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upsidedownwithsteve · 3 months

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A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [5.9K]

THE TIMELINE

"Oh no, you know you know I'd be lying if I said I wasn't dying, For someone I could die for, someone I could try for Fall apart and cry for, go 'head, risk my life for."

-Someone I Could Die For by Lewis Capaldi

II. ROME, ITALY: 49 BC

The roar that came from the bowels of the Colosseum never became easier to hear.

The noise seemed to make the city shake, the streets empty, the market stalls abandoned in favour of bloodshed. The games took place in the summer, when the skies were an endless blue and there were no clouds to tamper down the climbing heat. The sun bore down on the sandy pit of the enormous Amphitheatre and the seats were filled, the doors that had already been closed still surrounded by regretful stragglers who were forced to listen to the chaos from outside of the walls.

Fourteen men had died already, three from the jaws of the lions, two from the bears and eleven from the swords of other imprisoned slaves. The cheering from the crowd made your stomach curl. The floor of the stage was covered in red, the sand streaked with spilled blood and the animals that were bullied back into their cages had their jaws tinted pink.

It wasn’t a joyous occasion, no matter how many people celebrated in the name of their emperor. The leader of Rome was sitting mere seats away from you, dressed in ruby robes that were slung like a cloak over his white toga and his laurel crown glinted with golden beads that sat tucked into the olive wreaths. He was drunk on wine and violence, and your father sat next to him in the royal box, ever eager to please as he clinked his chalice against his kings.

Being the daughter of Rome’s most beloved senator certainly had its positives. You were dressed just as finely as the royalty around you, the fabric that was made to fit your frame swept to the floor and only yesterday, the emperor’s cousin had gifted you a necklace made of the finest gold, inset with glittering emeralds, pretty enough for a princess.

The same cousin smiled at you from across the row, each seat in the royal box made from plush velvet, the high backs ornate and cushioned, unlike the stone carved benches the rest of the civilians were sitting on. You smile back, uneasy but polite, and your father nodded approvingly.

You were expected to marry, you knew that much. You were already considered too old to be unwed and you knew the rest of the court whispered about how you would now struggle to bear a child. But the man that was expected to be your husband wasn’t who you loved. He wasn’t unkind, he wasn’t cruel - not like you’d heard men could be. The girls in the kitchen would tell you stories of how their husband made demands. Shouting each night for their meals, their baths, how their shirts weren’t stitched right, how their beds would lay cold because their wives were too tired.

Some men visited the bath houses, you knew that much. Seeking out a lupa for the night, the ladies that were called she-wolves, with their painted lips and robes that showed so much skin. Some men decided that they didn’t need to listen to their wives at all, you were once told, horror etched on your face. Some men took what they thought they owned.

So no, the emperor’s cousin seemed kind enough. But you weren’t in love with him. You weren’t sure who you were in love with. A dream, perhaps. One that kept returning to you from a young, young age. A dream about a different town, one you’d never been to before. But in your sleep, it felt like home. White buildings and green gardens with tall, tall trees and pretty, ornate gazebos made of stone on the edges of shallow ponds. You were by the sea there, a blue-green ocean that seemed so calm.

Sometimes monsters came, the marble statues that guarded the city came to life and turned your dream into a nightmare. There was always fire and fury, storm clouds and too big waves and a man with skin the colour of death would try and take your hand. But even when the dream turned bad, there was always someone else.

A man, with a blurry face and a mess of almost too long hair. It hid his eyes from you and you could never make out too many details but you burned when you looked at him, you could weep when he touched you. Sometimes he led you through the burning town, his hand clasping your own as you both tried to run and run and run.

Other times, you lay in a bed with him, skin bare and your head on his chest as he murmured the sweetest poetry to you, words that made your heart race. Your dream was encased in white linen sheets, a hazy, soft light that always made it look like early morning and when the man’s lips met yours, you always woke up.

Him. You loved him.

You hadn’t been in love before, but whenever you dreamed of the stranger, you were sure that must have been what love felt like.

“Have some grapes, darling,” your thoughts were interrupted by your father as he thrust a plate of fruit and cheese under your nose.

But the fifteenth gladiator was being dragged through the gates by the armpits, a clawed hammer still sticking out from his chest and your insides turned over at the idea of eating such sweet treats as blood poured from the men in front of you. The emperor’s box was almost nauseatingly close to the fights.

You shook your head before you remembered your manners, smiling politely and murmuring, “I’m quite alright, thank you.” You blew out a breath, shaky and faint.

From your other side, one of the young girls who had been gifted to you on your sixteenth birthday waved a giant fan. A large peacock feather, a huge plume of colours that merely wafted the too warm air back and forth but you smiled your thanks at your lady in waiting, a pretty girl who’d turned into a prettier young woman. She was small and lithe, angular in the face with curls that came to her sharp jawbone and she smiled back.

Nancy, as she’d introduced herself to you a week after she’d arrived at your fathers house, from the Wheeler family of Liguria. She didn’t like the gladiator fights anymore than you did, always murmuring about the rights of the animals and how inhumane it was later in the night as she drew you your bath.

“—from Verona,” your father was saying with a mouth full of provolone. “One of their best, so they say, His Majesty simply had to have him.”

You blinked, frowning in confusion at your fathers words. You hadn’t been paying attention in the slightest and nothing you’d caught made any sense. “Sorry?” You grimaced apologetically and took a few pomegranate seeds from the plate of food in apology for your rudeness. “Who is from Verona?”

Your father rolled his eyes, a sure sign that you’d be lectured in his study later for your lack of respect. “The next gladiator, child.” He gestured to the stage where the soldiers were locking the gates to the tigers, each big cat growling with menace when the men came too close to the bars. “They say he’s unbeatable. Our Highness offered a more than generous helping of coin for his papers but Verona’s general didn’t seem to want to part with him.”

You frowned again. The crowd seemed to be aware of this man and his presence, murmuring and shifting in their seats in anticipation. “If that is the case,” you prodded. “Then how is he here? If the gladiators… owner—” the word left a terribly bitter taste in your mouth and you felt heavy with guilt when Nancy’s fan brushed your shoulder. “If his owner didn’t want to sell him?”

Your father snorted, an unattractive sound that made Nancy wince beside you. “No one tells the emperor of Rome ‘no’, dearest.” Your father shrugged. “The gladiator cannot be owned, if his owner is dead.”

Bloodshed. Always bloodshed.

A man came from the east side gates with chains around his ankles and wrists. You couldn’t quite see him for your seat, not yet, but the crowd above and around you roared, eager for the final fight to begin. The man already looked beaten and tired as soldiers stepped forward to unlock his manacles and you sat forward in your seat for the first time since you entered the Colosseum that day.

He had messy hair, dark brown and hanging just past his chin. It was already damp looking, matted and dirty from being kept god knows where as the emperor's new toy. He was shirtless, his body lean but corded with muscle. He had wide shoulders and a lithe waist, powerful thighs and skin that was tanned from the sun, a sure sign he spent too much time outside, training hard in the Italian heat.

As he moved closer to the middle of the stage, you saw the marks on his body, leftover scars and new slices in his flesh that still looked viciously red. The crowd got louder as a sword was thrown at his feet, a large, heavy looking thing with a bronze handle. Some cheered for the new warrior, hoping for some excitement, while others jeered and booed, already too attached to their darling reigning champion.

The gladiator picked up his sword and the crowd became wilder still, but he gave them no mind. He didn’t put on a show like some of the others, he didn’t flex his muscles or raise his weapon like it was already a prize. His leather loincloth was a deep wine colour, the tan leather pleats looking far from newly made and the material was already streaked with blood and dirt before his first opponent arrived.

Your heart felt heavy for him, as it did for all the others who were forced into the Colosseum - prisoners, slaves and animals alike. You watched the gladiator flex his wrist, testing the weight of his weapon just as the gates in the west cranked open.

Rome’s current champion strode out from the shadows and into the bright sun, his bare chest glinting with sweat and Hargrove held his hands aloft, grinning as the crowds went insane. He beat his chest, his long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and when he was handed his own sword, he wasted no time in running towards the new fighter, the steel blade glinting.

You gasped, moving closer still to the edge of your seat and you couldn’t find it in you to bear much mind to the looks your father and Nancy shot you. It wasn’t like you to take such an interest in the sport, never mind be so heavily invested. You didn’t like to watch the wounded, preferring to close your eyes when the screams began, hiding cowardly behind Nancy’s fan when the blood turned the sandy stage pink and red.

But this new gladiator, he was fast.

He dove at the last second, dodging the tip of Hargrove’s blade and he rolled towards the section where you sat. Dust kicked up from the move, his sword tearing into the wreaths and sashes that hung from the Emperor’s box. You grasped the edge of the wooden frame, peering over the side and down to the stage, hoping to not see blood already.

Instead you found the gladiator looking back up at you, his sword still in his grasp and when his eyes met yours, they widened. Something like recognition hurtled through you, a feeling that sucked the breath from your lungs and you felt dizzy, like lightning itself had struck you from the sky. You thought the man perhaps felt the same, a frown on his face telling you that he felt just as confused as you did.

But before you could consider where on earth you could have possibly seen his face before, Hargrove attacked again, bringing his blade down to where the gladiator's shoulder should have been, if he hadn’t rolled once again.

You were on your feet now, the stares of your father be damned. Your eyes were wide, your heart beating far too fast, like you yourself were on the stage, being hunted for sport. Wood splintered into the space under your nails as you watched the man run, his muscles pumping, his eyes narrowed.

“Darling, are you quite alright?” Your father placed a hand on your arm, more confused than concerned.

“Yes, I just— yes.” You cleared your throat and sat down again, albeit back to the edge of your chair. You could feel the rest of the royal party staring at you. “Where did you say the man was brought from? The new gladiator?”

“Harrington?” One of the Emperor’s councilmen interjected. He pointed a pudgy finger at the brown haired gladiator, who was now swinging his sword with as much power as Hargrove. “Steven Harrington of Verona, best of his breed I heard. His general didn’t take too kindly to the King’s offering and well— you know what happens when his Highness is made to feel upset.”

The metallic clink of the swords filled the arena as everyone held their breaths. Not many had lasted this long against Hargrove before.

“Rumour has it that he didn’t take too kindly to his general being beheaded. Took six men to get him into the back of the cart, even more to make him train. He’s been refusing food all week.”

The idea of it made you feel unwell, a sickly, creeping kind of pain curling around each of your ribs and suddenly you were starving, just as much as you were sure the man would be. But still, I didn’t seem to make him move any slower, it didn’t hinder him in bringing his sword down any harder.

But strangely, every time the new gladiator was struck, every time his knees hit the raw sand, every time he got close enough for you to see him suck in a gasping breath— you felt it too.

It was a battle like you’d never seen before, more vicious than the others from that day, a showdown under the blazing heat of the high sun. No tiger seemed as powerful as Steven Harrington of Verona did. There was something animalistic in the way he moved, all power and lean muscle, a steely glint in his brown eyes that you didn’t dare look away from. He moved too quickly for Hargrove’s blade, dodging and diving as he flung up sand, blinding his opponent and slicing at his legs. Each move was a blur, the stage bleeding with fresh red, the blonde gladiator on his knees.

But Hargrove was ruthless, grappling with the newcomer until they were both wrestling in the dust cloud and the crowd went insane, people chanted and stomped their feet, the amphitheatre shaking down to its very bones. The imperial box quaked with the energy, but truly, you weren’t present enough to feel it.

Your eyes never left Steven’s fighting figure.

The swords seemed to be forgotten, the steel blades rusted with blood, both fresh and new, and they lay in the sand. Fists flew, knees pressed to chests to keep the other down and it was brutal, it was harsh, it was deadly.

You wanted to vomit. You feared you might.

You wondered what would happen if you leapt from your chair, if you let your skirts get torn and bloodied in the mess of the stage, if you threw yourself down onto the sand and begged for Hargrove to take his hands away from the new gladiator's throat.

Would you be punished? Beaten? Locked away? Killed?

You weren’t sure but somehow, all the options felt worth it. You couldn’t watch this man die before you. Not when it felt like you’d already witnessed his death before.

But Steven wrestled himself out of Hargrove’s hold, twisting and tumbling whilst he gasped, one hand clutching at his reddened neck and the other grappling for his blade. He swung it through the air, arching wide, his wounded shoulder ripping with effort it took but the sword landed where the warrior intended it to.

Silence settled over the colosseum, the air still enough for you to hear the surviving champion heave out gasping, heavy breaths. There was blood on his hands, his chest, his face.

His right eye was already bruising, red and lilac coming to the surface of his skin like fresh blooms in spring. His shoulder was a mess, his right leg causing him to buckle slightly as he rose to his feet.

The man turned, jaw slack, his sword falling limply to the ground once more, his opponent still and at his feet. His eyes found yours and time stilled, at least, to you. The crowd erupted, an explosion in its own right, the entirety of Rome cheering for their new champion.

A man you were sure you already loved.

By the time the fight had ended, you felt beaten and bruised. There were no marks on your skin, no blood seeping through your gown, but something inside of you hurt all the same. It felt like something was clawing at your heart, a memory that was banging on the front of your skull, screaming at you to remember.

When the guards dragged the gladiator from Hargrove’s limp figure, he dropped his sword to the sand and spat a mouthful of blood towards the ground at the royal pit. The Emperor merely chuckled as others around you gasped and before you could even hear your fathers protests, you were on your feet.

Steven Harrington was shackled once more, the metal chains clinking around his hands and feet. And as he was led away back into the arches, the gears of gates making an awful protesting noise, his eyes found yours once more.

A burning gaze, too intense to look away from and you could’ve sworn on the gods, on the stars above, that something inside of you tugged sharply. Like the pull of a string, tied in a bow between your ribcage, urging you forward.

Telling you to go.

So you did.

You gathered your skirts in your hands and made your way to the exit of the box, too focused to hear your fathers objections until the guards at the doorway halted you with their spears. The wooden stalks crossed themselves over your chest and you froze, the string tied to your heart pulling tighter and tighter and tighter—

The Emperor was staring at you, with cold eyes and a smile that wasn’t really a smile. He spoke to your father, not you. “Where, my dear senator, is your lovely daughter running off to?” The king turned back to you, brows raised. “Doesn’t she know that more wine will be served soon? My cousin is looking forward to her company.”

Your father stared at you, a stricken expression on his aged face because everyone in the royal box could read between the lines of the Emperor.

You cleared your throat, eyes still trained on the sharp metal points of the spears that were very much in your face. “Forgive me, father - your highness - I was merely hoping to get some fresh air.”

“The sight of all that blood makes her rather delicate,” your father agreed and the crowd of councilmen, generals and their wives tittered in their jewels. “She isn’t one for conflict.”

The Emperor stared at the side of your face, something you could feel despite bowing your head in his presence. You stared at the floor and waited, heart racing.

The royal tsked. “What a pity,” he declared but he waved a hand, each finger heavy with golden rings, and his soldiers stepped aside. “Be back in time for the parade, child, you have company to entertain.”

The Emperor’s cousin leered at you, his wine glass empty, his lips stained ruby but none of it mattered right now, not when you were taking off once more, skirts dragging across the dust and sand, your chest heaving as you tried to navigate your way through the crowd that was already dispersing.

More guards, heavily armoured and with their swords drawn, were too preoccupied with a fight that had broken out between the arches, two lower class men arguing over a coin they found on the ground. Taking your chance, you moved with your head down, your face hidden as you slipped through a door that was normally carefully watched.

The heavy wood slammed shut behind you, the sunlight swallowed whole. Burning torches lit the narrow corridor, a maze of them leading you underneath the Colosseum. The hypogeum was almost damp as you tried to navigate its many walkways, a gasp leaving your throat as you took a wrong turn and ended up face to face with the iron bars that separated you from the animals.

A huge tiger growled at you, bloodied teeth bared in a snarl, the stench of raw meat and faeces hanging in the cool air. You backed away, eyes flickering from cage to cage, each one filled with another poor creature. Lions, bears, a rhinoceros and its offspring, and beyond them, an even larger cell holding prisoners. They all stared at you, men and animals alike, but nothing was spoken.

You backed away, unable to breath, turning on your heel and walking quickly enough to spot the familiar grey robes of the healers used after the battles. You followed, your steps light, and watched him enter a small room. Between the door opening and closing, you spotted the gladiator perched on a wooden table, his head bent low and his face hidden behind his damp hair.

You weren’t sure what possessed you, but before you barged into the room too, both men staring at you from the table where the healer held a ragged cloth to the gladiator’s shoulder.

“Miss, you have no need here,” the healer announced, his voice strict and cold. He narrowed his eyes as he gestured to the door. “This is no place for—”

“My father sent me.” It was a lie, of course. A bold and bare faced one at that. But you stood a little taller and lifted your chin, the emerald necklace at your throat shining in the low light that came from the small fireplace in the corner. “The senate has questions I’ve been asked to deliver. I shall not leave without the appropriate answers.”

On the mantle, beside bottles of acids and other medicinal vials, sat a small statue of the goddess Veratis. Her marble eyes seemed to judge you and your lies and you swallowed down the bitter taste it left on your tongue. But looking at the man - this stranger from Verona - the need to speak to him, to be alone with him, was overwhelming you to the point of senselessness.

