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feyascorner · 3 months

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6 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. You remember how the sunlight glistened against his skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press the sharp end against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words,,,tav is better than me i would've thrown hands like twelve years ago,,,I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I WROTE THIS IN LIKE TWO DAYS???? also thank you for all your comments they really motivate me to write!! so have this monster of a chapter early as thanks!!

"You'll kill them, Astarion," you mumble. "They might not have had the power to help you, but they're still your siblings. I don't want them to die hating you."

"They're not my siblings--not really. I don't care what they think of me. Hells, they could haunt me even in the afterlife, as annoying as that would be, but they're no innocents either. They've brought in as many souls as I have," he responds, his jaw visibly clenching at the thought. "I don't care if all seven thousand of them die hating me as long as you're here."

And while you feel flattered, you can't disregard the worry driving a hole through your conscience. Ever perceptive, he lifts a hand to brush stray strands of hair out of your face, his fingertips tracing your jaw. His voice is but a hushed whisper.

"You understand, don't you, my love? It would set me free--after two hundred years of forcing myself through hell--I can finally free myself from Cazador," his tone sours at just the mention of his master's name, and he intertwines his fingers with yours, drawing your attention back to him.

"It is what you want for me, no? For me to be happy?"

It is what you want. Just not like this.

Music was your way of releasing the mountain of feelings you kept locked away in your chest, waiting for the right person to recognize them for what they are. You’d hoped someone would understand the meaning behind your lyrics without you telling them outright, and they’d know what it truly meant to you. And for a while, you’d believed Astarion would be the key to this safe.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

“While I usually entertain your certainly out-of-the-box plans, this is bordering on just foolish, I’m afraid,” Gale sighs, eyes tracing you as you pace around the house, stuffing every possible weapon and healing potion into a brown sack. Despite his insistence, you ignore him, testing the blade of a knife against the edge of the table. It’s not entirely dull, nor is it sharper than the dagger in your drawer, but it’ll have to do. “Simply charging into the tavern won’t do much good if you’ll be overwhelmed in number anyway.”

“I know what I’m doing, Gale,” you hiss, snatching an Alchemist’s Fire and shoving it a tad too hard into your bag. He tenses. “If they want to talk to me so badly, then I’m not waiting around for them to attack another one of my friends—I’ll go to them.”

“Yes, your determination is certainly praise-worthy, but can we please just sit down and think this through before running into a battlefield with a few knives? This is basically a suicide mission.”

“The wizard is right, even if it’s hard to believe,” Lae’zel announces from the corner of the room, wiping a cloth on her sword. “When I arrived, they’d already fled. They could be anywhere by now, and they’ve had more than enough time to plan another ambush if we were to charge now. We must be smart about this. I am a warrior, but I am no fool.”

“I’ll go by myself,” you say, a sense of finality in your voice. “They already showed what they’d do if someone they didn’t want to talk to approached them. I’ll just talk to them.”

Gale stares with lidded eyes. “So why are you packing so many explosives, exactly?”

“...Precaution?”

Silence befalls the room, and you take it as a sign to finish your preparations. All you can hear is the crackling of the fireplace and the rain falling against the windows of the home. The lot of you had somehow managed to stabilize Shadowheart by the time Lae’zel returned, and while she’d been conscious earlier, you insisted she rest before she consumed herself with the investigation again. You didn’t miss the way she limped back to her room with little to protest against you.

“Take the spawn with you.”

Two jaws drop at the words, the only one remaining fixed belonging to Lae’zel.

“The kainyank is living here to help. Not cause more problems for us. And so far, he’s only done one of the two things, and I’m dangerously close to turning to my blade if he doesn’t choose otherwise,” she says. “The spawn are searching for him, too. If blood breaks out, you must use him to flee safely.”

Gale blinks. “As in…use him as a body shield?”

“What else is he good for?”

While the wizard seems positively appalled, you can see the contemplation flicker in his eyes before he shakes his head. He's always been more considerate than the rest of you. “No, Tav would never agree to such a-”

“Okay.”

They both whip their heads toward you, and you avoid their piercing gazes, staring down at the dull blade in your hand. “It might help, too, if we find out why they want him. There are nearly 3000 spawns in the city—we can’t kill all of them, at least not immediately. It’d be best if we convinced them to leave, and the best way of doing that is to understand what they want in the first place.”

Lae’zel narrows her eyes. “Then you must swear it. Swear that if Astarion were to face risks, you will leave him behind. If he were to turn on you, you slice through his throat without a second of hesitation. He is there to aid you–nothing else.”

“I will,” the words feel hot on your tongue.

And so, you soon find yourself standing in front of his door, hand reaching for the door handle. There’s a slight pause right as you touch the cool metal, but you bite your tongue and shove it open, praying he’s still not as ravenous as he was a few hours ago. And much to your surprise, he appears wholly composed.

He lowers his book to his lap, eyes training themselves on you as they dart from your bag and then back to your face. The window’s wide open, bathing him in the moonlight, with dark curtains tied to the wall to keep them from obscuring his view of the city. He raises a brow. “What could you possibly want from me at two in the morning? Come here for a cuddle?”

You’re scowling again.

“I need you-”

“I’m flattered, but I fear you may stab a butter knife into my eye, so I’ll have to decline.”

“Not like that.” Your frown creases deeper at his smug grin. “We’re going to the Blushing Mermaid to find the spawn.”

“Just us?”

“They want to see us.”

“And if I refuse?”

The answer is almost immediate, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife on bread. “I hear the bloody bedrolls in the Duke’s dungeon are very comfortable.”

He drops his smile at this, and a tiny spark of pride puffs your chest. He seems to weigh his choices before snapping his book shut and standing from the bed, snatching a comb from his bedside table before pacing up to you, pocketing it behind him.

"A comb?"

He shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, I doubt you’ll be giving me a weapon of any sort, so I must make do.”

You don’t correct him.

As the two of you make your way downstairs, you hear your other companions speaking.

“I didn’t expect you of all people to defend Astarion,” Gale says in disbelief, still comprehensive as Lae’zel poorly cuts up slices of an apple.

“I am doing no such thing, istik,” she mutters. “I am giving him a choice. Either to pick up his dead weight and prove his life is worth more than the dirt on my shoes or die at my hand.”

The walk to the Blushing Mermaid is painfully awkward. To you, anyway, because he seems positively unbothered the entire time. Seeing him leisurely follow behind you is irritating—and it bothers you more than you’d like to admit.

By the time you survey the area around the tavern, you’ve discerned they must be inside, considering there are no ambushes awaiting your arrival. While it’s a relief, it also increases the anxiety of what lies inside the tavern itself, and you confirm your knives are at your disposal if it were ever to come to that. You sincerely hope it doesn’t. Astarion sighs dramatically for the umpteenth time as you approach the front doors, and you finally snap to look at him with a glare.

“Will you stop breathing so damn loud?”

The change in your attitude toward him is apparent, but he doesn't seem to care. If anything, he seems more pleased with you than he was before every time you shoot him an annoyed glance or something along those lines. He responds with lazy answers, but it's better than the bitter ones he gave you before.

You're not terribly surprised, though. He's always loved pissing people off for his own entertainment, and it would be an understatement to say that he's been somewhat successful with you.

“I’m not breathing, my dear. I don’t need to, remember?”

“Then what is your problem?” you hiss between your teeth. “Are you trying to wake up the entire city with your insistent groaning?”

“Must we do this tonight, of all days? Couldn’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“No!” you say in exasperation. “That gives them too much time to heal and recover from Shadowheart and Gale. It has to be tonight, just in case they do decide to fight—then we’ll have an easier time because, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s just us two!”

He sighs again, and you swear you might pluck a strand of his hair for good measure. And just as you shove past him and reach for the door, he clears his throat again. Loudly.

“For God’s sake, what?” you nearly yell.

He smiles at you, pointing at the front door. “Well, if we’re looking to avoid an ambush, perhaps we should find another way in than the main entrance. Unless my prior knowledge as a rogue proceeds me.”

You blink. You recognize the validity of his statement and feel your face flare, and you immediately march past him again—the other way this time—and search for the nearest wall you can climb up to the roof. You hear him snicker, but you do your best to ignore it.

Somehow, you manage to climb in through the window, admittedly a lot louder than him, but you don’t think it’s fair to compare yourself to him when he has footsteps lighter than a child’s. Hidden behind one of the tables, you peer into the rest of the tavern, which is completely empty save for the bottles of alcohol scattered everywhere. You turn to signal to him that the coast is clear, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, your face drains of color.

“Right here, darling.”

He drops down from seemingly thin air, and you gasp, nearly letting out a shriek if it weren’t for your hand covering your mouth. He grins at that.

Bastard.

“There’s nobody in the entire building–at least, not visible to the eye,” he confirms, glancing around the room.

“How do you know that?”

He points at the ceiling, and your eyes follow it. “Someone decided to build such useful beams on the roof. You can see the entire place from up there. Care to take a look?”

While you would have thanked him if he had been any other person, you only march straight by him. “Don’t do anything without telling me first.”

“No ‘thanks, Astarion’?” He quirks a brow but huffs when you ignore him. “Very well then, my liege. No need to acknowledge a humble servant such as I. But I shall let you know when I’m about to take any questionable decision.”

You’re starting to wonder if his presence is worth the headache it gives you.

Pacing around the tavern, it seems all too normal. No blood splatters against the wall, no broken chairs—hells, even the booze cups look clean, which is a rarity for the Blushing Mermaid. You check each room, inspecting down to the last cups in case there are traces of blood in them, but to no avail.

It’s like there was never anyone here.

“You look like you’re having trouble, my dear,” Astarion clicks his tongue mockingly, leaning back in one of the more luxurious chairs he’s decided is his own.

“Considering the only company I decided to bring along is lounging around like a bum, I’m not surprised,” you say back, now searching the smallest cracks in the walls for some sort of secret passage. It’s strange. Even though your companions had spoken of the bodies they encountered when facing the spawn, there’s not a single speck of blood in sight. Neither is there anything outside but the whistle of the wind.

“This particular wall must be quite fascinating.”

You fight the need to groan and whip around to snap at him, but he’s suddenly just a foot away from you, staring at the spot you’d been squinting at. Gods, you hate how quiet he is when he walks.

“As wonderful as it is getting a fresh breath of air,” he feigns disappointment with a half-hearted sigh, turning to walk toward the entrance. “I believe we’ve done what we can. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love to return to my book–”

The wooden floor underneath him creaks. It sounds hollow.

As if there’s something underneath.

“The basement,” you blink, eyes wide. “The hag’s lair.”

He stares at you as if you’ve taken too many mushrooms. “It was sealed up after we rid of that dreadful woman. Good riddance, too, I mean, I’m not particularly fond of children, but eating them, even I wouldn’t be able–”

You rush toward the very corner of the tavern, sensing that he’s following you regardless of his obvious distaste toward your decision. There, you push against a table perched on top of the basement latch and test its locks.

It’s open.

“Heavens, it reeks here. How didn’t I smell it before?”

“Of what?” You sniff the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Blood, my dear. Fairly recent, too, if my judgment hasn’t gotten rusty in the time I’ve spent cooped up in that room,” he pauses. “And I haven’t gotten rusty, to be clear.”

“Right,” you retort, reaching down to pull the latch open. You don’t see him do the same, and you glance at him quizzically.

“Gods no,” he says, when he realizes why you’re staring. “I’m doing no such thing that ruins these nails.”

You sigh. Loudly.

The latch opens relatively easily, but you make an effort not to simply swing it open in fear the occupants inside might be warned of your arrival. You prop the trap door open against a chair and begin your descent down the stairs, remaining as silent as possible.

The first thing you can notice is that he’d been right.

The stench of blood burns in your nose, and you immediately cover it with your sleeve to avoid inhaling anymore. You’ve smelt enough of your companion’s blood today, and you’d rather not continue the streak with the blood of complete strangers. Astarion, however, frowns.

“Such a waste,” he mumbles.

When you turn to where he’s looking, there’s a pile of bodies—poor victims, no doubt—lying over a puddle of their collective blood mixing with one another. It almost feels inhumane to leave them that way, just hours after their death, as if they’re cattle to be used.

Though, in this case, they are cattle.

“Are you sure it’s them?”

“I’m telling you it is!”

“Where’s their lyre, then?”

“How would I know that?”

You locate the source of the whispers instantly, reaching for one of your daggers as your eyes bore into the corners of the lair that are obscured from your view. Astarion steps forward before you can figure out a plan to approach them, arrogance exuding from his very body as he holds nothing but the comb tucked in his back pocket. “We can hear you, you fools. Come out before I lose my patience.”

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

“They’re only a few spawns, my dear. Nothing like Cazador—no need to be so cautious.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a woman emerges from the shadows, her eyes trained on your own as she marvels at your mere presence. You realize she’s not alone as multiple vampires begin to emerge from different corners of the room, all a safe distance away but not enough to ease the nerves jittering in your stomach. She steps toward you. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Another spawn steps beside her, and you immediately notice how ravenous he seems, eyes almost glistening with hunger as they bore straight into you. The woman puts a hand on his neck, seemingly soothing him, before he slumps his shoulders again, but the pure violence swirling in his head doesn’t seem to vanish. She then looks to Astarion, and the expression on her face morphs into something more akin to dread. “And you, brother.”

