the festival, that she didn't notice the tall figure rounding the corner.
Thump.
“Whoa there,” Olruggio said, catching her by the shoulders before she could bounce off his legs. He was carrying a crate of freshly mended tools. “Watch where you’re goin’, Tetia. What’s got you lookin’ so glum?”
Tetia looked up at the Watcher, her eyes suddenly sparkling with a new hope. An adult! An adult would definitely have the answers.
“Master Olruggio!” she cried. “Have you ever been in love?”
Olruggio blinked, caught entirely off guard. He shifted the crate to one hip, rubbing the back of his neck as a faint, reluctant softness touched his expression. “Ah. Well… yes. I have.”
“Really?!”
“Yes, really,” Olruggio said, his voice dropping into his usual grounded, patient cadence. He tapped her forehead lightly with a finger. “But you’re much too young to fully understand all the complexities of it right now. If you're wrestling with some feelings, it’s always better to think them out for yourself first. Take your time before you rush to any big conclusions.”
Tetia absorbed this, nodding sagely, but her boundless curiosity quickly took over. She leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So… when you’re in love, do you get called lovely names? Like… ‘darling’? Or ‘sweetie’?”
A fierce, bright red flooded his face, burning all the way to the tips of his ears. He nearly dropped the crate of tools. “Wha—where are you hearing words like that?!” he stammered, his usual cool composure utterly shattering. “You are far too young to be enthralled by such silly nonsense! And besides, I’m a grown man! I don’t need to be called… things like that!”
Tetia stared at his flustered reaction for a second before a massive grin broke across her face. She let out a bright, mischievous giggle. “Okay, okay! If you say so, Master Olly!”
Just then, Qifrey’s voice echoed down the hall from the kitchen. “Girls! Time to start cleaning up your stations for supper!”
“Coming, Master Qifrey!” Tetia called back. Giving Olruggio one last teasing look, she skipped happily back to the workroom to join Coco, Agott, and Richeh.
Olruggio let out a long, ragged exhale, slumping against the corridor wall. He wiped a hand over his face, his heart still hammering against his ribs. Good grief, he thought to himself, I got lucky escaping that conversation before she pushed any further.
A few minutes later, the girls had retreated to the washroom to scrub the ink and charcoal from their hands before dinner. The hallway was quiet, save for the distant sound of running water and their chattering voices.
Olruggio was still standing near the storage cupboard, organizing the mended tools, when a sudden, warm presence materialized behind him.
A pair of arms smoothly slid around his waist, and a soft chin came to rest gently on Olruggio’s shoulder.
“Everything alright, my sweet?” Qifrey’s voice murmured smoothly, dripping with pure, unmitigated mischief.
Olruggio stiffened entirely, his face instantly re-igniting into a blazing crimson. He elbowed Qifrey sharply in the ribs, though there was no real force behind it. “Get off me!” he hissed, spinning around in the embrace, his hands coming up to press against Qifrey’s chest to keep him at a distance. “Don’t call me that! What if the girls hear ya?!”
Qifrey didn't back down, his single visible eye crinkling with absolute delight as a broad, wicked smirk graced his lips. “Oh? But I thought you didn’t care for such names? I distinctly heard you telling Tetia that you’re a big, grown man who doesn't need them.”
“You—you were eavesdropping!” Olruggio accused, his voice a harsh, embarrassed whisper. “If you were just going to stand around in the shadows like a creep, you should have said something!”
“And miss the look on your face? Never,” Qifrey chuckled, leaning in just a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a teasing purr. “Besides, I think you make a wonderful darling—”
“Qifrey, I swear by the stars, I will hex your tea,” Olruggio threatened, though the effect was entirely ruined by how violently he was blushing.
Before Qifrey could push his luck any further, the sound of the washroom door clicking open echoed down the hall. In a flash, Qifrey stepped back, smoothly sliding his arms back to his side and adopting his usual serene, perfectly innocent posture just as the four apprentices turned the corner.
Coco stopped in her tracks, looking between the two mentors. She tilted her head, her brow furrowing with genuine concern.
“Master Olruggio?” Coco asked, walking over to him. “Are you okay? Your face is so red, and you look a little… ill. Did you catch a fever?”
Qifrey, without missing a beat, beamed a bright, blindingly cheerful smile at the girls, clapping his hands together. “Oh, don't worry, Coco! Master Olruggio just spent a bit too much time near the hot forge today. Now, come along, everyone! To the dining table before supper gets cold!”
With a gentle, sweeping motion of his arms, Qifrey efficiently herded the curious girls past them and into the dining room. As he passed Olruggio, he cast one last, smug look over his shoulder.
Olruggio stood alone in the hallway for a moment, covering his face with both hands, letting out a slow, defeated sigh. He was definitely going to put something bitter in Qifrey’s tea tonight.
The neon sign of the local joint buzzed with a comforting, cheap hum, casting a red glow over the cracked asphalt of the alley. Katsuki Bakugou shifted the weight of his support gear, the heavy metallic bracers of his hero suit feeling twice as heavy after the day he’d had.
Some days, being the top hero meant saving the day with nothing but his explosions. Today, it meant five hours of mind-numbing bureaucratic red tape at the agency, followed by a botched villain apprehension that involved too much collateral damage control and not enough actual fighting. He was drained. Bone-deep exhausted.
When Eijiro had caught him by the locker rooms, shoving a grinning face into his space and shouting about Mina hosting a dinner for the squad, Katsuki couldn’t even find the energy to snap. He just muttered a flat, "No." He didn't have the bandwidth for Mina’s energy, Kaminari’s bullshit, or Sero’s loud laughing. He just wanted grease, spice, and absolute silence.
He didn't even bother changing out of his hero costume, just threw a dark jacket over his shoulders to cover the glaring orange 'X' on his chest, though the spiked hair and massive grenade gauntlets sitting in his gym bag gave him away instantly.
