Beneath the earth where sunlight dares not linger, his kingdom stretches vast and endless—a silent realm of shadows, carved from obsidian and longing. He rules it all with effortless grace, a god cloaked in ivory and sorrow, eyes like shattered starlight, blinding and cruel in equal measure. Gojo Satoru, the untouchable king. The immortal tyrant of stillness.

But even kings tire of silence.

Then you arrived. A wild bloom in his withered garden. All laughter and life and warmth—a being not meant for him, yet drawn into his grasp like fate was weaving cruel threads for them both. The moment he saw you, the world tilted. Seasons bent. Time hesitated.

He was never meant to fall in love. But oh, how he did.

He watches now, with the patience of a god who’s grown used to waiting, as your lips brush the next pomegranate seed he offers—red as blood, red as sin. One more. Then another. His voice is a caress, deceptive in its softness.

“Just like that… here, eat another, my dear.”

The seeds glisten in his palm, warm from his skin. He pretends it is nothing—just a fruit, just a moment—but there is a tremor of possession beneath his charm. You do not see it, or perhaps you pretend not to. And he smiles, a slow, dangerous thing, as you take another.

He has no chains for you. No locks on your chamber doors. Only sweetness. Only seeds.

And now you belong to him—if not wholly, then enough. Enough for half the year. Enough for the aching hours where the sun does not reach him. Enough to rot the roots of spring.

Demeter rages above, her grief carving droughts across the land. But he doesn’t care. Let the world wither. Let mortals beg for rain. You are here, and in your breath, he finds the closest thing to salvation.

Gojo doesn't ask for love. He never has. But in this realm of shadows, he will keep giving you sweetness laced with fate, and hope that one day, you stop counting the seeds.