The trouble you could be in if you were to be caught in your lie… or worse, down in the hypogeum. This was no place for a woman of your standing, never mind to be alone with a gladiator, both of you unspoken for. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

“If we may have some time alone?” You added with more authority than you should have held. “Unless you’d prefer that my father leave the Emperor’s side to ensure his orders are fulfilled?”

The healer sighed but placed down his tools. He flashed you a smile that was all crooked teeth, more bite than kindness, but he made his way to the door. “That won’t be necessary, My Lady,” he told you and he left, closing the wooden door behind him.

The silence was a deafening thing. The crackle of the fire was still there, the distant roar of some poor, wounded animal, but whatever was held between the two of you took on a life of its own. It seemed to suck the rest of the world into it until there was nothing left but you and this man. He was staring at you still, brown eyes wide and so familiar, looking as confused as you felt as you stared right back.

It felt too easy to take a step forward, but the warrior flinched. Your next was slower, softer, more cautious. Your hand found the rag that the healer had once held, what little water it had been soaked in was cold, the material harsh. It didn’t take you long to find a new cloth in one of the drawers of the apothecary table and you took your time to warm some fresh water over the hearth.

Honestly, you didn’t know too much about medicine, only the basics that your father’s head servant had taught you as a young child. You found the small bottle of alcohol with ease, plucking it from the shelf and adding it to the warm water before soaking the new rag.

You held it up in offering to the man, still far enough from you that his dirty hair hid most of his face. His tanned chest was streaked with sweat and dust, marred with old cuts and fresher wounds from Hargrove’s weapon, but for the most part, he seemed okay.

“Can I?”

The gladiator lifted his head then, his hair falling away from his cheeks and you took in a sharp breath at the sight of his face. He was handsome, painstakingly so, but over and above all else, he was someone you were sure you knew.

The man nodded, just once, lips pressed together and as you came closer, his nostrils flared and his large hands gripped the edge of the table. His eyes raced across your features, recognition coming to the surface and before he could ask the questions that were clawing at his throat, you lifted the cloth and pressed it to the cut on his shoulder.

He hissed, teeth bared and you frowned, hushing him softly, apologies murmured just as quiet. “I’m sorry,” you told him and gods, he knew you meant it. “I need the alcohol to soak the wound.”

Your heart stuttered when he let you, shoulders tight and back ramrod straight, but his eyes were on your face the entire time you worked. “You’re not a healer,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

His voice rung through you, a deep timber that was hoarse and scratchy, no doubt from refusing to speak since his capture. You hoped he’d been drinking enough water.

You shook your head as you pulled away, dipping the bloodied cloth back into the bucket. “No, I’m not,” you confirmed.

Another swipe at his skin had him jerking in response but the blood and dirt was finally clear of the cut. It would need stitches, you were almost sure of it, but your skills started and finished at the basics.

“Then why are you here?” The gladiator’s eyes were trained on your necklace, a sure fire way to recognise nobility and you were overcome with the urge to rip it from your throat. “Why did you follow me?” He spoke like he already knew the answer.

You were hesitant about it, but you couldn’t stop your hand from lifting to his neck, fingertips brushing two beauty marks on his skin. They felt electric under your touch and you were impossibly warmer now, despite the old cell lacking the heat from the summer above.

“I feel like I know you,” you whispered. Your voice cracked with an emotion you didn’t quite know the name of. “I feel like I’ve mourned you.”

The gladiator looked back at you from behind his damp hair, the long strands matted with his and his enemies blood. He didn’t look as concerned as he should have been at your strange words. In fact, he leaned into your touch, lashes fluttering at the sensation.

“What an odd thing to say to someone who hasn’t died,” he answered quietly. But his gaze roamed over your features and something about being so close to him felt cosmic, it felt like a catastrophe waiting to happen. “I think I’ve met you before,” the gladiator whispered. He sounded reverent now, his own hand shaking as he brought it to your face.

He cupped your jaw, your chin, his rough fingertips trailing over your soft skin and when his thumb dragged across your bottom lip, you gasped and pressed closer.

“I think I meet you when I sleep,” he said and he frowned at his own words, at how confusing he must’ve sounded. “Every night, when I close my eyes. You’re in a garden and then you’re in my arms.”

Flashes of a bed came to mind, white linen sheets and too much bare skin. A man’s chest, tanned and muscled from hard labour, your hands that roamed the expanse of his back. You remembered how he kissed you in your dreams, with a longing so intense it could waken the gods.

Like he had enough love for you that he could end the world.

You could only nod. His thumb was still pushed to your bottom lip, your mouth parted as if you were waiting and his stare was so intense you felt warmer than you had in the stadium above.

Who was this stranger?

And why did it feel like something inside of you was being stitched back together by the sheer sight of him? His touch felt healing, it felt like home. Like it was only made for you to feel. Like he was made only for you.

Above, something boomed. Loud enough to be heard underneath the hypogeum, over the roars of the unsettled animals. If you had been outside, you would’ve witnessed the blue sky turning grey, shades of moody lavender and navy, storm clouds rolling across Rome from seemingly nowhere.

Thunder rumbled, threatening noise, something that made you and the man move closer to each other, like you both knew you were in danger.

That you knew something bad was coming.

“I don’t understand,” you said, eyes blurring. You weren’t sure why you were crying but Steve didn’t seem to question it. He merely swiped away the tears that slipped down your cheeks. “You’re a stranger— we’ve never— we’ve never met.”

Despite your words, the gladiator moved closer, standing from his seat on the wooden table to lean his forehead against your own. Your eyes slipped closed, nose bumping his. He smelled like metal, like blood and dirt and sweat but underneath there was something like fire there, like molten iron, like lavender fields and fresh cotton. Like a daydream, like something you weren’t sure was real.

His bottom lip touched your top one, only just, only barely. A whisper of a kiss, a small insight of something that could’ve been, of something that maybe once was.

Thunder rolled again, louder than before, as if it was right above you both. Even over the din of the crowds above, you could hear the heavy patter of rain that was now flooding the colosseum, the stage soaked. Another warning, something you’d seen before in a dream just before it turned to a nightmare.

“I was meant to find you,” Steve murmured. He had your face cradled in his hands, an overwhelmingly gentle touch despite the dried blood under his fingernails. His voice grew in urgency then, like he knew something was coming. Someone. “I was meant to come here. I can feel it. I understand now.”

“Someone once told me you’d come back,” you suddenly remembered, your voice eager, your eyes wide at the memory. “I don’t know— was it you? From before? From—”

From another life, you wanted to say.

How ridiculous those words were, how silly, how stupid. But there wasn’t any other way to explain. Logic didn’t seem to exist when everything you felt from this touch of this stranger led you to believe that somehow, someway, you’d spend a lifetime together.

Like you were supposed to spend this one with him too. And it didn’t seem long enough, decades wouldn’t make up for the time you’d lost searching for him, for this stranger who only came to you in your sleep. But he was very real now, solid flesh and bone underneath your own hands, brown eyes that seemed warmer than the Italian summer.

You didn’t want to let him go.

“In here, my King,” a voice interrupted. The door was open and the healer had returned, a cold look on his already stern face. The Emperor was behind him, ruby robes collecting dirt from the old floor. Four soldiers flanked him. “I have every reason to believe the Lady sold me lies, Your Highness.”

It happened too quick. Too fast.

The Emperor studied you, Steve’s hands still on your face as you stood too close, ready to kiss, ready to fulfil something neither of you were sure of. It felt catalytic.

“Seize him,” was all the Emperor said, one lazy flick of his wrist sending all four guards at you both.

There was too much movement in the tiny room, bottles of medicinal wares clattering to the ground and smashing at your feet. The table groaned as Steve was shoved into it, his own reactions too slow from his injuries. He grunted and reached for you too late, his hand slipping from your own, fingers barely touching, as he was shoved at from either side.

One soldier shoved the butt of his sword into Steve’s wounded soldier, the other bringing his armoured knee into his bare stomach. The gladiator doubled over, a gasp leaving his chest before he fell to his knees on the stone floor.

“Stop this!” You yelled, urging forward, trying your best to throw yourself into the mix of it all but someone’s arms - another soldier - caught your round the middle. “Unhand him! Your Highness - please - he hasn’t done any wrong, please—”

The Emperor just looked at you blankly before he picked at the jewels around your neck. He tutted, as if it were a shame, a waste. You could hear the shackles being placed back on the man, the low groan he gave as the metal was tightened around his sore wrists.

“He won,” you whispered, your voice low and choked. You were ready to beg. “Please, he won. He doesn’t deserve this—”

“I don’t like anyone else playing with my toys,” the Emperor interrupted. He said it like he was discussing what to have for lunch. “And my dear cousin doesn’t like anyone playing with his.” He motioned to the guards once more. “Take her back to her seat, where you make sure she stays. This isn’t any place for a Lady,” he told you mournfully.

You didn’t get to see what happened to the gladiator as you were escorted out of the room. But you did hear his yells when the door slammed shut, the dull thuds of impact that you were sure were on his already bruised and broken body. You hadn’t even told him your name, or that you dreamt of him too. That during your worst night terrors, he was the one that saved you.

When you reached the imperial box once more, your skirts dirtied from the sand, your face tear stricken, you felt broken. Like you’d been snapped in half, like someone had found that wound Steve had stitched up and pulled it apart again the seams. Like someone had ripped something important from you, half of your heart, perhaps.

You didn’t even notice that it had stopped raining. The skies were blue once more, the sun shining, the only evidence of the sudden storm were the drops of rain that had soaked into the pillow on your chair.

Steve was gone and the thunder was too.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 14 days

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Winter's King 16

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I didn't sleep very well but I'm here.

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As you move North, the sunlight fades sooner and rises later, the nights cooling with each mile. Nearly a fortnight on the road, and you return to the service of the queen. Bryce escorts you between the carts, gesturing in passing to his comrades, other times letting past another body on their own mission. You reach the front of the train where men with swords pace and keep watch over the surrounding lands.

“Evenin’,” Bryce greets the guards outside the queen’s tent and they grumble back. The weariness of travel has overcome many of the travelers.

You dip your head down and approach the tent flap. Before the card can pull it back for your entrance, it sweeps open from the other side. You step back as another figure falters before you. The king keeps hold of the silk and his eyes skim over you. He tilts his head and moves to hold the fabric open, beckoning you through with his large hand.

“Your highness,” you murmur.

His jaw squares but he says nothing. As you enter, the fabric falls heavily behind you. The king’s expression lingers in your mind, his silence even more. The tick in his cheek was hard to miss and you can hear his heavy footfalls as he stalks off.

Within, the queen sits on a bench, playing with the tassel of her belt. Her father, Lord Dustan, stands to the side, arms crossed as he makes small steps back and forth. He tuts and chews his thumb.

“Your husband does not behave as son-in-law,” the duke gripes lowly, “he would have let Debray fall to those vandals. He cares only for his frost lands.”

“Father, he is only eager to be home. As much as I dread the cold, I cannot help but feel as such. I tire of this endless road,” Queen Jazlene yawns into a cupped hand.

“Ah, but you must be a loyal wife. What of mine? What of your mother? She was alone in the castle.”

“And you rode out to save her, didn’t you?” Jazlene prompts.

“I am a lord of the summer lands, I am past my warring days,” Dustan snarls, “he would risk my flesh on an uprising he could crush with his left hand. He tests me!” The duke circles around as he jabs his finger in the air, “I deserve more dignity, more respect. I delivered him his kingdom.”

“Yes, father, he is a frigid man,” Jazlene bemoans, “as icy a husband. He does neglect us both.”

“Neglect?” Dustan faces his daughter, “does he not see to his contract?”

She frowns and bats her doey eyes as she looks away, “it isn’t that he doesn’t fulfill his duty, it is only... how might I get an heir if I lie with my husband only once in a moon?”

“Does he mean to deceive us? A son will bind us. A son is what we need. Does he think the summer lands will follow a king who does not sow his seed?”

“I do not know, father. I... I have tried all I can think of.”

“Mm,” the duke hums darkly, “that won’t do at all. Not at all. When I married your mother, she was swollen with you almost as soon as the vows were said. No, no, it won’t do. I will have word with the king, make certain he does not treat my daughter, his queen, so coolly.”

Dustan stop and twiddles his fingers. You try to imagine him confronting King Geralt. Surely it is bluster for the sake of his daughter.

“...we are ruined without an heir...” he mutters.

Jazlene sits forward on the bench, “ruined, father? I am queen--”

“Yes, yes, you are queen, but a queen has her duty too,” Dustan insists, “and it cannot be done with a negligent king. Leave it to me, daughter. The next I see the king, I shall handle our business. As I have ever done. Do you believe in me? For I did deliver you a fine marriage, didn’t I?”

“Yes, father.”

The duke goes to his daughter and rubs her shoulder. He leans in and you shrink against the tent wall, making yourself small.

“Should it prove poor judgment,” his whisper scratches from his lips, “I will figure a way out.”

He kisses her hair and turns to march out. He takes not notice of you though that is expected. Jazlene sighs as the flap falls and she leans back on her hands, swaying her leg.

“Ah, the maid,” she cheeps, “you will fetch hot water for my feet. They ache.”

“Yes, your highness.”

She grins, a catlike expression and sits up straight, “yes, that is right. I am a queen and soon, the king will be certain to treat me as such.”

You flit off to your duty. As you emerge, your chest stirs with unease. Something about their conversation has you unnerved. Though they said nothing outright, it feels as if there is more laced between the words. The queen and her father hardly sound as allies to the king.

You try to wipe the apprehension from your mind. You are but a maid and not so well-versed on noble matters. It isn’t your place to unpiece their declarations or untangle their riddles. You are to get the water to sooth the daughter of Debray’s feet, it may yet save you a box to the ears.

⚔️

You shiver as the cart bounces over the hard ground. You count a month or so since your departure from the capital though the days blend in a fog. The gradual creep of the chill has advanced upon the part, slowing the wheels, and sending the riders to pause and cover their horses. You keep the fur cloak over your lap as you lean into the corner of the cart though Bryce seems enlivened by the atmosphere.

The dim sky harkens the crossing of the intangible barrier between the summer and winter lands. Sprawling plains and rounded feels give way to rocky passes and jutting mountains, interspersed with lumpy tundras speckled with patches of mud. Several times, your soldierly escort has had to help yank free the wheels from some rut or another.

“Are we there?” You ask through as chatter, blowing into your hands. “The Hinterlands?”

“Mm, by my guess, we are at the Fox’s Tail. You see, it is the little strip of land where no man lives, summer or winter,” he explains, reaching to scratch his beard. You envy the warmth it must give to his cheeks. “Isn’t so cold yet, mouse, better brace yerself.”

You nod and look ahead at the grey, brown expanse. There are dustings of frost but not snow, only on the distant caps of rugged mountains that shadow the horizon. You hug yourself as Daisy’s breath plumes in misty clouds around her head.

“Why does no one live here?” You ask.

“There are no trees, no grass to feed the livestock or game,” he shrugs, “it is barren...” he sucks his teeth and thinks, “there was a war. Hundreds of years ago, maybe more. The summer folk spilled upon the winter lands, some squabble over a slain lord... they put salt to the earth. They did not only want vengeance on the living, they wanted their descendants to suffer for their misdeeds. Starve out an entire people.”

He snorts and shakes his head, “what the summer people didn’t understand is that the winter skinned do not stay still. They move with the winds. You’ll see, mouse. You haven’t done the last of yer scurrying.”

You huddle down as another cold breath sweeps through the air. You’re not used to it but you will be. That’s how it always is. You just have to take what you get and make it work. You can’t complain for what you have; a warm cloak, a cart, and a kind companion.

⚔️

Your teeth chatter as you hold closed the front of the fur cloak, the hood over your head as you walk the frozen earth. More often than not, you’ve left the prized cape in your cart for your return. It is too heavy to wear while serving the queen but the weather permits you no mercy. It is far too bitter to forgo the extra layer.

Bryce is unbothered in his mail and the simple fur trim the collar of his wool cloak. He only seems to thrive in the dipping temperatures, stoking a fire for your nocturnal return so that you may sleep in its warmth. His constancy keeps you from mourning the lost summer sunshine.

He stands behind you as you cross to the queen’s tent, now raised with several layers to insulate the walls. You enter as you do every night, unnoticed as Queen Jazlene mindlessly stares into the pages of a book. She’s grown quiet these last weeks as the travel wears on her, even her wardrobe showing the effects.

You feel a gust from beneath the tent wall and step away from it. You watch the queen, huddled beneath a blanket on a stool, shaking as she tries to warm her hands in each other. She wears several satin cloaks layered over each other but the fabric is too sleek to garner much heat.

She puffs into her palms and groan.

“Damn this cold,” she mutters, then sits up, “maid, tea!” She demands, “Something warm! Anything!”

You utter a small “your highness” and spin away to your task. You step out into the cold and go off to find a fire and a pot. The queen has some berry tea in her chests.

