knight!Satoru x princess!reader
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝓔𝓷𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻: 𝓓𝓸 𝓝𝓞𝓣 𝓓𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓴! ✧˖*°࿐
mostly suggestive w/ little (if any description of anatomy), sex pollen, thigh-riding, reluctance if you squint but NO dub con, orgasms, romantasy AU... happy birthday, Gojo 💙
Leave some kudos on Ao3!
You are not ready for a new knight.
You say this to no one. Not your ladies-in-waiting, not to the courtiers who sidle up to you with soft voices and hungry eyes— hoping for gossip in the shadow of your grief. And you certainly do not say this to your father, whose patience for your mourning ended the moment your old knights’ body was in the ground.
Oh, Ser Aldric…
He had been with you since you were small enough to ride his shoulders through the training yards, shrieking with laughter as he pretended to stagger beneath your weight. He was there for your first lessons, the time you first bled— awkwardly standing guard outside of your bathing chambers as your maids fluttered about you in a panic. He stood at your back when you learned to wield a blade, when your father decided that a princess should at least look like she knew how to defend herself.
And he was there at the end. A gasp, a flash of steel, and a grunt of exertion. The wet choke of a dying man, still standing between you and the arrow meant for your heart.
You still wake sometimes, in terror at the sensation of his blood on your face, fresh tears warm in your eyes.
So no, you are not ready for a new knight.
And yet…
You stand at the base of the dais in the Great Hall, the king— your father —-seated above you like a carved idol of war. Light spills through the tall windows, pale and cold, catching on polished marble, the banners, the watching eyes. The air smells of incense and steel.
“The Princess requires protection,” your father says, tone leaving no room for argument. “The people are unsettled. They whisper weakness.”
(And, what he didn’t say, “I won’t have them see you shaken. You will stand straight, you will smile, and you will accept what I give you.”)
You do not tremble. You are practiced at not trembling.
The herald’s staff strikes the floor three times; the sound echoes upwards into the vaulted ceiling.
“Presenting Ser Satoru Gojo of the First Lance,” the man booms. “Sworn this day to the service of His Majesty, and to the protection of his royal heiress.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered nobles.
“Mercenary,” someone breathes nearby.
“I heard he killed thirty men in a single battle,”
“Elven blood, I heard—,”
“Surely, the King wouldn’t…,”
“They would turn a blind eye to anything if it wins them a war.”
Your jaw tightens. Elves are not spoken of in polite company. Not openly. The old stories paint them as beautiful, primal things… too strong, too quick. Too pleased by bloodshed. And far too dangerous to be trusted.
Not that the King ever much cared for politeness.
The doors at the end of the hall swing wide, and your heart beats faster when you see the shadow approaching beyond.
✦ ✦ ✦
He strides in with easy confidence, that of a man who has never doubted himself in his life. Shining platinum armor gleams over a body that was built for the battlefield— long lines and coiled muscle, plates etched with faint, unfamiliar sigils. A white cloak hangs from his shoulders, stained in places with old, stubborn rust that couldn’t be scrubbed away. His helmet is closed, visor down; only a thin band of darkness where his eyes must be.
He moves like a wolf among sheep. Not hurried, not stiff… just certain. Each step a soft, building promise of violence.
He reaches the foot of the dais and goes down on one knee in one smooth motion that leaves you breathless, the tip of his sword kisses the marble with a soft ting.
“Your Majesty,” he says in address to your father, voice low and rough around the edges, like he’s not used to bothering with courtesy. “You called,”
Your father’s smile is sharp. “The tales of your constitution travel faster than my own banners, Ser Satoru. I wish to see if rumor remains worth the coin.”
“Rumor usually sells itself, Your Majesty,” comes the easy reply. “But I don’t mind putting on a show.”
A ripple of disapproval moves through the hall, and your father’s eyes narrow.
Then, his attention shifts to you.
“My daughter,” he says, the word hollow as a bell. “Our line’s only heir. You must guard her above all things.”
You feel the weight of the court’s eyes like claws on your back.
The knight’s head turns. The slit in the helmet angles up, up, to meet your gaze. You cannot see his eyes, but you feel it— the sharp, assessing sweep of him taking you in.
