Chapter Text
Before the meadow, before the dog, before the god of shadows looked through him like light was an inconvenience…
There was the festival.
The Festival of Vernal Splendor , they called it. A sacred rite of spring, renewal, and divine union.
But in practice?
It was a temple orgy with garlands.
Pillars draped in wisteria. Wine running in golden fountains. Naked skin bathed in sunlight and sweat. Flowers tangled in hair. Gods and nymphs sprawled across silk and moss and each other. And at the center of it all…
Satoru.
He reclined lazily on a bed of flowering vines that bloomed wherever his hips shifted, head tipped back against Suguru’s shoulder, fingers stroking the inside of a minor harvest deity’s thigh. Another nymph knelt between his legs, mouth slick, eyes glazed with devotion. His robe hung loose, already forgotten, draped somewhere in the fig tree. Or maybe the fountain.
“Satoru,” Suguru murmured into his ear, voice heavy with wine and laughter. “You're spoiling them.”
Satoru hummed, teeth sinking lightly into a slice of pomegranate. “I’m a generous god.”
“You’re a greedy one,” Suguru corrected, kissing down his neck as the nymph moaned around him.
Satoru didn’t disagree.
His divine power shimmered beneath his skin, glowing faintly with every gasp, every arch of the bodies he touched. Flowers bloomed where his hands wandered. Nectar clung to his lips. The ground beneath him throbbed with life.
He pressed the nymph’s head down with a gentle but unyielding hand and leaned back to spread his thighs further. “Good girl,” he purred. “Now deeper. Worship properly.”
Another moan. Another pulse of divine light.
Suguru shifted behind him, lazy and loose, mouth trailing down Satoru’s spine. His fingers dipped low, teasing the curve of Satoru’s hips, tracing ancient runes in heat and want.
“You going to let me ride you next?” he asked casually, biting his shoulder.
Satoru groaned, head lolling to the side. “Maybe.”
His voice dripped with indulgence, but there was no urgency to it. No hunger. Just movement. Rhythm. Routine.
And as the night wore on, bodies colliding, names lost in sweat and spring wine, vines curling around ankles like promises, Satoru kept his smile.
He came. Twice.
He laughed. Danced. Let Suguru pull his hair and drank ambrosia from a priestess’s mouth.
But something… flickered.
At the edge of the garden. At the edges of his thoughts.
A face he hadn’t seen. A voice he hadn’t heard. A figure not there.
Dark robes. Quiet midnight blue eyes. A silence he hadn’t met, but already craved.
He lay flat on the soft grass afterwards, his skin glowing faintly, a smear of gold paint drying on his stomach. Suguru curled beside him, lazily smoking a vine-wrapped pipe. Someone was still licking sweat off his thigh.
Satoru stared up at the stars. Silent. Detached.
And then, quietly…
“I have everything,” Satoru whispered.
“And still... I can’t forget about him.”
Suguru glanced sideways. “What?”
Satoru blinked. Smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just thinking.”
And in the stillness of the aftermath, he closed his eyes, and saw a boulder.
A three-headed dog.
A figure wrapped in black and night, and everything he didn’t know how to want yet.
Scene I: The One-sided Meadow Meeting
“Now hold onto your laurels, folks…because this ain’t your average boy-meets-god story…”
And just like that, we shift–-from holy orgy to past holy encounter. From divine pleasure to divine obsession. From flesh… to fate. Of spring, falling headfirst into the Underworld. Of poppies, puppies, and one very dramatic love affair written in the stars…literally. We’re talking gods, myths, and some heavenly-grade sexual tension.”
It was a beautiful day in the way spring always insisted it be. The meadow stretched endlessly, bursting with color and soft wind, swaying with wildflowers that hadn’t asked to be born but bloomed anyway.
Gojo Satoru didn’t walk so much as wander through it, arms full of poppy seeds and mischief, trailing a lazy swirl of divine energy in his wake. Butterflies trailed him like groupies. The sun glinted off his hair. The earth sighed beneath his feet.
Behind him, Tengen, All Creator and divine arbiter of balance, floated in mild exasperation, translucent robes shimmering like fog at sunrise.
“---and I’m telling you,” Tengen continued, with the tone of someone halfway through a long lecture, “you cannot keep descending into mortal villages just because you’re bored.”