You acquire a cup of steaming water from a cluster of servants around a flame. You linger for a moment to absorb some of the fire’s haze then set back toward the royal tent. As you near, a shadow nearly collides with you. You keep the cup balanced as you scramble around the figure. The torch light catches the king’s golden eyes as they meet yours.

“Your highness,” you murmur.

He grunts as he stops fully. He stares down at you wordlessly. You cannot read his expression as shadows dance around his features, flickering various emotions across his face. He bows his head and presses on. You turn to watch him go as concern rolls up your throat.

In those last weeks, months you believe, you’ve not seen much of the king. You’ve wondered after his elusivity. At first, you thought it might be due to the combat at Debray, perhaps he was disheartened by the last act of resistance. Then you surmised it might be evasion of his own wife. Alas, you could not guess and fathomed it was not your place to do so.

This brief encounter further perplexes you. You can’t help but question if it is you. You recall the last day in the capital, the grit of his voice casting you out. Go. The memory ripples through you.

You think much of yourself. It wouldn’t be anything to do with a paltry maid. You focus on the hot water in your hand and continue on to the queen’s tent.

You enter and wrap the dried berries and leaves, steeping them in the steaming water. You hover over the cup, waiting for the water to deepen in hue and cool enough to drink. When you bring it to the queen, you feel her gaze upon you.

“Your highness,” you hand her the cup.

She hesitates to take it, only doing so after deep consideration. She holds the tea in one hand as her other tugs on your cloak. She makes an ugly noise.

“And where did you find this, maid?” She sneers. “Hmm, I sit her in my summer garb and you wear a bear’s skin?”

Your lips part and you raise your shoulders. You look at the tent wall and frown. You poke your hand outside the cloak and touch the soft fur.

“Your highness,” you look down at the cloak then at her trembling grasp on the cup. “Would you like it? You look awfully cold.”

“Yes, I want the damn cloak!” She yanks it hard, “I am the queen and you did not think to offer me a proper cloak? How stupid are you.”

You bow your head and reach to unbuckle the cloak. When it is loose, you shrug it off and hand it over. You will find a spare blanket. There must be some left among the luggage.

She shoves the cup at you and stands. She swings the cloak around her and hums as she pulls its snug around her figure. She sits again and rubs her chin against the fur.

“Much better,” she says, “I’ve been suffering this damnable place for far too long.”

She takes the tea back, spilling a drop on your hand. You back away, the liquid cooling and sending a new chill through you. You cover one hand with the other and clutch tightly, locking your jaw against the tremor that crawls up your spine.

The queen slurps from the tea and makes a face. She sneers, “I want wine,” she pouts, “how long must I be deprived? Wine!” She snarls down at the cup, “but I must drink this bile. Oh, but the king bids it,” she raises her voice mockingly, “you must obey your husband.” She shakes her head and takes another gulp, “at least it is warm. At least--”

She holds the cup away from her suddenly as her face twists. She drops it and recoils, panic washing over her. She keels forward, holding her skirts out of the way as she spews onto the rug spread over the hard ground. She wretches loudly, spasming with the horrid sounds snagging in her throat.

The smell of her vomit permeates the tent. She stays bent over her lap as she pants. You come forward and offer her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. She sits up and gulps tightly, her features drawn. She pats her lips.

“Well, clean it up,” she turns her feet away from the puddle between them. “Stupid maid.”

She pokes a sharp nail into your arm and you wince.

“Your highness, are you unwell?” You ask, “shall I fetch a physician? Or some ginger?”

“No, you stupid cow, I am not unwell,” she flicks her fingers at you before waving away the stench of her bile. She stands and walks away from it, her hand settling on her middle. She faces you and smiles broadly, “I am carrying the king’s son.” Her face darkens as she wrinkles her nose, “I told you, you twit, to clean that up. You best do so before I make you eat it.”

You nod and bend your neck, “yes, your highness, I will fetch water.”

“I don’t care, just do it,” she snaps and rubs her stomach. She lets out a shuddery groan and turns her back to you. You watch as she draws tight the cloak and sways with a trill, “I will be a true queen now. He cannot deny me any longer.”

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #winter's king #the witcher

244 notes · View notes

ghouljams · 6 months

Note

You’ve made allusions to an android AU, may I venture a hc?

König (my beloved) is the most likely out of all of the guys to just. Literally not have a face. This boy was built exclusively for heavy combat - he’s probably got five cameras for eyes on a composite ceramic face. There is no synthskin. Briareos from APPLESEED vibes.

OK Android au is a Ghost au because that's my husband. I love the idea of König as a heavy duty mech. Let's run through what my thoughts on the au are and then never speak of it again

So Ghost as an android. Military grade, top of the line. I mean literally irreplaceable, no one knows how they made him, where he came from, or how he's able to think and do the things he does. It's almost unbelievable. You, the 141's mechanic, don't believe it. You've fixed up plenty of androids, you'd rerouted circuit boards and rewritten enough code to know that Ghost should not be doing the things he's doing. You think he's thinking. He shouldn't be thinking. Not the way he seems to be, at least.

Androids think, to a certain degree, but artificial intelligence is... well it's not exactly real. It's pattern recognition and computers running simulations. It's math. Complicated math, but still math. Ghost isn't doing math, he's making decisions. The 141 lets him out, free range, in the field and trusts him to think and act within the parameters- Fuck do they even set parameters for him?

He comes to see you the same way the men go to see the doctor. Reluctantly. Another thing he shouldn't be doing, that he's hiding from the rest of the unit, feeling. That's what first tipped you off that he was thinking, the way he lingered in your doorway when other androids would be marched in by their COs. Ghost stood in the door to your workshop and hesitated, like he didn't want to see you, or was hoping you wouldn't be in. When you'd made eye contact with his cameras, the red glow behind sculpted bone, he'd marched right in and sat down in front of your work bench.

"Need some maintenance," He's said, the transmitters for his voice box warm and rumbling behind the slight static. You'd never heard false vocal cords like that.

He's a wonder of mechanics. His back plate is dented, the synth-skin charred and bullet ridden, and when you take too long poking around trying to figure out how to get it off he reaches back and presses a button at the top of his spine. The black composite plates lining his spine -what a human would call a spine- release with a hiss and the back plates on either side pop up with a quiet click. You could spend hours looking at the motors running his muscles, like cogs in a clock. They spin silently, just on the edge of warm when you touch them, expanding his synthetic muscles almost like he's breathing. A cooling system you assume, or exhaust exchange. You grab a few tools from your bench and tug your safety goggles on to get started.

It's strange, you feel like a proper doctor working on him. Ghost sits like a rock for you, but he's sitting, he's active. You glance at his face like you'll catch him flinching away from the laser you drag against powder burns, or think he'll roll his shoulder to test the fit when you tighten one of the millions of tiny screws. You'll have to come up with something new to use on the tight coils of synthetic muscle he has. You've never seen anything like it, you'll need something custom if he comes in with anything bigger than a bullet wound. He's patient as you reshape his back plate, banging the dent out and soldering a patch over the hole.

"You'll need a new one of these," You tell him. He makes a noise almost like a hum, you chalk it up to motors whirring. Strange when they'd been so quiet before.

"Battle scars," He jokes, and you freeze, "That's what Soap calls them." He covers, but- He made a joke. He's covering, it's a good cover, but- He made a joke. Androids don't make jokes, they approximate jokes.

You're still thinking about it when he leaves. You're a good mechanic, a great one, but you can't explain Ghost away as subroutines and ai. You stare down at your diagnostic report, your repair report. You hesitate and mark "functioning optimally" before jotting down the repairs you made. It's probably nothing. No reason to snitch on the 141's prized android just because you're a little spooked.

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lilacsandpetals · 7 months

Text

Frozen Blossoms Pt. 2

Last part here.

Next part here.

Bi-Han x F! reader

Tags and notes: Arranged marriage AU, SFW, exploring emotions. Pre-MK1/MK1 AU

TW: Slightly violent thoughts, toxic behavior.

You waited for him that morning, he never came.

—------------

You had picked up a mundane routine from there. The day would start with you waking up alone, seeing BI-Han in passing while you learned how to fulfill your own duties in your new role. You would come across him again at the dinner table with his family, feigning the act of a bashful newlywed. You would catch Tomas and Kuai Liang exchanging a glance with one another, meanwhile, Bi-Han would remain as serious as ever. Then you would retire to your bedroom, and spend some time reading before falling asleep alone. Bi-Han came to bed sometime after you would fall asleep, at least you assumed so.

It was lonely.

You barely saw your husband, how did he expect this marriage to work? Today, was no different as you sat on the bench of the training area. You had already had some lessons on the administrative work of your future role this morning, and then you had been taught additional lessons of self-defense training. That proved more difficult on your body than anticipated, but thankfully today’s instruction was over. You were to do as you pleased until your evening meal. Sighing and standing to your feet, your eyes found their way to the garden nearby, you had seen it many times but were yet to check it out; so you figured spending some time there couldn’t hurt.

The light breeze graced your skin while you entered the path spanning through the garden. The array of flowers was beautiful; pink roses, azaleas, blossoms, peonies, the list went on. You stopped by a tree teeming with blossoms and leaned back against it. Some of the petals danced with the wind as they blew away. A couple fell onto your hair and you carefully picked them off.

You twirled the petals between your fingers, it was soft and delicate. You liked the change of environment. The vibrance of the garden was a stark contrast to the architecture surrounding it. Suddenly the sound of footsteps broke you out of your trance.

“Wife.”

You looked up and Bi-Han gave you a curt nod. You gave him a small smile back.

His hair was slightly tossed, and his breathing was a tad heavier than usual. Maybe he had been off training elsewhere? Or maybe he came back from some sort of mission? You wouldn’t know.

You didn’t know what to say, It was so difficult to communicate and you hated it. You had been married a few weeks ago and you still knew close to nothing about him.

Bi-Han eyed you up and down before speaking. You couldn’t distinguish if he was eyeing you as if you were an adversary, prey, or something in between. “You… like those flowers?”

“I do.” You looked at the blossom petals in your hand before looking at him. “Are you taking a break? I don’t think I’ve seen you come by the garden before.”

He does find himself in the garden on occasion, but he finds no need to tell you that. “No, I only came to inquire about what you were doing here. I thought you had lessons to attend to.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed yourself up from the tree. You thought he had come to spend time with you, not check on you as if you were some child. “I’ve finished what was required of me today.”

“Then I’ll leave you be.”

You didn’t want him to leave, you craved a sense of connection with him. Maybe if you had a decent opportunity to talk to him it could spark something between you two. So you didn’t think about what he might say before reaching out and grabbing his arm.

Bi-Han froze. You had barely touched him at all in the past weeks. Other than your hand brushing his at the dinner table every so often, he only recalled the way your delicate hands rested in his rough, calloused ones at the wedding ceremony.

Your hands were soft, smaller than his. Foolishly, he sometimes wondered what it would be like to intertwine his fingers with yours.

He slowly turned his face to look down at you. “What is it?”

“May I go with you?”

“No.”

You shot him a confused look, “Why?”

“I am busy with things that don’t concern you.”

“I’m your wife, whatever concerns you, concerns me as well.”

Bi-Han raised an eyebrow, part of him wanted you to leave. He didn’t need a distraction. Yet a small part of him wanted you to accompany him, he wanted your interest, your attention. His conflicting feelings drove him mad these past weeks. He buried himself in his work and training, attempting to keep the thought of you at bay. You were still obstructing his focus even when you weren’t present. It enraged him that you had snaked your way into his mind.

He would think of how peaceful you looked when you slept; your hair tousled, your lips slightly parted, and your expression serene. You slept in complete comfort as if you had no worries in the world. He thought about how you would still happily engage with the clan despite your own reservations, how you would speak and listen intently to whoever you came across. He thought about how you spoke with an aura of gentle concern. Your entire being seemed like the antithesis to him. He hated that he found it intriguing.

Emotional attachments were never a plus. Yes, he had care for his brothers and his father, but that was already enough. He would take on the role of Grandmaster soon, and the necessity of logical rationale outweighed emotional interference. He need not invite anyone else in his heart, lest he grow weak like his father.

The day his mother died, his father had broken down. He wallowed in his sorrows for far too long. Bi-Han watched the esteemed Grandmaster delve into that of a pathetic mess.

Bi-Han missed his mother as well, he missed her dearly. But he never allowed anyone to see that sort of weakness from him. He was not opposed to comforting his younger brother, but he himself grieved alone, away from anyone else who might see his pitiful state, lest that be used against him.

His mother had wanted him to be strong, not weak-minded. He was disappointing her and himself the more he found himself musing over you.

Bi-Han took hold of your hand, more gently than you expected, and lifted it off of his arm. He held onto your hand for a moment too long before letting it go. “You are my wife in title, but that is all. Fulfill your own duties as I do mine.”

Your hand returned to your side, and you let him go.

He reminded you of a stubborn brat.

—————

You left him be that day and went about your usual routine until you retired to your bedroom. Bi-Han, Kuai Liang, Tomas, and a few of the other clan mates had left in a hurry. Apparently, something urgent had come up and you were promptly rushed off to your room.

You hated to admit it, but you were nervous. You hoped that nothing serious happened. It had been hours and you were still pacing your bedroom. You hoped your in-laws were without injury.

You hoped your husband was okay.

You know you two barely interacted, but still, you worried.

‘What was taking so long?’

Your question is answered when the door flies open. Your room is dimly lit and Bi-Han stands in the doorway, panting and stomping over to a dresser that he kept his clothing in. He rummaged through it, tossing some supplies onto your bed.

At that point, you’re snapped out of your stupor. “What happened??” You worriedly exclaim and rush to his side.

He sighs deeply. He supposes it’s fine to disclose the ordeal since you do live here. “We had some intruders try to break into a few locations on the outskirts of the complex. They were skilled.” He kept it short and sweet. He wouldn’t disclose that the main concern was a suspicion the intruders may have been from Outworld. You and your clan were yet to know about that.

He slowly sits on the bed and grabs a bottle of some sort.

“Let me help,” you say and reach out your hands towards his arm and the bottle.

He instinctively leans back when you approach.

That got on your nerves at this point. You had stayed up worrying for him, waiting for him to come back safely, and now you just wanted to help him feel better, and he resisted you even now. “You act as if I’m an enemy, I’m just trying to help you!” you snapped.

Bi-Han rolls his eyes “I would have killed you by now if you had been a threat to me.”

You grit your teeth, that wasn’t the point. “How charming,” you spat back.

At that, he snatches his arm away again. “I’m able to take care of myself. Leave.”

He could be intimidating, yet you chose to stand your ground. You crossed your arms. “In case you forgot we both share this bedroom, I will not be leaving.”

Bi-Han shot you an exasperated look. You were insufferable. “Then be quiet.”

You raised an eyebrow, a retort hanging on the tip of your tongue, but he wasn’t even worth that. You closed your mouth and sat down on your side of the bed. He could take care of himself then.

You were silent. You could hear him groaning in pain as he tried to clean the wound. Why was he so against your help? What had you done to him to make him be so cruel? You keep your face turned away but maintain a calm tone of voice “I am only trying to help you.”

The desire for your help was there, but he’d be damned if he allowed it to happen. He was able to manage his own wounds, he’s been doing it since his mother passed away. But his resolve is tested when you dare to reach out your hand anyway.

You’re testing your luck, but it’s the best you can do when things are so strained with him. You don’t speak but keep your grip on his arm firm. Something stops him from pulling away again, and you thank a higher power for getting him to calm down for once. He is tense, you can tell by how his arm is flexed and his shoulders slightly stiff. You dab some alcohol to the wound and unintentionally wince when you hear him grunt. “Sorry, sorry,” you mumble softly. The gash in his arm is deep, you can’t help but wonder who caused it, but you know better than to barrage him with questions now. You carefully wrap a bandage around his arm and step back, expecting some sense of gratitude from him, but you’re met with the exact opposite as he storms off out of the room.

Frustration begins to bubble up within you, why was he so childish? It’s as if for every step forward you took, you ended up taking three steps back. You were trying your best to get closer, but if he wanted to act ridiculous then you’d leave him be.

—------------

The training grounds were empty at this hour. Dimly lit and silent besides the sound of fists messily colliding with leather. Bi-Han hit the training bag again and again. Why did you have to interfere? Why did you have to make him feel the way that he did? He felt like he didn’t have control over something as simple as his own thoughts. You made him feel conflicted, uncomfortable at the desire you clawed out of him.

He should have pulled away, but he let you tend to his wounds. And how lovely you looked while you did. He didn’t know when he started to focus on you in that manner. You looked so concentrated. A few strands of your hair hung in your face as you applied alcohol to the injury; he wondered what would happen if he reached out to tuck the strands behind your ear. You leaned forward and craned your neck slightly to the side as you bandaged his arm. Your neck appeared smooth and slender to him. He wanted to wrap his hand around your throat, he could crush it if he wanted to. Would he stop thinking of you then?

A dull ache began to bloom on his knuckles. He would often cover his hands with ice by now, had his skin started to become irritated. Tonight he didn’t bother. He was desperate to feel something, anything else. The training bag began to wear out as the skin of his knuckles began to split open and bleed.

Footsteps began to emerge in his peripheral hearing, prompting him to halt his assault on the inanimate victim.

