#(i feel this thread is coming to an end as well right? if you want to you can add one more reply?)

[mywhisperingwords]

still here | fred g. weasley

summary: an old friend starts showing up every time you need him word count: 5.6k masterlist

The corridors of St. Mungo’s were quieter than usual, but there was still a hum of urgency in the air.

Since the war had ended, the hospital had been inundated with patients—some still recovering from physical wounds, others battling the mental scars left behind. You’d been working there for weeks now, throwing yourself into the chaos as a way to avoid the memories.

The war was over.

That was what everyone said.

But it didn’t feel like it. Not to you.

You rubbed the back of your neck as you turned the corner, the exhaustion of the day dragging at your heels. Healing was rewarding, but it was unrelenting too. Your own grief, your own loss, had been shoved to the side so you could focus on fixing others. It was easier that way.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The familiar voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest as you turned toward the sound.

Fred Weasley was leaning casually against the wall, hands stuffed into his pockets, his hair messy but bright as ever. His smile stretched across his face like it always did, a bit crooked, a bit mischievous.

“Fred?” Your voice cracked, disbelief threading through it.

“In the flesh,” he said with a grin. “You weren’t expecting me, were you?”

You stared at him, your mind fumbling to piece together what was happening. He was here. Alive. Whole. Standing in front of you as though nothing had changed.

It had been too long since you’ve last seen him.

“I—no,” you said finally, your hand gripping the strap of your bag so tightly it hurt. “What are you… what are you doing here?”

“Visiting,” he said easily, jerking his chin toward one of the nearby rooms. “Someone needed cheering up, and you know me—I’m the best man for the job.”

You laughed, a soft, disbelieving sound. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“And you have,” Fred said, his eyes sweeping over you. There was something softer in his tone, something unspoken. “You look tired.”

“I’ve been busy,” you said, shrugging.

“I can see that,” he replied, the smile tugging at his lips dimming just slightly. “But don’t let it wear you down too much, alright? You’ve always been better at taking care of everyone else than yourself.”

You swallowed, his words hitting somewhere deeper than you wanted to admit. “It’s… good to see you.”

Fred grinned again, bright and wide. “Good to see you too, love. It’s been too long. Let’s change that, yeah? You know where to find me.”

Before you could respond, he gave you a wink and strolled away down the corridor, disappearing around the corner.

You stood there for a moment, frozen. It had felt so normal, so effortless. Just like before.

“Who were you talking to?”

The voice startled you, and you turned to see Elena, a fellow Healer, approaching with a curious look.

“Oh,” you said quickly, your pulse still racing. “Just… an old friend.”

Elena smiled, tilting her head. “Nice to see familiar faces, isn’t it? Especially after everything.”

You nodded faintly, but something about her tone didn’t sit right.

The exhaustion in her eyes was clear, and you felt it too. Sometimes it was hard to be kind to yourself when you put it all on another person.

“You should take a break, let me take over some of your patients,” you told her, a warm smile on your face.

Elena watched you closely, before shaking her head. “Don’t throw yourself into more work, you need to rest too.”

The rest of the day passed in a haze. You went through the motions, treating patients, mixing potions, and doing your best to avoid lingering too long on the morning’s encounter.

But the more you thought about it, the harder it became to focus. Seeing Fred again had felt like coming up for air after being underwater for too long. It had stirred something in you—hope, relief, a flicker of happiness you hadn’t felt in ages.

&

You sank into the couch the moment you walked through the door to your flat, kicking off your shoes with a groan. Another day of potions, poultices, and endless rounds of patients, each one a stark reminder of what had been lost in the war.

St. Mungo’s was a lifeline, sure. It gave you purpose. But it also drained you, leaving little room to process everything you’d been through.

You leaned your head back and closed your eyes, savoring the quiet.

The knock on your door startled you.

Frowning, you dragged yourself to your feet, wondering who it could be at this hour.

When you opened the door, Fred Weasley was standing there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets and that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

“Fred?” you said, blinking at him. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t come find me,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Your brows furrowed. “I’ve been busy.”

“And I’ve been bored,” he replied, throwing himself onto your couch like he owned the place. “What’s a bloke got to do to get a little attention around here?”

Despite yourself, you felt the corner of your mouth twitch. Fred had always been like this—effortless, larger than life. He had a way of making everything else fade into the background.

“I didn’t know you were keeping tabs on me,” you said, heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“Well, someone’s got to,” he called after you.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto your face.

A few minutes later, you brought two steaming mugs of tea into the living room, handing one to Fred before sitting down across from him.

He didn’t reach for the mug right away, instead leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His gaze was intent, but not unkind.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

You hesitated, caught off guard by the question. Fred rarely veered into serious territory—he was the king of deflection, the master of keeping things light.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

You sighed, sinking back into the cushions. “What do you want me to say, Fred? That I’m tired? That I’m still trying to figure out how to keep going when it feels like everything’s fallen apart? Because I am. But what’s the point of talking about it? It doesn’t change anything.”

Fred leaned back, his expression softening. “Maybe not. But bottling it up doesn’t help either. Trust me.”

You looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away for a moment. “I hate seeing you like this. You used to light up every room you walked into, you know? Now it’s like… you’re barely there.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to make it heavy. I just… I miss you, that’s all.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a smile. “I miss you too.”

For the next hour, Fred did what he did best: distracting you. He told you ridiculous stories about the shop, about George’s questionable taste in merchandise and the chaotic customers who made running a joke shop anything but boring. He had you laughing until your sides hurt, the weight on your chest lifting just a little.

By the time he stood to leave, it was late, and you were feeling more at ease than you had in weeks.

“You should come by the shop sometime,” he said, pausing in the doorway.

“Maybe I will,” you replied, leaning against the doorframe.

He grinned, his eyes twinkling in that way they always did. “Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight, Fred.”

You closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a long breath. For the first time in a long while, you felt… lighter.

It wasn’t until you were cleaning up the living room that you noticed Fred’s untouched mug of tea sitting on the coffee table.

You frowned, picking it up. It was still full, the liquid cold to the touch.

“He must’ve been too busy talking to drink it,” you murmured to yourself, shaking your head. You poured the tea down the sink and put the mug in the dishwasher, before heading to bed.

