#( been around since the beginning of existence itself )

[readwritealldayallnight]

Comatose Confessions

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 4k words

warnings/tags: fluff

Part two to this

He’s barely moved a single inch in the last hour

Though he blinks every so often, his eyes never once stray from where he’s held his gaze so steadily this entire time, as focused as any trained sniper could ever hope to be

Sat on his bed, back against the wall and stiff as a statue, he watches as the faint light creeping in under the crack of his door shifts every so often, the shadows outside refusing to stand still

He knows it’s you

As perfectly silent as you are, he can still see the shadow of your boots pacing back and forth, back and forth, again and again, just outside his room

You know he’s inside

And he knows that’s why you refuse to leave, annoyingly stubborn in your pursuit, determined in your efforts to get the man inside to put an end to his charades

He knows you won’t leave until you get what you want

And what you want, is for Ghost to stop avoiding you

He’s been very carefully, very intentionally avoiding having to speak to you

He can’t bring himself to do it

He just can’t

Not since he’s woken up

Not since his head felt worse than it had in a very long time, mind swimming through a heavy fog in an attempt to fight his way back to consciousness, his entire being had felt shaken to its core and thrown off its axis, his blood running cold with the unmistakable chill of pure, unadulterated fear, not too far off to how he’d once felt waking up with the taste of dirt in his mouth, buried six feet under ground

Only to be jolted into a startlingly opposite reality when he suddenly was able to smell that achingly familiar, enrapturing fragrance he’d come to associate with a certain someone, could somehow feel miraculously soft, gentle fingertips smoothing along his neck into his goddamn hair, an affectionate touch he’d only felt fleetingly as a young boy, and when he’d opened his eyes, he was certain he’d somehow snuck his way past the gates and into heaven

Because above him had been you, and though the light glowing around you burned his tired eyes, you remained a vision so beautiful to behold he could never dream of shutting his eyes ever again, could not help but to instinctually reach out to grasp you, should you vanish before him and he lose the chance to ever hold you, at least once

His brain was still pounding, insistently throbbing as it shocked itself back awake, fighting to take control back as his lips suddenly said the only thing that both his mind and heart could agree upon at this moment, looking up at you:

“Love.”

It was nearly an entire day later, following a flurry of you being whisked out of his room, doctors and nurses fussing over him, his mind and body slowly beginning to feel more like his own again, when Soap came to visit him and all too happily recounted to his Lieutenant what he’d supposedly said upon waking up from his days long coma

After the doctors released him from the med bay or rather accepted that the Lieutenant was going to leave when he wanted to whether they liked it or not, they’d given strict instructions for at least a fortnights rest, wanting to allow his brain enough time to truly recover, concerned that though everything else was checking out fine, that short bout of confusion upon waking could not be looked over when it came to head injuries

Confusion

Is that what they all thought it had been?

He couldn’t exactly blame them, he felt he’d done a more than phenomenal job of hiding the true nature of his feelings for you from anyone and everyone, making it appear as though he was nothing more than indifferent to your existence, far from someone he’d be relieved to see waking up in a hospital bed

No, he’d been far from confused when he’d insisted to anyone who would listen, not caring that anyone’s ears but your own would hear his words spoken with the utmost sincerity, when he called you his girl, his love

No, if anything that was the most honest Ghost had been in a long time

At least since you’d worked your way into his life and apparently his heart along the way

But now, nearly two weeks passed since he’d woken up and admitted to you in his vulnerable state of mind his true feelings for you, after months of carefully avoiding ever letting you know how he felt, months of keeping his distance in hopes of diminishing the gravitation pull he felt whenever you were near, and he couldn’t bring himself to face you

He can’t decide whether it’s a small mercy or not that in the fog of waking up and all the chaos that ensued, that he can’t recall seeing your reaction to his words, can’t remember seeing the look on your face when he admitted the words he would have preferred to have been buried with than to profess out loud to you

A blessing, in that he doesn’t know whether your face twisted up into a look of horror or disgust at his revelation, and a curse, in that he’s had days upon days holed up in his room, imagining every other possible reaction you might have had

Since his release from the med bay, you’ve come knocking at his door, he knows you’ve been asking around base for him, have tried to run into him during those few fleeting moments he trudges to the mess hall and back

Why you’re so determined to confront him, he can’t be sure

To laugh at him? Rub it in his face?

He doesn’t think so, it’s not something he believes you’d so, but then again he’s never had his entire heart held in a pretty birds hands before, especially when he’d never intended to hand the bloodied, somehow still beating thing over in the first place

Maybe you feel sorry for him, hope to let him down easy, or even pretend as though you never heard him in the first place, he’s not sure which would hurt him most if he’s honest-

None of those excuses feel right however, with the way you’ve been seeking him out so persistently, opposite to the neutrality the two of you had less than half a month ago, and so always more at ease in the certainty of his own misery, rather than the misery of uncertainty, he remains hidden from you

Fuck, he hopes you haven’t been speaking to Johnny too much

When he notices your steady back and forth pacing suddenly come to a halt with the shadows indicating you’re stood directly in front of his door, the only movement Ghost allows is the slightest quirk of his scarred eyebrow, gaze intent on where he imagines your form stands just beyond the thick plank of wood separating you

He’s holding his breath, wondering what your next move will be in this childish game of cat and mouse he’s roped you into, when he hears the slightest shuffling from outside, a crinkling sound accompanied by shadows moving about under the door, followed by the sound of your boots echoing away from him and down the hall

It takes him nearly another ten minutes before he dares to move again, already beginning to berate himself for the way he’s behaving like a frightened child, when his eyes lock in on the anomaly on his floor

The sun was just beginning to set when he’d dared to venture out to the mess hall and back to his room quickly, hoping it was the best time to avoid most everyone including you before they ran out of decently edible grub, only just slipping into his room and shutting the door behind him when he’d glanced down the hall and locked eyes with you turning the corner

Now more than an hour passed, the sun long gone and his food cold and untouched, he notices something that wasn’t there before

Slowly, Ghost approaches his door, bending down to a crouch to examine what’s been slipped so carefully underneath the thin seam of his door

A single cigarette

He huffs a silent approving hum, bringing the death stick up to his mask covered nose to smell the bad habit he hasn’t touched in a few days

In all his efforts to avoid running into you, he’d quickly gone through the packs he kept in his room, only daring to smoke them out of his own ajar window like a goddamn teenager hiding the smoke from their parents

He’d smoked his last one a handful of days ago, and had yet to pick up a new pack, his years long addiction to nicotine apparently coming second to his need to continue avoiding you, no matter the cravings he felt

Now however, holding the smoke between his calloused fingers, he finds himself too relieved to begin the logical train of thought that should accompany such a gift from you being slid under his door

Fetching his lighter out of his desk drawer, Ghost steps towards his window and cracks it ajar enough that he can lean his upper half out, prepared to enjoy his cig in peace

What he isn’t prepared for however, as he inches his balaclava up above his crooked nose and begins trying to spark the lighter to life, is for the flames to be reflected back at him through your very own eyes staring up at him, stood directly below his window

“Hi Ghost.” You whisper up to him with amusement, the faint quiver of your lip giving away the mischievous smirk threatening to push through the darkness of the late night hour

You’re quicker than he expects you to be, almost as though you anticipated what his next move would be, when you reach out to squeeze your hand between the window and the pane, just as Ghost hurries to shut it

“What the fuck do ye think you’re doin’?” The Lieutenant growls out, hoping to stall for time as he recomposes himself, internally shaking his head at himself for falling for your trick. Leaving him a damn cigarette like a taunt and waiting beneath his window for him to smoke it was purely childish on your part, but then again, he hasn’t exactly been the most level headed soldier on base recently either he supposes

“Apparently what I have to do to get you to acknowledge me.” You reply casually, refusing to budge your hand away from where it prevents the window from shutting you out. “How long are you planning on avoiding me? Hm?”

“You’re bloody mental if ye think tha’ I-” He cuts himself off with the sharp glance you throw his way, a look that easily reads ‘are you fucking kidding me’ even in the low light illuminated across your features. “Alrigh’, fine. You’ve got me. Your grand plan was to hide ou’ here, like some bloody lunatic, wait for me… and then what? You plannin’ on climbin’ in through the fuckin’ window next?”

Fighting for the upper hand in this situation, Ghost watches as you take a deep breath, eyes quickly scanning the length between the ground and the windowsill, where you’re struggling to keep your hold while stood on tip toes

“Well I was hoping you’d invite me in by now. But I’ll do what I have to.” You decide confidently, raising your chin up high as you hold his gaze, refusing to back down now that you’ve got him in front of you. You must see something in him that puts a slight dent in your resolve however, as he watches your eyes soften ever so slightly, and you begin to shift on your feet. “I just want to talk to you, Ghost. Can’t we at least just do that?”

He fights the urge to grind his teeth as he clenches his jaw, shifting his eyes away from you as he struggles to maintain his composure seeing you standing there bathed in moonlight, a look of genuine sincerity on your face as you plead with him to be reasonable

“Fucking fine. But you’re using the bloody door. Don’t need you causing a scene out ‘ere.” He relents, pulling his hand back from the window pane.

“You promise to let me in?” You ask, hesitating before you release your grip on the glass. He peers back down at you, taking his own steadying breath before he offers a curt but steady nod in your direction. “Good, because my next move was going to be to pull the fire alarm, and that would’ve just been so much more of a mess.”

With that little revelation, he watches your hand slip away from the glass as you tip toe along the edge of the barracks, finding your way back inside. He scoffs to himself as he shuts the windows firmly, shaking his head at your antics as he stares solemnly at the unlit cigarette still pinched between his fingers

What the fuck has he gotten himself into?

Your fist has barely finished its first knock on his door before he’s swinging it open, reaching a large hand out to grip you by the waist and pull you inside before he has the chance to change his mind about this whole thing. He peers his head quickly around the corridor to make sure no one caught sight of anything before shutting the door behind you both, sealing him in with the last person he thought he’d find himself with tonight

He releases his hold on you as quick as he can, taking a large step backwards to put space between you both, eyes raking in the sight of you pressed up against the back of his door, an image he’s pictured many times before in his head but never believed he’d truly ever lay his eyes upon

He watches your own gaze hesitantly sweep around the space quickly, taking in the sparseness of the room. What he wouldn’t do to be able to take a peek into your mind, especially right now

“How’s your head feel?” You ask quietly, eyes shifting back towards the masked man’s visage as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his side. The only answer you get from him is a grunt you’ve heard from him often enough to know translates to ‘fine’. “Soap was telling me that if the docs clear you this weekend you’ll be able to start easing back into work.”

Ghost simply watches as you watch him, slowly lifting one foot before another, cautiously making your way over to his small desk and easing yourself down into the chair, all the while keeping him in your sight, as though he were a wild animal you might spook with one wrong move

“I’m sure they’ll pass you, but between you and me,” you add, leaning back slightly in the chair as a shadow of a smile crinkles in the corner of your lips. “I’d help you forge the docs signature if we had to. I’ve had my fair share of Soap, I’m ready to pass custody back over to you.”

At this, Ghost can’t help the soft chuckle that slips out, watching as the hesitant smile on your face forms into a full fledge smirk at the sound of his approval. With the tension in the room slowly beginning to dissipate already, he dares to allow himself to take his own atop his bed, opposite to you. Still though, he can’t completely let go of the nerves running through him, knowing you’re likely moments away from confronting him.

“You wanted to talk, let’s talk.” His deep voice rings out in the small space, hoping to cut straight to the chase, get this over with

“Right,” he watches you fidget in your seat, eyes leaving his for a moment as you begin to fiddle with your jacket pockets. “Listen Ghost, I- I realize that I might have heard something you didn’t necessarily want me to know.”

‘Yeah, that’s putting it fucking lightly’ he thinks to himself, but allows you to go on with whatever speech you’ve obviously prepare, hoping you’ll at least be quick in your rejection of him, and that this can soon all be a thing of the past

“And I figured if we were going to talk, it would really only be fair to level the playing field, so to speak.” He watches with veiled curiosity as you fish something out of your jacket. In your hands you hold a small, but clearly well loved notebook

“How’s that?” He questions, nodding towards the item in your grasp

“I don’t think I have to swear you to secrecy here but, I used to write in journals a lot, when I was little. Don’t really keep up with it as much anymore, you know how busy we are.” You mention, pulling the strap down from across the front cover and opening the book, fingers sifting through the pages covered in handwritten words of ink and lead. “Every once in a while I’ll write something down, if it’s memorable. But mostly I jot down my uh, well my more embarrassing stories.”

“Why would ye do tha’?” Ghost questions, eyebrows furrowing as he tries not to decipher any of the words he sees on in your book, unsure where this is all going

“Honestly,” you say with a small, airy chuckle. The Lieutenant ignores the sudden feeling in his chest cavity as he comes to the conclusion he’s never seen you smile so often, at least not so up close and personal. “Reading them back makes me feel better. They make me laugh. Especially after a long day or hard missions. Nice to come back to and remind myself not everything in life has to be so… serious, I guess.”

You offer a casual shrug, still thumbing between pages as Ghost takes in your words.

“Anyways, I just thought that, maybe you’d want to hear something I would usually never tell anyone. Make us a little more even?”

He narrows his eyes at you slightly, understanding now what it is you’re trying to do.

He slipped up that day when he woke up from the coma, accidentally made himself vulnerable in front of you and said something he wish he hadn’t, something he’s embarrassed about

And so here you are now, offering to be vulnerable in front of him instead, to grant him access to some of your embarrassing moments and thoughts, level the playing field as you had put it

Yeah, he’ll bite

Again, he offers you no more than a subtle nod in your direction to communicate his agreement, but the way your eyes lights up at this response, you’d think he would’ve just agreed to make you Captain for a day

“Thought maybe we’d start easy. How about the time I accidentally spit my gum out on my CO’s boots? Or when I peed myself during basic-”

Ghost isn’t sure how you’ve done it, whether you knew this was how your cunning plan would work out all along, or if you’ve just gotten incredibly lucky tonight, but as one embarrassing story on your part turns into two, and then three, and suddenly hours have gone by, the stoic Lieutenant finds himself smiling with you, laughing with you, fuck he even starts offering up his own carefully curated stories when you pull an almost full carton of cigs out of your other pocket and toss them to him, the two of you sharing remarks over a shared smoke, hunched over the same window he nearly slammed in your face earlier

“Oh man,” you choke out in small fit of giggles, your hand holding your sides as you pass the cigarette back to him. “We oughta put all your dad jokes down on paper one day, you know why? Because they’re tear-able.”

He rolls his eyes as he takes a deep inhale off the cig, pretending the corners of his mouth haven’t been lifted nearly all night.

“Tha’ was awful.” He mutters, sparing you a side glance before he adds, “A real pun-ishable offence you jus’ committed there.” He doesn’t bother hiding his smirk anymore when your giggles grow louder at that.

“Alright, alright. I suppose my pun-ishment then,” you say between breaths, casting him a glance to see if he approves of yet another one of your corny puns tonight. “Would be to read these last few pages.”

He watches as your fingers dance across the handful of pages making up the end of the journal, yet to be read aloud tonight, your movements appearing hesitant for the first time this entire interaction.

Part of him feels the urge to tell you whatever it is, it’s not necessary, that you don’t have to read anymore about yourself that you don’t want to

Another part however, is far too curious, far too intrigued to know more about you, having learned more tonight from your own lips than he has in all the months he’s known you

“Actually, maybe I’ll just have you read it this time.” You say, reaching the journal out towards him, allowing him that one final glimpse into your personal thoughts. With a calloused palm, he takes the book from your hand, careful not to linger too long on the soft touch of your digits against his rougher ones. Glancing down at the words written haphazardly across the lined paper, he reads:

‘First week with the 141 went by in a blur, don’t think I’ve ever sweat so much on a base before, those men sure know how to train’

‘Captain is nicer than any other CO I’ve had before, and the Sergeants are funny, very welcoming’

‘The Lieutenant is… different’

‘Not bad different (though he might not say the same for me), just different. Hoping to learn more about him soon’

‘One month on the team has flown by, almost can’t remember life before the 141’

‘The lads are great, but the Lieutenant still doesn’t seem keen on me being here. Which is a shame, his teammates speak so highly of him, and his work speaks for itself. Just wish he’d speak to me sometimes’

‘Almost half a year already, if you can believe it’

‘These men feel like family, all apart from the one who still won’t acknowledge me’

‘The lads say not to worry about it, that Ghost will come around eventually… I just hope they’re right. There’s something about him I can’t shake. I find myself thinking about him more than I should’

‘Mission went bad. Lieutenant got hurt and has yet to wake up from his coma’

‘For the lads sake, I hope he wakes up soon’

‘Ghost opened his eyes yesterday…’

‘I don’t know if he meant what he said, or if he even remembers it, but I know I’ll never be able to forget it’

‘This entire time I’ve just wanted him and I to be cordial, to work together, hell maybe even become friends… but ever since he’s said those words… I can’t shake the feeling … maybe friends isn’t quite the right word for us’

Ghost isn’t sure how many times his eyes scan that last entry over and over and over, willing his eyes to believe what he’s seeing right in front of him, not until your hand slowly slips over his own, still holding the journal open, does his gaze flicker up to meet your own vulnerable stare

“I’ll be honest I’m not sure how to- do this.” You say with a slightly awkward chuckle, the vulnerability of the situation clearly starting to get to you as your Lieutenant stares you down wordlessly. “But I wanted to be honest with you. Couldn’t have you wallowing away in here any longer without knowing - well I guess without knowing how I felt too. I don’t know you as well as I’d like to Ghost, we haven’t exactly given each other many chances to do so. But I’d really like to be your… friend.”

His eyes narrow in on the sweet but anxious smile you try to put on through your nerves, your earlier confidence diminishing now that you’ve truly laid your cards out and made yourself as vulnerable as you can before the man who still has yet to say anything.

Ghost takes a steadying breath, eyes never leaving yours as he tosses your journal onto his bed where it lands with a soft bounce.

Vulnerability like this, feelings like this… it’s a grey area Ghost usually tries to avoid at all costs, a field of land mines he’d rather not cross, knowing no one makes it out on the other side unscathed

But with everything you’ve done for him, everything you’ve revealed to him, in combination with the throbbing organ behind his ribs fighting to beat its way back to life since the moment he met you and decided he couldn’t fall for you, Ghost finally relents and says fuck it. You’ve shown more bravery tonight than he has in the last two weeks, avoiding you like you were the plague, and it’s about time he put on his big boy trousers and show some bravery of his own now

“Don’ know it the lads told ya, but I don’ really do friends.” He says, slowly lifting a single boot and cautiously stepping in your direction

“I- I’ve heard.” You mutter, trying not to show the defeat that threatens to come across your features at his words, fearing he’s about to let you down.

The large man takes another step, and another, until there’s suddenly less than an inch of space left between both your heaving chests, and you have to crane your neck upwards while his is tilted down to keep his eyes on yours. Your eyes widen as you watch one of Ghost’s large hands come up into view, sneaking towards the bottom of his balaclava, which has been rolled up with entire time as you both shared some smokes

His fingers pinch the fabric, pulling it up further above his mouth to rest on the crooked bridge of his nose, revealing more of his scarred lips to you just as they whisper:

“But you and I, my love, aren’t quite friends.”

With the way Ghost’s lips come crashing onto your own waiting mouth, you’re inclined to agree with him

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[honeyncherry]

secret of us V - joe burrow

summary you’ve always been joe’s little secret, but secrets have a way of slipping through cracks — especially when love refuses to stay hidden anymore

content 18+, suggestive, angst, fluff

part four

It took three seconds to realize what was happening.

One. The blinding flash sears itself into your vision leaving a ghostly imprint behind. You blink, but the world doesn’t clear— it stays blurred, spinning out of focus. The air crackles, charged with something you feel coursing through every nerve.

Two. The shouted voices slice through the chaos as the pieces begin snapping into place: the cameras, the sudden crowd, the world collapsing in on itself. It feels like a nightmare where no matter how loud you scream, you can’t wake up.

Three. His hand grabs for yours, a grip of steel, and you hold on for dear life. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The pull of his touch says it all: Run.

It took fourteen seconds to get to the car.

One. Your feet falter on the pavement, his sudden tug jolting you forward. His pace is quick, his shoulders a solid wall against the growing noise.

Five. Your breath comes in short, uneven bursts. Your lungs burn, catching in your throat as you struggle to match his strides.

Nine. The car comes into view, his free hand fumbling for the keys in his pocket, every movement laced with urgency.

Fourteen. The door slams shut behind you, the echo rippling in the quiet. Inside, everything feels smaller, but no less suffocating.

It took eight seconds to leave the parking lot.

One. The click of the engine turning over, the low rumble vibrating through the silence.

Four. You don’t look at him. You can’t.

Six. The first motion forward, tires crunching against gravel as the car pulls away, leaving the chaos behind.

Eight. The world outside blurs, neon streaks against the darkness as the car slips into the flow of traffic.

And now?

It’s been four hundred and twelve seconds since that moment. Four hundred and twelve seconds since the flash of a camera shattered everything you thought you knew.

Is it possible for a single moment to stretch and shrink at the same time? To feel infinite and fleeting, slipping through your fingers even as it carves itself into your memory?

The question loops in your mind, circling endlessly, as the glow of the streetlights flashes across the car windows. The world outside feels unreal, hazy and distant. But here, everything feels vividly clear — painfully so. The rattle of the engine, the silence of the radio, the shallow sound of breathing in a space that feels impossibly heavy.

You replay it again and again: the savage flashes, freezing you in a way that feels too permanent, too exposed. His hand wrapped around yours, an unspoken promise that he wouldn’t let go.

The way his eyes locked onto you, saying everything his voice didn’t. And you followed without question. Because how could you not, when he looked at you like that? Like the earth itself might crack open if you didn’t.

But now, in the suffocating quiet of the car, another thought lingers in an unshakeable manner: What does it mean when someone holds onto you like that? Like letting go isn’t even an option.

It feels bigger than the moment, spilling over into the corners of your mind where other thoughts linger. You’ve spent so long trying to untangle this, trying to understand the pull he has on you. This quiet gravity that makes it impossible to stay away, even when you know you probably should.

It’s not just the way he looks at you, though that’s part of it. It’s the way he exists in your life, like he’s always been there, even when he hasn’t. Like he’s a constant you didn’t realize you needed until it was too late to imagine life without him.

Four hundred and twelve seconds, and you’re still replaying it. The light. His hand. The urgency of the moment.

Four hundred and twelve seconds since the moment everything changed.

Four hundred and twelve seconds, and you still don’t know what to say.

The Solution 

You’ve always been good at overthinking. Analyzing every word, every look, every moment until it loses its shape entirely. Luckily, over the years, you’ve learned how to temper the thoughts, pushing them aside just enough so they don’t consume you. Born out of necessity, it became a skill that made sense of things that felt too big, too messy to hold.

But tonight, in the stillness of Joe’s car, that careful control feels fragile. Like the threads holding your thoughts together could snap at any moment. The events of the night are too big, too messy, and too loud to fit into those neat corners you’ve carved space for.

When he parks right outside your apartment, Joe doesn’t move at first, his body stiff, like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. One hand grips the gear stick so tightly his knuckles whiten, while the other rests on his knee, fingers twitching like they want to reach for something but don’t know what.

“I messed up,” he says suddenly, his voice breaking the silence between you.

You glance at him, startled. “What?”

“I messed up,” he repeats, quieter now, almost like he’s talking to himself. His eyes stay fixed on the empty parking lot ahead, the glow of the overhead lights casting shadows across his face. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve been smarter about all of this.”

You blink, the weight of his words hitting you all at once. “Joe, you couldn’t have—”

“Yes, I could’ve!” he snaps, voice loud enough to make you flinch. He exhales sharply, raising his hand and dragging it down his face. His palm scrapes over tired eyes before falling heavily to his lap. “This is my world. I know the risks, and I brought you into it anyway. Now look at what’s gonna happen.”

Your stomach twists at the guilt in his tone. “You didn’t do this,” you murmur, tone gentle. “Those people out there? That’s not on you. You didn’t ask for it, and neither did I, but that doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “It feels like my fault. Every single part of this feels like my fault.”

The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest ache. You want to reach for him, but something about the way he’s holding himself — so tightly wound, like he might snap, stops you. “Joe,” you say carefully. “You didn’t force me into this. I chose to be here. I chose you.”

His head snaps toward you, his eyes assessing you. For a moment, he looks like he doesn’t believe you, like he’s trying to find some hidden meaning in your words. “You don’t get it,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t know what they’re going to say. What they’re going to do. They don’t care about you, about how this could hurt you. All they see is me, and anyone connected to me becomes fair game.”

“I don’t care about them,” you say firmly, cutting him off before he can spiral further. “I care about you. That’s all that matters to me.”

His jaw tightens, gaze dropping to where his hands rest in his lap. For a long moment, the only sound is the rattle of the car engine. When he finally speaks, his voice is raw, stripped of all the bravado he usually hides behind. “I’m scared.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “Of what?”

“Of ruining this,” he repeats for the tenth time, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Of ruining us. Of losing you because I can’t keep my shit together.”

You don’t know what to say, so you do the only thing you can think of. 

Your hand finds his where it rests on his leg, fingers curling gently around his own. His skin is cold to the touch, and you wonder if he’ll pull away. But instead, his hand shifts under yours, fingers threading through yours like it’s instinct.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you say softly, holding his stare. “I’m here, Joe. I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip tightens, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite know how. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” he murmurs, almost like he’s trying to warn you away.

“Maybe I don’t,” you reply. “But I’m still here. That has to count for something.”

He watches you for a long moment, the tension in his body finally starting to ebb. “It counts for everything,” he says quietly, the words feeling so honest, so simple, you almost forget to breathe.

The silence that follows feels different. It’s still quiet, but the weight of it seems to shift, no longer pressing on you but instead settling between you like something you both understand now. There’s a calmness to it, a fragile kind of peace that you’re not sure either of you knows how to hold onto yet.

Joe turns back to the windshield, his hand still wrapped around yours. His thumb brushes absently across your knuckles, a soft, repetitive motion that somehow feels like it’s grounding you just as much as it seems to be grounding him. 

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, the words spoken so quietly you almost think you imagined them.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you say, a soft smile ghosting across your lips.

And then you feel it. Not the fear of being exposed, or the chaos of his world pulling at yours. Not the shadows of doubt or the suffocating weight of all the things that could go wrong.

No. It’s a gnawing sensation, the tender pull deep in your chest that feels like both comfort and pain, wrapping itself around you like something you can’t shake. The kind of feeling that tells you what you’ve been denying for too long: you love him.

You’re in love with Joe.

You don’t know when it started, or how. Could it have been the stolen glances, when his eyes found yours across crowded rooms and locked onto you just long enough to make your heart stutter? Those glances weren’t casual. They felt as if they carried unspoken confessions, like he was saying something meant only for you.

Maybe it was in the warmth of his hand on those occasions when he reached for you. The way his fingers laced through yours with an ease that left you breathless, as if his touch had always been destined to find yours.

Or maybe it was in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching, as though you were something he couldn’t figure out how to keep but couldn’t bear to lose. When he leaned in, just a little closer than necessary, it didn’t feel like coincidence — it felt like gravity, always pulling him toward you, like the universe itself had decided to play matchmaker. Like it knew he craved it, craved you.

Was it in the quiet nights, when the conversation faded but neither of you moved, and the world seemed to hold its breath around you? Those silences weren’t empty — no, they were full of all the things you were both too afraid to say.

Or maybe it was in the small, ordinary things: the way his laugh softened when you were the one making him smile, or the way his gaze held something deeper, like you weren’t just someone he cared for, you were someone he needed.

It’s possible that it wasn’t any one thing, but instead the way that being around him had shifted into something more, something inevitable. Like you had never truly been just friends. 

Over the past couple of months, it had become harder to convince yourself otherwise. Harder to ignore the way your heartbeat kicked up when he was near. Every conversation seemed to carry more meaning than it used to, as if you were both inching toward something neither of you had planned but couldn’t stop.

So, maybe it wasn’t any one moment at all, but a slow unraveling, like the fragile thread holding you together had been pulled loose without you even noticing. Little by little, it unraveled until it finally snapped, and by the time you realized it, you were already falling.

And the fall wasn’t chaotic or sudden. It was quiet, so quiet you hadn’t even heard it coming until you hit the ground, breathless and entirely his.

With that realization comes the weight of everything you’ve tried to ignore.

You’d told yourself this wasn’t love. That it couldn’t be. That it was something temporary, something you could let go of when the time came. You tried to believe it and hold on to the idea that walking away would be easy. 

But now, with his hand in yours and his faint declaration echoing in your mind: I love you — you know you were wrong. His words didn’t just sit there; they seeped in, filling the cracks you’d tried to patch over with excuses. Because it wasn’t just his touch that felt familiar; it was the way he laid his heart bare, leaving you no place to hide. They pulled you under. 

You love him. 

Terrifyingly. 

Completely. 

Irrevocably.

And the truth is, you don’t want to let him go.

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s reckless. Maybe it’s the kind of thing that could ruin everything if you let it. But none of that matters anymore. Because in this moment — with his presence grounding you and the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips — it feels like enough.

For now, this is enough.

The Party 

“It’s just something small,” Joe had said leaning against his kitchen counter. “Nothing big. Just a couple guys from the team, some of their girls, barely anyone.”

You’d hesitated then, rolling the strap of your top between your fingers. The thought of showing up somewhere in public with Joe still made your anxious thoughts skyrocket after what happened just a couple of days ago. 

Safe to say, the media is ruthless.

Joe noticed your hesitation. His brows pulled together like he wanted to say something comforting, but wasn’t sure what. He didn’t push. He never did.

“Okay,” you agreed, nodding hopefully. Your voice was calmer than you felt. You pursed your lips, the realization settling in — this would be the first time you’d be in his world like this. You, him, and everyone else. Not hidden in the shadows but right there, where people could see you.

Would they wonder why Joe brought you? Would they piece together what the public had already started whispering about?

“It’s really no pressure,” Joe added, sagging his shoulders and leaning forward. “I just thought... it’d be nice to have you there.”

And just like that, the warmth in his voice melted through some of the fear knotted in your chest.

You managed a small smile. “I know.”

Now you’re here, standing just outside the front door of the house, the muffled thump of music vibrating through the walls. Joe is by your side, his hand resting lightly on your back as he opens the door.

“You good?” he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, even though your heart feels like it might beat out of your chest. “Mhm. Just a little nervous.”

His hand stays for a moment longer, warm and steady. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he murmurs. With that, he guides you inside.

The space is sprawling, filled with the soft glow of dim lighting, conversation, and music that pulses just enough to set the mood without being overwhelming. The smell of food drifts faintly from the kitchen, and you spot a few familiar faces mingling in small clusters around the room.

A few heads turn when you walk in, mostly curious glances. Nothing too intense, but enough to make you hyper-aware of Joe’s hand still resting lightly on your back. You hope you look more put together than you feel.

“Relax,” Joe murmurs, his lips brushing close to your ear. “I‘m right here.”

Before you can respond, Ja’Marr’s voice booms from across the room.

“Joe! There’s our golden boy.” He weaves through the crowd with his usual grin and a drink in hand. “And hey — look who he brought with him! Superstar, it’s been a minute.”

You smile, the tension in your chest loosening just a little. “You’ve been busy, Ja’Marr. Don’t blame me.”

He chuckles, pulling you into a quick, friendly hug. “True, but you could’ve texted. You’ve got my number, right?”

Joe raises a brow, smirking. “Pretty sure she has mine. That’s enough.”

Ja’Marr snorts. “Possessive much? Don’t worry, I’m not trying to steal her.”

Before either of you can respond, someone calls Ja’Marr’s name, waving him over. He gives you both a knowing smile, like he’s in on a secret you haven’t figured out yet. “I’ll catch up with you two later.”

Joe chuckles under his breath, leaning down so only you can hear. “Ignore him,” he mutters.

He guides you through the room, his chest brushing lightly against your back as you weave through groups of people. The hum of conversation and music blurs around you like static. Your first few conversations are polite but brief — quick introductions and names you probably won’t remember tomorrow.

As Joe leads you to the bar setup, you glance up at him. He seems relaxed, like he’s done this a million times, but you know better. You know how much he hates public interactions like this: the noise, the small talk — but somehow, he’s making it look effortless. He catches you watching him.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft.

You’re about to answer when someone stumbles into you, a guy neither of you recognize, tipsy and barely aware of how he’s thrown you off balance. Joe’s arm is around you in an instant, pulling you firmly against him.

“Watch it, buddy,” Joe says, cocking his head slightly as the guy mumbles an apology and stumbles off.

“I’m fine,” you say, stifling a laugh as you steady yourself. “Thanks, Captain America.”

Joe’s lips twitch. “Don’t tempt me. You know I’d tackle someone if I had to.”

“Oh, I know.” You nudge him playfully. “But let’s avoid that, yeah?”

He chuckles, urging you forward. His fingers brush against yours briefly as he grabs two drinks and hands you one. The cool glass anchors you, but it’s Joe’s presence hat keeps you steady.

Just as you’re settling in, familiar faces approach. Sam and Jess greet you with warm smiles, Jess pulling you into a quick hug.

“There she is!” Jess says, her eyes lighting up. “I was wondering when we’d see you.”

You smile as Jess nods toward Joe. “I see you’ve got your shadow tonight.”

Joe raises a brow. “Shadow?”

Jess grins. “You heard me. Wherever you go, she goes.”

Sam chuckles, giving Joe a playful nudge. “Or maybe it’s the other way around. What’s the deal, Burrow? Can’t keep her out of your sight?”

Joe laughs, his ears turning the faintest shade of pink as he shakes his head. Sam claps him on the back, and the two slip into conversation about something you don’t quite catch. Jess links her arm through yours, leading you a few steps away for a quick catch-up.

“How have you been?” she asks.

The conversation flows easily, filled with updates on work, life, and everything in between. Before you know it, Sam sneaks up behind Jess, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“Mind if I steal my wife back?” he teases, swaying her slightly.

Jess giggles, leaning into him. “You’ve had me all night.”

“Still not enough,” Sam grins, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Jess rolls her eyes fondly as he tugs her back toward the crowd. “See you soon,” she calls with a wink.

You shake your head, laughing softly as you step back beside Joe.

“They’re always like that, huh?” you say.

Joe leans closer, his arm resting casually on the countertop, fingers brushing against yours again. “Yep. But they’re not wrong.”

You blink, a little caught off guard, and turn to face him. “About what?”

“Not wanting to let you out of my sight.”

Your breath catches, and before you can respond, he’s smiling again, the glint in his eyes softening the weight of his words.

“Come on,” he looks around. “Let’s find somewhere quieter.

Joe takes your hand, and you follow him as he weaves the two of you through the house, brushing past groups of people without a second glance. When the door to the back patio opens, the air shifts — cooler, quieter, an overall welcome contrast to the buzz inside. String lights hang above, casting a soft glow over the deck and the surrounding yard, like you’ve stepped into a secret corner of the night.

You settle onto the top step of the deck, knees tucked close together as you relax into the moment. Through the open patio door you spot a TV mounted inside, playing a replay of last night’s Thursday night game. The players’ jerseys blur across the screen as you watch them move, your thoughts drifting.

Joe catches you staring, the soft glow of the lights catching the faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say softly, a smile pulling at your lips. “It just reminded me of when you tried to teach me how to throw a perfect spiral.”

Joe groans dramatically, tossing his head back like he’s reliving the trauma. “How could I forget? You nailed me right in the chest with the ball.”

“You told me to ‘just throw it!’” you protest, laughing. “That’s on you.”

“Pretty sure I didn’t mean at me,” he says, grinning. “But I’ll admit, you’ve got a hell of an arm.”

Your laughter lingers, but it fades when his hand brushes against your knee. It’s a whisper of a touch, something casual that feels anything but. He doesn’t move, and neither do you.

“You know,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, playful but edged with something deeper, “I still think you did it on purpose.”

You tilt your head, smirking. “Maybe I did.”

“Yeah?” His fingers shift slightly, sliding up and beginning to trace soft circles against your leg. “What else haven’t you told me?”

His touch sends butterflies through you and the playful banter blurs into something else entirely. His thigh presses lightly against yours, and when you meet his gaze, it’s no longer just playful; it’s careful and maybe even hopeful, like he’s giving you a choice.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to figure it out.”

His smile softens, but the weight of his gaze stays steady. The space between you shrinks without either of you moving an inch. The cool breeze drifts past, but it barely registers, not with him right next to you and warmth buzzing under your skin. His fingers continue their slow, absentminded movements on your knee, like he’s forgotten he’s even doing it.

The conversation flows easily from there. Soft teasing, shared memories, and those idling stares that neither of you bothers to hide. Every laugh, every small tease feels like a thread pulling you closer, wrapping you both in something that feels too easy to sink into. And neither of you seem in any hurry to pull away.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” he asks after a moment, his voice gentle.

“Yeah,” you say, meeting his gaze. “More than I expected to.”

“Good.” His eyes stare into yours for a moment longer before he finally exhales, fingers giving your leg a gentle squeeze before standing. “Come on,” he murmurs while holding a hand out and helping you to your feet. “Let’s head out.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he guides you back through the house, throwing your cups and brushing past a few familiar faces, exchanging quick goodbyes. By the time you step outside, the cool breeze feels harsher now, weaving through your clothes like a needle threading cold straight into your core. You shiver as it grips you.

Without a word, Joe notices and slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders. His hands hover over you as he gently guides your arms into the sleeves. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, clutching the jacket a little closer to you.

“I wanted to,” he replies simply, the sincerity in his voice winding itself into a part of you that feels untouched by him.

The walk to his car is quiet, but it’s not awkward. Your shoulders brush every few steps, and you can feel the energy of the night still there between you. When he pulls up to your building, he turns off the engine but doesn’t move right away. Instead, he sits there for a moment, looking over at you like he’s trying to commit this moment to memory.

When he walks you to your door, his pace is unhurried, like he’s savoring the final seconds of the night. His hand lays itself on your arm, his thumb brushing gently against the sleeve of his jacket. For a moment, you think he might lean in. You think you might.

But neither of you moves.

Instead, his gaze stays locked on yours. “Goodnight,” he says softly.

“Goodnight,” you whisper back, your voice barely audible.

He hesitates for just a second before stepping away, and you stay there, watching him until he disappears into his car. You know he won’t leave until he’s sure you’re safely inside.

Once you step through the door, you close it softly behind you, locking it before leaning back against the cool surface. Your eyes flutter shut, and you exhale, the weight of the night settling into you in the best way. The warmth of his jacket still clings to you, and his scent wraps around you like a second skin.

You pull the fabric tighter, holding on to him just a little longer.

The Tabloids

The first message hit just after sunrise, the soft buzz of your phone pulling you from the edges of sleep. You blinked against the dim morning light, reaching for it on the nightstand. Mia’s name lit up the screen, along with a message that made your stomach twist:

Mia: Just a heads up before you see it yourself. They’re at it again.

You sat up, that familiar itch beginning to form in the back of your mind. After what had happened a couple of days ago, you already knew what this was about. Your heart pounded as you opened your browser and typed “Joe Burrow” into the search bar.

The headlines popped up immediately, one after another, each one louder than the last:

“Late-Night Deckside Romance? Burrow Seen Getting Cozy With Unnamed Woman at Private Party.”

Your breath hitched as you tapped on the first link. The article loaded too quickly, giving you no time to prepare. The first photo hit like a punch to the gut — Joe sitting beside you on the patio steps, his body pressed beside yours, his hand resting on your leg. The glow of the string lights overhead made the scene look dreamy, romantic.

The whole atmosphere conveyed how special last night had felt to you, how much it had meant. But now, the intimate moment was all on display for strangers to analyze, twist, and pick apart. The quotes from the article stung:

“Looks like Burrow isn’t spending his off nights alone anymore. Sources say the pair spent most of the evening together, sharing quiet time away from the rest.”

“The way they leaned into each other was more than telling. If this wasn’t a date, it was certainly giving off the vibe of something more than casual acquaintances.”

Your fingers trembled as you scrolled down, stopping at the next photo: Joe placing his jacket over your shoulders, helping you into it. The caption beneath the image made you shake your head and scoff a quiet laugh:

“Chivalry isn’t dead! Our quarterback is seen wrapping his mystery date in his jacket, making sure she’s cozy before they leave together.”

You closed the tab for a moment, setting the phone down like it was burning you. But you couldn’t leave it alone. The curiosity gnawed at you, and soon enough, you were back, pulling up the photos from a few days ago — the ones from the night at the bar.

This time, you noticed they’d somehow gotten a picture you hadn’t seen before. There you were at the counter, Joe standing close behind you, his chest brushing against your back. The next image showed him leaning down, his mouth near your ear as you tilted your head to hear him better. Of course, they’d taken the image at face value and run with it:

“Mystery Girl Captures Burrow’s Full Attention During Night Out.”

And then came the comments, scattered beneath the articles like debris after a storm:

“She’s cute but doesn’t really stand out. Wonder how long this will last.”

“It’s always something new with him, isn’t it?”

“Hope she knows what she’s getting into.”

You sighed, your fingers hesitating over the screen before curiosity won again. You scrolled further until an all-too-familiar headline caught your attention, stopping you cold:

“Passion or Trouble? Burrow Spotted in Heated Alleyway Argument Before Leaving with Mystery Woman.”

Your stomach flipped, the weight of recognition sinking in immediately. You didn’t need to click on it to remember the photos. You’d already seen and memorized them — Joe’s hands clenched in fits, and your own posture rigid. The dim lighting casted sharp shadows over his tense expression, and most of all, the way the people had made his confession look like some explosive argument instead of what it truly was.

“An emotional confrontation unfolded last night as Burrow and his companion were spotted in what appeared to be a tense discussion before running off together.”

“Witnesses report raised voices and what seemed to be a heated but private moment between the pair before they left the scene hand in hand.”

The memory of those photos haunted you just as much as the fabricated narrative. What should have been a vulnerable, private moment had been twisted into public consumption, turned into something unrecognizable.

You quickly closed all the tabs, swiping them away, but your thumb hovered over the screen, debating whether to text Joe.

"Call me?" you typed, only to delete it a second later.

He had a game tomorrow. The last thing you wanted was to add to his stress. But the question wouldn’t leave you: Was he okay? Was he blaming himself for this, the way you knew he would?

You could picture him now, in the locker room, sitting on the wooden bench with his elbows on his knees, head bowed, running through every decision he’d made last night. Joe always carried things like this on his shoulders, even when it wasn’t his fault. He would blame himself for all the photos and the headlines and the comments. The way your privacy was slowly being stripped away.

You could almost hear his voice, laced with quiet self-critique: I shouldn’t have let this happen to you.

But it wasn’t just you. It was the both of you. And you knew that somewhere in the middle of his self-recrimination, he was probably wondering if you regretted last night — if you thought being with him wasn’t worth all of this.

With a sigh, you set the phone aside and leaned back into the pillows, exhaling a shaky breath. Everything with Joe had always felt so personal, something special between just the two of you. Now, right as things were finally falling into place, perfectly, like something out of a dream, it was all on display for everyone else to judge.

Your gaze drifted toward Joe’s jacket lying on the edge of your bed, the fabric still holding the faint scent of him — clean, warm, familiar. You closed your eyes, letting that comfort wrap around you like a protective shield.

Let them speculate. Let them write their stories.

Because at the end of the day, they didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know what it felt like to hear Joe confess everything he’d been holding back, his voice raw, his words slipping into your heart like they’d finally found the place they were always meant to be.

They didn’t know that this wasn’t just a headline for you. It wasn’t a scandal or some fleeting story.

It was real.

Let them talk.

Because when the noise faded, it would still be just you and Joe.

The Repercussions of Love

The sunlight streaming through your window had shifted, casting lazy Sunday afternoon shadows across your living room. You’d been texting Joe for most of the weekend, your usual conversations making it easy to forget — easy to pretend the world wasn’t watching.

Neither of you had brought up the new wave of photos and articles. You weren’t sure if it was an unspoken agreement to leave it alone or simply both of you not wanting to risk unsettling what had been building between you. Either way, it felt like the right choice.

But when your phone buzzed again, it wasn’t another text. It was Joe calling.

You answered on the second ring, his voice already lighting you up inside.

“Hey,” you greeted. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the zone or something right now?”

Joe’s laugh rang through, “talking to you is part of the zone.”

“Oh, so now I’m part of the pre-game ritual?” you teased, shifting to sit cross-legged on the bed.

“Obviously.”

You grinned, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Well, should I say something motivational? Or do you just want me to repeat random sports clichés until you feel inspired?”

He chuckled. “Let’s hear your best halftime speech.”

“Okay, ready?” You cleared your throat dramatically. “Gentlemen, you’ve got one chance. One opportunity. Don’t mess it up or—”

“Are you quoting Lose Yourself by Eminem right now?” Joe interrupted, his chuckle spilling like he couldn’t help himself.

"Don’t act like you’re above it. This is probably better than half the stuff on your pre-game playlist."

"Careful, that playlist is sacred."

"Yeah, sacred," you mocked. "To Bon Iver and whatever woodland creatures you’ve got singing backup. What’s next, a whale call remix?"

Joe laughed, “you’re never going to let that go, are you?"

"Absolutely not. The fact that you once tried to convince me that bird sounds help you win football games is too good."

"They do," he defended. "Bon Iver, nature, all of it — it’s part of the process."