“The royal heir,” he repeats softly. “As my life.”
“Remove your helmet, Ser Satoru,” the king commands. “My people should see the face of the beast I have bought.”
There it is again. That flicker of disapproval, quickly buried in murmurs. Ugly word, beast. Ugly notion, that your father thinks of this man as nothing more than a weapon in a scabbard controlled by him. You’re sure the disgust can be seen in your eyes, as you wince and flinch away from the knight.
The knight rises without complaint. His hands— gloved in articulated steel —lift to the clasps at his jaw. There’s a soft scrape, the faint hiss of displaced air, and then he pulls the helmet free.
White.
His hair spills out, bright as new snow, falling in tousled layers just past his jaw. It should make him look boyish. It doesn’t.
The planes of his face are too clean, his jaw too sharp, his mouth too curved with lazy amusement. His skin is pale, but not the sallow pallor of the chronically ill; he was akin to something otherworldly, the pale of moonlight spilt upon marble.
And his eyes…
You inhale without meaning to.
They are pale, too— but not colorless. A bright, shining blue that may have felt cold if not for the warmth within. There’s a glow to them in the dim hall, like light on ice.
Inhuman, the treacherous part of you thinks.
His hair shifts when he inclines his head. For a heartbeat, you see the line of his ear— it’s subtle. Just a touch too fine, too pointed at the tip before the hair falls forward again. Enough to send a frisson of unease through you, and perhaps the nearest cluster of lords.
You understand, then, why people whisper of elves when he is nearby.
He doesn’t seem to care.
But Ser Satoru’s gaze lingers on you the way a man might regard a painting he wasn’t expecting to like, a hum of interest.
Then, he smiles.
Small and private, entirely at odds with the stories you’ve heard.
“Princess,” he says, and your title sounds softer in his mouth than it ever has before. “It is an honor.”
Your cheeks feel warm. You hate it.
You straighten your back and respond clearly, in the manner familiar to you, “Ser Satoru.”
Your father is watching. The court is murmuring. You can feel their judgement, their hunger, their fear. You dip your chin just enough to be polite.
“He seems capable,” you say.
Those pale eyes crinkle, as if you’ve said something funny.
“Only seems?” he murmurs, just for you. “Wounding.”
You ignore him. Mostly.
Your father chuckles, the sound devoid of warmth. “You’ll find he’s more than capable. See that you prove worthy of the expense, mercenary.”
Satoru inclines his head, the grin never leaving his mouth. “I always do.”
Your father dismisses him with a gesture. “Escort her back to the chambers. We shall meet again in the courtyard tomorrow eve. Consider this your first duty, Ser Satoru.”
He turns away, already bored. The court’s attention shifts with him like a flock of birds.
For a moment, you and your new knight stand in a pocket of stillness at the center of it all.
Then he steps toward you and offers his arm.
“Princess,” he says lightly. “Shall we?”
You swallow. Your fingers curl around his forearm, the metal warm from his skin. His eyes soften, just a fraction, like he’s pleased by something you don’t understand.
He leads you from the hall. The whispers follow.
✦ ✦ ✦
The next day, you ride.
The appointment ceremony was held at a lesser keep closer to the front lines—a show of strength for the visiting generals. Now you are returning to the main castle grounds, to the familiar sprawl of stone and garden that has been your gilded cage since childhood.
The road here is narrow, cutting through thick forest. The light of dusk filters through the leaves in latticed patterns, dappling your horse’s mane. Birds sing, insects drone. Somewhere off the path, water moves over stone.
Ser Aldric would have ridden at your side, just close enough that your knees brushed. He would have talked, low and calm, distracting you from the ugliness of the world with stories of silly recruits and drunken captains.
Ser Satoru rides a little behind, and to your left. Recognizable by the white of his cloak, the easy set of his shoulders. Keyed into every movement made around him.
You have been aware of him all morning.
When he lifted you onto your horse, his hands were firm at your waist. His grip was careful but undeniably intimate, leaving a phantom warmth blooming beneath your ribs. His fingers spread too confidently for a man unused to touching royalty.