&

The shop was eerily quiet as you stepped inside, the familiar jingle of the bell sounding oddly out of place in the stillness. You glanced around at the dimly lit aisles, the shelves a kaleidoscope of colors even in the low light. It was strange seeing the shop like this, so empty, so lifeless.

You had worked late again, but something about the thought of going straight home made your skin itch. You needed to be somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t the sterile white walls of St. Mungo’s.

Your feet carried you to the back office without much thought, and you paused at the slightly open door.

Fred was there, hunched over the desk, his fingers toying with a quill as he stared down at a piece of parchment.

“Fred,” you said softly, pushing the door open further.

He looked up, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Finally off work, then?”

You nodded, stepping inside and leaning against the doorframe. “Barely. Thought I’d stop by, but it looks like I missed the fun.”

“Yeah, George closed up a while ago. You’ve got terrible timing,” he teased, his tone light.

Your gaze flicked to the desk where a photo caught your eye. It was the three of you—Fred, George, and yourself—arms slung over each other, laughing like you didn’t have a care in the world. You picked it up, your fingers brushing over the glass.

“I remember this,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Good times, weren’t they?” Fred said, leaning back in his chair. “You and George couldn’t stop arguing that day. Think you were fighting over who’d get the last treacle tart.”

Your smile widened despite the ache in your chest. “He cheated, though.”

Fred snorted. “He’s a Weasley. Comes with the territory.”

Setting the photo down, you slid into the chair across from him. “Feels like it was forever ago.”

Fred’s expression softened, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to settle on his features. “It wasn’t that long ago. We’re just… different now.”

You studied him, a lump forming in your throat. He looked the same as he always had—bright eyes, a smirk that never quite left his lips—but there was something in his voice, something in the way he looked at you, that felt heavier.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Things change.”

Fred gave a small nod, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “So, how’s it really going? With the hospital, I mean.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “It’s… a lot. I thought I was ready for it, but some days it feels like I’m drowning.”

“You’re not, though,” he said, his tone firm. “You’re stronger than you think.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” he said, his gaze locking onto yours. “You’ve been through hell, and you’re still here. That counts for something.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the sincerity in his voice made the words stick in your throat.

“Thanks,” you said instead, the word barely above a whisper.

Fred gave you a small smile, leaning back in his chair. “Anyway, I’ve got to run. Things to do.”

“Like what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. “You don’t get to know all my secrets.”

“Right,” you said, rolling your eyes as you stood. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”

“Don’t work too hard,” he said as he stood, heading for the door. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” you said, watching as he left.

You lingered in the office for a moment before shaking your head and making your way toward the exit.

As you reached the front door, someone stepped inside.

“George?” you said, startled.

He looked at you, his expression tight and guarded. “Thought I’d locked up.”

“I—uh—yeah. I was just… stopping by,” you said vaguely, clutching your bag.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. His face was drawn, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

“You look terrible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

George gave a dry laugh. “Thanks. Just what I needed to hear.”

“Sorry,” you muttered, shifting on your feet.

He stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You weren’t at the —”

Before he could say what he wanted to say, the picture of the three of you slid from your hands. You hadn’t realized that you were still holding it.

The shards of glass were everywhere, you immediately went to pick them up, but George grabbed your hand before you could hurt yourself.

“I do that too, you know?”

The question caught you off guard, your chest tightening. “What do you mean?”

George shrugged, his gaze flickering toward the back office. “Feels real, you know?”

You frowned, unsure how to respond.

“Right,” George said, his tone unreadable.

An awkward silence stretched between you before he cleared his throat. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

As you stepped out into the night, the cool air prickling your skin, his words lingered in your mind.

You shook your head, trying to brush off the strange feeling settling in your chest. The conversation with George left you feeling unsettled.

You told yourself it was just George grieving. Everyone was grieving. That’s all it was.

&

The air outside St. Mungo’s was brisk, carrying the crisp bite of autumn. You tugged your coat tighter around yourself, grateful for the rare quiet moment on your break. The day had been chaotic—healers rushing from patient to patient, the hum of spells and the faint scent of antiseptic filling the halls. It wasn’t exactly the type of environment that allowed for deep breaths or calm thoughts.

You wandered down a quiet path near the hospital, letting the cool breeze soothe your frazzled nerves. Your eyes scanned the rows of trees, their branches shedding golden and crimson leaves onto the cobblestone.

“Mind if I join?”

The voice was unmistakable, and you whipped around to see Fred grinning at you, his hands stuffed casually into the pockets of his jacket.

“Fred!” you exclaimed, relief washing over you like a balm. “What are you doing here?”

“Just thought I’d check in,” he said, falling into step beside you. “You’re impossible to track down these days, you know that?”

“I’ve been busy,” you said with a shrug. “Work’s been… a lot.”

“Still haven’t figured out how to clone yourself yet, then?” he teased, bumping your shoulder lightly with his own.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Not quite. Maybe I’ll work on that next.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the leaves crunching underfoot. Fred was always like this, effortlessly pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts, making the world feel lighter somehow.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “what do you do to unwind after a day of saving lives?”

“Sleep, mostly,” you admitted. “If I’m lucky, maybe eat something that doesn’t taste like parchment.”

Fred gave a mock gasp. “Blasphemy! This is why I should’ve brought you something from the shop. Maybe a bag of Canary Creams to keep things interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips. “Pretty sure my coworkers would kill me if I turned anyone into a bird on hospital grounds.”

“Sounds like they could use a laugh,” Fred said, smirking. “You’re too serious these days.”

You looked at him, the warmth of his presence easing the tension that had been knotting your chest all day. “Maybe. It’s hard not to be, though. Things… aren’t how they used to be.”

Fred’s expression softened, and for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes dimmed. “No, they’re not. But that doesn’t mean you’ve lost who you are. You’re still you, even if it feels different now.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, and you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Fred gave you a crooked smile. “Anyway, I should get going. Don’t want to keep you from your heroics.”

“Right,” you said, watching as he turned and walked away, his figure disappearing down the path.

When you returned to the hospital, you spotted Elena near the staff break room. She was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed, and her expression almost concerned when she saw you.

“Hey,” she said. “You alright? You looked… I don’t know, distracted earlier.”

“Distracted?” you echoed, frowning.