“Bi-Han?” Kuai Liang asked confused.

“What?!” he snapped.

“Are you not tired? Y/N must be waiting.”

“That’s none of your concern” Bi-Han scowled.

Kuai Liang sighed. He had hoped marriage would melt his brother’s harsh demeanor, at least a bit.

“Maybe. I don’t know what transpired between you two, but what use does sulking here have?”

Bi-Han clenched his jaw. His younger brother always knew how to get on his nerves. “Stop interfering with matters you know nothing about.”

“Fine, I may not know what has caused you to come all the way out here, but I’d at least advise you to act rational.”

Bi-Han wanted to snap back at his brother but held his tongue. How was he being irrational? He was stomping out any chance of falling for such a trap by burying these irrational thoughts. When he didn’t respond. His brother continued his tirade. “Y/N married you out of a duty to her own family and tradition. Just as you have. Do you think she finds this easy?”

Bi-Han grit his teeth. “How would I know?”

“You’d know if you spoke to her. You both took a vow to be tied to one another for eternity. At least become familiar with her.” Kuai Liang sighed. His brother had always been on the serious side, and his stoic nature only skyrocketed after their mother’s passing. They had always been close and as time passed he often found it hard to connect with his brother like this.

Bi-Han didn’t respond for a moment, but he wondered if his brother ever dealt with such distractions. Yet an accusatory statement left his mouth instead, “You are not married, you wouldn’t understand what I’m dealing with.”

“No, but I have someone I wish to marry.”

At that, Bi-Han’s head snapped towards his sibling. Since when did he have a ‘special someone’? “Why would you even consider such a thing? I did it out of necessity to take on the role of Grandmaster. Why welcome a distraction into your life if your first priority is loyalty to the Lin Keui?”

Kuai Liang gave him a confused look before letting out a laugh that Bi-Han considered offensive.

“What’s so funny?” He scowled.

“Nothing. It’s just, why would I ever consider my lover a distraction? She motivates me to do better for her but also the clan.” Kuai Liang explained and stepped closer.

Bi-Han couldn’t wrap his head around it. “I suppose your relationship is unique.”

“How so?”

“My wife distracts me, I can’t focus, she makes me feel weak.”

Kuai Liang crossed his arms and leaned back towards the wall. “What has she explicitly done to distract or harm you.”

“She occupies my thoughts constantly” Bi-Han stated in an irked tone of voice.

Kuai Liang had to shield the look of stupor that threatened to show itself. “So she has done nothing to intentionally harm you.” Bi-Han didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to. He supposed his brother did have a slight point. She had not intentionally done anything to weaken him. As far as he knew anyway.

“You’re considering her in a negative light, that’s why she serves as a distraction. You ought to use the thought of her to drive your ambitions.”

Kuai Liang stepped forward and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder before his brother could counter. “She married you, she is Lin Kuei now. What she does will be for your betterment and the betterment of the clan. Don’t overthink it.”

Before Bi-Han can counter him, Kuai Liang is practically dashing out of the door. He can hear his brother yelling at him in the distance but that’s all he can offer in words of advice right now. He is tired and his bed is practically calling to him. He would be lying if he said he didn’t worry for him. He was so closed off, and although he never said it, he often found Bi-Han’s behavior short-tempered and erratic. He would never show signs of weakness to any outsider and practically no one was privy to his thoughts or habits when he was distressed. Even their father had turned somewhat of a blind eye to Bi-Han’s behavior. Not that he thought their father had intentionally done so, especially when Bi-Han curated such a strong demeanor for the world around him. Their mother’s passing had hurt their father to a great degree and so he was dealing as best he could behind closed doors, and Bi-Han’s evolution into growing colder was gradual. He and Tomas grew up with Bi-Han, they could tell when he would be plagued with insecurities or troubles.

He knows Bi-Han didn’t want this marriage, he knows that his older brother keeps a high guard up. But he also knows that Bi-Han aches for something that he can't quite pinpoint just yet.

—------------

You wake up to Bi-Han missing from his side of the bed again. You frown, you had hoped that last night would have shown your desire to grow closer. You switch the side you’re lying on and pause. You reach out your hand to brush your fingers gently against the petals of the flowers that lay at your bedside. The flowers are familiar and the fragrance is calming. The bouquet itself is small, tied together with a simple twine, but it makes you smile nonetheless.

—------------

Thanks for reading 💙

#bi han x reader #bi han mk #bi han sub zero #mk1 #mortal kombat #mortal kombat 1 #scorpian #kuai liang #things get worse before they get better #lin kuei #bi han x you

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mwahaechz · 4 months

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Omfg just saw ur dad spiderman mark au AND ITS SOOO GOOD CLD WE PERHAPS GET ANOTHER ONE WHEN his daughter has a bf in kindergarten and mark got super jealous and protective????

EEEEE stop i love spiderdad mark so much 🥹🥹 im so sorry uts been so long anon 😭 but here u go i hope u enjoy <3

spider mark × g!n reader

warnings : fluff, just pure fluff, jealous/overprotective spiderdad mark, spiders, webs, puppy love, kindergarten sweethearts TT, kisses <33, mark is a simp for you !!!!, they’re so in love i might just kms

read pt1 of the spider-dad chronicles. (optional!)

mark wasn’t one to be jealous, he really wasn’t. so why was he glaring daggers at the little boy sitting next to his daughter on-top of the slide. now, don’t get mark wrong, he trusted his daughter with his whole heart. but knowing that everyone but him knew she had a boyfriend at the ripe age of four and a half was baffling.

“babe.. why didn’t you tell me?” mark whined for the nth time, tugging at your shirt as he kept his eyes on the way the little slightly tannedboy treated jinni. you sighed, hugging him and pecking his lips softly.

“she told me she didn’t want me to tell you, plus, i thought donghyuck would’ve told you..”

“dONGHYUCK..?!? shes dating his son?! nope. im not having it.” mark scoffs, shaking his head and standing up straight to walk over to the toddlers.

you place a hand on his chest and softly push him to sit back down on the bench, cupping his face to make him look at you. “mark, just let the kids be.. its only a puppy love, they’ll forget about it eventually when they get older.” you reassure him, leaning in to get a taste of his pouting lips.

“yeah, but… we were also a puppy love, and look at us now!” he softly whines, pouting even more as he squints his eyes at the little boy helping his daughter up the steep steps of the playground.

“babe, we were both in first grade when we met.” you playfully roll your eyes, leaning your head against your husband’s chest.

“so?” he furrows his brows, leaving a kiss on the back of your hand before playing with it.

your heart flutters, a soft blush growing on your cheeks at his random acts of affection that have you falling in love and wanting to get married again. “they’re in kindergarten.” you say, looking up at him from your place on his chest.

he looks down at you, the words in the back of his throat ready to leave when he suddenly forgets everything but the way your pretty eyes look up at him. mark slightly clears his throat, neck and face burning up. “..and? that’s basically the same thing.”

you giggle at the fact that his words don’t really make sense. “we were both either six or seven years old when we were in first grade, mark, the kids are barely four.”

“two years isn’t that much of a difference, they’re basically already in high schoo—” you cut him off by sweetly kissing him, hands cupping his face as he sighs and melts into the kiss. he leans his forehead on yours, arms wrapping around your waist.

your kisses were his favorite thing to destress with. he would go hours and hours just kissing you if he could. the canadian would constantly kiss you, be it anywhere. your husband just couldn’t keep his lips off you, but you loved it.

you loved the way he would melt into your hold when you kissed him, the way he would throw away anything for just a kiss from you, the way he always made sure to kiss you softly and sweetly, not to mention the fact that he always asks before doing so like a proper gentleman.

“so.. why didn’t you tell me about the fact that your son had been hitting on my daughter..?!” the canadian male asks the tanned male, eyes glaring at the younger male. donghyuck chuckles, having pulled off his mask to drink his cup of.. banana milk?

“listen, milk-”

“mark.”

“milk. as i was saying.. it’s not that much of a big deal, it’s just a silly lil’ puppy love.” donghyuck says, shrugging as he chugs the rest of his banana milk. his black and red deadpool suit blending in well with the night as he stands up on the side of the parking lot edge.

mark looks up at the male, softly swinging his legs back and forth as he looks at the night sky instead. “.. my little girl is growing up..” he mumbled, memories of when jinni was first born, when she took her first step, when she finally learned she could shoot webs, when she spoke his name, all flooded his mind as his eyes slightly glossed over.

“i love my family,”

“okay, we get it mister ‘friendly neighborhood spider-dad-man’.”

“oh shut up, donghyuck!”

“make me~ … wAIT. NO. NOT THE WEB- MFPH!”

“you had it coming, lee.”

the ending was slightly rushed bcz i just wanted to publish it before i end up forgetting 😥

but i hope you enjoyed <3

#LIA’s ‘THE INCREDIBLE SPIDER-DAD’ 💌:#nct dream #nct drabbles #nct fanfic #nct dream x reader #love #nct dream fluff #mark lee fluff #mark lee drabbles #mark lee nct #mark lee x reader #mark x reader #spidermark #mark lee #mark fluff #mark #markhyuck #nct fluff #nct mark

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zarasu · 1 year

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AU where Shen Yuan got into a wife plot, was saved and wooed by Bingge, married him and was then promptly forgotten and replaced with a new wife.

Now he spends his days as a beautiful but neglected and unloved concubine, quietly pining for his cold husband.

('Pining, sad concubine' is only one step away from 'beautiful, grieving widow' so Sy is really getting into the role.)

He really, genuinely loves Binghe, but his husband doesn't even spare him a single glance.

Also, the other wives keep trying to pull him into their schemes and intrigues, ugh. Don't they know that a neglected, scheming concubine is the biggest death flag there is? No, no, a tragic concubine might survive, but a tragic, scheming one? Never.

So he spends his days wearing beautiful robes, sitting on dainty little benches, looking out of windows and sighing. Or strolling through the garden, looking at the pond and sighing. Or playing the qin and stopping to sigh now and then.

Just, a lot of sighing. And gazing yearningly at Binghe whenever he sees him walking through the hallways.

Binghe hasn't reacted to it yet, but Shen Yuan is sure that, eventually, the tragic concubine beam will be too strong to overlook.

Then, of course, everything goes to shit. A lot of the wives collude to kill Binghe, and Shen Yuan arrives just in time to see one of them come at Binghe with a poisoned dagger.

Now, what use is it to look beautiful and tragic if Binghe isn't there to see and appreciate it?

So Shen Yuan goes between them and dies an ugly, painful death in Binghe's arms.

Then, he opens his eyes again, two years in the past and back to being a beautiful but neglected concubine.

Shen Yuan sighs.

But alas, he has become very, very good at being a tragic concubine. The food isn't bad either and he can spend a big part of his days reading trashy literature when he isn't busy sighing.

So he's determined to go right back to it.

And he would, if it wasn't for the fact that Binghe suddenly pops up everywhere he goes.

It's very hard being a beautiful, neglected concubine when his husband wants to have conversations with him all the time!

How is Shen Yuan supposed to look tragic if Binghe dotes on him all the time? At least he acknowledges how beautiful Shen Yuan looks, even if they still have to work on the 'neglected' part.

(Unbeknownst to him, when Shen Yuan had lain dying in Binghe's arms, Binghe had looked at him and realised that he'd had someone who truly loved him right under his nose all this time. So of course, he searched for an artefact that turns back time.)

(And, being the protagonist, he managed this outlandish feat. When Shen Yuan had opened his eyes, back two years in the past, Binghe had as well, determined to win his beautiful, tragic concubine's heart.)

Obviously and shamelessly inspired by 'The Wife is First'.

#bingqiu #bingyuan #svsss #fanfic ideas

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silverechosandblankmasks · 5 months

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MY AUs MASTERLIST

List of all AUs (If links dont work, click the tags at the bottom of the post)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(QSMP) #No Evil Au

Sugarduo au with the theme around "Speak No Evil, Hear no Evil, Say No Evil", more info to come!

(DSMP) #Bench Husbands AU

Bench Husbands AU, my Au with platonically polyam married bench trio where Tommy marries Tubbo and Ranboo

(DSMP/MCD) #Lord Of Phoenix Drop!Tommy AU - To be Linked

Au where Tommy ends up in the world of Minecraft Diaries and takes the place of Aphmau in the plot (minus all the romance ofc)

#mine #mcyt aus #No Evil AU #Bench Husbands AU #MCD!Tommy AU

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sukunasdirtylaugh · 2 months

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tags: satoru gojo x f!reader, bridgerton!au, reader and gojo are acquaintances, brief mention of satoru's mom passing when he was young. also please don't come at me if I got the garter belt/stocking thing wrong (I did a quick google search) so may not be historically accurate. (this could be a part two to this story that is also bridgerton gojo based).

“my lord,"

"please," he says, "gojo is fine."

"mr. gojo," you say, because frankly gojo feels too personal though it had been the last name his friends, such as lord nanami, have refered to him by. he stands at a respectable distance from you, watching over as you sit on a stone bench around the garden of lord kusakabe's home. your family visit had served to wish him congratulations after recuperating from a terrible cold this past winter. now, lord kusakabe stands as he used to, laughs as he holds a cigar between his lips as guests enjoy tea and play outdoor games.

though a lady like you, having a wardrobe malfunction, thinks it's best to hide behind a maze as you fail to adjust the garter belt that pulls up your warm stockings that keep the cold air from entering your skin. lord gojo stands at a respectable distance, towards your right as he attempts to look over your shoulder. your cling onto your left garter, saving any decency you can maintain.

you had met gojo through the first spring dance of the season, right after you had danced with higuruma. taken aback by his intial comments on how lord higuruma was a terrible choice for a satoru, and by your naivety by speaking your mind (respectably, of course) in front of someone so.... well of. regarded as royalty by even the queen herself. lord gojo did not hold your behavior against you, and to that you were partially thankful of. your honor must remain impeccable as your mother's. everyone has a standard to uphold, no?

what set you apart, nearly three weeks into the season from most, was lady whistledown's kind and praiseful remarks during the ball. it would be later made aware that perhaps you could be the diamond of the season. who knew as meeting the queen was only a week away.

so you had to keep your reputation as clean as possible.

"my lady, are you alright?" your jaw tightened at his words. you guessed perhaps your body tightened as well since the man approaches you carefully, slowly. waiting to see if you put a stop to him.

"yes, quite alright thank you." you laugh nervously, "just... a bit worn out from today's activities." he noticies you hold your leg.

"is your... leg alright?" he asks. you don't know how you do it, but when he suggests to get help, you stop him. it would be far worse for him to get help from others while you're here, with an intimate wardrobe malfunction.

"no! just... leave me be," he eyes you.

"I can assure you, leaving a lady in distress goes against my honor code. tell me, is there anything I can do?"

you hesitantly bite your bottom lip.

"it's... it's a wardrobe, malfunction, my lord." your eyes don't meet his as your cheeks burn under the sun. he looks at your figure, not sensing anything wrong at first glance.

"underneath."

"oh," he remains quiet for several seconds. "may I... may I know what it is?"

"my garter belt."

"what do you need to do?"

"I need to hook the end of the belt to the opening of the stocking, but..." you sigh, "it won't work."

"may I have a glance?" he asks, and you guess he senses the panic in your eyes and silence as he holds his hands up. "I promise I won't do anything, in fact, I'm sure your family might suspect your absence relatively soon if you don't return." but that isn't what worries you.

"I can't have a man that isn't my husband to do something like that," you try your best to not snap, "if anyone were to see or hear about this, my reputation would be ruined."

"not with me it won't." he says, "if you allow me to help, neither one would speak of this, and we can return back to the estate as if nothing happened. I don't wish to ruin the life of someone so...."

"so....?"

"someone honorary," he swallows, "respectable. most women your age enjoy ruining other people's lives, spreading misinformation to cause harm, and do anything as selfish as one can imagine."

"how would you know that?" you question almost bluntly, "you... you don't know me."

"I'm afraid you yourself aren't quite aware of the impression you have made on others, miss." he says as he slowly approaches, getting as far as to his knees to assist. "now please, allow me to assist you."

your lungs paused for what felt like an eternity. you didn't know what was more intimate, either his soft spoken words or his delicate fingers on your belt, causing your heart to beat loudly it would possibly errupt from your chest.

"how do you know how to do this?" you find yourself whispering. the lord looks up at you for what you can finally see up close are mesmerizing blue eyes, bluer than anything you've seen or dreamed of before he says.

"I used to watch my mother dress herself when I was a boy," he clarifies, "she passed before I turned 7."

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ichorai · 1 month

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ties that bind ; nanami kento ; march 14th.

pairing ; nanami kento x reader

drabble synopsis ; even the strongest sorcerers need to be saved sometimes.

themes ; fluff, slice of life, established relationship (married), parents au

warnings / includes ; gojo has no sense of boundaries, tiny hint of jealous nanami at the end, and all the jujutsu students are just chilling in this one :) can you tell i'm in desperate need of slice of life content, introduction to the other kids reader has with nanami! yuriko (born 2019), hiro (born 2020), and takara (born 2023)!

series masterlist.