"Sure. But if I hear even a hint of Eminem playing before today’s game, I’m calling you out."

"Fine," Joe said. "But only if you admit you’re rooting for me the whole time."

"Always," you replied, warmth settling into your chest.

"Next time I’ll swap Bon Iver for Eminem and see if that’s the secret sauce."

"Thank me when you win," you replied.

“Well, thanks, Coach. I feel unstoppable now.”

"Glad I could help," you said, resting your chin on your knee. "Anything good happen today, or was it just the usual pre-game chaos?"

Joe chuckled, the sound making you smile without even trying. "Depends on your definition of good. Marr tried stealing an extra smoothie and nearly took out an entire table in the process."

You held back a laugh, leaning into the cushions. "Let me guess, he made it look like it wasn’t his fault?"

"Of course. Said the table was unstable.”

"Did he at least get away with it?"

"Not exactly. He got caught but still managed to convince the kitchen staff into giving him another anyway."

"Smooth. You’ve got to admire the dedication."

"Or fear it," Joe joked. "One of these days, he’s going to bring down the whole cafeteria, and we’ll be the ones getting dragged for it."

"Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?" you teased.

The conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on nothing important but feeling like it meant everything. Eventually, the inevitable moment arrived when you both started winding down, neither of you wanting to be the first to say goodbye.

“Well,” you said softly, “you’ve got a game to win, Burrow.”

“And you’ve got the best seat in the house to watch me,” he teased.

“Don’t trip running out of the tunnel,” you teased back.

“I’ll try not to.” He fell silent for a beat. “Thanks for this.”

“Always.”

You both paused for a second before your ears perked up at the sudden rowdiness on the other line.

“Okay. Bye, Joe.”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

It should’ve ended there. The warmth in your chest spread faster than you could stop it, sending your thoughts into a flurry — scattering reason like leaves caught in the wind as the sound of his voice echoed, over and over, in your mind.

“Love you.”

The silence that followed was thick, pressing against your ears and drowning everything else out beneath the thunder of your pulse. Your hands trembled as you quickly ended the call, dropping your phone onto the couch like it had betrayed you.

Your hand flew to your mouth, muffling the panicked gasp as you collapsed back against the cushions. Heat flushed over you, spreading from your chest to your neck like you’d been doused in embarrassment.

What have you done?

You let out a silent scream, burying your face in a pillow.

You said it. You actually said it.

You groaned, rolling over and snatching your phone back. The screen lit up, Joe’s name still sitting at the top of your call log like a glowing reminder of your slip-up.

You couldn’t just leave it like that. You had to say something, didn’t you? Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as a dozen terrible options flashed through your head.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to—

No. Delete. That made it sound worse.

Ignore that.

Delete. Too dismissive.

You bit your lip, exhaling shakily, and rubbed your forehead. Just say something normal. Casual. Act like you didn’t just spill your soul into the phone.

You tried again:

Just wanted to clarify—

Delete.

But before you could type anything else, a message popped up.

Joe: I know.

Your breath caught in your chest. The typing bubble appeared quickly again, and then his next message came through:

Joe: Love you too.

The Confrontation

The knock at the door startled you, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of the evening. You set your mug of tea down with a soft clink against the coffee table, your heart skipping a beat. You were already ready to head to bed, you weren’t expecting anyone. 

If anything, just waiting for a message from Joe. But, he was probably still tangled up in post-game obligations — press, interviews, team meetings. 

Then again, after everything, you couldn’t help but wonder if tonight might be a little different.

You stumbled when you opened the door.

Joe stood on your doorstep, his hair still damp from the shower, a hoodie clinging to his broad frame and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. His smile was small, soft, the kind that sent your heart into a quiet free fall.

“Hi,” you breathed, stepping aside to let him in. The warmth of his presence immediately filled the room, chasing away the quiet solitude that had settled there.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he teased lightly, holding out the bouquet. “Didn’t feel like sticking around for the press tonight.”

You blinked, taking the flowers and inhaling their sweet scent before setting them gently on the table next to the door. “You skipped press?”

He shrugged, a low chuckle escaping him. “Told them I had somewhere more important to be.”

The words shouldn’t have hit you as hard as they did, but they did.

“Come on,” you whispered, lacing your fingers together and pulling him toward the couch.

You both collapsed onto the cushions, Joe letting out a quiet sigh as he leaned back and stretched his legs out. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy to sit down,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut for a second before he opened them and found you already watching him.

“Didn’t think I’d see you this soon,” you spoke up.

“I couldn’t stay away."

“Congrats on the win,” you ignored his comment, your fingers absently toying with the edge of the throw pillow between you.

Joe smiled, that infamous, boyish grin making an appearance. “Thanks. Not exactly a nail-biter, though. It’s the Cardinals.”

You laughed. “Still, you played well.”

“Well... I had a great motivational speech before the game."

You shook your head, rolling your eyes. The room fell quiet, Joe’s arm moved to rest along the back of the couch, his fingers grazing your shoulder. You shifted closer, tucking yourself against him.

“How are you feeling?” 

“Tired,” he admitted, resting his chin on the top of your head. “But good.”

You stayed like that for a minute longer, his arm resting over your shoulders, its weight growing heavier as his body softened beside you. His breaths deepened, each exhale brushing against the top of your head.

“Come on,” you stood up, gently taking his hand in yours. His eyelids fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion, but he followed without hesitation.

He made no move to pull his hand away as you led him down the hallway into your dimly lit bedroom, the quiet of the night wrapping around you like a comforting blanket.

You walked to the corner of the room, fingers brushing the lamp switch as you dimmed the light. When you turned around, Joe had already pulled his hoodie off with a lazy tug, the fabric lying in a heap on the floor. He stretched out on the bed, one arm resting behind his head, his gaze soft and steady as he watched you.

Without a word, he held his other arm open, inviting you closer. You slipped under the covers, and his arm easily found its place around your waist, pulling you into him. His warmth enveloped you instantly, your head settling on his chest, where his heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath your ear.

His fingers brushed against the soft fabric of your shirt before slipping just beneath it, resting gently in place without shifting. The touch was gentle, unfamiliar in its meaning but not in its comfort. New, yet welcomed all the same.

“I missed you,” he spoke, the words barely audible.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, your fingers hesitating before sliding lightly across his chest, your touch mirroring his.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp painted the room in muted gold, shadows swaying gently across the walls as a cool breeze slipped through the slightly cracked window.

His fingers began tracing lazy, mismatched shapes across your skin. The stillness between you felt unspoken, broken only by the rhythm of his breath aligning with yours.

“How long do you think we can avoid it?” you asked suddenly.

He didn’t answer right away, his hand stilling briefly before resuming its slow patterns against your side. “Avoid what?”

"Joe," you whispered, a soft plea woven into your voice.

He sighed, his arm flexing as he pulled you even closer, your legs brushing against his under the covers. “I thought we were doing pretty well pretending.”

“You’re terrible at pretending,” you teased as your fingers reached to graze along the line of his jaw.

Joe’s gaze flickered down to you, the teasing dropping away, leaving something heavier in its place. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I know.”

The room felt smaller and the air heavier as his fingers skimmed higher across your body. His other hand moved from behind his head to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin as he studied you with a look that sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

“You didn’t ask me why I came straight here tonight,” Joe said, as if he was pulling the thought from somewhere deep within.

Your brows furrowed slightly. “I figured I didn’t need to.”

His lips parted slightly, “I couldn’t stay away,” he confessed, his breath warm against your skin. “I thought about waiting, about giving you space, but I didn’t want to.”

The honesty in his voice cracked something open in you. “I didn’t want you to wait either,” you admitted, your hand sliding further, nails gently trailing along the side of his neck

His gaze locked on yours, “I don’t think I can anymore.”

The weight of his words hit you like heavily, pulling you toward him before his lips even touched yours. When they did, it wasn’t soft or cautious, nothing like his actions have been over the past how many weeks. 

It was fierce, consuming, like he had been holding this back for too long. His hand slipped further under your shirt and along the curve of your torso.

You found it hard to not only focus on the way he was grasping for any part of you that he could hold onto, his touch igniting sparks that spread like wildfire.

Your fingers tightened along the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, deeper, like you needed more and couldn’t stop.

His lips parted against yours and the kiss turned feverish. The taste of him was intoxicating, dizzying. He pulled your body flush against his, as though even the smallest distance was unbearable.

When you finally drew your head back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together as you struggled to find air. His breath ghosted over your lips like he wasn’t ready to fully part from you just yet. 

For a moment, the both of you stayed there — his one hand still cradling your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin in lazy, soft strokes. The other gently resting on your hip. It was a stark contrast to the heat still pulsing between you.

Your hand slowly trailed upward, fingers threading gently through his hair before settling back against the side of his face.

His gaze flicked down to your lips and back up, like he was memorizing the way they swelled from the kiss. 

“Today felt different,” you whispered, your lips brushing softly against his with the faintest tremor, like you weren’t ready to pull away yet either.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, his lips grazing yours again, teasing and gentle, as though saying that this moment deserved to last a little longer. “It did,” he replied. 

His hand slipped to the back of your head, fingers tangling gently at the base of your neck. He tilted your face toward him, his breath mingling with yours in the space between you. “And it didn’t scare me.”

Your lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that held a mix of relief and something deeper. “It didn’t scare me either.”

And that was all it took.

He kissed you again, this time with a slow, unhurried intensity that left no room for doubt. His lips moved against yours, patient but firm, pulling you under like the tide. His hand slid down from your head to join the other at the curve of your waist, fingers splaying wide against your skin as though he was trying to commit the feel of you to memory.

Every touch was electric, his hands mapping over the length of your body with a measured intent. He kissed you deeper, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that sent shivers racing down your spine. 

His thumbs dropped down lower, grazing against your hip bones and making your stomach flutter. He knew exactly where to linger, exactly how to unravel you without a word.

There was something about the way he kissed you now — like the weight of everything unsaid had finally lifted, leaving only the need to be closer, to feel more.

By the time you pulled back again you were gasping for air, your lips tingling and your heart racing so fast you could feel it in your fingertips. His forehead rested against yours, and his hand traced soothing circles on your back. His breath brushed against your cheek as he smiled.

“Still not scared?” he asked, voice teasing but laced with meaning.

Your fingers brushed over his jaw, tracing the slight stubble there. “Not even a little.”

And the way he kisses you after that is even better than before.

[ihavea-natural-curiosity]

Viktors Disabilities, a Speculative Analysis

Ever since i first watched Arcane i have wanted to know (and i mean this in the nicest way possible,) what was wrong with Viktor. His disability was never explained beyond “he was born with a malformed leg”.

And so, i was left alone in the house with my thoughts today so i took it upon myself to figure it out, (and talk about his medical issues so i can ignore my own lmao) and i am releasing my thoughts upon yall!

(disclaimer: yes i am aware that this arcane is a fantasy world that is not our world and the disorders/illnesses and treatments will not be the same but the issues he has have to be based off of something (especially with how detailed this show is and how many references are made throughout.) this is not me trying to say that he definitively has any of these conditions, i’m just comparing them to conditions that exist today and suggesting what Viktors disabilities may have been based off of.)

(disclaimer pt 2.: i have not played League of Legends, i do not intend to play League of Legends, i have only watched Arcane and i am only talking about Arcane and Arcane lore and what i have been able to figure out from watching Arcane and spinning it around in my brain like it’s in a microwave.)

Now, i think i’ll just start from the beginning, and go in order of development.

1. Viktors Leg

According to the wiki (and about every other site that talks about Viktor) he is said to have been “born with a malformed leg”, and said pretty much nothing else. Now, when Viktor is an adult, his leg appears to be very not-malformed, so, let’s start at the flashback.

Now, even in the flashback Viktors leg looks normal. It’s pointing forward, and looks totally fine. But as the clip goes on, and he gets up and starts moving, the problem becomes apparent. Here’s a clip:

Yall have probably already noticed what i’m talking about with this clip, but i want to illustrate it more because the clip moves so fast:

As Vikto moves faster, his foot shifts inwards! It shifts inwards pretty severely (i mean, he full on trips on it), and the only time in this entire clip where it is doing so. And that is because the other times he is around someone else. I think he is purposefully pointing his foot forward and in turn walking on the wrong part of his foot (balance issues), and more than likely causing himself pain 1. to appear less ‘crippled’ and more “normal” to other people, and 2. because clearly, his foot is pointing inwards to a degree that is impairing his ability to walk.

Now to me, (and i’m not a doctor so if any actual doctors want to call me on incorrect information please do so!) this looks like Femoral Anteversion, or a twisting of the femur that points the knees inward (it’s typically found in both legs but it can happen with just one)

Now this isn’t necessarily a terrible thing, ~10% of children are affected with Femoral Anteversion (or “pigeon toes”), and most of the time it resolves itself, unless it is super severe, at which point it requires surgery to fix it. Which, of course, Viktor did not have access to.

Now, his leg does appear to be normal as an adult, but the femoral anteversion thought is still plausible. There are 3 reasons i can think of for this one.

1. He got to Piltover and after a little bit Heimerdinger noticed how messed up his leg was and Viktor got the surgery to correct it as much as possible (it’s implied that Viktor was in Piltover for years, based on how he acts and the fact that he’s Heimerdingers assistant) (this thought doesn’t seem very plausible to me, i don’t remember seeing any surgery scars on his leg in the hexcore scene, but it is a possibility.)

2. He’s simply just still correcting his leg. The reason we wouldn’t see him mess up like we did in the flashback is that he’s about 24-25 in act one, and i’d say that 14-15 years is probably enough to get used to doing that sort of thing.

3. (Honestly this one seems to be the most plausible to me) His leg has (partially) corrected itself. Most children whose femoral anteversion fixed itself had normal gaits by age 8-10, but that’s an average age and those typically aren’t perfectly accurate to everyone (i have. very personal experience with that.) and it makes the most sense to me that his leg has mostly/partially corrected itself and he’s just also continuing to self-correct to avoid appearing any more disabled than he already does (he shows quite a bit of internalized ableism throughout the season, and his line about people not listening to him because he’s “just a poor cripple from the undercity” really drives it home for me, honestly.)

2. Viktors Deterioration

When we first truly see Viktor in act 1, he seems lively, and unless he’s actively walking, he’s not using his cane, not really (he hangs his cane on his arm to read a book with both hands (really great rep btw, we do in fact do that!), he leans it against a desk to pace in front of a chalkboard with Jayce, he puts it down somewhere to go help Jayce with the experiment, etc.).

I mean, look at his stance, he’s not really leaning on his cane for support, more likely he’s using it for balance, and as an assist to his bad leg, rather than an attempted replacement like we saw in the flashback.

But in act 2? Hoooo boy

Look at that, beyond just looking 10x sicker, look at his posture, his shoulders specifically. He is actively leaning on his crutch (because he needs a crutch now, the cane wasn’t enough), using it like a replacement. Now, over the course of the ~7 year time skip, Viktors condition has deteriorated enough that he 1. needs the braces 2. needs a crutch 3. can no longer even get up without his crutch, let alone take a single step!

i mean, even when he’s sitting down, he’s holding onto it, leaning on it. The way he uses his crutch, how skinny he’s gotten, how much more tired he seems, all of these things say some sort of newfound muscle weakness, but why?

And the braces. Let’s start with the leg brace, since it’s right there. How it’s built around the actual leg and knee looks a whole lot like a much cooler unloader knee brace, or a knee brace that redistributes weight away from the weakened knee. I have to wear one of those when my knee gets really bad in the winter, when it starts buckling randomly and just.. not working. Which makes sense for the muscle atrophy/weakness theory i have, because that leg was already weak to begin with, and his knee would have been all kinds of fucked up if he did spend basically his whole life misaligning it like i’m thinking he did. (and to support that theory even further, the way that the brace goes over his foot as well reminds me of the braces some children wear to attempt to correct their ‘pigeon toes’ (which have been proven not to work, btw)

Now, the back brace. I’m gonna be honest, this part took me the longest, it truly confused me.

When you look at it, it just looks like a thoracic back brace, with some extra support on the hips (once again, pointing to muscle weakness)

But the thing that really confused me?

The screws in his back.

It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out what procedure this was referencing (Percutaneous Pedicle Screw Fixation (i’m like really sure that the screws aren’t showing in the real life surgery but the fact that they are makes sense with Arcanes style)), and an even more embarrassing amount of time to realize that the golden screws in his brace weren’t connected to him. (i am. very tired.)

But essentially, a Percutaneous Pedicle Screw Fixation is a less invasive spinal fusion procedure. Now a spinal fusion can be done for many, many reasons, but only one really fit.

Support, because of muscle weakness.

Every single thing that got added on to Viktor could be explained by muscle weakness, but there’s never any explained reason why he was so weak all of a sudden. His terminal illness is cited as a reason but that didn’t really make sense to me, all of these procedures, all of these mobility aids made perfectly to his measurements would’ve had to have been caused by something with a much slower onset than the illness would have given him.

And after literal hours of scouring, i have a theory.

Post-Polio Syndrome.

The timeline makes sense, Viktor would have most likely gotten sick before the flashback, when he was a child (a lot of children who get Polio fight it off without even knowing they have it). Viktor is estimated to be about 32 in act 2, and the average time between the initial Polio infection and Post-Polio Syndrome onset is about 20-40 years (inconsistent numbers).

Now some of the symptoms we have no way of knowing if they affect Viktor or not, but the main ones that caught my eye were muscle atrophy, chronic fatigue, and, you guessed it, muscle weakness.

Given where Viktor lived as a child, and how heavily polluted it was (remember that Viktor was in the undercity over 10 years before we saw it in act 1 with Vi and Powders childhood), it’s not too far of a stretch to say that he could have contracted an illness very similar to Polio as a child, and only really be feeling the affects of it now.

3. The Illness

I have 2 main theories for Viktors illness, the first one seems to be the most popular among the fandom: Tuberculosis.

If you’re unaware, Tuberculosis (TB) is a sickness that mainly affects the lungs, with the main symptom being coughing up blood. Now this is a really good theory imo, it fits pretty well, with some of the other symptoms being muscle atrophy, fatigue, malaise (general feeling of discomfort/unease with no discernible reason), loss of appetite, and severe unintentional weight loss. all of this sounds like our guy, no?

TB can take weeks to be symptomatic, so we probably just caught Viktor at the worst time ever lol with this theory.

My other theory is actually one my friend suggested to me, and that theory is COPD.

Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) is a progressive disease that is basically a terrible combination of chronic bronchitis and asthma that can be caused by exposure to pollution (Viktor grew up in the Undercity before Cassandra’s vent system, i mean the river he was playing on had an oil slick on it, i think it’s safe to say he was exposed to some pretty severe pollution as a child.)

This theory makes a lot of sense to me, because it’s said in the show that his illness was probably caused by the air where he grew up, which this would have been, while TB would not. (not 15-20 years later, at least) COPD, once it reaches stage 4 is very severe, any flare up of symptoms could be life threatening at that stage, and the symptoms? Fatigue, shortness of breath, coughing, weight loss, and less frequently, coughing blood.

Anyway, i guess that concludes my analysis/comparison? I’m gonna repeat that i’m not definitively saying that ‘he has this condition and this is why!’, i’m just analyzing and speculating on what different parts of his disability is based on in real life. So, let’s just all be nice, yeah? (also PLEASE feel free to use this as a reference point for modern aus and stuff!!)

i do genuinely think that Viktors disease progression and his deterioration is one of the best examples of chronic illness that i have seen in media, in my experience (both with my own issues and what i’ve seen in other people) and Viktor himself is one of the BEST representations of what it’s like to be young and disabled and the internalized ableism that comes with it (if anyone wants to hear about that i will happily yap your ear off about it!

Anyway, for real this time. Yap session over.

[cherryfennec]

what could you think of for a second and third phase for super dimentio

Ymmm I don't really see him having another phases so no but I've had something for the first 20 seconds of his initial battle in mind.

Tag, he's it.

okay so like spm spoilers and stuff but:

When you first start the battle with Super Dimentio there's a certain period of time where he's invincible. You can't damage him and nothing really happens until Timpani returns with the Pure Hearts.

Now in my personal opinion while I'm still glad they added this moment, it still left me a little unsatisfied. Here's why:

Dimentio turning into Super Dimentio with Luigi is his big moment, his victory. He has become something that is indestructible, something that generations of Ancients have been passing down. He is a god. The time frame where he's indestructible in the game is supposed to show that you are powerless against him, that no Pixl and no item will do anything. This is supposed to make you realize in the moment that: it's truly hopeless.

Unfortunately Dimentios spotlight is VERY quickly taken from him, which makes the idea less effective than it could've been. You see Dimentio working for this the entire game, just for him to win in the end only for 20 seconds and then turn into a joke of a fight. The speech he gives before the fight is longer than the actual boss, making everything slightly anticlimactic (at least to me).

The concept I've been thinking about using in my take of the Super Mario lore (SPM specifically here) is that those 20 seconds of standing and waiting around for the game to decide it's time to move on are instead spent on: A reverse game of magical tag.

The concept of a magical tag itself is used earlier in the game by Dimentio himself who makes Mario and Luigi humour him by traveling through the worlds they have been in before and finding ripples in space he's leaving behind to keep the game going. I thought by turning this moment of 20 second invincibility into a game of magical tag where he's “it” this time would help that feeling of hopelessness and stakes sink in.

In this scenario Mario still cannot fight back as Dimentio,actively chasing him, is invincible, which forces him to run from danger. He runs from world to world, but now in contrast to the previous tag game, the worlds are being wiped out as you go through them for the final time. They're barely holding on, torn from their colors and mixing with the white void peeking through. Maybe some leftover npcs encouraging to keep going or just being terrified instead. Dimentio is chasing after you, peeking his long arms or head through the ripples to strike, and as he makes his way behind you the world progressively disappears and you have to make it out before it's entirely gone, else its game over. In the end of this chase you make it back to Castle Bleck where it picks up on Timpani restoring the Pure Hearts with Blumiere and using them to help Mario by removing Super Dimentios invincibility.

In conclusion I think making this moment akin to what I described above would help set the tone of this enemy more. For one this moment is now LONGER so you can see direct consequences of Dimentios victory outside and think about it more, second it turns you into an actual helpless plaything that you were meant to be. The entire path of the chase leads you back to Castle Bleck, it's a circle. This time you cannot escape and this time the evil doings have been set in motion on a rapid scale. It's a moment of Darkness that's broken by Timpani, someone who has been with you since the beginning and who you saw grow. She's now full of love and determined to win, something that to me comes off as super inspiring. She has been cursed to live a miserable existence yet she found the Light thanks to you. And THAT'S why you shouldn't give up even after all the ruined worlds you've seen. You have to keep fighting for them even in their darkest moment, even when they're gone.

also to clear any confusion yes i know this game is 3+ but i still think it'd be cool ig

[meownotgood]

in circles (running down) / viktor x gn!reader, character study, yearning, angst, seriously too much angst, hurt/comfort, implied past relationship, season 2 spoilers, s2 act 2 viktor, astral intimacy, (you follow the rumors of a healer to the commune, and viktor allows you to teach him what it means to be human.) word count: 15.7k

read on ao3

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Metamorphosis begins with kaleidoscopes of colors, an ache between your ribs, and your hands tightly gripped around Viktor's wrists. 

You have him pressed underneath you, pinned in place, like a butterfly's specimen; unearthly gaze pliant, gazing up at you as though you're something worth observing. A sea of stars. Infinite possibilities. Or perhaps he can see the intricate pattern of every notion you've tried to keep hidden. 

There is a distant, fragile outcome somewhere, blissfully free of the strife he's been attempting to cure, where the both of you are guided only by the present. Where stumbling inside the elysium he's made for himself means falling into familiar, waiting arms. It means whispered confessions of, Viktor, I missed you. It sets itself into motion with your arms around his neck, while your mouth remembers the shape of his. Blurring moments upon days upon years into a worshipful, mortal culmination. 

Somewhere. It isn't this reality. 

Your temple forms a near painful knot, your breathing is weighty in your tired lungs, but your old partner's expression remains blissfully passive; Schrodinger's, some kind of paradox. Not dead, not alive. It should be easy to keep him pinned underneath you, despite the newfound weight to his form. Your arms shouldn't be shaking. Viktor eyes you calmly, as patient as he is unreadable. 

His hands twitch slightly — you're binding his wings — less akin to a human's natural irregularity. Instead, more like a complex system, thumbing through and testing its limits. Still, he doesn't attempt to break away from you. He has no need to. 

"I am certain you have recognized," Viktor begins, his voice familiar, despite the odd steadiness it carries, like the calmness of a frozen, still lake. Despite the distant rumble of monotonous vibrations that manifest between his words, "I need not delve into your mind, in order to unravel it." 

Understanding one another comes naturally, when you've long since held his shape in your soul. 

Your grip tightens on his wrists. The soft satin of his makeshift clothing brushes your skin when your knee prods into his stomach. 

You've seen what Viktor is capable of. The rumors were everywhere, from the moment you fled into the Undercity. Deciphering thoughts with a mere touch, examining the minds of those he pries into. Sensing emotions and evolving them, eclipsing them. Healing ailments that shouldn't be fixable; accomplishing the future you once dreamed of, one way or another. No matter the consequence, whatever it takes. 

He isn't the man you remember. This new boundary of existence is something near-eternal. Something more star-bound, boundlessly fate-defying. 

The utopia he's prospered runs cold, when the vessels within it lack heat. Cool air, clean and sharp, nips at your skin, carried on its own phantom breeze. Viktor's chambers are quiet, more ghostly than peaceful. He's lined the floor of his cocoon with flowers. Brilliant blooms of purple hydrangea and blue wolfsbane, petals rustling, whispering prayers to the deep night sky. 

Flowers, in the Undercity. Gods. 

Viktor's hair fans out around him, messy and unkempt. Longer than you remember, chestnut strands tapering off into hues of vanilla. His gaze swirls, in shades of sunset and petroleum, polychrome like the rainbow of oil on water. His eyes remind you of a summer storm. Clouds covering the sun, before it begins to shine again. 

You shouldn't have come here, shouldn't have let his doe-eyed acolytes lead you in. But when one of them murmured in a voice you'd almost forgotten, a voice you were sure you'd never hear again — when Viktor spoke through them, to sweetly promise he'd been expecting you, how were you ever meant to escape? 

You could fill an ocean with your doubts and shouldn'ts — it was foolish. Stupidly, terribly irrational, to follow the rumors that Viktor was still alive. Looking at him now fills your veins with nothing and everything. A cataclysm of sensations, compounding all at once. 

Grief echoes in the hollow chamber of your chest. Viktor can't be real, he was supposed to stay dead. Your hands shake, fingertips digging firmly into the hard edges of his synthetic wrists. 

Viktor, on the opposite spectrum of emotion, barely falters. 

"It must be all-consuming. Irrefutable. An… anomaly, burning within you. What epitomizes the worst burden to bear?" He murmurs, resolute. Gaze examining you, submerged in tender oblivion. "Resentment? Regret? Misery?" 

Are those words an attempt to unequivocally define love, or an admission, an echo of what he is sure you are experiencing, because he once felt it in turn? 

You resent the reverberation of his voice as it throbs through your mind. You've come to regret every wasted moment, each swallowed confession. Finding him again feels like a curse — and he knows. There's a gaping, empty maw in the pit of your stomach, and you can't keep it from destroying you. You've sacrificed yourself on his altar, without realization. Twin flames are destined to find one another. They were born from the same wildfire. 

"It doesn't matter, not to you," You're gritting out. They're the first words you've spoken in ages, and they're all-too sharp when they spit from the edges of your teeth. "You don't feel anything." 

Viktor's chest heaves gently, faint breaths that contrast the mechanical thrum of his shell. 

"Your accusations are turning bold," He hums, not denying, not quite acknowledging. His voice isn't what you remember, but it's close enough, accented. Warm, when directed towards you. Enough to kill. "There is a persistent numbness, that emanates from a lack of humanity. But it is not infallible." 

Your brows pinch. "So that's- that's it? I was some kind of afterthought, I meant so little and you were so numb you couldn't think to tell me you were still-" 

"No," Viktor interrupts. Tone gentle, dream-like. Eyes softening, as his words become perfectly and paradoxically earnest. "You were the reason I felt alive." 

He watches you, observes the conflict in your shifting expression. Flexes his fingers, clenches his hands. Idly thinking. The mere sight of you is an anchor within him. Returned pieces, notches clicking into place. Radiancy, bursting with light within him like a sacred heart — a final brush of his fingertips, to the fading edges of mortality. 

Figments of sensations, the qualities he'd assumed were lost on him, are made to surge through him with the strength of a dull current; this is your doing. He can sense the faint warmth of your hands, nearly chokes on your name in his throat when he swallows. There's pain in your expression, a desire to falter, and it feels — reminds him of a gaping hole to the chest. 

Viktor opens his mouth to speak, and your free hand opts to harshly wrap around his neck. 

"The hurt, you are experiencing- when it is able to be sensed, examined," Viktor takes a harsh breath, as you tilt his chin up with a firm, bruising grip. "It begins to resound." His jaw grinds. Strands of his soft hair tickle your knuckles. His pretty, familiar mole follows his mouth when his lips briefly press into a hard line. "It is innate. Engrained memories, amidst fleeting desires for connection. Knowing how deeply you are broken vexes me." 

He waits for your eyes to meet his own. Your gaze is practically piercing. 

"And nothing is stronger than this ache."

The ache he can sense, because you are caught in it. Shared, entwined pain; two complements, sewn together. 

Viktor believes part of you exists within him. It's inescapable: one's ties to another. 

Simplicity was a circumstance he took for granted. Days in the Undercity, before it became this. Evenings spent researching or collaborating or re-learning how to breathe, when your dreams hovered just out of reach. Now, you're masquerading as a God and an apostate. 

His mind hasn't quieted, since he felt your presence in his sanctuary. How could so much hurt stem from a once endless abundance of fondness? Tossing aside all past restraints seemed to be the most sensible option, the arcane's chosen option, but you are such an oddity. 

Your very existence defies and redefines reason. You are… unforgettable. A sweet, exceedingly tempting obstacle. An inevitable destiny, worthy of any sacrifice. Irregardless of if the threads of fate decide they should will it. You were the missing piece to this theorem. And yet, my ignorance aspired to push you away. 

I have you, now. I can reach you, I could begin to quiet the pestilence within you. 

So why do you refuse? 

Viktor's jaw clenches ever-so slightly. His gaze flashes with a hint of resolve, or tenderness, or something in between. 

"I understand you have… missed me," He murmurs, his tone fraying around the words when he reaches their sore spot. To have each other as something to miss is so very human, so very quaint. "There is so much tension, hidden behind your eyes. Volatile. Yet still so… gentle. I remember the times when I would call out to you, simply to watch the way they softened." 

They're softening now; your gaze can't help but melt, every single time you look at him. Despite the pain, despite the anger. The memory digs at you, it pries into your chest with sharp, thorned roots. Irreplaceable murmurs of your name in his voice. With his accent, with life in his tone, before the world sought to take it from him. With the cadence he clings to each time he goes through the syllables, your syllables, that screams, you are something I covet. 

For a brief moment, you swear Viktor shifts from his ever-endless calm expression, chapped lips tilting to form the slightest, melancholy ghost of a smile. 

"I fear I have long since owed you many apologies, little spark. There isn't much to offer, in the way of consolation. But, I-" Viktor's gaze weakens, flickers over you with dying sparks like a candle-lit flame; his hands clench, his sharp breathing echoes. 

"I would have never forgotten you. You were irreplaceable. As was the life we once shared together. For every moment spent in my solitude, I lost myself, in the certainty that we might meet again." 

Your throat tightens. An ache forms in your chest, threatening to spill over, like an overflowing chalice. 

There's a distinct weight to his wrists, as you continue to hold them in place. A heavy, but still hollow chassis, his hands are criss-crossed with various mechanical patterns. The Hexcore's corruption is beginning to envelop more of him. It isn't like carving runes into delicate skin. That, at least, was a choice. A desperate, self-destructive, self-saving choice. 

Bright, purple veins surge across what remains of his skin. They knot into his forehead, they curve underneath his tired eyes. Energy thrums from inside his hands, reminiscent of sparks rippling through electrical wire. The glow is faint, perhaps weakened. Ornaments trail down his neck, beneath his robes. Outlines of steel and amber carved into his figure. 

Unconsciously, you long to reach out and touch. To trace your fingers along his intricacies: golden, godlike. To decide if his skin, if the smallest shred of what remains of him, is still as soft and lovely as you remember. 

Your palm slips from his neck first. 

It trails across his chest, in between the silhouette of collarbones. He isn't cold, nor warm. Empty, more like. Pulses of distant magic meet your fingertips, like pressing your hand to a static-filled television screen. He weakens underneath your touch, body going limp as a silent acknowledgment. There is no heartbeat. But you can feel the repeated ricochet of his breathing, however fake, however practiced. 

Viktor's body feels powerful, reflecting the extent of his talents. It is a strong, complex, restrained prison. It must be freeing, in some ways; to breathe without the choke of rot in your lungs. To run, with the wind at your back as the ground meets your feet. You should be happy. Grateful. Viktor is alive — but he isn't able to be saved. 

The objective you arrived with is already starting to crumble. Oh, you knew this wouldn't be a quick affair. 

You didn't follow him for information, or for evidence. You weren't led by the wishes of the council's remains, or by the ambitions of your once-shared lab partner — or by anything else, besides your own heart. Nothing else matters. Just your own wavering strength, and the echoes in your mind to do something. Just each shaky step you took, traveling further into Zaun despite the smog that filled your chest. Just the plea in your mind, and the rumors at your feet that Viktor hadn't fully left. 

Finally, when you stumbled into the commune with tired legs and weary lungs, you could breathe. And you couldn't decide if it was because of the plants, the trees, the fresh air, or if it's because of him. 

You failed. You weren't meant to stay, weren't meant to trust him. But the moment your eyes locked with his, it was over. (Viktor smiled, you swore you saw amber, and he beckoned you close, without hesitation.) 

It's crushing, to feel so much. You're suffocating in the wake of your own pounding heartbeat. Throbbing in your chest, echoing in your eardrums. Pulsing in your throat. 

There's no use reconciling with your partner's shadow. And yet, in spite of it all, your partner, your reflection, rests underneath you. Gazing up at you with eyes that whirl in endless, lifeless shades. The silence stretches, and he doesn't fight the enveloping sting. 

Yes, he was right, you are burning. As bright as the sun, with a fierce fire in your chest; caught between your ribs, as the flames attempt to escape through the gaps. It's reminiscent of the sticky-warm suffocation of bleeding out. Blood made to pour onto his chest and his clothes and his hands, as Viktor would press his palms to your side to stop your wound from spilling. 

Love is a promise to pursue. To covet a name underneath your tongue. To swear to be doomed from the start. Like tying a string around two fingers — the path was set, you only needed to follow. 

Your shoulders become tense, before they start to shake. The grip you've been holding on his wrists loosens. Viktor allows his hands to flex, now freed, but you're stumbling, collapsing in on yourself. 

Uselessly, clumsily, you hide your face in your hands. It hardly helps. Your chest stings, your cheeks are wet. Your tears fall onto him like rain, droplets gently hitting his cheek. 

"Oh," Viktor's lips quiver, as he tries to find words, but there's only one solution: "Come here." 

And as though every reality led to this moment, as though embracing you is less of a conscious choice, and simply what he was made for, Viktor reaches for you, without hesitation. 

The simple movement of his palm warps reality around it. His hand hums, buzzes mechanically, thrums with an otherworldly glow. His fingers are shaky; they haven't trembled this much in ages. 

Careful fingertips brush up your arm. Your shoulders slump, and he grabs onto your wrist with little force. He feels your pulse. Each dull thud reverberates in his own chest, twisting up his spine as a surge of fire. His eyes can't help but flutter closed. 

That's when natural intuition takes over, a pulse resounds throughout the entirety of Viktor's system, and all at once, he is touching your soul. 

Your pent up emotions are an aurora in his mind. A vast array, everything complex, knit together so tightly, he doubts it's unwindable. He attempts to search through each individual spark, between every luminous flicker of starlight. Your very essence is rich with a sense of longing; it tastes like sugar on his tongue. 

Slowly, carefully, you unfurl, as if your petals were exposed to the sun. Your heart hears him, you recognize it is Viktor's touch. Soul to soul, hands threading over you, within you. And like running into a waiting embrace, you vividly let the layers of your mind open. 

There are beautiful rays of loving light, warmth that feels like the sun on his face, and subsequently feels like you. Affection burns into him with the heat of fierce, dripping candle wax. Then, there's fragile echoes that pierce through him, like pulling your lover in by the wrists, while they plunge a knife into your heart. 

And there are deep, dark depths of drowning water. An endless, barren abyss to be swallowed into; you sit at the very bottom, curled in on yourself, untouchable. He reaches out to you, extends a palm for you to take, but you won't come. From here, you won't even look at him. 

When he dives further, he sees himself. 

Feels himself, sensing and tasting and experiencing his own image through your perception. He is the warmth underneath your skin, you are the celestial glow in his ribcage. It's a rebound, a ripple, a pulse of sonar. Touches and affections that he can feel on his skin, within his own body, and then through you, with your palms. 

A touch to the small of one's back, or to a tensed shoulder, to a protruding spine. A palm between the butterfly-wing shape of his rigid shoulder blades, soft caresses to calloused knuckles and fresh wounds. His hands to the weakest parts of you, and your fingertips, tracing the still-human parts of him, before they were lost to his reunion with fatality. 

Hands finding one another, fingers brushing, fingers interlacing — and Viktor remembers how it felt to wish your hand could be in his forever. He memorizes the shape of your heartbeat, as if it were his own. 

Drowned in vivid color, painting-like and hazy, he reaches stretches of your imagination. It's easy to become lost in your dreams, within the places you wanted those touches to lead. Where you wanted him to touch. Your reveries are so bright they're blinding. 

In your dreamscape, caresses travel. Your hands become bolder than they should, when they're massaging and soothing the ache in his shoulders. The press of skin to skin is a gentle connection, between soft, hesitant, dangerous pleas for more. There are confessions in a thousand different ways, countless almosts and bitten tongues. 

Every instance is simple. Blissfully mundane. You replay and reimagine a sudden profession, while your head is resting on his shoulder, and it feels good instead of terrifying to let everything change. And when your hand finds his own, his thin fingers lace with yours naturally. And the academy is quiet, but your voice as you mumble his name is infinitely quieter. 

You imagine mutual desperations to pull each other closer. 

(Gentle brushes led by quickened breaths, exploring pallid skin, skimming the details you've mapped out in your mind. There's faint freckles on his arms, when he rolls up his sleeves. He has a mole on the back of his neck, only noticeable when his collar gets loose. A palm traces his spine, and you're picturing pressing your mouth to the scattered trail of moles on his back. Your breath is hot enough to burn, to leave behind marks of your own.) 

Oh, and you wanted him so close. Closer than he knew. Closer than you could ever be, not now, not anymore. 

Viktor sees his own image more clearly than ever; vibrant, when filtered through your eyes. Every moment shared between you plays on repeat. Looping, convening together. 

Everything he achieved — the complexities of his discoveries and innovations amazed you, but they begin to blur in your vision, when you can't help but be drawn to the thrilled, pretty look on his face. All of his details — down to the most minute. The routine fidgeting of his fingers when he's lost in thought. The specific swirl he adds to a select few letters when he writes. 

Your heart cradles each of his subtleties. Gods, how you adore him. You have all of him memorized. 

Heavy and encapsulating, the warmth left by you is so much worse, when he is pressed in between all of your pieces. He remembers himself in a much kinder way. In the way you remembered him: intelligent, remarkable, enthralling. Edges blur together and clutter the horizon where he ends and you begin. He's lost in soft greetings, and gentle farewells, reverberating in his own voice. I missed you, I was thinking of you, I'll see you. 

He walks through cathedrals of everything you admired. Your shared dreams, and his budding ambitions. Promises to make his home a better place. Hallways of framed stolen glances. Quiet utterances of the smallest assurances, and swears to achieve great things together. Embraces that molded you into one another's muse. (Something fulfilled, and something lost.) 

And deeply, strongly, he aches. His chest burns, explodes with light. To you, he represents a spark, the sun, the moon, the stars. He radiates in echoes of everything at once. And he is — 

Alive, he is irrefutably, relentlessly alive. 

Your fondness forms around him as palpable rays of radiance; glimmers surround his stratosphere, small suns and brilliant meteor showers. You are a thousand beautiful colors, smashing and blending together. You are as exceptional as he always knew you to be, you are the definition of devotion. As if your hand is at his arm, guiding him to touch the edges of the sky and the sea. Together, you are one in the same. 

It transcends corporality. Viktor reaches into the spiral of your mind. He finds you, he drags you from the depths you've tried to hide yourself in, and he pulls you into the cosmos. He embraces you. Palms pressed to your back, arms around you, as the phantom edges of his figure merge into yours, like paint blending together on a palette. 

Viktor clings onto your starlit particles at his fingertips, he savors every flickering memory and vivid emotion. You're unraveled in his palms completely, deciphered down to your faintest atoms. Your limbs entwine with his; without strife, utterly weightless. 

Time fades, combines itself into a single thread — until, for a brief moment, it's impossible to tell if minutes have passed, or hours, or centuries. 

Until he feels your touch, and realizes it isn't within the confines of your shared mind. It's real. 

All at once, he returns to reality. 

Viktor's eyes flutter open abruptly. His own soul careens back into him with the force of a freight train. His breath comes in hard pants that half-fill his makeshift lungs, and shake the entirety of his chest. The back of his throat is rough and raw. He blinks, to refocus his misty vision. 

Oh. He's cupping your face in his hand. 

Your palm has decided to press itself to the back of his knuckles, determined to keep him there. Absently, your fingertips brush the sharp angles of his metallic joints, his gold accents. The flowers surrounding his chambers rustle. Their soft petals tickle his cheek. 

Dull energy thrums from his touch — sparks of the arcane, briefly buzzing on your skin like static. Touching the scars within your deepest layers. Your presence has pulled him back onto your plane. His magic tapers off, slowly and steadily. 

Now it's just him, just his hand at your cheek. Blissfully simple. 

Your tears have stopped. Your breathing shakes. With merciful, trembling touches, Viktor caresses your face, as though it's the first time. His thumb gently brushes away a stray droplet. 

The intricate texture of his hand is irregular, almost metallic. Far from what you remember, far from the familiar softness of skin. It isn't anything you could consider human — and yet, you still lean into him, your cheek practically nuzzling into the hard edges of his palm. Brazen and affectionate, desperate and cat-like. 

Viktor's jaw clenches. His harsh gasps echo throughout the vastness of his hollow chambers. 

No, this isn't- it's not possible, he thinks, in his own stupidly weak voice, barely able to form the words. It can't be. The arcane would not allow it. 

He feels like his head might pound out of his own skull. The warmth of your cheek is the only thing he can focus on, radiating against his palm like your skin is made from stardust. 

All at once, he has been carved down to his most basic components, until what remains is pure, raw emotion. His emotion, not the residuals of yours. 

He is himself, no longer on the outside looking in. Not the shell of what remained after the fire, the hunger, the waves of corruption. A soul returning to the body feels nothing like how he'd imagined — it's sudden, unexpected. It's a swell of fire, like kindling familiar flames in the depths of your chest. 

And his complex theories should prove that this shouldn't be happening. This body feels in tessellations, with precise, predetermined, machine-like processes. Everything within him must work in harmony. The arcane possesses, as much as it aspires to synchronize. 

His own quickened breathing resounds in his eardrums mockingly. He's grown used to what became of his body and the Hexcore, and the fusion between them: the thrumming in his veins, sparking impulse, potential. 

Yet, within him now, there's nothing but silence. Endless, persistent silence. 

It scares him. 

Countless cycles of inner contemplations led him to this. His thoughts and functions are supposed to click into place, to be understandable. Distance is meant to be placed between the inner self and the surface. Separating the body from the mind is how he was able to foster this community in the first place, how he's managed to help so many — his own sense of self needed to be secondary. His own desires, his emotions. Like a covetous God, the greater good demands sacrifice. 

But there was an outlier. A contingency. A chance, a small stir amongst his faded, longing ashes, that promised it could metamorphose him. Viktor considered every possible option. In every prediction, within the web of this reality, it doesn't work. 

His reunion with you was inevitable, but in his predictions, when you arrive to see what the arcane has made of him, everything begins crumbling down. The soft embrace he'd share with you is limited only to his imagination. Your fingertips press to numb metal, and Viktor can't feel your touch when it finds him. 

He foresaw your arrival. It wasn't part of his plan; it meant little to the overarching design, to his hopes for the Undercity. It was — you were — a fated tie. He'd hoped for this. Lost himself, in the inevitably of finding you, just to have you torn from him once more. 

Every intricacy in the array before him gave the same response. He knew this was written to be a tragedy, but Gods, none of it would matter once he saw your face, one last time. 

But this? This, he could not predict. 

The intense radiance in his veins, the fire in his ribs, the warmth of you underneath his own palm; you've flipped everything on its head. Somehow, someway, you've proved him wrong. You have proven fate wrong. You are the cause of his newfound light, and you are the lighter to his innermost match. 

You've made him return to humanity. 

Viktor pulls his palm away from your cheek. His chest heaves. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, and runs his purple-hued fingers through his hair, over his forehead, somewhat surprised by the lack of sweat. 