Stepping inside his favorite hole-in-the-wall Japanese restaurant, the wall of heat and the thick aroma of chili oil and simmering broth hit him like a physical wall. And then he saw the crowd.
Just my luck. Packed.
Katsuki scowled, ready to turn on his heel and face a miserable night of convenience store rice balls, when the manager caught his eye. The old man gave a knowing nod, waving a hand to a young waiter who immediately scurried over, bowing low.
"Dynamight! Follow me, please. We’re full downstairs, but we have a spot on the roof for our regulars."
Katsuki grunted a thanks, following the kid up a narrow, creaking flight of wooden stairs. The rooftop wasn't some glamorous lounge; it was a tiny concrete slab overlooking the city lights, crammed with four small, mismatched wooden tables. It was drafty, a bit cramped, but most importantly—it was quiet.
Well, almost entirely quiet.
"Here you go, sir. Sorry for the tight squeeze," the waiter mumbled, gesturing to a two-person table against the railing.
Sitting at the table immediately adjacent—so close that their chairs would probably bump if either of them leaned back too far—was you.
Katsuki froze for a fraction of a second, his crimson eyes locking onto your form. He recognized you instantly. You were a fixture at this place, always tucked into a corner downstairs on Tuesday and Thursday nights, working your way through the spiciest items on the menu without batting an eye. He’d noticed you months ago, mostly because you were one of the few people who didn't stare at him or ask for an autograph when he walked in.
You looked up from your steaming bowl of mapo tofu, a pair of chopsticks halfway to your mouth. Your eyes blinked in mild surprise, taking in the spiked ash-blonde hair, the unmistakable hero trousers, and the obvious aura of irritation radiating off him.
"Rough day?" you asked, your voice remarkably casual given that a top-ranked, explosive hero had just dropped into the chair less than two feet from you.
Katsuki let out a long, heavy exhale through his nose, dropping his heavy gym bag onto the floor with a dull thud. He pulled the jacket off his shoulders, draping it over the back of the small chair.
"Don't start," he muttered, though there was no real bite to it. He was too tired to even manufacture his usual aggression. He flagged down the waiter. "Give me the extra-spicy tantanmen. Double the chili paste. And a cold beer."
"Right away, sir."
Once the waiter disappeared, the silence stretched between the two of you, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The cool night air cut through the lingering heat of the kitchen downstairs, carrying the distant, muffled sounds of the city traffic below.
You took another bite of your food, chewing thoughtfully before speaking up again. "You know, if you wear the costume into a place like this, you’re just asking for people to bother you. You're lucky the old man guards this roof like a hawk."
Katsuki leaned back, his broad shoulders stretching against the cheap wood of the chair. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. You weren't wearing anything special, just comfortable, everyday clothes. No support gear, and no spark of a quirk humming beneath your skin. He’d realized a while ago from the way you moved, completely unburdened by the physical ticks or subconscious tells of a quirk-user, that you were entirely quirkless.
Was it slightly bigoted of him to assume that? Yes. But in his defense, his assumption was correct and you were quirkless.
"Didn't have the energy to change," Katsuki grunted, resting an elbow on the tiny table. "Didn't want to go home and cook for tomorrow, either. Just wanted to eat without hearing my idiot friends yell for five minutes."
He’s surprised he was even saying all this to a complete stranger.
"Fair enough," you said with a soft chuckle. You reached for your glass of water, taking a sip. "The gang keeping you busy?"
He scoffed, a faint, genuine smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "They're a pain in the ass. Always trying to drag me to some loud dinner. I chose a quiet bowl of noodles over their loud mouths.”
"Sounds like a wise choice for your sanity Mr. Dynamight.”
The waiter returned, setting down a massive, violently red bowl of noodles and a frosted mug of beer. The steam rising from the bowl was practically chemical, but Katsuki’s expression immediately smoothed out.
"Thanks," he muttered. He cracked his chopsticks apart, picked up a heavy tangle of noodles, and took a bite. The intense, burning heat hit his tongue instantly, spreading a comfortable warmth down his throat and finally breaking the tension coiled in his shoulders. He followed it with a long gulp of the freezing beer, letting out a sharp breath. "Fuck. Needed that."
"Good, right?" you asked, leaning your chin on your hand, watching him with an amused expression. "I told the chef last week he needed to up the spice factor on the tantanmen. Guess he took it to heart."
Katsuki looked over at you, his red eyes narrowing slightly, though the look was entirely curious. "You come here a lot. I see you downstairs."
"It's close to my place, it's cheap, and they don't judge me for clearing out their hot sauce supply," you replied easily. "Plus, it's nice to watch the chaos downstairs. Though up here is definitely better."
"Yeah," Katsuki agreed, taking another mouthful of noodles. He looked out over the railing, watching the shimmering lights of the city skyline. "It's quiet."
For the next twenty minutes, conversation faded into a comfortable rhythm of chewing, the clinking of dishes, and occasional, brief observations about the menu. The smallness of the rooftop and the tight spacing of the tables, which usually would have driven Katsuki insane, felt oddly private. It created a small pocket of isolation from the rest of the world.
As you finished up the last of your meal, you set your chopsticks down and stretched your arms slightly, catching his eye.
"Well, good sir," you said, reaching into your pocket for your wallet. "Try not to blow up the restaurant on your way out. And thanks for all the company."
Katsuki watched you stand up, picking up your jacket.
For a guy who usually demanded people get out of his way, he found himself wishing the tiny rooftop tables were just a little bit closer together, or that you'd stay to argue about which menu item had the superior spice profile.
"Oi," Katsuki called out just as you hit the top of the stairs.
You paused, looking back over your shoulder.
He took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze steady. "I'm usually here on Thursdays after shift. Downstairs is too loud."