“I’m not bored,” Satoru replied, tossing seeds into the air like glitter. “I’m celebrating the gift of life. With wine. And dancing. And maybe a naked festival or two. But that’s called cultural exchange.”
Tengen’s expression twitched. “Suguru is a bad influence.”
“He is a delight ,” Satoru countered. “Suguru is misunderstood. Also, he’s got excellent taste in grapes.”
“I’m serious, Satoru. You’re the god of spring, light, and fertility. You don’t even know if you’ve—”
“I didn’t impregnate anyone!” Satoru yelped. “Probably.”
Tengen raised a silent brow.
“Okay, definitely not on purpose , if there is, ” he added quickly, kicking a puff of dandelions with his heel. “Look, I do my job. Everything’s blooming, birds are banging, bees are... doing their thing. See?” He gestured around. “Spring is thriving.”
“Spring is always thriving when you’re not seducing every temple maiden with eyes.”
“Wow. That is slander. I’ve seduced plenty of temple men too.”
Tengen sighed. Deeply. Eternally. “Do your duty first, then frolic.”
With that, they vanished into mist, presumably to go haunt a bureaucracy meeting.
Satoru was left alone with the meadow, the sunshine, and the chaotic thoughts that bloomed like everything else he touched. He hummed softly to himself, tossing more seeds into the air, each one exploding into a burst of color where it landed.
And then…
A sound.
“Bark! Bark! BARK!”
Satoru paused. Cocked his head. “...A dog?”
Another bark echoed…deep, guttural, and strange enough to jolt curiosity straight into his bones.
“Okay, that is not a normal dog.”
Curious, and without a shred of self-preservation, as usual, Satoru veered off the path, stepping through flower-thick grasses and ducking low behind a bush glowing with early blossoms.
He peeked through the leaves.
And promptly forgot how to breathe.
Because on the far side of the clearing, a massive, three-headed dog launched itself into the air, caught a disc mid-leap, and landed with an earth-shaking thud, each head yapping triumphantly.
But Satoru barely noticed the dog.
His eyes were locked on the figure at the top of the boulder, the one the beast trotted toward.
A lone silhouette, seated in stillness.
Satoru narrowed his eyes, ducked lower, and crept closer…his curiosity outweighing decorum by several leagues. The wind shifted. The sky dimmed ever so slightly, like the day was holding its breath.
And saw him...
A figure cloaked in black, long legs crossed, posture regal and relaxed all at once. His hair was dark, windswept, unruly, the color of midnight’s quietest hour. The lower half of his face was covered by a scarf, but his eyes …
Satoru stilled.
They were dark blue, but not dull. Deep, like an ocean under moonlight or the endless sky before a storm. Not empty, but steady . Quiet. Knowing. A contrast to his Vibrant blue eyes that is likened to the clear summer sky.
There was something sensual in the way he moved, even in stillness. His delicate-looking fingers trailed along the beast’s massive heads, scratching beneath their chins like a king tending his war hounds. His robe was the kind of black that shimmered with violet undertones, draped and pinned at the shoulder with a shard of obsidian. It didn’t just fit him…it dared anyone to look away.
Satoru didn’t.
He stared. Heart thudding like something new had taken root inside him. Something wild.
Who was that?
And then, as if summoned by an unspoken question, the figure stood. The three-headed dog circled him once, then trotted forward.
The boulder split beneath their feet.
No… opened. Like a mouth yawning to devour them whole.
A chasm bloomed at their feet, vast and trembling, as if the world itself parted to welcome them home.
The figure stepped forward without hesitation, descending into the dark with the kind of grace that didn’t need announcing.
And just like that, he was gone.
Silence fell. The wind rustled through the meadow, stirring petals like spilt secrets.
Satoru remained frozen behind the bush, wind tugging at his robes. His heart thudded. Something funny stirred behind his ribs.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Was that…was that the god of the Underworld?”
“Satoru didn’t know who he was personally, or what he was doing here…
But he felt an indescribable pull towards the mysterious god of the underworld...
as if he'd just found something worth chasing.”
Scene II: The Team-Building Summit
A team-building summit.
You know, one of those sacred little gatherings where the higher-ups check in on how you’re doing at your divine job. Maybe offer a scroll of productivity stats. Hand out coffee. Bribe you with free pizza.