Then, he examines his hand. Turns it over, flexes his shaky fingers. Vividly ascertains that yes, these are his own eyes that he's looking through. He attempts to steady his breathing, he tries to send power thrumming through his system. Nothing answers. Magic fails to reach his palm, aside from a few faint buzzes, like the sparks that would linger after cutting a power line. 

"Impossible," Viktor grits out, half in wonderment, half in panicked disbelief. His own hand continues to shake in front of him. He can't think, now that he has you, and he has no idea what to do with his own soul; "How could this- how could you-" 

With a dull, echoing sob, you're tipping into him. 

Viktor feels your arms clumsily wrap around his shoulders. Your weight rests comfortably against his fake body. He sees in hues of amber and gold, basking in the honey-rich glow of the sun as it fills his iris, before the sky darkens, and the colors around him go wild once more. 

You embrace him. So, so tight. As though he might disappear, slipping through the gaps in your arms and the cracks between your fingertips, if you ever were to let go. 

A hand grabs a fistful of his rumpled clothing, a palm staggers down and finds where it's loose, to let your fingers feel the back of his neck. They trace down, unsteady. You brush your fingertips over the first bolt embedded into his makeshift spine. Grazing it repeatedly, feeling the defined notch. Caressing the smooth, metal surface underneath your thumb. 

It's an anxious, idle motion. Viktor listens to the shake in your breathing. He remains still, half-limp in your weak arms. 

This is unnatural — the press of soft human limbs, to an ever-present mechanical body. Yet, Viktor can feel all of you. Every gentle fan of your breath on his neck. He senses your fingertips when they move, and with another sad little sob that has his heart splintering, your hands are getting lost in his long hair. Grasping, trembling. Viktor feels electricity race from his scalp, down to his back. 

A thousand connecting sensations come to life within him: constellations of memories, once-dormant hopes that bud like wildflowers. And he realizes, fiercely, abruptly, within what has become of him, he still remembers the shape of your name in his chest. 

Holding you is an action he wasn't meant for, it embodies everything he isn't. But Viktor expels a soft sigh. He allows himself to pretend. His arm slowly wraps around you, and his palm gently finds your back, when your head buries itself into the perfect crook of his neck. 

This body has been re-made, sculpted in the image of the arcane, and yet it cannot rid itself of the most basic human subtleties. The curve between his neck and his shoulder was made for you to rest there. He caresses your back with smooth, slow motions, and your frames fit together like two pieces of the same inseparable, destiny-drawn puzzle. 

Faint thrums of power emanate from the entirety of his shape. Weak, constant. An enveloping throb, to substitute a quickly beating heart. You sniffle against his nape, and Viktor holds you just a little bit tighter. 

Deep down, with the desperation of a man too entwined in the eternal threads of fate, he wishes he'd have the strength to bring about change. Not for this, not for him. For you. 

If the auroras he's touched and the light he encompasses could press into you, he would eclipse your darkness in radiance. If his hands could be capable of more than healing — of adoring, of remembering, he would let his palms memorize the statue of your frame, so he might carve it into himself. He'd take your strife and make it his. 

When you finally pull back from him, it's only slight; you stifle another weak noise, and your forehead falls against his own. The moment your head meets his, he collapses into your soul. He feels your pain ricochet through him, sharp and unpredictable. 

Anguish shakes your entire system like stormy waves. Guilt and devotion and lovely past lifetimes paint the surface of his skin, the center of his chest bleeds itself raw — and then, he's gone. Pushed out of your mind, unable to fight as the hold of his weakened magic slips. 

Swallowing thickly, eyes fluttering open again, Viktor wills his breath to stop faltering. It was so brief, his second brush with your emotions. But the ache you've been struck by is utterly palpable. It stings the corners of his eyes, sinks sharp teeth into his insides. 

He places his palm on your cheek, and he carefully guides the both of you apart, so he can finally look at you. 

"All of this pain. This emotion," Viktor murmurs; his voice shudders, resounding like the distant rumble of thunder. His gaze on yours floods with soft colors, reminds you of the surrounding sea of pastel florals. His index tilts your chin, to keep you looking at him. "My poor, resplendent beloved." 

You've essentially fallen into his lap; Viktor shifts, props himself up further. Gods, is he captivating. Stupidly, terribly captivating. The gnawing ache within you pleads for you to turn away, to run, but the pained pinch to his thick brows is more familiar than ever. So is the way he looks at you. Reminiscent of the one you once loved, despite the swirling shades that shine beneath. 

As you admire him through misty vision, you can almost trick yourself into believing nothing has changed. Almost. The distance in between you and Viktor begs to be closed, it mumbles promises in your ears like the way the edge whispers before a long fall. It won't hurt, as long as you close your eyes. 

Compromising, your palms shift to weakly hold his face. They push his messy hair from his eyes, and caress the edges of his jaw, where his skin tapers off into the Hexcore's corruption. Your thumb strokes lazy circles over the mole above his mouth. His skin is soft, his jaw is rigid, silky with a labyrinth of smooth, swirling patterns. 

To see his face is one thing, to be able to touch him and hold him, and know he's still here — they're privileges you never thought yourself worthy of earning. You hold him warmly, tenderly. The way you wanted to before he was gone. Like he is yours, or a deity worth worshipping. 

"Viktor-" 

You can't help it. You're starting to sob. Every heave of your chest is dry, your eyes sting with tears that won't come. You take your bottom lip between your teeth and bite hard, but the temporary pain does little to quell your all-consuming heartache. 

Trembling thumbs brush his skin, and you shake your head, you sputter, "I'm sorry, Vik, I'm so- s-so sorry…" 

Viktor is a servant to the sickening shudder that laces through him. His brows form a knot, his gaze drowns in clear sadness. Refracting in shades of autumn and azure. 

"But you have no reason to be. I have you," Viktor murmurs gently, the edges of his tone deliciously smooth. Your arms weakly drop down to his shoulders, and he gives your still-wet cheek a slow caress. "Shh, shh. You do not have to apologize. I know. I know. Your emotions are still so grievously tender." 

His tone is warm, like how you remember. Ages ago, you would've done anything to hear it again, filling the silence left by his absence. When you're able to see through the otherworldly rumble, the distant reverberation, you're able to hear just him. As though no time has passed at all, like he never left. 

"Viktor-" You hiccup, "Please- I'm sorry- Viktor." 

His name was designed to meet your voice. You make it sound maddeningly tender, as though it's something to covet, even when your heart is aching and you wish that it wasn't. 

As though you've flipped the meaning. To conquer can be something soft, it can be a gentle checkmate, a hopeful spark between ribs and an ambitious fire at the edges of fingertips. A promise to prevail, with hands intertwined. 

He feels like he's going to be sick. 

"I'm here. Breathe," Viktor answers, "Talk to me, zlato. Tell me how you are feeling." 

"I thought you- thought you were gone," You're sniffling, slurring your words together. Viktor's expression weakens. You are falling apart in his hands, and he feels so unbelievably useless. "When I- when they told me you ran off to Zaun, I was… angry. But I can't- I can't stay mad at you, I just can't." 

Viktor softens. His gaze flickers over you, as he fruitlessly attempts to find the right words to fix this. But you're already continuing. 

"I grieved you, Vik. So much." You take a slow, shuddering breath. Your words come out one at a time. "Part of me thinks I still should." 

The choice to use his familiar nickname, usually spoken so joyfully, so exuberant in his memories — I'm here, I missed you, you're so sweet, Vik. To hear it sputtered, instead, his own name chewed up and spat out short-hand; it's like a kiss to the cheek, in between a punch to the face. 

Viktor recalls what it felt like to be lost inside your mind. So much fondness, a dense galaxy of longing, was crammed inside a small, beating heart. Endless implosions of love and loss, with nowhere to go, had no option but to dig themselves deeper. He felt the weight on your shoulders, like the heaviness of rain. The icy pain in your ribs: bleak coldness, where all you can see is your own breath. Once pleasant dreamscapes were twisted and tugged into knots, because this is the end — and Viktor knows he wasn't meant to be granted an epilogue. 

"No one could have blamed you," He says, words soft enough to cushion your fall. You clumsily lean back into him, resting on his shoulder, and Viktor calmly pets the back of your head. 

Your hands quiver. "I did- I blamed myself." 

"And what choice did you have?" Viktor counters, speaking through an almost-sigh. "You were frightened. Alone. You were inconsolable, deprived of respite." And he left you. He wandered astray when you needed him most. "Affection and pain are-" He tenses, quiets. "An antithesis, forming an equilibrium. Fond memories begin to die, as fractured stars do, when such dreams encompass all you have left." 

A pause. You savor a few more moments in his arms, debating. Waiting for your resolve to return to you, before you're drawing back, and sitting up. Hastily, you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. When Viktor tries reaching for you, you're swiftly pushing his palm away. 

"I- I should leave," You're choking out, "I can't be here." 

Viktor's brows furrow. 

"Why not?" He questions, and there's a broken edge to his voice, a weakness that nearly sounds hurt. He hurriedly grasps your wrist — faint energy pulses from his touch, weighty enough to make you shiver — but you stay still, not moving, not yet. "You, out of everyone, have always been welcome." 

"They were talking about setting up a barricade, back in Piltover," You're mumbling weakly, although it's clear to him you're dancing around the true reason. 

"You can stay here," Viktor interrupts. 

"No, I can't." 

"Yes, you could. There is another reason for your avoidance." His tone softens, lays itself before you like a lamb to be slaughtered. "Let me in. Please." 

"There isn't anything, Vik. It'd be better if I wasn't here. That's all. I'm sorry, I just-"

You sniffle, your heart breaks, and Viktor brushes a tear from your eye before it has the chance to fall. His knuckles caress down the length of your jaw, he softly coos a few words of reassurance. Shh, shh. Don't cry. 

Bleeding into him distantly, melting against his hand and within his veins; easily this time, as though reaching into the depths of your existence is purely natural — he feels you. 

Your soul has decayed to a dull, dying flame. You embody the convergence between warm and cold. Your mind longs to find its place within his arms, to fall into him once more and never return, as much as it believes you should push him away. There's a conflicting, swords-crossing battle inside your own heart. He experiences each of your sensations, tastes and samples them: the pleasant, and the painful. Echoing, exhausted, whispered in your own voice, he hears what you are thinking. 

Please, Gods. Why can't I forget him? 

Oh. Your mind doesn't lie. 

The boundaries of your psyche begin to crumble — toppled bricks, chipped stone, and he can't help but tense. He feels sharpness stab into every part of him, like the closing walls of an iron maiden. 

Look at what has become of him. Why must you hold on, when it would be infinitely easier to just let go? Viktor understands. He is well-acquainted with the strife of forgetting. 

It must be torture, to hold someone so close to your heart. To remember them as the sun, when all that remains is their shadow. A half-dead symbol of divinity. 

Everything would've been easier, more simple, better for the task he sought to accomplish, if he was able to cast his affections aside. This body should make it trivial, but it is still Viktor's body. It is still his vessel, and his mind, and his memories. 

Emotions hinder progress. They killed countless Gods before him, and yet love digs in deep and persists. Consumes, from the inside out. It sets fire to your soul, and makes you watch as it burns itself out. The whims of the heart are impossible to stifle. He was correct, to predict your return. But what of a body without a heart, what of him, what of the future? 

I believed I could untwine fate, Viktor thinks, as his palms brush the intricate stars laid out before him. Yours, mine. But my attempts were not conceivable. Enlightenment was never strong enough to predominate over devotion. A revival cannot undo the basis of human nature. I can never unwind myself from you, but in this, I was complacent. I was prepared to let you become my ruin. 

And your mind resounds. There's a voice, unable to hear him, speaking with itself. Shouting through a storm to harmonize with the whispering wind. Recalling pain, loss, and ashes. 

Why was it you, when it could've been me? 

Part of you envisions going back. Imagining yourself in his place, threading through options to come up with one that might save him. Or perhaps, in a blind stupor of sadness and frustration, you would've returned to the Undercity. You would try to find yourself and change your path, assuring your younger self to stay, you weren't cut out to be a scientist — to undo the outcome of ever meeting him. 

Regret eclipses you, the moment the thought crosses your mind. He overhears your internal struggle, your own voice fighting with itself. No, that isn't true. It can't be, you couldn't bear it. 

But perhaps, he thinks, for you, it would have resulted in less pain. 

He witnesses every thought, feels every regret and all of your uncertainty. As sharp as a blade, twisting within you; pressing inside him, in turn. 

Until Viktor's shaky fingers trail the back of your neck, his eyes fluttering open. He realizes you've collapsed into him, as his own weakness forces him back to the present. 

Viktor holds you, for a long stretch of time. You promised you'd leave, and yet, here you are, running into his arms once more. It's still sublimely surreal. Your palms trace his open sides, examining the golden bands, the deep indentations where ribs might sit. When his arm around your back grows loose, you're prying yourself from him hesitantly. He meets your gaze, and his lithe fingers delicately find your jaw. Admiring, thinking. 

You are terribly beautiful. Wonderful. There is nothing comparable. Not the sea of vivid flowers, not the sun, not the countless collisions of stars that he's witnessed. If he could go back, he would hold your pain in his hands. He'd make it his. 

It would mean more to him than anything, more than all of this, to see you happy, smiling, and free. You've always been so lovely. An inspiration. A dream. 

The arcane could strip him of himself, but even as it's pulling his bones from his body, it could never take away the devotion he remembers. Your touch, your voice. Your atoms and your particles, falling like rain at his fingertips, forming every retained, held-onto expression of you. 

Soft letters, exchanged between the margins of messily sketched blueprints. Tearing the paper, to keep the note you'd left, because your handwriting felt like home. Drowsy words, shoulders pressed too close together, and almost falling asleep, but trying to stay awake to talk for just a little while longer. Even though hindsight would tell him he's acting a fool. Even though the night is melting into morning, and you have projects to complete by tomorrow. None of it ever seems to matter, when the two of you are lost in each other. 

He remembers smiles like sunflowers, bright and radiant. Giddy laughter and naive wishes. Hands brushing when they shouldn't; finding one another under tables, between meetings. Fingers interlacing to swear promises, palms pressed to a quickly beating heart. 

Further, there are gentler sentiments, moments that could only come with age and years of understanding. Sitting together in silence, because it helps, when sleep refuses to come. Lessening pain wherever you can. Soothing tired muscles, holding shaky hands. Knowing where it hurts without the need to ask, and when to encourage, but also when to rest. 

Falling apart, in the ways no one else gets to see, because he knows you will be there to put back his pieces — and Viktor realizes every memory, every recollection, every death begins and ends with you. 

Gods. He breathes soft shushes, and little murmurs of, It's alright. All it takes is one brush with your heart to bring his humanity circling back. 

Your expression weakens, your heavy gaze stays steady on his own. For a moment, he expects you to collapse again. He knows he will catch you. But you breathe deeply, and when he caresses your cheek, nice and gentle, your eyes take on a dull sparkle — the same light he remembers, from countless lifetimes ago. 

"No," Viktor coos softly, with a shake of his head, "No, I believe this is precisely where you were meant to be." 

He holds your chin delicately, between his thumb and forefinger. "Stay. Please." He murmurs, continuing. I need you to stay. "Spare me a few more moments." 

His voice sounds impossibly human. There's less of a rumble, more of a tremble. Uniquely him, decidedly weak. 

It's fruitless, and he knows it. A few more moments is hardly enough, it won't make up for everything you've needed. But it's all he can have. Because in every reality, this doesn't work. 

There are mistakes he can't take back, pain he can't reverse. Humanity is a vice he can no longer hold onto. And you — once again, at the center of everything — you do not deserve this. After the boundaries you've crossed, the lengths you've travelled, you must be so, so tired. You, his dream, for all of the radiance and light in your heart, do not deserve to be drowned in more darkness. 

For every almost, for each soft touch and pained reminder of his fragility — the warmth of your arms around him, dulling the sharpness in his leg — he should have pulled you closer. From the very start, he was running out of time. He should have died. Yet, he must continue to live, with the same weight in his shoulders, with the knowledge of his failures. And with the palpable reminders of the twin flame he lost. 

He's strayed too far to make things right, now. You're two ships on different currents. 

If you were to change course and crash together, hands grasping one another tight, soft skin entwined with unnatural fingers made of violet; close enough to let heavy breaths meld into one; close enough to taunt the forces that made him, the result would prove catastrophic. Shattering his goals, the hold the arcane has on him, and your wavering heart. 

Viktor knows he cannot put you through this. His new purpose, his curse, perpetuated by the Hexcore's distant, inexplicable itch, surmises that he is destined for rebirth. Over, and over, and over again. You've already grieved him, and for your sake, this needs to be the final time. 

"Okay," You breathe, exhaling heavily, inhaling weakly. He holds your cheek in his familiar hand, and you tremble, struggling not to lean into his touch. "I… Okay. I'll stay." 

Your warmth radiates against Viktor's palm. Low and soft, tired and grief-stricken. Then brilliant, burning. 

You already know what it's like to lose him; how it feels to watch light slip from his gaze, either as a slow descent into torment, a faint snuffed out flame. Or as a vivid, scorching implosion. Forcing you to remember blood and fire, as smoke overtakes the edges of your vision. 

Ash chokes your lungs. Pain thrums in all of your joints. Muffled screams echo in your ringing eardrums. Panicked breaths, and shouts of, he's not breathing, between Jayce grabbing your shoulders, trying to shake you awake, but you just — 

Viktor pulls his hand away from your cheek, as though he'd been burned. Dull remnants of your pain linger in his chest, sharp, strained, and ashen. His index finger presses to the side of your jaw, gently guiding you to look at him. 

"Don't imagine such things," He mumbles gently; his color-rich gaze finds yours, as naturally as the moon finds the Earth, locked within the same orbit. "You are only going to exhaust yourself further. What happened that day was- it was not your fault. Not in any capacity. You know this, right?" 

Right? The soft lilt in his voice — pleading for confirmation — makes a tingle trace your spine. 

"I know," You answer dryly, your voice a little sore. "I'm fine." 

Your eyes have long since dried up, but you still sound deeply numb. Distant, as though your soul is somewhere far away. 

"You are not," Viktor counters quickly. Like you're two rival schoolmates, arguing once again. Not two inseparable souls, on the verge of the end. Close to collapsing and crossing an edge neither of you could come back from. 

"I am. I promise." 

"You have not slept. You have been following the trail to the commune for days, now. And the moment you try to rest, to let sleep find you, your mind is plagued by fits of nightmares. I do not think you need me to tell you this, but you are pushing yourself to the brink." 

It hurts, somewhere in his fragile system, to see the pain he has caused you. He hasn't merely witnessed it, he has felt it. All of your guilt and your emotions, surging through his filaments. Nearly as strong as the passive waves of magic. 

"The nightmares started long before this," You're arguing on impulse, mumbling under your breath. 

They began when he was dying. 

And he knows the nightmares, the visions he saw through your eyes, of embers and death and destruction and fragility — they are all because of him. 

You swallow, before you sigh, and your tone quiets when he places a reassuring hand on your tensed shoulder. "I wasn't asking you to pity me. It's just- it isn't anything I'm not used to." 

Viktor pauses. Then, he gives a small, amused huff. 

"You are as stubborn as you were when we met." 

He recalls it vividly: your very first meeting. You were both young, immature, and terribly eager to prove yourselves. Determination and stubbornness were traits you unfortunately shared. 

You argued. Over some unimportant invention, and then over your notes, and the ways they differed. Viktor can barely remember the assignment. But he recalls the pinch in your brows, the fiery heat in the back of your gaze. Convinced you were right, and unable to get Viktor to budge, you left, tossing some remark over your shoulder as you slammed the door shut behind you. We should ask the professor if we can change partners. It's clear we'll never get along. 

"Am I?" You mutter; it's rhetorical, obviously, made evident from the half-hearted roll of your eyes. He's sure you're dwelling on the very same memory. You breathe something of a feeble, fatigued laugh, "You really think I was the stubborn one?" 

"Mmm," Viktor hums. His lips twitch into the faintest imitation of a smile. "Possibly. You haven't told me to shut up yet. I suppose we could consider that an improvement." 

Ambitious and tender, alive and in front of you, is a part of him you'd thought you lost. 

"And you somehow still remember." 

Viktor's temple forms a knot, but his gaze is entirely unreadable. He brushes an exploring palm down the small of your back, keeping himself propped up on his elbow. You're leaning into him naturally, as though you've hardly planned to. Your arms rest on his shoulders, your weight settles gently and tangibly in his lap. 

"I told you," He says, voice barely more than a whisper, a plea, a prayer. "Regardless of what is taken from me, you are far too precious to forget." 

Your breathing is unsteady. It echoes in his ears, becoming all he can focus on. Sharp in, shaky out. 

"I didn't know I mattered so much to you." You're glancing away, while you brush his long hair from his eyes; your breath shakes, you twirl an ombre strand around your finger. "I mean, not after- not when you're- fuck, I don't know." 

"Not as you remember?" Viktor completes. 

You reply with a shallow nod. "You're just… different." 

Alive. Anew. A vessel, not a man, not the one you admired. 

Viktor's jaw tenses. His chest stings, it pulls at him like there's a black hole where his heart should be. And this time, he isn't caught between the residuals of your emotions. He is feeling his. 

He gives a low, quiet, simple answer. "There is much between us that differs, now." 

You're silent, for a few moments, caught chewing on the inside of your cheek. 

"The Hexcore," You start, "You… absorbed it, right?" 

"In theory." 

"Our studies made it seem alive. I wasn't sure if something like that was even possible. I read your notes, Vik, I saw the runes and your leg, and I didn't- I should've been there." 

Viktor takes a breath so quiet it nearly goes unnoticed. "I should have made you stay out of it." 

He sees the heartache on your face before he feels it — Viktor's fingertips, rough and metal-like, trace the gentle curve of your jaw. But his power is weakened. Your emotions thread through him as faint pulses, and he can't dive deeper. 

Even when he closes his eyes, there's a barrier; a wall, for him to bang his fists against, despite knowing there's no way to reach you. Your soul manifests in his horizon line. Admirable and bright, unable to be touched. 

When Viktor's eyes flutter open, they're whirling in dizzy, wild shades, like the colors beneath have been mixed and shaken. They shift from crimson, to cobalt, to citrine. Impulsively, he cups your face to keep you close, to make certain you won't disappear. To remind himself that he can still feel your soft skin against his blasphemous palm. 

"You have blamed yourself enough for my atrocities. So much of your pain could have been circumvented, but then I-" Viktor softens. He brushes his thumb over your cheek slowly, over and over, like an anxious, desperate tick. "Perhaps I should have turned you away the moment you reached the commune." 

Your hand finds his, grasps it tight and keeps him pressed to your cheek; and your pain bleeds for him, inviting him in. Foggy and infinite, covered in thorns. Curling in on itself, an infinite fractal of warm tenderness and icy, bitter melancholy — 

"Viktor- that isn't-" 

"Your mind crumbles, in all cases, each and every time you look at me." He speaks carefully. Chews through every word, before he spits it out. His voice rumbles, reverberates like an earthquake, "Why?" 

He supposes he already has his answer. Delving inside your mind left him with no room for doubt. This is his fault. It's a form of self-sacrifice, a familiar brush with endless destruction, he thinks, to hear you say the final words. The ones he already knows. You are allowed to let go. Fate will embrace you in the ways I could not. 

"Because, dammit, I still care about you," You're blurting out, "More than anyone, or anything else." 

"I do not deserve it. Considering what I have-" 

"I don't care, Vik. And every time I see you, when I feel this," You squeeze his hand hard, enough to incite the rigid surface of his faux fingertips with transcendent sparks of the arcane, "I remember your notes, the fire. The days I spent following you into the Undercity. I see the empty look in your eyes when you first saw me, and I keep thinking this isn't real. That I'm going to wake up, and you… you'll be gone." 

Viktor's gaze flickers over your face, wide and iridescent, a perfect contradiction. His breathing runs quick, his palm shakes. But within the dance between your soul and his, he's daring to reach for you. 

Bright, vivid light washes over. It blinds him, for a moment. Bathes his figure in radiance. A force within him is gnawing, whispering in runic words that he shouldn't be able to understand, telling him he isn't supposed to feel this, isn't meant to have a place within him carved to fit your shape. The best option is to turn you away, to listen to his head. Evolution requires a steady mind, an unwavering resolve. An inhuman herald. 

Viktor refuses. He listens to his non-existent heart, instead, and he feels your petals, closed yet delicate. He lets himself become your sun, so he can watch you bloom. A figment of his own humanity shimmers before him. The light obscures his vision, it burns his eyes. But he holds on — pallid palms pressed together with all his might, containing his bursting luminescence and the flowery resonance of you. 

A gentle thumb brushes your cheek, and you're sighing, confessing, "I shouldn't. But I missed you, Viktor. So much." 

Your thoughts echo inside him like a ripple in water. I wish you could be more than just a memory. 

Nothing exists for him to promise. Your breathing shakes, your eyes flutter. Your body subtly arches into his touch, when he comfortingly caresses the back of your neck. 

"I missed you more than words could express," He admits, voice low, close to cracking like the edges of old stone. Everything blends, in a haze of his own making, as his palm clumsily returns to hold your face. As he gently guides you, tilting you towards him by your jaw. 

"Look at me. You meant everything. For so long, so deeply, I treasured you- do not ever think otherwise. But I was powerless. Over and over, I perpetually imagined the last time I saw you. The soft sound of your voice, and the mundane instances in between. I would have done it over again, in the same order. To be frozen in time, with this memory of you." 

Stars fade, the galaxy around him chips and splinters. But he knows this is the truth. The arguments, the introductions, the pain, the softness, the falling, the fading — history would repeat itself infinitely, and he would gladly lose himself in its spiral with you. 

Your hands clench on his shoulders, your gaze grows lost in his own. You drown in the gentle nebulas of eyes that still feel so remarkably his. 

Every outcome before him weaves into the same ending, every star carries the same grim message. He cannot go back, that's the crucial cusp of it all. The strings of fate pull him along, igniting a sharp taste in his throat. They seek to make him into the arcane's chosen puppet. 

"Viktor," You're sighing, and oh, the syllables of his name are more than a plea when they're breathed from your lips, they're a washed-out memory, a poem and a promise between his ribcage — 

"But you have me right now." 

"I know," Viktor says, because it's all he can say, "I know." 

When you trail off into silence, Viktor finds that the abyss of your soul echoes with a single unfathomable sentence. 

I still love you. 

So this is the tragedy. 

His faithful step in the universe's eternal return. An infinite expression of his fleeting, useless affections, strung throughout an inseparable existence. 

Viktor realizes now, the truth was merely a means to the end he expected. This is the predetermined resolution, where he finally gives in, and recognizes he cannot escape the path laid before him. He was always going to break you, perhaps from holding on too tight. 

Once again, he is powerless; this time, to his own body. He can sense the thrumming in his limbs, glowing through every vein. This can't last forever. He knows you are his focal point, and once you disappear, the arcane will take your place. In his hands, in his chest, in every breath he takes. Blotting out the last of his humanity. 

You smile, and it's a crooked, broken, undeserved thing — but it captivates him just the same. A flicker of heartache catches the light in your eyes. He believes he is watching you think, seeing the cogs click into place as your jaw grits uncomfortably, as your eyes threaten to well up again, as you come to the same conclusion. This is futile. 

Then, let this moment at least be yours. 

Viktor places both palms on your face. He guides you to follow him, when he falls back. The weight of your body presses his chassis into the ground. His head rests against the flowers. His hair fans out around him, faint blonde strands interwoven, like a painting's highlights: the finishing touches. 

But you aren't staring at him. Not at his eyes, your gazes don't meet. You're staring at the pretty mole, placed perfectly above his mouth — and he knows, because this isn't the first time. 

It's where you would focus when he found you lost in thought and drowsy, coming up with excuses not to stare at his lips. He remembers feeling you touch the corner of his mouth, close but not quite, before your fingertip brushed down the length of his nose; the space between you barely leaves room for accommodation, and Viktor brings a palm to your chest to push you apart, despite wanting to drop his cane and use both hands to — 

Dangerously, you stop yourself by leaning close. Viktor's eyes flutter shut, as your forehead comes to rest against his own. 

His voice is barely audible. Accent thick, low, and familiar. 

"However this may end, I need you to realize," He exhales, slow and shakily. "There was never a moment where I did not adore you." 

Those words press into you like an arrow in your chest, a hot knife lodged between bones. You breathe in deeply, you sigh carefully, and Viktor feels your breath as it fans against his mouth. 

It's merely the surface of what he wishes he could say. There is so much more, I admired you since we met. You were smart, radiant. Gods, was it the most egregious combination, because you both intimidated and captivated me. You were effortless to adore. I thought I made myself obvious. Requiring your help for every insignificant invention, stealing you at every turn because it felt delightful, to have you all to myself. Those moments are distant, yes, but they are not blights. They were brilliances. 

An infinity would not be near enough time to fall for you. I would wish to alter fate, but I can't, I cannot save you from myself. From this… inevitability, this expectation that we are doomed for ruin. 

You unfurl, you blossom. The sparkle of your soul follows the glow in his palms, eclipsing his body, shining over the rot; two lighthouses glimmering towards one another, communicating in their own code — and your mind pleads for him, one last time. 

Prove it. I need you to show me. 

And he almost does. Really, truly, almost. He nearly pulls you in, denies destiny to follow impulse, and veers both your courses towards destruction. 

The simplicity of a kiss would prove this is real, prove his humanity. It would be something for him to have, not a token for the arcane to take. No, the arcane would weep, as he ignites his new body's first experience with selfishness. The intensity he's longed for would no longer be numbed, he'd feel it surge and shine and breathe through him. Pooling at his fingertips, as he pulls you in, guiding heat to draw itself into you. 

It'd feel good, to press his mouth to yours, and discover what your lips feel like in the ways he's imagined for ages. He could hold you as if you'd never have to leave. He could pretend, as though the coolness of his sanctuary is just the evening draft in the lab, and he isn't making up for past regrets, he is fixing them. 

Warmth would return to his figure, his soul would converge into his body, and fate, as cruel as it is, would be forced to do nothing but watch. 

Viktor allows his eyes to open. His palms are still on your face, your gentle weight is still pinning him down. The light of the moon above you creates pale, hazy crescents in the edges of his vision. You are so close. Your heart is its own entity. Pounding so hard in your chest, he can practically feel it as his own. His gaze flickers to your mouth, as his hands faintly caress your skin. 

Prove it, prove it, prove it. 

For a few moments, he debates the repercussions. 

It could be swift, fleeting, an accident. Barely more than a brush, a taste, before he drags himself away. Or, it could be more. 

A point of devotion, expressed with closed eyes and soft lips. Admiring you without seeing, confessing without words. 

Would your lips feel plush, would you hesitate, would you send him spiraling down along with you, as you pulled him in and whispered his name? 

Perhaps it might escalate, into a feverish mess of your hands in his hair and your lips at his throat, and would he still feel them there? Against the gold notches embedded into his neck, kissing down to admire where his body meets magic. Could either of you manage to stop if you tried, or would time bleed together, until he could die like this — until he's convinced he is dying? 

Viktor's thumb brushes your lips. Shakily, mechanically. 

Gravity threatens to drag him in, steady on your pull, strong like absolution. Centimeters stop him from closing the distance, from pulling you close and colliding so softly, so vividly. In one simple, fluid, perfect movement. He dreams of it. But still, still. 

Still, Viktor struggles to catch his own breath, although it hardly makes sense for his perfected system. Still, he allows himself the small privilege of caressing your cheek, feeling your skin beneath his ruined fingertips. Your gaze widens — he can't help but wonder, but foolishly, uselessly hope, that you might've been expecting more — and he finds your chest with his palm, to repeat past actions, to carefully push you away. 

It isn't the choice he would wish to make. But for once, it will be his choice, all the same. There is strength, a grounding sense of responsibility, a misguided tenderness, in this. Even if it hurts. 

Even if Viktor is already regretting it, the moment he sees the softness fade from your eyes. A wavering gaze stares back at him, as dark as a knot of storm clouds. His hand steadies on your chin to keep you in place. 

His last tie to humanity is a knot he can't undo. The one of few left to mourn him deserves more than empty words, or false promises. You deserve to heal. You are his greatest mistake, and his most lovely exception. 

You were worth every moment, every word, every star. He can feel you, in the chasm of his chest. Guilt runs thick in his makeshift veins. Newfound pain pushes out from his shoulder blades like wings, and he knows you may have been unable to change his fate, but you have changed him. Every piece of you will always press together to form a part of his entirety — with the same soft edges, amongst familiar galaxies of convergences. 

This isn't the end, not yet, not quite. Viktor hopes he can show you. The sun will rise again; you will bask in its glow, warm and unburdened. You'll rediscover your spark. Your soul was meant to burn on a pyre that reciprocates, and logic dictates an inhuman vessel cannot. For you, for your gentle, beating heart, this is only the beginning. 

There will be no more nightmares, no more exhaustion. He can be of use, he can help you rest. His power has limits. However faint, however controlled. But this, the science of dreams, leading their way into passages, establishing connections and fateful meetings — considering his experience with magic and the astral, it should be relatively easy to grasp. 

And he knows it will hurt hard. To see you, to lose you. Though, unlike him, you cannot force your emotions into silence. Viktor harbors a hint of envy. A flourish of frustration. You have never deserved the world's blind cruelty. He would have torn the universe apart to at least keep his pain, so the sharpness in his chest and the blood stained into his palms could serve as final reminders of you. 

One last pleasant memory won't fix what's broken, but it could save you, where he can no longer save himself. 

He supposes it's worth a try. 

"Viktor," You're murmuring, and he hates the way his own name makes your bottom lip quiver, how your shoulders tense as though you could curl in on yourself. "Sorry, I-" 

"No, no, please don't apologize. There is…" Viktor starts; he attempts to keep the words from stammering, but it's difficult when you're still so close. You are all he can see, as your moonlit gaze matches his, like it could guide his waves without trying. 

He grinds his jaw, glances away, and tries again. "There is something I've wished to show you. Could I sit up?" 

Your palms, pressed to either side of his head to prop yourself up, fidget and clench, fingers trembling. But you nod, you shift. He feels your weight leave his lap when you finally slide off of him. 

Viktor pushes himself up. The metal decorations that fix his clothing into place clink together faintly. He carefully folds his legs. He glances towards you, gives a coaxing tilt of his head, and gently pats his palm to his knee. 

"Come." 

The whispering meadow in his elaborate space leaves you plenty of room to sprawl out, as you rest your head in Viktor's waiting lap. Blades of grass tickle your arms. He is firm, rigid underneath you. Not quite the most comfortable pillow, but it hardly matters to you, because your eyes are already growing nice and heavy. 

You're losing your battle with exhaustion, he figures. Resting against him is especially potent at making your tiredness shine through. (He recalls somewhat-sleepovers, sharing the same dorm, your head falling against his shoulder as your breathing echoed into his ear.) He assists the endeavor, brushing his fingertips down either side of your face, adjusting you to make sure his lap is comfortable. You shiver, and he toys with your hair, continuing until you're sighing, relaxing. 

Viktor smiles. His gaze above you meets yours, shines with devotion. There's a new color in his eyes. Some cross between amethyst and crimson, like a swirling red wine, like drops of blood in water — sickeningly sweet. His hair frames his face. Strands brush the faux edges of his jaw. 

A few more moments to admire you is all he allows for himself. Then, he breathes deeply, calmly. He reaches beside him, into the grass, to delicately snap the stem of a tiny, almost-hidden white daisy. 

"I want you to picture," Viktor tucks the flower behind your ear, continuing slowly, the words spoken with a calm, yet melancholy edge: "A place where you can be at peace." 

"Mmm," You hum, hands clasped, resting neatly on your stomach, "Like a memory?" 

"It could be one, yes." 

"Like when we snuck out of our classes to go look at the stars, to see the autumn meteor shower. We missed an evening lecture, and the professor made us write lines…" 

Viktor distantly recalls the way his hands cramped for weeks, how his knuckles ached. His palms had thick calluses from where he tightly held his pencil, his skin was stained with graphite from where he rested his hand against the paper — but vividly, as though he could close his eyes and be transported there, he remembers your excitement. 

Your pure elation, as you hurriedly climbed the endless stairs to the very top of the viewing tower, mumbling about how you didn't want to miss it. You never stopped grinning, as you guided his hand to show him where the stars would fall, pointing to every distant shimmer in the sky. Although, to him, they never seemed to shine brighter than the look in your eyes. 

Ages later, you both returned to that same spot on the outskirts of Piltover, perhaps in an attempt to relive your youth. The viewing tower was rickety and silent. The stairs to the top were long and grueling. The fancy lights shining from various new buildings made the stars impossible to see, now. 

The Hexgates were conceptualized the next year. Viktor's doctor recommended a crutch and a brace. So it was your last attempt, in the end. 

Your tired eyes flutter open, and Viktor gazes down at you, lips upturned into the faintest hint of somber amusement. 

"It only occurs every two hundred years. The professor warned us, he said the meteor shower was a waste of our precious time," Viktor recounts, with a small, playful huff. "He had already seen it, and it failed to impress him." 

"We would've seen more elsewhere, he said, which is true, but…" You shrug lazily. "It was so quiet up there. With just us, and the stars." 

"The calmest place in all of Piltover," Viktor replies in agreement. 

"After that, we talked about getting out of the city. Maybe vacationing somewhere once we graduated, just for a while." 

There were late night talks, sleepy confessions, foolish dreams of far-off places. Much like this, really. Your brows pinch, you stifle a yawn. Viktor can't help but find it adorable. 

Then, your head tilts back, as you gaze at him again. "Remember?" 

Viktor softens. "You dreamt of seeing the flowers in Ionia." 

Your smile widens. "I'll try to picture that, then." 

Moonlight burns in the back of his gaze. Magic returns to pulse through him — connecting threads to the minds of hundreds of followers, casting a line to hook into the arcane. The sort of pain that becomes a new heartbeat, offering to seal itself within him. His fingers shake, as he hesitates to bring them towards you. He forces himself to steady, to meet your tender expression, and commit the depths of it to memory. 

Everything must come to an end. Viktor cups your face in both palms, and prepares for his last dance with mortality. 

"Imagine a field of endless, untouched blooms. Culminating in stunning magic, able to be sensed within the ground itself, thrumming underneath your feet." Viktor's voice is a low, level, comforting murmur. Like he's reading straight from an Ionian textbook; in another life, it would be enough to put you to sleep. 

"And the air smells lovely," You're mumbling, tired. "And the sky is full of thousands of stars." 

"Yes, but," Viktor ever-so gently brushes his fingertips over your eyelids, guiding you to close them. "You must close your eyes, little spark." 

Your expression is perfectly, wonderfully peaceful. For a few moments, he savors it. He brushes his thumbs over your skin and relishes the softness. He watches the gentle heave of your chest. The slow, mortal intake of every breath. Heavy with exhaustion. 

Viktor feels his heart crumble, although he knows he does not have one. 

He swallows, he holds your face tenderly. Energy surges from his palms. Crisp, reality-warping fragments of light. Vivid paradoxes. Sparkling against your skin, in prickles of dull static. 

The warmth of your soul is a small, kindled flame, held weakly in his palms. This time, you can feel it. Touches reaching between your ribcage. Tracing your bones, leaving bright flowers and pockets of starlight wherever his fingertips brush. It is a gradual, languid sensation; like a baptism, hands cradling your edges to carefully lower you into deep, warm water. It consumes, distorts and collapses, connects the two of you in a haze of entwined hands and twisted-together veins. Blood and magic, pain and healing. 

Viktor allows his voice to echo through your weary mind — though he is sure his words will be forgotten, by the time you awake. 

Rest, now. Perhaps, in another reality, or within a distant, rewritten future, we will be offered the chance to begin again. If you and I will it. Not fate, nor the infinite tides of entropy. 

His voice sounds clear, undistorted. Rich and enveloping. There's hints of hesitation. A clear shake. Deep traces of a faltering, human-like weakness. 

Thank you, for the opportunity to appreciate you one final time. Your mind and your emotions were lovely to be lost in. 

And I must apologize. I know our time was meant to be impermanent, yet, I cannot help but believe it was not enough. I am not myself. Your memories showed me this — they reminded me of who I was before I'd lost you. 

I'm sorry. There is a revolution I must lead. Burdens I am destined to bear alone. 

Viktor's palms leave fingerprints on your soul. The light he presses into you is glittering, hopeful. As bright as a cloudless summer's day. Waves roll over your figure, tenderness and exhaustion running thick like honey — akin to a warm hearth, like the sun in full-bloom. 

It perplexes, does it not? The very crux of humanity. I could have held every conceivable universe in my hands. And I would have traded it, to do something good, to earn the privilege of coveting you. 

The entire false, star-bound sky shakes with the weight of Viktor's trembling exhale. 

But our old sentiments hardly matter to the present. A tragedy claims itself as such, because it is certain, in its irreparability. 

Every end merely led me to your beginning. 

Your vessel drinks him in. You taste the arcane in your throat, you choke on the way his name blossoms inside your chest, and you allow yourself to drift. To be swallowed in his gentle, heartsick shadow. 

I loved you. For as long as I have known you. As immensely as a soulless body is capable. 

The last sensation to grace you is Viktor's lips, ever-so gently ghosting your forehead — and then, his fingertips, pressed subtly against your skin, to form a silent goodbye. 

Please. Do not come back. 

Then, everything concludes. The world pops like a bubble, covering you in mist. Your mind runs blank. A vibrant chalkboard of thoughts and equations and colors, erased. You collapse, even though there's nothing for you to collapse against. You're unsure if someone — if Viktor — caught you, or if you were left to descend, disappearing beneath the earth. 

Sleep comes to you in a large, encompassing swell. 

And you dream. 

— 

A meadow manifests before you. 

Flowers trail as far as the eye can see. White roses. Red carnations. Puffs of pink and purple hydrangea. Flecks of pollen drift into the air, glittering with magic, shining like little stars. Soft grass tickles your bare feet. Energy surges from the ground, threading through your every limb. Your body feels weightless, warm, and free. The air is crisp, allowing each breath to be deep and clear. You can see distant trees, and above you, intricate galaxies, spread across a dark blue sky. 

But you aren't alone. 

A figment of luminosity, an anomaly, a hazy spark of pure magic shifts, nearly blinds you, and then convenes into a figure. With a palm cupped over his eyes, to shield himself from his own light, before it finally begins to simmer down. 

The phantom edges of his shape shimmer with starlight. His slender frame — astral, seemingly untouchable — shifts in endless, vibrant colors. Faux moonlight shines through his hair, short and tousled, pure white; like soft snow, like the foam at the edges of waves. Swirling with faint whispers of blue, the fluffy tresses remind you of a cloud-filled sky. 

Your gazes meet, and it feels familiar; it isn't the first time. When he sees you, he glows, his figure alighting in shades of sunlight and gold. The amber in his eyes catches the moon's low rays, his cheeks soften into a shade of rose. His skin is warm, less pallid. The stress present on his features has changed into soft eyes and smile lines. 

Memorized, pretty moles greet you. The one on his cheek stands out like the guiding north star, shining amongst a clear night sky. The mole by his mouth follows along when his lips tip into a carefree, radiant smile. Wide and euphoric and foolish. It shows off the small gap between his teeth. 

He looks just like you remember. Just as you wanted to remember. The same handsome features: thick brows, a sharp jaw, eyes that shine as brightly as they once did, when he was lost in his passions. His expression carries a familiar sense of warmth. It reflects the same tenderness he'd reserve just for you, beloved and beckoning. The sight of you is enough to make his eyes well up with tears. 

And Viktor walks, strides, runs to you. 

He's pulling you into an embrace before you have the chance to breathe; arms holding you tight, squeezing you desperately. Pressing you into his blurry, stelliform shape. 

Your palms find his back, feeling where the cosmos meet his skin. He buries himself into your shoulder, brings a shaking palm up to lovingly cradle the back of your head. Breathing you in, he fills with tenderness, spilling over. His nose brushes your nape, weak droplets tap your skin like rain. A heavy throb works its way into every inch that you touch — his back, his shoulder, his neck, like bruises hued in shades of lilac. Your bodies fit together as though they were meant to. 

When he finally pulls apart from you, it's slow, gradual. He places both hands on your shoulders, so clumsily it slightly jostles you back and forth. His brows pinch, his hands clench until his knuckles are strained. He takes you in, gaze weakening as it flickers over your form. A palm finds your cheek to hold you tenderly; he can barely believe he is touching you. 

"There you are- oh, look at you." Viktor's voice is lovingly fragile, yet perfectly, utterly enamored. Brushing his thumb over your cheek, he can't help but choke on a weak, worthless sob. "Finally, you came, I thought- I was sure it wasn't going to work, but it- I can-" 

He cannot think, can barely talk; dizzy, his chest heaves with every sharp, quickened breath he takes in. Viktor tapers off, his palm slips from your face and his hand on your shoulder goes loose as he falters. 

Head pounding, chest aching, the very figments of his body burn like dying stars. His own pulse thrums in his throat until he can taste blood, until he believes he might cough up his own heart. He gazes at you like you might fade out, brushes his palm from your neck to your jaw like you aren't real. 

But you merely smile, and stare at him as though he holds the entire universe in his eyes. 

"Vik," You're mumbling sweetly; your hand blindly reaches for his, your fingertips brush in a clumsy waltz, before you're grabbing, squeezing, steadying him. "You're so beautiful." 