A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. You adjusted the strap of your bag, giving him a small nod.
"Then I guess I'll have to ask the old man for a rooftop reservation next Thursday," you said softly. "See you around, Katsuki."
During that small window of time you even managed to convince him to let you call him by his first name.
You disappeared down the stairs, leaving him alone under the dim string lights. Katsuki stared at the empty space for a moment, the sound of his actual name, not his hero title, lingering in the cool air. He let out a quiet huff, a genuine, relaxed smile finally breaking across his face as he dug back into his noodles.
Maybe the day wasn't a total wash after all.
—
The silence of Katsuki’s apartment was a holy sanctuary.
He kicked his boots off at the entryway with two dull thuds, dropping his gear bag onto the floor. The ambient heat of the room was a welcome relief from the cool night air, and his stomach was comfortably full of burning chili oil and beer. He was finally starting to unwind, the image of your easy smile on that cramped rooftop lingering pleasantly in the back of his mind.
Then, his phone vibrated in his pocket. A loud, obnoxious electronic buzz that shattered the peace.
He pulled it out, eyes narrowing at the caller ID. Dunce Face.
Katsuki groaned, a deep sound of pure irritation. It was past midnight. He swiped the screen with a aggressive thumb and shoved the phone onto speaker, tossing it onto his neatly made bed as he started unbuttoning his hero vest.
"What the fuck do you want? It’s tomorrow already," Katsuki growled, his voice a low raspy warning.
"Katsukiiii!" Denki’s voice wailed through the speaker, accompanied by the unmistakable, chaotic background noise of Mina’s apartment—clinking glasses, Kirishima laughing loudly in the distance, and Sero shouting about a Mario Kart rematch. “You missed it, man! You totally missed out! Mina made this insane hot pot and Eijiro ate like four bowls and—"
"I don't care," Katsuki cut him off, unzipping the heavy canvas of his uniform trousers and stepping out of them, kicking them toward the laundry hamper. He was down to his black compression shirt and boxers, the cool air hitting his skin as he stretched out his tight shoulder muscles. "I told Shitty Hair I wasn't coming. I’m hanging up."
"No, wait, wait, wait! Don't hang up!" Denki slurred slightly, clearly a few drinks deep into the evening. "Listen, okay? I’m calling you because I had this realization. A total epiphany. You need to come to these things because you are missing the vital gossip of the agency life, man."
Katsuki walked over to his bathroom, grabbing a face towel and turning on the faucet. He threw the phone onto the counter next to the sink. "I don't give a shit about agency gossip."
"You will care about this!" Denki insisted, his voice dropping into a dramatic, conspiratorial whisper that was still entirely too loud. "Okay, so, you know how PR handles all the outreach stuff? I had a meeting this morning with the new liaison. The one in charge of the anti-hate and advocacy division for quirkless people?"
Katsuki paused, a handful of cold water halfway to his face. He blinked, the water dripping through his fingers back into the sink. Quirkless. The word instantly triggered a mental picture of you, sitting under the dim string lights of the rooftop.
"What about 'em?" Katsuki muttered, finally washing his face, the cold water shocking his skin awake.
"Dude," Denki groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated awe. "She is smoking hot. Like, stunning. Broad daylight and with just this corporate suit thing, and I swear to god I forgot how to speak English. And Japanese. I think I just made sparking noises at her for ten minutes. She's a total ten out of ten. If you were there, you would've—"
Katsuki grabbed a towel, drying his face with rough, aggressive strokes. He grabbed the phone, walking back into his bedroom to pull on a comfortable pair of grey sweatpants.
"Shut the fuck up," Katsuki rolled his eyes, tossing himself onto the mattress and staring up at the ceiling.
As Denki continued to ramble in his ear about the shape of this PR woman's eyes or whatever nonsense his drunk brain was fixating on, Katsuki’s mind completely drifted. He found himself actively comparing Denki’s hyped-up description to the person he had actually spent his evening with.
Smoking hot? Katsuki thought, a cynical smirk forming on his lips. Doubtful. Denki thought a stiff breeze was attractive if it wore a skirt.
Besides, Katsuki didn't care about some random corporate-suit model working a desk job. His mind was stuck on the way you looked in the dim, cheap neon light of that restaurant. The way you handled spice that would make Kaminari cry like a baby.
There was no way Denki's PR girl could be as captivating as the mysterious regular on the roof. Not even close.
"—and I’m telling you, Bakugou, if you just came to the meetings instead of hiding in your office doing paperwork, you'd see her! Next time she comes by the agency, I’m introducing you," Denki droned on, completely oblivious to Katsuki’s silence.
"I'm hanging up now. For real this time." Katsuki said, his voice flat but entirely done with the conversation.
"Wait, you didn't even tell me if you think she sounds like your type—"
Katsuki hit the red button, cutting Denki off mid-sentence. He threw the phone onto his nightstand, the sudden silence of his apartment wrapping around him like a heavy blanket.
He stared at the dark ceiling for a long moment, the irritation from the phone call slowly evaporating, replaced by a strange, anticipatory hum in his chest.
Thursday, he reminded himself, a slow, quiet smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he rolled over and pulled the blanket over his shoulders. Just gotta make it to Thursday.
The weight of the heavy, red cloak of his uniform always felt twice as heavy at the end of the day.
Easthies unclasped the fastens at his collar, his fingers slightly stiff from hours of gripping his staff and signing disciplinary decrees. His eyes ached. As the captain of his squad, the burden of maintaining order among the Pointed Caps, of hunting down those who dared to transgress the laws of magic, rested squarely on his shoulders.
He closed the door to his private quarters, letting out a rare, exhaustive sigh. The room was sparse, functional, and devoid of the whimsical comforts other witches favored. He was looking forward to nothing more than a few hours of dreamless sleep.