“Yeah,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “You seemed… off. Just wanted to say, if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

Her words gave you pause, confusion prickling at the back of your mind. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, managing a small smile.

“Of course,” Elena said, her tone warm but cautious. “Just remember, you’re not alone, okay?”

You nodded, though her words lingered uneasily in your mind as you made your way back to your duties.

Why did Elena think something was wrong?

You pushed the thought away, chalking it up to exhaustion. But as you dove back into your work, you couldn’t shake the strange feeling in your chest—the faint but growing sense that something wasn’t quite right.

&

Your flat was dimly lit, the faint glow of a single lamp casting soft shadows across the walls. You had collapsed onto the sofa after a long day, still wearing your healer robes, too tired to change. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily against your chest, but your mind refused to quiet.

A knock at the door startled you, your heart leaping in surprise. It was late—too late for visitors—but you dragged yourself up to answer it.

When you opened the door, Fred stood there, leaning casually against the frame with a lopsided grin.

“Hope I’m not interrupting your riveting evening plans,” he said, his voice light but warm.

“Fred,” you said, your fatigue melting into a mix of relief and surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to check on you,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He glanced around your flat, his eyes landing on the cluttered coffee table and the half-empty mug of tea. “Looks like I got here just in time. You’re living the dream, aren’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, shutting the door behind him. “Not all of us get to play with fireworks and sweets all day.”

Fred laughed, a sound that filled the room and wrapped around you like a blanket. He plopped down onto the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“You look awful,” he said cheerfully.

“Thanks,” you muttered, sinking back onto the sofa.

There was a comfortable silence between you for a moment, the kind you only shared with someone who had known you forever. You tilted your head to look at him, the familiar lines of his face, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled—it was all so painfully Fred.

“It’s been a while,” you said softly. “Since we sat like this.”

“Yeah,” Fred said, his voice quieter now. “Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”

You nodded, your chest tightening. “Do you ever think about it? About how everyone just assumed we were—”

“A couple?” Fred interrupted, smirking. “All the time. George used to place bets on when we’d finally ‘admit it.’”

You laughed, though it felt hollow. “They weren’t wrong, though, were they? We were close.”

Fred’s expression softened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “We were. Still are.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding. The question had been buried deep in your mind for years, but now it rose to the surface, demanding to be spoken. “Fred… why didn’t it ever happen? Why didn’t we ever—?”

He looked at you then, his gaze steady but distant, as if he were searching for the right words. “You know,” he said after a moment, his voice low, “sometimes you don’t get closure. Sometimes things just… are.”

The answer left you reeling, the weight of it settling heavily in your chest.

Fred stood abruptly, his hands sliding into his pockets. “Anyway, I should go. You need sleep, and I need to—” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the door.

“Right,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

As he left, the silence in your flat felt deafening. You stared at the spot where he had been sitting, your thoughts a chaotic tangle of emotions.

Fred’s words echoed in your mind, and for the first time, you wondered if you were chasing something that could never truly be found.

&

The bell above the door of the tea shop jingled softly as you stepped inside. The warm scent of cinnamon and chamomile washed over you, momentarily easing the tension that had weighed heavily on your shoulders since the previous night. It was your first day off in weeks, and after losing a patient yesterday, you had needed this—a quiet space to think, or perhaps, to not think at all.

Your eyes scanned the room, landing on Fred sitting by the window, a steaming cup in front of him. His head was tilted slightly, gazing out at the bustling street outside.

You hesitated for a moment before walking over to him. His face lit up when he noticed you, and he gestured to the empty seat across from him.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“Fred,” you said, sliding into the seat. “You’ve got a habit of turning up exactly when I need someone to talk to.”

“Call it a gift,” he said, shrugging. “What’s got you looking like you just ran headfirst into a Hippogriff?”

You sighed, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic of your cup after ordering a simple black tea. “Rough day yesterday. Lost someone.”

Fred’s teasing expression softened immediately. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice gentler now.

You shrugged, your throat tightening. “It happens. Doesn’t make it easier, though.”

Fred leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You ever think about doing something else? Something less… heavy?”

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But it’s not that simple, is it? I like helping people.”

“And who’s helping you?” he asked, his tone pointed but kind.

You looked away, his words cutting deeper than you cared to admit. “I’m fine,” you said quietly. “Really.”

Fred didn’t press further, instead leaning back in his chair and letting the conversation shift to lighter topics. He told you a ridiculous story about George’s latest experiment at the shop, complete with exaggerated hand gestures and dramatic pauses. You laughed in spite of yourself, grateful for the distraction.

The two of you sat there for what felt like hours, reminiscing about old times and trading jokes. For a moment, it felt like the world outside the tea shop didn’t exist.

Eventually, Fred glanced at the clock on the wall and stood up. “I should get going,” he said, his tone reluctant. “George will have my head if I’m late again.”

You nodded, watching as he turned toward the door. “Fred,” you called after him.

He paused, looking over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” you said simply.

His smile was soft, genuine. “Anytime.”

And then he was gone, leaving the air around you feeling oddly still.

You stayed a few minutes longer, finishing your tea in silence. When you finally stood to leave, you noticed something strange—people were staring at you.

Their gazes weren’t hostile, but curious, as if you’d done something out of the ordinary. You met a few of their eyes, but no one said anything. A couple seated near the door exchanged whispers, their eyes flicking toward your table.

Frowning, you pulled your cloak tighter around yourself and stepped out into the chilly air. The feeling of being watched clung to you as you made your way home, an unease settling in your chest.

When you reached your flat, you locked the door behind you and leaned against it, trying to shake the strange sensation.

“Just tired,” you muttered to yourself. “That’s all it is.”

But the memory of their stares lingered, gnawing at the edges of your mind.

&

It was late when you heard the knock at your door. You weren’t expecting anyone, and for a moment, you considered ignoring it. But when the knock came again, heavier this time, you reluctantly got up and opened the door.

George stood there, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, his face pale and drawn.

“George,” you said, blinking at him in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

He hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. “Mum’s been asking about you,” he said, his voice careful. “She says she hasn’t seen you in ages.”

You frowned, closing the door behind him. “I’ve been… busy.”