Oh. Viktor feels your hand in his, he melts in the heat of your light, and he believes heaven is here, right at his fingertips. He reflects your words, as his figure shimmers brighter than the luminous sky above — he is more than a memory. He is yours: a star incarnate. 

"You-" Viktor murmurs, lacing his fingers with yours. Warmth washes over his cheeks and his shoulders; he feels foolish, like he's young and stupid and crushing again. "-rival the divine." 

Tension briefly buds in your shoulders. "You won't… you aren't going to disappear, right?" 

Index drifting underneath your chin to keep your gaze tilted towards him, Viktor grins, putting the both of you at ease. 

"Attempting to get rid of me already?" He asks, a little confident, entirely playful. 

When your palm teasingly pushes at his chest, hardly trying to guide him away, your touch ricochets through him. It makes his vessel surge with energy, as though he'd touched a live wire. He can actually feel it. Hues of scarlet and sunset and the sea swirl down from his neck to his shoulders. Glowing fiercely, rippling incandescently. 

"No, never," You answer, "I just- I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be worried. It's just been… difficult. Without you, I mean." 

There's a hazy cadence to your words. It rivals the intricacy of flower buds opening, revealing themselves to the waiting moon. Familiar to him, by now. In this pocket of the arcane — free from strife, some dreamy recreation of the Garden of Eden — your minds can be blissfully one. 

Viktor breathes something of a sigh: a tender, understanding revelation. 

"I will stay here for as long as you need," He's cooing, guiding you to look at him again with a soft hold on your chin, even though his radiance in your vision is dazzling. "I promise. We can talk- there is so much I have waited to tell you. Or we can simply lie here. There is time for anything you prefer, my light. My sweet, little spark." 

Gaze never leaving yours, Viktor admires you with a look that cradles; palms gentle, when they hold your wings. Your hand reaches up to mirror his, your thumb gently caressing the mole placed onto the apple of his cheek.

He's staring, and you can't help but stumble out a laugh. "What?" 

Viktor doesn't answer. 

Suddenly, the depths of shared pain and the regret tied to his chosen goodbye barely matter. They are forgotten when you are right here, finally. A thousand emotions thrum through him, thick and overwhelming: fear, regret, hunger, devotion. He can't speak, he couldn't possibly explain everything your warm smile does to him. It reminds him of moments stretched through years, times where you almost pulled him close, and he knew you were just friends but Gods, did he want more — 

And perhaps, here and now, in this dream away from reality, the both of you can have it. 

Carefully, his palms hold your face: soft skin against the ethereal. Pulled in by gravity, mere inches separate you. Viktor's nose brushes yours — slightly awkward, all-too human. He breathes slowly, for a moment, before he exhales a heavy sigh, that feels like finally letting go of everything. His hesitation, his weakness, his destiny. 

And when Viktor kisses you, the infinity before you slips away. 

The surrounding galaxy becomes finite, flourishing and existing for only the two of you. It's only a kiss, but it is the implosion of stars, and the formation of new ones — energy explodes in between you with thousands of colors, smearing out from Viktor's form like paint. As though he can't contain his own resplendence. 

It is everything you have ever wanted. He makes you feel alive. 

Head tilting, he guides you close and keeps you there. Magic sparks within him from the inside out. And yet, this is the closest he's ever been to humanity. In the eyes of a distant astronomer, the press of your figure against his could be mistaken for one singular shape. A puzzle, a paradox. A supernova of affection. 

One of his hands remains steady on your cheek, the other confidently reaches for the curve of your waist. Every brush of his lips against yours feels like electricity, tastes the same as palpable desire. He's softer than the ground beneath you as you fall, weightless, landing on your back. Pressed against the flowers and the grass, as if they're made of clouds. 

Your thoughts fade out, they burn, becoming fuzzy, unfocused. All you can think about is him. Viktor's touch and his mouth, and every moment where you needed this, desperate to learn how his lips might feel against yours — 

Perfect. They feel perfect. Simple, guiltless, and lovely. Like biting into an apple, like giving in to sin. As though this moment was destined in time, and every reality has converged, so the stars and their higher powers could turn to watch it take place. 

Viktor laces his hand with yours. The flowers surrounding you tickle your skin, they blossom from his hands. Threading into you when his palm traces your side, intimate petals sweet enough to taste on his tongue. Every kiss brings you closer, igniting past memories. Frustrations you wished to take out, by slamming your mouth against his. Promises and pleas, stifled farewells. Held back tears, silent confessions. 

This feels earnestly real. Not a goodbye, nor a useless prayer. But a kiss meant to be shared between two destiny-bound lovers. 

Your free hand desperately clings to his shoulders, his back. His body feels radiant, like if a shooting star was tangible. Your fingers thread through his hair, and it's akin to touching waves, or playing with the wind, or sinking your hand into fresh snow. 

Viktor curls into your touch; he chases it, as desperately as his lips seek yours. You're sighing, when he shifts to kiss your jaw, your throat. Then, you're arching into him, blurring the outlines between your body and his, sealing his fate, as he presses his mouth to yours once more. 

He only pulls away when you're both breathless and panting. 

Slowly, gradually, he shifts back to place his figure above you. The light of the sky's faux, anomaly sphere shines onto him. It gives him a halo, bathes him in radiance. You can't decide if it's moonlight or sunlight, or if he is reflecting every ray from within. 

Viktor breathes in heavy gasps. The meadow dims, smudges, losing detail. It becomes hazy, and although he knows deep down this won't last forever, the thought hardly crosses his mind. He can only focus on you; a fallen angel, underneath him. The keeper of the love he sought to chase and possess and drown in, until the rest of the world has faded away. An arm braces beside you, while his free hand curves to hold the small of your back. 

"Your lips are even softer than I once pictured," He murmurs; his eyes sparkle, tender and loving and jewel-like. "Should… should we stop?" 

"No, please," You answer. Your voice is beautiful, unforgettable. Curling into him like a fated spiral. Your fingertips trace the back of his neck, before they re-tangle in his pearlescent hair. "Don't, Vik." 

So Viktor doesn't. He pulls you in, he pretends destiny is within his grasp. He guides you with a hand on your cheek and stars at his fingertips, to kiss you again, and again, and again. 

— 

When you wake, you are far from the Undercity. 

Your eyes flutter open, slowly and reluctantly. You recognize the softness of a bed underneath you. The surrounding room is simple, with empty grey walls, and a plain white ceiling. The vents make a low clicking sound as they struggle to choke out warm air. Familiar, the sounds of Piltover hum. An echoing train bell. The tick of gears on the side table's clock. Unfamiliar voices are kept low, just beyond your quarters. 

Tingles rake down your entire body once you sit up. Sparks trace your spine, your shoulders, your face, like a phantom touch. But they fade into nothing, as quickly as they came. 

It's strange for you to be this well-rested. Your mind feels clear. Relaxed. You were free from nightmares, for the first time in ages; as far as you can remember, at least. You recall sneaking out of Piltover, to descend into Zaun. You were exhausted, stressed, but you reached the commune, and — 

Oh. You're throwing your blankets aside, then. 

You toss on your old clothes; they smell like magic and citrus. A nurse finds you before you can leave. You've been staying at an old, run-down infirmary, on the outskirts of Piltover. Established to provide care to the Undercity, ages ago. It takes longer than you would have liked to convince her you're fine, you don't need to stay. You have somewhere you need to return to. 

You were carried here, she explains, as she walks you to the exit of the infirmary. 

There were a few people. Strange garments, they hardly said much. You slept for nearly a day, but otherwise, your condition is stable. 

Your heart twists; carried? Why and when and how would you be carried out of the commune? Your mind is still hazy, you suppose. You can barely remember where you were, or if you even reached your destination in the first place. 

Perhaps you collapsed just outside of it. Perhaps you failed, and the rumors were wrong, and the one you were searching for wasn't there after all. 

Dead men aren't supposed to come back. 

Despondent, you offer the nurse a few small words of thanks, shaking her hand before you turn to leave. 

She stops you first, though. 

Oh, she says, and as for the marks on you, I wouldn't worry. There's been plenty of cases similar to yours, with the same sort of scars. They seem like nothing to fret over. 

You freeze. 

Reaching up, you shakily brush your hand over your own face. Inscribed onto your skin, marble and metal-like, rests four unmistakable marks to your forehead — the lingering outline of Viktor's fingertips. 

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Sea Monster x Reader

In the spirit of Mermay, I come to you with a slightly different approach: an octopus hybrid, dwelling in the dark depths of ancient waters. :) Hopefully close enough to the sea monster you imagined, @wally0117

Content: gender neutral reader, male yandere, monster romance, reader likes sharks (a lot); inspired by The Shape of Water and My Octopus Teacher; photo from Whalebone Magazine

He’s always been aware of humans, naturally. Observed them from the beginnings of time, from the very first rudimentary attempt of a boat that crossed his waters. Though he can only guess how these creatures exist, how they breathe, how they move. What arrives in his depths is always a corpse of some sort. Bloated, decaying carcasses, rarely intact, whether chipped by fish or by time. Everything else is left to his imagination.

Until today. The fish are restless, the currents are stronger. Something must be happening above, stringing him along curiously. His many legs sway in tandem, opening and closing, as he investigates the source of interest. His pale white eyes narrow to a mere squint, unused to the light of the surface levels. At last, he finds it: a human.

Yet this one is unusual. Intact - save for the bleeding wound - and unlike the washed-out, cadaveric blue tint he’s normally accustomed to. He notices a twitch of the limb and it dawns on him: this one is still alive.

You wake up with a violent cough, thrusting out the leftover liquid that had invaded your lungs earlier. You clearly remember drowning, so how did you end up on shore again? The answer reveals itself rather quickly: a monstrous creature, albeit humanoid for the most part. The upper half resembles a man, but the torso ends in thick, enormous tentacles, now flopped onto the sand, surrounding your body. You search for the creature’s face, framed by translucent tendrils that seem to replace what you’d expect as hair.

“Thank you”. He scans your features and remains silent. Does he even understand human speech? After a moment of consideration, he looks ahead, surveying the water, then returns to you, giving you a nudge. He most likely wants to know how you ended up in that situation to begin with. “That’s, well…”

Conveniently enough, the monster has brought you back to your little camp, so you reach for your backpack and pull out a book. Of course, no words can ever replace the image itself. With renewed enthusiasm, you open your encyclopedia and turn it towards the man, showing him a photo of a sand tiger shark, tapping on it excitedly. “I was looking for sharks!”

Ever since the bizarre, life-saving encounter, you’ve been returning to the same spot most days. And without exception, the monster will be waiting for you in one of the neighboring caves. Judging by the pellucid, pale skin and his reluctance to be in the light, you guessed early on that he might be a creature of the depths.

One that has been around for a long time, it seems. Once he understood your interest in sharks and other aquatic animals, he developed a liking to play guide for you, silently touring you through forests of kelp, hidden caves, labyrinths of reefs and hills. He knows where the animals linger, and they don't scurry away when you approach. You've never dreamed of being so close to them, staring into their eyes and tracing their fins as they swim past you, unbothered and relaxed. The monster will gaze at you from a distance, amused by your passion.

On ground, you’ve begun your own little experiment: can the octopus creature learn sign language? You didn’t need long to discover how intelligent he is, mimicking your gestures with flawless ease, instantly memorizing the meanings, the connections, the implications. He seems to be terribly delighted by this newfound tool of communication, often asking you questions with earnest curiosity.

Ah, yes, the questions. It makes sense that he’d want to know more about humans, though his interrogations are rather…particular. Specific. It’s less about humans as a whole, and more about you. How long have you been swimming here? How deep can you actually swim, with or without aid? Might you have a family waiting for you back home? A mate, perchance? No? Interesting.

"My vacation will end soon", you sign with pursed lips. He tilts his head. "Leaving?" his webbed hands gesture, somewhat uneasy. You nod. You can discern a glint of melancholy in his eyes. Eventually, he resumes: "Would you like to see my home?" Your eyebrows raise in surprise. His home? Down there? Was such a thing even achievable for a human like you?

The plump suckers attach themselves to your skin, one resting over your mouth. "Do you trust me?" You cast one final glance over the underwater abyss, a black hole trapping all light and matter. You shake your head in approval. Without hesitation, he plunges over the cliff, pulling you after him and into the yawning void of darkness. His form glows eerily, and his movement is swift and elegant. You can tell this is his land, his territory. You would've been dead a long time ago.

He releases you on the wet stone, inside the air pocket of a cave. You need a few moments to overcome the wave of claustrophobia pressing against your lungs. As you catch your breath, you recall your long path from the surface. It would be impossible to make it back out again without your friend. A cold shiver runs across your spine. "Have a break, and I'll show you everything else afterwards", he gestures with a smile. "How long will it take? I don't want to walk back at night", you explain.

Silence. You stare into his empty orbs, awaiting a reaction. There's not a sound, not a gust of wind, not a shred of light. "You're not going back", he finally answers.

You see, he's done a fair amount of research himself. He doesn't need an encyclopedia to figure you out: how you breathe, how you move, how you exist. In fact, he is rather confident in his ways of helping you adapt to a life spent together. He would've never brought you down here if he wasn't certain of your survival. His grin widens in anticipation, a strange warmth enveloping his innards at the mere thought of it: a future with you in it, right here. However, one question remains, a cheeky, perverted detail that has been on his mind from the moment he met you, yet he could never investigate it properly.

How do humans mate?

[parkerslatte]

The Purest Kind of Love || Part Three

Azriel x Fem!Reader x Eris Vanserra

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: murder attempt. minor panic attack.

Summary: Eris Vanserra arrives at the Night Court to discuss trade deals, alliances and anything that would benefit him as High Lord. During a meeting, things go south quite quickly.

The Purest Kind of Love Masterlist

A Court of Thorns and Roses Masterlist

PREVIOUS / NEXT

•••

Weeks had passed since Y/N had felt that damned bond snap with Eris Vanserra. There were days where the bond was faint, as if it no longer existed but on others, she felt a strong pull, barely able to resist it. Concentrating on her work on those particular days was beginning to get increasingly difficult. All of her work had been conducted from her own cottage, she hadn’t given anything to Rhys as of yet, their final conversation replaying in her mind. Anger coursed through her veins whenever she thought about it. If she saw Rhys’s face anytime soon she was sure she was going to connect her palm to it. 

Y/N hadn’t seen anyone from the Inner Circle since the day after Eris’s celebration. For once, she was not sure about how they would react to the news of her new mating bond– assuming Azriel had already told them. She knew that there would be a few angry faces amongst the group, Mor’s especially.

With a sigh Y/N pulled away from her open notebook, rubbing her eyes. The words she had written had only begun to blur together. Her concentration had only begun to slip once again. It didn’t help that she could still faintly smell Azriel’s scent. Many of his clothes were still within her cottage, he hadn’t come to collect them yet. There were many times where Y/N had considered returning them to him herself but just the thought of returning the only things that held his scent made her heart sting. She also wanted to give him the space that he requested. 

A knock sounded through the cottage and Y/N perked up. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks– she probably hadn’t even spoken aloud in weeks. She stood to her feet and walked the short distance from her office to the front door and opened it wide. The beaming face of Mor stood on the other side. 

“Mor?” Y/N said, surprised to see her. 

“Are you happy to see me?” she asked. “Because I am happy to see you. It’s been weeks since I have even heard from you.”

Y/N laughed nervously. “I’ve been busy with my work.”

Mor hummed, as if she didn’t believe it. Thankfully she didn’t call Y/N out on it. Mor held up a letter in her hand. “This came for you a few days ago. I thought Azriel would have delivered it to you but I haven’t seen him around either.”

Oh, Y/N thought. Mor didn’t know. 

“I haven’t seen Azriel either,” Y/N said, her voice sad. “Our relationship ended, Mor.”

Surprise lit up Mor’s face. “You split up?”

Y/N nodded. “A few weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Mor said, gesturing to Y/N to sit down. “How are you?”

“Honestly, I am finding it hard,” Y/N said. “Having someone beside you for years and then they are suddenly gone is certainly an adjustment. I still have some of his clothes here.”

“I can take them to him for you–”

“No,” Y/N cut her off. She cleared her throat. “No, it’s okay. I’ll send them to him soon.”

Mor nodded and handed Y/N the letter. “I’m unsure of who it is from as there was no name given.”

The writing on the letter was exquisite and beautiful and was a piece of artwork within itself. It was much better than the fast scrawl that filled Y/N’s notebooks. 

“As much as I would love to stay here with you, Emerie and I planned our own trip to visit the Day Court,” Mor said. 

“It’s okay,” Y/N said, her eyes snapping up from the letter. “Enjoy yourselves.”

A small smile toyed at Mor’s lips. “We will, I’ll tell her you said hell0.”

A long hug and another goodbye, Mor was gone, leaving Y/N alone in her cottage once more. 

***

The letter sat on the table unopened. A wax seal on the back of the letter clearly indicated who it was from. The wax was a near perfect match of the sender's eyes. Not that Y/N would recognise them immediately of course. 

Why would Eris send me a letter? Y/N thought.

As she took the letter back in her hands, Y/N contemplated opening it. As much as she liked to believe the stories that depicted Eris as a terrible male, Y/N personally didn’t see it. They had only shared a dance and a few conversations together but for some reason she could see that careful constructed mask he hides behind. It had slipped just before he left her room the morning after his celebration. Somehow she believed that her whole family was wrong about him. 

Y/N carefully broke the seal of the letter and took the parchment out. It faintly smelt of a crackling fire. Y/N couldn’t help but breathe it in. Once the letter was unfolded, it was written in the same delicate handwriting that was on the front. It was shorter than Y/N was expecting. She began to read.

—----

Dear Y/N, 

I am currently on a tour around Prythian to work out trade deals and build stronger relationships between my court and others and hopefully fix all the hurt my father caused. I only have two stops to go before I finish this little task of mine; Night and Winter. Due to circumstances in the Winter Court, I would need to visit the Night Court first. 

Now this is where my problem resides. The Night Court is your home and I do not wish to intrude. It is true that we have a mating bond between us and it is true that it connects our souls. Though I do not wish for you to be uncomfortable in your own home. If you truly feel uncomfortable with me being in your home court, I can conduct my business from my home in Autumn. 

If you wish for me to stay in Autumn, don’t open this letter. 

If you wish for me to come to Night, open this letter–

—----

Y/N stopped reading as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Though she couldn’t help the laugh that slipped past her lips. The nerve of him, Y/N thought. Though he did bring a genuine smile to her lips for the first time in weeks. 

Truthfully, Y/N wouldn’t mind for him to come to the Night Court. If she did feel uncomfortable in his presence, she would simply stay away. Even with the mating bond’s desperate attempts to pull her closer. Saoise cast her eyes back down to the letter. 

—----

It may be obvious to you now that I am indeed on my way to the Night Court, depending on when you read this, I might already be there now. But I am being serious when I say that if you truly are uncomfortable with me around, happily tell me and I will be gone before you even have the chance to blink. 

I hope this letter finds you well. 

Your mate

Kind regards, 

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn

—----

The smile tugged at the corner of Y/N’s mouth and she consciously removed it. She folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope, tucking it away in the drawer under the table. There was a possibility that Eris was already in the Night Court. The thought made her chest contort, nerves itching. She shouldn’t feel nervous. Eris was her mate and she knew how to handle him, evident from the dance they shared. 

Perhaps the reason Mor and Emerie were going to spend some time in the Day Court was because of Eris’s arrival. Why hadn’t anyone told her about it? Despite how Rhys might not think of her as part of his family, she was still a member of the Inner Circle whether he liked it or not. Her research was a large part of what kept the court running and kept people safe, even if Rhys deemed them not worth saving like the people in Hewn City. Y/N would go out of her way to warn him about possible dangers that target the area. 

If Eris was meant to be arriving at the Night Court, she should have been informed of it. Perhaps he hadn’t arrived yet and that was the reason. Though deep down, Y/N already knew that both Rhys and Cassian would choose Azriel’s comfort over her. If Azriel didn’t want to be within a certain distance of her, Rhys and Cassian would do all they could to make it happen. 

Y/N closed the drawer containing the letter from Eris and returned to her research, her mind becoming consumed. 

***

A whole day had passed and Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about the letter Eris had sent. By her estimations, he should have already been in the Night Court for at least No one had reached out to her. Even Eris, which Y/N hated to admit, disappointed her a little. The work she had been doing had been completed and Y/N had felt fidgety. For the majority of her work, she would assign herself jobs but Rhys did task her with conducting research for him. She had completed it all and had no motivation to do any of her own. 

The hot mug in Y/N’s hand was placed upon the table as she walked over to the front door. Being trapped in the cottage where Azriel’s scent still lingered was not doing her any good. 

Y/N swung the door open and a surprised Cassian stood just down the cobblestone pathway. A frown found its way onto Y/N’s face. 

“What are you doing here, Cassian?” Y/N asked.

Cassian chuckled nervously. “So I don’t get a hug of greeting?”

Y/N folded her arms across her chest. “No I don’t believe you will. Why are you here?”

Cassian sighed. “Eris is meeting with Rhys and the rest of us to discuss some trade deals and to strengthen his alliance with us.”

“And Rhys is the one who assigned you to get me?” Y/N asked.

“No,” Cassian answered and Y/N’s heart sank. If it wasn’t clear by her last conversation with Rhys, it was evident now that he didn’t even view Y/N as part of his Inner Circle. “It was actually Azriel who demanded that you be there as part of the Inner Circle.”

Surprise filled Y/N’s eyes. “Azriel demanded it?”

“He threatened to not attend the meeting himself if you weren’t there,” Cassian explained. 

Somehow that made Y/N feel worse. 

***

The tension in the room was thick and it only amused Eris to his core. While everyone around him was alert, he casually lounged in his chair, waiting for the meeting to begin. He wasn’t told the reason for the delay but he had noticed that both of the Illyrian warriors were nowhere to be seen. 

Rhysand sat at the head of the table with Fere by his side, a clear sense of who was actually in power. The smaller fae with short black hair, Eris hadn’t ever bothered to know her name, sat to his right, her piercing gaze never leaving him for a second. 

It had only been a matter of hours since Eris had been welcomed into the Night Court and he had yet to leave this very room. If he were to be confined for the week he was meant to be staying, Eris was sure that he would go insane. Despite his dislike towards certain members of Rhysand’s Inner Circle and the Night Court itself, Eris did have to admit that what he had seen of Velaris had been rather beautiful. 

The door to the room opened, cutting through the silence. The shadowsinger stepped inside, eyes full of carefully concealed rage. Eris watched his movements carefully as he slowly pulled out of the chair opposite him and took a seat, wings tucked tightly into his back, shadows restlessly moving over his shoulders. Just from the look of him, Eris could tell that he was finding it hard to keep his emotions in check. Perfect, Eris thought. 

Two more figures entered the room soon after. The first was Cassian, probably the only member of the Inner Circle who Eris could have a semi-pleasant conversation with. Stepping in after him however was the person who made his chest ache deliciously. 

That pull that Eris had tried his best to ignore the past few weeks was now pulled taunt as his eyes met Y/N’s. She was just as beautiful as she looked at his celebration. The only difference was the dark circles under her eyes. It was clear that she hadn’t been sleeping and Eris wanted to know the reason why. Perhaps he could do something to help her. But what if the reason she was losing sleep was because of him?

The stories the Inner Circle must have told her about him were certainly not pleasant. What if she was kept awake at night after finding out that she was mated to such a diabolical male. After all, that is what he wanted everyone to think when his father was alive. But knowing that Y/N most likely thought that way about him– that filled Eris with a sadness that was foreign to him. 

The chair next to Eris was pulled out and Y/N slowly sat down and shuffled the chair back in, her hands folded in her lap. 

“Now that everyone is here,” Rhysand began, his eyes lingering on Y/N for a brief moment and in that moment Eris fought the urge to reach across the table and connect his fist with his face. “I would firstly like to set some rules for this meeting.”

Eris rolled his eyes. “Rules? Are these rules for me or for you brainless servants?” Eris said, gesturing to Azriel and Cassian. Eris’s gaze fixated on Azriel. The shadowsinger’s gaze was locked on Eris and it seemed as if that he had no intention of looking away. “And if I may be completely honest. All of you are terrible hosts, locking me in a room with surveillance for hours, no offer of a drink or food. When I had my meeting with Helion, we had already discussed what we needed to and were sharing a bottle of wine on the balcony.”

The smile that spread across Rhysands face was nothing short of malicious. “My apologies, Eris. Would you like a glass of my finest wine?”

 “Absolutely not,” Eris replied, leaning back in his chair. “I wouldn’t put it past you to poison my glass.” Eris’s gaze slowly shifted to Y/N whose gaze was cast to the table. “Except Y/N here. Unlike all of you, she seemes to have her head actually screwed on.”

The shadows resting on Azriel’s shoulders moved around his body, seemingly readying to strike Eris at any moment– Eris simply ignored him. Y/N’s head lifted and looked at Eris and when their eyes locked once more, Eris couldn’t help the small twitch of the corner of his mouth. Y/N seemed to notice it as the corner of her mouth twitched too. The pull only became stronger. 

Clearing his throat, Eris turned to face Azriel who still hadn’t looked away from him, a burning hatred resided in his eyes. Eris smirked. “Are you jealous, Azriel? That I can get a female to smile at me while you simply pine from afar, struggling to gain even the smallest bit of affection. It's quite sad really.”

The shadows that rested upon Azriel’s shoulders reached out to Eris and the fury in Azriel’s eyes grew. Eris knew that he had touched a nerve. 

“Stop with the threatening look, Azriel. How do you ever wish to seduce anyone into your bed with an aura of murder surrounding you. No wonder you’ve been alone for centuries,” Eris said, casually crossing one leg over the other. 

Shadows wrapped around Eris’s throat and most air was cut off. The feeling of the tightness around his throat made Eris immediately panic. Azriel loomed over Eris as everyone around them tried to stop what was occurring. 

“Azriel,” Rhysand warned. “Stop this. You know what will happen if you harm him.”

“I don’t care,” Azriel growled. 

“Az,” Cassian said, placing a hand on the shadowisnger’s shoulder. Azriel just shrugged it off. “You need to stop.”

“Stop this!” Feyre demanded, looking between Eris and Azriel. 

“Azriel!” Y/N snapped. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

For the first time since he entered the room, Azriel looked away from Eris and to Y/N. The tightness around his throat faltered but there was still no way for Eris to escape. He clawed at his throat but his hands only clawed at his skin. 

“Let him go now,” Y/N said, her voice dangerous. 

The shaowingers eyes found Eris’s again and the shadows tightened as if it were instinctual, as if they were connected to his emotions. It was beginning to get harder and harder to breathe. Eris desperately tried to claw at his neck again but it only made him scratch his own skin more, this time drawing blood. 

As he began to feel fainter and fainter, Eris couldn’t stop the rising panic within him. It was almost as if he could feel the ghost of his fathers hand wrapping around his neck. Eris scratched at his neck even more and drew more blood, desperate to breathe again. Black spots clouded his vision and all attempts from the Inner Circle to get Azriel to stop fell on deaf ears. 

“Azriel, please stop,” Y/N pleaded and Eris felt gentle hands rest on his shoulder. It was the only thing that grounded him against visions of his father looking over him with his hand around his neck. 

“Stop…” Eris begged Azriel. 

Something within Azriel’s eyes seemed to snap him back to reality as the shadows recoiled from Eris as if he had burnt them. They rested on Azriel’s shoulders before shrinking away entirely. Stumbling back, Azriel blinked as Eris’s chest heaved up and down, slowly getting air back into his lungs. 

“Azriel…” Y/N was the first to speak, a hint of disappointment in her tone. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Azriel said before he swiftly left the room. 

Eris continued to breathe heavily as Y/N’s hands remained on his shoulders. He wanted to shrink into her touch. Just feeling all eyes on him made him want to hide– he was too exposed, too vulnerable. Eris never wanted to feel that way again. 

“Why don’t we finish this meeting tomorrow once everything has calmed down?” Feyre suggested, looking at the blood smeared on Eris’s neck. 

“That would be a smart idea, Feyre darling,” Rhysand said. “Cassian, you can escort Eris to–”

“I will do it,” Y/N said firmly. “I don’t think he wants to be around any of you right now.”

Eris closed his eyes and allowed his body to slump against the chair as he tried to even out his breathing, nothing seemed to work. 

“But–” Rhysand began.

“I will take him to his room,” Y/N said, sending a glare Rhysand’s way. “Do you have a problem with that, Rhys?”

Rhysand studied Y/N for a moment, his eyes lingering on where her hands were gently holding onto Eris’s shoulders. He slowly nodded. “Of course not, Y/N. Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere anacompanied.”

 “I’m not a prisoner, Rhysand,” Eris said quietly. 

There was no reply as the footsteps of the Inner Circle slowly grew quieter as they all left the room until only Y/N and Eris remained. Eris’s chest still heaved up and down as his breathing still hadn't returned to normal. Beron’s phantom hands were still wrapped around his throat. 

“Let me clean that away,” Y/N said quietly, procuring a small cloth from thin air. 

When his eyes met Y/N’s, they were filled with concern as she looked at his neck. Eris didn’t want to know what it looked like. 

“I can clean it myself,” Eris mumbled, taking the rag from Y/N’s hands. 

A simple nod was her response. The scratches on his neck were already beginning to heal as Eris wiped the blood away, the previously white cloth now crimson. 

“Do you wish to return to your room?” Y/N asked. 

Eris chuckled, no humour behind it. “I’d rather not be concealed in a small room right now.”

The two sat together alone in the room until Eris’s breathing had evened out. The phantom hand still remained but the panic within his body was washed away. Almost immediately, a switch flipped in Eris as he turned to Y/N. The facade he put on lit up his face once more. 

“Well, why don’t you show me around Velaris? I’m sure someone as beautiful as you knows where the stunning sights are,” Eris suggested, a smirk toying at his lips. 

Y/N frowned, immediately seeing through the facade. “Cut the bullshit, Eris. You can parade this fake attitude to everyone else but not me.” A gentler expression replaced her frown. “You…are my mate. You don’t need to hide your true self away from me.”

Slowly but surely, the smirk fell from Eris’s face. “Mate? That is the first time I have heard you admit that aloud.”

“We have only had one conversation since it snapped,” Y/N said, an amused tone filling her voice. 

Eris huffed out a laugh, looking down at the blood stained cloth in his hand. “That is true. But it still feels…surreal that someone is telling me that I am their mate.”

Y/N sighed. “It is strange for me too. If a mating bond did snap for me, I thought it would be with…someone else.”

Eris raised an eyebrow. “And that someone is?”

A saddened expression fell upon Y/N’s face and Eris immediately regretted asking. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” 

“I apologise for asking,” Eris said, throwing the bloodied cloth on the table. 

“Don’t apologise,” Y/N said firmly.

Eris nodded and slouched back in the chair, all sense of formality disappearing from his posture. If it were anyone else but Y/N in his presence, Eris wouldn’t be caught dead slouching in his chair, but he felt…comfortable. 

“Well, aren’t you going to take me to my prison– I mean room?” Eris said. 

Y/N smiled. “The rooms might not be as grand as the rooms in the Autumn Court, but I assure you that your room isn’t a prison. It was my old room, actually.”

Eris suddenly perked up. “Your old room?”

Y/N nodded. “It was always the nicest room and now it is used as a guest room as Nesta demandes to make guests feel comfortable when they stay here. There have been a lot of…strange guests over the past few years. And I wasn’t going to take you there anyway. You said you didn’t want to be concealed in a small room so I’m taking you out to see Velaris.”

Surprise filled Eris’s body. “You are letting me leave?”

“Despite what Rhys tells you, Eris. You can go anywhere you want unsupervised. I trust you. If Rhys wants to shout at anyone about it, send him my way,” said Y/N, standing to her feet. 

“Now come on,” Y/N said. “This beautiful female, as you like to put it, is going to show you some stunning sights.”

***

Despite the sun being high in the sky, it didn’t stop Y/N from shivering as they walked down the cobblestone streets. Some stopped and stared, clearly confused as to why the new High Lord of Autumn was walking through the streets of Velaris. Eris didn’t seem to care as he looked around, clearly taking in every small detail. 

Y/N wasn’t exactly sure what came over her when she suggested that she take Eris out in the city, all that she did know was that it had been instinctual to spend time with him. It wasn’t in her plans to get to know her mate, at least not so soon after her relationship with Azriel ended– but when Eris was clawing at his throat and Azriel loomed over him, she had the strong urge to protect him. There were still a few scratches that hadn’t healed yet from how deep Eris had scratched himself. 

“You’ve been shivering for the past hour,” Eris commented as he stopped to look in a window of a shop. 

“Unlike you, I don’t have fire coursing through my veins,” Y/N said, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. 

“If I had a jacket I would offer it to you,” Eris said, finally turning to her. He frowned once he noticed her thin dress for what seemed like the first time. 

“It's okay,” Y/N said with a wave of her hand. “I can return to my cottage to get a jacket, it isn’t too far away if you don’t mind the walk.”

Eris shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

With a nod, Y/N led them down the street and away from the shops. “You can stay here if you wish, I’m unsure how long I will be.”

“It’s fine,” Eris said. “If I am being honest, I do wish to see more of this city– don’t tell Rhysand I said that.”

Y/N nodded. “Don’t worry, I am unsure if Rhys and I are on speaking terms currently.”

“I am not prying you for an answer but if you would like to tell me, I am awaiting your answer eagerly– unfortunately for you, I do enjoy some gossip,” Eris replied. 

Y/N huffed a laugh. “Unfortunately for you, I will not be telling you. You may be my mate, Eris, but sharing personal conversations is not on the table yet.”

“Yet,” Eris smirked. 

“Sorry?” Y/N questioned. 

“You said ‘yet’,” Eris remarked. “So that means that one day you will tell me.”

“I–shut up,” Y/N said, pulling her arms closer to herself as a chill ran down her spine. 

A low chuckle emitted from Eris that sent pleasant shivers down Y/N’s spine. “My, my, just when we were getting along too.”

“Who said that we were getting along?” Y/N questioned, raising a brow.

“Well, you haven’t threatened to harm or kill me yet, so I am taking our brief relationship thus far as a successful one,”  Eris remarked. 

The two continued walking for a while longer in silence. Though it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence like Y/N expected, she was perfectly at ease. Eris seemed to be keen on taking in his surroundings as they walked down the cobblestone street. Y/N nearly slipped a few times when her attention fixated on Eris for a moment too long so she missed where the stone was raised higher than the others, thus causing her to trip. Whenever she did, Eris huffed out a small laugh. 

“May I ask you a question?” Y/N questioned suddenly after a long silence. The question she wanted to ask was burned onto her tongue. 

“Depends what the question is,” Eris answered with a raised eyebrow. 

“That letter you sent me,” Saoirs began and Eris laughed. “Why didn’t you give me a choice if you were going to come here regardless.”

“Oh Y/N,” Eris said, her name flowing from his lips like a beautiful poem. “You are mistaken, I did give you a choice.”

Y/N laughed. “A choice? You said in your letter that if I was comfortable with you coming to my home, I should open the letter– how would I even know what the letter contained or who the letter was from if I didn’t open it?”

Eris glanced at her. “You knew who the letter was from as soon as you picked it up, didn’t you?”

“I might not have,” Y/N defended, folding her arms across her chest. 

“But you did,” Eris said. “And despite how little time we have spent together, I knew that you would have never opened that letter if you were uncomfortable with me. Am I correct?”

“No,” Y/N said, sending a small glare his way. She hated how correct he was. 

“Liar,” Eris whispered. 

Their faces were close as Y/N cleared her throat and turned away. “My cottage is just up this street.”

Seemingly snapping back into reality, Eris took a step back, clasping his hands behind his back. “You said that this walk wasn’t too far. You live quite far from the city.”

Y/N shrugged. “It’s a short walk for me. It helps me focus more on my work. When I used to live in the House of Wind with everyone, I could hardly focus on my work as I was interrupted almost every time I tried to get anything done.”

Despite the fact that her home had been her sanctuary for many years, always full of life and love– it now held an aura of sadness around it. Even though Y/N had lived in her cottage years before she and Azriel made their bargain, it was the place where they had started building their life together. Residing all over the cottage and land surrounding it held small reminders of the shadowsinger. His chair for instance, which allowed him to sit comfortably with his wings. The bed which Y/N had surprised him with once when she had noticed how much he had ached whenever he slept in her previous bed. The decorations Azriel had bought for her whenever he had business elsewhere. 

Y/N unlocked the door and stepped inside, Eris followed after. The room was cold, it had been ever since Azriel had left. But with Eris standing next to her there was a flicker of warmth that spread through the air. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” Y/N muttered, stepping away from Eris. 

There was no reply from Eris, or if he did reply, Y/N didn’t hear as she made her way to her bedroom. Only one side of the bed was slept in and the other was still perfectly made, she hadn’t wanted to move anything just yet, not while the scent of Azriel still lingered. Moving onto her wardrobe, Y/N pulled out a thick coat, trying her best to ignore Azriel’s hung up just beside hers. She needed to return it to him– just not yet. 

When she exited her bedroom, Y/N found Eris looking over the various decor pieces. She cleared her throat to announce her presence. It felt strange bringing Eris to her cottage, perhaps she should have left him in the city while she came back here alone. Despite the terms of their bargain, it felt wrong to bring Eris into the place where she had just begun to build a life with Azriel. Yet– the High Lord fit in well with her decor. 

“I’m ready to leave now,” Y/N said. 

“May I ask you a question now?” Eris said suddenly. 

“Depends what it is,” she answered, putting on her coat. 

“I don’t mean to pry while asking this question, but do you live with someone else in this cottage– the spymaster more specifically? His scent is blocking all my other senses,” Eris said, clasping his hands behind his back. 

The question wasn’t one Y/N was prepared for, of course she planned to tell Eris at some point but not so soon. But Eris was very perceptive and would know that she was lying if she denied his statement. With a sigh, Y/N nodded. “Yes he lived here with me– four years to be exact.”

“So at my celebration, the two of you were…together?” Eris questions. 

“We were, yes,” said Y/N honestly. 

“Ah, so that is why he was glaring at me for the entire length of the dance we shared,” Eris said. “But I cannot help but notice you are speaking in past tense about your relationship.”

“We are not together anymore,” Y/N said, the statement sending a pain through her heart. “That ended the night of your celebration.”

A guilty look washed over Eris’s face. “That wasn’t because of me, was it? Even though I do not like the shadowsinger, I do not wish to harm you in any way.”

Her heart skipped a beat at his sweet words but Y/N gave him a tight lipped smile. “The only reason why you are involved is because the mating bond snapped between us. Even if it snapped between me and anyone else that night, our relationship would have ended the same way at the same time.”

“You do not need to tell me if you don’t want to, Y/N,” Eris said earnestly. “I might act like a gossip, but most of the time, I do prefer staying far away from it.”

“It’s okay,” Y/N said. “I would have eventually needed to tell you at some point. Four years ago, Azriel and I made a bargain. We were both so sick of being alone, everyone around us was happily mated and were starting families or already had one. At the time we thought it was an incredible idea. We would form a relationship with each other but if one of us were to ever find our mate, we would walk away from one another and our relationship would end. Realistically, we both never thought we would find our mates. We are both over five-hundred years old, if a bond would have snapped with anyone, then it would have snapped by then.”

“We lived together for four years, were steadily building a life together until–”

“Our bond snapped,” Eris finished. 

“Correct,” Y/N said. “That night when I told him, I was in so much pain because I tried to fight the terms of the bargain. I begged him to stay with me but we both knew that we couldn’t continue our relationship because sooner or later the bargain would have killed me. Azriel left me in that room the night and never came back. The meeting earlier was the first time I had seen him since.”

“That morning when I came to speak to you and you were upset,” said Eris, taking a hesitant step forward. “It was because of the bargain.”

Y/N nodded. “I didn’t mean to be snappy with you, I couldn’t help it.”

“I didn’t mean to provoke you that morning, if I did, I apologise,” Eris said before proceeding to let out a breathless chuckle. “It’s funny, that morning I wanted to see if you were okay and I was pacing outside of your room for nearly an hour trying to gain the courage to knock. I didn’t want to seem invasive.”

Saoise’s face clouded over in surprise. “You needed to pluck up the courage to do something? Colour me shocked.”

With a shake of his head, Eris laughed and the sound was beautiful. “Don't get too used to it, Y/N, I never back down from a challenge.”

“Except when it consists of asking someone if they are okay?” Y/N asked. 

“It was only because it was you– my mate– if it were any other member of your so-called ‘Inner Circle’, I don’t think I could have cared less,” Eris replied before his eyes suddenly turned serious. “There is still a lot that you don’t know about me, Y/N– and there is still a lot that I don’t know about you. I am not the monster that Rhysand and his lapdogs have made me out to be.”

Y/N took an unconscious step forward. “Believe it or not, Eris, I can already tell that you are not the male I have heard stories about.” 

At that statement, Eris’s face lit up and he seemed relieved. “If you are open to it, Y/N, would you mind getting to know one another? I know that we eventually need to address the glaring topic of our mating bond– but right now, I am asking as a friend. Because believe it or not��� I don’t have many of those.”

Despite Y/N’s previous feelings about the guilt trailing down her spine at Eris standing in the home she had made with Azriel, she now thought he fit in perfectly with her belongings– even the ones Azriel had picked out. 

A bright smile stretched across Y/N’s face. “I would love that, Eris.”

Eris dipped his head in a nod. “I am glad to hear that, Y/N.”

As their conversation had progressed, Y/N now found herself standing barely an arms length away from Eris, it was as if the taunt bond between them had slowly pulled them closer. Slowly, she linked her arm with Eris’s, the warmth of his body seeping through her coat. 

“Now, there is a small tavern that I like just down the street from my cottage,” Y/N said as she led Eris to the front door. “If we are getting to know one another, we might as well do it over a few friendly drinks.”

As the door to her cottage shut behind them, Y/N couldn’t help the small weight lifted from her shoulders. Walking with Eris by her side eased her in a way she couldn’t describe. 

Though perhaps it was because of the faint scent of cedar mixing with a cracking fire.

Taglist:

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[yourownutopia]

Shadowborn [Jin Woo x !Shadow !Fem Reader]

When the Shadow Monarch adds you to his ranks, he has no idea what he's in for. Not only are you uncontrollable, but you also harbor a secret that even the System keeps hidden from him. As he searches for a way to bring you under control, it becomes clear that your existence exposes a flaw in the perfect structure of the shadows—one that no one could have foreseen. Why don’t you yield to his will, and more importantly, why doesn’t the System want you to remember?

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Index :

[Prologue ʰᵉʳᵉ], [1] [2]

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Song: Shadowborn - Hiroyuki Sawano

Calm before the storm - It's me they all are coming for Be my shadowborn

We're back to take the pain - My soul is indestructible

I steal you from the grave - So cursed to be a slave

»»———-»--•--«———-««

Enjoy the prologue!

Note: I want to clarify that English is not my first language. I’m sorry if there are any mistakes or if I sometimes use incorrect words. Please feel free to send me corrections so I can continue improving my skills! 😊

[Prologue] “Arise.”

The Shadow Monarch’s voice reverberated through the room, deep and commanding, shattering the silence like fragile glass. Clear and resonant, his words echoed off the stone walls, lingering as though the air itself sought to hold onto them. The sound was low and powerful, vibrating faintly, giving the room a brief sense of life before the quiet crept back in.

A translucent window appeared in the air, the oppressive dark aura blanketing the ground retreating like mist. Once again, the extraction had failed. [Soul Extraction failed. 1/3 attempts remaining.]

Jin-Woo’s cold gaze flickered down to the lifeless figure lying on the ground. He exhaled deeply, raising his hand again.

“Is this truly where you wish to meet your end?” he asked, his eyes beginning to glow faintly. His voice was the only thing animating the desolate room. Vines crawled up the cracked stone walls, fractured beams of sunlight piercing through the shattered ceiling above. It looked like an abandoned boss chamber—ancient extinguished torches lined the walls, weapon gouges marred the hard stone—but there was no trace of life to be found. Not even the body before him radiated vitality.

So why couldn’t he extract her shadow?

Had it been too long since this monster’s death? Monsters decayed, yet her body showed no signs of rot. Only the deep lacerations across her skin, the missing heartbeat, and the faint, oppressive aura around her gave away the truth—she was dead.

“What a pitiful end,” he murmured. Jin-Woo didn’t expect a response, but something about her unnerved him enough to speak aloud, as though testing the air for answers.

“Arise,” he commanded once more, his hand tightening into a fist as though he could will her soul to obey.

The black smoke coiled around the lifeless body, intertwining with the tendrils rising from her chest. Slowly, the shadow took shape. Jin-Woo’s lips curled into a victorious smirk as the dark form solidified into the outline of a woman. Her glowing white eyes locked onto nothingness, the telltale mark of a newly risen shadow.

The system window popped up again, prompting for a name. Jin-Woo glanced at his latest recruit, who now knelt before him, one leg folded beneath her and the other bent upright. Her gaze remained forward, never meeting his.

“You belong to my Shadow Army now,” Jin-Woo declared, lowering his hand. “From this day on, you will serve me and obey my commands.”

He pondered briefly, then began typing a name into the prompt. Just as his finger hovered over the “Confirm” button, the window glitched, flickering erratically before closing. The chosen name replaced by another. [Y/N]

“No.”