When a breeze cut through the trees and sent a shiver up your spine, he leaned over without comment and adjusted your cloak, gloved hands smoothing the fabric over your shoulders— knuckles grazing the bare column of your throat, where your laces didn’t quite meet.
“What are you doing?” You’d asked, the words coming out sharper than you’d meant.
“I am merely doing my job, Your Highness,” he replied, unbothered. “We can’t have the Princess catching a chill.”
Something in the way he said it made your chest feel tight.
Now, as the road begins to curve along a slight slope, your mare sidesteps skittishly. The forest feels… closer here. The shadows feel deeper.
You glance back.
Satoru meets your gaze easily, reins held in one hand and posture relaxed. “You’re tense, Princess,” he observes. “Bad saddle? Bad memories?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I didn’t peg you for a liar, Princess.”
You bristle. “You forget who you are speaking to, Ser Satoru.”
He chuckled, and your cheeks heat at the boyish sound. You look away.
You’re thinking of a retort when it happens— so fast, you nearly miss it.
An arrow slams into the earth inches from your horse’s hoof. Your mare screams and rears, nearly throwing you off. You clutch the reins close to you, heart in your throat. Shouts erupt from the front of the column— the crunch of boots on leaves, the ringing of steel. Another arrow whistles past your face, close enough that you feel the wind of it.
“Down, soldiers!” someone in your entourage yells. “Protect the Princess!”
Hands grab for your reins, your skirts, your arms— too many, too fast. Your horse panics, muscles bunching beneath you.
Then there’s a blur of white and steel.
Satoru is there.
You don’t see where he came from. One moment, your vision is full of panicked faces and flailing limbs, and the next, it’s just him: cloak snapping behind him, sword flashing in the light of the setting sun. A man lunges into view, knife raised; Ser Satoru’s blade takes him through the throat in a wet, efficient slice. You feel the warmth of his blood splatter your cheek.
Your knight in shining armor does not even flinch at your scream.
“Princess,” he commands you, strong voice cutting through the chaos with an urgency you’ve never heard from him. “Hold on.”
He drops his weapon to the ground and dives for you. Strong, gloved hands find your waist, your hips, and then you’re airborne. He hauls you from your saddle as if you weigh nothing at all. There’s a flash of treetops in your vision, and a little bit of sky before all you see is him— beautiful face tilted toward you, pale eyes sharp and focused.
You’re then cradled against his chest, arms hooking around his neck on instinct. You feel the flex of muscle beneath his armored tunic as he turns and runs.
The world in your periphery becomes a smear of green and brown motion. Branches whip past you, against you, over your heads. Leaves slap against your legs, and frantic shouts from your entourage fade behind you as forest swallows the road.
You close your eyes, digesting the terror as you bury your face against his pauldron. You are vaguely reminded of the times Ser Aldric carried you to your chambers as a child, or after you’d been injured. The motion never felt quite so intimate, and he’d definitely never moved so fast.
It felt inhuman, Ser Satoru’s speed. His reflexes. The ease and instinct with which he moved, manipulating the battlefield as if he owned it.
You focus on the steady, human heart beating in his chest. Yours is a mess of wild drumbeats within your ribcage.
✦ ✦ ✦
When the sounds of battle are gone, only then does your knight slow his pace. His boots sink into softer earth, and the air around you feels thicker. The sun has set now, and moonlight guides your path through the trees. Your lungs are burning, and sweat starts to bead at your temples. You are vaguely aware of a flowing stream nearby, fresh water chuckling over stone.
Ser Satoru releases you from his hold, kneeling before you on a soft bed of moss. His gloved hands linger at your waist a heartbeat longer than necessary, and a strange warmth erupts across your cheeks.
He lets go.
“Are you hurt?” he asks you, voice softer now, and stripped of that battle-edge. His eyes roam over you quickly, efficiently, cataloging every spot where an injury could hide. “Did an arrow graze you? Is that your blood?” His thumb wipes at your cheek.
You shake your head, batting his hand away. “No, I— I do not think so.”
His shoulders ease, then, as if he is genuinely relieved. “Good. You did well.”