14th march, 2024

With the cold remnants of winter fading into the soft blossoms of springtime, you and Nanami ventured out to the parks with the kids more often. This time, you’d brought the Jujutsu students along to enjoy the day as well—Yuji and Megumi were playing a rather competitive game of catch with a frisbee, Nobara and Maki were off buying ice cream from a cart vendor, and Toge and Yuta were leaned up against Panda, all soaking up the afternoon sun.

Nanami was by the playground, gently pushing Yuriko and Hiro, five and three respectively, on the low kiddie-swings with a small smile on his face. His lips were moving as he spoke to them, but you couldn’t hear from the bench you were sitting a few feet away. You were rocking a stroller, carrying your youngest daughter, Takara. Her soft hair, a shade somewhere between you and Nanami’s own heads, was pulled into a tufty bun, which threatened to come loose with the position she’d fallen asleep in.

Gojo had also invited himself to the excursion, currently sprawled out in the space beside you, having his third—or was it his fourth? You couldn’t quite remember—brightly-colored popsicle. The two of you had exchanged quite a few pleasantries, but mostly it was just him chatting away about his students and the missions they often frequented.

“I still don’t really understand,” you said, which made his head turn your way. “I can’t believe you actually teach these kids how to survive by dropping them in dangerous situations like that.”

The thought of your own children going on to learn in such a way made a shiver run down your back. Nanami would also surely pop a blood vessel if he thought about it for too long.

“They wouldn’t die,” Gojo responded easily. “Not on my watch, at least. I can save anyone. Anyone who wants to be saved, anyway.”

There was a distant tone to his words, but he was wearing a wide smile as he regarded you through his blindfolds.

“Hm…”

“Don’t be worried about them,” he reassured you. “Trust me, showing them the real world is the best way for them to learn.”

“I know,” you said, voice small. Your eyes darted to Yuji, who had leapt an incredible distance up in the air to snatch the frisbee Megumi had tossed. “I just worry for all of them so much. It’s like they’re all my kids too now, you know?”

Gojo licked a long stripe up his melting popsicle, humming. “They’re stronger than you think. Besides, they’ll always have each other.”

Your next words made Gojo freeze in place, tongue still stuck out flat over the popsicle.

“If you save everyone, who saves you?”

Gingerly, Gojo pulled away from the popsicle. He laughed then, but it was slight and hardly genuine.

“I don’t need to be saved,” replied the white-haired man. “I’m the strongest.”

That elicited a soft snort of amusement from you. You weren’t looking at him anymore—instead, facing your husband at the playground, who had taken to helping Hiro and Yuriko onto a see-saw. A fond smile graced the corner of your lips.

“Everyone needs to be saved at some point, Satoru. All we have is each other, in the end.”

There was a long silence as Gojo thoughtfully slurped up what was left on the popsicle stick. He was already itching for another.

He reached out to pinch at your cheek, ignoring your noise of surprise. “You’re so cute, you know. I’m so glad Nanami married you.” His words were high-pitched and crooned right into your ear.

“Ack—Gojo, stop!” You were laughing, nose wrinkled as you swatted at his hand.

Gojo had to pull away eventually, because he could feel your husband’s exasperated glare fall onto him. A second longer, and he figured Nanami would’ve pulled out that blunt blade of his.

#nanami kento x reader #nanami kento fanfiction #nanami kento x you #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #jjk fanfiction #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #nanami kento ff #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami fanfiction #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento drabbles #nanami kento imagines #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk fluff

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lilimoon-draws · 1 month

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AU where several hundred years have passed since the defeat of The Calamity, and Queen Mipha decides to visit Sanidin Park.

Following their triumph, the king of Hyrule had statues erected at this site to honor all the Champions, immortalizing them as stone protectors forever watching over the land.

Once a bustling hub where people from across the kingdom would gather to pay homage and express gratitude to the heroes who saved the world, the park now sits in neglect and disrepair.

Mipha's companions, including her late husband Link, have long faded from the collective memory.

Yet, Mipha refuses to forget. Whenever she can spare a moment from her royal duties, accompanied by a pair of her guards, she makes the pilgrimage.

In the heart of the park, the statues of the Champions stand, each depicted heroically wielding their weapon in a mid-battle pose. It never fails to amuse Mipha that she was immortalized at such a diminutive stature. If they had all lived as long as she, she would tower over them all, perhaps even Daruk.

She lovingly clears away the dust and natural debris from each statue, reminiscing fondly about her time with her fellow Champions, Princess Zelda, and, of course, Link. She lingers a little longer at Link's statue.

Once she's satisfied with her work, she places flowers at the feet of her departed friends, a bouquet for each. Then, she settles onto one of the benches, content to simply soak in the peaceful view—the peace they all fought so valiantly to preserve.

#headcanon #miphlink #I've been watching frieren and it's got me all in my feels lol #legend of zelda #breath of the wild

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 20 days

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Winter's King 10

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: have a wondeful thursday.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Queen Jazlene slumps against her chair. She’s barely awake as her eyes glaze over. Despite your deflections at serving her, she’d drunk herself to excess, swiping away goblets that weren't hers. Her constant imbibition has not been missed by her husband. Slanted looks and gristly whispers did little to deter her, your own gentle girding only fuelling her irritation.

The king stands, stepping forward to overshadow his slouching queen. He raises a hand to the remaining crowd; the clumsy and drunken dancers, the chittering ladies, and the boasting lords. They turn their attention to him and hush.

“So I must retire for the night, I bid you all a hearty rest,” he pronounces, “and may tomorrow see a brighter sun shine upon us all.”

A hurrah is sent up in return and the king waits until the large hall falls back into its previous din. He turns slowly, his head down, and flares his nostrils at his queen. His golden eyes skim up and down the table.

“Come,” he takes her hand, “let us get you abed.”

Jazlene yawns and hiccups. She does not resist as he tugs her to her feet, though she teeters once upright. He swiftly hooks his arm around her, keeping her away from the view of the hall. He huffs heavily and ushers her around the bench.

“Maid,” he demands over his shoulder.

You follow as he carries on, finding a door behind the high table. The dimness of the corridor fogs around his figure as Jazlene’s slippers begin to drag. She babbles and gurgles.

“I warned you not to drink so much,” he mutters, “why can you not obey? Why can you not just do what is best for you?”

You tread behind them silently. The king falters and grunts, scooping up his wife before she can slip further down his arm. As he lifts her, her head lolls back over his thick bicep. He growls and presses onward.

As he reaches her chamber door, you come around to open it for him. He doesn’t say a word as he enters and you wait near the entrance as he lays Jazlene down on the bed. She is very silent and still, only the subtle rise and fall of her chest suggesting a glimmer of life.

You peer around as the king looms over her, his hand on the post of the bed as he simmers at her. His other arm bends as he rubs the bridge of his nose. You go to the vanity and take the now cool basin of water. You reach into your apron pocket as you hug the large bowl and cross to the bed.

You pull out a cloth as you sit on the edge of the mattress and balance the bowl against your bent leg. You wet the fabric and lean over the queen to wipe her face. The kohl around her eyes has begun to smear and a sheen of sweat layers over her rich skin. You sense the king watching your deliberate tending.

“You are good to her,” he remarks.

“She will not feel well in the morning,” you say, “I will make sure she has water to drink and a warm compress when she wakes, your highness.”

He’s quiet as he considers your words, “you will stay with her?”

You wring out the cloth and fold it over the edge of the basin before moving it back to the vanity. You face the king and clasp your hands over your apron, “she cannot be alone when she has drunk so much. Once...” you shake your head and let the statement taper out, “your highness, she will need me.”

“Hmm,” he pulls his hand off the post, pacing around the end of the bed and turn towards you, “once what?”

“Nothing, your highness. It was only a memory I had. It doesn’t matter now.”

“I would like to hear it,” he insists.

You swallow down the dryness in your throat, “your highness, well, her mother, the duchess, she is the same about wine. Once she drank overly much that she did not wake when her stomach revolted. If we’d not been there to watch over her, she might have choked on it.”

“Ah, yes,” he stops, just a step away, “that would be unfortunate. I will thank you then for keeping a close eye on my lady wife.”

“As is my duty, your highness.”

His eyes blaze down at you and he shifts on his feet, “but will you sleep?”

“Me? I rest in the cart--”

“We will not leave on the morrow, I have business yet in the capital,” he explains, “when the lady is awake, you will make certain she is conscious, then you will go and seek rest of your own.”

“Your highness, how generous, but she would need to break her fast, and dress anew, perhaps bathe--”

“There are other maids in this castle. I am commanding you to retire for the day. You will need strength for our pending departure,” he bids, “to serve your queen upon the road.”

You bow your head, apologetic, “your highness, I did not mean to argue. Certainly, I will do as you say. Thank you for minding me.”

He inches forward and your shoulders slant as you shrink for his closeness. You see his thick fingers twiddle at his side and his hot breath blasts over you like a brazier. He cautiously bends his arm and touches the front of your apron. You quiver as you watch his calloused hand climb up the stained fabric. He pauses and shudders, pinching the loose thread poking out from the belt. He pulls it loose and rolls it between his fingertips.

“You will have new clothes,” he backs away, feeling the thread, twisting it, “you are a queen’s maid now. Not some castle sweep.”

You squeeze your hands tighter as you stare at his tunic, “yes, your highness. Thank you anon.”

He turns on his sole reluctantly and looks upon the bed. You follow his gaze to his subdued wife. He hangs his head and puts his back to you before he pivots toward the door. He stalks toward it and pulls it open with enough strength to make the hinges whine.

“Good night, little maid,” he drawls just before the door snaps shut in his stead.

You raise your eyes completely and stare at the heavy wooden slats of the door. Your chest is knotted so tight you can hardly breathe. The king’s displeasure lingers even his absence. Is he unhappy with his inebriate wife or is it you? You quickly dismiss the latter. You don’t matter so much. No, his marriage is not an easy one thus far.

⚔️

You only know Queen Jazlene is awake as she spits bile onto the floor. Her head hangs over the side of the bed as she wretches and spews, coughing and gagging until she goes limp and groans. The acidic smell permeates the chamber and you come forward to clean it away with a cloth.

Once you’ve sopped up the mess, you leave her to dispose of the smelly rags and return with a cool, fresh basin and a new cloth. You help her onto her back, propping her against the pillows and clean her face anew. She moans as she keeps her eyes closed, a ripple in her forehead.

“Too bright,” she mutters.

“I will draw the curtains, your highness,” you assure her as you rescind the cloth and rise to do so.

She winces as you pull the heavy drapes together and groans, “my husband... did he not see back to my chamber?”

“He carried you here, your highness,” you explain, “you were not feeling well.”

“Mm, I still do not,” she decries.

“Shall I call for a bath?” You suggest.

“Do what you will but be quiet,” she hisses as she shades her eyes beneath her long fingers.

She gurgles as she sinks down and rolls upon her side. She curls up and you stare at her back. You go to the door and ease it open. You emerge and pass between the guards without. You are no more than a draught to them. As you approach the stairs, your name is called from ahead. You peer down the next corridor.

“Eh, there you are,” Bryce approaches. You can tell by the shine in his hair that he has bathed, “and what mission has you so intent?”

“I am to fetch lemon water for the queen. She has a sour stomach,” you say and turn back to the steps.

The soldier descends apace with you and chortles, “as she would. She can drain an ewer like no other I’ve seen.”

“Mm,” you hum grimly.

“Ah, pardon, I do not mean to be cruel,” he says, “it is only... often we reap what we sow, yes?”

“I suppose,” you allow.

“Speaking of, mouse, it is your turn to reap,” he spins and stretches his arm across your path, “king’s orders.”

You shake your head in confusion.

“The queen--”

“I will send another for her lemon water. But our dear liege and lord has bid that you rest your head. And I do concur. You are only mortal, little mouse.”

“But I must--”

“Obey your king,” he insists and rescinds his arm, crossing it with his other across his chest. “I’ve been given leave to treat you as prisoner if ye resist but I do not wish to go so far.”

You frown. You recall the night before. The king’s orders are not forgotten but you thought perhaps they mightn’t be standing. You bow your head and press your palm to your stomach, another memory flitting through your mind. The king’s hand brushing along the belt of your apron.

“I’ve acquired you a fine chamber,” Bryce says. “Gods, how could one ever be so glum about a bed of their own?”

“Sir, I am not unhappy,” you counter. “I am...” you lift your head, “tired.”

“Oh, how the fates align,” he quips, “come then. There is a bath and new dress too. I was too kind to mention it but you were starting to smell a bit too close to Daisy.”

You can’t but laugh and snort, “hey!”

“May as well take benefit in staying still,” he says, “now, let us hurry before the water is cold.”

You acquiesce and follow him away from the kitchen. You hope Jazlene is not discontent with your straying. You walk along several corridors and up to the second floor again. You do not expect to stop at one of thick doors meant for nobility.

“In here,” Bryce takes out an iron key and unlocks the door. He pushes it open and steps back. “I will come in an hour to look in on you but I trust by then you will be abed.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” you affirm.

“Be certain to have some of the food,” he orders you, “much better than the goat meat I’ve been chewing on.”

You thank him one last time and enter on your own. He closes the door behind you and you hear the lock twist. The loud grind of cogs does not unsettle you. It’s rare you ever have a moment of solace, though often you feel alone.

You look around the chamber. It is much too grand for you. There is a wide bed at one end with a long canopy. The window lets in a warm breeze as the steam coiling from the large tub dampens the air. The furniture here is just as fine as that in the queen’s rooms.

You meander around and stop before the covered tray on the round table. You lift the lid and reveal an assortment of fruit and cooked oats drizzled with honey. Your stomach roars and clenches painfully. Without a thought, you sit on the stool to gulp the porridge from the brim. You empty near half the bowl before you stop to catch your breath.

You pluck at the citrus and devour the fruit with delighted purrs. When you have glutted your hunger to the point of discomfort, you lick your lips and rise. You near the tub as untie your apron. Your body aches for the heat of the water.

You leave the layers of your filthy garments on the floor and step into the depths. You sigh as you lower yourself in. Relief seeps through your flesh and enshrines you. You lay back for a time and bask in the calm. Before the water can cool, you sit up to scrub yourself clean.

When you finish, you climb out and pull on the shift folded on the top of the stack; a dress, and apron, stockings, and even shoes. There is no cap. You fish around your disposed clothing and retrieve your own. You soak it in the bathwater, wringing it out until it’s not so browned.

A knock comes at the door. You sit on the edge of the mattress and call to the visitor, “hello?”

“Eh, it’s me,” Bryce’s salty timbre comes through the wood, “you sleep now, mouse.”

“Yes, sir.”

He taps the door and you hear his footsteps fade away. You recline across the bed and stare up at the canopy. You close your eyes but your stomach is uneasy. You don’t know why. The bed is too soft, the linens too fluffy.

You puff and sit up. You get to your feet and circle around the bed to the short bench across the foot of it. You tuck yourself onto the barely cushioned wood and bend your legs to fit. You fold and arm under your head. Much better.

It isn’t very long before you succumb to your fatigue. You don’t realise how tired you truly are until you’re buried in sleep. Heavy and dark, almost suffocating.

Behind your eyelids, you see streaks of colour, curling and rolling into visions. Shadowy forests and endless roads, the clop of horse hooves, the rattle of axles, and the crunch of boots in the dirt. The preening whine of the Queen as she splashes wine across your face. You gasp through the acrid sprinkle and fall backwards into air.

You land on a heap of hay. You’re back in Debray, in the barn where you would flit away with Merinda to eat or even steal a nap. She would watch at the window and you would doze or nibble. You look over but do not see her. Instead, another stands at the opening.

The king’s silver white hair hangs in waves down his muscled back. He wears only breeches as he stares off into the distance. The window greys with a storm beyond, pulsing from shades of dove feather to harrowing black. He faces you and his golden eyes glow like a wolf’s.

You sit up and whimper. He prowls closer and closer, thunder crashing as a great gust blows through the barn. Then all at once, the tempest subsides and the wooden walls turn to stone. You’re trapped beneath something unbreakable, like iron, wrists bound. You look at your arms, pinned by large hands. You look above you and find yourself straddled beneath the king.

He leans in, closer and closer, his fiery breath razing over you.

“Little maid...”

His growl snakes around your neck and you wake with a start. The bench teeters as you sit up, your hand gripping your forehead. You blink and look around, clearing the haze from your sleepy eyes.

Just as in your dream, you are not alone.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #winter's king #the witcher

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seravphs · 1 year

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beating hearts promised to bared teeth — part one: “The God Finds A Familiar”

KITSUNE! GOJO x GOD! FEM READER; KAMISAMA HAJIMEMASHITA AU

When a kind stranger offers you his home because your gambling addict of a father can’t pay rent, you’re left in charge of a shrine - with a catch. Once you arrive at your new home, you learn a crucial fact that he conveniently left out. You’re the new god in charge, and his familiar, who now belongs to you, does not like you. What’s a new god to do, especially when she finds herself slowly falling for the fox spirit?

wc — 10k

tags — enemies to lovers, shoujo manga heroine type reader, Japanese mythology/yokai, age gap (1000 year old fox and high school girl), slowburn, cameo from Sukuna, Toji, and Nanami, cameo from original Kamisama Hajimemashita cast

part two — “The God Finds A Husband” (coming soon)

shoujo series masterlist

If your stomach growls any louder, you’ll scare off the squirrels fighting over the end of a baguette loaf by the park bench you’re sitting on.