“Dalyria.” Astarion only stares with lidded eyes, visibly unfazed.

You instinctively scan the entire lair, searching for any differences you can spot since the last time you were here. The only glaring thing besides the bodies piled in the corner is the study desk on the other side of the room, scattered with different potions and concoctions. Behind the desk is an entire wall plastered with diagrams—most of which study the anatomy and functionality of what you can only determine to be a vampire judging from the fangs. There are also beds everywhere—though they look like they could collapse any second—and the room almost looks like a hospital.

The atmosphere between the siblings is so uncomfortable you’d think they’ll start attacking one another any second.

“Is Leon here?” you finally cut through, lowering your hand away from your blade. “I need to speak with him—technically, all of you.”

“How curious. We were hoping to speak with you as well,” she says, motioning all the other spawn to stand down. It does little to ease you. “By all means, feel free to go first.”

You take the opportunity, too exhausted, to demonstrate polite etiquette. “The spawn are causing too much trouble in the city, Dalyria. They’re killing too many people, and it’s getting noticed by more than enough people. At this rate, you’ll lose some of your own if the Fist figure out how you guys are hiding throughout the city.”

“...Yes, I’m aware.”

The resignation in her voice makes your throat bob, but you continue anyway. “I’m saying we need to get you guys somewhere more stable. Whether it be the Underdark or elsewhere, we can’t have you staying here.”

“I see,” she says slowly. “I appreciate you trying to talk this out with us, but I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”

Your shoulders tense, and you can see Astarion shift beside you. “You don’t understand, sister. There’s going to be an outright war at this rate-”

“Baldur’s Gate is our home as well, Astarion. You, of all people, should know this,” she demands. “We have a right to remain here, and if the Fist insists on forcing us out, we have no choice but to retaliate.”

“But you’re killing the city off!” you gawk in disbelief, unable to believe what you’re hearing.

“We’re surviving,” she corrects, the corners of her lips turning downward. “Surely you can’t hate us for that.”

“Then…” you blink at her, positively appalled at her words. “Why the hells did you need to speak with me? What was worth putting my companion through hell?”

“...There is a way—for both parties to benefit.” She looks down at her hands, then back up at you. “I didn’t expect the both of you to come together. Our informants were correct when they claimed to see Astarion in your possession. In all honesty, we technically only needed one of you, but this makes things a lot quicker.”

Confused but desperately wanting an answer, you urge her to continue. Only you can see the way Astarion’s hand slips toward his pocket, where his comb lies.

“We were going to ask you to bring him to us, you see. But it appears you’ve already done the hard part.”

The dreaded intuition in the back of your mind tells you something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Me? What do you need me for?” he scowls.

She disregards him and continues speaking to you, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. “If you turn him over to us, you’ll never have to see him again. That is what you want, yes?”

Both you and the pale elf freeze.

“I watched as my brother nearly killed you the day of the ritual,” she continues. “I understand how you feel being betrayed by someone you thought shared your pain. And I believe this is a way to relieve you of that pain—and finally move onto a new stage of your life.”

She acts as if Astarion is the only thing holding you from moving on from the past few months of your life. And if she’d said so a week ago, you would have nothing to defend yourself with. But you’ve cut the few strings left that tie yourself to him. You remind yourself that you no longer care for him, regardless of the slight squeeze in your chest. You’ve already sworn to force yourself to disregard him, and you want to say all these things to her, but nothing comes out. So, instead, you keep your mouth sealed.

Astarion scoffs from beside you.

“For God’s sake, please tell me you’re not actually considering this. Let’s just force the madwoman out and go,” his voice attempts to stay firm, but it’s high-pitched at the end. He’s panicking.

You don’t respond to him, and he stiffens. “...My main concern is the city. If you think you can use my personal matters to convince me to just let you keep killing all these people–”

“That matter will resolve itself in its own time. We’ll return to the Underdark—or wherever it is you wish, and you won’t have to spend your nights hunting us down anymore.”

With a dry throat, you fixate your gaze on her face, desperately trying to discern any hint of a crack in her mask. Instead, you find nothing. “Why would you do that? For one spawn?”

“I’m afraid that’s for me and my siblings to know. But I can promise you that no harm will come to you if you take this deal.”

For what seems like the millionth time this month, you have no idea what to do. Lae’zel’s words flood you like a wave crashing onto shore as you remind yourself that Astarion is here not as your ally but as a shield. If things are as Dalyria says, simply turning over the man standing next to you would end this entire ordeal. You could return to your everyday life of repairing the city, learning to heal and grow from the terrors of the illithid invasion. You could learn to let people in again.

You could learn to play music again in hopes of finding the person you dreamed would understand.

Such an enticing, perfect deal. It’s almost too perfect. But you’ve learned not to trust perfection, especially when handed to you by a vampire spawn.

Astarion, who had been observing your expression this whole time, almost seems to read your mind. Or perhaps he’s just feeling selfish, ready to defend himself. “You’ve created a lot of problems for me, dear sister. I’ve gotten accused of your own murders, thanks to your pets.”

The delirious spawn, who’d looked sluggish after Dalyria’s soothing, now bares his teeth at Astarion. Dalyria attempts to calm him again, but it’s no use. The bloodthirst cannot be satiated unless there’s blood spilled on his very hands.

Astarion doesn’t seem to take a hint—or maybe he does but chooses to simply ignore it. “I’ve always known you were strange, Dalyria, but really? Experimenting with your ‘useless procedures’ on fresh spawns? He looks positively possessed, sister. He might just resort to eating you instead.”

“They are not useless, Astarion,” she snaps. “I am a doctor. I’m only curing what needs to be cured.”

“Then tell me why you haven’t managed to cure yourself of our curse? You may be intelligent in medical aspects, but gods above, you are more foolish than Cazador himself if you really think you can cure vampirism.”

“I had nobody to test my ideas on for two centuries, Astarion! Now that I do, surely I can-”

“You’re starving them, Dalyria,” he snaps, tone drastically different from the banter you shared just minutes ago. “And they’ll give into the thirst sooner or later.”

His words are the final straw.

The spawn who’d been standing beside her launches himself toward you. Before you can even register what’s happening, his fangs are at your throat, your neck tilted so it shoots pain up your side. Just as you feel your skin split at the tips of his canines, Astarion rips him away from you so harshly that the spawn flies helplessly into the wall, which crumbles under his weight. Dust flies into your eyes, and you cough, wiping at them until it clears just enough to see Dalyria staring in horror.

“I told you, Dalyria. You are no doctor, not anymore,” Astarion scoffs, eyes narrowed into slits. “And I’m afraid I can’t let you kill my liege here, as I’d much hate to be trapped in a cell somewhere underground.”

You reach the specks of blood drops forming on your neck, horrified by the close encounter you had with death just seconds ago. The culprit of your injury lies unconscious beside the cracked wall, and you wonder just how hard he had to be thrown to be rendered in such a state. You can see the other spawns’ eyes practically glow at the sight of your blood—fresh, unlike the pile of corpses on the other side of the room.

She turns to you, desperation pouring from the wavering of her voice. “Please, don’t make me do this. Don’t make us enemies. All you need to do is give us Astarion. My brother, for heaven's sake!”

You think better of it. Something that obviously pleases Astarion if the way his face relaxes tells you anything.

“May I?” he glances at you.

Surely, there are ways–more civilized ways–-than drawing your blade, but the ferocious growling from the rest of the spawn tells you otherwise. You need to find out why she needs Astarion so badly, and clearly, she’s not willing to tell you unless it’s through pure force. You despise the idea as much as you despise the predicament you’re in, but you refuse to be attacked and deliver nothing back. Just as you nod to his question, another spawn lunges, unable to resist the red staining your neck.

But it’s smart this time, choosing to eliminate any threats before turning to the full course. In this case, the only thing between you and the vampires is another vampire.

“Brother!” Dalyria shouts, horrified.

You don't bother calling his name, only barely manage to tackle Astarion out of the way before the spawn’s claw sinks into the very ground he was standing on just seconds ago.

As embarrassing as it is to practically crash on top of him, both of you wince because it’s more painful than anything. You force yourself up with your arms, and it’s then that you see even more spawn crawling from whatever shadows they hid in, and you realize you are terribly and most definitely outnumbered. By a lot.

“Dalyria, if you’re truly a doctor, do something! Stop them, godsdammit!” you shriek in her direction.

“They’re not—they were doing so well!...” she gasps before she reaches for a tattered journal and desperately files through its pages in a frenzy. “They were nearly docile before. I don’t know why–”

You feel Astarion’s hands slip out of the sack you carry on your back, realizing you hadn’t even noticed him opening it. He’s still lying flat on the ground, and you look down at him, puzzled before he laughs bitterly.

“I’ll be borrowing this for a few minutes, darling.”

You barely dodge another spawn that comes flying at you, rolling off of him and practically slamming into the wall. And before you can crawl away, your knife—in Astarion’s hand—stabs through the spawn’s left eye through the back of their head, specks of their blood splattering against your cheek.

You want to throw up.

“No, don’t harm them! Please, just let us go!” Dalyria pleads, but you’re finished being patient with her. She clearly has no way of calming the spawn, and you’re tired of being thrown around like a ragdoll in the mess that is the lair.

You yank out the Alchemist’s Fire and chuck it at the nearest cluster of spawn—around 2 or 3—and flinch as the vial collides and explodes into flames right before your eyes, blowing your hair out of your face in a gust of smoke and wind. You swear you hear Astarion cackle in utter glee at the destruction, but you choose not to dwell on it, too busy figuring out how else you could get out of here alive.

“You’re ruining the patients!” Dalyria screams, and you almost regret not throwing the vial at her instead.

“Your spawn are the ones attacking us!”

Suddenly, her face goes impossibly pale, and you hear a hiss of pain from a few feet away. Astarion winces as one of the spawn claws at his chest leaves behind a reasonably deep wound following the path of their sharp nails. Your knife is kicked away from him, and you hear Dalyria again just as he reaches for the comb instead. “Brother, be careful!”

You’re not sure if she wants you and Astarion dead or not, but it’s seriously giving you backlash at this point.

He stabs the comb into the spawn’s neck and kicks him away, and you take the opportunity to send the knife he dropped through the air.

By some miracle, it pierces straight through the spawn’s arm. Astarion lets out a breathy laugh from the floor, attention glued to your handiwork. “Ha! And to think that could have been me!”

And while you want to admire your aim yourself, there’s no time. Dalyria’s footsteps rush up the stairs, out of the basement, and you realize you need to follow moments after Astarion, who’s already fleeing up the steps, cursing under his breath. “That demented wench!”

You stand to follow after him, but the remaining spawns are already blocking your way. There are only two more, but you brace yourself for the worst, reaching for whatever remaining weapons you have left in your sack. The smoke and debris feel suffocating in your lungs, but you have no choice but to push through, praying to whatever God you can remember at the moment that this be the last time you have to fight this many vampire spawn. Or any, for that matter.

You wish you had left your fighting days behind you when you defeated the elder brain, but you suppose even that was too much to ask for.

You arrive just in time to see the sunrise.

Lying against a wall is Astarion, who you find just before the sunlight hits the part of the ground he’s on. He’s clutching his shoulder, which drips with his own blood, and showing no signs of the quick vampire regeneration. You stare down at him, face stoic as you wait for him to say something.

Judging from his condition, you assume Dalyria got away.

“Leaving me to die here would be unwise,” he scoffs. “Though it’d be rather easy to let me burn to death in the sun, I must remind you that I much rather prefer decapitation if it’s all the same to you.”

“I’ll consider it,” you reply curtly. "Can't promise anything, though."

He leans his head back, amused. The sunlight is just a few feet away now, and you wonder how long it's been since he's been outside to watch the sunrise. “You’ve always had a cruel streak in you. I just had to lure it out, sometimes, but when it did come out—Gods, you should have seen it yourself.”

“You’re delirious,” you remind him, observing just how much blood he’s losing. You remind yourself of your resentment when worry probes a small part of your heart. One that you hope dies soon. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“I haven’t been exactly feeding well, unfortunately. And days old boar’s blood can only sustain me so long, darling,” he lulls his head forehead, sneering to himself. “Now that I think about it, dying by sunlight sounds rather poetic, don’t you think? Perhaps you can make a song about my glorious death.”

He’s definitely unhinged from blood loss.

You sigh, tossing his arm over your shoulder as you deem the sunlight a bit too close now. It’s a slow process with your own body’s soreness, but you manage to drag him to a more shaded area, propping him against the wall there so that you can rummage through your sack for a healing potion. You stop when his hand latches onto your arm.

“What?” you frown.

“It won’t help. I need blood, my dear.”

“There’s none for you here.”

“The bodies in the basement,” he bites back a groan, more blood gushing out of his shoulder. “I can make use of them--give their deaths a sense of purpose."

The displeasure on your face must be apparent because he laughs.

You pause, lowering the sack onto the ground. While you’re illuminated by the sunlight now, he remains in the shadow of the building, only able to see the sun with how it reflects off of your skin. And you find that he’s no longer looking at you but looking past you into the glowing orb you call the sun. You remember how its light glistened against his own skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press its tip against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

His eyes widen, and the temptation is more than evident with how his mouth falls open as if he tastes your blood from a few inches away. But as fast as it had come, he tears his eyes away. “I’m not taking your blood.”