Something flutters in your chest at the quiet pride threaded through his voice, and you recall the way you clung to him like a child.
You open your mouth to speak— to say something properly royal, properly distant, but a strange heat is coiling low in your belly, twisting upward in a dizzy wave.
The sensation urges you to step away from your knight, and he rises from his spot on the mossy forest floor. His pristine brows are downturned in concern, and he reaches for you. “Princess? Are you—,”
You jerk back.
“Ser Satoru,” you say quickly, forcing steadiness into your voice. “Please, I—… would like to visit the stream. I would like to wash off the… dirt and blood.”
His blue eyes flick up to your face. The distance between you is only a foot, maybe two, but you feel like you can breathe when his skin isn’t so close to your own.
Why does your knight make you feel like this? Confused, flustered… fevered.
Ser Satoru nods, his jaw tight. You can tell he doesn’t like it— the idea of distance after the attempt on your life. And yet, he relents. “If you must. I will remain close.”
“I would expect as much,” you respond with a tight smile. “Do try not to hover, Ser Satoru.”
His lips twitch— amusement, maybe? Frustration? You aren’t quite sure.
“As you wish, Your Highness.”
✦ ✦ ✦
The stream lies tucked between two great roots, its surface rippling with crystalline clarity. You kneel beside it, cupping cool water in your palms before pressing it to your flushed cheeks, scrubbing at your skin.
Your knight stands a respectful distance away, far enough that you cannot feel the heat of his gaze upon you— though, you sense it anyway. Watchful and steady, never straying from your surroundings.
You close your eyes.
Hands on your waist. Calm, firm voice at your ear. The way he looked at you in the aftermath, like something precious and fragile in his rough grasp.
You press your wet fingers to your burning throat.
This is not right.
Your knight should not look at you that way. You should not be feeling… this. That strange warmth has returned, and your mind is restless. The weight of Satoru’s gaze feels as if it’s smothering you now, and you reach for the water once more.
Something shimmers beneath the surface as your fingertips brush over it.
You blink, unsure if it’s a trick of the moonlight or your own adrenaline getting the best of you. It happens a second time, faint swirling iridescence dancing across the surface as it trickles over riverstone.
When it reaches the tender inside of your wrist, you gasp.
Hurried steps shuffle forward, and you know that something isn’t right. Heat spikes through your veins, the stubborn warmth spreading slowly and intensely across the span of your body. It pulses with your heartbeat, moving up your forearm, your shoulder, sinking deeper and twining through your ribs as if it’s alive—
Water should not feel like this.
“Princess?” Satoru calls behind you, his proximity giving you pause.
There’s a beast inside of you, and it wants him close. Closer than before, closer than anyone has ever been. You don’t answer his calls. Your pulse hammers against your throat as your skin prickles, your mind spiraling into something molten and frightening.
The stream is glowing in his shadow.
Not moonlight.
Magic.
You’ve realized, much too late, that what coats your skin is no ordinary water.
The laces of your gown feel too tight, your chemise too rough against suddenly oversensitive flesh. Heat blooms low in your belly, startling and wrong. Your thighs press together, unbidden, in a vain attempt to ease a burgeoning ache that makes no sense.
“I—” Your hand flies to your chest, fingers clutching at the fabric there. “Something’s—wrong.” The syllables sound foreign to your ears, thick and clumsy, like you are speaking underwater.
Your lungs burn, the air suddenly too dense to pull in. It’s as if all of the oxygen has been sucked from the world, leaving you gasping. The strange, feverish heat is raging through your body. Your fingers dig at your bodice, trembling. You need space, you need air, you need… you need—
You are vaguely aware of your knight’s bootsteps crunching over leaves behind you, a sound that should be reassuring but instead ratchets your panic higher. You feel as if you may faint, the forest pulsing in and out of focus around you. The trees quiver to the beat of your stuttering heart, their branches bending closer, drawn to the spectacle you’re becoming. Gasping, thrashing, whimpering as your knees hit the moss below you.
There’s a blur of white at your side before Ser Satoru is kneeling before you, his hands steadying your shoulders. His touch is gentle but it sends a wild spark through your nerves, equal parts agony and need.