“You’re always busy,” he said, looking around your flat as though trying to make sense of the chaos. His gaze lingered on a pile of unopened letters on the table, a half-empty cup of tea on the counter. “You’ve been avoiding us.”

“That’s not true,” you said defensively.

“Isn’t it?” he said, raising an eyebrow. He looked at you closely, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re not okay, are you?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat. George had always been perceptive, too perceptive, and you suddenly felt stripped bare under his scrutiny.

“I’m fine,” you said quietly, looking away.

He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “we’re all trying to figure out how to move forward. It’s hard, isn’t it? Finding a way to keep going without—”

He stopped himself abruptly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Without what?” you asked, your chest tightening.

George shook his head. “Never mind,” he muttered. “Forget I said anything.”

You frowned, confused and slightly unnerved by the way he was looking at you, like he was trying to tell you something without actually saying it.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Just… come with me,” he repeated, already heading toward the door.

“George, it’s late—”

“I know,” he said, turning to face you. “But this is important. Please.”

Something in his tone made you hesitate. Reluctantly, you grabbed your coat and followed him out into the chilly night.

He didn’t say much as you walked, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. You tried to make sense of his sudden appearance, the strange tension in his voice, but the silence between you felt too fragile to break.

Finally, he led you to a quiet, secluded area, the air around you growing heavier with each step. You glanced around, the faint outlines of headstones barely visible in the moonlight.

“George,” you said, your voice catching. “What is this?”

He stopped in front of a particular spot, his back to you. For a long moment, he didn’t move, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep, shaky breath.

When he finally turned to face you, his expression was unreadable. “I just thought… maybe this would help,” he said quietly.

You didn’t understand what he meant, not fully, but something in his eyes—something raw and achingly familiar—made your chest tighten.

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to say,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

George didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stepped closer and pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around you. The unexpected gesture caught you off guard, and for a moment, you froze.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly. “It’s okay to miss him.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and you felt the air leave your lungs in a sharp gasp.

You clung to him, your mind reeling, the weight of his words pressing down on you.

For a moment, it felt like something inside you was unraveling, pieces of a puzzle you hadn’t realized you were trying to solve falling into place.

But the full picture remained just out of reach, the truth lingering at the edges of your mind like a shadow.

George pulled back slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders. “You don’t have to go through this alone,” he said, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes.

You nodded silently, unable to find the words to respond.

&

George left after a while, a long time that was filled with silence. But you couldn’t go yet, you were still standing in the middle of the graveyard.

That’s when Fred walked up next to you, looking down at the grave in front of you.

“You’re not real,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Fred tilted his head, a soft smile playing at his lips. “No,” he said simply, “I’m not.”

The weight of those words hit you like a tidal wave.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched thin, taut with everything you hadn’t said and everything you now understood.

“Why?” you finally asked, your voice barely audible.

Fred’s gaze softened, but there was something unshakably sad in his eyes. “You needed me,” he said. “So I was here.”

You swallowed hard, your hands shaking. “But you’re gone,” you said, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

“I am,” he said, his voice steady but quiet.

The world felt impossibly still, the air heavy with unspoken grief.

“I don’t—” you started, your voice cracking. “I don’t know how to do this, Fred. I don’t know how to let you go.”

Fred turned to you. “You don’t have to,” he said gently. “Not really. I’m always going to be here, just not like this.”

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision. “It’s not fair,” you whispered. “You were supposed to have so much more time. We were supposed to have more time.”

Fred’s smile wavered, and for the first time, you saw the cracks in his façade. “Life’s not fair,” he said, his voice tinged with a bitterness you rarely heard from him. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

You nodded, the tears spilling over now. “I love you, Fred,” you said, your voice breaking. “I loved you, and I never even told you. I never got the chance to—”

“You didn’t have to tell me,” Fred interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. “I knew.”

You looked up at him, your breath catching. “How?”

He smiled, a bittersweet curve of his lips. “You think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me? Or how you always laughed at my terrible jokes, even when no one else did? Or how you always saved me a seat, even when it meant you had to stand?”

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping at your tears.

“I knew,” he said again, his tone softer now. “And you know, deep down, that I loved you too.”

Your chest ached, the pain so sharp and overwhelming that it felt like you might break under the weight of it. “I just wanted more time,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Another chance.”

Fred’s expression grew serious, his gaze locking with yours. “I know you do,” he said quietly. “But if you had it, would it ever be enough?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat.

Fred leaned back, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “You would always want more,” he said, his voice steady but filled with a quiet sorrow. “Because that’s how it is with love. It’s never enough time. Not really.”

Your hands trembled as you struggled to process his words.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” you said, your voice breaking again.

“You don’t have to,” he said, his voice impossibly gentle. “I’ll always be a part of you. I’ll always be in your memories, in the things that make you laugh, in the things that remind you of me.”

Tears streamed down your face, your chest heaving with the force of your sobs. “But it’s not the same,” you choked out. “It’s not the same as having you here.”

Fred’s expression softened, his gaze filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache even more. “I know,” he said. “But you have to keep living, love. You have to keep going, even if it hurts.”

You looked at him, your vision blurred with tears. You reached out your hand, close enough to touch his face, but you didn’t, too scared of what might happen if you tried.

Fred’s smile was soft, tinged with sadness. “It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to.”

You clenched your fists, the ache in your chest almost unbearable.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye,” you whispered.

Fred looked down at you, his gaze filled with a love that you could feel in every fiber of your being.

“You don’t have to say it,” he said. “Just… let me go.”

You sobbed, the sound raw and broken, as you watched him turn around.

“Fred,” you called, your voice cracking.

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I love you,” you said, the words tumbling out of you like a confession, like a plea.

Fred smiled, his eyes glistening. “I know,” he said. “I love you too.”

And then he was gone.

You turned around again, staring yet again at the grave in front of you.

You stood there for a long time, the silence deafening. Until you took a step forward, your fingers tracing the engraved letters.