“Stop with your prideful act, Astarion. You’re going to bleed out.”

“I wouldn’t die, exactly. I would just remain unconscious until I can properly heal myself.”

You spare him a long, hard stare. He refuses to look at you, biting the inside of his cheek to ignore the scent of your blood. And it's painfully clear he's failing.

You have no idea why he's so insistent on avoiding your blood, but you refuse to spend your own time pondering it.

“Fine then.”

He watches in utter loss as you lick the blood off of your finger, shrugging. “Bleed out for all I care.”

You turn to stand, but his hand latches on your arm once more. You’re not sure if you’re imagining how warm he feels, but you think you must be. He's always been terribly cold.

“Do you hate me now?” he asks again, this time staring up at you through his lashes. “Have I finally run through your patience?”

The question remains the same as he asked you a week ago, but it feels different now. This time, you know your answer, and it feels so, so relieving. You just wish you could understand his own feelings, but his expression is so superficial you don’t even attempt it.

“Yes,” you reply blankly. “I hate you.”

He takes a moment to process your words. You have to admit it’s satisfying to say it to his face, even if your hatred for him is new. But perhaps because it’s new is why you feel it so strongly, and you silently thank it for how confident you sound saying the words. Even if they taste bitter. You think he might have some quip to respond with, but he only smiles, and as usual, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You never want to see it again.

Without another word, he pulls you down to him, and you nearly topple over before stabilizing yourself with either of your knees on either side of his legs. He breathes against your neck, and you think he might drink from you until you feel his fingers brush against your nape. Immediately, your body freezes like a deer in headlights, flinching at his touch as your mind involuntarily forces the last memories you have of his hands on your neck.

And ever so perceptive, he notices how you recoil from his touch.

You hate your body for reacting the way it does out of fear. Not the disgust or the anger, but something much more pathetic, and you want to go back on your own actions to stop yourself from appearing so weak to him. You think he might tease you--taunt you, even, but he stops, slowly pulling away and lowering his head from the crook between your shoulder and head.

You’re unable to see his face, but his movements seem more sluggish.

Instead of going for your neck, he lifts your wrist, brushing his lips against it before sinking his teeth into the tender flesh.

Despite the initial sting, it’s a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to over time. With him, it had always felt so intimate. It’s why you can’t help but feel heat bloom across your cheeks before you remind yourself you no longer care for him. Only when you think he’s drinking a bit too long do you try to pull away, but his arm loops around your waist, bringing you even closer as the amount of blood he’s taking increases with how deep his fangs are.

You feel so cold, yet heat burns through your very blood. It makes your head dizzy, and you take it as a sign that he’s had enough.

You only manage to speak a few seconds later, breathless. “Astarion.”

He pulls away, seemingly out of breath himself as he releases his hold on the rest of your body. He runs his tongue over the access, staining the side of his mouth. He uses his finger to make sure the rest is off his face. “I know.”

He rarely feeds so messily, so you discern he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been drinking well. Knowing he wasn’t deceiving you brings little relief, but it’s still a welcome feeling. Rubbing at your wrist and the two puncture wounds now residing there, you stand up and slug your sack over your shoulder. He watches you the entire time, and you hate that you can never seem to read his expressions—only one, and that’s whenever he claims to despise your very existence.

His shoulder has already stopped bleeding.

“Why didn’t you drink from those people at Sharess’ Caress?” you finally say.

“Their blood…” he pauses, trailing off, and suddenly he seems to change his mind. “...I've grown tired of it.”

“Blood is just blood, isn’t it?”

He stares at you for a moment, then laughs.

“I wish it was, darling.”

Tags:@ayselluna@littleenglishfangirl@bg3obsessedsideblog@iwillpissyourpants@cyberpr1m3@ukeia-uchiha@snowlotr@road-riot@spacekidnova@madislayyy@lordfishflakes@nicalysm@djarinsway@tinystarfishgalaxy@brainz00@hopeful-n-sad@ohdeerieme@madisban@chrismarium@chonkercatto@fanfic-share@sleepyred1703@miskouly@ravenswritingroom @iamlowkeycrying @deezus-roy @spiritraves @mariposakitten @dinobae-replyacc @whisperingwillowxox @bdudette @misscrissfemmefatale @atropapurpurea @cosywinterevenings @phoenixgurl030 @generalstephkenobi @shadowsmusical @himesuedi @girlygmer-blog @vulgarfuckinvirgo77 @aelieknox @hyperfixationwhore @teardropcup @bitterbeanren Please let me know if I didn't add you to the list or if you'd like to be added!

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #fluff #bg3 #angst

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hanniejji · 2 years

Text

date me, please. oh, we're already dating?

[ kaedehara kazuha x s/o ]

summary: drunk and utterly wasted is kaedehara kazuha. but he's also drunk in love. it's a good thing you are too.

notes: was typing the phoenix fic but i have to get this out of the way so I DON'T KEEP GETTING DISTRACTED GOD DAMN IT KAZUHA | m.list

words: 928 | warnings: alcohol ofc

you're about to punch venti into a pulp.

by the time your group had left the tavern, it was already dark and most of the city folk were already tucked inside their home, with the exception of a few knights and drunkards outside who greeted you a good night… and a concerned look at the boy hanging over your shoulders.

"i want… a ukulele!" he gushed, giggling uncontrollably, "did you see,"—he cuts himself with a giggle—"that one bard with a small… a veeeery small! oh it was a tiny little thing! with strings!"

"yes, i saw love. i was there with you."

the walk to the inn was quiet, only his occasional rambles of traveling, the things the wind tells him, and the random giggles that he does.

archons, he's adorable.

it didn't take long before you reached the inn, lugging kazuha over your shoulder across the stairs and to your room. the man simply fell into the bed like a sack of potatoes, plopping on the soft sheets with his whole weight. yet his face sports a dreamy smile—his eyes are still closed and he resumes his faint whispers of his dreams.

"you better be glad i love you enough to deal with this."

with slacking limbs and weary drowsy eyes from exhaustion—not to mention it's been a long day of traveling for the two of you, with the addition of xinyan—you quickly went around the room to clean up, taking a damp towel and a glass of water with you to the bedside table, taking a seat besides a giggling mess of a kazuha.

"love, are you asleep?"

he muttered something in response, eyes still shut and a loopy smile.

despite the extra weight on your way to the inn, you can't deny that the sight of kazuha being vulnerable and loose—albeit with the influence of alcohol—does not make you feel a little at ease. he doesn't make it look obvious, but kazuha had always been on the guard for something. perhaps it had been a natural thing for him to be cautious and careful even from his younger days, but it certainly makes you happy to see him having his moments to let his guard down, even for a while.

you just hope it won't always be from the influence of alcohol, he can barely handle a few drinks.

you press the damp towel on his forehead, wiping down around his face. your other hand thread through his hair, combing and taking it out from its usual ponytail.

at your concentration and inner state of mind, you failed to notice how his half-lidded and woozy eyes opened to stare at you. sluggish, but desperate to touch you in some way, he wraps his hand weakly around your wrist.

"love?" you glance down at him quizzically.

"am i your 'love'?"

"huh?"

he squinted his eyes right back at you, lips tilted to a pout.

"you called someone 'love'. am i not your 'love'? do you call someone else your 'love'?"

you couldn't stop yourself from huffing, amused. however, this only made him frown, an uncharacteristic whine coming from him and his hand that was holding your wrist flails in a mini tantrum.

"whyyy? why, why, why? why not meeee? are we not lovers?"

"kazu—"

"noooo," he whines, taking your hand to place sloppy kisses on your knuckles, "you can't call me by that name! date me right now! call me love! i love yooou, it's not fair!"

you just hoped that no one would complain about the loud laughing fit you made at this time of the night, but can they really blame you? here he is, drunk and being the most adorable idiot there is. who are you to not find this endearing?

"love—" you grin at the satisfied happy hum he made at the pet name, "—we're already dating."

his smile fell to a shock look, gasping audibly and his eyes lighting up, putting the moon and the lamp beside you to shame.

he looks very much awake—and breathtakingly handsome—despite being wasted.

"w-we are?"

ah, he looks as ecstatic as he did when you first reciprocate his feelings.

"yes, we are, love."

as if to accentuate your words, you litter kisses all over his face, grinning at the chimes of delighted giggles and slight upward tilt of his head. his face is practically asking for more kisses. flustered and pink in the cheeks, yet his drunken state seems to diminish his sense of bashfulness.

"i love you," he sang.

"i love you too, love."

he looks so content right now. his rosy cheeks lifted into a precious smile that only tempts you to kiss them—which you did, as you should—and the happy little giggles that he makes. you place another kiss on his nose.

"get some rest, love. we have a big day ahead of us tomorrow."

he doesn't resist this time—probably because he got his dose of affection from you—easing into a curled position on the bed, your hand is still in his. the smile on his face softens, eyes shutting and his voice more sluggish.

"can you say it again?"

"which one, hm?

"say… say you love me again."

almost immediately, you leaned close to his ear, kissing just above his ear.

"i love you, kazuha."

"aga… again?" he drowsily asked once more, slipping into a peaceful sleep.

"i love you, kaedehara kazuha."

and i'd repeat it however many times you want me to.

"i love you too~"

maybe you won't beat venti into a pulp. for now, at least.

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definitelynotafurinasimp · 3 months

Text

Them with a reader that worships another Archon

characters: Venti / Zhongli / Ei / Furina x gn!reader (separate)

warnings: none

a/n: Didn't write for Ei in a long time... not to mention Zhongli and Venti, so if I got some of their personality traits wrong, I'm sorry.

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Venti

“Let’s hope you’re not made out of sugar, or else we’re gonna have a tiny problem”, the Bard joked once he took a glance out of the window, the heavy rain and thunder that had come seemingly out of nowhere difficult to notice, even for the drunken inhabitants of Angel’s Share.

“Rain’s a nuisance at best, I’ll be fine”, your response lacked any signs of the usual annoyance people would feel in this situation, whether it was the alcohol or your attitude towards rain that made you seem almost relaxed was up for debate however.

Just as the words had left your mouth, a giant lightning caused the room to light up, soon followed by a deafening thunder, earning you a grin that spoke more than a thousand words. “Still only a nuisance?”

“Sure, the Raiden Shogun will protect me from the lightning”, came your dry response, causing the bard’s ears to perk up. Truth be told, he couldn’t care less about whatever god you were worshiping, forcing people’s hands or getting grumpy over their decisions was hardly the God of Freedom’s modus operandi. Although this did open up a whole new conversation topic.

“Want me to pass your mighty Raiden Shogun a message the next time I see her?”, Venti offered with a smirk, drawing a laugh out of you almost instantly.

“Yeah, sure Venti. I have no doubt you’d be able to play your way into an audience with her, especially since the last time you stepped foot into Inazuma went so swimmingly”, you jokingly responded, waving goodbye before readying yourself to run back home through the rain.

Zhongli

There was neither law nor contract that obliged the citizens of Liyue to worship Rex Lapis. Sure, the Archon might have been the city's patron god and had descended each year to give instructions and advice, but who’s name spilled out of its citizens' lips during their prayer was none of Zhongli’s business.

And yet, when he heard a particular name slip out of your mouth, the Archon couldn’t help but furrow his eyebrows for the briefest of moments.

“Thank Barbatos, I was starting to think I’d never find it”, you let out a relieved sigh once your eyes finally spotted the pin on the floor, glistening as if it was calling out for its owner before quickly finding itself stuck onto your coat once again, your lips forming a small smile.

“Hmm? Is something the matter?”, you once again turned towards Zhongli, not missing the conflicted expression that had since long been replaced by his usual smile.

“Not at all. I was simply surprised for a moment, Barbatos Worshippers in Liyue are pretty scarce after all, although there’s certainly nothing wrong with having another Archon as one’s Deity.” His explanation was enough to satisfy you, as your conversation quickly shifted back to the previous topic. And yet the scene remained on his mind for quite a while.

Let’s hope you and your god’s paths never converged… for your faith’s sake.

Hearing you mumble another Archon’s name in your brief prayer before eating caused Ei’s hand to freeze just close to her mouth, leaving the small sweet hovering in front of her face as her eyes remained fixed on you, the silence gradually causing your face to turn all shades of red as you tried to hide your tenseness behind a polite smile.

“I didn’t know you worshiped Rex Lapis”, Ei stated, her tone coming out more accusatory than she ever intended, causing a small apology to follow shortly after, bringing the tension of the room down significantly.

Humans were entitled to their own decisions, and yet hearing you worship another god left a… bitter taste in her mouth. Especially since she wasn’t sure whether or not it had to do with her or was totally unrelated, the thought that you liked another Archon more than her filling her with jealousy, no matter how ridiculous she knew the whole situation to be.

“My family originally came from Liyue, so praying to Rex Lapis before meals is somewhat of a tradition for me… even if I don’t worship him on many other occasions”, you explained sincerely, remembering scenes of sharing meals with your family as a small smile made its way onto your face.

Whether it was because of your explanation or the gentle expression on your face, but whatever semblance of jealousy Ei felt within her swiftly melted away, her shoulders relaxing before she finally took a bite of the food in front of her, the corners of her lips rising when you did the same.