Then, he stopped.
A cool draft brushed against the back of his neck. His gaze snapped to the stone arched window. It was unlatched. Barely a finger’s width ajar, but enough to set every instinct he possessed on a razor's edge.
Easthies didn’t hesitate. His hand gripped his pen instinctively, his posture locking into a defensive stance. He scanned the shadows of his room, his sharp eyes cutting through the dim candlelight, searching for the telltale glimmer of forbidden glyphs or an intruder’s silhouette.
Instead, a faint, unnatural mist began to roll over the sill. It swirled with a quiet, mesmerizing grace, pooling onto the stone floor before condensing into a shape right behind him.
Before he could spin around, a pair of arms wrapped gently over his shoulders from behind. A familiar, soft warmth pressed against his back, and a teasing voice whispered directly into his ear.
"Miss me?"
Easthies didn’t flinch. The rigid tension in his shoulders slowly, begrudgingly melted away. He let out a long, slow breath, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second.
"You are incredibly foolish," Easthies murmured, his voice low and raspy from the long day, though he made no move to push her away. "You could be killed just trying to cross into this territory. What are you doing here?"
You let out a soft, melodic laugh, resting your chin on his shoulder, completely unbothered by his stern tone. "Please, Easthies. Give me some grace. I wouldn't dare be that careless. Besides, you didn't answer my question. Did you miss me?"
He didn't answer right away. His mind drifted, pulling him back through the years, peeling away the layers of the hardened man he had become.
He remembered when you were both just small apprentices, studying under the same roof. Even back then, your genius was undeniable. You possessed a breathtaking prowess for magic, drawing clean glyphs with a creativity that left teachers marvelling. But alongside that talent was a bottomless, insatiable curiosity, a desire to know what lay beyond the rigid boundaries established by the dynamic of the pointed caps.
That curiosity had eventually led you down a forbidden path. You had chosen the Brimmed Cap, embracing the wild, restricted magic that the rest of society feared.
And he? He had joined the Knights Moralis. He became the shield and the sword meant to eradicate exactly what you had become.
By all rights, I should report you, he thought, a familiar, bitter irony twisting in his chest. I should draw my pen and execute the law on the spot.
He had told himself that the first night you snuck into his quarters years ago. He had told himself that dozens of times since. Yet, every single time you appeared like a phantom in the night, his resolve crumbled. He loved you too much. He was selfish—disgustingly so, by his own moral standards—for turning a blind eye to a Brim Hat.
But even with that love, he could never join you. The mere thought of becoming a Brim Hat himself, of breaking the fundamental laws of their world, filled him with a deep, visceral disgust. He was a creature of order; you were a creature of the forbidden. They were two forces that should have destroyed each other on sight.
Instead, he turned around in your embrace, his hands coming up to gently grip your wrists. He looked down into your eyes, his expression a mix of exhaustion and affection.
"Be careful," he said, his voice dropping to a fierce, quiet whisper. "If the guards catch even a whisper of your ink..." He trailed off, shaking his head. He looked toward his bed. "Spend the night. If you're going to risk your life to come here, you might as well stay put where it's safe."
A radiant smile broke across your face. "I'd love to."
With a soft sigh of contentment, you reached up and slid the wide-brimmed hat from your head, setting it carefully on his desk. Without an ounce of hesitation, you climbed into his bed, pulling the heavy, unadorned blankets up to your chin.
Easthies watched you, a faint, barely visible softening in his eyes. His bed was notoriously uncomfortable, stiff, practical, and meant for a soldier, not a regular witch. He complained about it to himself most days. But as he extinguished the candles, removed his heavy outer coat, and lay down beside you, the stiffness of the mattress seemed to vanish.
You immediately slid closer, snuggling into his side and resting your head against his chest. Easthies wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close, burying his face into your hair.
For a few hours, the rules didn't exist. The forbidden magic of the Brim Hats didn't exist. In the quiet sanctity of the dark room, listening to the steady rhythm of each other's breathing, they were just two small apprentices again, finding comfort in the only person who truly understood them.
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NOTE: yes this was inspired by short king Napoleon and his yearning for his wife, bc every woman deserves that much love. I was originally gonna make this about Choso but I started to miss my blue eyed king. Anyways I kinda love how this turned out, giggling and kicking my feet in the air as I was typing this out LMAO.
From the Muddy Trenches of the Northern Front:
My Dearest, My Only Soul,
I have not seen your face in three weeks, and already I am convinced that the sun has forgotten how to shine. This wretched northern border is nothing but gray skies, ceaseless rain, and mud that threatens to swallow my boots whole. Nanami tells me I am being dramatic. I told him he lacks a soul, which is why his armor always looks so perfectly polished while mine is caked in grime.
They call us the realm’s greatest defense, but what good is being the strongest knight in the kingdom if I cannot even hold my wife? I spent the afternoon pretending to listen to Shoko discuss supply lines, but in truth, I was only remembering the way you laughed when I dropped that entire tray of pastries last month.
The campaign is tedious. The enemy forces are stubborn, but they are no match for us; we will break their lines soon enough. Yet, victory means nothing if it keeps me from your side. I wake up in the dead of night, reaching for you, only to grasp cold canvas and the smell of wet wool. It is a cruel torture.
Write to me instantly. Tell me you miss me. Tell me you are wasting away without me, just as I am without you. If a letter from you does not arrive by the next courier, I might just ride back through the enemy lines myself, consequences be damned.
Ever and completely your devoted husband,
Satoru
—
From the Comfort of the Hearth:
My Dearest Satoru,
Your letter arrived soaked in rain and smelling faintly of wet dog, though I suppose I must blame the courier’s pouch for the latter.