You’re currently in the middle of what others might describe as very hard times. To be honest, your very hard times have been going on for a while now - they just culminated at this specific moment. Regardless, these days are only temporary. You’ve promised yourself that one day, you’ll be able to smile from the bottom of your heart.

It’s just that it was easier said than done when you weren’t homeless. Your father has never been the most reliable of men. You had to take over the household finances by the time you were eight, so you’ve always been accustomed to his lack of responsibility, but today really solidified his status in your mind as an absolutely useless, no good man. It’s unfathomable cruelty to have left his only daughter with no money, no relatives, and no home.

You don’t want to call it cruel. For all of his faults, you still love your father. And it’s because you love him that you know this wasn’t a cruel act. Cruelty is intentional. It’s malicious. It comes from a desire to hurt. Your father has never wanted to hurt you. It’s just a byproduct of his gambling addiction. You’re collateral damage in his quest for the jackpot that would solve all his problems.

You double over in agony at the renewed complaints from your stomach. At least you’ve gone from scaring mere squirrels to scaring passersby. That’s an upgrade, right?

One woman clutches her purse closer as she walks past you as briskly as possible. You get it, you look bad.

But there’s no use being resentful. Your father has been barely one step above a deadbeat all your life. At the very least, you’re used to fending for yourself. Your stomach growls again, but you’re determined to ignore it. You need a plan of action. One step after another, you’ll make it out of these troublesome times.

Before you can start to plot, a loud cry for help catches your attention. It sounds like someone else is in even more dire straits than you are, which is saying a lot.

The squirrels have long since scattered, run off not by the scary noises coming from your famished stomach, but a pack of dogs. Somehow, a man has climbed several feet into the tree next to the trash can, and now perched precariously in its branches. Below him, curious dogs tilt their heads and give cautious barks.

“Aw, hello there, cuties,” you coo, rubbing behind their ears. They yip at you enthusiastically. One sets to chasing his own tail around the tree. They seem friendly enough, but you suppose one can’t help their phobias. A little regretfully, you chase them off.

“Go on now,” you tell the last one, leading him away. He whines, but does as you say. What a good boy.

“Thank you,” says the stranger stranded in the tree. He slides down the trunk, face slowly regaining color. “I owe you my life.”

“It was nothing!” You smile, but he won’t let you brush off your good deed.

“You’re a good kid,” he nods approvingly. “Gotta reward that. Is there anything you want?”

A home.

Not just the house you shared with your father, but somewhere warm to return to. A person who waits to see you safely inside the threshold.

But you know a stranger can’t give you that, so you shake your head and smile. “Really, it was nothing. You don’t owe me anything.”

As if he had heard your inner monologue, the stranger raises an eyebrow. “A home, hm? I might be able to help with that.”

Before you can react, he leans in and kisses your forehead. Where his lips touched your skin feels faintly warm and tingly, almost like the sensation of your leg going numb, before you recoil from him in shock.

He presses a map into your hand and tells you, “Go to this address. Tell them Yaga sent you, and you’ll be welcomed with open arms.”

With that, he runs off.

What a strange man.

Well, you’ve had a strange life, taking care of your hopeless father and all. Perhaps these things really did happen. It wasn’t so impossible for strangers to appear out of nowhere and reward you for good deeds. Maybe all the fairytales your father had read to you back when he hadn’t been so terrible were true.

Or maybe that was the wishful thinking of an optimistically delusional girl who needed somewhere to stay desperately.

The address is located on the outskirts of town. Pushing deeper into foliage and closer to forest than civilization, you find the location you had been sent to.

It’s a shrine.

A run-down shrine, of all places.

Are you on a comedy show? Should you start checking for cameras?

Against your will, you feel your eyes grow hot. That was a cruel trick to play. He had gotten your hopes up for nothing.

It’s not just your eyes. Your entire body starts to feel warm. The world around you erupts into blue flame. Heat licks at your shins as you scramble towards safety, closer to the center of the circle that has formed around you.

When the flames suddenly leap, as if they’ll consume the entire sky, you scream and drop to your knees, covering your head like it’s a bomb threat. Two childish voices ring in your head, as clear and crisp as bells.

Welcome home, Yaga-sama.

It’s a shrine. There’s only one logical conclusion.

This is a haunting.

There’s only one safe path out of the ring of fire, and it’s towards the building you’ve now concluded is the site of paranormal activity. Between being actively burned alive or facing spirits though, you know which one you’ll choose.

Your frantic fingers fumble over the latch on the shrine’s red doors as the fire inches closer and closer until you can feel its heat on your back. Finally, you throw open the doors and all but launch yourself inside. The heat recedes, but the voices do not.

“Back already, Yaga?” A male voice drawls. “I thought your pilgrimage would’ve taken longer. After leaving me to maintain the shrine by myself for sixty years -“

You shriek as an enormous, clawed hand comes down towards your face. Your eyes squeeze shut, waiting for the end.

“I’m not Yaga,” you wail, hoping it will save you.

“You have a lot of nerve?” The voice finishes, more uncertainly than before. When you deem it safe to open your eyes once more, what stands before is a young man dressed in all white. White hair and blue eyes make for a staring constraint, but his coloring isn’t what’s strange about him.

It’s his clawed hands and the equally white fox tail behind him.

“Megumi, Tsumiki,” he says authoritatively. “This isn’t Yaga.”

A shining ball of fire comes forward, speaking in the little girl’s voice you heard earlier. “That can’t be right! Look, she has the mark of the god on her forehead.”

You touch your forehead, remembering the warm tingly sensation you had felt when that man kissed you. Feeling slightly delirious, you start to laugh, only to grow alarmed when you find you can’t stop. You’re growing out of breath from your near hysterical laughing, tears streaming out of the corners of your eyes.

“Oh, great,” says the fox spirit. “She’s crazy.”

“She’s the one with the mark,” the other ball of fire, Megumi, says. “That means she’s the god whether you like it or not, Gojo.”

Tsumiki darts over to you, but halfway through her journey, she goes from fire to a little child just under 2 feet tall. She’s wearing a mask and plain blue yukata.

“We have to celebrate!” She claps her hands together in excitement. “Our god has finally returned!”

Gojo looks dismissively down on you. Your laughing fit is finally starting to die down, but he doesn’t seem impressed regardless. “What god? I won’t accept a little human girl as my master. She couldn’t handle the strength of a familiar like me.”

His condescension only makes you giggle harder. You can’t help it. Something about the fluffy fox ears protruding out of his head makes it hard to take him seriously.

“What strength?” You laugh in his face. “This shrine is so dilapidated, I doubt you’re anything special.”

Gojo looks away. “If she stays, I’m leaving. I won’t serve this kind of pathetic god.”

He disappears in a cloud of white smoke before Tsumiki can finish saying, “Don’t be like that!”

The will-o-wisp children introduce themselves to you as shrine spirits who look after the building. It takes a while, but by the time they kindly show you to the room where you’ll be staying, you can distinguish Tsumiki from Megumi by the differences in the masks they never take off.

Your room is simple and threadbare. The walls are paneled bamboo and the only furnishing is an old futon. Still, you’re grateful. It’s leagues better than sleeping in the woods, which is what you started this day fearing you would have to resort to. You’ve never been the type to complain, and you won’t start now, no matter how strange your life has gotten.

Fox spirits and will-o-wisp children don’t exist. They’re the stuff of myths. Maybe you’re just seeing things because you’re tired, you muse as you drift off to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning after a nice, long rest. The events of today will feel so far away, and you’ll be able to start over.

Or maybe you’re dead already, and you’re wandering in the Netherworld. Perhaps the reason you can see spirits is because you’re currently residing in their land. Your entire body seizes up as you jolt yourself back to wakefulness.

“Kamisama,” Tsumiki has crept back into your room. “Are you alright?”

You tell her to call you by her name. Calling you god just doesn’t feel right.

Gently, she nestles down by your pillow and puts her cold little hands on your forehead. Rather than shocking to your senses, it feels pleasant. When you were a little girl and got sick, your father used to let you stay home from school. He’d pack a towel with ice cubes and place it on your overheated forehead, staying up with you all night just to chat. It’s a good memory.

“It’ll be alright,” Tsumiki tells you in her gentle voice. “You’ll see.”

For spirits that supposedly take care of the shrine, you have a suspicion that Tsumiki and Megumi are pushing their work onto you when they brief you on your chores the next morning. It turns out godhood is a lot less summoning storms and a lot more doing yard work.

Tsumiki insists that keeping the shrine pure is important for keeping evil spirits away. For some reason, that means cleaning. When you ask about calling lightning or summoning lions, Megumi laughs at you.

“That’s Getou-sama’s job,” he says. “Your specialty is marriage. Yaga was very good at tying peoples’ fates together. You will be, too.”

He has more faith than you do in that regard. When it comes to chores, however, you’re more certain of your abilities. Busy work keeps the absurdity of your situation from sinking in, and you’re good at running the household from years of dealing with your father. You’re grateful for something to do. If you think about the past day too hard, you might break down into shocked laughter and never get back up.

Besides, even if you don’t feel particularly ready to be a god, Tsumiki and Megumi are letting you stay in the shrine. You have to earn your keep. Soon, you settle into the process of cleaning, letting the methodical, rhythmic nature of your movements erase any doubts in your mind. You think of nothing but the cooling sensation of the water when you dip your rag into the bucket and the clean, woody scent of the shrine as you scrub the wood.

“Ooh,” Tsumiki says approvingly when she appears. “It looks better already! Can you do the lawn next?”

Plucking weeds is notably less soothing than cleaning. With no gloves, you’re careful to avoid hurting yourself as you tug on spiky vines and knotted twigs, but it’s no use. Eventually, you lose focus and a sharp sting graces your finger. Blood drips down your hand. You hiss in pain.

A hand with white claws instead of nails grabs your wrist. You yelp in shock as Gojo brings your finger to his mouth and laps at the blood. It stains his lips slightly red. He worries at the cut with his tongue, making your wound ache. You try to pull back, but he holds on.

To your amazement, the cut closes before your eyes. You’re just about to thank him when he ruins the moment.

“You really are useless,” he says. “You can’t even pluck grass?”

You yank your hand out of his grip as hard as you can, sending yourself tumbling back against the grass. You hate how it must make yourself seem even more human in his eyes, a weak, fragile thing.

“Give up,” he says, and it’s almost gentle, the way his claws graze your chin as he holds your face in one hand. “You’re not suited to be a god.”

You turn away, unwilling to let him see any more of your vulnerability. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Suit yourself,” he says with a noise of annoyance. “Brats who run away from home aren’t my problem.”

“I didn’t run away!” You snap, whirling on him. “My dad was the one who ran! I don’t have anywhere else to go!”

But he’s gone.

At least Megumi and Tsumiki are nice to you. Megumi takes the bucket of weeds you deposit at the front door and whisks it somewhere out of your sight, while Tsumiki prepares a nice, hot bath for you. Exhausted, you collapse onto the bamboo floor spread eagle.

God, a voice murmurs in your head.

Not again. You don’t want any more spirits to deal with. When you raise your head, instead of another yokai, there’s an old woman standing in front of the shrine. Her head is bowed and her hands are clasped in prayer.

Please bless my daughter’s marriage so that she will enjoy a long and fruitful life with her partner.

Her voice is coming from some place inside your head. It resonates like a bell, ringing crisp and clear. You stretch out your hands wonderingly. You don’t look any different.

“You see?” Tsumiki says approvingly. “You’re a god.”’

But you don’t feel like one. You feel just like a normal person.

“A god needs a familiar.” You can’t see Megumi’s face behind his mask as he speaks, but you can imagine the solemn little boy he must be. “You need to bind Gojo to you.”

“How do I do that?”

“You have to kiss him.”

You wait for them to tell you they’re joking.

“What? I can’t kiss him! Is there-”

Megumi cuts in. “It’s just the traditional way to seal the contract. Don’t think too much of it.”

The fact that neither of them are bothered makes you feel like the ridiculous one for being off put by this, but you’re sure you’re not. Still, if you’re a god now, you have to put all of your mortal sensibilities aside. It’s like another culture, you tell yourself. Like how Europeans kiss each other on the cheek to say hello. Even if you can’t convince yourself, Megumi and Tsumiki are insistent.

You were so fired up just a second ago, but now your head is filled with doubts. If such a simple matter can sway you, are you really meant to be a god after all? Maybe Gojo is right. Maybe you should just leave.

“Please,” Tsumiki says. She looks distraught. “Don’t abandon us. Please don’t leave.”

Megumi doesn’t say anything, but his silence is enough.

“Okay,” you say, feeling defeated. “I’ll give it a shot.”

You’ve always been good at chores. If taming Gojo is just another part of your new job, it sounds like it's time to get serious.

“Take me to him.”

Megumi and Tsumiki balk.

“Right now?”

“Why not? The sooner I get it over with, the better, right?”

“He’s...indisposed at the moment,” Tsumiki says carefully.

“Indisposed? Is he sick?”

“Not quite,” Megumi says. He’s very expressive for a spirit. You can practically imagine him grimacing.

“Then it’s fine!”

You would soon come to regret your words.

Megumi and Tsumiki lead you out of the shrine. They show you where to find the path that can lead you to the land of spirits and demons. Your entire body rebels at the feeling of being in this other world, but at the same time, you feel at home here. The god and the girl that coexist inside of you are mutually repelled by and attracted to this place.

Even though you know Megumi and Tsumiki aren’t really children, or at least children in the way mortals think of them, you’re still concerned about letting them traipse around this dangerous place. However, they seem more used to this world than you are. That energy is better devoted to fending for yourself.

They lead you under bridges where the running water smells like flowers and women’s voices hiss in the babble of the current. Tree leaves rustle with hands that disappear into darkness. You follow them through dark alleyways lined with red paper blessings, and doorsteps encircled with salt. Eyes follow you, leaving your skin crawling.

You’re so focused on keeping your head down and staying out of danger that you almost don’t notice when they stop. You nearly run Megumi over.

“He’s inside here,” Tsumiki says.

Is it just you, or does she seem nervous?

The lanterns inside this establishment are turned down to a dimness that barely illuminates the corridors. Sweet smelling smoke writhes around your feet from some unknown source as you head deeper and deeper into the maze of hallways, following the pair of shrine spirits. You pass women wearing fox masks, dressed in luxurious kimonos. Their hair towers over their head in elaborate updos, held in place with beautiful pins inlaid with chartreuse and gold.

Megumi stops before a folding screen door. Like all things within this building, it’s beautiful. The silk screen is painted with images of flowers and more gruesome scenes as well, but somehow, it’s still breath-taking. A little like Gojo, in that regard.

You hear the voices of women behind the screen, flattering Gojo. The light of a single candle illuminates the dim room, imprinting his silhouette against it, as well as that of the two women with him. They’re draped over him, hands roaming his body as they purr their compliments. Your face burns with embarrassment.

“What are you doing?” Megumi demands of Gojo. “How can you parade around the red-light district like this? You’re the familiar of a god, not some common demon! If Yaga knew, it’d break his poor heart.”

Behind the screen, Gojo merely brushes him off. “Yaga’s been replaced by some little human worm. Why should I care what he thinks now?”

“What about the shrine? Don’t you care about that, at least?” Tsumiki's voice is thick with reproach.

“Now that you mention it, I don’t think I do,” he says. “Ha! You know what? Maybe I should thank that girl. Now that I’m free, I can do whatever I want.”

“Gojo-“

“I’ll can indulge in every little vice Yaga never allowed me to touch before. Who would want to be a familiar when I can have all of this?”

“Gojo, our god is here.”

“What?”

He leaps up and pushes the screen aside, coming face to face with you. He looks startled to see you, though you don’t see why he should care, since he so desires to lead a life of sin.

You look upon him with disgust. You might want a familiar, but you’re not so desperate you’d stoop as low as this. Gojo cares so little for anyone but himself. If you’re going to be a god, you’re going to do it right. You’ll pick a good familiar, one who will genuinely love the shrine as much as it deserves.

You turn and leave as he, half-clothed, frantically starts pulling on the outer layers of his kimono.

“Wait,” he calls after you. “Tsumiki! Megumi! Why would you bring her here?”

“She wanted to see you,” Megumi retorts.

“This isn’t the place for a human,” he says. “She’s going to get eaten!”

The faster Gojo follows you, the faster you run from him. By the time you’re out of what you’ve come to realize is a brothel, you’re sprinting. Your legs carry you right into someone else as your face slams against a broad, muscled chest.

“Oh,” says a voice above your head. “How pretty.”

A hand caresses your face. This spirit has tattoo marks across his face and body. More interestingly, he has multiple arms.

You’re frozen in place by fear as he brings his mouth closer and closer to your face. He’s close enough to kiss, but this is a spirit, which means he’s more likely to eat you.

“Be good for me now,” he purrs in your ear. “Fear makes flesh all the sweeter.”