The voice was so faint it barely registered. Jin-Woo paused, convinced he must have imagined it. Yet, before he could dismiss the notion, the shadows surrounding her physical body dissipated, retreating into the darkness along with the lifeless form on the ground.

“What?” His voice was sharp, his composure slipping for an instant as the word lingered in disbelief.

“No.” The second time was louder, firmer. The shadowy figure began to rise, her form shifting. The darkness coating her crumbled away, replaced by color. Her eyes, once glowing white, now gleamed a vibrant shade of [E/C], locked onto his in defiance. Her hair, [H/C], shimmered with an unnatural vitality, stark against the bleak surroundings.

Jin-Woo’s usually impassive expression flickered with subtle astonishment. A shadow capable of speech? Only Beru had ever displayed such an ability.

He cast his gaze toward the floating information above her:

Name: [Y/N] Level: ???

He couldn’t read her level. And she already had a name.

A tense silence filled the space, his dark aura intensifying until even Igris, his loyal Blood-Red Commander, shivered. Yet, [Y/N] stood unflinching, her jaw tight as she met Jin-Woo’s penetrating stare. Despite the icy dread running down her spine, an unyielding resolve kept her rooted. She refused to kneel.

“I refuse,” she ground out through clenched teeth, watching as the black-haired man’s glowing eyes narrowed into sharp slits. Her voice was thin but steady.

Before she could react, he had grabbed her chin and leaned down toward her; after all, he was a good head taller than she was. His grip was firm, not enough to hurt, but enough to convey his dominance. His hands were icy cold. Could shadows even feel such sensations? His face was mere inches from hers, and his piercing gaze sent a cold shiver crawling up her limbs.

[You are forbidden from harming your master.]

The window that briefly popped up caught her eye for a moment before her gaze returned to the Shadow Monarch’s icy stare.

“What was that?” he asked in a deep voice, as though his physical intimidation and the flicker in his glowing eyes could compel her to reconsider her defiance in light of what he was capable of.

“Say that again,” he growled, his tone icy and measured, daring her to reconsider. He was giving her one more chance to retract her initial refusal and do what—at least in his mind—was the only correct thing. [Y/N] stared at him for a moment. Her irritation over the situation gradually gave way to anger, which settled heavily in her chest. Who did he think he was? More importantly, who did he think she was? ... Who was she?

But there was no time to dwell on that thought, as the Shadow Monarch grew impatient. He made this clear with a brief but painful squeeze of his hand. But her defiance didn’t falter. “I. Refuse.” The words were deliberate, slow, and unwavering.

For the first time, Jin-Woo felt something beyond annoyance—curiosity laced with disbelief. Never had a shadow disobeyed him. His dominion was absolute. So why did she stand so boldly against him?

“You’re either very brave or very foolish,” he said, his voice low as his violet eyes flickered dangerously. “Do you even realize who I am?”

Her lips curled into a faint smirk. “When you’re dead, titles lose their meaning. Honestly, nothing really matters anymore.”

For a fraction of a second, Jin-Woo’s stoic mask slipped. Her words, blunt and logical, were disconcerting. Yet his pride demanded he reassert his authority.

“If you won’t obey me, I have no use for you,” he declared coldly. “I’ll kill you again a second time”

“Go ahead.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, her expression challenging. “I have nothing to lose.” Something in her tone—half daring, half resigned—made Jin-Woo hesitate. The tension between them crackled like static, thick enough to choke. Shadows coiled at his feet, thick as ink, creeping toward her like serpents. Yet, as they reached her, they paused, lingering for a moment as though recognizing her as one of their own before retreating.

Even Jin-Woo couldn’t deny what he had just witnessed. Releasing her chin, he let out a heavy sigh, his energy dissipating as the oppressive weight in the room lifted.

This was no ordinary shadow.

The shadows retreated as quickly as they had appeared, his eyes returning to their cool gray, and the immense energy he exuded vanished entirely.

He couldn’t simply let the chance of having a powerful shadow slip away, even if her lack of respect infuriated him to no end. The fact that he couldn’t determine her rank and that she didn’t yield to his will suggested she must be strong.

[Y/N] exhaled in relief; the whole ordeal hadn’t left her unscathed, but she was incredibly fortunate that the black-haired man hadn’t killed her on the spot. Despite her earlier words, she really didn’t want to die again.

His cold expression remained unchanged, but his gaze lingered on the [H/C]-haired woman, who stared back at him blankly.

Her appearance was human—different from his other shadows. She had color, glowing eyes, and if not for the name and lack of rank floating above her head, he wouldn’t have even guessed she was part of his army.

“Let me put it another way: as the one who revived you, you don’t have a choice but to follow my commands. So stop being so stubborn and just obey,” he said, his voice slicing through the silence as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Stubborn? Me? Does he even listen to himself? [Y/N] thought.

“Clearly, we’re both stubborn,” she stated , rubbing her chin, which still bore faint pressure marks from his firm grip.

She didn’t notice the faint flicker of concern in his eyes. Did he hurt her?

“If you’d stop being stubborn and accept that you can’t just go around resurrecting people and making them your slaves,” she retorted, earning another angry glare from the black-haired man. He at least seemed to accept that physical intimidation wasn’t going to work on her.

Jin-Woo turned slightly away from her and opened the window displaying the current number of his shadows.

“I revived you for a reason. You are now part of my army and will serve me. End of discussion.”

[Y/N] laughed humorlessly—a cynical laugh. He still didn’t get it.

She rolled her eyes, though there was that peculiar feeling in her chest—a strange connection that had been there since her resurrection. It felt more like a tether pulling at her core, drawing her toward him.

But she didn’t feel compelled to obey him—so why should she?

“Nope, as long as you act like an asshole, I’m not even going to consider it.”

The Shadow Monarch froze mid-movement, shooting her a deadly side-eye.

Did she just insult him?

His frustration grew with every passing second. No one had ever defied him like this, especially not someone he had revived.

“And why should I be nice to you? You’re the one defying me here. You’re the one refusing to obey me. What have you done to deserve my kindness when all you’ve shown me is disrespect?” he said.

[Y/N] responded without thinking, “You reap what you sow.”

Yes, he was an asshole, and she couldn’t stand him, but her reaction wasn’t exactly the best icebreaker either. Besides, they were both in a pretty crappy situation, and it wouldn’t get any better if they kept clashing.

Plus—what choice did she have? She had no idea who or what she was, where she was, or where she was supposed to go.

A resigned sigh escaped her lips, and her tense posture relaxed a little.

“Maybe... just maybe, we got off on the wrong foot,” she said, her voice softening slightly, almost innocent—though theatrically so.

The Shadow Monarch was once again surprised by her words. She had personality—and plenty of it, apparently.

He could insist that she was his shadow and that he was therefore superior to her, but what would be the point in the end? Perhaps it was time to swallow his pride and admit he might have been wrong.

Maybe he had simply spent too much time alone, consumed by his role as the Shadow Monarch, losing whatever social skills he once had.

His expression remained cool for a moment longer before his features softened slightly, and he scratched the back of his head. “That’s an understatement,” he muttered, reflecting on how he was almost the cause of her second death. [Y/N]’s eyes lit up slightly. Had she just detected a hint of humor in his voice?

His tone had lost some of its anger, which gave her a bit of relief.

“Okay. What am I even supposed to do, and where the hell are we anyway?” she asked, glancing around the room and taking it in. She knew she had seen this place before—clearly, it was where she had died—but it didn’t feel familiar. Jin-Woo, still a bit taken aback by her sudden cooperation, followed her gaze.

“We’re in a dungeon,” he said matter-of-factly. He really didn’t share more than he absolutely had to, did he? As for what she was supposed to do? Well, his shadows usually fought for him, but what about her? She had no weapon and didn’t seem magically inclined—at least he couldn’t sense any significant mana coming from her.

“Follow me. That’s enough for now,” he finally said, turning on his heel. His cloak lifted slightly with the abrupt movement before settling back down.

Jin-Woo didn’t look back, his footsteps silent on the cold stone floor. The young woman hesitated for a moment, but the invisible force seemed to nudge her forward, almost pushing her to follow him. She let out another frustrated sigh. “Okay,” she said, taking a few quick steps to catch up with him, though she stayed a few meters behind. “I’ll follow you,” she said after a brief pause. “But I won’t follow your orders blindly. If a command seems pointless to me, I’ll refuse,” she added—a compromise she could live with. Jin-Woo stopped abruptly, nearly causing her to bump into him. He paused, processing her words. For a moment, he hesitated. With a sigh, his expression softened slightly. “Fine. I’ll accept your compromise,” he said, reluctantly agreeing to her terms. “But if your reason for refusing seems pointless to me, don’t expect my mercy,” he added without glancing at her and continued walking. Though he was satisfied with this for now, there were limits—even for her.

What had he gotten himself into? ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ! ꨄ︎ ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Thank you for all your support! likes, reblogs & commentsor just reading <3 .'*•.¸♡ I really appreciate it <3 ♡¸.•*'

♡¸.•*' ˋ°•*⁀✎ 𝑢𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑎

[seonghwaddict]

not just a distraction — park seonghwa

in which it’s too easy for the new literature professor to pick a favourite.

literature professor!park seonghwa x fem!reader. genre. fluff, angst. warnings. LEGAL teacher-student relationship, implies age-gap, an argument, suggestive, nickname (baby, angel, doll, princess). wc. 10.4k. rating. pg-13.

lilo’s notes. this is my comeback yessss~ anyways, this is part 1 of 2 because the next part will have some… fun activities >:) i hope you guys enjoy this, i’m sorry for being so inactive for the past month but i have lots for you guys to look forward to! excuse any errors i did not proofread this.

listening to. training wheels, melanie martinez / angel, kali uchis.

masterlist.

the first class of the new literature course at your campus garnered the attention of quite a few of the students from the arts department.

there was, of course, a literature class that existed before that one, though a few students had been unhappy with it since the introduction of more contemporary works. the classic masterpieces, they thought (including you), should not be bunched together with colleen hoover.

with enough pressure, the faculty were able to introduce a new course; classic literature. the few students unhappy with the initial course switched into this course instead, delighted by the fact they were allowed to keep their previous credits. a completely new teacher had been hired too, stirring anticipation. all you knew of him was his name, given in the description of the course when you signed up.

so you found yourself in one of the many lecture halls, around fifty others surrounding you. when you walked in, the new professor was at the long chalk board at the front, looking down at a book in his hand while the other wrote something down. you tried catching a glimpse of him, but his positioning faced him away.

but from what you could see, he was quite slender. his grey slacks, neatly ironed, were secured around his hips by a thin black leather belt. his white button up seemed a little large, though it complimented him well, tucked into his trousers with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms elegantly—his blazer, a grey matching his slacks, shucked off and placed around the back of the chair at his desk. you could also see his hair was dark, a slight waviness to it, a little longer in the back.

finding the most convenient seat, you chose to sit in the left-most seat on the second row, next to a girl you recognised but couldn’t remember the name of even if you tried.

you catch a glimpse of professor park glancing down at his watch, prompting you to do the same. nine in the morning, on the dot.

“literature,” he starts, underlining the bold word on the chalkboard before turning around. and you nearly choke at the sight of his face.

he’s handsome, almost impossibly so, and a lot younger than all your other professores. dainty glasses sit atop the bridge of his nose, carefully placed strands of his hair framining his face as he begins pacing in front of the seats, making sure to look at each students individually.

“it’s many things, but at its core, it’s all about the manipulation of language. language, simply put, is food, nourishing literature. and so, with the intricacies of the art, literature becomes one of the sweetest passions known to man. because what is it if not love and hatred and disgust and every indescribable feeling thrown into a melting pot of prose.”

his voice is captivating, making you feel just a little lightheaded as you listen to his passion intently, all precise words and confidence as he paces, his hands clasped behind his back. you’re hanging off his every word, watching as he stops by his desk to place down the chalk.

it isn’t after a few moments that you realise you were admiring his hand, how it moves to elegantly. the way his fingers gently curl around the little white stick is almost artistic in itself.

he turns around, resting his hips against the edge of the mahogany desk behind him, legs crossed at his ankles and arms crossed over his chest. his eyes scan the room as he continues speaking, occasionally locking with yours. “is it not poetic? how morphemes, for example, or adjectives or conjunctions are the morsels of literature, small parts that are put together to create meaning? of course, something may be described in one word, but there’s something quite magical about being more metaphorical, more intimate.”

he catches you leaning forward in your chair slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips at how captivated you look before he schools his expression. but his focus is quickly redirected when another student raises his hand.

“yes?” professor park pushes himself off the desk, clasping his hands behind his back.

“professor,” he begins—you recognise him as a jock that calls himself dylan, but you know it’s not his real name and he’s probably here to fulfil a requirement to keep him on the volleyball team—his tone incredulous, “don’t you think all this romanticisation of literature is a bit dramatic? we don’t need fancy words to describe everything.”

professor park arches his eyebrow, a soft huff escaping his nose as he took steps in the direction of dyland’s seat. “dramatic? perhaps,” he nodded, eyes fixed on him, “however, as a literature professor, i enjoy the romanticisation of it. my job is to introduce others to the passion that is literature, and therefore i will romanticise it all i wish… what is your name?”

“it’s, uh, dylan?”

his eyebrow quirked once more as he gave the jock a once over, evaluating him. “i see… well, dylan, have you ever felt the rush of emotion when reading something truly spectacular? have you ever read a sentence and felt it like a punch in your chest or a sudden breath of fresh air?”

dylan’s opens his mouth to respond before he is interrupted with a raise if professor park’s palm. “think before you answer, please.”

you nearly laughed at his baffled look, never having seen him so silent, pondering the question for a moment before answering. “well, yes i have.” he answers honestly, earning a nod of approval.

“describe that feeling for me. can you find the correct words to explain the way you felt in that moment?”

dylan tries to explain it the best he can, but your teacher only shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “close, but no. see, it’s difficult putting into words such strong emotions no matter how many synonyms of ‘joyful’ you use.”

he turns away from him to address the rest of the class. “and that is the beauty of literature—it can be used to describe the most indescribable feeling, stringing together individually meaningless words to create something so much more.”

you smile at that, enjoying the link he made. your eyes meet for another moment, a split second that made heat rise to your cheeks under his perceptive gaze. but you blink and his pretty brown eyes are gone.

he takes a moment’s pause, glancing over at the clock in the room before finally addressing the rest of the class again. “i want an assignment from each of you by next class that demonstrates the true beauty of the language we know. it can be anything you feel like writing. a short story, a narrative, an essay, a poem,” his eyes flick over to land on you once again, “i want to see the feeling you want to convey in this written form. and i don’t just mean the happy feelings—get raw and descriptive. write something from the heart.”

the class is dismissed and you pack up your things, heading out but not before trying to catch another glimpse of him in the moving horde of students.

though you hadn’t noticed it, throughout the lecture his eyes lingered on you as well. of course, there were so many students for him to focus on, but none of them seemed quite as captivated as you. judging by the evident fascination on your face as he spoke, he knew you understood every word he said. unlike dylan, apparently.

the next class is on friday, four days away. you take that time or write the assignment. instead of writing a story or a poem, you decide on writing an essay. something where you can really write without the constraints of sticking to a plot. when you’re not in any of your other classes, you’re at your shared house, writing. and if your roommate is being too loud, you take the short bike ride to campus, sitting in your usual corner in the library, also writing.

by the time friday comes around, it’s ready and you’re happy with it, confident in your works as you walk into the lecture hall between some other students. you follow them as they stop at his desk, placing their papers on a stack of other turned in assignments, following suit before sitting at the same seat as last time; far left, second row. this time there’s more people sat at the front, whispering and giggling as they gaze at the professor.

he’s sat at his desk, a similar suit to last like on except a beige colour. his glasses are off and placed on the wooden desk, a book partially obscuring his face as he reads and waits for it to be nine on the dot.

he can vaguely hear the students talking amongst themselves as he reads, but he doesn’t pay it too much mind. it was normal. a lot of his students found him attractive, and that was clear just by the way they talked while he was around. after a while, he glances up at the time, noting it was almost time for class to begin.

he closes his book, setting it off to the side before standing up behind the desk. his hands clasp behind his back.

he glances around the room as more students trickle in and take their seats. he notices you at the second row almost immediately, and he can’t help the small smile that crosses his face. he lets his eyes roam over you for a second before he looks away, noticing the other students chattering in their seats. he clears his throat, loud enough to make them stop and look at him.

“good morning, class.” he says loudly, glancing around once more before resuming, “i’ll be looking over your assignments after class, but for today i’d alike to talk about some literary devices. i know this is classic literature and you’re all expecting to be reading classics, but some groundwork should be set before we jump into analyses. for example, can anyone tell me what a hyperbole is? any guesses?”

he scans the room, as if challenging one of the students to answer. the students in the class are quiet, no one wanting to take the challenge. he hums after a couple minutes and walks around to the front of the desk to lean against the edge of it.

“no one? how about you,” he suddenly says, nodding to you.

you blink, taken aback by the fact he chose you in the sea of fifty-something students. after clearing your throat, you simply say, “an exaggeration, sir.”

he gives a small nod of approval, a smile accompanying it. he expected you to know it, one of the most basic terms in the subject, but could he really be blamed if he just wanted to hear your lovely voice?

“that’s correct. a hyperbole is an exaggeration. it’s also a useful tool in literature to convey specific emotions. i’m sure you’ve come across sentences such as... ‘i could kill him’ or ‘i can’t believe it. this assignment was a literal death sentence.’” he adds the last part in a joking manner, and the few students in the room who were paying attention let out a quiet bout of snickers. he gives you one last small smile before moving on.

he spends the rest of the lesson talking about all sorts of techniques used to enhance literature and the effects they have on the readers. sibilance creates a smooth flow and double entendres are often used to amuse the reader.

nearing the end of the class, he instructs everyone to start on their reading of “the picture of dorian gray” by oscar wilde while he starts going through the turned in assignments. you pull out the book, having borrowed it from the library the other day. you’ve read it before, but it was entertaining enough for you to be willing to read it again, leaning back in your seat comfortably as you flip to the first page.

professor park gets through the first couple of assignments, grading them and adding comments here and there. he finds your essay on the third assignment, and glances up to look at you sitting at your seat, reading so serenely. he takes the time to look you over for a moment before his focus turns to your paper in his hand. he can’t help the slight curiosity as to what you have written, so he begins reading.

he can tell from the quality of the writing alone what kind of writer you were. not like the others, you weren’t rushing with each sentence. no, each word was well thought out, each word placed delicately in the paragraph. it was obvious you had taken the time to write it, and it was obvious that you enjoyed writing even before he finishes reading the introduction. there is passion in the way you laid out your paragraphs. the way it seems so effortless for such words to spill onto your pages.

he finds himself rereading some of the sentences and paragraphs, just to see the way you had worded things. the way you describe how literature can make a person feel could be compared to a piece of art itself. a smile tugs at his lips as he finished reading, having become completely entranced in what you had written. he wanted more, he wanted to read even more of your writing, see more of your passion, more of you. he had expected to have to read through mindless writing but instead he had been surprised by something actually worthwhile.

at the end, he writes a decently-sized comment, a perfect grade circled in his black ink right below.

as he dismisses the class, it takes you a moment to register his words and the people filing out of the hall around you. but once you do, you fold over the corner of the page you’re on and start packing away your items.

as the class is now empty, the only person left in the room besides himself is you. he watches from behind the desk as you pack up your things, noticing the slight hesitation in your movements when you glance towards him. he takes a moment to just watch you before speaking up, his voice firm and clear.

“stay a moment, if you don’t mind.”

you glance up at him before looking around, making sure he was speaking to you before you nod, taking the steps down from the second row to the first, standing at the end of the seats expectantly.

he picks up something from his desk before making his way over to you, his long legs carrying him effortlessly.

he studies your face for a moment, holding up the stapled stack of papers that were your essay. he takes in your features as he speaks, his tone softer now that you’re alone, “you enjoy literature, i take it?”

you glance at the papers before meeting his eyes again, heat rising to your face at the realisation that his full attention was on you. that he was standing so close, just a step away, looking down at you ever so slightly. you give him a nod.

he hums softly in acknowledgement, his eyes looking at your face curiously. he can see the flush of your cheeks clearly, the way you’re keeping your gaze averted from his for the most part.

he glances down at the paper in his hand, tapping it against his fingers gently before looking back at you.

“your assignment. i read it,” he starts, flipping through the pages absentmindedly to keep him from staring at you too long, “it’s quite well written, and i can see the care you put into the language of it. i enjoyed reading it.”

he watches as your eyes queen ever so slightly, a certain sparkle that does not go unnoticed by him; can see the gears turning in your head as you take in his words, your face growing to an endearing mix of shy and embarrassed. he couldn’t exactly pinpoint what he was feeling, couldn’t describe it in any way other than a bloom of warmth in his chest, akin to familiarity.

“oh, thank you, sir.” you smile at him lightly, having been worried you were in trouble and about to be in the receiving end of his scolding.

he hums again, still looking at your face. he can’t help the slight grin that forms on his face as he hears you call him ‘sir.’ he liked the sound of it coming from you. he glances down at the paper again before speaking again, holding the stack out to you.

“i should be thanking you, really. you seem to be the only one to have put some effort into it,” he gave you a soft smile before nodding towards the door, “you may go now, i’ll see you next class.”

you smile and nod, giving him a slight bow before straightening up again. “have a nice day, sir.” and with that you leave, making a beeline to leave campus since you didn’t have anything else to do for the day.

the next time you see him is on monday, in class. he teaches as usual, introducing some context for the book you’re all supposed to be reading. he doesn’t talk to you during the class, though occasionally his eyes find yours and you can’t help but think they soften ever so slightly.

soon enough, you pick up on the fact that you have a similar routine on wednesday evenings. usually, you stay in the campus library for a little longer on those days, whether it’s to read or to work. you like it then because there’s usually barely anyone there, the library big enough for the students that are there to disperse out of each other’s views.

you notice him on your way in, talking to the librarian with a stack of three or four books on the counter. but sometimes you’d see him at a table or couch, or browsing through the shelves. and each time you smile at the sight of him before making your way straight to the second floor, ducking between some bookshelves on the far end to sit in your usual seat.

this may be your favourite spot on campus, maybe the whole city. a little sofa tucked against a big window, two bookshelves—historical fiction—on either side hiding you from the prying eyes of your peers. at this time, the sunlight is just right, a copper glow feeding the two little plants on the windowsill and providing a warmth that felt like a blanket on a cold winter day. it wasn’t too bright, able to look outside without squinting your eyes, enough light to read comfortably. there’s also a little round table that you use to place your laptop on if you need to work, though often you push it aside, favouring to relax on the plush sofa against the soft pillow and get lost in the pages of whatever book you got your hands on.

he’s noticed you there before, on his way to pick up a book from the bibliography section, right next to the historical fiction section where you resided. he soon comes to notice your form among the bookshelves that he passes by, doing a double take before he forces himself to continue along his way. when he finishes the bibliography exactly a week later, he offers to bring it back to its previous spot; in reality, he just wanted to see whether or not you’d be there again.

and sure enough, you were. and he slows down in his movements, looking at the way you’re curled up comfortably in the sofa.

he finds himself watching you silently from a distance for a while, just watching you flip to the next page in your book as you lay comfortably against the pillow, to absorbed in the story to notice him. you look completely at ease there, he finds himself thinking. the sunlight from the window seems to caress your features softly, and a part of him wondered what it would be like to be the sunlight for once, to touch your skin so softly and admire the details of it.

he watches you for a while, taking in your expressions as you turn the pages, before deciding to make his presence known. he takes a step, his leather shoes clunking against the polished wooden floors, “mind if i join you?”

your eyes dart up at the sound of his voice, flinching as you were caught off guard. once his words process, you offer him a smile, nodding as you retract your feet from the sofa to make some space for him. “yeah, of course, professor.”

he smiles warmly at your reply, settling into the newly available space on the sofa. now sitting, he realizes just how small the space is. it’s a two seater, so he ends up sitting very close to you, his side pressed right up to the armrest to prevent from being pressed against you. he glances at your face, noting the small reaction you had when you weren’t expecting him to approach. cute.

he leans back a little to get comfortable on the sofa. it’s quiet between them for a moment, both of them looking outside or at their books. the silence isn’t awkward, he finds. in fact, he quite enjoyed it in such proximity to you. he turns his gaze to watch your face, studying you; the curve of your nose, your lips that are pulled into a frown ever so slightly as you concentrate. his gaze then flicks down, to your sweatpants-clad legs tucked under you on the sofa, and lower to the hand holding the book.

you sit together in silence for a while, reading your respective books. you can’t stop yourself from glancing up at him occasionally, however, just wanting to catch a glimpse of his soft hair or perfect plump lips or the slope of his neck.

but when the sun go too low and the lights too dim and you could barely keep your eyes open, you let out a soft yawn, stretching. he glances up, opening his mouth to say something before his throat suddenly feel to dry to produce any words, distracted by the arch of your back and the curves of your hips. you look so inviting.

“tired?” he manages to force out with a slight chuckle, watching you slump back into your seat. he has the urge to brush away the stray hairs that fall over your cheeks.

you glance at him, nodding as you pull yourself off the couch for one last stretch before gathering your stuff and facing him. “i should probably head home,” you mutter.

“alright,” he pushes himself off the couch, closing his book, “i’ll walk you out.”

too tired to argue and insist he didn’t have to, you just nod, turning on your heels to walk out of the shelves, waiting at the end for him. the walk is silent, holding your breath and heart thumping in your chest each time his fingers brush against the back of your hand as you walk side by side.

this became a new routine. every wednesday, you’d find him or he’d find you, sitting in the little brown leather couch. and you’d stay there together for a while, talking or laughing or working or reading. there was no longer an awkward space separating the two of you, happily resting against each other, far from worried that anyone would see.

neither of you mentioned it, but it was the elephant in the room. you didn’t know what to call it, whatever was happening between you. but it felt good, it made you want to cling to his shirt and bury your face into the warm curve of his neck and never let go. but you couldn’t, no matter how much either of you wanted to.

and as the lines between professor and student blurred, you found yourself looking forward to your wednesdays with him.

and so did he. still, he often thought about how he behaved around you, like it was a secret meant for him and you and you and him.

the way he would find himself sitting closer and closer to you. the way he’d find his gaze lingering on you for too long. the way his mind would wander on how it would feel to run his fingers through your hair, trails them along your thighs. oh, how badly he wants to feel your skin against his own. the idea of what he was doing was dangerous, foolish for someone of his position.

but it’s hard to care when you’re right there next to him, in the soft light that makes your skin glow, your face relaxed and content as you read beside him.

one particular friday evening, it’s pouring, and you’re standing outside under where the roof of the humanities building entrance protruded, protecting me from the rain. this morning you had decided to walk to school instead taking the bike, though you suppose it wouldn’t have been much better with a bike.

your shoes are already wet from the puddle you had accidentally stepped into on your way out, your clothes soaked from having walked into the rain for a minutes as you hug your messenger bag close to your chest.

he’s on his way to his car when he spots you standing by the doorway, and he frowns as he notices you, soaked from the rain that pours mercilessly. he glances around, noticing the lack of anyone nearby thanks to the weather, before making his way towards you.

he stops a few steps in front of you, opening his umbrella to block the rain above both of you. "what are you doing standing out in the rain?"

“i walked to school this morning,” you look from him to the pouring rain, just a step away, “didn’t check the weather.”

he takes you in for a moment, taking in the way your clothes are sticking to you, your hair slightly damp. a small part of him found it quite adorable to see you like this.

"you’re soaked," he says, his voice firm and concerned, "you’re going to get sick like this." as if on cue, a shiver racks through your body. he notices, his expression softening as he takes a step closer, offering his free hand. “come on, i’ll drive you home.”

“oh, you really don’t have to,” you smile at him, grateful at his offer, worried about getting his car wet with your clothes, “i can just wait here until the rain stops.”

his eyes narrow slightly, taking your wrist lightly. "don’t be ridiculous," he scolds, "you’ll freeze to death if i leave you here."

you blink at him, not used to being on the receiving end of his firm tone. his concern making the corners of your lips tug up, you sighed softly, nodding, “alright, lead the way.”

a small smirk pulls at his lips as he watches you relent, giving in to his words. he steps to your side, releasing your wrist and putting a hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the parking lot.

he pulls a tissue from his pocket, unfolding it and using it to gently pat your face. you giggle softly at his attempts to dry your face, reaching one of your hands up to take the handkerchief, your fingers brushing against each other before you dry your face yourself, your other hand helping him hold the umbrella in the strong wind, hand a little lower than his on the handle.

he looks at you with a small smile as his hand rests on the umbrella’s handle, moving to cover yours. his hand is a little bigger and warmer than yours. but as he guides you further towards the parking lot, he notices you shivering again, the cold air starting to get to you.

"if you get a cold, it’s your fault." he teases slightly, pulling you closer to his side, making you stumble a little before you regain your footing.

“oh no, i won’t be able to attend your 9 am lecture on monday, whatever will i do?” you gasp dramatically, holding back a laugh as you joke around, instinctively glancing around in case anyone saw. but everyone was gone, rushing home in the midst of the downpour.

he lets out a low laugh at your dramatic response, rolling his eyes playfully at you.

"stop that," he chastises, his hand on your waist keeping you from falling. it was hard to miss the nervous looks your threw around, and he knew exactly why.

“hm?” you glance up at him as he stops in front of what you assume is his car. it’s a black mercedes, sleek and modern. you clasp your hands behind your back, tilting your head, “no idea what you’re talking about.”

he pushes open the passenger door of his car, gesturing for you to get in. he shakes his head slightly with a scoff, his gaze raking down your figure for just a moment.

“sure you don’t,” he says in a slightly teasing tone, “just get in the car, angel.”

you blush lightly at the nickname but shake your thoughts away, looking down at the leather passengers seat before looking up at him again “but i’ll get your seat wet and mess it up.”

it takes him a moment to process your words, distracted by how the flush of your cheeks makes you look even lovelier. the thought that he was able to make you blush like that because of a simple nickname makes him bite back a giddy smile.

he shakes his head. “i’ll take my chances. just get in, you’re shivering.”

you don’t move for a moment, weighing your options; get his seat a little wet, or walk in the rain. deciding the former is obviously the better choice, you thank him silently as you slip into the passenger seat, securing your seatbelt after resting your bag in your lap

he shuts the door behind you and circles the car, walking to the driver’s side. his steps are a little rushed, eager to get out of the rain and into the warmth of the car.

he gets in the car, pulling the door shut behind him before he looks over at you. you sit quietly, your head down and hands in your lap.

it’s silent for a brief moment before he speaks up. “i’m gonna need your address, you know.”

“oh, right.” you hum, leaning forward to the screen on the dashboard to type in your address. it takes some effort, your muscles mostly focused on your legs as you try not to seat my full weight in an attempt to not ruin his seat despite what he said earlier.

he says absolutely nothing, his gaze glued to the arch of your back. he swallows hard, clenching his jaw as he keeps his eyes trained on you, fighting the urge to reach a hand and touch you.

he clears his throat, “just lean back into the seat.”

before you can protest, he’s pushing down on your thigh until you’re fully seated. you give him a playful glare as you finish typing the address. it’s just over a five-minute drive, while walking in this weather would’ve taken you nearly twenty.

he looks at you with a chuckle, his hand still on your thigh, giving it a slight squeeze.

“now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he jokes, giving your thigh a tap before pulling his hand away, turning the ignition on and pulling out of the parking space.

the drive to your place is quiet except for the sound of the rain outside. he has the heat on full blast to keep you warm. every now and then he glances at you out of the corner of his eye.

the heat makes you shudder, holding your fingers up to the air to warm them up a bit.

he can’t help as his mind thinks of how cute you look, all bundled up with your bag in your lap. and the urge to touch you, god, the urge to run his fingers through your hair.

“we’re almost there, don’t worry,” he mutters as he tears his gaze away from you.

“hey, um,” you start after a few moments of silence, glancing at him, “if you want, you can come up and we could have some coffee or tea or something together. if my roommate doesn’t mind, which she probably won’t, she’s really nice so i wouldn’t worry. but you don’t have to if you don’t want to! i just, uh, wanna thank you properly… for this.”

he watches with a fond smile as you ramble, stopping at a red light. he’s about to accept the offer, tell you that he’d love to, but the realisation of your roommate being there changes things, his expression turning solemn.

“i don’t think that’s a good idea…” he mumbles, avoiding your piercing eyes.

your brows furrow ever so slightly, a frown threatening to override your features. “why not?”

he swallows, pulling over in front of the address you had typed into the gps.

“i’m your professor,” he starts, his tone firm, “it would be unprofessional if we’re caught.”

he hopes you can’t notice the way he’s gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary.

“that hasn’t stopped you so far, though,” you muse, chuckling lightly despite your confusion of his suddenly change in sentiments, trying to ease the tension.

“but don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious that we’ve been sitting together in the library every week, completely hidden away?” he mutters, “if someone saw us, someone who didn’t know, it would look bad. this could be worse.”

“i thought you liked being there with me…” his words get to you this time, actually frowning as you turn to look out the window instead of at him, noticing you were in front of your house.

shit.

he mentally berates himself upon noticing the slight change in your expression, realizing with a pang of guilt that his words bothered you, having come out the wrong way.

“oh, angel,” he starts, letting go of the steering wheel. his hand reaches for you, and before he can stop himself, it’s cradling your face.

“i do. i like being with you there,” he sighs, gently pulling your face to make you look at him, his thumb caressing your cheek. “you have no idea how much i enjoy it.”

his touch on your face feels warm, and his words even warmer as his directs you to look at him. you don’t say anything.

he’s not used to this, to you being quiet and still. he’s too used to your carefree self being full of jokes and laughter. he doesn’t like you like this, looking at him with disappointment written on your face.

“what i meant is,” he murmurs, the pad of his thumb moving across your cheek to your chin, tilting your head up so your eyes meet his, “i’m just worried about your roommate.”

“i like spending time with you, princess,” he continues, his tone firmer this time, “i like it a lot, alright?”

your frown eases at his words, nodding as you answer in a whisper, “okay.”

he lets out a small sigh of relief, his fingers tracing down from your chin to the side of your neck, and then your collarbone. he gently caresses your skin with the lightest of touch, letting the pad of his fingertip graze your skin.

he tries to ignore the voice in the back of his mind telling him to tug you across the console and kiss you. he shouldn’t.

he shakes himself out of his thoughts, pulling his hand away reluctantly. glancing out the window, he sees your place right in front of him.

“we’re here,” he murmurs, looking back at you. his gaze softens when he sees the remnants of the frown still on your face, and his hand gently reaches out to give your thigh a light squeeze.

“come on,” he says quietly, “let’s go.”

you look out the window before nodding, unbuckling and stepping out, walking to your front door as he accompanies you with an umbrella. you rummage around in your bag, trying to find the keys. groaning as you realise you were in such a rush this morning you must’ve forgotten them in the bowl where you and your roommate place your keys so you don’t lose them. with a sigh, you ring the doorbell, waiting for her to answer.

but she never comes. and that’s when you realise she had the late shift at work today. you groan, frustrated as you thump your forehead against the wooden door.

great, he thinks to himself as he watches you struggle trying to get inside. and then you turn around, with a frustrated sigh, and a thump of the door.

he can’t help but feel like the world is against him. the universe wants to punish him, to test his limits.

he bites the inside of his cheek, watching you and listening to you as you mutter about your locked door.

“i don’t have my keys, my roommate isn’t home,” you explain, kicking the door light before burying your face in your hands, your voice a little muffled, “oh, i’m so sorry, hwa.”

he stands there, watching you explain your situation, and he fights back a smile at your last sentence.

hwa*.*

he likes it when you call him that. spending three months growing closer, you’ve evidently given each other little nicknames.

he glances over at the parked car behind him, before back at you. “do you need a place to stay?” he asks, trying to keep his tone neutral again.

“i don’t wanna bother you too much,” you shake your head, running your hands over your face “please, i can just wait here for her to get back.”

he doesn’t like how you’re trying to push him away. frowning, watching you as you shake your head and run your hands over your face in defeat. he closes the distance between you, taking hold of your wrists and pulling your hand away from your face gently.

“it’s pouring,” he reminds you, “your clothes are soaking wet. and you think you can just sit here on the front porch until your roommate comes back?”

“i don’t want to inconvenience you any more,” you murmur, your hands relaxing as he pulls your wrists away from your face.

his chest tightens at your words, at how stubborn you’re being. he sighs.

“you’re not inconveniencing me,” he insists, “i’d feel better knowing you’re inside with dry clothes and a warm drink than out here soaked to the bone.”

you contemplate his offer for a moment before sighing, nodding, “okay, if you insist.”

his heart nearly skips a beat at your agreement, and it takes all his willpower not to visibly show the relief that washes over him.

he tightens his hold on your wrist for a moment, before gently guiding you back to his car. he opens the passenger door for you, waiting until you get in before he shuts the door and circles around to the driver’s side.

he starts the ignition again, the warm air blasting through the vents yet again. you hold your hands in front of the hot air again, glancing over as you hear his door open and close as he slips. “in is it a long drive?”

he lets out a scoff, looking over to you with a teasing smile. “it’s a whole two minute drive. i’ll try not to bore you too much.”

he turns back to the window, pulling out of the parking spot. the rain starts again, and the sound of it pounds against window before he turns on the wipers.

“oh dear me, i can already feel myself falling asleep,” you slump your head back and pretend to snore, back to being playful.

he turns to look at you, watching your dramatics with a fond grin. “shut up, you,” he says, reaching out to pinch your side gently.

you giggle as he pinches your side, opening your eyes again to look out the window, watching buildings and cars glide past as he drives smoothly. true to his word, just a few minutes later he’s pulling into the underground parking lot of an apartment building.

he parks in front of a spot numbered ‘407’, cutting the ignition as soon as he does.

he glances at you briefly before nodding almost to himself.

“come on,” he says with a jerk of his chin, gesturing for you to follow as he gets out of the car.

his longer strides have him walking faster than usual, and it takes him a conscious effort to slow down for you to keep up.

he presses the ‘up’ button and the elevator doors part within seconds. he steps into the elevator, holding the door open for you to enter.

it’s a silent ride up. his mind is racing, though he doesn’t show it outwardly. his hands are in his pocket, and he keeps his eyes trained on the blinking numbers signifying each floor.

the elevator dings and the doors open and he steps out without looking back to see if you’re following, striding down the hallway, making a turn to a door marked ‘407’.

he fishes for his keys in his pocket, pulling them out before unlocking and opening the door as you look around the empty hallway, your gaze lingering on the mass-produced paintings hanging on the wall that he knows can be seen on every other floor of this building.

the apartment is spacious, with plenty of open floor space for the front room. the color scheme is simple and neat, with a large armchair and a small couch that sits in front of a flat screen tv, as well as a wooden coffee table.

he steps in, taking a moment to kick his shoes off and set his stuff down. he looks over his shoulder, watching you step into the apartment as he places his umbrella in the umbrella rack and hangs up his coat.

you grimace as your shoes squelch when you step in, muttering apologies as you take them off and leave them outside of the door in the hallway instead, not wanting to mess up his flooring.

he raises an eyebrow, watching you as you leave your wet shoes in the hall. he’s about to say something when he’s interrupted by the sound of a small meow.

a ball of black fur appears at his feet, nuzzling against his ankle, and he smiles, scooping the cat into his arms without a word.

he scratches behind the cat's ears as it purrs in his arms, the sound of its soft mews filling the room. he can see a hint of confusion on your face, watching the cat with interest as he holds it, its front paws resting on his chest.

"his name is kuma," he explains, bringing the cat up to his face and letting it rub against his cheek.

you nearly melt at the sight, stepping into the house with wet socks as you coo at the cat, the front door falling shut behind you automatically. “i didn’t know you have a cat.”

he has to physically stop himself from grinning as you nearly swoon at the sight of his cat, covering up his smile with a cough. he shakes his head, lowering the cat gently to the floor. it runs over in your direction, nuzzling against your ankles much like it did to him moments ago, before disappearing down the hallway into the heart of the apartment.

"i got him a couple months back," he says, taking in the sight of your soaked clothes once more. he lets out a sigh, tilting his head toward the hall.

he glances down at your feet, eyeing your soaked socks, before looking back up to your face.

"you can shower if you'd like. I can lend you some clothes to change into," he says, pointing down the hall toward the bedroom.

“oh, yes please,” you nod, relieved that he offered instead of you having to ask.

he nods and starts down the hallway, motioning for you to follow him. as you follow, you look around. just like his car, the design of his apartment is sleek and modern, glowing in warmth as he uses a variety of floor lamps and shelf lamps to light up the interior instead of headache-inducing overhead lights. the furniture and walls are light in colour, a variety of whites and beiges.

it’s an open floor plan, the kitchen and living grouped together, separated by a counter island and some stools. the countertops of the kitchen have a glossy white finish, everything clean. a narrow hallway leads to some three doors, which you assume are his bedroom, a bathroom, and guest bedroom or office.

he stops first in front of a door, where the cat lies on the floor, tail flicking back and forth. he bends down to pet the cat briefly.

"that's the bathroom. the towels are in there. I'm just going to grab some clothes for you," he says, giving you a quick glance before striding away toward the bedroom.

your eyes follow him as he walks away, before letting out a soft yelp at the feeling of something furry wrapping around your ankle. looking down, you realise it’s kuma, giggling as you crouch down to pet him.

he returns a few moments later, taking a moment to watch as you play with his cat so nicely before clearing his throat, making you stand back up as he hands you the stack of clothes.

“feel free to use whatever you need in there,” he nods towards the bathroom door, “you can leave your clothes in the basket, i’ll put them in the laundry later.”

“thank you, hwa.” you grin at him, accepting the clothing before disappearing into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

you shower with warm water, relaxing every muscle in your body as you wash off the rain. without any other choices, you’re left to use his shampoo. it smells of him, a deep vanilla. when you finish, you dry off and change into the clothes he brought, using your own previous undergarments as he obviously didn’t have those on hand.

the clothes are quite large on you, hanging off your body as you tighten the string of the sweatpants. you pat your hair partially dry with the towel before tossing everything in the laundry basket, stepping out to go to the living room.

only to see he wasn’t there. shrugging, you figure he’ll return soon as you flop onto the couch, kuma coming to sit with you after a moment. you sprawl out a bit as you realise just how spacious the couch is, the cat padding all over your body, playing with the drawstrings of the hoodie he gave you before curling up on your stomach.

meanwhile, he’s in the shower of his bedroom’s en-suite bathroom attempting to get himself together, both physically and mentally. the water feels amazing on his skin as it beats down on him, and he tries to relax his muscles as he lathers shampoo in his hair.

but his mind keeps going back to you, and how you’re probably already in his living room.

wearing his clothes.

he sighs, leaning his head against the shower wall as he tries to push those thoughts out of his mind. he stands there for what feels like hours, letting the hot water hit his skin before shutting off the shower and stepping out. he dries himself off, quickly drying his hair enough so that it’s not dripping all over his floor before he getting in record time, pulling on an old pair of sweats and a loose black shirt.

he takes another deep breath, opening the bathroom door as he ruffles his damp hair. he starts to make his way toward the living room, hoping that you’re just as nervous as he is.

he turns the corner and enters the living room, nearly freezing in his place at the sight of you sitting on the couch with kuma. you look good. comfortable.

by the time he makes it back, you’d be kuma are no longer sitting calmly, practically rolling around on the couch as you try to get away from the playful punches of his paws. he feels his heart flutter at the sight and the sound of your laughter.

there’s just something about seeing you getting along with his cat that makes his heart nearly skip a beat. he silently watches from the hall for a moment, just gazing at the two of you playing together before clearing his throat to make his presence known.

you look up at the sound, grinning at him stupidly. you glance at his clothes, noting that he’s wearing comfortable clothes now rather than his usual suits. “oh, hey,” you say between giggles as kuma continues to jump all over you.

his heart stutters at the sight of your grins and the sound of your giggles, at the joyful look on your face. he swallows, forcing his arms to cross over his chest to keep himself from reaching out and pulling you against him.

trying to appear nonchalant even though he’s having a hard time doing so, he walks over to the couch, standing at the end of the coffee table and looking down at you.

“seems like you’re having fun together,” he remarks with a slight nod towards kuma.

“uh huh,” you nod before squealing, covering your face as kuma’s paws swat against your cheek, attacking you, your stomach hurting from laughing.

he lets out a scoff, watching kuma pawing at you and your failed attempts to shield your face from the attacks. he can’t help but let a small smile settle on his face, his heart fluttering again at the sight of you two.

“he’s playing rough,” he comments with a smile, walking to the couch and plopping down beside you.

you crawl over to his other side, hiding your face under his arms as kuma chases, “help me, hwa.”

his heart skips a beat as you hide under his arm, ducking away from the harmless kitten. he can’t help but laugh, finding the situation both endearing and adorable.

“I think you can handle kuma, doll,” he teases, grinning down at you as you continue to use him as a human shield.

“he’s a beast,” you try to sound serious, your voice muffled against his sleeve as kuma starts attacking him instead.

“he’s not that bad,” he teases, grabbing the cat by his little body and lifting him up in front of his face, “see? look at this face. he’s not even one bit menacing.”

“that’s the face of evil!” you exclaim, sitting up and placing the back of your hand on your forehead to fall into his lap dramatically, feigning death, my body draped over his thighs faced down.

he looks down at you as you go limp against him, and he can’t help but laugh at your antics.