Fred Gideon Weasley

1st April 1978 - 2nd May 1998

[buttercupblu143]

*clears throat* whale...it's something

Satoru's Psyche P3 - Psycho!Gojo x Nurse!Reader

(not gone cap chat, there's so many excerpt i could've pulled from this chapter, it was hard asf to choose so 😬)

“You just don’t seem like yourself today,” you say carefully, studying him.  “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” he fires back, his tone light but threaded with a subtle warning, though it doesn’t land because your mind is already spinning, beginning to wonder…if something is actually bothering this impenetrable terror. If anything could get under his skin?  The silence between you is getting to you though, thick with unspoken tension and tangoing with his eyes that are duller than you’d like and make you look away. Your gaze drops to your clipboard, fingers softly drumming against its edge, the muffled rhythm failing to drown out your thoughts. Swallowing them down feels impossible when they keep burrowing in, clawing at your throat for answers until it feels unbearable, daring you over and over again to poke the bear and find out what’s been digging at you ever since you first heard your name and Satoru Gojo’s in the same sentence.  But don’t be stupid.  And don’t let whatever charade Gojo’s putting on fool you. All it takes is one wrong move or word to tip this delicate scale into chaos. You know the risks—will never shake off how heavy they hang on your shoulders—and yet you almost feel helpless to resist how it pulls you in like a magnet, drawing a shallow breath to push you through as you take the plunge anyway.  “We’re going to talk about the incident,” you begin, slow and steady, relaxing your body. “What do you remember about that day? What were you feeling?” His eyes snap to you and there’s a pause, the kind that makes your chest go tight. You might as well have said the name Voldemort, the question you’ve been wanting to ask slipping from your tongue after waiting the longest for it to appear on paper and give you permission to do so.  You hold your breath as his gaze drifts back to the window as if it holds the truth he doesn’t want to say aloud. “Did it feel good?” you press, cutting through the silence. “What did that power feel like?” You lean in just enough to remind him of the space between you and Gojo shifts, your voice coming more softly this time. “Do you still feel it?” It’s as faint as whisper, but he hears you loud and clear, and when his eyes finally meet yours again, his grin returns. But it’s thin.  He sits a bit taller, head cocking. “You’re asking all the right questions,” he says, his voice a shade darker than before. “But are you really ready for the answers?”

i wanna fucking tear you apart P2 - Vampire SuguChoso x Reader

“Well, well.” He circles you. “What do we have here?”  Oh, fuck.  You knew they were real but never imagined them looking like this. Feeling like this. The way he speaks, you’d think he was trying to seduce you rather than trying to eat you up like mere nano-seconds ago. He’s not just ominous—he’s radiating threat, his aura alone making you want to shrink into the ground and your blood turn to ice. You always knew you were a snack, but he’s looking at you like dinner, licking his lips, as your hands fly to cover your neck—as if that’ll help much.  But what could you possibly say that won’t end up with your blood splattered all over the cobblestone just seconds after finally reaching your destination? You made a deal with the universe, dammit.

ty for the tag Kali and making me stress about choosing the perfect excerpt as if i didn't have enough writing woes on my plate 😅. don't ask me why i didn't follow the rules, i can't read .-.|tags: @halohelene @nkogneatho @ryomens-vixen

silly wip tag game!◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

show us a paragraph, line or dialogue out of context from your current wip[s]. if you aren't a writer, feel free to share one from the last fic you read! ♡

these are from three different wips, the last one is something i wrote in december 2024 (those who remember me talking about nanami and a desi reader...yea), and the second one is something my aashi (@fushitoru) has been asking for since the beginning of time [hint: salaryman choso]

— npt: @gojocon @norikuna @sonnytoru @starmapz @aishi-toru @baepsays @gojosoups @indiewritesxoxo @madamechrissy + anyone else

[gloomwitchwrites]

morning after one night stand with 141?

Anon! You have me kicking my feet and giggling over here!! I am cackling so hard omg. I've been waiting for a prompt like this, and I know it has been sitting in my inbox for a while. (Really there are a ton sitting in my inbox and I will get to them all I promise). But after feeling like garbage and having some health issues, this prompt just came to me naturally and I didn't need to force anything. I thought it would be best to tackle this first on my dive back into fulfilling these requests after the 1k follower event.

I went spicy with this one. I won't lie. Because, let's be real, a morning after with any of these four will only end up with you still in that bed. I know I'd fold instantly. No question about it.

Content & Warnings: swearing, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, feelings, oral sex (male & female receiving), sex w/ and w/o condoms, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, aftercare

Word Count: 3.6k

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Bonus Chapter: Alejandro Vargas

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist

John Price

The ceiling fan above you spins slowly. It’s not nearly enough air. Your skin is sticky with sweat, and you’ve hardly slept at all.

The sheets you’re tangled in are thin, but what can you expect from a cheap hotel?

All of this was last second. A moment of tipsy-laced passion. Now you’re reaping the consequences. And the air is too damp, too hot, too—

Fuck.

You glance to your right, at the man softly snoring beside you. All the memories from last night appear before your eyes, replaying like a grainy recording. Images of all the positions this man put you in, and how fucking good his dick felt inside you.

Even now, you still feel the slight sting in your scalp from when he tangled his fingers in your hair while you took him into your mouth.

You need to leave. You need to leave with a thread of your dignity in tact before he wakes up. Before John wakes. You know the name well enough. He had you screaming it nearly all night. Insisted on it, and you happily obliged.

Shifting slightly, you shimmy to the very edge of the bed, trying your hardest to sit up without making too much noise or rocking the bed.  Swinging your legs around, you push up, coming to an upright position, feet planting firmly on the floor. Between your legs is a mess. You don’t have to see it to know.

Most of the night, John used condoms. But when the two of you finally curled up together, John had slid his hand between your thighs and parted you just enough to push right on in. You didn’t protest. You had sighed heavily, and then groaned when he rocked his hips, moving inside you.

In the moment you didn’t care. Not one bit. In a way, you still don’t, but what the fuck were you thinking?

You breathe in deep through your nostrils and then exhale slowly through your mouth. Lingering won’t help. You need to collect your clothes from the floor and leave.

As you open your eyes, and blink, you’re faced with your reflection. The full-length mirror against the wall shows the carnage from the night, but it’s not your appearance that has you pausing.

It’s John.

He’s awake.

And he’s staring right at you.

“You leaving me already?” His voice is husky. Sleep-tinged. The sound of it goes straight to your pussy.

“No,” you reply automatically.

He yawns, muscled chest flexing. “You’re lying, love.”