Furina

Truth be told, when Furina heard another Archon’s name come out of your mouth she felt a wave of relief wash over her. The last thing she wanted was for you to put her on a pedestal, no matter how attention-seeking she could be from time to time. And while she couldn’t blame those still seeing her as their Archon, considering how she had played the role for generations, she wished for your relationship to be one of equals instead of a god and her worshiper.

“Ah, I guess praying to another Archon in front of a former one is a bit rude. I’m sorry-”, you rushed to form an apology once you noticed Furina’s silence, your face growing red in embarrassment and shame before being cut off by her.

“It’s fine, I’m not as vain as to feel slighted by such a non-issue”, she lifted her hand before waving you off, a smirk on her lips as she thought of what to say next. “I am no longer an Archon after all, so having people worship the grass the Archon ‘Focalors’ walks on would only serve as a distraction from how mesmerizing the great Furina is.”

A chuckle from you was all it took to bring her back down from her ego-trip, your smile quickly spreading over to her, and before she knew it, she was snickering herself.

“Alright, let’s get the great Furina a dessert as reward for her inexhaustible modesty.”

#venti x reader #zhongli x reader #raiden shogun x reader #raiden shogun x you #raiden shogun x y/n #raiden shogun #furina #furina x reader #furina x y/n #furina x you #ei x reader #focalors x reader

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mysecretlittlelibrary · 6 months

Text

A Moment's Silence

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: Oral (f receiving). unprotected sex, marking, praise, Loki got a dangerous mouth but this isn't too bad.

Genre: smut & fluff

Summary: Loki hates when you touch him, and you thought you knew exactly why. // A moment's silence when my baby puts her mouth on me ~ Moment's Silence (Common Tongue) by Hozier

***

The first thing Loki learned about you when you moved into the Avengers Tower was that you are touchy. Not in the 'you're too sensitive' way but in the you're very affectionate way. You're always greeting people with hugs and you cuddle whoever sits next to you during movie nights and whenever you're going somewhere with someone you're either holding their hand or linking arms with them. It's pretty different from the rest of the people living here. Except for Thor, no one here shares your affinity for touch but everyone loves you so they take it in stride. Welcoming your hugs and cuddles and hand holds to the point that most of them have become accustomed to it, expecting it more often than they want to admit.

Except Loki. Loki doesn't do touch and no amount of seeing you do it will make him more comfortable with it. You're no fool. You recognized early that although the others complained when you hugged them there was no real fight in their objections, with Loki it's different. He'd go as far as to disappear on you if you tried to hug him so you stopped. You don't hug Loki, or sit by him during movies, or try to grab his arm on the rare occasion that you're going somewhere with him. Honestly, for a while you didn't spend much time with Loki in general, you weren't sure how to. He was clearly a loner and you assumed you didn't have much in common. He didn't seem eager to bond with you either so you left him to his own devices.

Until recently. You've started spending a lot of your free time in the tower library and evidently, Loki is quite fond of the space too. So you kind of just share it. If you find yourself in there at the same time as him you say hello and pick a corner to do your reading. Sometimes you talk to him a bit and other times you just share each other's company. It's becoming a kind of lovely routine, at least in your eyes. You have no idea if Loki enjoys it as much as you actually but he can be pretty conversational on occasion, usually as long as you're not too close to him.

"Hello Loki." You say when he walks into the library. You've already been here a couple of hours, you honestly didn't think you'd see Loki today.

"Hello y/n. How are you today?" He asks.

"Pretty good. How are you?" You set your book face down in your lap as you watch him walk out of sight to one of the shelves.

"I'm alright! What are we reading today?" Loki's voice carries through the room to you.

"I've picked up a romance for now."

"Not legends and myths for once?" You can hear the teasing in his voice at his question.

"Fuck off I read other stuff." You laugh.

"News to me."

"And what will you be reading today god of mischief? Sifting through spells as always?"

"I was thinking poetry actually." Loki finally appears from beyond the stacks with a book in hand.

"You're a poetry fan?"

"Don't sound so surprised." He rolls his eyes as he sits in the armchair across from the couch you're lying on.

"Well, it's not like you use that silver tongue of yours to recite sonnets." You snort picking up your book.

"Some would say this silver tongue of mine has quite a way with words."

"And I'm sure it does but weaving together lies isn't the same as poeticism. No one will be mixing you up with Robert Frost or William Shakespeare." You muse, your attention drifting back to the story you were invested in before he arrived.

"Your midgardian bards are of no competition to a god you know."

"I'm sure Asgard has its own famous poets of which I'm sure no one would compare you to either." You mutter as you read.

"Now that's harsh." Loki says. You mumble an affirmative dismissively as the drama picks up in the chapter you're reading. Loki takes the hint and leaves you alone as he opens his own chosen read for the afternoon and you spend the rest of the day in silence. Until dinner.

"I'm making dinner and it's movie night. Are you joining us or will you stay here?" You ask, standing up.

"Do you want me to join?" Loki asks.

"I mean- not if you're going to be miserable. I'm just headcounting."

"The others aren't usually as welcoming as you can be."

"Well I w-" You stop yourself. You've only just started to form a friendship with Loki, as much as you enjoy spending time with him you can't outwardly say it. Well maybe you could but you have a feeling the skittish animal approach is best. "I wouldn't be... disappointed if you decided to join us."

"I'll think about it." He hums.

"Alright. See you, maybe." You leave with your book intent on finishing it after movie night. You drop it in your room before going to the kitchen to make dinner. Meatballs, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. It takes almost an hour to make enough for everyone and by the time you're done, most everyone's gathered in the living room.

"Dinner's up! Stevie, Bucky come grab the potatoes and broccoli please." You say grabbing the bowl with the meatballs.

"Coming!" Steve says as he and Bucky hop up from their seats and carry the other serving plates to the big table in the living room where the others are waiting.

"And Sam can you get plates for everyone hon." You say.

"Oh sure." Sam says.

"Get the soda from the fridge too! And the solo cups!" Tony calls after him as he heads into the kitchen.

"Man you coulda just got up and helped out like the rest of us." Sam rolls his eyes but he gets the soda and cups anyway in addition to the plates you asked for. You catch movement in the corner of your eye while everyone is serving themselves and your gaze pops up in time to see Loki strolling into the main room.

"Loki!" You smile before you can stop yourself.

"Brother! Will you be joining us for our moving picture night?" Thor asks.

"Yeah sure." Loki says.

"Brilliant!" Thor nods getting up to clap a hand on Loki's back.

"I made meatballs and broccoli and mashed potatoes if you'd like some. We were just getting settled before we start the movie." You tell him. To your surprise, Loki takes the empty seat beside you and you can only hope your shock doesn't show on your face.

"I haven't missed anything then?" Loki asks.

"Not really." You shake your head. Loki nods and serves himself food.

"Whose pick is it tonight?" You ask once everyone has food in front of them and a few of the boys have already started eating.

"The kid." Tony says, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"Yeah! I uh decided on Now You See Me." Peter says.

"Nice." Natasha nods.

"What is that?" Loki asks you.

"It's a heist movie." You tell him. "Peter, have you seen it before?" You ask.

"Uh-"

"It's not like the baby spider's gonna be attempting anything like this." Clint scoffs.

"That's not why I asked. I'm just wondering if he picked it because he wants to watch it for the first time or because it's a favorite." You roll your eyes.

"I've seen it once. I just thought it would be a fun watch." Peter says.

"Well let's start it then. Yes?" Wanda prompts. Peter sets up the movie and soon everyone's attention is on the screen as they eat. It's about halfway through the movie that your usual habits kick in and you lean over to place your head on the shoulder beside you- until you remember it's Loki by your side and Loki doesn't like being touched. You lull your head back and around to tilt the other way. Wanda's on your other side but she's cuddled up with Vision so you'll just chill with your head against the back of the couch. No biggie. One movie bleeds to the next though and apparently at some point you start drifting off. Not for long, maybe 5 minutes but when your eyes flutter open again your head has made its way to Loki's damn shoulder. You pull off when you realize, surprised he didn't shove you away whenever you landed there.

Loki had held his breath when he felt your head on his shoulder. He was reluctant to admit the weight felt- oddly comforting. If anyone asked he'd deny it to high heaven but he was pretty content with you leaning against him and when you'd woken up and abruptly moved he almost wanted to protest. Almost.

When the second movie ends, most of the others start cleaning up the living room. Since you made dinner, this part isn't your responsibility so you get up and excuse yourself from the group.

"Goodnight everybody." You say to the room. "And Loki, thank you for coming." You add just for him to hear. Before you can think better of it your hand runs gently through his hair when you speak to him but by the time he's reacting to it you're already disappearing down the hall to your room. Loki spends the rest of the night thinking about your hand in his hair, your head on his shoulder, the way you so casually thanked him at the end as you left- it was something so unfamiliar that he didn't know how to deal with it. And how insufferable to be up all night over this.

The next day when you enter the library after breakfast Loki is already there sitting on the couch in your usual shared space. You're almost done with the novel you picked up yesterday and your plan is to finish it now.

"Hello Loki." You say to him as you take a seat on the opposite couch.

"Hello y/n." He says. You don't notice the way he looks at you over the top of his book for a moment. He's not sure if he should talk to you about the night before or not. How would he even bring it up? The two of you maintain your usual quiet company for a few hours while you finish your book. When you've read the last page you return the book to the shelf you found it on. While walking back to your couch you almost crash into Loki who at some point stood up when you were looking for a new book.

"Oh shit- my bad Lo." You say.

"You dropped your bookmark." Loki says holding up the flat dragon-shaped metal. You gasp and pat your back pocket where you thought you'd put it.

"Fuck- thanks. It was a gift so- would totally suck to lose it." You say, throwing your arms around him. Loki doesn't feel the urge to magically escape your grasp and he almost stops you when you let him go. Almost. "Sorry- impulse." You mutter grabbing your bookmark from his hand.

"You're usually much better at not touching me." He points out.

"I guess we've been spending so much time together that I kind of forg- sorry man. Won't happen again." You mutter.

"I wasn't- I know that's what you're like. It wasn't a complaint. Just an observation."

"You can say it wasn't a complaint but I know what you're like too. You hate being touched." You scoff.

"That's not totally accurate."

"What?"

"Usually you're right- I do hate being touched but with you I don- it's not that I hate it but I still can't stand it just- in a different way than I'm used to." Loki says carefully.

"What does that mean?" You chuckle.

"I'm- not entirely sure." He frowns.

"Well, what if I- do you mind if I touch you now?" You ask carefully.

"That's- fine." Loki says, hesitation clear on his face. You lift your hand to his cheek gently and his eyes close when your skin touches his. You let your thumb graze him softly as his brow furrows. Loki's hand snaps up around your wrist moments later and he moves your hand just enough to break the contact. "I can't-"

"What is it?"

"Too much- it's too much. I feel- entirely too much when you touch me, I can't-"

"Can't what?" You tilt your head curiously.

"I don't know how to handle it. I want- I want more than I can have."

"Say more, please."

"When you... do that. When you touch me it- I don't know how to explain it I just want more from you. Like- like I could devour you whole and it would still not be enough and I- I can't, we can't- so you can't touch me."

"Why can't we?"

"What?" Loki's eyes widen at your calm question.

"You're saying we can't but- why? Is it- is it that this is a desire you have but wish you didn't or-"

"No. That's not it."

"Then- why... can't... we?"

"Please don't say things like that. Not if you don't mean them. I cannot take it."

"I wouldn't say it lightly. I don't understand why you're so adamant that I wouldn't want- that you couldn't have more from me if you asked."

"If I asked?"

"Yes. Tell me what it is you want from me Loki."

"Why would you make such an offer?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Nobody wants-" Loki pauses, his gaze dropping as if the floor is more interesting to look at than you. "I just wonder how this is advantageous to you in any way."

"Do you think yourself that undeserving?" You frown and his eyes snap up to yours.

"I never said-"

"You don't always have to. Sometimes it's what we don't say that ends up being the loudest." You say. "I'm going to touch you again Loki. This time when it gets too much just- give into that feeling."

"You have no idea what you're signing up for." Loki's eyes are wide.

"I trust you." You whisper and his features melt into a soft grin, as if your words settled something within him. You place your hand on his cheek again, watching his eyes flutter shut as he leans into your touch. The moment stretches for a while until Loki's hands settle on your waist and pull you against him to bring his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft, hesitant, at first- as if he's expecting you to withdraw, but when you drape your arms loosely over his shoulders and deepen the kiss all manner of shyness seems to leave him. The kiss becomes harsher, more desperate, as if he's trying to devour you and give you all he is at once. You match him moment for moment, tongues dancing, hands roaming as you pour everything into that kiss. Loki lifts you and you wrap your legs around him. You pepper his face with sweet kisses as he carries you to one of the couches.

"Are you sure you want to give yourself to me?" Loki asks quietly.

"Are you sure you want to give yourself to me?" You turn the question back to him and he drops to his knees in front of you.

"I have given myself to you a thousand times over, long before now. I belong to you without question." His eyes pierce yours with their intensity as you allow his words to sink in. You almost can't believe he's said it but there's no denying the truth in his voice when he stares at you so earnestly. You clutch his face in your hands, meeting his gaze with equal candor.