In the mortal world, this would be a quarterly performance review.
But in the land of gods?
It’s just code for ego-fluffing, wine-chugging, and an ungodly amount of side-eyes .
They call it a summit. What they really mean is a theater of silk robes, backhanded compliments, and enough gossip to make the Fates themselves lean forward.
And somewhere between the ambrosia buffet and the latest “DId you know this god impregnated the wife of….” tittle-tattle...
Two gods finally collided.
In the mortal realm, Satoru was a god of many things…light, spring, fertility, chaotic beauty, but to humans, he was mostly known as the god who made them swoon .
Not the soft, poetic swoon reserved for tragic love stories.
No. This was clothes-on-fire , knees-gave-out , please-impregnate-me-with-your-divinity kind of swooning.
The kind that sparked fertility cults and fanatical temple orgies in the mountains of Thessalis. The kind that had mortals building entire shrines out of rose quartz and questionable marble anatomy in his honor.
And Satoru? Well. He didn’t discourage it.
He was beautiful. He knew he was beautiful. It would’ve been rude to pretend otherwise.
Once, he’d been offered a gilded orchard, a thousand vials of mortal tears (don’t ask), and a husband just for smiling too long at a high priestess. Another time, an entire village tried to collectively name their babies after him. Even the goats .
But the real tipping point?
When mortals began whispering loudly, and with incense, that he was more beautiful than the goddess of love herself.
Which was awkward, since the goddess of love happened to be his big sister.
“Wait, wait, wait—they said what ?” he’d laughed one afternoon, lying across a field of hyacinths with grapes in his mouth and dirt on his knees.
“That you’re prettier than me,” said Mei Mei, reclined beside him like a warning draped in silk. She was barefoot, gold-chained, and entirely too pleased. “But I don’t care. As long as they pay.”
She slid a long, manicured finger down his jaw, her touch featherlight, cruel in its precision.
“You do shine like sin,” she murmured. “But don’t get cocky, little brother. I invented lust.”
She flipped a golden coin between her fingers, caught it behind her back, and winked. “Or else.”
Satoru grinned, flashing teeth that had driven kingdoms mad. “Jealous?”
“Of you?” Mei Mei laughed, a slow, sensual purr that sent nearby blossoms quivering open. “Darling, I’ve seduced battle-hardened gods and outlasted orgies that lasted a week. I don’t need worship. I just like the way it tastes.”
She leaned over then, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice soft as a secret.
“You’re beautiful, Satoru. But I’m the reason mortals beg to be ruined.”
And then she bit his earlobe.
Not hard. Just enough to prove a point.
Anyone who slandered her without leaving an offering on her altars? Gets cursed.
Bad hair days. Ruined love lives. Yeast infections. You name it.
So Satoru learned early on; divinity came with perks. Adoration. Gifts. Entire sonnets were written about his divine blue eyes.
And all of that meant nothing…absolutely nothing…
When he finally met the god of the underworld
And the handsome bastard had the audacity to look unimpressed.
….
The team-building summit hall shimmered with too much light and too little sincerity.
Golden chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling like dripping honey. The scent of ambrosia clung to every breath, cloying and overwhelming. Gods gathered in careful circles, draped in gold-threaded robes, their laughter brittle and glass-edged.
This was Olympus.
A mountaintop kingdom of glass egos, fragile alliances, and divinity wrapped in couture. The realm of gods who were praised too often, questioned too little, and performed more than they ruled.
Gods mingled in clusters of power and perfume. Nectar flowed. Gossip buzzed louder than prayer. And mortals, far below, offered fruit and desperate little poems in the hope that their devotion might trickle upward.
And the gods…well, they looked down.
Except for Megumi.
He stood in the farthest alcove of the great hall, precisely where the sunlight failed to reach. Alone. Observing. Unbothered. The hem of his midnight robe swept across the marble floor with the slow, stubborn grace of someone who had long since stopped caring whether he was seen.
He didn’t glow. He didn’t dazzle. But somehow, Megumi still commanded the space…quietly, solemnly…like a tide that refused to retreat.
The god of the Underworld. Shadows. Death. Silence. Keeper of balance, ruler of the dark. Inheritor of a throne carved in obsidian and solitude.
He held a glass of ambrosia in one hand and the aura of a man who would rather be home spooning his three-headed dog.