Your limbs do not cooperate. Move. That’s what you need, but your body isn’t listening. It’s melting instead, wanting to draw back into his arms.

“Am I?”

He nods, and rubs his large hand across his chest. The dark hairs there are tempting. You remember running your hands over those pectorals, and how your fingers dug in as you used him to rock back against his cock.

John pushes up and reaches over, that hand pressing against your back lightly, rubbing soft circles.

Fuck.

“Come here,” he says softly, and yet it isn’t soft at all.

It’s not pleading. It’s not exactly a command. John isn’t demanding anything and yet you are unable to form any will of your own. It’s like John has just taken a shot of whiskey.

Finally, your limbs move, but it is not away from him. Your feet find the bed again, and John is grabbing onto your thighs and waist, drawing you back. The whimper you release when both of his hands grasp the backs of your thighs as he pulls you into his lap is obscene. It’s silly. Downright ridiculous.

But it’s cut off. Cinched.

John’s mouth is on yours and then you’re kissing him. It is open-mouthed. A bit messy. But fuck is it good. His hands slide up your thighs, over the curve of your ass, and meander their way over your back. One arm wraps around your waist while the other comes up to your throat.

He won’t let you leave. He won’t allow you to slip away. John’s hand seems so large against your throat, and yet you don’t care. It’s possessive the way he claims your mouth. When you begin to wiggle, John growls, and you’re flipped onto your back.

John doesn’t cease kissing you, and his hands are everywhere. Your legs effortlessly part from him, and you feel his hard cock pressing against your thigh.

What’s one more? Couldn’t hurt.

You shift your hips, and it’s like John already knows. Drawing your legs up and into a more bent position, there is little effort in the way he buries himself to the hilt. You almost choke on your next breath but that is all you have.

There is nothing lazy or soft about this. John’s hips snap forward and back, skin smacking against skin. He presses his face against the side of your head, lips brushing along the lien of your jaw as he continues to relentlessly fuck you into the bed. Your hands claw at his back, fingers digging for a semblance of steadiness.

“Can’t leave yet,” he huffs against your throat.

Your face shifts toward him and John takes this opportunity to find your lips again, and this kiss is so much different. It is passionate, and speaks to something more desperate than a mere need.

This is only supposed to be a night. A fun, drunken fuck you can latch onto your belt.

But no. That’s not what this is.

Not really.

John "Soap" MacTavish

The air conditioning kicks in, and that is what wakes you. A cool burst of air travels over your skin, making you shiver, pulling you from sleep.

You groan, snuggling against the warmth you’re curled against. It’s a comforting warmth. A bit soft with some hardness too. Not completely comfortable but better than the blast of cold air.

When you sink further against this warmth, it shifts beneath you. Dazedly, you blink, pulling back slightly from this nice heat you don’t wish to leave. Your cheek grazes against something scratchy and then you’re frowning down at chiseled pectorals.

The night before comes rushing forward. It is a battering ram of information, one that sends your already foggy brain into overload.

“Morning, love.” The husky, Scottish voice grounds you, slamming you back to reality.

You twist slightly and are greeted by soft blue eyes and a lazy smile.

“Johnny,” you murmur.

“Remembered my name,” he laughs. He reaches over to grasp the back of your thigh, drawing it over his waist. That large hand of his squeezes gently and you shiver.

“You remember mine?” you ask, teasing back.

He hums softly, and then draws you in, whispering your name against your lips.

This was a one-time thing. A quick hookup. You met Johnny at a pub. He had zeroed in on you instantly, making his way toward you with eagerness like he knew he wanted you out of everyone there that night.

And you had melted. Complied. Fallen for his Scottish accent that only seemed to thicken the more he drank. He cracked jokes, and gave you all of his attention. It was nice to be wanted for once, and when he discreetly asked you if you wanted to go back to his place, you didn’t hesitate.

But the morning is here. It has come calling. And now you’re left with the consequences.

“I need to go,” you murmur, drawing away from him.

Embarrassment is starting to sink in. You have no idea what you might look like at the moment but it can’t be anything other than a mess. Your makeup is likely smeared, hair tangled like a bird’s nest, and you fucking ache everywhere.

Which is fucking understandable because Johnny has stamina. You’ve never been with a man with such quick recovery time. He’d finish, take a couple minutes, and come right back at it like he wasn’t winded at all. He also put you in all sorts of weird positions.

No wonder you’re sore.

Johnny’s face falls slightly, and his arms tighten, keeping you crushed against him. “Don’t want to stay for a bit? Could grab some breakfast.”

He’s offering it to you casually as if your rejection won’t mean anything, but you see the hesitation in his gaze. Johnny wants you to say “yes” and yet you don’t know why. It could just be a show of kindness. An offering of nourishment after the workout he put you through last night. But perhaps it’s something more?

No. That’s silly. Ridiculous.

The two of you met just last night. If anything, the two of you have only known each other for twelve hours. That’s hardly enough to go on.

But breakfast sounds lovely.

When you don’t answer right away, Johnny adjusts his hold on you. His face draws close, gaze lazily scanning your body. Slowly, he moves in, brushing his lips against your shoulder, and then the curve at your neck.

“Or we could stay here for a bit longer.” He presses a kiss to your throat. “Breakfast after?” Johnny’s hand changes position, slipping up to grasp the curve of your ass. His body twists, and you feel his hard cock against the inside of your thigh.

Your pussy immediately clenches, remembering all the things he did to you. You attempt to push the feeling aside but it only grows, flowing outward, zapping your self-control.

“Johnny,” you whimper as his hand ventures further downward, sliding between your legs.

His fingers part your pussy, and the sound of the mess between your legs reaches your ears. The two of you didn’t use condoms last night, but you’re both clean and you went for it. It seems overly loudly in the room, and Johnny’s breathing quickens slightly as he explores.

“Don’t mind me adding to this?” His lips come down on your neck before his teeth lightly sink in.

Your lips part and you cry out as Johnny slips a finger inside your pussy. He takes his time, slowly moving in and out of your pussy. Lazily, his thumb brushes over your clit. He repeats the gesture, and your hips buck against his hold.

“Staying?” he asks, lips brushing over collarbone to descend downward to your breasts.