"Then you may have me Loki. I am happy to give myself to you." You tell him and he lets out a deep breath. He says something to himself before tugging at the waist of your shorts. You help him take them off of you along with your panties before he speaks again.

"I have wondered for too long how you would taste on my tongue." Loki mutters as he spreads your legs. Before you can fully process the sentence to come up with a response, Loki buries his face at the apex of your thighs. He licks a stripe along your entrance, collecting the evidence of your arousal, letting out a groan as the essence of you floods his tastebuds. You gasp, threading your fingers into his dark hair as his tongue plunges into you, caressing your inner walls, lapping at your juices.

"Oh- oh god." You breathe out, your back arching towards Loki's eager mouth. He groans against you, the vibrations only adding to your pleasure as you squirm against his face. Loki brings his hands up to your thighs, holding you still and open for him as he switches focus, dragging his tongue against your clit in the most delicious way. His movements are sharp, calculated, his eyes on you as he watches what pulls the strongest reactions from you and focuses on those things until your body tenses beneath his hands. Loki pushes two fingers between your walls and curls them as his mouth latches onto your button. The combination is deadly and you can't stop the cry you let out as your orgasm hits you full force. Loki gently works you through it with his fingers and tongue and only when your breathing goes from harsh pants to shuttering draws does he sit back. He makes a point to link his fingers clean when your eyes flutter open.

"Even better than I expected." He says.

"What?" You ask with a breathless chuckle.

"How you taste, the sight of you in pure pleasure, the feel of your skin against mine- all of it, even better than I imagined." Loki punctuates each item on his list with a trail of kisses until he's hovering over you.

"Yes well, how nice to learn that silver tongue of yours is good for more than smart remarks." You smirk and pull him down into a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips and not caring, you simply want to be connected like this forever. Your hands trail down Loki's abdomen, freeing him from his own pants which he shoves the rest of the way off when you can no longer push them yourself. His kisses drop to your neck as he does so.

"You'll have plenty of time to learn all that my silver tongue is good for." He mutters against your skin. You giggle at his words a bit though it's shortlived as Loki chooses that moment to rock his hips into yours and the stretch of his length turns your giggle to a gasp. He takes his time working himself between your walls, allowing you to feel every single inch of him as he pushes deeper and deeper until he eventually bottoms out with a groan. "Stars above you're so- warm." He pants out. He's not moving, you realize, waiting for you to adjust so you tilt your hips forward, grinding against him impatiently.

"Loki please- move." You mewl and that's all it takes. Loki's hips knock back and he drives into you with full force, setting an even pace of deep thrusts meant for you to feel every drag of his dick against your walls.

"This- I'm sure, is Valahala." Loki pants out as he's fucking into you.

"So good- Loki it feels so good." You slip your hands into his shirt, dragging your nails across his back.

"I know my darling. I know." Loki hisses at the sweet sting from your claws. His rhythm doesn't falter as you cling to him, in fact, the feel of your hands against his skin sets Loki alight. You moan breathily, relishing in the way Loki fucks into you almost wildly. The heat of your walls is dizzying and Loki can already feel his release creeping down his spine. He slips a hand between your bodies and finds your clit, rubbing circles against the bundle of nerves. Your back arches as a whimper falls from your lips, the extra stimulation quickly bringing you closer.

"Loki-" You whine.

"Let go for me love. Show me how good I make you feel. Let your release coat my dick." Loki coaxes as his fingers dance along your clit as if he's already worked out all your right buttons to push.

"Oh my g-" You gasp out as your orgasm hits you like a wave crashing.

"Beautiful." Loki breathes. "I could watch you do that a thousand times and never tire of the face you make in ecstasy."

"Your turn now sweetie, show me what face you make in ecstasy Loki." You say gently, one hand threading into his hair. With your encouragement, it doesn't take much more for Loki's hips to stutter as his orgasm means the flooding of your walls in liquid heat.

You both lie still for some time, Loki only half holding himself up to avoid crushing you on the couch. You really can't believe the grumpy god that would straight up disappear if you so much as tapped his shoulder is currently lying in your arms. He can hardly believe it himself, but it's as soothing as he could have hoped. Not that he'd- ever admit that.

***

#marvel #marvel fanfiction #loki #loki fanfic #loki x reader #loki fluff #loki smut

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seravphs · 8 months

Text

Act One, Chapter One: half agony, half hope

Knights are bound by duty and honor, but Gojo is more devoted to his princess than he ever was to his oaths.

Main Masterlist | AO3

wc — 10k

tags — royal au, knight gojo, princess reader, forbidden love, ballroom scene, dancing, court politics, blood, minor character death, period-typical misogyny, complicated relationships with fathers, secret meetings, flouting social etiquette by sneaking out to meet your childhood best friend who is also your loyal knight, title from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Next: the beginning of devotion (coming soon)

He was so still Shoko almost mistook him for a dead body. It was a common misunderstanding in her line of business, but not one she was usually startled by. As a poisoner, legally and officially a herbalist, the occasional corpse on her table wasn’t such an unexpected occurrence. A lord, on the other hand, was.

Especially if it was him.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t just a lord. He was the son of the former Hand of the King, the greatest swordsman in living history, and connected to the princess. There wasn’t a man alive who didn’t know the Gojo name. It was synonymous with the royal house itself as the clan that had produced scores of advisors to the king. In nearly every generation, the heir to the throne was accompanied by a Gojo, acting as a living sword and shield.

But even with that storied history, this one was special. A young man who had risen to prominence during The Silent War, he returned home from hell as a knight unlike any other. The bards would adore him. They already did.

Most generals earned their titles by leading campaigns. Gojo hadn’t needed one. He turned the tides of the war as a single man army. They had started calling him a grim reaper, a god of death.

Shoko disliked him on principle, but she couldn’t kill a man like that. They’d have her head on a pike. She didn’t mind the idea of dying so much. What she did shrink from was the idea of dying painfully.

The princess was known for abstaining from most decisions involving the crown despite being in line to inherit it, but Shoko somehow doubted that she would remain so passive if her favorite knight was murdered. Thankfully, Gojo let out a soft breath to show her that he did remain among the living.

“I thought you died,” she remarked.

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

She said something else, but Gojo wasn’t listening anymore. He was floating through a shapeless world again, chasing that moment. It slipped away from him despite his redoubled attempts to capture it. He remembered the tang of iron in his mouth. Blood spraying in the air, a mist that he could smell and taste. The leather grip of his sword in his hands, slippery with sweat.

He was trying to win back enlightenment, briefly attained and lost again just as quickly on the battlefield. A feeling of deep and solid peace had settled over him as he hacked through bodies, as if that was what he was meant to do. It should’ve concerned him. He already confused the ever thinning boundary between man and monster. That bloodshed brought him such euphoric tranquility could only mean it was growing worse, but he hated things he couldn’t understand.

He needed to experience it again. Just one more time, so he could make sense of it. The smell of blood. Wading through the dead and the dying, thigh deep in gore - it was no use. Frustrated, he let it go.

There was something soothing about the cracks in the ceiling. He stared up at it, letting his breaths come as shallowly as they had while he had been immersed in his meditative state. Shoko’s basement was chilly and dark, but it was necessary for the illegal autopsies she performed at his request. Those, and the poisons she crafted for him, were its primary purpose. It was only a stroke of luck that these qualities were also helpful for his attempts to recover his short-lived state of grace.

He was tempted to try again, but not today. There was someone too precious to keep waiting if he delayed any longer. He wouldn’t impose upon her the way he often imposed on the elder lords who tried to remind him of his place by pulling rank. While they deserved his spite, she didn’t.

Even Shoko was surprised by his sudden desire for punctuality. “You’re not going to stay?”

“I have a princess to rescue,” he said. “Dragons to slay, things of that nature.”

Shoko scoffed. “You are the dragon they have to save princesses from.”

Well, Gojo thought as he hurried down the corridor, she wasn’t wrong. He was sure others agreed with her. He didn’t waste his time with children’s tales anymore, but he remembered his mother’s voice whispering to him in the dark, curled around him in his bed. A dragon was a tool to lock princesses away. His presence deterred anyone from coming too near to his princess, so by that definition, he was most certainly a dragon.

Gojo found that he was a little proud of himself for that. Thinking of his mother had made him nostalgic. He thought she might be proud too, that he had taken such good care of the princess she herself had looked after. A dragon might trap, but it also guarded and hoarded. He had polished his princess like a treasure, lavishing her with attention until she had become a gem.

She was beautiful.

He was a soldier, so he had long since rid himself of the ability to lose his breath, but if he still could, he would’ve choked at the sight of her when he broke past the doors. She was seated so that the eye of anyone who entered the ballroom would be drawn to her first, but he would’ve found her regardless. He had promised.

Wherever you were, he would always find you.

It’s difficult to hide, being as tall as he is, but Gojo managed. He didn’t want you to see him coming. Already, he has to bite his lip to fight down his smile as he draws closer and closer. A few more steps, a detour to duck behind some random noble, and he’s in front of you.

“May I?” You don’t have a chance to speak before he’s already dragging a chair closer.

The smile on your face doesn’t match the harsh delivery of your words. “The next time you leave me alone with these miserable fools, I’ll order you to fall on your sword.”

Gojo laughs, unfazed. “Good choice. You’re too pretty to get your hands dirty. Although, you are a bit more murderous than expected for a princess.”

“You try putting up with Naoya’s simpering gibberish for an hour.”

“I don’t have to.” He slips into the chair beside you, avoiding you neatly when you try to trip him. “Watch your feet, my lady. People like me don’t have to put up with Naoya.”

People like you shouldn’t have to, either. You’re both higher ranking than he is, a princess and a lord each, yet Gojo’s the only one who gets to escape his painful-to-witness affections.

It’s only natural. A royal dowry comes attached to you. Any eligible man would have to be an idiot not to fight for your hand, but really, they’re vying for a chance at kingship. You can’t go one day without someone reminding you that you’re a physical embodiment of the crown, something to want and own.

Gojo pours himself water with a heavy hand, bypassing the wine. Watching him sip at it, you realize you’ve actually never seen him drink.

“Come now,” he says, a little softer. “Don’t look so desolate. What will I do if everyone sees you pouting? You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“You don’t have a reputation to ruin.”

“Don’t underestimate the things I’d do for the smallest sign of joy from you. Shall I procure one right now to destroy for your amusement?”

You know he wants you to smile, but you can’t. Even if Gojo can usually pry laughter from you with the ease of a trained jester, this time, your sadness weighs over you like a heavy wool cloak. It’s your birthday, but it’s not a happy occasion. Every passing year tightens the noose around your neck.

You’re a princess, and that means your life was arranged for you before you breathed your first breath. There’s nothing you can do about it. You’ve never had a choice.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make that face,” he says. “I’d marry you. If it came down to it, I’d take care of you.”

His words nearly cause you to spill your drink all over your finely embroidered dress. If it set in, it would never come out. He grasps your hand just as the cup begins to tip, saving you.

“Did you mistake your water for wine?” It’s a genuine question from you.

He waves his goblet around carelessly. You’re worried he might be actually drunk, but you smell no alcohol on him. He couldn’t get inebriated from just a sip, anyway. Whatever wild whims have overtaken him tonight are entirely of his own design.

“Better me than Naoya, no? I’d keep you safe.” He cracks a crooked smile in your direction, like you’re sharing a secret. “Admit it. I’d be a good husband. If I were around, you’d be untouchable.”

He’s telling the truth. If Gojo Satoru was your husband, no one would dare anything with you, but you chase the idea from your mind as quickly as Gojo plants it. You’re your father’s daughter, raised on his practicality. You don’t waste time on pipe dreams. Better the hideous truth than a lie costumed in beauty - the bite of thorns was infinitely preferable to the impermanent fantasy of petals.

Instead of answering him, you push your plate in his direction. You don’t even have to ask. Gojo dutifully takes your knife and fork in hand to cut up your meat. “Not even going to consider it, princess? I’m hurt. That was a serious offer, you know.”

“You’re insufferable. Be quiet and eat.”

Gojo’s mother used to say that the more adamantly someone denied something, the closer to the truth it likely was. You can only hope Gojo doesn’t remember, because she was right. The reason you won’t give him even an inch on the topic of marriage is because a proposal from him is the only thing you want but can’t have.

Predictably, he ignores you. He’s never known when to quit. With so little that can genuinely stand in his way, Gojo has difficulty understanding the concept of a limitation. You’re both spoiled in that sense, noble children who had never been told no.

“Think about it,” he says casually. “We’d be invincible. What other house could stand before our union?”

“I said- hello, father.”

“A little early to be calling- oh, hello, Your Majesty. You look well tonight. Is that a new ring?”

Your father cuffs Gojo around the ears. “Brat.”

He’s in a good mood, then.

“My little girl,” he says to you. “How pretty you look. I’m surprised no one has stolen you away from me yet.”

You’re not so little anymore, but you forgive him. It’s just the two of you, ever since the queen died. He’s the reason you are what you are, as cultivated as a rose in a greenhouse. The climate that nurtured you is one carefully tailored by his own hand.

“Not for lack of trying,” Gojo says brightly.

“Boy,” your father calls him, despite the fact that Gojo isn’t a boy either. A deep sigh escapes his lungs. He looks truly sorrowful for a moment. “You look just like your mother.”