Naturally, he hated these events.
He hated the bragging, the carefully masked arrogance, the way every conversation here was a résumé draped in wine. These summits were little more than a show…“team-building” in name, but in truth a stage where gods compared temples, worshipper counts, and divine body counts.
And Megumi? He was the god of the dead.
Well. No one was ever particularly impressed with death. His domain didn’t bloom. It didn’t sing. It didn’t attract supplicants eager to lie in the sun and be blessed with twins. It was not poetic. It was work. Endless, unseen, and necessary.
The dead didn’t clap.
“Whatever,” he muttered to himself, sipping his drink.
The only reason he was here at all was because Nobara, goddess of the hunt, wilderness, childbirth, and unapologetic pettiness, had cornered him two nights ago.
“You can’t keep hiding in the Underworld like some cursed recluse,” she’d said, snapping a black velvet choker around his neck with the precision of someone who firmly believed gods were dolls to be dressed.
“I am not,” he replied flatly, unmoved, as he let her fuss. “I rule the dead. Down here. ”
“Uh-huh,” she hummed, thoroughly unbothered, adjusting the clasp like it was a crown. She stepped back, admiring her handiwork–the way the pearl-stitched velvet hugged the god’s pale throat like a secret waiting to be bitten and tarnished.
“And yet no one knows what you look like. That’s exactly why you need to get up there and show that pretty face for once.”
And now here he was, sipping in the shadows and avoiding eye contact, doing his best not to end up in any drama because one thing Olympus doesn’t ever lack… is a juicy scandal that even to a place as far as the underworld, this type of gossip ends up there.
It was going fairly well.
Until he arrived.
A blur of white. A burst of sunlight. A laugh like bells dipped in honey.
The air itself seemed to warm as the double doors flung open. And Satoru, god of spring, light, and fertility…entered the room like a celebration the world had been waiting for.
His robes were sinfully loose, swaying around his legs like they knew they had an audience. His grin was stupidly perfect, equal parts mischief and sunshine. Hair like fresh snow under starlight, and skin that glowed with a warmth so potent it made flowers lean toward him instinctively.
And, as if on cue, every bloom in the hall burst open behind him.
Megumi turned, against his better judgment, and saw him.
And for a moment. Just one breathless, blasphemous second.
He forgot how to breathe.
Beautiful wasn’t the right word. It felt too small.
No... ethereally beautiful, maybe. Surreal in the way dreams were: too bright, too soft, too unreachable. His eyes were vibrant…blue like the clearest day, like water so pure it had never known depth. They sparkled when he laughed at something Suguru had said, his head tipped back, radiant and untouchable.
Indeed, Suguru , the god of wine, madness, and ritual frenzy is no stranger to pulling the hottest company in the room..
And then there was the rest of him.
The face card was undeniable. And the body card? Stamped, approved, possibly illegal.
Megumi swallowed. Okay, yes. It was impressive. Chiseled in a way that could make temples fall. He’d always thought his father had set the bar for physical perfection and male beauty. But this god…this being swathed in silk and sin–-might just shatter that standard entirely.
He was, quite frankly, too damn gorgeous .
“Who the hell is that?” he muttered.
Beside him, Yuuji–divine messenger, part-time courier, Megumi’s other golden retriever and full-time meddler–grinned as if he’d just won a bet.
“That’s Satoru,” Yuuji said, casually popping a sugared fig into his mouth. “God of Spring. Fertility. Light. Walking scandal. Worshipped by half the mortal realm. The other half? Pregnant.”
Megumi raised an eyebrow. Yuuji just shrugged.
And then they heard it, Gojo’s laugh, loud and bright, carrying across the marble like sunlight bouncing off still water.
“He’s kinda loud,” Megumi said, brow furrowing.
Yuuji just waggled his brows. “Hot, though.”
Megumi glanced again.
He took in the silver hair. The effortless charm. The way light seemed to be stitched into Satoru’s very skin, like he’d been carved from sunshine and arrogance in equal measure.
Then Megumi exhaled…low, reluctant. “…Yeah. He’s really hot.”
And then, as if pulled by fate or something equally annoying, Satoru turned.
Their eyes met across the hall. A flash of bright sky colliding with the deep of midnight. Those vivid blues sparkled, startled, like he hadn’t expected to find Megumi here.