You are being entirely dramatic, my love. Nanami, as usual, possesses the soundest mind in your entire regiment. You have been gone for less than a month, yet your letter reads as though you have been exiled to the ends of the earth for a decade. Pray do not ride back through enemy lines; I would rather not have to explain to the King that his star knight abandoned the vanguard because he was lonely.
The manor is quiet without you, it is true. I do not have to hide the sweets from your voracious appetite, and the floors remain remarkably clean without your muddy boots tracking through the halls. However, the bed is indeed too large and too cold without you stretching across the entirety of it.
Do your duty, protect your men, protect me, and listen to Shoko. You are the strongest knight the realm has ever seen—you will be perfectly fine. Stop picking fights with your commanders and focus on bringing yourself home in one piece.
With all my love,
Your wife
—
From a Command Tent, Past Midnight:
To the Cruelest Woman in the Kingdom,
How can you be so terribly reasonable when my heart is breaking? I read your letter by the light of a dying candle, hoping for words of desperate yearning, and instead, you praise Nanami and celebrate the cleanliness of our floors! You wound me deeper than any sword ever could.
We had a skirmish today. It was a decisive victory, of course. I shattered their vanguard with a single charge. Everyone cheered, the others wept with so much relief you would think I delivered their wife’s babe, and all I could think was: I wonder if she is reading in the garden right now.
I am bored, my sweet. Miserably, terribly bored. The strategy meetings are an exercise in listening to old men drone on about maps, and I am tempted to set the next map on fire just for some excitement. The only thing keeping me sane is the ribbon you tied around my hilt before I left. I press it to my lips before every battle. Aren’t I incredibly romantic.
Do not tell me I will be fine. I am a man dying of thirst in a desert, and your letters are the only drops of water I receive. Tell me you wept when you read my last letter. Lie to me if you must! Just tell me you want me home tomorrow and I will make it happen. Please.
Your miserable, adoration-sick husband,
Satoru
—
From the Sunlit Garden:
Satoru,
If you set fire to the war maps, I will personally ensure you are banned from the kitchens for a year upon your return. Do not try me.
I did not weep when I read your letter, but I did smile so fiercely that the maid asked if I had received good news. You are a terror on the battlefield and a child in your correspondence. It is a wonder the kingdom sleeps soundly knowing its grand protector is currently pouting in a tent because his wife told him to be sensible.
The spring flowers are beginning to bloom in the courtyard. The blue ones remind me of your eyes—though the flowers are much quieter and far less demanding of my attention.
You speak of thirst, Satoru, yet you forget that I am holding the well. Win this war. Secure the borders so that no more husbands have to march away into the rain. I know the burden you carry, even if you mask it with complaints and theatrics. You will hold the line, because you are Satoru Gojo, and you will come back to me because I expect nothing less.
Take care of yourself. My heart is with you, always. And do not talk about delivering babes anymore.
Your loving wife,
Who loves you
—
Dusk on the Northern Front:
My Sweet, My Salvation,
Tomorrow we march for the enemy’s main stronghold. The others say it will be the bloodiest clash of the entire campaign, the one that decides the fate of the borders. How poetic old men can be. The others are tense, sharpening their blades in a silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. And here I am with a quill and ink.
But I am not worried. In fact, I am practically vibrating with impatience. The sooner I break their gates, the sooner I can leave this miserable, sodden north behind and fly back to your arms.
I have your latest letter tucked safely beneath my breastplate, right against my heart. Your scoldings are the finest armor I possess. You told me to win this war and secure the borders, and so I shall. Do you remember our wedding vows? I will give you a victory so absolute that the King will have no choice but to grant me a permanent leave of absence to do nothing but follow you around the manor like a stray dog.
Expect my next letter within the week, my love. Once the stronghold falls, I will send a courier with the news of our triumph. Hold the well for me just a little longer.
Your fiercely devoted, forever husband,
Satoru
—
From the Manor, Seven Days Later:
Satoru,
The week has passed. The official royal couriers arrived in the capital this morning with tidings of a glorious victory at the northern stronghold. The bells are ringing across the city, and everyone is celebrating the end of the war.
Yet, there was no private rider bearing your coat of arms.
I know the aftermath of a siege is chaotic, and I know you must be buried under administrative duties and the demands of the King’s generals. I am trying to listen to my own advice and remain sensible. Geto would tell me you are simply being careless, and Shoko would tell me you are sleeping off the exhaustion.
But please, Satoru. Just a single line. Write to me to tell me you are whole.
With all my love and a growing impatience,
Your worried wife
—
From the Manor, Three Days Later:
Satoru,
Ten days now. Still nothing.
I have asked the garrison commander in town if any news of casualties has been held back, but he assures me the list was complete and your name was spectacularly absent. He looked at me with pity, assuming I am merely an anxious wife. I’ll have him butchered the next time I see him.
They do not know you like I do. You are too arrogant to fall in battle, which leaves only two possibilities: either you are gravely injured and hiding it from me, or you are being entirely thoughtless.
The blue flowers in the garden have fully bloomed now. I sit by them every afternoon, waiting for the sound of hooves on the cobblestone driveway.
If this is a jest, Satoru, or some twisted way of getting me to admit how desperately I miss you, it is not amusing. Consider it admitted. I miss you terribly. The manor is too quiet, the bed is too cold, and I am sick with worry. Write to me. Please.
Please again,
Your wife that misses you
—
From the Manor, Midnight:
Satoru,
I am writing this because I cannot sleep, and leaving my thoughts on paper is the only way to keep my mind from fracturing into a thousand terrors.
Where are you?
Even when you were surrounded by enemy forces, you found a way to smuggle out four pages of complaints about the mud and the soup. Now that the enemy is defeated, there is only silence. I have stopped pretending to be the reasonable, calm wife you accused me of being. I am terrified.