Three of his six arms are consumed by fire. He pushes you away from him in favor of batting out the flame.

Gojo pulls you towards him, hiding you in the folds of his billowing kimono. You press your face against his shoulder, swallowing back the tears of fear from nearly being eaten. Somehow, he feels safe, even though he’s been nothing but antagonistic towards you. He feels almost protective as he shields your body with his, securing you under one arm.

“Scram,” he tells the other demon. “She’s mine, Sukuna.”

Sukuna rolls his pairs of eyes. “You weren’t with her when I caught her. She’s fair game.”

Fox fire flickers in Gojo’s hand. His white talons seem to elongate before your eyes.

“If you want to fight over her, then by all means,” he says with a dangerous smile. “But we both know I’d win.”

“Maybe later then,” Sukuna says, lazily as if Gojo isn’t threatening him. “Once I’ve eaten my fill.”

He stalks off into the night in search of more prey.

“This is why I told you to wait,” Gojo says, running his hand over his face. “You’re practically bait in this world. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

You nod, not trusting your voice, but he catches on anyways.

“Don’t cry,” he says, his face twisted in a grimace. “I won’t know what to do if you cry. Look, this is just your life now, okay? You’ll have to get used to it.”

On impulse, you press your face into his shoulder again, still sniffling. You want to be comforted, even though you know he won’t give it to you.

“Ugh,” he says, true to form. “Quit that.”

By the time you’ve calmed down, Gojo has already escorted you back to the shrine.

“Don’t come back,” he tells you.

Of course, you can’t listen to him. On your second night in the land of the dead and monsters, not only do you have to hide from beasts who would devour you the moment they found out what you were, you also have to hide from Gojo. You’re wearing a disguise, courtesy of Tsumiki and Megumi.

In your defense, it’s not like you want to be here. You need a familiar, and it’s clearly not going to be Gojo.

According to Tsumiki, Gojo’s the strongest, but there are other familiars who would be willing to serve you. They’re all in the Netherworld, however, and you have to find them before you can contract them.

You pull the curtain of the hat shielding your face a little closer around you as you peer at the faces surrounding you, trying to gauge who looks friendly. None of them do. You’ve been wandering around for hours, but not a single spirit has stood out to you.

In the end, you don’t find him. He finds you.

“A human god?” A hand grasps your wrist loosely. “That’s rare. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be here?”

The man in front of you looks normal by any standards - but you know better than to trust your gut in the netherworld. Still, he’s the closest thing to a human you’ve seen in a while. Surrounded by a maelstrom of monsters, he feels like the eye of the storm. There’s a quiet and a calm surrounding him, even as you walk among noderabo with withered, leathery skin and scaly yajo.

It’s not like he’s in his own little pocket of the world, you realize. He is. Everyone is purposefully giving him a wide berth.

“Who are you?”

“I asked first,” he says.

“You know who I am! You just said so - I’m the human god.”

His eyes rake over you. “So you are. But what are you doing here, girl?”

You throw his words back in his face obstinately. “You first.”

“I’m Toji.” That doesn’t tell you anything, but he’s clearly unwilling to divulge more. “Your turn.”

“I’m looking for a familiar.”

“What about your familiar? I heard that Gojo-sama isn’t keen on sharing.”

Somehow, the way he says Gojo-sama sounds derisive, even with the respectful honorific.

“He doesn’t want to be my familiar.”

The rejection stings coming out of your own mouth.

“Sounds like him. Haughty bastard, he couldn’t stand to serve a human girl, could he?”

“Yeah! He’s an asshole,” you say, feeling validated.

When Toji laughs, the scar over his lip tugs one side of his mouth down. You kind of like it. And he must be strong, just looking at him. He’s well muscled and covered in scars. Of course, there’s the little matter of the reverence everyone around you is offering him. Tsumiki and Megumi had told you to just go out and find one. Could it be that easy?

“Are you interested?”

He gives you a look of barely concealed amusement. “You’re funny, girl. I don’t think Gojo would like that very much, though.”

“I don’t care what Gojo thinks.”

“Oh, here he comes now. Don’t go running too far - you’ll worry him,” he says, slow and easy. His confidence is absurd - it reminds you of Gojo, actually. He must be strong. “If you’re really serious about wanting me as a familiar, why don’t you meet me here again in three days?”

“What are you doing?” Gojo snarls at you. His teeth match the rest of his fox physique. With wonder, you realize that his pearly canines are pointed beyond what’s normal. “I told you not to come back!”

“But- He-” You turn around to point Toji out, but he’s gone.

“Who?” Gojo says.

“He was right there!”

“You’re so annoying,” Gojo bites out. “I don’t care what happens to you, but if you die, Megumi and Tsumiki will cry, so stop wandering off on your own. You’re lucky you didn’t get devoured on the spot.”

He’s starting to get really irritating. You shove his hands off.

“You know it’s actually your fault I’m here, right? If you didn’t reject me, I wouldn’t have to scour the Netherworld for a familiar.”

Gojo scoffs. “My fault? Maybe you should take a look at yourself. If you were less weak, I wouldn’t have a problem serving you!”

“That’s- You’re impossible!” You splutter. “I can’t help being weak! I was born this way! Not everyone is so lucky to be born a kitsune, oh-so-great-Gojo-sama.”

“Enough,” he sighs. Taking you by your wrist, he forcibly drags you through the streets back in the direction you came.

“Ow! You’re hurting me!”

“Gojo!” Megumi’s reproving voice breaks the argument up before it can begin again.

He lets go of you almost guiltily, if you thought he could feel guilt.

“I’ll take her home,” Megumi says.

Gojo’s tail lashes behind him angrily, but Megumi doesn’t spare him a second glance as he ushers you away.

“Thank you,” you tell him in relief. “What are you doing here?”

“You were taking a long time,” he says. “Tsumiki and I were getting worried. Did you find anyone?”

You think of Toji. “No,” you say. “No one.”

The next day, while Megumi and Tsumiki dress you for your trip through the Netherworld again, Megumi presses three slips of white paper into your hands.

“We should’ve taught you this sooner,” he says. “One of the powers of a god is to transform objects. Whatever you write on this charm will become true - within the scope of your power. Be safe.”

Armed with your paper slips, you feel like a real god. Tsumiki pushes you out the door with a prayer for good luck, though you’re not sure you can grant prayers to yourself for yourself.

Outside the door, something whines by your feet.

“Gojo?”

Or is that a regular white fox?

It snaps its teeth at you.

Definitely Gojo.

“I don’t need an escort,” you tell him, making shooing motions at him with your hands. “Go away!”

He rolls over and yips at you, his tail wagging.

“I can’t understand you like this!”

“I said,” a cloud of smoke reveals him, mostly humanoid once again, except for his ears and tail. “I don’t want to do this either. It’s for Megumi and Tsumiki.”

Toji doesn’t seem to like him, so you don’t want to risk bringing him with you. Despite your best attempts to shake him, Gojo follows you as you retrace your steps back into the spirit world. You’re just starting to despair when you spot a bigger reason to be upset.

“Hello, delicious,” Sukuna says. “Ready for round two?”

Why does he look even more terrifying? Did he get bigger?

“Leave her alone,” Gojo says, almost bored. “It’s pathetic. You can only bully things weaker than you, huh?”

“I’m not afraid to fight you,” Sukuna tells him.

You’re panicking. They both look serious. You don’t want to be caught between these two forces of nature.

“You should be,” Gojo says, and steps in front of you. Over his shoulder, he tells you, “Run. You’re in my way.”

This is the chance you were waiting for.

Toji’s dressed differently when you find him again. Last night, he was wearing a casual black kimono. Tonight, he’s dressed in a tight fitting black shirt and loose white pants.

“You look nice,” you tell him, feeling anxious. Your mind keeps going back to Gojo. You’re sure he can hold his own, but you’re still worried for him. As you are, however, you’re of no help to him. The only way you’d be able to rescue him if he actually was in danger is by making a contract with a powerful familiar.

“It’s for work,” he says. “Follow me.”

“We can’t do it here?”

“Do you want to kiss me in front of everyone?” He shrugs and reaches for you. “I mean, I’m down if you are, but I figured-”

“No,” you squeak and dart away. “Privacy is good!”

He laughs. “You’re as funny as ever, huh? C’mere.”

Toji leads you off the beaten path and further into the woods. The only thing that keeps you from feeling more nervous is the moon shining overhead, illuminating your path. It feels almost like a friend is with you.

“Here is good,” Toji says, stopping at a clearing.

“It’s so pretty,” you breathe out, dazzled. This deep into the woods, fireflies are lighting your way. Beneath your feet, a springy bed of flowers and moss covers the floor.

“What can I say? I’m a romantic.”

“Yeah, right,” you laugh at him, but you draw closer. You think you could trust him. You think you could be partners with him.

Then Toji grabs you by the shoulders and dangles you off the edge of the clearing, over a steep drop you hadn’t noticed. The sharp cut off had been hidden by flowers, danger painted over with beauty.

“Sorry, kid,” Toji says. “No hard feelings, right?”

“Why?” You whisper. Gojo had been right.

“There’s a bounty on your head,” he says. “Getou has offered to grant the wish of anyone who kills you.”

His eyes turn wistful. “I have a kid. Haven’t seen him in years. You understand, right? It’s not personal.”

The fall is brutal. The wind whips tears into your eyes, if you weren’t already crying from the fear of falling to your death. You have to do something, anything. Above your head, something white flutters.

A dove?

Then another.

It’s one of the paper ofuda Megumi had given you before you left, caught in the updraft of you rushing down to earth. You snatch it out of the air. You can’t reach the pen in your pocket. With increasing desperation, you bite down on your finger hard enough to draw blood and trace the characters for a tree branch onto it. Holding it aloft, you pray.

Between your hands, wood solidifies. You’re clinging to a scrap of a twig sprouting from the rocky cliffside. Megumi’s words echo in your head - only within the scope of your power.

So this is it, huh?

That’s all there is of your godly strength.

“Looks like you’re in trouble,” Gojo says. He has no problem balancing on the sheer cliff. His appearance is impeccable, completely unscathed from his fight with Sukuna. He perches like a bird, as comfortable as if he were standing on solid ground. “Do you need help?”

Thank god. He’s here to save you! You nod, turning teary eyes on him. You were wrong about him. Gojo really is a good guy, deep down.

“If you say, ‘Please save me, Gojo-sama, I was stupid.’ I’ll help you. Throw in some crying and begging, too.”

Your eyes dry up instantly. He’s a total bastard. You clutch onto the branch tighter. There’s no way you’ll give him the satisfaction of groveling for help.

Your resolve weakens when you hear the first snap.

“Time’s ticking,” Gojo calls in a sing-song voice. “What will it be?”

The harder you hold on, the more your flimsy branch breaks.

“Come on,” Gojo says. “It’s not that hard. It’s just seven little words. Isn’t that worth your life?”

“Go fuck yourself,” you tell him, and the branch finally snaps.

Falling for the second time is just as bad as the first time. The icy wind snatches at you like claws, tearing at your clothes.

To your surprise, Gojo leaps after you. He makes free-fall look elegant - surely a far cry from whatever you’re doing.

“Just say it,” he yells, within arm’s reach. He’s so close he could snag you by the shirt and haul you to safety, but you know he won’t. Not without getting what he wants. “Would you rather die than just apologize?”

You have an answer prepared.

His eyes widen in shock when you press your palms to his cheek, pull him closer, and kiss him.

You barely have time to register the taste of him, sake and something sweet, before the reality of falling to your death rushes in again.

“Gojo, save me!”

As if his body is piloted by someone else, Gojo catches you. For him, it’s a short leap back up to the top of the clearing, where Toji has disappeared.

You climb down from his hold once you’re certain you’re safe. You never thought you’d miss the feeling of solid ground beneath your feet this much, but at the moment, you’re willing to kiss the earth.

Gojo seems much worse off. He’s frozen in shock, muttering the same refrain to himself under his breath. “Me? Bound to her? Impossible.”

“Let’s go home,” you tell him. He doesn’t seem to get it until you tug him towards the path, and then he leads the way wordlessly. .

You wake to Megumi and Tsumiki weeping over you.

“I’m alright!”

They freeze, then burst into fresh tears.

“We thought you would never wake up! Your first time using ofuda must have been too much for you,” Megumi gets out through his sobs.

You feel sore all over. You can barely recall the events of the previous night, only that you kissed-

“Finally up?”

Gojo’s tapping his foot as he waits for you to get up. He looks furious. There’s an unmistakeable tick in his jaw that spells trouble for you.

It’s too early to deal with him. You duck back under the covers.

“Oh no you don’t,” he growls out as he seizes your wrist and bodily hauls you out of your warm cocoon of blankets. “You wanted to be a god, you’re going to be a god. It’s time for some training.”

You shiver pathetically in the cold morning air. If you had known helping a stranger would lead to be harassed by a fox spirit, you would’ve never done it in the first place.

“Try harder,” Gojo says at your sixth failed attempt to turn water into wine.

“It smells alcoholic,” Megumi offers loyally.

“I am trying!” You insist.

“Harder,” Gojo snarls.

The seventh attempt doesn’t change. Gojo throws up his arms and stalks out of the shrine, declaring the need to cool his head. Tsumiki frantically trails him, not trusting him to not attempt to run away again.

Megumi tries to assure you that you’re doing well, but honestly, you need to leave too. The shrine feels too stuffy. A change of scenery will do you good. Sitting alone in the woods just behind the shrine, you try to focus. Slowly, stacks of ofuda disappear from your hands as you paste them to trees, willing them to blossom. Wilt. Do anything, anything at all.

You’re out cold when Gojo finds you.

“Divine power takes time,” he says as he prepares dinner. “Use too many talismans at once and you’ll pass out.”

You drink a spoonful of soup morosely. “How do I get stronger?”

“You’ll get stronger if you grant prayers.”

Tsumiki perks up. “One just came in!”

“I already looked at it,” Gojo says dismissively. “Not that one.”

“Everyone’s wishes deserve to be looked at,” you argue.

Gojo scoffs, “Not this one.”

“Don’t be rude! A god can’t pick and choose.”

He tosses the prayer at you.

Morimoto Rika’s request touches your heart. She’s the spirit of a nearby lake - not just any spirit, as Megumi helpfully clarifies, but another owner of a shrine. A human boy visits her waters nightly. By the light of the moonlight, she fell in love with him, but she can’t meet him because they live in two separate worlds.

And to think that you would’ve never known to help her if Gojo had continued keeping this from you.

“This sounds like the perfect job for me,” you argue.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Yokai can’t fall in love with humans.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Aren’t you bound to do as I say? Take me to her.”

Against his will, Gojo summons what’s called a ‘night fog coach’. Only operable at night, as the name suggests, it’s a tall black carriage truly made for a god. You’re just wondering how Gojo expects you to climb aboard when he effortlessly lifts you by the waist.

“You’re the one who wanted to go meet her,” he sneers. “Chop-chop.”

Your supplicant looks like a fish if it were a girl. She has pale green skin and large, black eyes, with overly large teeth for her mouth. Black hair frames a heart shaped face. She’s cute, in her own monstrous way. And she’s desperately in love with a human boy.

Gojo helps you transform her into a human body and make her over into a normal teenage girl. For a prayer granted, it feels like nothing more than dressing your friend up for a date.

You’re even as nosy as you would be in that situation. It’s the first prayer you’ve ever granted. You know you shouldn’t, but you and Gojo watch the burgeoning romance from a distance. Of course, he’s completely disapproving, but you have high hopes for them - until Rika pulls out a ring.

Aren’t they moving a little too fast?

It only gets worse when Rika confesses that she’s been stalking him - sort of. Keeping tabs on him for his safety by following him around town is a little too close to the other, for your liking. Your head drops into your hands.

But Yuta takes it surprisingly well. A little too well, in fact. It only seems to infatuate him even more. You knew there were certain types of men out there who loved crazy, but you had never seen it in real life - until now.

Could this even be counted as a success?

You’re happy for Rika and Yuta, as happy as you can be for their twisted little union, but you’re just waiting for Gojo to bite your head off for bringing a (real) monster and a human together as soon as you get back home. At least they’re happy, you think ruefully. Worse things could happen. Your first union as a marriage god didn’t fail. In fact, of all people, Yuta seemed the most likely in the world to accept Rika as she was, human or not.

To your surprise, returning to the shrine, Gojo begrudgingly says, “You did well.”

Any warm feelings you have for him the next day are replaced when he barges into your room and demands you strip.

“You have guests,” he says. “Messengers from Toji-sama, the god of the wind.”

Your eyes grow wide. You hadn’t known Toji was a god. Come to think of it, did Gojo even know the reason why you had been falling from that cliff? You weren’t sure if he had come in time to see who had pushed you.

“What are you worried about? I’ll be at your side the whole time.”

You’ll tell him later. Right now, you have a serious matter to prepare for.

You tried not to discriminate on the basis of his master, but it’s not that at all. Toji’s familiar, Naoya, is simply annoying on his own terms.

“So you’re the new god of this ramshackle little shrine,” he sniffs. “God, it’s disgusting. How poor are you?”