His actions aren’t fair. This isn’t how things are supposed to go. He’s supposed to kick you out. To tell you to leave either politely or like an asshole. Instead, Johnny is trying everything to get you to stay. And you can’t say you’re all that mad about it because—fuck, this man knows how to use his fingers.

Johnny runs his tongue over your nipple and you nearly come undone right then. Your hips flex forward, pushing your clit against his palm. He inserts a second finger, and Johnny groans against your breasts as your orgasm builds toward its peak.

“Stay,” he says, and you squeeze around those two digits, gasping for air as your fingers dig into his pectorals.

Johnny withdraws and rolls you onto your back. You spread your legs gladly, your orgasm still buzzing under your skin. He boxes you in, the head of his cock pushing in. All that soreness returns but it is fleeting. Once he’s seated entirely inside you, you hardly care.

“I’ll stay,” you gasp as he rocks his hips.

“For breakfast, too?”

“Whatever you want.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

When you awaken, it’s a jolt. A sharp shake.

You blink, not recognizing your surroundings for a moment. Hazy memories bubble up to the surface. There was a man with blonde hair and scars. There was whiskey. Lots of it. A bottle shared between you and him.

His hand kept straying to your thigh, squeezing with intention. You leaned in, asked if he was interested in going elsewhere.

This is elsewhere. And it’s not a hotel.

Simon.

You remember him now. His gruff voice, his large hands on your body, and the way he stripped you down in seconds before his mouth sought supple skin. Your cheeks heat with the memory, and you absently press your palm there, the warmth radiating into your fingers.

Glancing over, you find the bed empty. Reaching out, you test the sheets, finding them cold. Simon has been gone a while, but this is no hotel room. It’s too personal, which means he’s somewhere. This must be his home.

If you’re careful, maybe you can slip out. You sit up, and listen. Quiet. No running water or feet padding softly against the floor. The bathroom door is ajar and the light is off. Simon might be out in the kitchen or living room—or he might be gone.

That’s happened before. You’ve awoken only for the man to be gone, leaving you alone in his home to put yourself together and make an exit at your convenience.

It’s…fine.

Simon was a good fuck. You can’t complain on that front. He knew exactly how to work your body. He found all your spots—all the things that make you melt—and stuck with it.

Sighing heavily, you crawl out of the comfortable bed. Your limbs scream in protest, soreness making itself known in places you’ve never been sore before. It’s a game finding your discarded clothes on the floor. With only a sliver of sunlight from the window, you’re forced to grab and hold the item up in the air to determine if the clothing item is yours or Simon’s.

“Finally,” you mutter, identifying your shirt. It’s halfway over your head when you hear the front door. “Fuck,” you hiss, only tangling yourself further.

You take a step back only to smack your leg against the bed. It sends you backwards, sprawling onto your back. You manage to sit up and wrestle your shirt on when Simon enters the room.

He stands in the doorway holding a plastic bag, and wearing a black tracksuit. Simon’s hair is a bit of a mess like he quickly ran his fingers through it before leaving.

“Hi,” you say weakly, because you can’t stand awkward silence.

“Leaving?” asks Simon, but he doesn’t sound upset.

You shrug, and swallow down the lump in your throat. “What’s in the bag?” you reply, switching tactics.

Simon is quiet a moment before he reaches in and tosses something to you. You manage to catch it without fumbling it.

Glancing down, you look at the box. At the—oh.

“We ran out last night,” he states simply.

It suddenly grows hot in the room.

“We did,” you agree, clutching the box of condoms like it’s a lifejacket.

He bought more. Which means—

“You’re welcome to leave,” he says, crumbling up the bag and setting it on top of the dresser. Simon reaches into his pocket and deposits his keys along with his phone. Unzipping his jacket, Simon reveals bare chest.

When the jacket is gone, Simon is left in only black joggers. He’s on full display. Broad shoulders, muscled arms and chest, large hands that perfectly wrapped around your throat as he bent you over and fucked you from behind.

“Is that what you want?” you ask, but you already know the answer. If Simon really wanted you gone, he wouldn’t have left to purchase another box of condoms.

“It’s what you want,” he replies. Simon is so calm—so casual. He’s not moving away from the door. He stands there, shirtless, gaze intense.

You sigh loudly and glance down at the box of condoms. “You did go out of your way to buy these.”

By the time you glance up, Simon is right there, grasping your throat, easing your head upwards so that you can look at him. With his other hand, he takes the condoms and tosses them onto the bed.

“You’re staying.” It’s not really a question, more of a confirmation.

You nod once and Simon’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip. That soft touch is enough to part your lips, and Simon makes a noise deep in his throat that sounds like a groan.

“Take me in your mouth,” he rasps. “Like you did last night.”

Your hands find the top of his joggers. Sliding beneath the band, you wiggle them down until the base of his cock appears. You pull a bit more, and then it’s free, already hard with a tiny bead of cum blooming in the slit. Your tongue darts out, swiping it up.

Simon shivers, and his hold on your neck adjusts to grasp the back of your head. He doesn’t haul you against him, or force himself down your throat. He is waiting for you, and that action in and of itself is enough to get you to stay a bit longer.

The head of his cock slides over your tongue and you throat him deep. Simon’s eyelids flutter and his groan is sweet. You bottle it up for later with the intention of recreating that sound—to make him moan like that again.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Sunday mornings are lazy mornings.

Some of the alcohol from last night still lingers in your pores, leaving a tightness behind your eyes and at your temples. But it’s not all that relevant.

Right now, you’re floating. There’s a man between your thighs. Well, his head anyway. And his tongue is doing all sorts of things to you.

Kyle’s tongue lazily flicks back and forth over your clit while he pumps two fingers in and out of your pussy. He is in no rush. No hurry. He’s taking his time, and you’re in blissful motion, hips rocking against his tongue, meeting his fingers with each thrust.

He groans softly against your pussy just before he sucks your clit into his mouth. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, and your back arches off the bed. Kyle’s name is on your lips. A repetition you cannot cease.

Even with your orgasm blossoming, you feel his smile against your skin. Kyle is smug that he’s done this to you.

What a way to start the day.

Kyle’s fingers slip from your body, and then he’s pushing up, reaching for the box of condoms on the bedside table. He snatches one up, tearing it open quickly.