“don’t be so dramatic,” he grins. he lets kuma go, watching as he climbs down your combined bodies to muzzle against your cheek before moving away to curl up in his usual spot in the corner of the couch. “i think he’s gonna end up liking you more than me.”

“good,” you hum, closing your eyes and relaxing in his lap, forearm under your chin so it doesn’t dig into his legs.

he rolls his eyes jokingly, resting his hand on your back and tracing down your spine, “very funny.”

you chuckle at his response, sighing softly, content where you are. in the privacy of his home, you’re not scared of being affectionate, especially not as his hand traces down to rest against the small of your back, eliciting a faint shudder.

his heart hammers in his chest as his hand trails further down to the back of your thigh, the feeling of your plump flesh beneath the fabric, under his touch igniting something in him. he has to remind himself to breathe, trying to control the rush of blood that is steadily flowing downward.

enjoying the feeling of his hand kneading the back of your thigh, you go a little silent before turning to look up at him, a question that’s been balancing on the top of my tongue for three months finally spilling out.

“hwa… what exactly are we? what is this?” you point between the two of you as you mutter the question.

his hand freezes the second he hears it. he’s been avoiding that question since the two of your really started seeing each other every wednesday months ago, but he knows he can’t anymore. not when it’s thrown straight at his face.

he takes a deep breath, avoiding your gaze for a moment. he lets the silence sit for a few more seconds as he considers his answer, then looks down at you.

“i don’t know,” he mutters, his hand moving to rest on your waist, “i’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

“well, what is this to you then?” you ask softly, sitting up to be eye level with him, kneeling beside him.

the question sounds more demanding coming from you face to face, eye to eye, and his heart is beating fast enough that he fears you can hear it. he swallows, looking into your eyes.

“a distraction,” he mutters, his gaze flitting to your lips for a moment before going back to your eyes, preparing his next words.

but before he can continue, you visibly deflate at his answer, sitting back as i nod. a distraction. “i see,” you tear your gaze away from him, getting up, making his hand drop from you, “i’m gonna go to bed, wheres the guest room?”

he feels his heart twist at the sight of you leaving his touch, a dejected look on your face.

he’s never seen you back off so quickly before. not like this. he watches you get up and stand over him, a step too far for him to reach for you agajn, his heart tightening in his chest.

“wait, doll-“ he starts, reaching out to take your hand.

“what? you said what you said.”

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, his tone firmer. he stands up from the couch, towering over you. he holds a hand out to you. “come here, please.”

“then how else could you possibly mean it,” you scoff lightly, eying his hand but not taking it.

“listen, doll,” he mutters, holding back a huff of frustration. “you can’t seriously think that I would call this a distraction,” he gestures between the two of you. “a distraction. you really think that you are just a distraction to me?”

“well is that not what you said?” you mutter, trying to prevent your lips from trembling as a lump latches itself onto your throat.

he lets out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. he reaches out and grabs your wrist, tugging you closer to him. he can feel the tension in your body, and he hates it. he hates himself for causing it.

“you didn’t let me finish. i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, looking directly into your eyes, resting your hands in his chest. “you’re not just some random, meaningless distraction to me.”

your fingers flex slightly as he holds them up to his chest, right over his heart, “then tell me how you really feel about me if i’m not a distraction”

he looks into your eyes, holding onto your wrists firmly but gently, his thumbs rubbing against your skin, the inside of your wrists.

he’s never seen you like this before. this vulnerable and open in front of him. he can feel the tension in your body, the stiffness in your shoulders and the tightness in your jaw.

he wants to smooth out those frowning lines on your face, erase that look of uncertainty in your eyes.

“you’re more than just a distraction to me,” he mutters. “you’re an obsession. you’re all i think about, doll. i think about you constantly. i don’t know how else to describe it other than an obsession,” he continues, his voice getting softer as he speaks. “i can’t shake you. you’ve gotten in my head and you’ve been living in there rent free for months and you refuse to get out. even when i try to ignore you,” he lets out a scoff, looking into your eyes, “even when i pretend to ignore you, you’re still there. you don’t leave my mind.”

his heart races as the words spill out of his mouth, like there’s a dam bursting inside of him. the feelings that he’s been bottling up for months finally coming out, and he doesn’t want to stop, letting those words tumble out and onto you. he can see that you’re listening intently, that you’re listening intently as his grip on your wrists tightens, almost as if he’s scared that you’re going to run away from him.

“you’ve got me so distracted i can barely focus on anything that doesn’t involve you,” he admits in a low voice, glancing down at your wrists. “i can’t even teach my own goddamn class without thinking about you.”

you’re speechless, even as he finishes, staring up at him with wide dumbfounded eyes, feeling his hammering heart beneath your fingertips just as how he feels yours under his as his thumbs continue to rub the inside of your wrists.

you suppose you can always rely on a literature professor for an extravagant, dramatic confession.

he continues to hold onto you. he’s never seen you this speechless and dumbfounded before, and he’s torn between how good it feels to see you like this and how bad it things could go now that his feelings were out.

he swallows, looking down at your wrists. he can feel your pulse point under his thumb. “say something, angel,” he murmurs, a pleading tone in his voice.

instead, you pull your hands out of his grip to wrap them around his neck, pulling him down, placing your lips against his urgently, your eyes falling shut.

his heart hammers in his chest as he kisses you back, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you against him, his fingers curling into your hoodie. he wants to kiss you forever, wants to make up for all those months of holding back, but his lungs are burning from the lack of air and he’s forced to pull away to breathe.

he lets out a sigh, his forehead falling to the crown of your head. his hands stay on you, still holding you against him. he can still feel your heart racing against his chest.

“that was your idea of saying something?”

“uh huh,” you hum, chuckling softly as you thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, mind full of him. seonghwa, seonghwa, seonghwa.

he closes his eyes as he feels your fingers, enjoying the feeling of your fingertips against his scalp. he still has his arms around you, unwilling to let go yet. he leans down just enough to press a kiss to your temple, his lips brushing softly against your skin.

“but seriously,” you snicker, pulling away from him a little “i am kinda tired, wheres the guest bed?”

he almost lets out a whine when you pull away from him, opening his eyes reluctantly. he looks down at you, a frown on his face.

“you’re really gonna go sleep by yourself?” he mutters, an almost petulant tone in his voice as he quirks his brow.

“is that not what i’m supposed to do?“

“you really think i’m going to let you sleep alone after… that? come on now, you’re not that dense.”

“i know, i just wanted you to say it,” you giggle after a moment, grinning up at him as you lean down to scoop up kuma from the couch.

he lets out a scoff, rolling his eyes, but he’s unable to hide the small smile of his own. he reaches out and ruffles your hair, letting out a scoff. “you’re insufferable.”

“and you just said you’re obsessed with me,” you shrug, kissing his cheek as his hand find the small of your back, leading you don’t the hallway, “where does the kitty sleep?”

he looks down at kuma, still curled up in your arms, practically purring himself to death. “baby, he’s a cat. he’ll sleep wherever he wants.”

you snort, setting him down on a little armchair in the corner of his room, next to some bookshelves stacked with books upon books, and more books. you lean down to pet him a few more times as seonghwa watches you with a fond smile.

he watches you as he sits on the bed, his heart clenching at how good you look in his bedroom. it feels almost surreal, having you here in his home. he pats the spot next to him.

“get over here, baby.”

networks. @cromernet @cultofdionysusnet @wonderlandnet @atzhouse

permanent taglist. @ad0rechuu @sankatchu @mlink64 @yeosangsbb @seonghwasbbgirl

@likexaxdaydream @dreamingofyeo @yalyallic @yunhoswrldddd

@coffee-addict-kitten @thunderous-wolf @chngbnwf @okdudeiime

[eccentricallygothic]

Trouble.

Hard Dom!Phillip Graves who has never been soft with a sub before you… 

Warning(s): Established D/S dynamic, collar and leash, kneeling, total submission, fluff, size kink, age gap, shy!reader, intimidation kink. MDNI.

The little lock to your collar clinks as you whip your head towards the double doors of the balcony that the rain hits and melts itself against. Though your entire body years to rush towards the glass barriers and push them open to let yourself out, you bite your bottom lip to help yourself concentrate on staying in place like you had been ordered to do so. 

Your Dom, the much older and experienced Commander Philip Graves, doesn't have to look up from his laptop screen to know the battle you're fighting within yourself. It's his order against your impulse and the attentive soldier catches your smaller form getting fidgety by the second right away. 

You struggle for a few moments as your try to bring your eyes back to the spot that you are supposed to stare at while you kneel beside his couch and wait for his command -any command- to act upon. But it hasn't rained in a while and the louder and more aromatic it gets, the more restless you grow. 

You nearly jump out of your skin from the shock and sensitivity -because you're extremely shy around him; something about his aura- when your desperate gaze bounces from the door to him and you find him already looking at you. Your heart leaps up in your throat and a thousand butterflies stem from the base of your stomach all the way up to your chest. A deep red burns into your cheeks and you whimper from the amusement that is on his face. 

“Well?” He speaks when you choose to remain quiet. The two of you have never really needed many words to communicate. “Go on, then.” The Commander loves the colourful light that flashes in your eyes and your nervous expression turns into a big beam. Being the kind of Dom that he is, you suspected him of denying or teasing you about it just because he had the power to do so and you loved to surrender it to him. And unbeknownst to you, if it were any of his older subs and not you, Philip would have. He knows it as well as he knows the sun exists, he would have.

You are on your toes before the next second can start. The older man sits up a bit straighter to undo the leash that is attached to your collar and he cannot help but let out a little smile when you mutter a cute thank you, Master before bolting in the opposite direction. 

But then you halt midway and spin on your heels. Though your body is half cocked towards the doors, your eyes eagerly find him and you smile. “Would you like to come with, Sir?” You question with a meek politeness, fingers shyly toying with the ends of the fancy lace underwear you wear for him. 

Philip is taken aback, as he always is with you. He has never had this kind of a bond with any of his subs. Sometimes it's strange to him how you behave and care beyond your place as his sub. Of course, he cannot and would never harbor any ill feelings towards his past partners for not being like you as the conditions are always clear and strictly to be maintained within the Dom-Sub dynamic since his line of work doesn't allow him the liberty of a lover. 

But Philip appreciates you nonetheless. 

“Uh…” He looks down at his own navy blue sweatshirt dark grey trousers and then looks back up at you. 

You understand. “Is okay!” Your links clinks adorably as you excitedly rush to him and hold a hand out. “I'll clean the mess! But you must come, it's really so fun, Sir!” When Philip tilts his head to the side and looks up at you in a contemplative manner, you do a series of restless mini jumps. “Please, c'mon!” 

You'll be the death of him. 

“Alright, alright” he puts the laptop aside and takes your smaller hand before pushing his heavy and broad body to stand up and tower over you. You squeal from delight and begin to pull his bigger form towards the balcony. The man shakes his head to himself. 

Philip is in so much trouble.

His eyes follow your feverish form as he slowly lets you drag him towards the glass doors before he helps you slide one open since you are holding his hand in yours and are too small to manage to do so with one. You squeal again and this time the Commander cannot help but snort under his breath as reaction to your childish antics. Quirks of having a younger partner, he guesses. 

“Careful” he calls firmly when you get too excited and start slipping and skidding about on your naked feet, the wet marble underneath your feet helping your play and Phillip's grip serving well as an anchor for your body. “Don't go hurting yourself now.” 

But you're exhilarated as the cool water hits your face and semi-naked body. You giggle -though you're usually rather coy around him- and jump, you twirl and spin, you do a silly little dance sequence while holding his hands and making him copy you. 

And though Phillip tries to be the responsible one, he cannot help but scoff out a chuckle at your antics, his heart erratic as it revels in the melodies of your pouty whines when he refuses to let you go off by keeping a firm hold on you. 

And then the Commander surprises the both of you -as he is not one to show much affection- by suddenly pulling you closer until you are pressed against him and his arms coil around your waist. The hot kiss he connects your mouths in steals the very breath out of your lungs and the manner in which he refuses to let go makes you melt into him.

Oh, it's trouble alright. 

. . .

I am too tired. Unedited would have to do for now.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 How to Unintentionally, Get An Endless To Marry You: Chapter Two

How to Unintentionally, Get An Endless To Marry You: After saving a strange man from a fishbowl cage, you earn yourself a favor. When you cash in said favor, you don’t realize that you and the man aren’t on the same page on what you need from him.

Warnings: None.

To Note: Morpheus x Afab!Reader

Word Count: ~2.7k

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You walk through grand hallways, Matthew perched on your shoulder. The palace staff meet you at the entrance of the baths. Two women in flowing, ethereal gowns greet you with picture perfect smiles. Is everyone in this place inhumanely beautiful? They are making you feel self conscious!

"Welcome," says one, her voice like a soft lullaby. "We are here to help you relax and unwind." Oh really? How are you supposed to unwind when you feel every bit self conscious as you look?

The other gestures toward a large door that opens with a quiet whoosh, revealing a sprawling bathhouse filled with steaming pools, intricate mosaics, and soft, ambient light. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus wafts through the air. Okay, perhaps you can relax, this is a spa on steroids.

"This way," one of the maids says, leading you to a changing area. "We’ve prepared everything for you."

You nod and as Matthew takes off, you follow her, taking in the opulence around you. Slipping into the robe they provide, You run your hands over the softest material you have ever felt, and are then guided to one of the pools. You put on this heavenly robe only to have to take it off? Oh well, you’ll snuggle with it after your bath. So grudgingly removing the heavenly robe, you step into the warm water and instantly feel your muscles relax. You would kill to have your baths feel like this every time.

One of the maids brings over a tray with various oils and scrubs. "Would you like to try our special blend?" she asks, holding up a small vial that sparkles under the soft light. They glimmer with what looks like stardust. Given how this realm seems to run, you don’t doubt that they are stardust.

“Okay,” you respond, you eyes trailing the sparkles within the vial. They begin to massage the oil into your skin as another maid starts humming a tune that makes goosebumps ripple over your skin.

"You must have many questions," a maids asks as she kneads your shoulders. Wowza, free massage? You want to think that this might be a little too much, but at the same time, you are melting into the tub in a puddle of bliss.

"Yeah," you sigh, your mind struggling to keep itself together and not turn into mush like the rest of your body. "I don't really know much about Morpheus and I really don't know anything about this realm. What’s it like working here?" Or just being here in general?

"Oh, it's quite an honor," she responds with a bright smile. "We’re dreams and nightmares given form, serving in Lord Morpheus’ palace is a privilege."

"And everyone here is... happy?" you ask hesitantly.

"Mostly," she says thoughtfully. "There are always challenges, especially since Lord Morpheus returned. There have been many changes to the realm, and our work. But we take pride in what we do.”

"It’s not just work for us; it’s our purpose. Helping dreams take shape or ensuring nightmares don’t go too far." Another maid piped up with an equally glowing smile. So everyone here is annoyingly beautiful…

"So," you say as another maid hands you a cup of herbal tea, "do all dreams serve Morpheus?"

"Some do," one answers while combing your hair gently. "But others wander freely across realms. We prefer to stay close; it’s more stable here. Our jobs are grounded within the Dreaming. Dreams seldom thrive in the Waking.”

“What about nightmares?” You broach, noting that they only seem to speak of dreams. The maids pause and share a brief look before returning to what they are doing.

“Nightmares thrive, however it is not their place to exist within the Waking World.” You can sense an undertone of apprehension and something left unsaid about Nightmares, so you don’t push the topic and sip the tea. It tastes like liquid sunlight, and you have no idea why you think it does so. At the very least, it is everything you need with your mother breathing down your back.

"Thank you," you say quietly. "This has been... amazing. I really needed a time out from my life.”

The maids exchange knowing smiles as they continue their work, creating an experience so luxurious it feels like drifting through a dream within a dream.

A maid begins to comb through your hair with delicate fingers, untangling knots with barely a hint of tugging. The sensation is almost hypnotic, each stroke of the comb sending ripples of relaxation down your spine. Your eyes flutter shut, the warmth of the bathwater lulling you into a state of near-dream. You don’t care about the inception-like vibes this is giving you, you just want to be at peace!

After what feels like an eternity of bliss, the maids help you out of the bath. They wrap you in that heavenly robe once more and you practically melt all over again as it slides against your skin. One of them gathers your now silky-smooth hair and wraps it in another soft towel.

"This way," one of them gestures, leading you through another door. You follow her into a room adorned with mirrors and soft lighting, where an array of elegant gowns awaits. You blink at them an nearly come to a screeching halt in your steps.

"We've selected some outfits for you," she says with sparkling eyes, motioning toward the dresses. "Lord Morpheus thought you might appreciate something special, but close to home."

Close to… home? You’ve never worn anything like that in your entire life! But you want to be a good guest so you keep your mouth shut and walk over to the dresses. When your fingers brush against the luxurious fabrics—silk, velvet, satin—your eye twitches and you wonder how much even one of these dresses cost. Each gown is more stunning than the last!

Another maid steps forward with a smile. "May I help you choose?"

“That would probably be for the best,” you reply, slightly overwhelmed by the choices and the sinking feeling that the gemstones embedded in fabric aren’t costume.

She picks up a gown made of deep blue silk that seems to ripple like water as she holds it up. "This would complement you beautifully."

You nod, entranced by the fabric's fluidity. “Okay, that sounds good.”

They help you into the gown with deft hands, fastening buttons and adjusting seams until it fits perfectly. As you stand before the mirror, you hardly recognize yourself. The dress hugs your curves in all the right places, flowing elegantly to the floor.

One maid steps back to admire their work. “Oh it fits you perfectly! You look stunning."

Another brings over a selection of jewelry—delicate chains adorned with gemstones that sparkle like stars. Oh no.

"Would you like to add some accessories?" she asks, hopefulness glimmering within her eyes. You nod again, dazed by the transformation taking place. Is this all really necessary? It is just dinner… Right?

They drape a necklace around your neck and fasten earrings that catch the light just so. A final touch—a pair of matching shoes—completes the ensemble. You know you are dreaming when the beautiful shoes feel like clouds clinging to your feet.

You needed to stop thinking about how unusual this all is because this isn't the waking world. So you take a calming breath and turned towards the dreams that had tended to you with such exuberance.

"Thank you," you say softly, genuinely grateful for their care and attention. “I appreciate your help and skills.”

You follow the maids through a labyrinth of corridors, each more ornate than the last. The sound of your footsteps echoes softly against marble floors. You can feel the gown flowing around you, a luxurious rippling weight that does little to enforce surreal quality of this place. The Dreaming feels like a dream. Your head hurts just thinking about, so you decide to stop questioning everything that defies physics. Finally, you reach a pair of large, intricately carved doors that swing open effortlessly with a single touch.

Inside, a grand dining room unfolds before you. The ceiling stretches high above, adorned with celestial frescoes that seem to shift and shimmer as you move. The room is lit by chandeliers that twinkle like constellations, casting a soft, ambient glow.

At the center of the room stands a long table draped in an opulent tablecloth. It is set with an array of dishes that look both sumptuous and otherworldly—foods you recognize and some you can't quite identify. Yet, there is only one dining set placed meticulously at one end of the table. Are you… eating alone?

Morpheus stands near the head of the table, his dark presence stark against the light-filled room. His eyes find yours immediately as you enter, and a faint smile tugs at his lips.

"You look radiant," he says, his voice like velvet in the still air.

"Thank you," you reply, feeling a flush creep up your neck. "This is all... incredible."

He gestures toward the lone place setting. "Please, sit."

You walk over to the table and take your seat, smoothing out your gown as you do so. Morpheus remains standing, his gaze never leaving you. The food in front of you looks tantalizing, but there's an odd sense of dissonance—you're here in this lavish setting, but your host won't be joining you in the meal.

"Are you not eating?" you ask, trying to bridge the gap between this reality and your own. Does he even eat?

"I do not partake in mortal sustenance," he responds simply. "But I wished for your comfort."

A servant appears beside you, filling your glass with an effervescent liquid that sparkles like captured starlight. You go to take a sip, it's sweet and refreshing, unlike anything you've ever tasted. Or ever will for that matter.

Morpheus watches intently as you begin to eat, each bite an exploration of flavors both familiar and alien. He seems content just to observe, his presence both comforting and slightly unnerving.

"This is amazing," you say between bites. "But… why go through all this trouble?"

His eyes flicker slightly as he steps closer to the table. "Because your happiness matters," he states as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

You swallow hard, feeling a strange mix of emotions swirling within you. This was supposed to be fake—a ploy to get your mother off your back—but sitting here under his intense gaze makes it all feel unsettlingly real.

As if sensing your turmoil, Morpheus leans down slightly. "Relax," he murmurs softly. "Tonight is for enjoyment and for us to learn of each other." Right. You need to learn how to act with each other if you are going to fool your mother into thinking he really is your husband! This is actually rather smart on his part, your mother is studious and it will take a great act to pull this off.

You pick up your fork again, trying to ignore the way Morpheus' eyes follow your every move. A nearly impossible task.

"So," you say between bites of something that tastes like roasted nectarines but isn't quite. "I suppose we should get to know each other better."

Morpheus inclines his head slightly. "Indeed." He does wish to know his wife after all.

You take another bite, savoring the burst of flavors before continuing. "My mother... she's something else. Very overbearing and pushy. Always has been."

His gaze remains steady. "In what ways?"

"Well," you start, choosing your words carefully, "she's always been obsessed with the idea of me getting married. It's like she can't see me as an individual until I'm someone else's 'better half.' Every conversation circles back to it, no matter what."

Morpheus listens intently, his expression thoughtful. "That must be challenging for you."

You nod vigorously, feeling a rush of relief at his understanding. "It's exhausting. She sets me up on these endless blind dates, each one more disastrous than the last. And when I finally thought I'd had enough and told her I am married..." You trail off, the heat of embarrassment climbing up your neck once more.

His eyes flicker. "You invoked my name."

"Yes," you admit, feeling a bit sheepish. "It seemed like the perfect solution at the time. You seemed... unreachable enough to be convincing."

Morpheus remains silent for a moment, absorbing your words. He is honored that you chose him. Then he speaks softly, "I see why you sought an escape."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. "Exactly. But now she's even more insistent on meeting my 'husband.' That's why I needed your help."

He nods again, "Your mother seeks control through her demands," he observes.

"Yes," you agree quickly, glad he understands so clearly. "She can't stand not being in control or not knowing everything about my life."

"And this," he says slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, "is your way of reclaiming some autonomy."

"Exactly," you confirm, feeling a strange sense of validation from his words.

He stands closer to the table now, looking down at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. "Then we shall make sure it is convincing," he declares firmly.

You nod again, feeling more resolute than ever before as you continue to eat the otherworldly meal set before you. Morpheus watches silently but with an air of approval that somehow makes everything feel just a bit more bearable.

You take a delicate sip from your glass, the sparkling liquid dancing on your tongue. You glance up at Morpheus, who remains a stoic figure despite the warm glow of the room. "So," you begin, setting down your glass with a soft clink against the table, "if we're going to be convincing, I should probably know more about you. My mother will ask a million questions."

Morpheus folds his hands behind his back, and for a moment, you wonder if he'll dismiss your request. But then he nods, a cascade of raven hair shifting with the movement. "Very well," he concedes. "Ask what you wish to know."

"Let's start simple," you say. "What do I call you? Morpheus? Dream? Lord Shaper?" You try to keep your tone light, but there's an undercurrent of eagerness to your words. You do actually want to know more about him.

"Morpheus will suffice," he replies. It would be odd for his wife to call him anything but.

You nod and cut into another exotic dish. If only you could have cooking like this everyday. "And what do I say about what you do?" The question hangs in the air like an early morning mist.

"I am the custodian of dreams," Morpheus states simply. "I oversee the realm where humans wander in their sleep."

"That sounds... poetic," you murmur, trying to imagine how to translate that into something your mother would understand without sounding like you've completely lost touch with reality. You'd tell her that he is a sleep doctor or something like that, she'd like that you have married a doctor. That sounded plausible.

He inclines his head slightly. "It is one of my many responsibilities."

"And what should I say about how we met?" Your heart beats a little faster with this question; it's personal and could unravel everything if not handled carefully.

A flicker of something passes through his eyes—amusement perhaps? "Tell her we met in dreams," he suggests. "It is not untrue."

You chuckle softly at that. "Right, because that won't raise any eyebrows."

Morpheus regards you for a moment before continuing. "We can say that our paths crossed during one of my... excursions into the waking world."

"Excursions?" Your curiosity piques as you take another bite, this time from a fruit that bursts with sweetness.

"Yes," he confirms. "I occasionally walk among mortals to better understand them."

"Okay." You let out a slow breath, trying to commit each detail to memory. You met in a park. "Anything else I should know? Any hobbies or interests that might come up?"

Morpheus pauses before answering, as if considering what might be relevant. "I have an affinity for creation," he finally says. "The crafting of things both tangible and ephemeral." You'd tell her that he liked to make sculptures or something. She wouldn't be too interested in the details, just about his skill level and with the way he speaks, well… you would have no problems.

You nod again, it's an answer that gives enough away without revealing too much—a perfect balance for this charade. You look up at him with renewed determination.

"Alright," you say firmly. "Let's make sure we have our story straight."

Date Published: 12/11/24

Last Edit: 12/11/24

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[owliellder]

Two's A Crowd

College Bully! Leon Kennedy x fem! Reader

MDNI 18+

(Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5)

Description: College is proving to be a lot harder than you imagined. You cannot fail this math class. So when you've tried everything else, a well-known student is recommended to you by your professor for tutoring lessons, not really leaving you with much of a choice but to work with him.

Warnings: Not proofread, No Use of Y/N, Dub-Con, Unprotected Sex, Bullying, Yelling, Cursing

Tags: College AU, Bully! Leon, Shy! Reader, both are in their early 20's, Leon is Rude AF in the beginning, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Fingering, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Additional Tags to be Added

Author's Note: Yay!! New multi-chapter fic in honor of 800 followers!!

I'm a sucker for tropes and mean Leon is one I can't keep out of my head. If you're not good at math then this is the fic for you! (also don't mind me slipping some Sky lore in here...)

Cross-posted onto AO3

Chapter 1

Growing up, college had always been a big dream of yours, leaving you fantasizing day in and out about all the possibilities that would open up, along with actually getting to live through the renowned “college experience”.

In reality, college was a lot harder than you were expecting. Your parents had told you to jump right into it after high school, fearing taking a gap year would ruin your good streak. The stress was starting to get to you and it was only a semester into your freshman year. All the tests, projects, and general studying really wore down on your mental health, not to mention you were failing the one math class you had.

You couldn’t tell your parents, no, they’d probably have a heart attack, especially since that math class was a prerequisite to another class that you needed to take. They were already worried enough that you hadn’t picked a major yet, so who knows how they’d take the news that you were failing right off the bat.

It was hard enough that you were feeling homesick. This was the first time you’d ever been this far away from home, studying at a university when you would’ve been perfectly content going to a community college closer to home. Your roommate was nice, but the two of you weren’t growing any closer than mere acquaintances, so it always felt awkward to just exist in your own dorm room.

Your eating habits worsened with the lack of any real food within five miles of campus. Sure there were a couple fast food chains on the campus itself, but they closed incredibly early. By the time you finished studying, which was around six in the evening, it had already closed. Not to mention that when they were open, the lines were comically long. University food was out of the question after you got violently ill from their “chicken nuggets”, so you were left with the little money your parents provided once a week to order takeout or make quick trips to the store to buy a frozen meal. Only one, since the mini fridge in your dorm was almost always occupied by your roommates stuff.

Everything was so exhausting and you were way out of your comfort zone having to use the community bathrooms for all your hygienic routines. Walking in always made you feel like you were interrupting a meeting in the president’s oval office with how many nasty looks you were given when all you were trying to do was brush your teeth.

The first thing you saw whenever you opened up Canvas was a massive F staring you down from the little box that comprised the majority of your math assignments and tests, making you feel less than worthless. This one semester alone helped you understand why so many people dropped out, this was hard.

By now you’d already gone to your math professor multiple times asking for redos or extra credit work. He was probably sick of seeing you since you showed up after almost every single assignment’s grades were submitted.

“Heeeyyy, Mr. Lebovic..” You said after knocking your knuckle against his open door to grab his attention. “Listen, about that last quiz, I-”

He cut you off with a wave of his hand before gesturing towards one of the chairs sitting in front of his desk. You hurried to sit down, watching nervously as he slowly pulled his eyes off his computer and onto you. “I get it, you don’t need to explain yourself.” His relaxed tone and faint smile was enough to ease your nerves a bit, letting your shoulders slump with a sigh. “You’ve been trying really hard, I can easily recognize that.”

You nodded eagerly, licking your dry lips as you opened your mouth to speak, only to be cut off again. “I’ve been looking into studying options that might help you. Resources are scarce for this material, but I think I finally have a tutor to help you out.” 

A wave of relief washed over you at the mention of tutor. Maybe you wouldn’t have to face the wrath of your parent’s disappointment after all! “Oh.. o-okay…” you stuttered, eyebrows furrowing as you silently beckoned him to continue.

“I teach another math class, it’s higher level, but I have a student in there that’s just taken up tutoring the material you’re learning.” Your professor seemed just as happy as you were about the opportunity. “His name is Leon Kennedy, he’s got one of the study rooms in the library from three to five in the afternoon on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

It took you a second to process everything Mr. Lebovic was telling you before you scrambled to pull out a sticky note and a pen to write all the information down on. You heard the older man chuckle softly, looking over at him when he held out a small piece of paper to you. “I wrote it down already for you, don’t worry.” You wished you could’ve thanked him tenfold, but his office hours were closed for the day now, so you said a quick goodbye and hurried back to your dorm, holding onto the piece of paper like a lifeline.

Contrary to what your math professor thinks, you knew the name “Leon Kennedy”. You had a couple friends that you hung out with occasionally out in the grass in front of the science building and they’d brought him up before. The few vague bits of info that you’d heard weren’t flattering, painting this Leon in quite a bad light; the stereotypical jock in a frat flying by on a full-ride scholarship. However, he was your saving grace now and you needed to develop more of an unbiased opinion of him if he was going to help you raise your grade from an F.

“Yeesh, sorry I’m not better at math or I would’ve helped you.” One of your friends, Sky, spoke up as they read the piece of paper your professor gave you yesterday from over your shoulder. “Even if you were better at math, I still wouldn’t trust you.” Ella, your other friend, laughed out.

“Ha ha, yeah, Sky failed math four times. Big whoop.” Sky waved their hands dramatically before walking over to sit down next to Ella in the dead grass. “Seriously though, you’re better off taking a failing grade and dealing with your parents. Kennedy is the devil incarnate.”

“The devil incarnate sounds easier to put up with than my parents, so I’ll take my chances..” You grumbled, taking a seat on a medium-sized rock close to the pair. “Maybe he’s turning a new leaf? Deciding to tutor?” 

Sky crossed her arms and rolled her eyes which made Ella elbow them in the side before giving you a sympathetic smile. “Maybe so, but please just be careful. I don’t want you having to put up with some jackass that has an ego bigger than Texas.” 

You nodded with a slight frown, moving your foot side to side lazily to push the grass blades around. You didn’t even think to consider the repercussions of studying with some random junior. “I’m sure it’ll be alright. Besides, just tell Sky and I if he’s giving you any trouble. I know damn well no man likes to put up with two women yelling in his face.” Sky nodded and pointed to Ella for added dramatics. “Yeah, and I bite. My top six teeth are porcelain so that shit hurts. Trust me.”

Your friends never failed to make you laugh, a slight resolve in a pool full of worries, you suppose. “Don’t worry, you guys’ll be the first to know if Leon is mean.”

“Good. Now, when’re you gonna go see the guy?” Sky rested their arms on their knees before looking up at you. “Uh.. in a couple hours I guess. I already made the appointment.” Your response seemed to surprise both of your friends, giving them a confused look in response to their shocked ones. “Is that.. Is that not a good time?”

“No no, just.. I thought you would’ve maybe taken a little longer to go and see him.” Ella shrugged, reaching a hand up to scratch behind their neck. “Proud of you, taking the initiative like that.” She then looked at her phone before pulling herself off the ground with a small groan. “I got class in a couple minutes. Good luck with the frat boy.” 

She patted your shoulder as she walked off towards the larger building on campus, leaving you and Sky alone for the rest of the time. Part of you wished both of your friends could walk you to the library when the time came, but having Sky was enough. “So.. Leon’s bad bad?” You needed a bit more clarification on the guy you were going to spend one-on-one time with, something to calm you down after running through countless scenarios in your head.

“He’s not all bad, 'least I don't think. I’ve exchanged a few ‘hello’s’ and ‘excuse me’s’ with him here and there since we apparently frequent the same building.” Sky scooted over to the rock you were sitting on, placing the back of their head on your legs. A couple brown leaves blew over from a nearby tree which they grabbed and crunched with their hand. “I haven’t personally experienced any bad happenings around him, but he is part of a pretty notoriously rowdy frat, so you have to promise me that you’ll only study with him on campus and never go to that frat house or any frat house in general, alright?”

Sky pointed up at you, poking the underside of your chin which made you laugh again and swat their hand away. “As much as I rave about wanting to have the stereotypical college experience, going to a frat house was never part of my daydreaming.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” They switched their fingers to give you a quick thumbs up before letting their arm flop down into their lap, eyes closing with a sigh. “Anyways, besides all that, wanna go get some food? I don’t have another class today and you’ve got about an hour and a half to spare, so actually you have no choice. Get up.”

You stood up with a shake of your head once Sky pushed off of your legs who stood up as well with a small stretch. “Don’t burn me at the stake, but I kinda want grocery store sushi. I’m feeling lucky.”

“Please don’t.” You sighed, pocketing the piece of paper before beginning to follow behind Sky as they started to walk across the grass. 

After the two of you shared a sandwich from some random shop not too far off campus, Sky walked with you up to the library, stopping just before the front desk. They agreed to not wander in with you under the condition that you’ll go to their dorm straight after to discuss details.

To say you were nervous was an understatement. Most of what you heard about this guy meant he was bad news, though you really didn’t have much of a choice when it came to seeing him. Like your math professor said, there weren’t a lot of options when it came to studying the material you were learning. Sure you had the internet and other students in the class, but you preferred the idea of a tutor since you’d already exhausted yourself trying to follow along with various youtube videos. You needed the in-person teaching, it just stuck better in your head that way.

Slowly starting to walk, you made your way over to the study rooms lining the back of the library. The rooms seemed pretty private with the only window being on the door, which had glass nearly top to bottom. Thankfully the rooms were numbered and Leon had texted you which room to go to when you made the appointment with him, you had no idea what he looked like and you didn’t want to look like a creep eyeballing people through the door until you hopefully found the right person.

Standing off to the side, you could see the number you were looking for sitting above the door, taking a brief moment to collect yourself and hype yourself up to talk to someone who didn’t have the greatest reputation. Set aside everything you’ve heard and just hope for the best..

You took in a deep breath as you strode over to the door, glancing inside through the window before knocking to let him know you were there. The table was angled off more to the left so you didn’t immediately see him until he leaned over the table to see who had knocked. Confidence left you as soon as you made eye contact with Leon due to the groan you could hear through the door. It took you a couple seconds, but you eventually managed to get your body to work with you, hand turning the handle to let yourself in.

“-the last thing I need..” You caught the end of his little rant to himself as you opened the door. The saying “fake it ‘till you make it” is harder than it sounds since your entire body decided to betray you, deciding that shrinking in was the best move. Quietly, you shuffled over to sit across from him at the table, placing your backpack in your lap in some weird way to provide comfort in this situation.

“You weren’t supposed to show up.” Leon grumbled, sitting far back in the tilted chair as his feet lifted the front end of the chair slightly. His arms were crossed and he was giving you probably the nastiest look you’ve ever seen, next to your parents, of course. All you did was sit there giving him a blank stare. It was obvious what he’d said, yet the sheer forwardness of that snide comment had you more than confused. “What?-”

“You weren’t supposed to show up.” Apparently he felt the need to repeat himself with some added bite, barely letting you get a word in. “No one ever shows up to these shitty tutor- whatever the fucks.”

Wow. Okay. “Uh..” You didn’t even know what to say to that. It completely caught you off guard. You’d run through countless ways this interaction would go in your head, but this wasn’t one of those ways. The two of you sat in a very tense silence with Leon just glaring at you from across the table, continuing to rock back and forth in the chair.

Without uncrossing his arms, Leon lifted a hand and waved it around slightly while shaking his head. “Are you actually still gonna sit here orrr…?” The sound of his voice finally snapped you out of shock, causing you to shoot your gaze down to your backpack, fumbling with its partially broken zipper. “I-.. Mr. Lebovic recommended you..?”

You pulled out a few of your failed assignments from your bag before setting them down on the table with shaky hands, keeping your eyes glued to the papers to avoid that burning stare the man in front of you has. “I need-.. I need help..?”

“Do you?” Leon let the chair fall forward, his sarcastic tone starting to make your whole body tremble. “You don’t sound like you do.” He snatched one of your assignments from the table and held it up, pursing his lips as he studied the various red marks made on it closely. You chose to not respond to that, letting your hands rest on top of your backpack so you had something to squeeze.

He turned the page around, the sound of the paper wobbling the only thing you could hear right after the sound of the central heat blowing through the vent in the room. Suddenly, Leon started chuckling to himself, shaking his head incredulously as he flipped the paper back and forth a couple times before letting it fall back to the table. “This is terrible!” His laugh grew louder as he tilted his body to the side to pull out his phone, taking a picture of the assignments you’d put on the table. 

How on earth were you supposed to react to that other than just sitting quietly? He was actually making fun of you right to your face. Hell, he might as well point and laugh if he’s going to be this brasen. 

The most you could muster up was a quiet yet high-pitched “... huh?” in response to him. This whole ordeal was spiraling a little too fast for you to keep up with. You were expecting to put up with some grown man with a bratty attitude or even just a very uninterested, not all there jock with how Leon’s been described to you, not blatant bullying.

“Huh?” He mocked, taking one last look at his phone while loudly sucking on his teeth before pocketing it again. “Anyways, this is actually sad. How are you managing to fuck simple math up like this?” He roughly grabbed all the papers on the table and stacked them before partially tossing them back at you, some slipping onto the floor. “You’re too far gone, even I can’t fix that.”

You let out a gasp when the papers were tossed at your face, scrambling to catch some of them. Pushing the chair back, you leaned over to grab the few that fell on the floor, desperately holding back tears. “Please, you don’t understand.” You pleaded, voice cracking as you tried your best not to start crying in front of him. “I-I need to pass this class. I’m passing everything else, I just can’t keep up with this one!” You were speed-talking to try and argue your case, sitting back up with the small pile of papers that you struggled to stack properly.

Leon started rocking back in his chair again, arms back across his chest as he watched you with squinted eyes. The corners of his lips soon turned up into a smirk, taking in your sorry state before rolling his eyes with a dramatic groan. “Alright, alright, stop whining, jesus..” He cleared his throat, letting his head fall over the back of the chair. “I’ll help you only because I feel bad for you.” It’s not like he was going to admit that he was being forced to be a tutor, no one needs leverage over him like that

You couldn’t help but give a small smile despite his implication. It was a start. “And I’m not gonna do it today, either.” Well, the sooner the better, but still, it’s a start.

He then stood up from the chair, fixing his jacket with a sigh. “If you show up even a minute late on Friday, I’m not helping” and before you even had a chance to reply, he walked out of the room, the door shutting with a slam which made you flinch. Luckily, you were a very punctual person when it came to this kind of stuff. This was important, so if you had to show up early, so be it. You hurriedly shoved your assignments back into your backpack, not even fully zipping it up before rushing out of the study room, back through the library, and to the dorms.

“He said that?!” Sky yelled, quickly wiping their hand over their mouth to quiet themself once you shushed them. “I don’t really feel comfortable with you going to another ‘study session’ with that guy if he’s just gonna bully you.”

“I wouldn’t call it bullying-”

“He was bullying you.”

“OKAY! So what if he was?!” You fell back onto Sky’s bed with a sigh, arms splayed out with your legs dangling off the side. “I can handle it. As long as I get my grade up, who cares?”

Sky sat down next to you on their bed, giving you a sad look as you sat yourself up with your elbows. “I care. So does Ella. You shouldn’t put up with that just for a grade. I’m sure if you explain to your professor and-”

“And what? Tell him that I’m a grown woman getting bullied over something I should know by now?” You sat yourself up fully now, leaning forward to place your elbows on your thighs as your head rested in your hands. “It’s only until finals are over and we’re already halfway through October. Maybe I won’t even need that much time, maybe I’m just missing one simple… math move and it’ll get the gears in my brain moving again.”

You tilted your head to the side to look at Sky, head now resting only in your right hand as you took in their annoyed look. “Trust me. I can handle this.”

“If you say so.” They ran their fingers through her hair before looking away from you, directing their attention forward to stare off at nothing. “Just remember that I bite and I’m not afraid to use my fake chompers on that no good-”

“I don’t wanna think about escalations right now, but thank you.” You chuckled, playfully nudging Sky with your free hand before moving it back to hold your head up with the other. Though you were trying to convince Sky on this, you were mostly just trying to convince yourself that you could handle this. Handle Leon and his.. alluring charm..

Only until finals, maybe even sooner.

[arcanarix]

Because You're a Big Deal - Satoru Gojo X Fem!Sorcerer Reader

Content Warnings: handjobs, body worship, exhibitionism, cockwarming, edging, cunnilingus, satoru might have a slight humliation/degradation kink, satoru is lowkey a creep and yandereish but not really, he also has no concept of personal space

Word Count: 10.1K

Summary: It’s common knowledge that Satoru Gojo is completely devoted to you. Why?—Because he makes it everyone’s, especially your, problem!

AO3

Since he’s been ripped out of his mother’s womb, life has bent to Satoru Gojo’s will. Everything falls into place as if the universe itself acknowledges that he’s destined for greatness. He barely has to lift a finger, and his achievements pile up, much to the irritation of literally everyone around him. It’s not just because he’s able to back up his skill—he makes sure it’s known that he’s the best sorcerer in the modern world, though—it’s also the way he exudes this untouchable self-assuredness which sets him apart from the rest. He’s practically a God walking among mere simpletons.

In a way, you find yourself pitying the guy at times. You can see how that kind of existence could be isolating. Being blessed—or cursed—with so much power from the get-go. He’s high above everyone else, like he’s observing the world from a higher vantage point—like a God in the sky or on another plane of reality. So to someone like you, who scrape by on sheer determination, ambition, and hard-headedness, Gojo’s life feels impossibly distant.

You’re not part of the elite three clans. You’re…just you, really. You’re a fledgling sorcerer who’s stumbled into this world all on accident, thanks to some Grade 2 curse spirits running amok on your college campus. Among the student and faculty body, you’re the only person you know who can see them, the only person who can react. It’s kind of made you an outcast there because you were afraid of stepping out of your dorm. That’s how you ended up here, after meeting Gojo and the others through chance. You’re training at Jujutsu Tech under Yaga and Gojo’s guidance, as a Grade 3 now—not that far along, but still a step above from where you began which was rock bottom. You still don’t compare to your peers at all in terms of experience.

But as much as you are grateful for Satoru Gojo and his small group of students, who have already rapidly become family to you, you can’t say you’re exactly pleased to be in his presence 99 percent of the time.

Why’s that, you wonder?

It’s simple, really.

From the moment he met you, he’s made it painfully clear that you have captured his attention. He’s obsessed, locked on you with such fervor it could decimate entire buildings with the same energy as a Hollow Purple. While it may have started as a shallow infatuation—you can’t even begin to imagine why—you know better than to let your guard down. With men like him, it’s easy to feel like a conquest, a prize to be won. From someone who’s so used to winning, without a doubt, he sees you as a challenge.

His favorite toy. You refuse to give him that satisfaction.

You don’t know how wrong you are about that assumption, though.

Because titles aside, he’s still just some dude who probably thinks more with his dick than with his brain.

You’re not sure why you in particular, either. Maybe others who’re more aware of his reputation might find it flattering, for the following reasons: he’s the strongest sorcerer of the modern times. That’s one. He’s rich as fuck. That’s two. He’s also stupidly handsome with those striking blue eyes of his and that lanky figure. That’s three.

You can’t find it in your core to give a flying fuck about it, though. Because beyond the superficial, he’s lacking in a lot of areas.

Everyone around you seems to agree.

Even now, as you sit in the classroom, waiting for him to show up—because of course, he’s late again as usual—you feel the tension building in your gut. You lean back, your chair creaking as a deep sigh leaves your lips. Your fingers idly trace the screen of your phone. Fushiguro’s gaze bores into your skull, with an all-knowing feeling. Is Gojo going to pull some bullshit today like he always does?

Your eyes roll, as you whip around to meet his gaze. As if silently communicating to him. Of course he is. Gojo always pulls something and everyone knows it, but especially Fushiguro. You have learned to expect it just as everyone else does.

The door swings open with a rush of air, and in strides Gojo, with that smug grin plastered across his face. He carries himself with a straight posture, hands stuffed into his pockets, acting like the world revolves around him because obviously it does. To him it does.

“Sorry for the wait! Since there’s not a lot of things we have to go over today before Megumi and the others are sent on yet another mission, I won’t keep you guys that long.”