Surprised, Megumi thought distantly. Or worse… interested.
Then the god of spring beamed, and it was blinding…
A full, glorious, devastating bright smile. The kind you give when you see something shiny and immediately decide it’s yours.
“Uhm...is he smiling at me?” Megumi whispered, already taking a step back, while Yuuji, who was also looking, just chuckled awkwardly…”Beats me.”
The crowd shifted. The gods parted for Satoru like petals parting for light. He didn’t walk so much as glide , trailed by warm air, soft perfume, a dusting of pollen, and something dangerously close to hope .
Megumi stiffened.
He knew this type.
Charming. Shining. Loud. The kind of god who made you feel like the only soul in the world, right before disappearing with your heart and leaving behind a trail of bloom and ruin.
He hated this type.
And yet…
“Hey, Yuuji…” Satoru chirped, sliding in with his usual effortless charm, his voice all sunshine and mischief.The pink-haired messenger god beamed, greeting him with equal brightness. “Hey, Satoru!”
And then, Satoru turned... to him.
Toward the brooding figure beside Yuuji.
The all-dark, all-silent, austerely handsome god of the Underworld.“Hi,” Satoru said, with a smile like morning light caught on a blade...luminous, lethal, and meant to disarm..
“You’re Megumi, right? God of the Underworld?”
Megumi blinked. “Yes,” he said, too cold, too fast.
His ink-dark gaze swept over the god before him, unabashed. He took in the height—taller than expected, annoyingly so, and wondered who was taller, him or the god of war. His eyes were devastating up close. And that smile…
That smile was dangerous...kinda like the smile older gods wore before they made ruin into legend.
Without thinking, without planning, Megumi said…deadpan…
“You looked much hotter from across the room.”
Silence.
A beat. A breath. A hush. Even Satoru’s expression faltered, for just a second. Shock flickered behind his eyes like the sun caught off guard..
And Megumi just want to poof himself out. Nobara was right; he really sucked at lying. Or bluffing. Or doing literally anything involving casual small talk.
Why did I say that? he thought. Can I poof? Is poofing rude? Will I get fined for disappearing mid-conversation?
But before he could finish planning his awkward, silent escape…
Satoru grinned. Slow. Wicked. Glorious. As if he’d stumbled upon something both dangerously interesting and delicious ..
“You looked like a god I’d let wreck me from across the room,” Satoru said smoothly. “So I guess we’re even.”
Megumi blinked again. Recoiled. Face warm. “…Never mind.”
Scene III: When the god of light, spring, and fertility’s brain and mouth don’t coincide.
“Now folks, gods don’t usually fall headfirst into obsession. That’s a mortal thing.
But Satoru? God of Spring?
He was about to rewrite the rules…flower petals and pride be damned.”
A few days ago, somewhere between dragging the sun up and getting a lecture from Tengen, Satoru had wandered into a meadow.
As he often did.
He’d been throwing seeds into the air with his usual artistic flair, daydreaming about wine, Suguru’s latest antics, and the slight chance he’d fathered a demigod (which he strongly denied), when he’d heard it…
Bark. Bark! BARK.
Curious, because curiosity was how he lost virginity the first four times, Satoru followed the sound.
And found a dog.
Correction: a three-headed, fuck-off enormous, absolutely majestic dog playing fetch with no mortal in sight.
Until he saw him.
Somewhat tall. Silent. Perched on a boulder like a tragic princ written by a playwright with a thing for brooding and shadow metaphors. He’d had this aura about him, something ancient and chill, but not cold. Dark, but not evil. A story not yet finished.
Satoru hadn’t gotten a good look at his face that day, but it hadn’t stopped him from thinking about it every day since.
He'd asked around, of course. Subtly.
“So,” he’d said, arms crossed dramatically, “this god of the Underworld, Megumi, right? What’s his deal?”
Mei Mei had smirked. “Hard man to crack. Doesn’t fall easily.”
“Have you tried ?”
“Darling,” she said, swirling her tea, “I never stop trying.”
“And? What’s he look like?”
Mei Mei’s lips curled. “Like someone who’ll throw you into the River Styx with a single look, and apologize after. Maybe.”
“That’s not fair, tell me exactly…” Satoru had huffed.