“You must be the thirteenth familiar Toji’s owned. He goes through you like toys, doesn’t he? Of course you wouldn’t know that he used to live in worse conditions before. Deplorable.” Gojo laughs in his face.

Naoya grits his teeth. “I’m surprised your little human dared to show her face. I thought she’d be terrified after what Toji did to her. They’re such weak little things.”

Gojo looks at the other demon with a calm that worries you. As human as he is, there are moments when you can catch the monster lurking within. He’s like the sea, deceptively calm until you remember the threat of an unseen riptide.

“If you insult my master again,” he says carefully, enunciating every word like he’s stabbing at them with a knife, “I will take your head and deliver it to your master as a present.”

“Don’t tell me you’re happy to be serving a mortal girl,” Naoya laughs. “Not someone like you, Satoru. How the mighty have fallen.”

Gojo looks at him for a long moment, then he ignores him completely and walks to your side. The most painful part of Naoya’s digs at you is knowing he’s right. Gojo doesn’t like this. How could he? He went from being the strongest to being commanded by some powerless girl. Still, Gojo gazes at you with his inscrutable eyes. You can’t read him at all.

Slowly, he sinks to his knees next to you.

With a gentleness you can hardly bear, he lays his head in your lap, as gentle and docile as a puppy. His neck is bared as if for an executioner’s axe, the delicate pulse of his heart open to you. He closes his eyes. His breath is shallow. He stays there, and says no more.

“Oh, Satoru,” Naoya says in delight. “You really have become a tamed thing.”

With an uncertainty you’re trying to hide, you lift your hands to Gojo’s head. His hair is sinfully soft. You’re almost scared he’ll try to take your hands off for it, but when you start to gently pet his hair, he almost purrs. His eyes close, half-lidded in pleasure.

“I serve who I want to serve,” Gojo says. His tail lashes behind him. “Who are you to tell me my master is unworthy?”

Naoya shrugs, clearly disbelieving. “Sure, Satoru. Keep telling yourself that. I’m just here to deliver a gift.”

He tosses you a package wrapped carefully in beautiful, ornate wrapping paper. You’re sure it’s not Toji’s doing. He’s not the type.

As soon as he leaves, Gojo pushes himself away from you. It leaves you a little sorrowful, the speed with which he tries to get away. He only did it for your sake, you know. He wanted to protect your honor in front of Naoya because you’re his master. But it must have disgusted him, to get on his knees for a human, if he recoiled so fast.

“What did he mean, what Toji did to you?” Gojo asks over dinner.

You know instantly that you’ll only draw his ire if you try to play dumb.

“Toji pushed me off that cliff the day you found me.”

Gojo’s eyes darken. The next time Naoya returns, he promises you, he’d set his tail on fire. No one besmirches his master’s honor like that.

It’s about honor, of course. You’d be a fool to think otherwise.

Alone in your chambers, you unwrap the package Naoya gave you. It’s an incense burner, beautiful and silver. As apology presents go, it’s a decent one. You set it aside for use at a later time.

Naoya’s visit only makes Gojo’s training worse, but these days, you’ve grown used to him and his harsh words. The more that he yells at you for being weak, the more you can brush it off as Gojo just being Gojo. That only irritates him more, of course.

But nothing pisses him off as much as you claiming that you’re returning to school. Gojo thinks that you have no need for school as a god. There’s nothing the humans can teach you that he can’t.

In your eyes, Gojo is a kitsune. That means he’ll never understand a teenage girl’s heart. School isn’t about learning, it’s about the experience! You’ll never be in high school again - there are so many things you still haven’t experienced, like school trips. You only have one youth - you have to seize it in the moment!

Gojo isn’t convinced.

Like an overbearing parent, he nags you all day and night until finally, you strike a deal. He’ll let you go to school, but only as long as you cover up the god-mark on your head. Gojo is never one to make things easy for you. The hat he bestows you with is an ugly grandma print with faux fox ears. You’ll be the laughingstock of the school!

“It’s dangerous,” he says. “Who knows what wild beasts will be lurking about?”

“You’re the wild beast,” you say. “I can’t wear that!”

“I guess you can’t go to school then,” he sighs. “What a pity.”

It’s all for show, of course. You know what he’s really like. There’s no use in arguing - either you agree to his compromise or you stay here, stuck in the temple for the rest of your life. You’ll miss out on all the joys of youth, never growing old in your cloistered shrine. The thought is unbearable.

You snatch the hat from him in indignation. Putting it on before you leave the next day makes you cringe, but as long as you avoid mirrors, you can almost forget that it’s there - if not for your classmates staring at you. You can feel their judging eyes everywhere you go, and the whispers.

You can’t even say you don’t care - you do care. You only have one high school life, and Gojo is ruining it. During lunch, you escape into the bathroom to mope and avoid all of your classmates.

“Are you getting bullied?” Gojo’s voice is too bright and cheery for your dark mood right now. You can’t promise to remain calm if he stays here.

“This is the girl’s bathroom, Gojo.”

“Don’t be like that. I’m just worried about my master,” he says. “Well? How is it? Do you want to go home now?”

He’s lying. You know he’s not worried about you at all, but you should be used to it. You don’t know why it stings as much as it does.

You’re hurt even though you know this is just how Gojo is. Of course he’d be happy to see you miserable - he hadn’t even wanted you for a god in the first place. He’s bound to you by obligation, and nothing more. You had known from the start that he didn’t care about you, so why does it hurt that he won’t comfort you? It’s just like those nights in the demon world that seem so long ago now. He hasn’t changed at all.

Gojo isn’t as shocked by your outburst as he is by the tears slowly welling up in your eyes. He stands stunned as you rush out of him and back into the hallway.

Tsumiki appears next to him out of thin air, completely unimpressed.

“You did a terrible job on that one, Gojo.”

As if in a daze, he lifts his hand, where the crystal of one teardrop shines. He’d tried to reach for you at the last moment, but you were already gone. “I made her cry...”

Megumi appears next to Tsumiki, his face red. “What’s taking so long? Hurry up and leave! We’re in the girl’s bathroom!”

“Gojo was bullying our master,” Tsumiki announces.

“I wasn’t bullying her!”

“He made her cry.”

Gojo winces. “Okay, yeah. I did do that.”

Megumi kicks him in the leg, which amounts to almost nothing. “Take responsibility, then!”

When you return home, Gojo is waiting by the shrine door with an almost offensively polite smile on his face. “Let me take your coat, master.”

Him being kind gives you the creeps. You can’t help but feel like he’s planning something, especially when he shows you the lavish dinner he prepared for you with all of your favorites.

“What’s with the look?” He says, annoyed at your accusing eyes peering at him over your bowl. “I do something nice for you and this is how you treat me?”

“This is really just for me? No ulterior motives?”

“None,” he promises.

The smile that breaks over your face is like the sun through rain clouds - sudden, dramatic, and almost painfully bright after a period of gray skies.

“Thanks, Gojo!”

The look in his eyes is unreadable as he reaches to spoon more food onto your plate.

You don’t have anyone else in this world. Besides the shrine spirits, Gojo might be the only person in the world who will take care of you. For some reason, the thought doesn’t sting as much as it did this morning.

The second day of school starts with pouring rain, as if it’s a direct reaction to your foul mood earlier. Gojo pulls you back when you try to leave.

“It’s a bad omen,” he says. “Stay home with me today. I’ll worry about you if you go.”

Normally, such sweet words might bring a blush to your face, but you can read between the lines.

Stay home with me today so I can keep you out of trouble, you brat.

I’ll worry about you if you go because you’re weaker than a worm.

“Stop trying to keep me from going to school! I thought we got over this yesterday,” you huff. “I’m going to be late for the bus!”

You leave Gojo with a handful of air as you dart under his outstretched arm and out the door.

In school, all your classmates are listless.

You’ve never been so unhappy to not be the subject of attention. What is wrong with everyone? Even the teacher doesn’t reprimand anyone for sleeping in class, half-asleep herself. You’re the only one who doesn’t seem to be caught in this spell of drowsiness, which insinuates paranormal origins.

As you’re sweeping the classroom after class, one of your classmates lets out a disgruntled noise.

“It’s a snake,” she says, not at all with the intonation of someone who’s just discovered a snake. Ami’s the type to go apoplectic at the sight of a fly, much less an actual snake, so you don’t pay much mind until you hear Kurama go, “Huh, she wasn’t kidding.”

There’s a little yellow snake in the classroom. In their stupor, none of your classmates seem to care all that much about it. They just continue going about their chores. You feel bad for it. It’s such a small, fragile little creature. In their state, they might accidentally end up crushing it.

With gentle murmurs of encouragement, you coax it into your hand. It’s surprisingly docile and twines itself readily around your wrist before you set it outside the window to be set free.

Gojo doesn’t praise you for your act of heroism on the behalf of his fellow yokai, as you remind him. You saved his compatriots! Where’s the gratitude?

He calls you a stupid little girl. “I don’t care about them, I care about you!”

Your face warms with embarrassment against your will even though you know he doesn’t mean it like that. Time and time again, Gojo has stressed that he will never see yokai and humans as even remotely on the same playing field, much less capable of being romantic partners.

“You’re my master,” he says. There’s your call back to reality. “Look at this mark on your wrist.”

It appears like a normal bruise to you, though you’re not sure how it could’ve happened. Your new snake friend was very gentle when he was coiled around your wrist. He must have been someone’s escaped pet. You hope he found his way back home.

Gojo’s mad. He’s enunciating every word.

“This is exactly why I have to keep such a close eye on you. That’s no ordinary bruise. That is an engagement mark. Care to explain to me how I left you alone for one second and you got yourself engaged to a divine beast?”

Your face pales. “Excuse me?”

“That snake is going to come and claim you as his bride.”

“As a bride?” Your head spins and you have to sit down. You’re too young to get married. You look up at Gojo, teary-eyed. You don’t want this.

“Stop making that face,” he snaps, pushing a hand over your face to hide it. “As if I would let that happen. The master of the Yaga shrine, my master, could never be wed to a mere snake.”

If Gojo says he won’t let it happen, you can put your faith in him. You breathe a little easier. As mean as he can be, Megumi and Tsumiki weren’t lying when they called him the best familiar. He’s the strongest and most capable person or rather, yokai, that you know. There’s not a single task you set for him that he hasn’t been able to complete.

It’s still raining when you go outside to practice your talisman making.

You find the weather quite pleasant, even though it’s a little damp. The chill in the air cuts through the muggy feeling of summer, and the raindrops cool your cheeks. When you turn your face up to the sky, you can taste ozone in the little drops that pelt your face.

“You’re very beautiful, kamisama,” says a voice.

There's a man waiting just outside the red gates. A supplicant? In this weather? You better get him inside in a hurry. You dash over to him.

“What are you doing? Come inside, you’ll get wet!”

Just as you reach him, he lifts his face. He looks like a statue, with high cheekbones, and solemn eyes. His hair is the same pale yellow as the snake you saw earlier that day-

“Gojo!”

But it’s too late.

The snake has a hold on your wrist, right above the engagement mark. He takes you away.

One moment, you’re standing in your own backyard, the next, you’re surrounded by almost-familiar bamboo walls. It looks like your shrine but for little distinguishing touches. That makes you uncomfortable.

“This is Haibara shrine,” the snake says. “I’m Nanami, the familiar of Haibara-sama. I’ve taken you away to marry you.”

There’s a curtain over the center of the room. Haibara presumably rests behind it, but something strikes you as off about the whole scenario. That’s not what’s foremost on your mind, however.

“I don’t want to marry you! You kidnapped me!”

He tilts his head at you. “I couldn’t have kidnapped you. We’re engaged, you see?” He traces the mark on your wrist with one slim finger. “We’re going to be very happy together.”

“You’re being creepy,” you push him away.

At your rejection, something dark crosses over his features - not danger, but pain. He has some nerve feeling upset when you’re the one who should be upset here!

“That’s alright,” he says, trying to stroke your hair. You won’t let him touch you. “I know it can take some getting used to. Here, let me show you to your room.”

Nanami has clearly put a lot of thought into decorating for you. It’s beautifully furnished, with rich silk sheets and the fragrant smell of plum blossoms permeating the air. Here, there’s not a single thing you could want but-

Gojo.

You miss Gojo and you miss your shrine.

When Nanami leaves you in your room, it feels like a tomb in the silence. You bury your face in your expensive, hateful sheets and try to resist the urge to sob. You want Gojo to come get you. You want to go home.

Hours pass, but Gojo doesn’t come.

Nothing but the sound of your breathing changes, passing from frantic to deeper, slower, steadier. As your head clears, you notice the window. It’s a beautifully ornate design, a red knot of luck. The center is just big enough for a girl to squeeze through, if you try hard.

Resolve grips you.

You’re not going to wait for Gojo to rescue you. You’re going to get out of here yourself, find him, and scold him for not coming to get you earlier. Aren’t you his most beloved master, as he so professes? You’re going to make him kneel for at least three hours practicing his apologies!

Filled with renewed conviction, you hoist yourself onto the window sill and begin the tedious task of shimmying yourself out. Just when you’re nearly there, the sharp edge of the metal scrapes your shin, leaving a long, thin cut.

The smell of salt replaces the plums immediately.

“God?” Comes Nanami’s voice. “I smell blood. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” You panic. If he discovers your escape attempt now, he might try to put you in a more secure room, and then you’ll really never see Gojo again.

The adjacent wall caves in.

Gojo stands in the rubble, seething, each hand wreathed in blue flame. He doesn’t even notice you, his attention wholly focused on Nanami. “You drew her blood? Are you prepared to face the consequences of hurting my master, snake?”

You grab his arm just before he attacks. “He didn’t! I hurt myself on the window- oof!”

Gojo’s so much bigger than you are. When he folds you into his arms, his entire body surrounds you. His chin tucks itself over your head, his large arms wrap around your body. You’ve never felt more secure than you are here, now. “I thought you’d be crying.”

His voice is hoarse.

You’ve never heard that before.

“You came,” you whimper, burying your face into his shoulder.

Nanami’s face is crestfallen. “Are you going to leave me?”

You grab Gojo’s arm and duck into the other room, where Haibara’s curtain is.

“Don’t!” Nanami cries.

When you pull it back, there’s nothing but an old, dusty kimono.

You were right.

This place is godless.

“You’re no familiar,” Gojo snarls, turning on Nanami. “Don’t even think to call yourself that. The difference between you and me is as clear as day, you vile beast. You’ll pay for your insolence with the loss of your shrine.”

Nanami’s misery is written all over his face. You’ve realized what’s wrong with this shrine. It’s too quiet, as if no one has prayed here for generations. Haibara has been dead for a long, long time.

Nanami must have been lonely.

“Don’t,” you tell Gojo.

He stares at you, incredulous. “Are you out of your mind?”

You tug yourself out of Gojo’s arms. Nanami’s crouched on the ground, trying to shield Haibara’s old kimono from Gojo’s foxfire. You kneel to his level.

“I’m sorry you’ve been lonely for all this time, Nanami. I can’t stay with you, but if you come to my shrine, we can play again.”

Nanami weeps and reaches for your hand. The mark of the snake dissolves.

Gojo doesn’t talk to you on the way back to the shrine.

“Don’t be mad,” you say, tugging on the sleeves of his kimono. He gives you a deadpan stare. “Come on! I only did it because-”

You can’t finish your sentence.

Of course, that piques Gojo’s interest. He can never resist bullying you.

“Because? Go on,” he goads you.

You say it so quietly he can’t hear you, even with his fox ears. He spins around, grabs you by the waist, and hoists you up so you’re face to face. You yelp and scramble to grab onto his shoulders for balance.

“Louder,” he demands. “I can’t hear you.”

“I was thinking about what would happen if I died and you were all alone again. I couldn’t leave him alone because I was thinking of you,” you tell him. Thinking of Gojo watching after an empty shrine all alone like Mizuki makes your heart ache for reasons you can’t explain.

He stiffens. “What a strange thing to worry about. I wouldn’t care.”

“Ugh,” you smack him in the shoulder. You shouldn't have tried to be kind to him.

He doesn’t put you down, shifting you into an easier hold. “You’re hurt,” he admonishes when you try to squirm.

Just before you enter the shrine gates, he has a confession of his own to make. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You got hurt because I wasn’t protecting you.”

You rub his ears, an indulgence you’re not sure he would’ve allowed if he wasn’t in such a mood. “It’s not your fault!”

“I’ve never had a human master,” he says. “I have to be careful not to break you. You’re so easily hurt.”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” you say, and then the shrine spirits are there to welcome you home.

You hadn’t realized you thought of the shrine as home until today.

Even though Nanami’s mood isn’t affecting the weather anymore, it’s still raining. Gojo tells you not to mind the weather, even though you’re certain that it’s not from natural causes, which means it is your job. Ever since you came back from Haibara’s shrine, Gojo has been extra protective of you.

You hadn’t thought Gojo had needed to be protected too, not until the thunder god came.

The god of storms and lightning is called Getou Suguru. He carries a mallet in one hand that can transform whoever it touches into their younger forms, and he used to be Gojo’s best and only friend. He’s also the one who called a bounty on your head.

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

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