If you are alive, if you can hear the wind blowing south from the mountains, know that I am calling you home. Do not dare leave me alone in this world, Satoru Gojo. You promised me a victory, and I expect you to deliver it in person.
Please Satoru
—
Epilogue:
The ink on the eighth letter was barely dry when the heavy oak doors of the manor's study creaked open.
You didn't look up immediately, your eyes blurred with exhaustion and the dim candlelight. "I told the servants I was not to be disturbed until—"
"Not even for the grandest husband in the realm?"
The voice was rough, raspy from weeks of shouting commands and breathing in battlefield dust, but it was unmistakably his.
You dropped the quill, the black ink splattering across the pristine parchment and your nightgown as you stood up so fast your chair scraped violently against the floorboards.
Standing in the doorway was Satoru. He looked nothing like the pristine, untouchable knight who had marched away months ago. His silver hair was unruly, his cloak was torn and stained with blood, and travel-grime. His heavy armor was dented and scratched in half a dozen places. He looked exhausted, with dark shadows bruising the skin beneath his striking blue eyes.
But as his gaze locked onto yours, a familiar, blindingly arrogant grin broke across his face.
"I didn't write," he said, stepping into the room, his heavy boots thudding against the floor you had bragged about keeping clean. "Because a horse moves faster than a courier if you ride it into the ground. And I couldn't spend another second waiting for ink to dry."
You didn't care about the mud. You didn't care about the ruined letter. You crossed the room in a blur, throwing yourself against his chest. The cold, hard metal of his breastplate pressed into you, but beneath it, you could feel the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart.
Satoru’s arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you completely off your feet and burying his face into the crook of your neck. He held you with a desperate, crushing strength, inhaling the scent of you as if he were finally breathing real air after months of suffocating.
"I told you I’d be fine," he murmured against your skin, a low, rumbling laugh vibrating through his chest, though his hands were trembling as he held you. "Did you doubt me for a second, my sweet?"
"You are an absolute monster," you whispered, gripping the fabric of his torn cloak, tears finally slipping down your cheeks. "I was frantic and sick with worry."
"I know," Satoru smiled, kissing away the tears as he finally set you down, his blue eyes burning with that familiar, intense adoration. "I met the courier on the road and took your other letters from him. You missed me. You admitted it in writing. I’m keeping them forever. I’ve thought of framing them.”
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NOTE: this is an indulgence work and rlly nothing more lmao. Theirs just nothing anywhere for my man Genau 😭 like he’s fine asf, sure he’s a lil mean but like I like em like that…
The northern nights were always bitter, but the tension at the ruined village made the air over their little camp feel twice as heavy.
Around the low-burning campfire, the flickering light caught the sharp lines of Genau’s face. He was, as usual, silently reviewing maps. Sitting a few feet away, Stark was aggressively sharpening his axe, the rhythmic schf-schf of the whetstone the only sound competing with the crackle of the wood.
Given how much they had been forced to coordinate over the last few hours, Stark had grown surprisingly comfortable around the formidable First-Class Mage. Or, more accurately, Stark’s lack of a filter had finally overridden his fear.
He let out a heavy, dramatic sigh, resting his chin on the handle of his axe. "Hey, Genau?"
"If it is about the church barrier, it is already settled," Genau replied without looking up.
"No, it's not that. It’s... well, a guy problem you could say." Stark rubbed the back of his neck, staring into the flames. "I was just thinking... my entire party is just Frieren and Fern. They’re both women. And honestly? Most of the time, I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in their heads. Especially Fern. One second she’s treating me better than usual, and the next she’s giving me the silent treatment."
Genau’s quill paused for a second, but he didn't speak.
Taking that as an invitation to keep venting, Stark chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I wanted to ask another guy for advice, but..." He glanced at Genau, taking in the man's notoriously stoic, unbothered demeanor. "Well, I doubted you’d really get it. You don't exactly strike me as the type to deal with relationship troubles. Or, you know... women in general."
Genau finally lowered the map. His dark eyes fixed on Stark, unblinking. The silence stretched just long enough to make Stark break into a nervous sweat.
"Women are fickle beings, aren't they?" Genau said, his voice dropping into a low, dry rumble.
Stark blinked, completely thrown off. "Wait. What?"
"They demand absolute clarity, yet communicate entirely in subtleties," Genau continued, his expression remaining perfectly deadpan as he rolled up the parchment. "And if you fail to read those subtleties, you are treated as though you committed a blunder."
Stark’s jaw practically hit the dirt. "Hold on. You... you actually know what I'm talking about?! You have someone?!"
"I have a wife," Genau said flatly, as if stating the weather. "We’ve been married for a year now."
"A wife?!" Stark shrieked, instantly clapping a hand over his mouth so he wouldn't wake the rest of the camp. He leaned forward, eyes wide with pure, unadulterated shock. "You? You're a married man?!"
"I fail to see why that’s such an impossibility," Genau replied, crossing his arms.
"It’s just—you’re so scary!" Stark whispered fiercely. "How did that even happen? What is she like? Does she know you're... like this?"
A microscopic softening appeared at the corners of Genau’s mouth—blink and you'd miss it, but Stark, hyper-observant in his shock, caught it.
"She is... patient," Genau said quietly. "Extensively so. She works in the administrative sectors of the City. When I am in the capital, she ensures that when I leave I actually consume meals that don’t consist entirely of rations. And she has a habit of adjusting my cloak every time I leave the house, regardless of how many times I tell her it is perfectly straight."
Stark stared at him, a slow, goofy grin spreading across his face. The terrifying First-Class Mage was completely whipped. "Wow. That’s... actually really nice. Do you miss her?"
Genau looked out into the dark, shadowed expanse of the northern territory.
"I have been deployed on dangerous missions before. Dozens of them. Before I met her, survival was merely a logical necessity to continue my duties to my mistress Serie," Genau said, his tone shifting into something steady, grounded, and fiercely absolute. "But things are different now. I have come to a definitive conclusion on this campaign."