“Your Highness,” there’s concern there, in his sharp but worried tone. “What’s happened?”
“Everything—,” The word comes out broken. You swallow, throat suddenly dry. “My skin—my face, my—” You cut yourself off, mortified. Even thinking about the way your body is throbbing feels indecent.
Satoru’s gaze flicks around you. Only now do you really notice the place he’s brought you to, the water staining your bodice.
His jaw tightens.
“Of all the places…” he mutters.
You can barely hear him. The heat is getting worse—curling under your skin, fogging your thoughts, turning every point of contact with the world into too much. Your bodice feels like a vice. Sweat beads at the nape of your neck. You shift, and the friction of your chemise between your legs sends a shocking jolt through you.
You hiss, biting down on a sound you don’t recognize.
Satoru is suddenly all that you can see, his strong hands hovering as if afraid to touch.
“Princess,” he says, low and intense. “Look at me.”
You try, but the attempt is rather pitiful. You drag your gaze up to his, noticing his wide pupils— blown, just a little. From concern, you reason— nothing else.
“I can’t,” you suck in air that doesn’t seem to reach your lungs. “Everything is… too tight.”
“Slow your breathing,” he commands, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “You’ll faint.”
He exhales through his nose, a sharp sigh that isn’t directed at you. “This grove is not meant for mortals to travel through. I should have paid closer attention.”
You blink at him, struggling to focus.
“The stream, its water… contains an irritant,” he says, picking his words carefully. “We are close to elven territory. What have they taught you about elves in the castle, Your Highness?”
“Do not drink from their water,” you repeat immediately, face growing even warmer. “Oh, Ser Satoru, you must think me so dense, I was not—,” you stammer.
“I do not,” he affirms, his gloved hand tightening on your shoulder. “You must think me a poor knight, leading you straight to danger. Forgive me, Your Highness,” There is a subtle and unexpected catch in his voice: not the steel of a commander, but something softer, almost apologetic. “I will free you from this.”
The promise, though earnest, sends a shock of panic through you. “Free me—?” you echo, and the meaning curls in your mind like a tongue of fire. Shame and want tangle together in your chest; you can sense what he means even as you deny it, even as you hope for it. The hunger inside you claws at your insides, and the pulse between your legs grows sharp and insistent, impossible to ignore. The fabric of your gown is suddenly intolerable, every seam an offense, every brush of the rough chemise beneath a new agony.
“Make it stop,” you choke out. “Please.”
✦ ✦ ✦
For the first time, Ser Satoru’s composure cracks. His fingers curl just a little tighter at your cheek, his eyes darkening.
“I can’t stop it,” he says. “But I can help you through it.”
You don’t understand what he means. You don’t care.
“Please,” you repeat, the word nothing but breath and desperation.
He swears softly in a language you don’t know. Then he moves.
One arm slides behind your back, the other under your knees, lifting you again—but this time it’s slower, more careful. Like he’s handling something fragile. He finds a sheltered spot beneath a tree, setting you down gently on a bed of moss.
For a moment, he hesitates, eyes darting over your face before moving to the buckles at his throat. With quick, practiced motions, he unclasps his chestpiece, sliding the cold steel aside. The sound is muffled against the moss as he sets it down, followed by the bracers at his forearms, each piece shed with a steady deliberateness. Without the armor, he seems more human—less the untouchable knight, more a man offering himself to your need.
You fumble with the laces at your bodice, desperate for relief from the suffocating fabric. Your fingers tremble, but he helps, untying the tight ribbons at your sides and easing the garment down your shoulders until you can breathe again.
Only then does he lower himself to sit with his back against the tree, settling you astride his lap, your legs falling to either side of a muscular thigh.
“This is indecent,” you rasp, even as your traitorous body sighs at the contact. He’s solid beneath you, warm, his thigh pressing up between your legs, right where you need it—
The contact is electric. His thigh is a firm, unyielding pressure at your core, perfectly placed. When you shift, the friction sears a path through your body, dragging a shameless gasp from your lips. You are feverish, every nerve ending alight; somewhere beneath the haze, your mind protests. You are a princess. Eyes are on you at all times. You should not be feeling this. You should not want this.