Gojo’s smile freezes on his face. It’s true, he does. Through him, the king’s former hand lives again, but you know Gojo doesn’t want to be seen as an extension of her, even if he misses her more than anything.

You’re familiar with the way your father knows exactly what to say to make you feel small again. The king is someone who exudes power. His uncanny ability to pick out what you’re most sensitive to and exploit it makes even the most proud of noblemen revert to children in his presence, as if they’ve been scolded by a nanny for stealing tarts from the kitchen. It’s strange that you feel the need to protect Gojo, the strongest person you know, from that.

He reaches out and pats Gojo’s cheek now that he’s reduced him to silence. “Enjoy the night, my dear child.”

When he leaves, Gojo slumps back in his chair with a tick in his jaw. Even if the king is your father, he can’t help himself. “Nasty old man,” he mutters.

You pinch his thigh beneath the table. “Smile and look pretty.”

“Ugh, who is it now?”

“Lord Zenin and his son haven’t gotten their fill of tormenting me.”

“Hm,” Gojo says. “I wonder.”

“If you have a plan to avoid them, hurry. They’re nearly here.”

“I don’t know,” he teases. “I don’t think you’d like it very much.”

“Yes, well, I don’t like conversation with Sir Zenin very much either.”

He grabs your hand. “Then you’ll forgive me for anything that happens tonight?”

“Anything is questionable, but do as you please.”

He tugs you from your seat, pulling you through the crowd of people. Caught in his wake, you float past faces familiar and unfamiliar until the patriarch of House Zenin and his infernal spawn fade behind you.

When you turn to face him again, he’s dipped into a bow. His smile is sweet, boyish. It’s as if you’re children again, and he’s stolen you from your lessons to waltz in an empty ballroom, motes of dust that you’ve stirred up floating in the sunbeams.

He extends his hand, a sapphire burning on one finger. A dragon curls around the silver band of the ring, a nod to his heritage. Though the Gojos are a powerful and ancient house, in this moment, Gojo looks young, foolish, and all the better for it.

“May I have this dance, my lady?”

You giggle, wishing you had a fan to pretend to hide behind. You’re playing pretend again, acting as if you’re characters from a storybook.

“I’d be delighted to, my lord.”

The music swells. Gojo takes your hand and presses a kiss to your bare knuckles. His lips are soft against your skin, temptation incarnate. In his grasp, your fingers tremble slightly, torn between wanting to seize him and wanting to run away.

You’re terrified by how much you want him.

If you let him in for one second, you can imagine how easy it would be to never stop. He’s every one of your desires and hopes made manifest, tied up in a single person. Although it’s impossible, you still feel the heat of him. The warmth of his lips linger on you, a stolen moment before he sweeps you up in his arms.

This is how you remember he’s a boy no longer. The breadth of his shoulders is wide. He’s lost the roundness of youth, his face growing angular and cunning. There’s solid muscle underneath your hands as he pulls you with him, his feet beating a steady rhythm that you have to fight to keep up with.

He’s doing it on purpose, you know, testing how much you still retained all of those years of tutoring. You’re determined to show him they weren’t for naught.

When you catch your breath and master the music once more, gliding with him rather than being tugged along, he smiles like he always expected you to. He’s been like this since you were young, dangling challenges in front of you that he’s equally as excited to see you pass as fail.

The music slows. All around you, the frantic steps melt into slow swaying. You’re feeling brave tonight, so you step closer. You allow the arm curled more tightly around your waist, the tender look in his eyes. When you steal a glance around, no one is watching the two of you, but how far can you go before you lose it all?

“Don’t talk to Naoya again,” he murmurs against your skin. It tickles, and you squirm until he presses so close it petrifies you. “I don’t like the rumors around him.”

“What rumors?”

“Bad ones. He tumbles girls and leaves them with nothing. Hurts them, takes whatever he wants, and ruins their lives. I don’t trust him, and especially not with you.” His hand smoothes over a stray ruffle on your petticoat, the gesture impossibly loving. “Never with you, princess.”

You shudder at the way he says princess, feeling cut open, exposed. What has gotten into him tonight? You don’t understand. It feels like drowning, your brain always three steps behind, struggling to break the waves of your confusion.

You know you’re weak. It’s your name that protects you, the threat of your father and the royal house behind you. Alone, you’re a lamb to slaughter. You’ve been spoiled your whole life, leaving you naive and helpless.

Gojo is someone you trust implicitly. He’s always protected you. You’ve relied on him for as long as you’ve been alive, but perhaps that’s conditioned you to feel comfortable putting your hand into the mouth of the beast. Even at the chance of exposing how poorly you’ve been trained for the court’s schemes, you don’t hold back when you’re with him. He makes you feel at ease to speak freely without fearing how much you’ll reveal of your own vulnerabilities.

“I can’t,” you tell him honestly. “House Zenin is one of the Three Great Houses. I can’t refuse Naoya without good reason.”

“Then marry me,” he says softly. “Marry me and be done with all of this. They don’t deserve you, anyway. They won’t treat you like I will.”

You close your eyes, feeling the telltale hotness of incoming tears burn behind your eyelids. Why did he do this to you? He was so gentle it hurt, even though you knew he was capable of terrible things. Somehow that made it worse, the knowledge that he was choosing to be kind.

“You should go,” you say instead.

Marriage between you and Gojo would never happen. Forget your father. An alliance between the strongest house and the royal house? It would be akin to tyranny. There would be blood in the streets before any of the other nobles would allow it. It’s better not to dream about impossible desires.

Thorns, not petals, you remind yourself. You can suffer the truth.

“Why?” He says. “I want to stay with you. I want to be good to you.”

“This isn’t something to joke about, Satoru.” He looks like he’d rather you have slapped him. “Never talk to me about this again. Find someone else to dance with.”

There. Your brain snags on something to distract you. You’ve been dancing with him for too long. It’ll reflect poorly on your reputation to give an unmarried man so much of your attention.

“Pick another partner,” you urge him.

His brow creases. Stubbornly, he holds onto you even tighter. “Don’t want to.”

“You have to. Everyone will whisper. I’m surprised they aren’t already.”

“Then let them,” he pleads. “It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Regretfully, you pull away. Darkness clouds his beautiful face. It’s unnatural. When you remember him, he’s always smiling. The instances when he directs a genuine frown at you are few and far between, but you’ve already made your decision.

Gojo stalks off in search of a new partner. Somehow, even though you were the one who forced him to leave, your heart stings to watch his back fade into the distance. If you didn’t want him to go, you shouldn’t have said anything. This is what you hoped for. Still, it’s painful.

You want to find somewhere to rest after your spat, drained from a rare argument with him, but nowhere is secluded enough for you to let your guard down. Suddenly, you feel a wave of hatred for your stupid, glittering palace and the stupid, glittering fools infesting it. You just fought with your best friend and you’re tired, but you still have to keep up appearances.

Somewhere nearby, Gojo is spinning another girl, her skirts flaring out around them. You wish you could press your palms to your eyes, letting the pressure relieve your headache, but you’ve shown enough weakness tonight. Instead, you tilt your head back and breathe, trying to appear calm and in control.

It’s a good thing you restrained yourself, because Naoya is the one that finds you. His shoes are the first thing you see, black leather with steel accents. Steel, not silver, because he wants it to hurt when he kicks.

You know. You’ve heard the stories.

“Abandoned by Satoru, my lady?” You hate the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. Gojo makes it sound so intimate, like it’s for you and him only. Naoya’s version is a bastardization, much like the man himself.

You’re too tired to deal with him, and yet, you’ll have to. House Zenin is important to your father and thus, important to you, especially when you inevitably replace him. “What are you insinuating about your princess, Sir Zenin?”

You use the proper address, the way he should’ve spoken about Gojo. They’re not close enough for him to be calling the other man by his first name.

“Nothing, nothing,” he says. “Don’t get defensive now.”

You want to tell one of the knights stationed around the hall to drag him away. Instead, you smile and let him prattle on. Court politics. If you ever want to prove to your father you deserve everything you’ve been born into, you have to play the game. No matter how terrible some of the players are.

“Since you graced Satoru with one, I hope you wouldn’t mind another dance.”

Turning him down isn’t an option, but when you see that everyone’s watching, you realize even more how much it really isn’t an option. He probably arranged it that way too. Demonspawn. You’d curse his house if you could, instead, you offer him your hand, cringing internally when he tries kissing it.

You can’t help but compare the two. Gojo did it better.

Like any son of a high born house, Naoya’s a good dancer. It’s the one compliment you’re willing to grace him with, as everything else about him, especially his personality, is hideous. His hand is solid against your upper back, the other leading you as you spin around the room. It makes you want to scrub yourself clean, even under the layers of clothes.

You’re doing this for your house. Your throne. This is nothing. None of your mantras diminish your desire to shove Naoya’s head in the cake waiting at the banquet table.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” he tells you.

“Forwardness is unbecoming in a man,” you say with a smile, as if he’s telling you the sweetest nothings. “What would my father say?”

“Don’t play coy, princess. We both know how this ends.”

“Please excuse me,” you say as soon as the song ends. One is enough. “I find myself rather dizzy.”

Naoya’s lips whiten with anger. He tries to grab your wrist, but someone steps between you. “Watch your hands with Her Royal Highness, Zenin. I won’t tolerate your disrespect.”

Naoya’s eyes flash, but the interloper is sweeping you away already. His hands hover above your dress, never actually touching, as he guides you in the opposite direction.

“Sir Getou, what are you doing?”

Getou looks down on you in amusement once you’re a safe distance away. “Satoru sent me to rescue you, of course. I didn’t think he was serious when he said you would get into trouble without him.”

“Trouble finds me,” you reply archly.

“Yes, yes,” he placates, sparking annoyance even though he just saved you from Naoya. “Are you tired of dancing yet, or do you have room for one more? I’m hoping to make an impression on potential wives by dancing with the princess.”

You’re smart enough to know that one more is rarely truly one more, but Getou did save you from Naoya. Besides, if you’re busy with him, no one else can ask for your hand.

“I suppose I can spare you a dance.”

Like Gojo, Getou is an adept dancer. He is, after all, a trained court noble, and the sons of House Getou are unusually predisposed to the arts in any case. If the Gojos are known for their strength, the Getous are known for their crafts.

Getou doesn’t flinch from your unwavering gaze. If anything, he seems to find it amusing, although in the way one would find a puppy amusing. Gently, he leads you around the ballroom.

“Stay alert, my lady. Someone’s watching you,” Getou warns.

You follow his gaze to Gojo. There’s a beautiful woman in his arms that takes you no time at all to place, so infamous is her notoriety. Yuki of House Tsukumo is second only to Gojo in her blatant disrespect for everything the elders held dear.

They make a striking couple. Everywhere they go, heads turn to watch them pass. Her gold to his silver, her lion to his dragon - it would be a powerful match. They would be perfect for each other, if only because no one would be able to challenge each other like they could.

Excellent dancers each, together they become an instrument for the music to shine through. Getou is gentle with you, each movement as delicate as lilies floating across the surface of a pond. In contrast, Gojo and Yuki dance like they’re fighting, each trying to gain an advantage over the other. They’re magnetic, drawing every eye in the room to watch them.

Everyone else may be entranced by the pair of them, but the pair itself seems disinterested in the crowd around them. Yuki’s eyes are closed but Gojo-

Gojo’s looking at you. Your cheeks heat with his attention. His stare is intense, eyes half-lidded. Every move is prowling, almost predatory. His eyes remain fixated on your face as he and Yuki move in a complicated, sinuous series of circles. There’s something impossibly filthy about his gaze. It borders on indecency, combined with the way he barely seems to be paying attention to dancing, giving you all of his focus instead.

“We can’t let them steal all the attention,” Getou says. He really is Gojo’s brother-in-arms. “Let’s give them a show.”

You’ve never been trained in statecraft, but you’ve been given the very finest of tutors in the elegant manners of the court. A show, as Getou puts it, is more than within your capabilities. You close your senses to the rest of the world, focusing on the shift of your skirts and Getou’s quiet voice as your steps weave intricate patterns across the floor.

He’s a naturally friendly man. It’s easy to talk to him, whispering between each peak in the music. Although he’s friends with Gojo, your social circles rarely overlap enough for you to spend much time in Getou’s company. You’re almost surprised by how much you enjoy it.

“I think it’s time to change partners,” calls a familiar voice.

As Getou takes the hands of Lady Yuki, her eyes still closed as she sways, someone takes his place. Gojo’s hand slides from where Getou’s were placed appropriately on your upper back down to your hip. You drag them back up, ignoring his pout. He’ll be your last dance of the night.

“Should I be worried about being replaced?” He murmurs.

“It was only one turn,” you tell him.

“And I never want to do it again,” he says. “The other girls don’t dance like you do.”

He’s an unrepentant liar. You might have been tutored by the best dancers your father could find, but at this level, first and second place might as well be interchangeable. He’s only saying it so you know that he wanted to come back to you, despite the fact that you forced him away.

Gojo’s a contradiction wrapped inside a paradox, at once sadistic and merciful. No one’s capable of making you feel as much as he does. Without the guidance of formal tutors to give you the education of a prince, you have no idea how to navigate the dangerous world of alliances and betrayals, war and peace. Once, you clumsily blundered through diplomacy, watching your father’s disappointment grow by the hour. You’ve since learned that complete silence is preferable to gaucheness. At least that is something your education as a princess has taught you.