“And what’s that?" Stark asked, captivated.
"I must live," Genau said, turning his gaze back to Stark. "I will survive this, and I will return to the magic capital to my wife. At all costs. I have no intention of letting some demon make a widow out of her."
Stark felt a sudden surge of profound respect. He looked down at his hands, thinking of Fern, her quiet presence, the way she nagged over him even when she was worried, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization of his own feelings for her.
"Yeah," Stark murmured, a determined spark igniting in his eyes. "Yeah, I get it. We gotta make it back to the people we care about."
Genau let out a sound that was remarkably close to a huff of amusement. He stood up, patting the dust off his coat.
"Then ensure your axe is sharp, Stark. A man cannot return to his missus if he lets his guard down." Genau turned to head towards the barracks, pausing just before the threshold. "And as for your Fern... buy her something sweet the next time you pass a town. It simplifies things for at least a day or two."
Stark sat by the fire for a long time after Genau left, a massive grin on his face. Who knew the scariest mage in the Northern Plateau was actually the ultimate bro?
NOTE: need me a catboy in my life tf. I also love just inputting shidou in the brothers business, like he has no need to be in this but I want him to be. Thanks for all the love on that first part 😛
That one night shifted something in Rin’s stubborn, hyper-fixated brain. Once he realized your bed was wayy softer than his, and that your presence effectively silenced the lingering ghosts of Blue Lock, the floodgates opened.
Rin became clingy. Almost unbearably so.
The quiet, aloof hybrid who used to glare at you from the safety of his corner was gone. Now, the moment you stepped through the front door after work, he was already standing there, towering over you with his arms crossed and his long tail whipping a frantic, impatient rhythm against your shins.
He completely refused to eat alone anymore; if you didn't sit down at the table with your own plate, he would simply sit at the kitchen table and stare at his bowl with a petulant scowl until you joined him (what a brat).
But the real trouble started with the scent of your office.
Several of your coworkers regularly brought their hybrids to work, mostly tiny, docile breeds with gentle temperaments who spent their days napping under desks and collecting treats from the staff.
Because you loved hybrids, you often gave into the temptation of giving them a quick scratch behind the ears before heading home.
To Rin, your return from the office became a whole ordeal. The second you walked in, his dark teal ears would perk up, and he would practically press his entire face into your neck, sniffing aggressively. The foreign scent of other, weaker hybrids drove his territorial predator instincts up a wall. He would hiss, a low, vibrating sound of pure disgust, and immediately drag his body against your clothes from behind, desperate to mask the offending odors with his own scent.
You briefly, fleetingly considered bringing him to the office with you just to appease his separation anxiety. That thought was instantly destroyed when you walked into the living room later that afternoon and witnessed him completely shred his sixth soccer ball, ripping the leather to absolute confetti with his bare claws just because he was bored.
Yeah... better not, you thought, sweating slightly. Your boss would never forgive you if Rin decided the industrial office printer was his next target.
His newfound possessiveness naturally spilled over into the nighttime. The guest room you had so carefully decorated was completely abandoned; Rin had officially colonized your bedroom. He didn't even wait for you to fall asleep anymore. The moment you climbed into bed, he would silently pad in, claim the exact center of the mattress, and burrow himself into the pillows.
He moved around so much trying to get comfortable that you eventually had to buy three more heavy, plush blankets just so you wouldn't get left freezing in the middle of the night.
And because he was a feline hybrid, the inevitable had finally happened: your pristine, crisp white comforter was now permanently covered in a tragic, undeniable layer of dark teal hair.
You sighed, rolling a lint roller across the neat sheets, and picking a stray teal strand off your pajama sleeve as Rin shifted beside you, his tail lazily draping over your ankle.
He was a possessive, shedding, soccer-ball-murdering menace, but as he let out a soft, contented huff in his sleep, you couldn't bring yourself to mind at all.
—
After weeks of watching him master the layout of your backyard, you finally decided he was ready for the ultimate milestone: a real walk to the neighborhood park.
Getting him out the door, however, was a massive ordeal. Before you even unlocked the front entrance, you sat Rin down in the foyer and made sure to talk some sense into him. You gripped your care guide like a gavel, looking him dead in the eye.
"Listen to me, Rin. We are going to a public space. If you start acting up, barking, or lunging at anyone, the snacks are gone for a week. And you will have to deal with the silicone muzzle again. Understand?"
Rin clicked his tongue, crossing his arms and averting his eyes with a moody huff. But he nodded.
You were so excited that you practically bounced on your heels as you pulled out your secret weapon: a heavy-duty leather leash that perfectly matched the custom acrylic keychain dangling from your house keys—the one engraved with both your names and a little heart.
Rin stared at the matching set, his dark teal ears flattening in sheer disbelief. He muttered something under his breath about it being incredibly tacky and "lukewarm," but he didn't pull away when you clipped it to his collar. What a party pooper.
He tried his best to maintain his stoic, unbothered persona, promising he’d behave himself, but he couldn't control his anatomy. His tail was whipping back and forth so hard it was practically thumping against the wall, a dead giveaway that he was secretly excited.
The walk itself went beautifully. Rin was the absolute epitome of a well-behaved companion. He walked beside you down the sidewalk with perfect posture, ignoring the passing cars and keeping his eyes glued to the path ahead.
When you finally reached the grassy field of the park, you let him drop his brand-new soccer ball—the seventh one now—to do whatever it is he does with a soccer ball.
The true test came when a pair of happy, overly enthusiastic canine hybrids ran over, one with yellow hair and the other blue, yapping excitedly and trying to play with his ball.