And yet, you do.
Ser Satoru’s hands— now void of gloves—frame your face with startling gentleness, as if afraid you might shatter. “I know,” he murmurs. “It’s the magic. Not you.”
You nod along, but you cannot breathe. Your body is not your own, a marionette with its wires tangled in want and shame. You cling to the folds of his tunic, reveling in the warmth of his body beneath you as you seek purchase in the muscle of his thigh. Your hips move of their own accord, grinding not because you mean to, but because it hurts so bad when you don’t. You feel warm hands slip to your waist, steadying you, helping you move in slow, inexorable motions.
You bite down on his shoulder to stifle a cry, tasting leather and the faint salt of his skin underneath.
His own breath catches.
“Good,” he whispers, the word slipping out like a reflex. “You’re doing well.”
You’ve never done anything less dignified in your life, and yet the praise lands somewhere deep, coiling hot and needy. No one has ever spoken to you that way: with such focused, undiluted approval, a knight’s praise given not for valor, not for cleverness or beauty, but for the way you are unraveling in his arms.
Heat and shame war in your belly. The rough weave of your chemise, the give of his body, the solid press of his thigh—every tiny sensation is magnified by the grove’s influence and by the way he holds you like you’re something precious, something sacred.
Your forehead presses harder into the crook of his neck. You can feel his pulse fluttering there, faster now, betraying the strain all his pretty control costs him.
“You’ll hate me for this later,” you manage, half-delirious.
He laughs softly, and there’s something in it that sounds almost… fond.
“I could never,” he murmurs into your hair, the words trembling with restraint.
His hands are steady but gentle, guiding you as your movements grow desperate. Greedy. The heat between your thighs is unbearable; each roll of your hips sends sparks arcing through your nerves, sticky and shameless and unstoppable.
“Just like that, Princess,” he whispers, voice roughened with want.
Your breath stutters. You whimper, chasing friction, pleasure building in dizzying waves. Every drag of fabric makes you wetter, your soaked underthings a pitiful barrier between your sticky center and the warmth of Ser Satoru’s thigh. His breathing is ragged and thick, and you can feel the outline of his own longing pressed hard against your outer thigh where you straddle him.
Soft kisses against your temple, soft encouragements in your ear— good girl, beautiful, let go —each one pouring heat into your skin. His grip is tighter, anchoring you to his body as you chase the wild, primal sensation that has taken you both.
Your movements grow wild, urgent, driven by a need you barely recognize as your own. His thigh is solid beneath you, and his hands—steady, certain—guide you along, shaping your desperation with gentle strength. Everything else vanishes: there’s only the hot, slick ache at your center, the press of fabric, the low encouragements he murmurs against your skin.
You chase the sensation helplessly, gasping and whimpering, each roll of your body stoking the pleasure higher, tighter, until it feels as though you might shatter. The tension builds and builds, sharp and bright, until you break—a wild, helpless sound torn from your throat.
You muffle the cry in the only way you can think to: you seize Ser Satoru’s face in your shaking hands and press your mouth to his, greedy and desperate, swallowing your own release against his lips. He stiffens for a heartbeat, startled by the kiss, but he doesn’t pull away—he holds you tighter, matching your hunger, letting you burn yourself out against him.
You shudder and shake, the world fracturing into white-hot pleasure, your body trembling in his arms. For a long moment, you’re lost in it—his mouth, his hands, the strength of him holding you together as you fall apart.
Then, gently, you sag against him, every muscle spent. His arms come around you, protective and careful, as your breath evens out and your lashes flutter. The last thing you feel before the world goes dark is the slow, soothing circle his thumb traces on your back, and the quiet, reverent way he whispers your name.
✦ ✦ ✦
When it’s over, you’re shaking.
Not from the cold.
Satoru eases your movements to a stop, gentling you back down when your body tries to chase more without thinking. His hands are careful as he shifts you, turning you so you’re curled against his chest, your legs draped over his. His cloak comes around you both, a warm, dark cocoon that smells like him, the forest, and a faint tang of iron.