She shrugged. “Meet him yourself. You’ll see. The summit’s coming up.”
And now…
Here they were.
He hadn’t expected much , okay?
Just wanted to see if the mystery man had a face worthy of the myth because frankly, thinking about a faceless brooding figure during sex was starting to get weird.. So like Maybe score a little visual inspo. And after that he goes around the place. Flirt here. Wink there. You know…casual.
Maybe cause a minor scandal with a river deity after. Something light.
But this?
This was not light.
This was dark robes and sharp cheekbones. This was a mouth that looked carved from silence. This was a being who didn’t shine but made you look anyway . A gravitational pull disguised as a person.
Megumi’s eyes met his from across the hall.
And Satoru forgot how to move.
He wasn’t just handsome. He was a youthful, timeless beauty.
And Satoru had seen beauty. He was beauty, some might argue…worshipped in temples and draped in laurels and kissed by sunshine.
But this …This
god?
He looked like midnight had rolled itself into a human shape just to ruin people.
Satoru’s heart– his actual divine heart –fluttered. Stupid. Loud. Hopeful.
Oh no , he thought.
Oh yes , came immediately after.
Because Megumi wasn’t just gorgeous. He was impossible. A monument to self-restraint. All stillness and slow blinks and that don’t talk to me aura that somehow made Satoru want to do nothing but talk to him.
And not just talk. Kiss. Maybe bite. Possibly run his fingers along the edge of that god-awful ebony hair and whisper something both inappropriate and deeply poetic.
Which was... new.
He hadn’t planned on this happening. On being reduced to a mess of thoughts, like, Does he smile? Could I make him? Would he hate me if I tried?
And to make it worse, he’d been coming back to that meadow every day since.
Planting little spring blooms near the boulder where Megumi had once sat.
Casually. Low-key.
Maybe hoping, just slightly , that the god would appear again.
Even asked Yuuji –the messenger god–for intel.
“Oh, Megumi?” Yuuji had shrugged. “He likes dogs.”
“What kind?”
“The deadly ones.”
“...Wow.”
And now, here he was.
Standing in front of the most emotionally unavailable, exquisitely untouchable man Satoru had ever laid eyes on.
He’d meant to say something nice. Something that made him sound charming. Divine. Not immediately feral.
But instead…
“You looked like a god I’d let wreck me from across the room.”
It just happened. It flew out of his mouth before his brain could send the diplomatic memo.
Also, he expected something.
A stammer. Maybe even a blush. Like all those mortals and divine beings he had charmed.
Instead, Megumi blinked, recoiled slightly, and muttered low, cold, with surgical precision…
“Never mind”---?
“Now listen, rejection’s a universal experience, even for gods.
But for Satoru, god of light, spring, and being very hard to say no to...
this? This was historic.”
Megumi turned.
Just… turned around like he couldn’t be bothered anymore.
Satoru blinked, stunned. And before he could think, before he could reach, say wait, say something charming or stupid or both…the god of the Underworld disappeared.
Vanished.
One heartbeat, he was there, and the next…
A puff of black smoke. A flick of his cloak. Gone.
“...Woah.” Satoru breathed, blinking into the swirling shadows.
He stared at the now-empty space where that sinfully brooding, slightly shorter, absurdly hot god had just been standing.
His hand hovered mid-air.
“Did he just…?”
Behind him, a firm clap landed on his back.
“Well,” a familiar voice drawled, rich with amusement and something dangerously close to pity, “that was dramatic.”
Satoru turned, only to be met with Suguru, his best friend and co-conspirator, god of wine and bad advice (for Satoru that is).
“Wow,” Suguru drawled, sipping from a crystal goblet he definitely hadn’t had a moment ago. “First time someone rejected you with a straight face.”
Satoru blinked.
Suguru leaned in slightly, voice faux gentle. “And it was disgusted, too. You okay? Gonna cry?”
He expected, really expected, his best friend, golden boy of Olympus, breaker of mortal hearts, to pout. Maybe get pissed.
Instead…
Satoru’s eyes sparkled.
Actually sparkled.
He turned to Suguru with a giddy little smile like he’d just been handed ambrosia laced with chaos.
“Suguru,” he breathed, “he was so cooool. ” then his voice got higher “ Did you see the smoke trick? The face? That was some grade-A tsundere energy…do you think he hates me or hates me in a sexy way?”