For a split second, you panicked, gripping the handle of the leash tightly. Rin’s ears pinned flat, and a dark, dangerous shadow crossed his eyes. But he took a deep, deliberate breath, and stepped in front of the ball to block them, and merely let out a sharp, warning hiss. He held back from absolutely tearing them apart, showing a level of restraint that made you beam with pride.
You even traded contact info with the owner of the two canines incase Rin wanted others to play with. You even managed to sneak in a pat on their heads. What a lovely pair those two make, they must be best friends. You thought wistfully watching Bachira, and Isagi pester Rin.
He was so incredibly good that on the way back, you decided he deserved a massive reward. You stopped by a high-end traditional restaurant and ordered a special, premium takeout container of Ochazuke, savory green tea poured over delicate dashi, rice, and seared salmon.
The moment you both got back home, you unclipped his leash, and Rin practically flew to the kitchen. He happily devoured the warm meal, his tail swaying in pure bliss as he tasted the rich broth. A sight you rarely get to see.
The heavy warmth of the food, combined with the sensory overload of his first big outing, caught up to him instantly. Minutes after finishing dinner, Rin dragged his feet over to the living room couch where you had just sat down. Without hesitation, he climbed up, turned around, and completely collapsed sideways, letting his heavy head drop right into your lap.
He was out cold within seconds, his dark teal ears twitching as he drifted into a deep sleep.
Smile melting, you slowly, carefully reached your hand out. You gently pressed your fingers into his soft hair, petting him as he let out a deep, rumbling purr that vibrated right against your thighs.
—
Now, Rin was basically domesticated—or, at least, as domesticated as a prideful, apex predator hybrid would ever allow himself to be. He finally let you do normal hybrid pet things, like dressing him up in the expensive designer loungewear you bought him. It was honestly offensive how good he looked in everything.
You doted on him relentlessly, entirely ignoring his constant, dramatic grumbling and complaints. You know he secretly likes it.
It was an ordinary, lazy Sunday afternoon. Rin was melting into your lap, his heavy head resting comfortably on your thighs while you lazily shook a fluffy dangling teaser toy above his face. His dark teal ears twitched, tracking the feathers. Occasionally, he would huff, swatting at it with a single finger and muttering, “Put it closer to my face, idiot.”
The peaceful silence was broken when your phone suddenly began to blare from across the room.
With a soft sigh, you set the toy aside and started to rise. Rin let out a displeased, guttural whine, begrudgingly shifting his weight so you could stand, his tail thumping against the couch cushions in protest.
You picked up the device to see Shidou’s name flashing on the screen. Shidou was a fellow hybrid owner and your chaotic childhood friend, currently living abroad for work. You swiped answer, and the speaker immediately exploded with his loud, unfiltered voice.
"Yo! What's up, slacker?!" Shidou cackled by way of greeting.
You chuckled, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Hey, Shidou. I'm good. How's Madrid treating you?"
"Amazing! The energy here is insane!" Shidou rambled, before pausing. "Oh, by the way, I finally did it. I adopted my own hybrid. Absolute genius, this guy."
"Oh, really? I actually heard about that a while ago," you replied, smiling. "Congratulations. What kind did you get? I actually just adopted one recently, too."
Shidou hummed over the line. "Mine’s one of those predator breed type. What about yours? What’s the paperwork say?"
You racked your brain, recalling the complex classifications listed on Rin's official adoption documents from the Second Chance Foundation.
"Uh, let's see... his file classified him as an ultra-rare, high-risk feline predator variant. Specifically an Arctic-boreal pantherine hybrid, don’t ask me what that is, I don’t even know. But they’re extremely territorial and their aggression is off the charts.”
There was a sudden, dead silence on the other end of the line. Then, Shidou burst into a loud, hysterical fit of laughter that nearly blew your eardrums out.
"No way! You've gotta be kidding me!" Shidou wheezed, slamming his hand against a table on his end. "Holy shit! Mine’s from the exact same litter!"
Your breath hitched. "What?"
"Yeah! The shelter told me his backstory when I cleared the background checks," Shidou yelled cheerfully. "I adopted a hybrid named Sae! Sae Itoshi!"
The name hit you like a wave. Your mind instantly flashed back to that first day in the isolation corridor of the sanctuary—the tired staff attendant flipping through a clipboard, explaining Rin’s history.
'He was actually rescued alongside his older brother, Sae... Sae was adopted by that foreign football player last month... when Sae left, Rin's abandonment issues got worse...'
"Sae..." you whispered.
Shidou’s loud voice broke through your stunned train of thought. "Hey, you still there? Listen, this is perfect! I'm actually flying back to Japan later this year. We’re totally meeting up. A family reunion type of shit, you know? The brothers gotta see each other!"
Before you could even process the absolute chaos of a reunion between Rin and the brother who inadvertently broke him, a crashing sound echoed from Shidou's side of the phone.
"HEY! Drop that! Drop it right now, bad Sae!" Shidou suddenly screamed away from the receiver. He huffed back into the phone, "Gotta go, babe! Sae’s tryna rip my uniforms. See ya!"
Then the line went dead.
You stood frozen in the kitchen, staring blankly at your phone screen, trying to comprehend the cosmic coincidence of it all. But you weren't allowed to ponder it for long.
A heavy, warm weight suddenly crashed into your back. Rin had crept up behind. Annoyed by your long absence, he pressed his chest firmly against your back, draping his broad shoulders over yours. His tufted ears brushed against your cheek, and his long tail wrapped tightly around your waist, forcefully dragging you backwards toward the couch.
"You're ignoring me for a stupid phone call," Rin muttered into your neck, his voice a deep, possessive growl as he squeezed you tighter. "Drop the phone. Put the toy back in my face."
You melted against his warmth, hiding your growing panic behind a soft smile. You would have to deal with the reality of Sae and Shidou later. For now, you had a very grumpy, very clingy hybrid to appease.