He doesn’t speak for a long moment. His palm moves in slow circles between your shoulder blades, grounding. Your heart gradually remembers its proper pace. The heat ebbing from your skin leaves you feeling raw and strangely hollow.
“Better?” he asks at last. His voice is rougher than before.
You manage a shaky nod. “I… yes.”
“Good.” He exhales, relief almost palpable. “It’ll fade now. The grove’s hold doesn’t last long once it crests.”
You focus on the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. When you finally dare to lift your head, his eyes are already on you.
There’s something in them you haven’t seen before.
Fierce.
Soft.
Uncompromising.
You look away quickly, shame flooding you anew as memory catches up—the sounds you made, the way you clung to him, used him—
“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “That was—it was— I shouldn’t have—”
“Stop.”
The word is quiet but absolute.
His fingers find your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his.
“You were in pain,” he says. “You asked for help. I gave it. There is nothing in that to be sorry for.”
Your throat aches. “It wasn’t… proper.”
His mouth curves, but it’s a sad little thing. “Proper would have left you suffering on the forest floor while I stood three paces away reciting court etiquette.”
You huff a weak almost-laugh despite yourself.
“I would rather be improper,” he continues, “than useless.”
You study his face, the play of light and shadow across too-perfect features, the set of his jaw. For a moment, you swear you see something else there—a kind of contained panic, a dawning realization he’s not ready for.
But then he’s looking away, adjusting the cloak around your shoulders with brisk efficiency.
“We should get you back,” he says. “Before your father decides to send half the army into the woods.”
The thought of your father seeing you like this—disheveled, cheeks still flushed, tucked against this man’s chest—makes your stomach twist. You scramble to sit up straighter, pulling away more abruptly than you intend to.
His hands fall back, flexing once against his knees before curling into fists.
“Can you walk?”
You test your legs. They wobble. “Perhaps… not far.”
Something complicated flickers across his face; then he nods, as if he expected that.
“Then we’ll go slowly.”
He helps you to your feet, his grip steady, patient. You lean against a tree as he assembles his armor, a gentle pang of longing when the last of his skin is covered. When you sway, he steps in without comment, letting you shift as much of your weight onto him as you need. He doesn’t reach for your waist this time. His hand settles, instead, just above your elbow—a compromise between propriety and instinct you don’t realize he’s making.
The walk back feels longer. Your senses slowly return to something like normal. The green dimness of the grove gives way to the brighter dapple of the main forest; the distant clamor of men and horses filters back in.
By the time the castle’s outer walls rise into view between the trees, you’ve convinced yourself it wasn’t as bad as you remember. That he didn’t see as much, feel as much, know as much.
At the gates, that illusion shatters.
✦ ✦ ✦
Your father is waiting.
He descends the steps like a storm, cloak snapping, crown glinting. His eyes rake over you, the mess of your clothing, then the knight at your side, then the woods behind you.
“What happened?” he snaps, closing the distance and grabbing your shoulders hard enough to bruise. You cry out in surprise and pain. “Where are your guards? Why are you—”
You flinch at the volume, at the sudden rough contact after the careful way Satoru had held you. Your body remembers the grove, the way touch became something else entirely, and reacts with a confused jolt of wrongness.
Satoru goes very, very still.
The change is subtle—a tightening of the line of his jaw, the way his hand drops from your arm to hover at his side, fingers twitching. His eyes flick to your father’s grip, then back to your face.
You see something flash there.
Possessive. Protective. Dangerous.
It’s gone in an instant.
“Bandits, Your Majesty,” Satoru says, voice level. “Or hired blades. They had good aim, but no discipline. Your men are driving them off.”
“And your first instinct was to run?” your father snarls. “To abandon the field?”
“My first instinct,” Satoru replies, tone cooling, “was to remove the heir from immediate danger. Your men are not my charge. She is.”
Your father’s fingers dig harder into you. “You presume much, mercenary.”
“Only to do what I was bought to do.”
The tension between them is sharp enough to cut. You feel caught in the middle of two storms, one loud and familiar, one quiet and new.
“Father,” you say, mustering what dignity you have left. “Please. You’re hurting me.”
He blinks, as if only just aware of his grip. His hands fall away.