Suguru blinked. Once. Twice.
Internally: Oh shit.
Externally: “Right. Uhm. Wanna get checked by Shoko?”
Satoru frowned. “Why?”
“I don’t know, just to see if you’ve got some screws loose. Brain fog. Divine fever.”
“Hey!”
“Heartworm.”
“FUck you!.”
“Sure, but it’s interesting that the first person to reject you has you acting like an idiot.”
Satoru only hummed, chin tilting thoughtfully. “Do you think he’ll curse me if I send him a bouquet personally?”
“Do not send him a bouquet personally,” Suguru said firmly. “He has Cerberus.”
“That’s okay,” Satoru beamed. “I like dogs.”
“Oh gods.”
But it was too late. Because Satoru was already glowing …not with his usual divine radiance, but with a new kind of light. The kind that only shows up when something impossible starts to feel like a possibility.
And then, the murmurs started.
Like vines creeping up a temple wall.
Satoru turned slightly, ears catching the soft whisper-whirl of Olympus gossip unfurling in real time.
“Was that… the god of underworld?”
“Did Satoru flirt with him?”
“Did he reject the god of spring?”
“Gods, finally–-someone had to.”
“Was that lord Megumi? I thought he was a myth.”
“No, no, he’s real. I heard he turns into smoke and eats hearts.”
“Well, he turned Satoru into soup, that’s for sure.”
“He’s actually gorgeous!?…”
Satoru just smiled wider, tipping his chin.
“Oh they’re gossiping,” he sang, hands on his hips. “About me . And him. Us. A duo. A scandal.”
Suguru looked at him silently, judgingly as if he had grown two heads. “Right…anyway, let's go to Shoko.” he steers Satoru by the shoulder.
“Now, if you think gods don’t gossip, think again. Olympus runs on scandal the way the mortal world runs on alcohol and poor decisions.
And when the god of the Underworld rejects the god of Spring in full view of every divine onlooker?
Oh honey. That’s not news. That’s a myth in the making.”
Scene IV- After the summit. After the smile. After the poof.
The moon hung low over Olympus, fat and smug, draped in gauze and secrets that don’t stay a secret.
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Shoko, Goddess of Healing and Medicine, had said when she’d kicked them out of her healing sanctum. “You’re just emotionally constipated and catastrophically horny.”
“I think it’s worse,” Suguru had chimed.
“Right,” she deadpanned. “You’ve got a disease.”
Then, jabbing her fingers to Satoru’s chest:
“It’s called feelings ….Tragic, truly. Go fuck it out.”
And so, they did what they always did.
They fucked.
And now, somewhere in the higher halls of divine leisure, one of Suguru’s many decadent hideouts, there were pillows strewn across the floor like flower petals after a wedding, wine spilled in lazy rivers, and enough sweat-slicked skin to make any mortal priest combust on sight.
Bodies lounged, tangled, glowing with afterglow and immortality. Limbs stretched like cats. Someone snored into a half-eaten fig.
And at the center of it all, still naked and wholly distracted, lay Satoru, god of spring and light and currently unfulfilled orgasmic bliss.
Suguru was draped beside him, bare-chested, flushed, hair tousled like he’d just been worshipped, and maybe he had. One of the nymphs curled at his thigh hummed softly, half-asleep.
It had been a good session.
Technically.
There had been lips and moans and hands and mouths. There had been pleasure. There had been wine. At one point someone rode him while Suguru licked pomegranate seeds off his chest.
It was good. It was everything the gods of Olympus were known for.
But even as his back arched, even as he spilled into someone warm and welcoming, Satoru had been thinking of someone else.
Of midnight-blue eyes. Of smoke and darkness. Of a voice that didn’t beg but dismissed .
Now, sprawled on a pile of silk and flesh, he stared blankly at the ceiling, dazed. Distant. Glowing like he always did after a particularly good round.
But this time?
This time it just felt different, unlike before, his heart isn't happy as if it is not enough anymore.
Still, “That was good,” he murmured absently.
Suguru, head resting lazily against his thigh, chuckled. “Mmhmm.”
He tilted his chin up, eyes half-lidded and dangerous. “But not enough, huh?”
Satoru didn’t answer.
Didn’t smile. Didn’t deflect.