But Gojo knew you before you grew into the woman you are now. He still remembers how to pull smiles and tears from you, how to push you to the brink of exasperation and coax you into brilliant happiness. He has a key to all the gates you’ve erected. No matter what you do, he always slips past your defenses.

If you keep letting him do as he pleases, you’ll be the only one who loses. Gojo is a man. If he’s rumored to be attached to the princess, it’ll elevate his reputation. He’s already the best swordsman in the entire kingdom. Being thought of as a profligate would only make them worship him more. People love a little hint of degeneracy to their heroes - not too much to make them immoral, but enough to make them attainable.

A princess is not a hero. You’re not someone to attain, you’re someone to obtain. When people look at you, they only see the crown. If you’re thought of as a ruined woman, it would prevent you from finding a husband. It would destabilize the entire kingdom.

It hurts to realize that you’re that selfish. Gojo would’ve chosen you over anything, but you’re letting something as empty as reputation displace him.

Not that it’s exactly a choice. Your life has been forfeit since you were born. You don’t belong to yourself, but to the royal house. As the only child of the king, you can’t allow yourself any mistakes, not when even the barest twitch of your fingers is scrutinized.

When Gojo offers to escort you back to your chambers at the end of the night, you swallow down the desire to agree. His eyes are hopeful, mirroring your own expression. It could be like back then, when you were children, running through the halls of the grand palace without a care in the world. Except you know you can never return to the halcyon days of your childhood, before your mother died, before his mother disappeared, before everything went wrong. You try not to let the disappointment on his face bother you when you allow the knight your father sent to bring you back to your rooms instead.

You attribute the strange feeling you get in the morning to the leftover melancholy of last night. Sunlight trickles across your face lazily, not enough to raise you from your bed but just bright enough to remind you that morning was here.

You’ve never slept long enough for the sun to warm your face while you were still entangled in your sheets before. The window faces your bed at such an awkward angle that the sun has to be high in the sky before it can light across your pillows.

Usually a maid wakes you by now if you aren’t up already. Where were they?

A gentle knock at the door only makes you more apprehensive. It can’t be Utahime. You know the sound of her steps. The pacing is stilted, awkward, as if whoever was behind the door was nervous.

“Hello?”

“Oh, princess!” Definitely nervous. Not a voice you can recognize. A new maid, perhaps? But why would they-

The door bursts open. You scream as a cloaked figure lunges at you. She throws herself on top of you, trying to pin you to the bed so she can run you through with the knife she has raised in her left hand.

She’s crying. “You weren’t supposed to be awake!”

Crying and angry. Fluffy white down bursts into the air, obscuring your vision as she stabs a pillow so brutally it vomits its contents. She’s not very good, which explains her terror. Unfortunately, you aren’t very good either, and you’re pinned underneath her. Thrashing doesn’t work - at the very least, she’s stronger than you, if badly trained.

When she finally immobilizes you, she has a growing bruise over her arm from a terrible punch you had thrown, trying to mimic the way Gojo does it. Keeping your thumb outside your fist was all you remembered, and it went wide. You barely managed to hit her, and it came with a cost. She snags your wrist and pins it down.

The knife plunges towards you. It’s rusty, which terrifies you almost as much as the implement itself. If by some miracle you survived, you’d be at risk of infection.

Blue eyes flash before you. In this moment, an inch away from death, you wish you had gotten to say goodbye to him. Fear robs you of rationality. You don’t know anything but that you want to see him one more time and feel the warmth of his embrace.

“Princess, it’s okay. I’m here.”

You crack an eye open. The girl is no longer visible. The only person leaning over you now has white hair and the characteristic Gojo eyes, impossible to fake. You decide you must’ve died already. This is heaven, where your wishes have been granted.

Gojo pulls you up. His hands are warm and solid. Vaguely, you realize that you’re trembling with the same nonchalant distance that you would use to catalog the color of the pillows.

“You’re not dead yet.”

“Did I say that out loud?”

He chuckles. His thumb is rubbing soothing circles into your palm. “No, I could just tell by the look in your eyes.”

“The girl…”

“Dead.”

You scramble to the edge of your bed and peek over. Sure enough, she’s lying in a pool of her own blood. Her throat has been cut so surely her head is nearly separated from her body.

You gag.

“Wait,” Gojo says. He kneels to tear off her cloak and holds it in front of you. “Here, princess.”

You don’t want to give in to your queasiness, especially not when he himself is so stoic, so you shake your head. More insistently, he pushes it towards you.

“It’s only natural,” he soothes. “I’m used to this. You’ve never seen a dead body before.”

“Just come here,” you say weakly. “No, actually. I’ll come to you.”

“Give me a second,” he says, dropping to his knees. Under the bed, he retrieves your silk slippers. He slips them onto your feet gently, standing when he’s finished with his task.

Obligingly, he waits as you gingerly step over the girl. When your slipper threatens to dip into the red stain spreading across your floor, he simply grabs you underneath the armpits and lifts you over it.

Even though it’s a horrific scene, you can’t look away. Her face is frozen in a still mask. Bile fills your stomach. Gojo gently turns your head in another direction with two fingers, the touch delicate. “Don’t look.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“I told you not to restrain yourself,” he says disapprovingly.

“You’re not- you’re-“ You can’t figure out the right way to finish your sentence. “Does it really get that easy?”

His laugh is short and brutal. “Easy? I didn’t even think about it. All I know how to do is kill. I don’t mind it, for you.”

You shake your head. There’s nothing to say, with a body between you and blood pooling around both your shoes, but still, your heart aches. You had known him when he was a boy. It would always be hard to see him with calluses where once his hands had been chubby and soft.

He chucks you under the chin, the gesture fleetingly affectionate. “Don’t be so despondent, princess. I’m glad to do it. That’s what knights are for.”

Knights and maids, all meant to lay down their life or other lives for you at your convenience. Utahime was too loyal to have let an assassin into your chambers by choice. Your breath catches. It concerns him that you’re teetering into upset again, just when he’s calmed you down.

“Satoru, is Iori-“ The thought is too horrible. You can’t finish it.

“She’s not dead,” he says.

Noticeably, he doesn’t say that she’s alright.

Utahime will be scarred forever. They found her slumped at the bottom of the stairs, her body dumped unceremoniously after they stole her from outside your bedroom. A massive gash opened her right cheek up, crossing just slightly over her nose bridge.

You almost can’t bear to look at her. Not because her scar makes her hideous - far from it. Utahime will always be beautiful to you. The scar is only a reminder of how you’ve failed her.

You’re a princess without any power. All you can do is fuss over her after the fact, unable to change the past.

“Princess,” she hisses, jerking away from you for the third time in as many minutes. “You must stop! I’m your lady-in-waiting, not the other way around.”

“You got hurt for me,” you say, hands balled helplessly at your side. You refuse to touch her more aggressively, for fear of aggravating her wound. The bandages wrapped around her cheek are an ever present reminder of how much she’s sacrificed for you. So are the whispers. The looks. She holds her head high, acting as if it doesn’t bother her.

“I was glad to do it. I didn’t want to be shipped off to some far away baron anyway. Be grateful,” she cracks a smile you don’t feel. “I certainly am. At least I could still join the church, if anything.”

Why do the people around you insist on destroying themselves for your benefit?

“You don’t need a baron.” Loyally, you vow, “I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.”

“Be careful, my lady. Some would take that as a marriage proposal, and then I’d have twice as many death threats.”

“I’d protect you.”

“You, princess? I doubt that,” Gojo calls.

You’ve been watching the knights move in and out of the arena from your vantage point on the royal balcony, but very few of them have dared to address you, much less speak to you so casually. They’re all too focused on the tourney you’re set to watch this afternoon. Only he would be so familiar with you and so unconcerned about the sparring, knowing his chances.

Utahime lets out an aggressive sigh with no regard as to whether or not Gojo could hear her. In fact, she’d probably prefer it if he had overheard. Gojo, for his part, ignores the chance to antagonize her for once in his life in order to focus on you.

“You know, my lady, I’ve heard an interesting rumor going around.”

You walk to the edge of the balcony and peer over the railing. Utahime gasps in fear and grabs onto your petticoats, afraid that you’ll tip over the fencing. “Go on, Sir Gojo,” you say.

“If a fair damsel grants a knight her favor, he’ll fight ten times as well. Twenty, even. And all the more so if it’s the princess, who everyone knows is the fairest in the land.”

Unwillingly, a smile twitches to life upon your lips. “Is that so?”

“Won’t you grant your most loyal knight a token of your affection?”

“Don’t,” Utahime gripes. “What has he done to deserve it?”

A scrap of pale blue fabric flutters in the light breeze, reminiscent of doves. Gojo catches the ribbon you’ve loosed from your hair, his fist enclosed in armor. He brings it to his lips for a chaste kiss he can’t place upon you. The entire time, his eyes are on yours, searching.

“I’ll win this whole thing,” he says. “I’ll defeat every knight here for you.”

The trumpets blow, calling the contestants. He’ll be wanted. Utahime shakes you lightly as he leaves your sight. “Get yourself together,” she says sternly.

“But mama, I love him!” You joke.

Her frown can’t last in the face of your teasing smile. She fixes the lace on your sleeve and collar, though they’re hardly ruffled. She can’t help herself. It’s her second nature to dote on you.

“Ah, my princess,” she sighs. “You worry me.”

You poke her uninjured cheek, trying to get her to smile. “It’s not me. You worry too much.”

Another voice cuts in. “I feel the same way sometimes, my dear Lady Utahime, but I trust no one more than you. Her mother left her to your capable hands, after all.”

Your father has arrived. Utahime smiles as the king kisses her cheek, but you can’t. You know he means it lightheartedly, but it galls you all the more that he says it so blithely. When your mother fell ill, Utahime had been the one who took charge of looking after you.

Not your father.

Not your only living parent, the man who was supposed to feel all the closer to you for your loss. Instead, he pushed you away.

You knew you weren’t being fair.

The king had been wracked with grief over the passing of his beloved wife. Along with his other royal duties, he couldn’t possibly have been expected to watch over an infant as well. You know better than anyone the toll the crown takes on a man. Stewardship of this land asks a heavy price. It’s not an easy role.

No, you can’t blame your father for choosing the country. It’s his duty, as it is yours.

You only wish it hadn’t been Utahime’s burden to carry instead. She was just a few years older, a child still when she had raised another child. In many ways, she had been a mother to you. Only now that you’ve grown older than she had been back then do you understand how much responsibility she had accepted at such a young age.

Your father turns to you. “Are you enjoying the tournament?”

“It’s barely started. Only the squires have been jousting. We haven’t seen any of the real knights yet.”

“Those squires will become knights themselves one day. Watch carefully, and you may discover a treasure worth keeping.”

As he speaks, you finally find someone worth watching, as if your father only had to say it to cause it to happen. A boy with rosy hair lunges towards his opponent. He disarms him and forces him to the ground - only to offer him his hand in exchange.

The other squire hesitates. Doubt crosses his face. Finally, he accepts the proffered hand like someone expecting an attack at any minute, but all the other boy does is pull him to his feet and dust him off. He’s more honorable than most of the knights of the realm you know, too focused on humiliating their opponents to flaunt their own glory.

Your father doesn’t notice your distraction. He’s still speaking. You bring yourself back to the conversation just in time to hear him say, “Sukuna, the King of the Curses.”

“Sorry?” You laugh.

“It’s no laughing matter, I’m afraid,” your father says gravely. “He’s the ruler of the Western Kingdom, the land where the sun never sets. Perhaps he’s grown tired of his arid land and seeks gentler climes, for his invasions have earned him the title ‘King of Curses’.”

Utahime’s lip curls in disgust. “King of Cruelty is more like it. I’ve heard of what he’s done to his prisoners. That man has no honor.”

“None,” your father agrees, “and yet it is necessary not to antagonize him. We are small if prosperous. We can’t afford it.”

Utahime looks as if she wants to speak, but she holds her tongue. She’s always been good at navigating the court. Trained under her, you wait as well. Taking your cues from her is something you’ve done since you were a child.

“Yes,” your father says, his eyes distant. He’s ruminating over something he won’t share. “He can’t be provoked. The representative he sent us for this tourney must be carefully attended to.”

That representative, Uraume, doesn’t fight like any knight you know. Their sword is wider than most of those found in your country, and half as tall as a man. Precision is lost in favor of brutality. They wreak havoc with the brutality of a butcher, tearing through the ranks of your best and strongest. Of course, he’s not the only strong fighter. There are other knights to watch as well.

“That Lady Tsukumo is doing quite well for a woman,” your father notes in surprise. “What prodigious talent. I don’t think her house has produced a fighter like that in years.”

“She’s better than half your knights,” you remind him. “Lady Tsukumo already defeated most of her bracket.”

“Yes, yes,” your father laughs. “You know I don’t mean it like that. I’m simply admiring her.”

As the day progresses, clear victors emerge in each division of the tournament. Uraume is one of them. Gojo is another.

They placed him against Getou for his penultimate match, knowing the crowd would go wild for a contest between not only two of the best knights of the realm, but sworn brothers. Although Getou is better than most, Gojo is more of a natural disaster than a real, human adversary. At the end of their round, Getou smiles even as Gojo brings him to his knees.