“Get her inside,” he snaps at Satoru rather than at you. “She looks a fright. We’ll discuss your ‘tactics’ later.”
He turns and strides back up the steps, surrounded by advisors like carrion birds.
Satoru watches him go.
His expression is carefully blank. His jaw may as well be carved from stone for how tight it is.
“Come,” he says softly.
Ser Satoru does not touch you during the walk back to your chambers.
He walks half a step behind, and to your left, silent, eyes fixed on some point ahead. The easy humor from before is gone, the teasing, the lazy confidence. What’s left is something stripped down and raw—discipline wrapped like iron bands around a core that wants to do anything but obey.
You want to say something. To thank him, perhaps. To apologize again. To ask what, exactly, just happened.
But the words are stuck behind your teeth. None of them feel safe.
You reach your door. Your ladies-in-waiting are nowhere in sight yet; the hall is momentarily, blessedly, empty.
You turn to him.
“Ser Satoru,” you say.
His eyes meet yours. For a heartbeat, you see it all there—the grove, the heat, the way your body had fit against his like something old and remembered. The way his hands had guided you without taking. The way he had almost stepped between you and your father on the steps, like he had more right to your safety than any king.
Then his lashes lower, shielding whatever might have been there.
“Princess,” he replies, voice polite and distant again. “You should rest. The aftereffects can be… tiring.”
“Is this… normal?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “What happened, I mean.”
His mouth twists.
“In those groves?” he says. “For humans, yes.”
It’s not an answer, not really. But it’s all he offers.
You nod, fingers curling around the edge of the door. The wood is solid under your hand. Real. Unmoving.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
Something in his face softens, fractures.
“You never need to thank me for doing what I was meant to do,” he says. “Guarding you is not a burden, Princess.”
There’s a beat of silence.
You realize he’s expecting you to go inside. You should. It’s what’s expected.
Instead, you hear yourself say his name like you did in the grove.
“Satoru.”
His eyes snap to yours.
The vise in his chest tightens; you can see it in the way his breath stutters, just once.
“Yes,” he answers, softer now.
You don’t know what to do with that, so you do what you always do when the world feels too sharp. You retreat.
“Good night,” you murmur, and slip behind the door.
It closes with a quiet click.
On the other side of it, you press your back to the wood and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, skirts pooling around you, heart pounding. Your body remembers the grove in flashes—the roughness of cloth, the solid press of his thigh, the sound of his voice in your ear telling you he’s got you, that you’re safe, that you’re doing so well.
You bury your face in your hands.
You’ve had knights before. You’ve had protectors. You’ve had duty and expectations and a crown waiting like a weight above your head.
You have never had this.
✦ ✦ ✦
Outside, in the hall, Satoru stands where you left him.
He waits. One heartbeat. Two. Three.
He expects the feeling to ebb. It doesn’t.
Instead, something inside him settles with a terrible, crystalline certainty.
He has done this before, back home. Held trembling hands. Guided shaking bodies through sacred rites in sun-dappled groves. Shared breaths and vows with females who knew exactly what they were asking of him. Bonds meant to be sweet, temporary, a cherished memory before politics and marriage took their inevitable toll.
Those ties were ribbons. Pretty. Fleeting.
This is iron.
He has begun something he cannot end.
You are human. Unknowing. Bound to a world that will one day hand your hand to another man for a crown.
He is Elven, whether this kingdom chooses to see it or not. A creature they tolerate for his usefulness, not his heart.
And yet, when your body sought his in the grove, when your lips formed his name, when you leaned into his guidance and let him carry you out of the worst of it—
Every instinct in him recognized you.
Mine, something quiet and vicious whispers in his blood.
His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides until the leather of his gloves creaks. He inhales slowly, forcing air into lungs that feel too tight.
He should deny his assignment. Return home. Close the door on this before it can open any further.
He doesn’t move.
He stands watch outside your door until the torches burn low, listening to the slowing of your breath, the steadying of your pulse on the other side.
The vise around his heart never loosens.
i am NOT fucking w/ html and gradients rn so enjoy as is haha. will be posting to ao3 as well. see you guys later w/ the next lgits update!!