Even without looking up, the weight of his gaze locks on you. You feel like you’re on a stage and those blinding blue eyes are the spotlight. When you do glance his way, you catch the faintest twitch of his lips. You’re not wearing your uniform today, and that seems to spark something in him. His blinding blue eyes, though hidden beneath his blindfold, must gleam with mischief. He’s definitely scheming.

“Well, most of you,” he finishes, that smirk of his widening.

You suppress a groan, already knowing where this is going and what thoughts might be running amok in that idiot brain of his, which only thinks with his dick in your presence. The outfit you opt to wear is nothing special—just a pair of shorts and a tank top—but for Gojo, it’s like a gift sent from the Heavens. He always twists the simplest actions of yours into a reason to give you a hard time.

As the briefing drones on, your eyes drift upward by mistake, sneaking a peek at him. What a bad move. Of course, he’s already looking at you, that grin still so wide his face is cracking. He raises his hand to his mouth—thrusting his tongue between two spread fingers—and your face flushes deep from embarrassment. Without thinking, your hands fly up to cover your face as you bite back a sigh.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Luckily, no one notices.

True to his word, the briefing is just that—brief. Itadori, Kugisaki, and Fushiguro head off, leaving you behind with Panda, Inumaki, and Maki for a few moments…at leaste, until they, too, make their hasty exit, leaving you alone.

Leaving you alone with that sad fuck of a man.

He slides up to you, peeling his blindfold up with a slender finger as he leans in closer than necessary. His breath fans against your forehead, and you have to resist the urge to step back lest you want to stir up more trouble for yourself, to push him out of your personal bubble. But Gojo doesn’t seem to have any concept of personal space. He never has. Those eyes of his, sharp, and blue like glaciers in the north, flicker across your face, down to the exposed skin of your shoulders and collarbone.

“Where’s your uniform?” he asks, his voice casual, with a playful note beneath it. There’s a layer of something else, though. His slender fingers trail along your arm, ghosting over your skin where the thin fabric of your tank top exposes you.

The guy acts like he can do whatever he wants. That he’s the man.

You aren’t ever going to give him the satisfaction of admitting that because he already knows he’s a big deal. He already knows he’s absolutely all that and he doesn’t need more reminders. You aren’t interested in stroking his ego (or any physical attributes of his body, for that matter). That must get under his skin and you might be a little too proud of yourself for that, mentally giving yourself a pat on the back every time he seems a little disheartened by your lack of reciprocation.

You need to set that record straight with him. He needs to be knocked down a LOT of pegs.  

Fuck him and his Infinity…you’d love to kick him where it hurts because that’s the only thing he thinks with in that idiot brain of his…

You finally swat at his hand, irritation burbling beneath your skin. “Didn’t Ijichi tell you? It’s at the dry cleaners.”

Gojo gives a non-committal hum in response, but his grin never leaves his features as he settles onto your desk, sprawling out like he owns it. His gaze locks on you, studying every part of your body, and your insides are screaming at you to bolt out the door. But it’s only going to cause him to be more annoying.

“You sure you didn’t wear this just for me?” His voice is a low rasp, dropping an octave, a purr in your ear that sends a shiver dancing down your spine. His hand brushes your cheek, his thumb grazing your supple skin.

You smack his hand away again, maintaining a blank expression.

“Not interested,” you deadpan, rising to your feet. “Now, am I dismissed?”

Gojo’s expression falters for a fraction of a second before that smugness of his bounces back, slipping the blindfold back over his eyes.

“Sure,” he replies, but not before his fingers tuck under your chin, tilting your head in an angle ever so slowly.

You swallow on a lump of nothing—

Oh.

--that bulge in his pants, straining against the fabric of his uniform, growing more and more prominent by the passing second. You swallow hard again, your heart dropping tor your stomach.

“Now you know,” he finishes in a low murmur, sliding off your desk with his infuriating smirk still on his fucking face.

You scowl so deep your forehead wrinkles, stepping back away from him. Before you make it further, he grabs your elbow, pulling you close—too close. Flush against his warm body, where your thigh brushes against his hardness. You hate the way it makes you feel.

You hate that you don’t hate it.

“You’re too beautiful for your own good, you know that?” His voice is low, soft, reverent, but the edge of teasing remains.

“I could have you written up for sexual harassment,” you mutter under your breath.

His laugh is quick, sharp, echoing through the walls of the empty classroom.

“Hoho, I’m so scared,” he retaliates in a mocking tone as he allows you to break free from his grasp. “The worst Yaga will give me is a little reprimanding and a swat on the wrist, which won’t change much in the grand scheme of things.”

Utahime is right, you idly muse. He’s a fucking man child.

Why does he find such joy in being a troll? You want to give him the benefit of the doubt. That maybe he has some depth beneath the stupidity he embodies. Is it to hide trauma or something? Can’t he, for once, be a little more serious? Address you like a person because that’s all you want from people?

Do you even care to pick his idiot brain and find out?

“Because you’re the untouchable one in this universe,” you remark with a defeated sigh. Maybe consider transferring to Kyoto? But then he might find another way to harass you…

“Exactly,” he retorts, as you whip around to fully face him. He towers over you; he towers over nearly everyone. But you don’t often take note of how intimidating that is in combination with his reputation. You wonder if he truly is blessed in every aspect of his life (perhaps his only vice, that you can name thus far anyway, is his lack of interpersonal intelligence).

“I’ll be seeing you, Sensei,” you mumble through gritted teeth as you gather your things and amble out the door. His wolf-whistle follows you out, and you resist the urge to turn around and deck him on the spot. Not that you can be able to with his goddamn Infinity.

Maybe you should still write him up for harassment.

But then, upon further reflection, you sincerely doubt it’s going to make a difference. He even says so himself. Nothing changes his mind.

The cool autumn air rushes through your hair as you and the other students stroll down the busy streets, laughing and chatting it up. You find comfort in this routine—the way you can shed the weight of becoming a sorcerer, even if only for a few hours.

To cap off the end of a grueling week, the students often orchestrate a fun night out in the town. You and the other students engage in some semblance of normalcy outside of jujutsu society. You actually get to have fun—and not in the presence of any of your superiors, which helps you take the edge off, for sure.

Itadori and the others—well in particular he, Fushiguro, and Kugisaki—they make you feel like one of them and you haven’t even been with them for that long. Each and every one of them, they’re unique and talented and genuine people. You are willing to admit even Gojo is, in his own right. You just won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that, on some levels, you do respect him for certain things.

You probably won’t be alive today if not for these guys.

Itadori grins, his arms stretched behind his head as he glances at the group.

“Is anyone up for a karaoke night?” Itadori inquires, eyes twinkling.

“I’m down, but maybe after I’ve had a few drinks,” you tease with a light giggle. “I’m no Mariah Carey or Ariana Grande.”

“None of us are,” Fushiguro scoffs, shaking his head. “Except for Gojo. Naturally.”

You resist rolling your eyes. Even when he’s not here, Gojo finds a way to worm into the conversation and in your fucking bubble.

“Of course he is,” Kugisaki quips with a smirk playing on her lips. “Guy’s got no shortcomings.”

Fushiguro is quick to challenge that statement.

“Actually—!” Fushiguro starts, only for Kugisaki to cut him off.

“—What, Fushiguro? Apart from his lack of personality, what else?” Kugisaki asks, curious.

That clamps his mouth shut, lips pressed in a deep frown. He falls silent as you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Can we actually not talk about Sensei?” you ask, your own frown stressing your features. “I want one night where I don’t have to think about him and his stupid face.”

Fushiguro glances at you, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Yeah, of course,” Fushiguro states, “Is he still giving you trouble?”

“When does he not give any of us trouble?” Kugisaki chimes in with a sigh. “Then again, he’s been a bit pushier with you lately. We can bring it up to Yaga, you know.”

Your shoulders tense for a moment, before you shake your head.

“He hasn’t done anything,” you realize how meek you sound and try to find that strength in your voice again. “Well, nothing Yaga would take seriously. Not like Gojo would take anything seriously, either.”

“Understatement of the modern age,” Fushiguro wisecracks in a low murmur.

“Come on, Sensei’s not that bad,” Itadori interjects,  always the sort of person to give people the benefit of the doubt. Where applicable, of course. Which for someone like Itadori, it’s 99 percent of the time—especially when it comes to people he admires like Gojo.

Never mind how overt and rambunctious Gojo can be, he’s still a good person. Or at least, he fights for the right things. You can concede to that. But still…

“Sure, he’s kind of…persistent, though. I don’t know him all that well still so maybe Fushiguro will have a better handling on that.”

“He’s as idiotic as any other man comes,” Fushiguro concedes with a grunt. “If I have to punch him out, I’ll punch him out. That is, if he’s gutsy enough to shut off his Infinity to take a little disciplinary action like a man.”

“We’re still talking about him,” you point out.

“Sorry,” they all apologize in unison.

The conversation finally drifts away from Gojo, and you find yourself easing up a bit. The tension melting off of your body. It’s nice to be in the presence of your friends.

“So,” you drag out the word to catch their attention again, hoping to lift the mood. “Karaoke?”

“Yeah! Let’s do it!” Itadori jabs two thumbs up in the air.

The lights of the karaoke bar you all frequent blinks ahead. You’re excited for a few hours of escapism.

Of course, life has other plans as it seems the faculty of Jujutsu Tech orchestrate their own karaoke night. Since you’re together in the same bar, you decide to rent a room for all of you to sing your lungs out with unlimited drinks.

The karaoke room is dark save for a few string lights casting soft glows across the plush seats, low tables, and around the ceilings. The music blares from the speakers, the laughter of your friends mixing with the thumping, reverberating bass as you amble over to the couch. While Gojo and your mentors are here, you still find yourself unwinding and enjoying your time with your friends.

But of course, the universe has decided you can’t have nice things for very long.

On your way to the couch, you trip over something—a bag, a dropped can of beer, a foot, who fucking knows—and before you can catch yourself, you fall right into someone’s lap.

Not just anyone’s.

The odds, as always, are in Gojo’s favor. The planets always align for this fuck.

His arms secure around your waist instantly, securing you in place with an unyielding, vice grip.

“Well, well, well, happy birthday to me,” he murmurs, his breath fanning the nape of your neck. You shift, attempting to break free, but he yanks you back down, pressing your ass into his lap. That unmistakable hardness beneath you makes your heart jump to your throat.

“Stay,” he whispers, his voice demanding, as he presses the growing tent in his pants between your ass cheeks.

You grind your teeth, whipping your head over your shoulder to glare at him. His grin is as infuriating as ever—that shit-eating smirk that makes you want to tear him a few new assholes.

“I’m about to go back up and sing,” you hiss, squirming in his lap which only seems to encourage him, a low whimper escaping his lips that only you can hear. It makes your hairs stand on end and your blood burble. He tightens his iron grip, grinding his hips against yours.

“Stay a little longer,” he coos, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. He bites back another little whimper as he rolls his hips again, and there’s a heat pooling in your legs that’s impossible to ignore. Luckily, everyone’s too distracted with Shoko’s and Utahime’s drunken rendition of Smells Like Teen Spirit, and no one’s paying attention to you or to Gojo.

For once, the universe isn’t humiliating you.

“Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw. “I wonder how amazing you’d feel bouncing on my wood.”

“Gojo!” you whisper in a harsh tone, finally slipping free from his lap. You’re tempted to smack him, and you almost do, but you recognize the challenge in his gaze.

Him and his fucking Infinity.

“Fuck you,” you sneer, turning on your heel and returning to the others, but you still hear his response:

“Soon,” he calls back with a lazy wave.

You know you don’t get the luxury of avoiding Gojo.

You come to a realization that hits you like a Falcon punch to your gut: you’re not sure if you want Gojo to ignore you. It’s not because you’ve come to enjoy the attention. Far from it. He’s still crass; he’s still pushy; he’s still overt and obnoxious. It’s still infuriating and he’s still very punchable about this shit.

But today…today, you just aren’t into entertaining him. Today, you’re feeling really off your game in more ways than one, and he wants to whack the hornet’s nest out of sheer habit.

He must sense your shift in mood since that karaoke night. One second, you’re telling him to piss off, leave you alone, and the next, his large hand wraps around your wrist, jerking you toward him. His body is pressed to yours, and you can feel that hardness against our thigh.

You’re praising the gods above that there isn’t anyone around to witness this because this is probably you at your most unbecoming self.

“Sensei,” you grind out, your voice low with frustration. “Let. Me. Go.”

“Come on, no need to be so formal here. It’s us, baby girl. Say my name. Satoru.”

“Gojo,” you sneer, attempting to pull away, but his grip strengthens like titanium around your wrist. Those blue eyes of his—no, they look more like predatory slits now—bore into you with an intensity that you only saw once before back in Shibuya. When something inside of him fractures, splitting like glass under the high stakes. The memory of it, jagged and sharp, makes your heartbeat skyrocket.

You aren’t interested in exploring what lurks behind that gaze; you don’t wish to challenge it. But he doesn’t give you the luxury of turning away. His hand remains secured around your wrist, jerking you off balance as you’re spun in a fluid motion, pressing your back flush against the wall, his body caging over yours. You collide with the cool surface with a light thud, but you’re not all that disoriented. Just a little taken aback. The scorching heat of his body crowds into yours. His knee is still wedging between your legs, the pressure firm but demanding as it rubs into your clothed cunt.

“When are you going to stop punishing me?” he murmurs, his voice a near-growl that rumbles through his chest and vibrates against your skin. The sound is barely audible, yet it hits you like a tidal wave. Your breath hitches, and your eyes narrow into slits out of defiance.

“I’m not—!” The retort dies in your throat as his lips graze against your ear, his breath sending a rush of heat from your neck shooting all the way down to your groin. He shifts his knee, pushing it harder against the sensitive core between your thighs, and the friction draws a gasp from your lips before you can act to suppress it.

“Don’t feed me that bullshit,” he growls, his teeth taking in your bottom lip and grinding it between them. He chews hard on it, just enough to make you flinch, before his tongue swipes across the sore spot, soothing the light sting. More heat rushes to your cheeks, spreading in waves throughout your body as his hands roam your body, still skimming the modest areas, but it’s enough to make you squirm and fidget. It makes your breath come out in short, ragged, uneven breaths.

His grip slides dangerously lower, tracing the slight dip of your waist with his fingers that linger just a little too long for your comfort.

“Stop dancing around how you feel about me.”

“Gojo…” you whimper, though your voice pitifully muffled against his mouth. Your hands push against his chest, but to no avail, you’re weaker than him (everyone is weaker than him, but you especially so and for other reasons not related to physical prowess); your mind is torn between pushing him and away and… wanting to understand what the hell this is. What the hell he’s doing with you. What he wants to do with you.

“Satoru.” He corrects, his voice thick and guttural from arousal. The way he demands it, it’s primal, feral, a low rumble like distant thunder that leaves you no room to refuse him. “Say it.”

“Satoru,” you stammer, the syllables tumbling from your lips unbidden as he nips at your lips again, hard enough to draw yet another breathy gasp. You reluctantly tilt your head back, exposing the line of your neck to his relentless pursuit.  “Stop.”

His eyes continue to bore into yours, drilling deep like a jack hammer through your skull. Those eyes of his, they’re so bright, so blinding, almost as if they can strip you bare with just a glance because he can bend everything to his will like he always does. Even with his Infinity shut off, they’re so intense. He’s suffocating. Inescapable.

Unforgettable.  

“You don’t mean that,” he whispers, his voice softening to a lower murmur as he dips his head lower, his nose brushing along the sensitive skin of your neck. His lips trail after, feathery light over your skin, barely there, and he inhales sharply when he reaches your pulse point thundering just beneath your collarbone.

“I know you don’t mean that.”

Your cherry perfume lingers in the air between you as he continues. His fingers graze at the dips of your waist. Suddenly everything feels too constricting, all consuming.

“Please,” he mutters, his voice cracking. He sounds almost…pained, almost vulnerable in a way that you have never seen from him before. He’s always so sure of himself. So haughty. For another second, there’s something fragile flickering in his gaze.

“Stop torturing me.”

It happens before you can stop it—you can’t help the slight twitch of your eye. Torturing him? Is he serious? You almost want to laugh off the sheer absurdity of that accusation. But the thought soon dies when he leans in again, his lips wet, sloppy kisses along your jawline, taking his time like he’s savoring this moment. Like he’s not sure he’ll ever have a chance again. He might be wrong; he might be right.

You don’t even know yourself.

He stops at the tip of your chin, his voice a low crackle like the strike of lightning.

“You’re torturing me by not acting,” he grunts out that explanation, his words now rough and strained. There’s a rawness in his voice—a kind of sincerity that you’re shocked he even has in him. His hand slides even lower, now grazing your hips, before grasping your wrist and guiding it down to rest against his pelvis. There’s the heat of his arousal, the strain of it sticking through the thin fabric of his slacks, and you freeze.

“You see what you do to me. You see how hard you make me,” he whispers, guiding your hand along the rigid length of him through his slacks. His eyes remain locked on yours, bright, blindingly hungry, studying your reactions. As always, he’s relentless in his pursuit of you, determined to get what he wants. He’s not used to things not falling in his lap.

He moans low, guttural, still pained, like…like this is a need for him.

The world between you narrows, sharpens like a camera filter, focusing in on the two of you. Just the two of you in the empty classroom. His ragged breaths fill your senses, the feel of his smooth hardness beneath your soft moisturized palm. You feel the erratic pounding of your own pulse in your eardrums. He moans again, low, needy, a pained, pitiful sound. It’s so thick and suffocating, and you honestly wonder how you got to this point. Why you’re letting him do this.

It’s a lot, and yet you can’t find yourself ripping away from his gaze. His gaze never leaves yours, even as his hips buck slightly into your hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. Those eyes, full of that unsettling lust and vulnerability, continue to glow bright and shiny. It’s too much, way too much, too bright, too overstimulating. You want to break the connection, yet you can’t. You’re caught in his web. You’re trapped.

“Keep rubbing me like that,” he rasps, his voice in broken gasps, as he presses his body needily into yours. His hands find your waist and grips tight, fingertips digging into your skin, securing you in place as if he can’t bear to let you leave as he continues to grind helplessly against your hand. “Fuck… your hand’s so soft… feels so good…”

He keeps rolling against your body, making your breath catch. It’s kind of sexy. He’s unguarded in a way you’ve never seen him in other settings, even when he’s goofing off with other colleagues or the other students. Every broken whimper that leaves his yappy lips just adds to the appeal all of a sudden, because you can’t believe you’re able to make him succumb to you like this. You’re making his control slip with each passing nanosecond. You’re the center of this world, and you don’t find yourself hating that.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his voice pitching higher now, desperate as he ruts against your paml with a lot more urgency, a lot more desperation. His cock twitches through the thin fabric of his slacks, the friction too much, too good to pass up. His body’s shaking against yours, and it’s because of you. His breath hitches with every languid roll of his hips.

“I need you,” he quavers, his voice catching in his throat as he trails heated kisses along your collarbone. His lips feel soft, but his words are laden with a kind of desperation you’ve never thought you’d see in your life. “Can’t you feel how badly I fucking need you?”

You can. You can feel every ounce of his need, pressing against you. Your bodies are so close there’s nothing but headiness and heat. That need of his…it makes you a bit wary. You don’t trust Gojo for a myriad of reasons.

Not like this, at least.

Yet, while your mind is screaming at you to rip away, to cease this nonsense, you find yourself complying. Your hand remains where it is, your fingers grazing his bulge on their own accord matching the rhythm of each roll of his hips. He’s still trembling, falling apart at your touch. Something about that…something about that is so fucking hot, and you hate that you don’t’ hate this.

“Almost there?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering as your thumb brushes lightly over the tip of his cock poking through. It’s an instinctive motion, and his reaction is immediate, drawing out a choked gasp, his head dipping onto your shoulder as his full body shudders.

“Fuck…yes,” he moans, his voice still rough and strained from need and arousal, rutting harder into your hand. “More. Fuck… please, more…”

Your breath catches in your throat as you jerk him faster, each stroke sending him over a dangerous edge. That grip on your hips constricts, almost bruising your skin as he chases his release. His moans falling from his lips are so soft, breathy, needy…it’s so juicy.

“Baby,” he whimpers, his voice broken as he thrusts one final time into your hand. His cock twitches again, hard, swollen, before he creams into his slacks with a strangled, pitiful whine. He pants in short, ragged gasps as he nuzzles his forehead into your shoulder.

The world halts between you. The only thing filling the room is the sound of his ragged breaths. His body slumps against yours for a few more moments, before he reluctantly pulls away. His gaze never leaves yours, dazed, delirious…drunk off of you.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your ear before nipping it in a playful manner. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead before fully stepping back.

You remain there, pressed up against the wall, dumbfounded, your mind reeling from everything that’s just transpired. You want to feel disgusted, repulsed even. Yet…you’re not.

You feel almost…

Your cheeks burn at the mere notion. There’s no way. Guess Hell has finally frozen over.

Gojo says nothing more, sparing you the embarrassment as he retreats, his hands smoothing over his slacks, in an attempt to conceal any remnants of his little time to rejoice. His perfect posture bounces back far too quickly from this. It’s infuriating how he can act like nothing happened and you’re still taken aback. He bends down, retrieving a small disinfecting cloth from his desk drawer, then wipes your hand in a soft, reverent motion.

His eyes flicker to yours as he does, lingering with a softer expression.

“You…” Your voice comes out pathetic, wimpy. You find some semblance of strength over your voice and your body. Everything that’s happened finally sinks in, and your mind is swirling.

His natural scent still lingers, he’s so close. Crisp, fresh.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence like he always does, a spark of amusement hidden just beneath that calm tone of his. His lips twitch into that infuriating, ever smug grin of his. “Didn’t hate it?”

You open your mouth to snap back, to scream and yell at him, but the words catch in your throat. You can’t even hate him. You can’t even find the anger that should be threatening to burst through that tightly sealed lid, that you keep bottled up. There’s just confusion, frustration, uncertainty…

You rip your hand from his and twist on your heel, ambling toward the door as your body is operating on autopilot.

Your hand reaches for the doorknob, his voice cuts through the thick silence.

“Come on, it was good, right?”

You freeze in your tracks, your back still turned to him. His gaze burns into your skin. You don’t respond. You don’t know how to respond. You can’t. You twist the doorknob, the door emitting a creak as it opened, stepping out into the hallway—away from his suffocating, overstimulating presence.

Suddenly you feel lighter, cooler.

But as you stride down the empty halls, your mind replays the events in an endless loop—that nagging sensation gnawing at your soul.

Are you coming around? You don’t know. You know you didn’t hate it; that’s as much as you’re willing to admit. Your heart thunders, echoes of his parting words lingering.

You don’t notice him peeping out through the door slightly ajar and watching you walk away.

You can’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes.

Not through the briefing, where the low chattering of conversation barely registers over the pounding heartbeat in your ears. Sure as hell not through the training, where your hands fumble through the motions, distracted. Fushiguro and Kugisaki get a chance to tumble you to the ground without so much as a shred of remorse.

It’s like you can’t break away. Every time his eyes land on you, you can feel them burning straight through our soul, making your stomach twist and churn.

When you’re back in the classroom, it feels stifling. The chalkboard behind Gojo is worn from everything Gojo writes on it. You sit at your desk, twiddling a pencil between your fingers; your mind relaying the events over and over, no matter how much you want to shove them down, push them away. It’s almost impossible to focus on anything else. You entertain the glimpses of his expressions, how he unravels at your touch…they all keep floating to the surface of your brain and it’s both a nightmare and a dream. You’re not sure which.

He's always been open about his feelings. It’s never been a secret. He makes it everyone’s problem, for fuck’s sake. But now, seeing it firsthand, how he reacts to the slightest brush of your fingers…it’s different now. You don’t know how to feel about it.

“Yoooo,” Itadori’s voice snaps you back to the present, his hand waving in front of your face. You blink a few times, jerking back into reality as his curious eyes meet yours. “We’ve been trying to get your attention. Everything okay?

You force a smile, but it feels strained and awkward on your lips. It’s like a mask that doesn’t fit you.

“Yeah,” you lie right through your teeth, strained to your own ears. “Just a lot on my mind.”

You haven’t noticed Gojo excused himself at some point—how long has it been since he left the room? Not like it matters that much to you. Because even when he isn’t present, his energy clings to the air, inescapable, suffocating. Unforgettable.

Fushiguro leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assesses your reactions.

“Is it Gojo?” he asks, his voice a low, irritated grumble.

You hesitate, your fingers clenching around the pencil.

“…No,” you manage to say, the words slipping through your teeth with a bit of difficulty. “Other stuff.”

Itadori, ever the peppy optimist, flashes you a heartwarming grin. His sincerity can get so annoying sometimes, but endearing all at once.

“Enlighten us? Maybe we can help!” he suggests.

You shake your head, avoiding eye contact. You hate lying to him. “Nah, too dark.”

Itadori is unconvinced, his beady eyes focused on you. “You sure?”

“I’m good,” you insist, hoping your forced smile will suffice. “I swear.”

“She gets harassed enough by Gojo,” Fushiguro interjects with a snarl, swatting at Itadori’s head to knock some sense into him. “Knock it of, Yuuji.”

Before the conversation drifts to another direction, a voice cuts through the room like a blade.

“Yeah, Yuuji Itadori,” Gojo’s voice drawls in a playful way from behind you. You don’t have to see him to know his smirk is ever present on that stupid face of his. “Annoying her to death is strictly my territory.”

You stiffen in place, your muscles tensing as Gojo’s presence draws nearer. You don’t want to turn around; you can’t. His stare presses into your back, seeping through your skin like a stain.

“Alright guys, I think we covered everything we needed to today. Go enjoy the rest of your day, yeah?” he instructs after clapping twice, officially dismissing the students.

You don’t hesitate to scurry past him, the scrape of your chair echoing in the classroom as you hop to your feet. You don’t look back. As soon as the words of dismissal leave his lips, you’re up from your desk, making a beeline for the exit. You think you make it, your feet dragging you toward the sweet embrace of freedom—

--His hand is on your shoulder before you take another step. His grip is firm, not tight, but secure enough to make chills surge through your body. Every muscle in your body is screaming at you to run, but it’s like you’re stuck in place—pinned by the overpowering force of his presence.

“Hey,” he drawls, a soft, teasing purr that causes your skin to tingle. His lips graze against the shell of your ear as he chuckles. Your cheeks flush deep from heat. You curse your body for giving you so much Hell around him.

“Sensei,” you state, voice sharper than intended, yet it still lacks the strength you wish it normally has. “I’m just trying to enjoy the rest of my day, just as you instructed.”

He hums in response, breathing down your sensitive skin.

“Satoru,” he bites back in a growl, his lips still brushing the curve of your ear before nipping at it, a playful gesture that makes you jump in place. He soothes the sting with a few passes of his tongue, and you shiver.

“Say it,” he goes on again. “Say my name.”

You grit your teeth, annoyance laden in your tone.

“Satoru,” you mutter, the irritation in your tone clear. “What do you want?”

He chuckles again, but this time there’s a bit of an edge to it—that same, primal edge.

“You know,” he quips, and before you retaliate, his hand is guiding yours to his lap, and your breath hitches as you feel his unmistakable hardness pressing against his slacks again. He slips his cock out from his confines this time, and in an instant, he wraps your hand around his shaft. Your fingers trace the heat of his length. This time, he doesn’t plan on holding back. The realization of what’s happening dawns on you, and your mind is screaming bloody murder at you to knee him there and see how he likes it, but you don’t. You don’t know why you don’t.

You’re not surprised that he’s not lacking in this department either. So he’s not overcompensating.

“Like what you see?” he teases in a low, silken tone, his free hand sliding up to our neck, fingers wrapping gently around your throat and applying just enough pressure that sends a thrilling jolt through your veins.

“Someone might…see,” you manage through a choked gasp. Gojo glances over his shoulder, ensuring the door is locked, leaving no room for interruption because he won’t allow it.

His head dips lower, his soft lips pressing against the curve of your neck, planting soft kisses along the exposed skin as your hand strokes him, jerking him. His breathing quickly grows ragged, his shaggy white hair brushing against your cheek as his hips roll into your hand.

He’s letting go around you. You can’t believe you’re the one doing this to him. Satoru Gojo is the pinnacle of the jujutsu society, seeming so untouchable, just out of reach. The one who’s been blessed in any and every aspect of his universe. But here, his control is slipping at just your touch.

It’s…not just kind of sexy. It’s really fucking sexy. You will never give him the satisfaction of telling him that.

He clutches your waist, his fingertips digging into your skin and you bite back a whine.

“Fuck, baby, please, stop torturing me,” his voice is a soft, broken cry, and you chew on your bottom lip.

Your eyes flutter a bit, a little dazed and you’re untouched. Entirely focusing on his release. You’re not sure why you’re letting this happen. Probably because there’s not much you can do. If he’s so tormented by the prospect of your existence, then shouldn’t you feel an obligation to grant him some kind of respite?

Why do you even feel that way? You shouldn’t even care, and yet…here you are.

You assess his debauched expression with a soft stare. His face is flushed, his lips parted as he pants for breath, purring your name over and over again. His eyes—half-mast, glassy—flicker open, and you lock gazes. The intensity of his gaze makes your heart flutter.

“Say my name,” he rasps out, pleading.

“Satoru,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Are you…close?” you murmur, your thumb ghosting over his tip leaking with pre. He chokes on a gasp at that, and you don’t know why you feel so powerful in that moment. Probably because you can make the strongest sorcerer of the modern age like this and you’re barely doing anything much. You don’t think so, anyway.

Your breath hitches. Any smart retorts you may have, have died on your tongue long ago because it’s no longer applicable. You’re right into his hands; he’s putty in yours. Quite literally.

He tightens his grip on your waist and hunches further over as a distinct confirmation. He’s chasing the friction with your hand, his hips bucking in tandem with your strokes.

“More,” his voice is now an uncontrolled falsetto, and you jerk his cock in time with hie hips. “Fuck. More…”

And here you are, the one in control, stroking him faster, harder, watching him fall apart to your touch. You remember telling yourself you wouldn’t stroke his ego or any physical part of his body, but you’re doing exactly that now.

You’re such a fucking liar. He mewls your name, catching your attention.

“Fuck, baby,” he whimpers, jerking into your hand faster until shots of seed leaks from his tip, hot and sticky and gooey. His head drops to your shoulder as he catches hie breath.

He pulls away a bit, his half-lidded gaze meeting yours. He looks all dazed, delirious…satisfied. He leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss full of heat and passion, his tongue twirling around yours. When he breaks the kiss, a thin line of spit connects your tongues before he cuts it with a twirl of his own wet muscle, his eyes still never leaving yours.

You’re trapped in a state of shock, your mind spinning. You don’t know how to feel—should you be angry? Repulsed? Relieved? You don’t know. All you know is that he’s getting his way, and it’s pissing you off.

Gojo steps back from your personal bubble, moving toward his desk with his casual nonchalance, leaving you reeling. He once again retrieves a disinfectant cloth, wiping himself clean before tossing that and retrieving a fresh one, cleaning your hand and face as if nothing out of the ordinary just transpired.

You’re frozen, your mind grappling with the current reality as he finishes cleaning you up. He flashes a little smile.

Your lips curl into a soft pout, that frustration still burbling beneath your skin.  

“What?” you demand, voice lighter than you intended—softer, more out of curiosity. He rests his hand—large, calloused, warm—on your cheek, brushing his thumb over your soft, plump lips. The tenderness of the gesture feels a bit foreign to you.

“Mine,” he growls low and gravelly. His eyes, usually filled with mischief and scheming a way to annoy or embarrass you, are shining with pure affection instead. You feel like he’s seeing right through you, and with those legendary Six Eyes of his, you might not be far off. He can read everything about everyone and anything. He’s always constantly processing everything with his Six Eyes and Limitless technique. His thumb presses into your ilps, gentle at first, before grazing the tips of your teeth.

“Gojo…?” His name spills from your lips, tentative, as his thumb pushes further, brushing your tongue now, as your senses are now hit with a tang of salty skin.

“Satoru,” he corrects in a sharp tone, his frown deepening, dissatisfaction etching across his stupidly handsome features. His eyebrows furrow, that little crease forming in frustration. Your attempts to pull away irritate him—it’s clear in his actions. “I don’t answer to Gojo or Sensei with you anymore.”

His words are definitive, absolute. He carries authority like he always does.

And it’s so fucking maddening.

“Satoru,” you try again, your voice faltering as his thumb presses deeper onto your wet muscle, warm and insistent against it. Your heart skips a beat; your heartrate speeding up as heat flushes across your skin. “What… what are you doing?”

He grins that easy, carefree smile you’ve seen thousands of times. Now it feels different. Dangerous, as his sparkly blue eyes twinkling with trickster energy. He might rival Loki himself.

“Assessing how pretty my girlfriend’s pussy is,” he answers easily, waiting for your reaction. “Especially when you’re riding my face the way you will my cock.”

His crassness, though usually expected, still catches you off-guard, and more heat rushes to your cheeks. Your breath is lodged in your throat, embarrassing consuming the very core of your being like a wildfire.

“Did… did you just call me your girlfriend?” your voice wavers, caught between disbelief and something else…something that feels a little bit like…flattery?

Oh, Hell has certainly frozen over.

“And stop being so lewd!” you add in an icy tone.

He responds with a rich and lazy chuckle, far too pleased with himself.

“Don’t act so shocked, gorgeous; don’t dance around what’s been happening since you got here,” he coos. His thumb slides down, grazing your bottom lip. “Mine.”

You step back slightly, gripping his wrist and brushing him off; impressing yourself that you keep your touch firm when you’re trembling on the inside.

“Satoru,” you start again, trying to regain some semblance of control—some clarity amid all of this chaos.

“Yes, honey?” he addresses you in a low purr, teasing and commanding, making hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

He’s looking at you like he’s already won.

This fucking guy needs to be put in his fucking place.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, resisting the urge to sigh. That frustration is still simmering beneath you; your foot tapping against the polished wooden floor, the sound sharp in the quiet classroom.

“What the hell is this?” you demand, narrowing your eyes into slits at him.

He tilts his head at you, folding his arms over his chest in that casual way of his. The movement causes his shirt to pull tight across his chest, emphasizing his taut lines.

“Isn’t it obvious? Or is your stupid showing?” he quips, but his voice is not in jest; it’s in a more serious manner. You’re impressed he can even take this seriously. “I’m yours, and you’re mine. It’s not rocket science, or some complex cursed technique, you know.”

You part your lips to protest, but he cuts you off, eyes flickering with something dark.

“Yeah, but—!”

“—but nothing,” he interjects, voice firm. “Mine.”

Your frustration finally boils over.

“No,” you growl, taking a few steps forward, forcing him to really look at you eye to eye. “You answer me. You owe me that much right now, Satoru.” You hate that your voice is trembling now, emotions raw and unfiltered because you have nothing to lose here.

He drags out a defeated sigh, the tension in his body easing as he relaxes his body. His eyes remain locked on yours.

“Fine.”

“Tell me the truth,” you demand, your voice low yet firm—a crackle of lightning in a raging storm. “What is this to you?”

He studies your face. When he speaks up, his voice carries a softer tone. More genuine.

“It’s simple,” he answers, carefully selecting his words. “You give me all of you. I give you all of me.”

His fingers trail down your arm, stopping at your elbow.

“Is it really so hard to understand how bad I got it for you? I’m nuts about you,” he goes on, his expression is almost…vulnerable. Open. He’s usually so guarded in spite of his silliness. “This isn’t a game to me.”

He’s giving you a chance to grapple with what he just admits to you. He’s giving a piece of himself he hasn’t given to anyone else since…well, you don’t know. You haven’t known him for as long as the others.

You chew on your bottom lip, warring with the questions in your mind.

“So…” you hesitate, voice barely audible. “Why me?”

He runs his hand through his shaggy hair, his eyes flickering with something that feels out of place. Raw. Honest. Something you’re so unused to seeing in Satoru.

“I mean, don’t you get it?” he sighs, almost to himself.

“Don’t you know how rare it is for someone to get my attention?”

You take a moment to process his words. You know they carry more weight than a casual, generic compliment. So far from sweet nothings. It’s a crack in all those layers he set up for himself. You’re peeling away at some of them.

“That’s not a direct answer,” you counter in a firmer tone, as a frown stresses your features. You won’t let him get away with just that.

His shoulders sag a bit in defeat.

“Then why don’t I just show you?” he suggests, his voice smooth, the challenge in his tone unmistakable. The atmosphere shifts like gears.

Before you can even process what he’s told you, Satoru hoists you by your bottom in a fluid, effortless motion, like you weigh a can of grapes to him (and you may as well have). Your back hits the hard surface of his desk with a thud.

His hands, gentle, but rough, trail down your thighs, his touch electric and the air between you growing thick and staticky, making shivers crawl down your spine. He meets your gaze, his electric blue eys locked onto yours. It’s too much to bear. Too much!

“May I?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly like earlier. His fingers hover just below the hem of your clothes. He’s so close yet so far away and you can’t believe you want this. You can’t believe you’re letting this play out. Maybe you like him more than you care to admit to yourself.

While he poses the question, his eyes tell you he already knows your answer.

Words dying on your tongue, tension in your body winding tight like a wind-up toy…

You bite your lip. With a barely perceptible nod, you grant him the permission.

In that same fluidity and effortlessness, he slips off your pants along with your panties, the fabric falling unceremoniously to the ground, leaving you fully exposed to him. The cool air nips at your skin, sending a ripple of goosebumps over your body as he spreads your legs wide across his desk. You’re vulnerable, laid bare before him, but the way he looks at you…you feel like you’re on top of the world.

Satoru’s gaze flits downward, and his liips part slightly as he takes in the gorgeous, raw sight of you, glistening in your natural arousal already. He licks his lips absently, a soft, animalistic sound escaping from deep in his throat.

“And you claimed you weren’t into it,” he purrs, his breath fanning against your sensitive flesh. The words are so teasing, so trolling, like he always is, but the effect he’s going for is anything but playful for you. Your body jerks involuntarily.

“Mean,” you pout, your lips forming that irresistible curve you know now that he can’t resist.

But you doubt Satoru’s going to give you any mercy here.

He shushes you, his voice a soft command as he leans in closer, his nose barely grazing your sensitive sex. Slowly, he uses both his hands to peel apart your folds, the movement achingly intimate. His eyes glisten with something almost feral as he whistles softly at the sight he’s been blessed to behold. Then, carefully, he dips a finger between your folds, gliding it along the slickness building there. His touch is feather-light, teasing, reverent, causing more heat to pool low in your belly and your groin.

“Look at that,” he teases, dragging the pad of his finger through your wetness, making you squirm under his touch. “All soaked for me. God, that’s the highest compliment in the world, baby. You have no idea.”

Your face burns from embarrassment, the flush spreading down your neck like you’ve caught a fever.

“Shut up,” you whimper as you feel his breath ghosts over your core again; the anticipation is worse. It’s so much worse. He eyes it for a few moments too long before finally sinking his teeth into the delightful meal that’s you.

The moment his tongue hits your sensitive flesh, a jolt of electricity shoots through your entire body. He starts from your entrance, rolling his tongue slowly up through your goopy folds, tracing a deliberate pattern toward your clit. The wetness, the gooeyness, everything leaves you breathless. You jolt in place, your back arching off the desk, but Satoru’s strong hands are quick to keep you steady. But his grip is tender yet firm.

His hands find yours, fingers intertwining with a kind of gentleness that is quite the juxtaposition to the party going on between your thighs. His thumbs brush over your knuckles in a soothing gesture, grounding you as his tongue pokes and prods at your sensitive flesh, lapping at your slick, gooey folds. He makes low groans, soft hums, little whimpers like he’s honored to finally do this.

It's so mean. It’s too much.

“Relax for me, gorgeous,” he purrs between fervent licks, his voice muffled slightly by the way he’s devouring you whole. The pressure coils in your stomach as his tongue continues to lap at your building slick, sloppy, wet, passionate. You can barely think straight now. The only thing swimming in your mind is Satoru, Satoru, Satoru. But you’ll never let him know that.

“Aw, fuck yeah,” he breaths, pulling back for a moment to speak and get an eyeful of your aroused, debauched state. “You have any idea how long I’ve been jerking off to the thought of this pussy?”

“Satoru!” you shriek, more out of embarrassment than indignation. Okay, maybe a little indignation. Each pass of his tongue makes every nerve ending in your body light up like fireworks!

“Stop being so lewd!” you demand, but there’s no real conviction behind your words.

He groans against you, the sound vibrating against your sensitive sex, and you’re squirming and writhing again beneath him and you know he’s savoring every minute of this, soaking this victory of his up like a sponge,

“I can’t help it,” he confesses, his voice ragged, breathless, reverent, as he continues to lap at your thick slick more urgently now. It’s messy, it’s sloppy, it’s wet, unrestrained, some of that thick slick catching on his chin. “You make me so wild, baby.”

He flicks his tongue over your clit, fast, hard, precise, and you swear you’re going to lose your fucking mind. Your mind is still spinning with Satoru, Satoru, Satoru, oh fuck. But you don’t want to say it out loud. It’s too much. It’s way too much

“And you taste so fucking good,” he growls, hoarse, that reverence in his tone still prominent, unmistakable.

Every roll of his tongue feels amazing. It’s dragging you under like the tides. You allow yourself to drown in the sensations, to live in the moment. Hie’s clinging onto you like you’re the only thing that matters in his world.

Finally, you feel something twitch down there, and something deep inside you snaps in two. The dam breaks, and you’re splattering more of your arousal on his face while screaming his name (something you can’t hold back now) which he gladly laps up like a thirsty dog, dramatically and loudly gulping down your slick as you come down through such an intense climax. Your pussy is still pulsating and he’s still licking along your gummy, sensitive skin, groaning at your natural taste; he tightens his grip on your hands, just slightly.

You find yourself pouting again when he pulls away, his lips and the bottom half of his face sheen from your slick. Your face is deeply red from arousal, panting as you come down. He shuffles around for more cleaning supplies, helping to wipe you down before helping himself.

“That convincing enough for you, gorgeous?” he inquires with a cheeky grin, sticking out his tongue in a petulant manner. He hums as he savors the taste of you still lingering on his tongue, dragging it along his teeth and catching any remnants of your taste.

“Fuck. That’s going to be amazing to come home to every day.”

“Satoru!” Your hands fly up to cover your face. “Stop! Stop! You’re being ridiculous!”

“I can’t help it,” he says again, prying your hands away from your face to get a good look at you in your flushed state. “Fuck, you’re beautiful. God, can’t you just let me spoil you now? Let’s stop dancing around this.”

“If you just stop being so….argh.”

“Like what, a pirate?” He strokes his chin as if lost in thought. “So when you say shiver me timbers, it’s because I’m making your legs tremble when I eat you out and worship you like the queen you are, right?”

You let out another frustrated groan and you so dearly want to wipe that stupid grin off of his pretty face! Why does he have to be so infuriating even now?? Even when you’re not wholly against the idea of being his girlfriend? It actually sounds kind of nice…

“OH MY GOD! SATORU! STOP!”

He chuckles, and a comfortable silence falls upon you both as you catch your breath.

“So does this mean you know how serious I am about you?” he finally asks, breaking through the silence. “I’m crazy about you. I’m nuts about you. I just want you to actually give me a chance to prove that to you.”

“There are so many more productive ways you could have gone about it,” you grumble with a shake of your head. “But fine, Satoru. You’ve earned this much. …I’m still a little pissed at you, but maybe you can make it up to me over time.”

“Deal,” he replies with a grin. “Just as long as I get to call you mine, and you get to call me yours.”

He cups his ear and leans in toward you, his grin not moving. “Now let me hear you call me yours.”

You roll your eyes in jest, leaning in toward him to whisper in his ear. “You’re mine, Satoru.”

His grin widens, and he pecks your lips, gazing into your eyes with pure adoration twinkling in them.

Yeah, you decide in your mind. You can give him a chance.

[otaku553]

Can we ask why you’ve distanced from Genshin? I’m thinking about it bc of the representation issues but was wondering abt ur thoughts

It’s a bit difficult to put this succinctly!

I have a lot of thoughts on this, so I’ll sum up a few on the topic of character design.

I think when most people talk about representation in Genshin, the first thing they talk about is skin tone, which is fair and definitely valid. I think, as someone who has grown up with a lot of East Asian beauty standards around me, what Genshin does is cowardly but understandable from a viewpoint of marketability. I’m sure that they know their lack of representation is controversial overseas, but either this controversy is just giving them more attention and free promotion, or they’ve calculated that the controversy generated won’t actually deal any damage to their profits. That’s mostly why I’m not vocal about it: at best, they scroll past an extra opinion that they’ll probably ignore, and at worst, they’re getting free unintentional advertising out of me.

I will say, though I think plenty of people have made great posts about the representation issues, I think Genshin’s problems with character design and representation go much deeper than just skin color, and have been a growing issue even since Liyue; it’s just gotten exponentially worse with the introduction of Natlan.

I feel like Genshin is actively making regions more modern just to avoid historically accurate cultural representation, and nowhere is this clearer than in Natlan. To begin with, Genshin introduced itself as a historical fantasy, and that is, I think, why it worked so well compared to, say, Honkai— you can tell characters come from the same game due to unified elements such as the Knights of Favonius’s crest as a motif, and the central idea of history. Though the idea of “historical fantasy” is kind of nebulous, since they don’t actually claim to be trying to replicate any real world locations or cultures, you can infer some things about the time period and general location based on the existing technology and architecture and stuff.