The next round is even more hotly anticipated than Getou and Gojo’s.

Gojo strides into the center of the arena with the classic arrogance he’s known for. He delights in riling the crowd up. They cheer louder and louder on each circuit he laps around the arena on his silver stallion, pale as moonlight. By the last, they’re nearly delirious with passion for him.

Uraume has no such pretenses. They’re a cold creature, as frigid as they come.

It matters not. Gojo beats them so easily that it can only be described as disrespectful. He rides past Uraume and thrusts the hilt of his sword into their stomach with such force they fall off their horse. Gojo dismounts casually. He hadn’t even used his blade. He flips Uraume onto their back with a boot and steps onto their breastplate, pinning them in place. His sword hovers underneath their chin, a whisper away from death. “Yield,” he says pleasantly.

You, remembering your fathers speech about Sukuna’s chosen representative from that morning, glance to the side. He’s smiling as gently as ever. Underneath his cloak, where only you and Utahime can see, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles have turned white.

After the match, you recognize one of the men rushing Uraume off to be one of your father’s most trusted advisors. He must be doing damage control, but then again, when is he not when Gojo’s around?

Your father stands, as composed as if he had never been upset in the first place. You envy that self-control. You’ve always aspired to your father. In your eyes, he was the perfect ruler - perhaps because he was the one who taught you what a ruler should be.

Gojo waits in the center of the arena. He’s beautiful as always, as fierce as an avenging angel. There’s a fine sweat beading at his temples in a way that makes you want to wipe it off with your handkerchief, but you abstain, knowing thousands are watching.

Gojo has no such scruples.

When it’s time for him to be awarded his laurel crown, he kneels - not to your father, but to you. A gasp rises from the crowd. You stifle your own shock. Here, where every sign of weakness is clearly visible and easily taken advantage of, you can’t reveal that this wasn’t planned. The royal family’s control over its retainers must appear immaculate - even if Gojo had always been uncontrollable.

Wordlessly, your father passes you the laurel. You know something is brewing. He can only tolerate Gojo’s outlandish behavior so many times. But this isn’t the place to worry about your father’s incumbent wrath, so you take over the duties of honoring the victor. It’s easy. You’ve seen your father do it enough times to be able to replicate it in your sleep.

Gojo rises from his knees, a hungry smile on his face. “I told you I’d win.”

“That you did,” you reply noncommittally, trying to figure out how you’re going to discreetly get him out of the arena without your father attempting to try him for treason.

He frowns. Knowing him and the type of maneuvers he’s likely to pull, you put a respectable amount of distance between the two of you as you mark his brow in gold paint.

When you grasp his hand to lift his arm into the air, he presses something into your palm. Years of sharing secrets and playing pretend at espionage have trained you not to flinch. When you lower your enjoined hands, you slip the shred of paper he’s passed you into your pocket.

People are cheering. You notice with warmth that he looks heroic, like he’s stepped right out of an old legend. Your father doesn’t seem to agree.

Arguments between the two of you used to be few and far between, but lately it seems like you can’t do anything right. You’d forgotten what it was like to retreat to your parents’ bedroom for a scolding. It hadn’t happened since you were a child, yet here you were again, studying the fabric of the draperies to avoid eye contact with your father, just like you had when you were younger.

“He wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” you start. But that’s not true, and you know it. So you try again. “He wasn’t trying to cause problems. He cares about the kingdom, father. He was just trying to show off his - our - strength.”

“Gojo is a liability.” How easily your father casts him off, marks him as defective. He’s always been like that - clinical in his appraisal. You lacked that precise, indifferent ruthlessness. You’ve tried.

“He’s a good man, a good knight. House Gojo has always been loyal to us, father. Remember his mother? Remember Sorashi? She wouldn’t want you to treat her son like this.”

Your father flinches. First comes sorrow, then, anger. “Don’t speak to me about Sorashi.”

“You can’t just pretend like they never existed! Sorashi, my mother-“

“Child, you are testing my patience dangerously.”

You fall silent, hating yourself for it. Always a child. Never someone worth listening to.

“You don’t understand anything,” he says more gently.

“I don’t understand anything because you won’t tell me anything!”

“You’re a princess,” he snarls. “You’re not supposed to know anything!”

You reel back, stunned. You had always been afraid that this was how your father truly felt.

“You have no sons, so it’s me or no one else.” Disgust fills you at the fear in your own voice. Weak. Pathetic. After all these years, the lessons your father gave you still haven’t sunk in. Perhaps he’s right, and you’re not fit for the throne after all. You’re still begging for what you want instead of demanding it like it’s what you deserve. A prince wouldn’t act like this, but you’re not a prince - only a girl who was never taught how to rule.

He throws up his hands in exasperation. “I didn’t say anything about sons. See, you’re too young and inexperienced. This is why I won’t let you in yet. You’re not ready to rule.”

“But I will?”

He gives you a wan smile. He’s tired. Guilt seeps through you. These days, all you do is fight. You miss the times when it felt like you had worked together. At the end of all of it, you love your father. You hate that it’s been like this.

“All in time, my child. I love you, I really do. But you’re not ready.”

Mutiny curls under your tongue. You’re not ready because he waited too long, hoping for a male heir until your mother died. By then, it was too late for you to catch up on years of lessons you should’ve had. Regardless of what he says, you know how he feels. You were never the one he wanted but-

He’s still your father. When he reaches out to stroke your cheek, a peace offering, you close your eyes against his hand and don’t give voice to your treasonous thoughts. It’s nothing to suffer the humiliation of your status for a while longer. You have all the time in the world to earn your place.

Your father is right, in the end. You can be patient.

Back in the privacy of your room, you unfurl Gojo’s note. Gojo’s mother had him trained in elegant cursive that he uses for formal documents and letters. In his messages to you, it degenerates into chicken scratch. It’s a lucky coincidence that it’s all but unreadable to anyone else, making it a code only you can decipher.

The gardens at midnight. - S.

Only a place and a time. Is he trying to tempt fate?

You indulge in the idea of not going, especially since things are already tense with your father. All the way up until the hour you need to leave, you let yourself believe it’s not happening. It’s too risky. People are already suspicious of you as it is. The minute passes, and if you go now, you’ll be late, so you won’t.

You grab your shawl with a huff of annoyance. You’re going. You were always going to go, from the very moment you got the note.

You aren’t used to sneaking through hallways you usually glide through. There are several close calls as you make your way closer and closer to the gardens. Multiple times, you’re forced to make a run for the nearest door or drape to hide behind.

You’re barely two feet away when you’re finally caught. A hand slaps over your mouth before you can scream as someone tugs you into a dark corridor. You kick and lash out, forgetting everything Gojo has taught you in favor of blind violence.

“Shh,” comes a voice in your ear. “It’s just me.”

You bite him.

He hisses and pulls back, shaking out his hand. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Why would you do that? You scared me!”

“You’re not careful enough, princess. Did you even notice the maid coming up the left hallway?”

Admittedly, you hadn’t. It’s lucky that he was there to save you.

Gojo has always been there to protect you. The tension bleeds from your body. You sigh and lean into him. You can’t help it.

He laughs. “Are you that happy to see me?”

“If you don’t be quiet, I’ll show you exactly how happy I am.”

“Come on,” he tugs you out towards the gardens. It’s dangerous, but you follow him anyway. Being with Gojo is so threatening not despite his strength, but because of it. You rely on him too easily, trusting him to see you safely through any peril. His very presence is the promise of security. It makes it too easy to relax when he’s with you.

You expect him to tell you why he called you here, but he remains silent when he tugs you down on the bench next to him. “Satoru?”

“Here,” he says, opening his hands. A single crushed violet sits on his palm. You raise it to your eye. It’s all the more fragrant because it has been mangled, the delicate petals bruised to release the scent into the air.

Gojo’s mouth lifts in a smile. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize.”

“You really know how to win a girl’s heart,” you tease.

“Hopefully I know how to win over her father’s too.”

You freeze.

“If not marriage, then knighthood. Let me be yours, in whatever way I can have you.”

“You have me,” you tell him. “You always have.”

You don’t know how to answer such devotion. Besides the obvious political ramifications of being wedded to Gojo when your marriage is meant to be a bargaining chip used for the sake of your kingdom, you don’t want it. Not like this.

Gojo has been your dedicated shield for so long, the two of you have forgotten a life where he wouldn’t give up everything to protect you. He’d do anything for you - even that which he should hold sacred for himself. His very body is littered with scars that he’s received on your behalf. How much more can you take from him?

Does Gojo really want to marry you or does he want to protect you? Will he play the part of the devoted servant for the rest of his life?

“You don’t have to…” You realize you don’t know how to say it. Or that you don’t want to. Selfishly, a part of you can’t bear to release him from the oath he gave you when you were children, though he couldn’t have known. Neither of you could have understood what it meant for him to kneel at your feet and swear his life to you. It had all been in good fun, the way children understand things. “I don’t want you to- Oh, Satoru. You don’t owe me anything. You’ve done enough for me.”

For a second, your imagination plays tricks on you. The cobalt of his eyes kindles into a terrifying flame, like the lightning in the town he hails from. It’s as if the draconic blood his ancestors claimed still lives within him.

He continues as if he hadn’t heard you. “I’m going to ask your father tomorrow. I want to be your dedicated knight; I won’t wait any longer. I’ve waited enough.”

His pushiness feeds your annoyance. You cling to it, preferring it to the dreadful hopelessness inside of you. The right thing is not always the easy thing. Gojo deserves his freedom after wasting his youth on keeping you safe, yet letting him go feels as difficult as willingly driving a nail through your hand. You want to cling to him forever, reassured by his strength.

“Don’t,” you say, trying to sound firm.

“At the ceremony,” he says determinedly. “When he gives me captainship in the army. He’ll have to say yes if I ask him then.”

“Satoru, please-” Your voice wobbles embarrassingly, and you have to pause. Silently, you beg your tears not to fall. The way he disarms you is humiliating. You turn away, but Gojo understands. Years of watching after you has taught him a lot. He bandaged the scrapes that you refused to cry over and avenged your honor after you pretended your pride hadn't been hurt. He can see right through you. “Please don’t.”

You see the frustration on his face. He’s not a man used to holding himself back, and yet he does.

“It’s alright,” he says. “We can wait.”

It’s just another number to add to the tally of favors you owe him. “It’s not that I don’t want you to be my guard,” you say in a small voice. “I just-”

“I know. Though I do think the king will ask me anyway, so this is all pointless.” He looks away. “I just wanted you to- Nevermind.”

“Really?” Doubt colors your voice.

“I’m the strongest. Who else would your father ask to protect you but me?”

“He doesn’t like you,” you point out. “No, he does, but it’s a very begrudging like. I don’t get it.”

It makes you smile, thinking about the way your father can’t stand Gojo but won’t allow anyone else to speak poorly of him. He’s still a Gojo after all, no matter how much trouble he causes your father, and your father loves Gojos. The royal house has always held their house dear. They had been close for decades. Always, they were something to the other, no matter what form that something took.

“There you are,” Gojo murmurs. His fingers trace the arc of your mouth. “So pretty.”

You glare at him through tears. “And whose fault is it that I cried?”

“Your father’s?”

You scoff. “You see? This is why he doesn’t like you.”

Gojo looks at you seriously. “I’ll get down on both knees and beg him for it if I have to.”

“Don’t do that,” you gasp.

“I don’t care,” he says. “You’re what’s most important to me. More than pride, more than honor.”

You look at the crushed violet in your hand.

Who else but Gojo?

He breaks you down so easily. You press the flower back into his palm. “I know you’ll do what’s right.”

His eyes soften. He leans closer.

“Gojo,” comes a voice. “What are you doing in the gardens this late at night?”

You stiffen. The owner of the voice is drawing closer.

“Do you trust me?” Gojo asks, as cool and collected as ever.

You nod, fearing your voice will give you away. He cups your face in his hands and ever so delicately presses a light kiss to your cheek, tilting his head towards you. Does it look like a real kiss from afar? Did he mean it to?

“Stop,” he tells the man behind you. “Don’t come any closer. You’ll scare her.”

“A new plaything?” Asks Yaga. “I’m not so scary, am I?”

Gojo notices you tremble harder as the voice registers. Lord Commander Yaga is close to the King. As the captain of the kingsguard, he could ruin everything.

Gojo lifts a hand to the back of your head and presses it gently towards his shoulder, obscuring your face. He pulls you towards him, arranging your legs around his waist. A soothing hand traces a warm path up and down your back. It calms you as much as it shames you. You’ve never been this close to any man, not even him, and now you’re cuddling only for the sake of protecting your secrets.

“The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is a terrifying man, or so I’ve heard,” he says casually, as if the two of you aren’t trapped in an extremely compromising position. As if your father wouldn’t demand his head on a pike if Yaga realized who it was.

“Just escort her to her room when you’re done,” Yaga says gruffly. “I don’t need to tell you to be a gentleman, do I?”

“No, sir,” Gojo says cheerfully.

That night, you breathe a sigh of relief. Yaga gave no sign he recognized you. He acted as if he normally would upon encountering any soldier of his on a late night escapade, profoundly disinterested and deeply desirous to get away. Only in the morning do you begin to doubt your deception.

#sera writes #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojou satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader

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