He just kept staring upward, eyes unfocused, fingers absently tracing the edge of his own ribs…like something was missing.
Again.
Like it had been ever since that day in the meadow . Since the dog. Since the boulder. Since the shadowed figure in black whose eyes had met his across the summit and looked away like light meant nothing.
That man.
The one with the death-stained robe and the monarch’s stillness.
The one who vanished like smoke and haunted Satoru like a prayer half-answered.
Today, he had a face.
And now Satoru couldn’t forget it.
“You’re thinking about him again,” Suguru said, not unkindly. “The pretty death god.”
Satoru finally looked at him. His voice was quieter than usual. Less show. Less sugar.
“I was thinking about him while fucking others tonight.”
Suguru blinked. “You were thinking about a guy who literally vanished into smoke while inside a nymph?”
Satoru sighed dramatically…
“You weren’t the only one in me tonight, Suguru.”
“I wasn’t in —wait, that’s not the point.”
One of the nymphs stirred beside them, stretching like a satisfied cat. A glint of sea-green scales flashed across her back–one of Hakari--the sea god's daughters, glowing and smug, her skin smelling faintly of salt. She purred lazily, rolling onto her back, clearly eavesdropping.
“You mean that forbidding, delicious, heartbreakingly handsome god of the dead?” she said, voice syrupy. “The one who never shows up, never speaks, and never fucks around?”
Satoru blinked. “…Yeah. Wait…never fuck around?”
She grinned like a fox, not giving the god of spring a straight answer.
“Mm. Alluring, dangerous, mysterious…Everyone who’s tried to get to him has either failed or died. And the god of war is gatekeeping him like a jealous ex. Obsessed. Jealous. Violent.”
She stood, unapologetically nude, picking up her robe with a wink.
“Good luck bedding him, sunshine. I suggest you stick to spring orgies.”
And with that, she strolled out, naked, proud, divine, leaving behind only the echo of her laughter and the soft clink of sea-glass jewelry.
Suguru whistled low, then reached for a half-empty bottle and took a swig.
“Well. That’s a problem,” he muttered. “Guess that’s it for you.”
“NO.”
Suguru choked mid-gulp. Wine sputtered down his chin.
“Excuse me?”
Satoru sat up, slow and uncharacteristically serious. His hair was mussed, cheeks still flushed. Lips parted like he was still catching his breath, not from the sex, but from the thought of someone. His expression had shifted.
Gone was the grin. In its place…a gleam of something sharper.
“I want him,” he said.
Soft. Devastatingly clear.
Suguru froze.
He’d heard Satoru say that phrase before. Plenty of times. About peaches. Mortals. Other beings, Dangerous magical artifacts.
But not like this.
“You–-you’re serious?”
“I’ve never been more serious.”
“You just met him–-!”
“Exactly,” Satoru cut in. “I met him, and I’ve never wanted anyone like that before.”
He pressed a hand to his chest like it hurt. Like something was physically inside him, blooming and burning at once.
“I don’t just want to fuck him. I want…” he stopped, exhaled, “I want to get to him. I want to reach whatever place he hides from everyone else.”
Suguru blinked. “You’re down bad for the lord of the Underworld.”
Satoru didn’t even deny it.
“I’ll do anything to get to him,” he said. “The god of war be damned.”
There was a moment of silence.
Suguru watched him like someone watching a sun catch fire.
Then he tipped back his wine and laughed, dry and low. “Olympus is not ready for you in love.”
And so it began.
The moment when Satoru, god of spring, light, and getting what he wants, decided that the untouchable king of the Underworld would not remain untouchable for long.
That morning
He stood now where Megumi had once been.
Atop the boulder. Alone.
No dog. No dark god. No sign of life.
Just the whisper of petals on wind.
And the memory of those midnight eyes.
“…Dammit,” Satoru muttered.
Then he turned, saw a white bird flying, brightened, and snapped his fingers.
The Next Day
He kidnapped the Messenger of the gods.
Poor Yuuji never saw it coming.
“ And so begin our tale–not some epic battle, or adventure about a hero guided or antagonised by gods…but of something far more…dangerous…a god with a crush.
Spring had met death. Light had found something it couldn’t blind.
And Satoru?
He wasn’t just falling…
He was diving headfirst into the Underworld…
…with not much plan, no permission, and way too much charm.
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