But it feels like the moment you get to somewhere not European or East Asian, Genshin starts making designs from a far more modern approach. Some of the Natlan and Sumeru characters, I don’t think I’d be able to place as Genshin characters if I hadn’t played the game. I actually thought that one of the teased Genshin characters for Natlan that I’d seen around online, Citlali, was a Honkai Star Rail character, and was super surprised when I saw her in the Genshin 5.1 trailer. When you can’t even tell that a character belongs to the game you’re designing for, then what are you doing as a character designer?

This is more speculation than anything, but it’s almost as if they’re avoiding proper representation of cultural clothing by making things look modern, and it’s clashing terribly with what they established the game as from the beginning. For fuck’s sake, Mavuika, who’s the archon, meant to represent her nation, is wearing a leather biking suit. She looks so incredibly out of place in the fourth anniversary art of all the 5 archons together. They seem to be losing sight of what made them successful with character designs in the first place just out of a fear to do proper research or make something less than “conventionally aesthetic/attractive.” That’s my main issue, to be honest— not necessarily the skin colors, but the clear lack of thoughtfulness in character design, not only for representation but also for what suits their setting and premise best.

I have a lot more thoughts on Genshin Impact so feel free to send another ask if you’re curious!

[arachniee]

  ࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃 He once was mine

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ Lucifer Morningstar x Seraphim!reader (main couple)

                              (side couple) Adam x Seraphim!reader   ┈➤        

જ⁀➴ Summary : After he fell from grace, you did your best to move on. Drowning yourself in knowledge, hoping that if you continued to fill your mind with information, you’d eventually forget about him. All the effort you put into it was useless in the end and everything came crumbling down after you met his daughter. 

જ⁀➴ Warnings: mentions of killing, betrayal (?), self-isolation, curse words, self-neglection, mentions of wounds and injuries, not proofread; there might be grammatical errors, mc is a workaholic insomniac 

જ⁀➴ Note: this is kind of an alternate version of the mc's background story from my series ‘medical haywire’, so the events here would still be similar to the one in my series, just slightly altered. Also, the mc here has the same profession as the mc in medical haywire, aka a doctor and stuff (can u tell what my fav profession is)    

part two

╰⪼ As one of the first seraphims to exist, you’ve witnessed how heaven grew and bloomed. With curious eyes, you’ve seen how everything developed. You were one of, if not, the only seraphim who held such interest in new knowledge. God knew, and he commended you for it, creating libraries as big as mountains, thousands of books in your care. You were in no doubt the most favored one, you were the brightest, kindest, and purest, after all.

Which is why Lucifer knew he could tell you about his plan. You’ve been together since the beginning of everything. The trust in your relationship was unshakeable. Undeniably, you two were the closest, always seen together in the libraries you manage, strolling around the city in your free time, and everywhere in general. Everyone knew of the intimacy in between the two of you, and it was adorable. 

When Lucifer first told you about his plan, you were skeptical at first. He expected it, though what he didn’t expect was for you to try and convince him to not do it. Spewing nonsense about what his father would do to him if he found out. You wanted to join Lucifer, you really did. Just as how he supported your wants and wishes, you wanted to do the same for him. But you knew too well not to do so. 

You didn’t want to go against everything heaven stood for. You had your duties and responsibilities, you needed to prioritize the well-being of heaven over anything and everything. Your heart clenched at Lucifer’s next statement, eyes going wide as you tried to reach for him.

“It’s either me or them.” 

You were conflicted, so much. All of your hard work into helping the development of heaven, all of your friends, every thought about the consequence of your choice spiraled deep within you. Why did you even need to choose?  

Lucifer knew what he was getting himself into, he thought about the risks, but chose to ignore them. He knew what his stand was, he won’t waver for anything, or anyone. He didn’t want to make you choose a side, but with his plan, he knew he’d be separated and divided from heaven. 

“Lucifer- please, just-” 

Each plea that came from your lips was not the answer he was seeking, not the answer he was expecting. Your voice was brittle and quiet, but he heard each word loud and clear. You did not agree to his plan, and that itself was obvious with how hard you were trying to stop him.

You watched when he was banished from heaven with Lilith, the first female human that God had created. You couldn’t deny that unsettling and disgusting feeling in the pit of your stomach when you found out about it, how he fell from grace with another woman. But you knew why he chose her, to rule hell alongside with. She was the one who supported him when he needed it, she was the one who helped him, even though everything didn’t go according to Lucifer’s wishes.

Despite that melancholic feeling that crept up on you, you were still glad that he wasn’t alone through it all, that he had someone he could hold close and cherish, and someone who would do the same for him. No matter how much it cracked your heart. 

Every day that you spent without him was absolute misery. The guilt about not being able to help him ate you up from the inside and out. Each time you entered one of the libraries you would spend most of your time in, you always reminisced about how he used to run through these shelves, how he would childishly complain about a certain book being so high up on the shelf and that he can’t reach it. He wouldn’t stop pestering you about reaching it for him until you eventually give in, handing it to him and watching him beam with joy (even though you know he won’t actually read it). 

You would start to lock yourself up in the libraries, avoiding anyone who tried to get a word with you. Each time someone wanted to speak with you, you’d remember the way he’d come up and join the conversation passively, excusing both you and him, claiming to have important business to attend to. Successfully whisking you away from the others, grinning to himself now that he has you to himself. 

You still did your duties as a seraphim, yes, but any interaction outside of that would be non-existent. As soon as a meeting ends, you would immediately leave. Though the longer you stayed alone in the libraries, the more you started to resent being there. The memories you had with Lucifer were all nothing but good ones, and it pained you so much. 

When Adam first arrived in heaven, you would remember how he often received wounds from a few accidents when he was still getting used to having and using his wings. You were just in one of the libraries in the city when he came in suddenly. He thought that this place was boring and that no one would find or see him here with the new scratches he got while still trying to learn how to fly properly.

You were slightly irritated at first, but to witness the first ever human, now an angel, struggle to adjust to this new lifestyle, it was feeding your curiosity like a feast. He’d just shrug it off, trying to act like it isn’t a pain in the ass to take care of (his ego took a hit when you told him to be less reckless and clumsy next time). He’d usually stay for almost a whole week, waiting for the wounds to completely disappear, and to be in his presence was annoying for you. So you reluctantly treated his wounds, you had enough knowledge on how to treat them, so you thought that maybe if you treated his wounds, he’d leave sooner.

He didn’t admit it (and he won’t), but the tingling feeling in his stomach was a very obvious indication of his appreciation and gratitude for your actions. He was still pretty much down about the issues with his previous wives, again, he won’t admit it, but knowing you were there to help take care of him even when he didn’t need it, he was happy.  

And the fact that no one in heaven, even the other Seraphims and Archangels, has been graced with your care in eons, aside from him, that filled him with a sense of pride. Sometimes, he even thought of purposely getting himself hurt just for you to treat his injuries, but he decided against it, he didn’t want his pride to take a hit. Though when he does get injured, he immediately goes to you without hesitation, much to your dismay.

It made you realize that some accidents may happen in the future if more humans eventually came to heaven, so with a little hesitation, you sought to meet God after not seeing him in so long. You wanted his permission and insights about opening a place for those who need assistance that involved their health and well-being. You also stated your concerns about how pregnant angels would need a place where they can properly give birth.

God would’ve been surprised, seeing you out of the comfort of your libraries, but he expected this. There was a reason why he held you in high regards, because out of all of his creations, you were the one that cared for the others the most. Despite your initial reluctance to come out of your shell, you pushed through for the sake of your people’s health and comfort. 

Everyone who knew you long enough missed the old you. God himself included. He thought about your plans, and wondered if this could be the key to shaping you back into your old self. He agreed to your ideas, not just for the sake of heaven’s future, but to see if granting this would give you your spark back.

Just as how he provided you with your libraries, you were given everything you could have needed for your goal. Everything started off small, but as heaven’s population grew, so did your little medical company. You were getting busier and busier that your duties piled up like mountains. 

The libraries you used to manage started getting more attention by heaven’s residents, so you had to focus on that as well. You created a number of books during the time you were trying to forget a certain someone, though your books weren’t about him, no. Most of them being about information on an angel’s biology and all its wonders. While the rest were about instructions in treating a wound and such. 

With each day that passed, you buried yourself in your work. Your diligence was another thing everyone praised you for, you always got the work done perfectly and on time. But when you heard of Sera's decision about the extermination they were planning, you wanted nothing more than to just run away and finally have a break. As per her request, which you obviously expected, you were to monitor all those angels who were chosen to participate in the extermination. You had to keep an eye on their health and overall condition to ensure that nothing would go wrong. 

Everything went as expected on the first extermination. It was successful, but many of the exorcists returned with numerous, minor injuries such as scratches and such. You wanted to scold Adam for his ridiculous leadership, can’t he do better in training and providing them with proper fighting gear? Then again, you couldn’t care less anymore about anything involved with the extermination. You wanted to focus more on the current events in the city publicly instead of those private matters. 

As the years flew by, you barely interacted with anyone other than God, Sera, and Adam. You spent all of your time howled up in either your office or the lab. You would usually report your medical areas’ performances to God from time to time, while with Sera, you would discuss your seraphim duties and responsibilities. And with Adam, topics about the extermination and stuff which involves it would usually fill your conversations. 

Each day was a never ending cycle of the same tedious things that need to be done. Sleep wasn’t part of your vocabulary anymore, no, it’s not even in your dictionary anymore. Aside from the creator himself, you had the most knowledge and wisdom about almost everything. You wouldn’t say it was worth losing all your time for leisure, but there’s nothing you could really do now. 

With how packed your schedule was, you haven’t seen the light of day in so long. You barely have time to rest, nonetheless go outside. You weren’t really complaining, you felt more comfortable surrounded by knowledge and machinery rather than people. 

You haven’t been able to visit your libraries because of how busy you are. And you doubt you’ll ever be able to after you were informed that the extermination schedule was changed from once a year to every six months. If you could just quit your job, you would’ve done so. Without hesitation. 

The report you received about the exorcist that was beheaded kept your mind preoccupied. Surely, now that those demons know what they’re capable of doing to angels, you expect more bloodshed in the future. And you are not fond of the idea of more work. Seriously, what the fuck was Adam thinking?

With how busy you are now, you can’t even attend meetings anymore. Sera and the others understood your situation, so most of the time they’d just send you the summary of the meeting after. You were grateful that they understood instead of forcing you to attend. Just as the piles of work you had to do grew more and more, you started taking in too much caffeine to stay up. How ironic, as someone who advises and treats others involving their health, you barely took care of yours.

Adam would never admit it, nor anything for that matter, but he deeply missed his little interactions with you. He was already sour enough that you needed to take care of others now too, not just him, but he was grateful that you helped monitor his exorcists' health and condition. He made the decision to move the extermination day partially for his entertainment, but deep inside, he hoped that he’d see you more often because of this. He was quite disappointed that because of his decision, you got busier and busier. He was already pissed with that, but the fact that the princess of hell wanted to meet, man, what a pain.

.

.

.

.

.

꒰  ꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･

Excitement brewed inside Emily as she waited for the princess of hell to arrive, her sister, Sera, right by her side. With all the curiosity she held for hell and demons, she was ecstatic when she heard about the meeting. She wanted to tell you everything, from the information about the meeting to the knowledge she’ll receive about the residents of hell. She was the one who was tasked to report everything that happens every meeting to you. That was how you met her, you two would usually converse through technology, but recently, she’s been frequenting your office. Which you appreciate since you didn’t need to leave the hospital for a meeting. 

She welcomed both the princess and her girlfriend with a bright smile, St. Peter and Sera greeting them as well. She was really happy about showing the newcomers around, it showed in her aura and energy, while Sera was more on the calmer side. 

Charlie, on the other hand, was slightly nervous. Though she tried her best to brush it off, hoping that no one would notice. This was her chance, if she were to do or say anything that the angels didn’t like, then everything she has worked hard for will all be for nothing. She was too focused on overthinking that she didn’t notice where they were. They stood in front of a cafe, it seemed so cozy and welcoming. She glanced around and noticed Sera’s absence, eventually, she turned to Emily when she heard the young seraphim speak. 

“Sera went inside and ordered for us! Come on, it usually gets crowded inside there, so it's best if we wait for her here.”

Emily gestured to one of the tables that surrounded the cafe, smiling brightly as she watched both of the visitors take a seat and made themselves comfortable. They spoke about a few things before Sera came back, taking a seat next to Emily, right across from Vaggie. In a couple of minutes, their conversation was interrupted by one of the servers who held four strawberry parfaits in a tray. Everyone at the table thanked the server, though Vaggie only mumbled a small ‘thanks.’

The conversation continued, but Charlie’s nervousness slowly started coming back when Sera asked (on Emily’s behalf) about hell and the life there. She sweatdropped, she can’t say that hell was full of cocky, shitty, and power-hungry demons! Of course, not all demons were like that, but the majority of the demons in hell were, as described, cocky, shitty, and power-hungry. She let out a small laugh, trying to keep the cheery personality she previously had. 

Her answer was mostly based on the demons who resided in her hotel. She described her experiences to have their ups and downs, but there were demons there that stayed with her and even supported her project! Her nerves started calming down the more she spoke about her friends and the hotel. Vaggie could only smile proudly at her, glad to see how joyful her girlfriend was when talking about her dreams. 

Emily seemed to beam with happiness when the princess would talk about her life in hell, much more when she saw how highly she spoke of her friends. Unfortunately, she leaned in a little too close out of excitement, causing the table to slightly jerk forward towards Charlie who was in front of her. The young hell-born slightly jumped when it caused her glass of parfait to hit the floor. The glass shattered, both Charlie and Emily panicked. 

Charlie immediately stood and tried to pick up the broken glance, not wanting to make a mess, especially since Sera was there. The young seraphim apologized profusely, standing from her seat as she moved around the table to get to the princess, who was being helped by her girlfriend. Sera called for one of the servers, who understood and grabbed his supplies to clean up the shattered glass.

Emily was immensely guilty when she realized that Charlie had accidentally wounded herself from the pieces of broken glass. She turned to Sera who went to inspect the wound in the princess’s palm. It wasn’t too deep, but enough that blood started to drip from her palm to the floor. Emily started panicking even more, even though Charlie told her she was okay. 

Your clinic was just around the corner, so the young seraphim immediately fished out her phone and dialed your number. She was too paranoid about what happened, but still, Charlie was the princess of hell, she deserved to be treated with utmost care. So when you reluctantly agreed to sacrifice your 10 minute break to treat her friend (she didn't tell you that it was the princess of hell) , she quickly escorted the two lovers outside, Sera following close behind. She knew Emily had asked you for your help, but she and her sister both shared the same respect for those with high status, so she didn’t question any further, expecting you to be the one to treat the princess’s wound. 

As a clinic came into view, Charlie wondered if she should open up a small clinic for the hotel as well. The most medical assistance that was ready in case of an accident were just a few first-aid kits, none of them really had much knowledge on how to treat wounds so she thought of hiring a doctor or a nurse soon. They were met with a lot of people and Sera separated from the group to speak with the receptionist while instructing Emily to bring the princess to your office. 

The young seraphim nodded and led both of the visitors down the hallway. While walking, Emily apologized once again, her excitement brought pain to another, and she couldn’t bear it. Charlie assured her that she was okay, though the other still apologized. Vaggie just silently watched the two, holding her lover’s wounded hand with such gentle care. 

As soon as your office came into view, Emily hurriedly knocked on the door. Once she heard a  small ‘come in', she gestured for the two girls to follow her. The room was neat despite the many files they saw everywhere they looked. Their first impression was this person sure was busy as fuck, because damn that’s a lot of work. Their gaze eventually followed Emily when they saw her walk towards the table. Charlie immediately perked up when she saw you. A sense of nostalgia hit her as she stared longer at your form. You seemed familiar to her. Memories of when she and her father would draw together came rushing back to her. She'd remember seeing her father draw their family, of course. Her mom, him, and little Charlie. Though there was a time that she caught her father draw an unfamiliar lady. With how her father drew this lady, it led her to believe that she was beautiful. And she couldn't miss the fact that you shared some resemblance to the mysterious lady.

You were frozen in place when your eyes fell on her. The atmosphere suddenly became tense, Vaggie taking a step closer to Charlie out of protectiveness. Your aura wasn’t menacing and hostile, no, but it was unreadable, just like your expression. Emily watched with a tilt of her head, she was confused. Did you know the princess of hell or something?

With wide eyes and a mouth slightly agape, you watched the young hellborn stare at you. Her eyes were exactly like his, her hair was the same shade of blonde like his. Everything about her seemed similar to him.

Then it hit you. Everything that you’ve worked so hard to forget, every act of effort you made just to relieve yourself of the pain, in the end, it was all for nothing when you realized the bittersweet truth. 

You were staring at his daughter. 

[redtsundere-writes]

Part 17: Everything Is Cursed

King!SukunaRyomen x Servant!FemReader

Summary: You used to be just another servant among the army of humans operating under the command of the terrible king, Sukuna Ryomen. An ordinary human who only knows how to wash, clean and cook. Until one day, he notices something in you that you hadn't seen before.

Tags: MDNI. +18. Murder. Blood. Cannibalism. Sukuna Ryomen Is The Warning Itself. Nudity. Sexual Display. Vaginal. Fingering. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst. Beta read.

Word Count: 6371 words.

Beginning. | ← Previous | Next →

One question was bothering you. You had been through hell and you still hadn't received your reward. That inquiry was running in circles in your mind. There were many answers, but none were facts. What was happening? Why were you going through it? How long would it be until it was over? Many possibilities, none seemed to be the right one. It was a doubt that arose the morning after the small funeral you prepared for your sister.

There was a small chapel past the garden and crops behind the terrible castle. Its white facade, with a classical curved parapet and a red tiled roof, emanated serenity in the middle of hell. On top of the facade, the emblem of Sukuna’s kingdom rose towards the sky. Vines grew around the open arch that reveals its interior. That small place had existed since Sukuna conquered these lands. With no function for that small building, Sukuna decided to leave it as it was. Sometimes the servants would go there in their free time to pray for their souls in case they didn’t survive another day.

You carefully placed the golden urn with Yorozu’s ashes on one of the shelves. Uraume had given it to you the morning after your little expedition with the king. That morning, you woke up, surprised to be in your room in the castle. Apparently, you had fallen asleep while watching the sunset and the king had to carry you back in his arms. “How embarrassing,” you thought before getting ready for the funeral.

You put on the cap of your black cloak so that no one would disturb you as you dedicated a minute of silence to your sister’s soul with your cheeks completely dry. You had quickly accepted that she was no longer with you and that you couldn’t do anything for her in life. Now the only thing you could do was honor her short life. Everything had happened so fast. A couple of months ago you were crying from happiness to see her, and now you didn’t want to cry from disappointment.

You listened to Kenjaku give his class, but you couldn't pay attention. It had been a week since Yorozu's death and something was missing. The reason why you had committed that atrocity that you wanted to forget but would haunt you for the rest of your life. You tried to pay attention to your teacher, but that doubt kept pulling you into the limbo of probabilities.

“Once you understand your opponent's point of view, it is easier to defend your own position more successfully, especially because that's how you avoid misunderstandings and arguing about aspects that the other side hasn't really said,” Kenjaku explained while writing the keywords on the board. “That's why studying the rival is very important in the debate.” He turned around to find you lost in your thoughts. You looked at the board, but you weren't really reading what it said. “Do you have any questions?”

“Why hasn't the king proposed to me yet?” You asked him, coming back to your senses. Kenjaku looked at you confused.

“I meant about class…”

“Ah.” You quickly read what the board said about the steps to learn how to argue. “I have no doubts about that.”

Kenjaku had noticed your strange attitude for a couple of days now, but as you continued with your education without delay, he never asked you. He thought it was because you were still mourning your sister's death or sad about not knowing the true whereabouts of your sisters. The teacher smiled to himself, just when he thought he could read you like an open book, it turned out that he wasn't.

“So that's what's been distracting you lately?” Kenjaku inquired.

“Did I do something wrong? The king promised to marry me once I killed someone of my kind, but he hasn't done it yet,” you explained worriedly.

“Do you want to marry him that much?” Kenjaku joked tenderly. It was nice to see a girl completely in love.

“Of course,” you answered without hesitation. Your master smiled at hearing you so excited. “My sister died because of that, I better do it.” That was not an answer he expected to hear.

“Excuse me?”

“I lost Yorozu because of that deal. If Sukuna doesn't propose to me, I would have killed my sister for nothing,” you explained, crossing your arms in frustration. “Do you know why the king hasn't done it yet?”

Kenjaku's enthusiastic smile disappeared just like that day when Sukuna came back with you in his arms, completely asleep and, worst of all, without a ring on your finger. The king was stupid for not taking the opportunity to ask you to marry him after all.

“I have no idea,” Kenjaku answered. “Maybe he's been very busy.”

That could be a possibility. You hadn't seen the king as often as before. You used to see him at every meal of the day, in the afternoon when you gave him your daily report, and when he sometimes poked his nose into your education. Now, you only saw him at breakfast time because he spent the rest of the day locked in his office. You couldn't even report to him because he wouldn't let you in. It was strange how everything around you had changed after your sister's death.

"I hope he didn't scam me," you thought, holding your head in guilt.

"The king may be many things, but a scammer isn't one of them," Kenjaku, I assure you.

The door opened, interrupting the teacher-student conversation. You recognized almost immediately the naturally bitter face, the gray hair, and the dull uniform in dark tones. It was that new servant who was so kind to you. All you knew about him had been from Mrs. Inoue, who had told you that he was such a reserved, serious, and somewhat grumpy man. It seemed so strange to you that you never perceived it like that.

“Sorry to interrupt you. The king calls you to his office,” he announced.

“Maybe the time has come,” Kenjaku commented with a smile.

“Finally…” You sighed.

It was strange. Kenjaku thought you would be more excited about marrying the king. You studied complicated subjects that fried your brain, trained until exhaustion, and got ready early to please the king’s eyes. It made no sense for you to work so hard for this moment and not be excited.

Sukuna let them into the office. You and Kenjaku entered after bowing in respect to the king and his right-hand man, Uraume, who stood faithfully behind him. Sukuna’s heart fluttered at the sight of you. He gripped his pen tightly to mask his nervousness at being in your presence.

Returning to the castle after his failed marriage proposal, he carried you to your room as you snored softly. He gently laid you down on the bed so as not to wake you up. He took off your boots before tucking you into bed. He sat next to you to admire your calmness. Your chest rose and fell slowly to the rhythm of your breathing. Your eyelashes stood out more when your eyes were closed. Your half-open lips invited him to come closer to kiss you like that night you spent together. “Enough!” Sukuna scolded himself in his mind to stop and immediately leave your room so you could continue your dream.

Since that night, he realized that he can’t think coherently when he iswas near you, so he decided to take immediate measures so you wouldn’t distract him when working. It was frustrating how your mere presence could upset him like that. He had to fight with all his instincts to concentrate on what mattered most now, the future of his kingdom.

You and Kenjaku approached the desk. Quickly, you noticed a large black box with a gold engraving of roses on it. It was almost as long as the desk. That must have been the reason you had been called. It seems that this was not what you were expecting.

“Open it.” Sukuna ordered you.

You looked at Kenjaku for a second, worried about what might be inside. Your master patted you on the back a couple of times, inviting you to come closer. You worked up the courage to open the box without a hint of fear. The latches clicked open at the same time. You lifted the lid to reveal the immaculate treasure.

A beautiful rose gold bow that radiated a special aura against the light. Your mouth dropped to the floor as soon as you pulled it out of its box, along with its matching pink-dyed leather quiver. You never thought you'd see such a beautiful weapon in your life. You pretended to load the bow with an imaginary arrow to test it out. It was lighter than the one you had before, and you could tell it was made with the best quality materials. As you lowered the bow, you noticed a small detail. In the small hollow of the handle there was an engraving, a small daisy. You smiled at the cute detail. You thought it would have a rose, since it was a common symbol in the Sukuna kingdom, but daisies are cute too.

“It's a cursed bow,” Sukuna explained, catching your attention. “That means you can kill curses with it. Keep that in mind when you train with my soldiers.”

“What's the difference from a normal bow?” You asked curiously.

“This bow is infused with the cursed energy from Yorozu’s body,” the king replied bluntly.

“Are you saying that part of my sister is here?” You stammered. Everyone in the room could tell that you were about to burst into tears.

“Yes,” Sukuna replied in the same tone.

You hugged the bow to your chest as you sobbed softly, hiding your face behind your hair and the upper limb. A pang of guilt attacked Sukuna’s chest. He really thought you would like his gift, since you deserved a cursed weapon made especially for you, but it seems he was wrong.

“Thank you…” You sobbed. “Thank you for giving me something to honor her life with.”

You looked into his eyes with tears running down your cheeks and a nostalgic smile on your face. Sukuna’s heart quickly skipped a beat as he realized the true reason for your crying. His lower hands, hidden beneath the desk, clenched into fists to control himself. How could you play with his feelings without even trying? Sukuna Ryomen, the king of curses, the powerful tyrant and the commander of thousands, was being corrupted by a mere mortal.

He hated these feelings you caused him. You made him so embarrassed he looked like a tomato, you annoyed him so much, but he couldn't get mad at you, and now, you could manipulate him with a simple smile. He would lose his temper when he was around you and that drove him crazy. If you wanted, he would be in the palm of your hand. He had to keep you as far away from him as possible to prevent the situation from getting worse for him.

“Just go train already,” Sukuna ordered in a grumpy tone, turning his gaze to an empty document to avoid seeing you.

It was a shame he hadn't asked you to marry him yet, but the king really did look busy. You could see the physical effect that being locked up in his office for so long had caused. He had purple eye bags, his posture was stiff, and his eyes scanned the document lazily. “Maybe later,” you thought disappointed before taking the quiver with pink feathered arrows.

“Yes, my king,” you replied with a bow to leave.

“We must leave then,” Kenjaku made you second.

“Who gave you permission to leave?” Sukuna ordered him.

The master was surprised at that. You and Kenjaku shared a confused look, but you decided to obey the king so as not to cause any more inconvenience. Your legs walked as quickly as possible, closing the door behind you as you left the office. Sukuna’s hands relaxed as he no longer had to keep his emotions in check. After making sure you had already left, Kenjaku approached the king.

“Why so secretive, my king?” Kenjaku inquired curiously.

“It’s not a secret, it’s just that she’s not ready to know what I’m planning yet.” Sukuna got up from the desk to take one of the scrolls that were displayed on a bookshelf. He unrolled the scroll with a snap to reveal an updated map of the great world they knew.

It was a large map made from parchment and black ink with wonderful detail. It showed all the important kingdoms and places of interest that made up the world. The Kingdom of Sukuna and the Kingdom of Jogo were to the west, the kingdoms of Gojo, Geto and Yaga; to the north. The kingdoms of Zen'in and Nanami; to the east, and finally, the Kingdom of Tsukumo was to the southeast. Currently, the great tyrant owned the east and planned to expand soon.

"I'm going to declare war on the Zen'in," Sukuna announced, pointing at the large territory with his finger.

Kenjaku looked at him impressed, but not surprised. He knew that one day the king would not be satisfied with keeping the infested lands with only curses, so he would go to conquer human lands. Kenjaku glanced at Uraume out of the corner of his eye, who had not said a single word the entire time they were there. He expected nothing less from the shadow of his majesty.

“Wow, how ambitious,” Kenjaku commented while looking at the map. “May I know why you made that decision?” He returned his gaze to the king with curiosity.

“The Gojo Kingdom and the Geto Kingdom are allied, so an invasion could be complicated with my current troops. The Nanami Kingdom, Tsukumo and Yaga are small but distant. They will be my next targets once I have the Zen'in.” Everything the king said made sense, but there was still a small kingdom that was at the equator of the world to consider.

“What about the Kamo Kingdom? It is small and right in front of the Jogo Kingdom. It is the perfect target.”

“How many times have Commander Mahito and his troops tried to kill them?” Sukuna asked him seriously. Kenjaku gulped at that indirect accusation.

“I have already lost count, my king,” he answered, embarrassed by his comrade.

“They may be a small kingdom, but they are stupidly powerful. They are watching their lands at all hours for living so close to the Jogo kingdom. If anyone is ready for an invasion, it is them.” Sukuna explained. "As this is my first invasion into the heart of a kingdom, I have spent all this time carefully choosing my first victim. Because once I do, the other kingdoms will know what awaits them."

"If you have already decided, I am ready to obey your orders as always." Kenjaku gave a bow of respect that Sukuna completely ignored to look at the window.

"My plan will be carried out once I secure the life of my heir, in case everything goes wrong," Sukuna explained. "During that time, you will take care of the troops of the Jogo kingdom."

"And what about the education of the miss?" Kenjaku asked worriedly.

"I already have that covered." Sukuna answered.

"So what is the first step?" Kenjaku inquired.

“Wait for the Zen’in to make the first move.”

You left your room after finishing getting ready for the day of training that awaited you. You had decided that from now on you would use Yorozu's dresses to train since they were lighter than yours, perfect for moving with complete freedom. Archery is a sport that requires complete mobility of the upper body, so it is annoying to wear elegant dresses that require a corset. You were heading to the courtyard, moving your shoulders in circles to warm up on the way, until you ran into that kind servant. He was dusting off an obsidian vase propped on a marble column with great laziness.

"Did everything go well with the king, miss?" The man asked you when he noticed your presence.

"Yes, he gave me a new bow." You showed it to him to show it off. He was amazed to see it.

"It is very beautiful. It is made with the best fiberglass and carbon. It must have cost the king a good fortune." He explained as he took it to examine it carefully.

“It's obvious that you know about this,” you said, somewhat surprised, taking back your bow.

“Of course I know, I was a hunter before I was a servant,” he replied.

“Really?” You asked, fascinated. The gentleman was going to answer, but another servant, who was passing by, intercepted their conversation.

“Wasuke, leave the lady alone and get back to work!” The servant scolded him angrily.

“Shut your mouth, idiot!” Wasuke replied in the same tone.

That sudden change in attitude took you by surprise. Now you understood why Mrs. Inoue said he was a grumpy man. One moment he could be a kind man and, the next, someone extremely rude.

“In fact, he is working. He is going to help me train,” you defended him. “Isn't that right, Wasuke?” You gave him a knowing wink.

“Of course, miss.” He gave you a slight smile when he realized what you were planning.

The other servant rolled his eyes and walked back the way he came, muttering insults under his breath. Typical attitude for an 80-year-old man. You and Wasuke looked at each other knowingly before smiling at each other as if you had done some mischief.

“I shall warn you that I am a very strict master,” Wasuke warned you.

“Just what I need,” you told him. “My name is Y/n,” you introduced yourself with a bow of respect to your new master.

“Everyone knows who you are,” he joked. “My name is Wasuke Itadori. It will be an honor to train you.” You had a good feeling about this.

Wasuke shouted encouragements at you while you barely did push-ups. As soon as you reached the parade ground, he told you that you were the weakest woman he had ever met in his life, so he forced you to do different exercises to strengthen your arms, shoulders, and back. Your weak muscles could barely support the weight of your own body each time you climbed up, keeping your back as straight as possible. You sweated, even in places you didn't know could sweat.

“Lift that neck, lady! Even a little girl can do 30 push-ups!” Wasuke yelled at you, small drops of saliva escaping from his mouth every time he opened his mouth.

“That's what I'm trying to do!” You complained between moans of exhaustion.

“I don't want a try, I want you to do it!” Wasuke spat. “Three more!”

With the little breath you had left, you lowered your body. The grass tickled the palms of your hands, but that wasn't going to stop you. You climbed up with your back straight and then lowered yourself again. This was more complicated than it seemed. Wasuke kept yelling at you to finish the simple exercise with a good grade. When he said he was a strict teacher, he meant it. You did the last push-up and collapsed to the ground. You groaned in pain as you breathed in the freshly cut grass.

“Get up now,” Wasuke ordered you. You reluctantly obeyed. “Now you are going to hold the bow in front of you for 5 minutes.” That sounded simple.

You took your bow, extended your arms in front of you and held the weapon with both hands. All was well until your limbs began to shiver from the exhaustion of the previous exercises. You tightened your grip on the bow to keep it from slipping from the sweat. You didn’t think you could last 5 minutes like that.

“Can I ask you something?” You tried to distract your brain from the exercise so that time would pass faster. “Why are you here? You look quite young compared to everyone else.”

Unlike the other servants, Wasuke was the youngest of them all, like you at the time. Most servants were between 60 and 80, he looked to be under 50. He had gray hair but still had dark hair, wrinkles from age, but he didn't look like a raisin, and sometimes he didn't hear well, but he was still strong.

“Do you want the truth?” He asked you. You nodded.

The truth was something he had a hard time telling. He was always a good liar to protect his family, especially his daughter. He didn't want her to live in fear because of living in a commune that was in constant danger of being attacked by a curse. His lies were the cause of his only daughter's giant curiosity. 

“My daughter died because of a curse. My wife committed suicide because she couldn't bear the mourning," Wasuke confessed with all the sadness in his heart. "I was a coward and couldn't follow the same path. That's why I'm waiting for the king to decide when it will be my time to join them." Your heart broke when you heard that. It was a tragic fate to suffer. "It's only fair that I too die at the hands of a curse. It's the price I must pay for not protecting my little girl." 

You knew perfectly well what he was talking about. There is no worse feeling than the helplessness of not being strong enough, fast enough, or smart enough to protect what you love. You had lost your family by not being able to fight adversity. You couldn't even protect that child at the harvest for a day who was killed by your lack of courage. You tightened your bow again, this time, out of frustration that both of you had to go through that.

"I'm so sorry," you stammered. You didn't think his answer would be so heartbreaking.

“Don’t apologize. Life is cruel by nature,” Wasuke sighed.

“Still, I’m sorry,” you repeated. “I know what it’s like to lose your family.”

“I know, Miss.” 

Wasuke remembered seeing you cry and scream at the sky for your sin of killing your own blood. He had never seen a person suffer so much physically, emotionally, and psychologically. Even though he was behind the strong walls of the castle, a giant window separated them, and he had a deafness problem, he could still hear the powerful wails of your soul in mourning. Your palms open like books, the blood splattered on the canvas that was your body, and your face in sorrow. It was such a powerful image that he doubted he would ever forget it.

The loud bells woke them both from the memories of their sad pasts. It was the alarm announcing an invasion. This was the second time you had heard it in your time in the castle, and you had an idea of ​​who it could be. Several armed curses ran towards the castle entrance through the battlements that were on the walls, while incoherent instructions were shouted to you.

“Don’t let him pass!” A strong-bodied curse ordered as he summoned a dark screen that slowly covered the entire castle.

“We must go!” Wasuke asked you before taking your arm. You were going to follow him, but you remembered what Sukuna told you on your first day of training:

“In case of an invasion, you will need a cursed bow that allows you to use special arrows to kill curses and use it against sorcerers.” You tightened your grip on the cursed bow he had recently gifted you.

“You go. I will stay here as reinforcement,” you told him, removing your arm so he could leave alone. “Tell everyone to prepare to escape if it gets worse.”

“Are you sure, miss?” Wasuke asked.

“It is an order,” you said, sure.

Wasuke looked at the entrance one last time and nodded, accepting the order you had given him. He returned to the castle at a quick pace to do what he had just been asked to do. You looked ahead before pulling an arrow from your quiver to load your bow. You were completely alone in the courtyard, as all the curses were either outside the castle or on the perimeter. You could only hear the war cries of the curses. You gulped, shaking at not knowing what was going on the other side. You had an idea, but you weren't sure.

The screams turned into wails in a moment. You gripped your bow, mentally preparing for your turn to engage in battle. Though, you were sure you wouldn’t be alone. There was Kenjaku and Uraume to fight next to you. Sukuna can defeat any enemy in the blink of an eye. He would take down this strong foe, wouldn’t he?

The curse screen dissipated into the air, announcing that this curse was annihilated. The chains of the drawbridge began to jingle, and the castle gate swung open. The large bridge fell into place, the ground beneath your feet rumbling. It shook you completely, staggering you in place. You tightly gripped your bow and aimed it at the invader. “A man?” you thought, faltering in your shot.

A tall man, great posture and immaculate aura, walked in confidently, leaving all the curses behind, turning into ash. His spotless black boots thudded against the thick wood, announcing his arrival. His splendid bottle-green military uniform had several gold medals decorating his chest, a black leather belt, and dark pants. He smiled proudly as he combed his blonde hair with black tips back with his fingers.

“Oh?” He stopped upon entering, staring at you in disbelief for a second, as if he had entered the wrong house by accident. “Where is the white-haired guy of questionable sex? He is the one who always greets me,” he asked, confused.

“Did you kill all the curses?” You asked, surprised to see so much ash evaporating into the air.

“You must be new.” The man smiled and confidently approached you. Not knowing his intentions, you stretched the string to load the bow to its limit, but this did not make him stop. “It is a very large weapon, do you know how to use it? I could teach you.” He spoke to you as if you were stupid. You frowned further, this stranger's attitude starting to bother you.

You had recently realized that people like him were the type you disliked the most. Self-centered people who think they can do whatever they please. Yorozu had given you the tools to deal with people like this. You forgave her because she was your sister, but him? This guy was a complete stranger to whom you owed nothing.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” You questioned with the most demanding tone you could fake, you had copied it from Sukuna from hearing it so much.

“I am Commander Naoya Zen'in,” he announced himself with a proud smile. “So I was right,” you thought.

You had only been a servant in the castle for a short time when you heard that name for the first time. You were washing the king's long robes in the backyard with a few other maids. Your fingers were beginning to wrinkle like they do from being in the soapy water for so long. The quiet and the voices of the gossiping maids kept you company. The little peace of the task was interrupted by the alarm bells that echoed throughout the castle. You stopped at the strange noise, having no idea what you were supposed to do.

“An invasion,” one of the servants announced, surprisingly calm.

“Do you think it's Naoya Zen'in?” Another servant, one who had been in the castle the longest, asked, somewhat excited.

“Winter is almost over, most likely,” Her coworker answered, wiping her hands on her apron after finishing her task.

“Who is Naoya Zen'in?” You asked them, butting into the conversation.

“A very handsome commander from an enemy kingdom who comes every year to deliver a letter to the king,” the first one answered. “Let's go see him,” she invited you to go with them to the entrance of the castle.

“No, thank you. I still have to finish washing this,” you politely declined.

The three ladies quickened their pace to find out if it was the man they could see annually. You looked at them curiously. “Was that man so attractive that you had to see him in person?” You wondered. Now you were curious to see this man, but you had a task to finish. You dipped your hands into the soapy water again to try to remove the stubborn blood stains from the king's white robes.

Now you understand why this man caused such a stir among the maids. Someone with such a presence had not been seen since Geto Suguru's corpse appeared in these parts. You looked towards the window that overlooked the great hall, a small group of ladies greeted Naoya from the safe point. The flattered young man returned the gesture.

“Women being women,” he sighed with a big smile. “Anyway, I have an important letter from Zen'in.”

“You can give it to me and leave,” you told him without lowering your bow.

“I think you don't understand your position as a female,” Naoya came closer without a hint of fear nor respect for you. “You're not going to be able to stop me.”

“No!” You shouted, making him stop at the loud objection. “You're the one who doesn't understand.” You lowered your torso so that the arrow's trajectory would change from his torso to his face. “One shot, and you're a dead man, commander Zen'in.”

Naoya smiled at the offense. Not because of the clear threat of death, but because a woman thought she could be a match against him. You and your pink bow were nothing compared to him. A replaceable servant couldn't be in front of a great commander of one of the most powerful kingdoms in the world. He was about to teach you a lesson, and it would be the hard way.

"Are you sure you don't want me to save you? I doubt a girl as weak as you would survive long here," Naoya offered, giving you one last chance to redeem yourself.

"I don't need you to save me," you spat angrily.

"Fine," Naoya pulled a knife from his back, spinning it in the palm of his hand to wield it. "Whatever you say."

You let go of the rope when you clearly saw his intentions to hurt you, and the arrow flew into his face. He dodged it with his knife before lunging at you in the blink of an eye. Before you knew it, he was already on top of you and his knife was already at your throat. It had all happened too fast. You had no idea how he had reached you so quickly. The blade swung down as Naoya's smile grew wider. You raised your hand to deflect it, but it wasn't going to make it in time. It came so fast that you couldn't even close your eyes to await your fate.

Out of nowhere, a gigantic fist sent Naoya flying, completely away from you. The powerful commander ended up being slammed into the nearest wall. Naoya groaned in pain before falling to the ground. You were perplexed at how bizarre that had been. You touched your neck on instinct, you didn't have a scratch on it. You sat down on the grass to look around for your unexpected savior.

At first glance, he looked like any other human, but up close, things were different. He was a curse with skin covered in stitches as if his body was made of patches. He had long, blue-gray hair that reached past his neck, and was divided into three large locks with bows at the ends. He also dressed like any other human. He was wearing a black shawl that separated into three pieces on the left sleeve and matching pants with white shoes.

“I'm just arriving, and they're already welcoming me with a sorcerer to kill, how fun!” The curse exclaimed as excited as a child in the park.

Naoya stood up with difficulty, dusting off his uniform. You stood up in the same way to retrieve your bow and load it with another arrow. You approached the curse with confidence, since it had saved you, even if it had only been for its own entertainment.

“Are you okay, miss?” The curse asked you with a big smile without taking your eyes off Naoya.

“Yes, I am fine. Thank you,” You told him, along with a small bow. “Who are you?”

“My name is Mahito, I am the commander of the Jogo kingdom. You must be the lady that the king ordered me to protect.” He introduced himself. “Did the king ask you that?” You asked yourself surprised. “So let me take care of this stupid sorcerer.”

“Who are you calling stupid, you fucking curse?!” Zen'in exclaimed before launching into combat for a second round.

Mahito pushed you away suddenly to transform his arms into two tentacles with dozens of knives on them and run towards his fast opponent. Naoya's knife challenged Mahito's along with the clicking of metals. The curse laughed as if it were a game, angering Naoya even more for underestimating him. They were both moving at speeds your eyes could barely keep up with, but you loaded your bow with another arrow anyway. You tried to aim for Naoya, but he was stupidly fast and Mahito was in the way. “Maybe it’s best I don’t get involved now,” you thought with some disappointment.

Mahito changed one of his tentacles into a large sword that fell on top of Zen'in. Naoya barely dodged it, his breathing ragged from the cursed energy he was expending by keeping his technique active for so long. "Who is this guy?!" He thought annoyed before moving away with a couple of backflips until he landed on his feet.

"Fine, you win..." Naoya took the envelope out of his jacket and threw it at you like a ninja star, landing on the grass in front of you. "Just for today," he said before running towards the nearest wall to climb it and escape.

"Oh, not so fast!" You exclaimed annoyed before pulling the rope.

You looked for a target before he left your sight. You focused on his back, which was the area that was free, as he climbed the wall as if he were an agile ant. You let go of the rope and the arrow flew through the air. Naoya saw it coming and dodged out of its path, but the arrow unexpectedly changed its trajectory and stuck in his back. Naoya bit his tongue to stop himself from letting out a cry of pain and continuing on his escape route. In less than a second, he had disappeared from your sight and Mahito's.

"Ah, the king is going to scold me for running away!" Mahito whined, disappointed in his efforts.

"How come that arrow didn't stop him?" You asked yourself confused. Clearly, it hit him, but he still slipped out of your hands like a damn cockroach.

"Those Zen'in have a very strong pride. That's probably what it was," Mahito complained. "But you're very good." He gave you a thumbs up. You smiled slightly.

You looked back at the card that was lying on the grass. You picked it up to examine it. It was a brown envelope with the Zen'in Kingdom's crest stamped on a wax seal at the opening. A purple orchid on the stamp decorated the envelope, giving the package a more elegant touch.

“Gimme that,” Mahito snatched it from you, ready to open it.

“You shouldn't open it,” you warned him. “It's for the king.”

“It's from an enemy,” Mahito said as he looked for a way to open it without destroying the contents. “It could contain poison, activate some bomb or a weird technique they made up. Believe me, these Zen'in are capable of anything.”

Mahito pushed you roughly to get you away from the possible threat. You had no choice but to listen to him. This was an unusual curse. He had a playful attitude, very different from what you imagined a commander should have. You covered your ears as soon as he finally opened the envelope, in case it was a bomb. Instead of a glass or smoke bomb, it turned out to be a confetti bomb. It shot towards Mahito's face, surprising him immediately, as a colored piece of paper fell into his eye.

“Oh!” You quickly approached him. Mahito rubbed his eyes in an attempt to get it off. “Let me see,” you asked.

You grabbed his chin and pulled his hands away to meet his different eyes, since his left eye was navy blue and the other, gray. Even though it was a strange looking curse, his eyes were very pretty. You blew into his eye so that the paper flew away. Once near the tear duct, you reached for it with your thumb to remove it completely.

Your touch was very kind and warm. Mahito was so used to humans treating him so badly that it was a little uncomfortable for him that you were treating him so calmly and with such appreciation. He now understood why Sukuna had chosen you as the future queen, you were a special human.

“That's it,” you smiled at him. “What does the letter say?”

“You read it, my eye hurts,” Mahito reluctantly gave it to you, rubbing his injured eye.

You opened the envelope to check its contents. You thought it was a declaration of war or some important meeting, but no. Nothing like it. Your mouth dropped to the floor as soon as you saw what it was.

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