“How do you want me?” you murmur, not trusting your voice. It’s still hoarse from sleep and the smokes you accepted last night.

Kyle rolls on the condom. His skin is glossy with sweat. The two of you have hardly slept. You thought this would be a quick fuck but it’s something else. Kyle takes his time, and that has drawn this one-night stand out into an all-night fucking marathon.

“You’re good as you are, love,” coos Kyle, settling between your legs again. You both groan aloud when he slides home.

It’s the next day. You should be out of this bed. You should be doing your usual walk-of-shame, and yet you’re still in Kyle’s bed, full of his cock, and completely strung out on orgasms.

“Promise I’ll let you rest after this,” he murmurs, testing with a roll of his hips.

You almost laugh. “You said that the last two times,” you moan as he hits somewhere deep.

“Did I?” he asks, absently.

Kyle is sweet, but he knows how to make you yearn. It’s agony. And it’s fucking beautiful. This isn’t how any of this is supposed to go and yet here you are, getting dicked down by a man who is clearly beyond simple hook-ups.

This man is boyfriend material, and even as your mind starts to drift back into a lustful haze, it’s scheming of ways to keep him.

Shifting slightly, Kyle adjusts your legs, setting a pace that makes each stroke divine. Perhaps it’s the fact that you’re exhausted that it feels so goddamn good. And maybe the two of you will actually rest after this.

The birds are chirping, and traffic is already moving. It’s the morning after, and yet the night seems to have been unending.

Kyle leans forward, and then your lips are connecting. Each kiss is deep. Tender. It’s unfair how nice this is. It shouldn’t be like this, and yet it is, and that makes it all the more painful when you do finally leave. This is not your home. It is his.

This is just an agreement made in a smoky pub. Nothing more.

“Kyle,” you moan, drawing his name out as your orgasm crests.

He smiles against your mouth, his pace stuttering out as the rest of him starts to tense.

“Almost there, love. Promise.” That word, promise, is strained. Kyle’s eyelids flutter, and then he too finds his end.

In the muted dark, the two of you exchange breaths. A car honks outside but it’s a muted thing. You’re hardly paying attention.

“Can we rest now?” you ask. It’s almost a laugh, but it’s also cautious. Maybe rest just means rest for him, and you’re about to be kicked to the curb.

“Yeah,” he smiles, rolling onto his back. Kyle reaches down to remove the condom before pushing himself out of bed and into the bathroom. The light flicks on. Water runs. And then Kyle returns with a damp cloth.

“Open those legs for me.”

You do so obediently, and Kyle patiently cleans you up before returning the cloth to the bathroom.

When he returns, the words tumble out of you unexpectantly. “I just need a couple hours and then I’ll go.”

Kyle frowns as he slides back into the bed. “You don’t need to rush out of here.”

You don’t need to rush out of here.

“I don’t want to bother—” Kyle shakes his head and you cease speaking.

“Come here,” he murmurs, offering himself. You slide up next to him, and Kyle wraps his arms around your body, dragging you into his chest.

Your lips begin to form words but Kyle makes a grunt and you promptly close your mouth. Kyle has you locked in his arms, and it’s comfortable. Normal. This is all too personal, and yet Kyle doesn’t seem to mind.

Maybe you could make this into something else.

Maybe this is him offering more.

Whatever it is, the concept fractures, slipping away as the warmth and comfort of him lulls you to sleep.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

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[goldenstring6123]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTNXxJ8TM/

THIS IS SO CUTE PLS I CAN SO CLEARLY SEE THE LADS MEN DOING THIS 😭 and the comment section had me dying where is evb finding these MEN 😔🙏

Lnds: Sleepy time!

Warning: No warnings, afab!reader, fem!reader

Authors note: Fluff (not a lot of it) and a bit of domestic stuff.

Sylus:

It had been 30 minutes since you left the bedroom. Sylus was already well on his side of the mattress, reading the news while waiting for you to come back. He thought you were just up and about doing your normal routine of drinking herbal tea and doing skincare, but it was taking you far longer than usual.

He settled the tablet down on the nightstand and walked out of the bedroom. He searched for you in every room he passed by, and when he arrived at the guest bedroom at the end of the hall, there you were, perfectly tucked in under the unused duvet.

You were curled into a ball and too engrossed in the video you were watching; you didn't even notice the black fuzzy threads wrapping around your weird curled-up position. You lifted off from the bed, and when you came to, the view was of Sylus' back as you involuntarily made your way back to his bedroom.

"So you're not going to put me down?" you asked, paying attention to the video again. "Are manners not a thing anymore?"

The brooding man didn't spare you a glance. "I'm not open for discussion. You're supposed to sleep in my bedroom. Our bedroom."

"I just wanted a bed all to myself," you uttered. Here you were, planning what to watch and what to eat for the whole night, and this guy managed to foil it.

"I don't share the same sentiment, sweetie. You have the bed every time I'm overseas on a work trip. It's even infested with your colorful pillows," he opened the door to the bedroom and reeled you in, gesturing to your side of the bed which had vibrant pillows and bed 'pets,' as you like to refer to them.

"You really can't sleep without me, can you, Mr. Big guy? Afraid that someone's under the bed or something?"

"I'm more afraid that you're going to ravage my food pantry when you're not in my line of sight."

"The guest bedroom is nowhere near the pantry and I don't ravage it—I simply take a few snacks," you clarified. "Greg would be sad if the food spoils."

"Either way, you sleep in my bedroom or my couch, nowhere else, sweetie."

"Admit it: You like my company, don't you?" You gave him a cheeky grin.

"Yes, yes," Sylus agreed sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "You make a good meat shield when we get attacked in this bedroom."

"Oh wow. Reduced to a shield." You rolled your eyes in return and slipped under the covers. "That's Onychinus' leader for you."

"Right. Are you done now? I still have an early schedule for tomorrow."

"Alright, alright. I'm heading to bed now. You can sleep."

"Good. Now come here." Sylus opened his arms and you found yourself huddled right into it like it was the perfect mold. You shifted a bit and could feel his muscles relax against your back.

"Why did you feel the need to sleep in the guest room tonight?" Sylus asked under his breath.

"I was planning on reading comics all night. Tara recommended a new romance comic which I like, but knowing you, you'd probably take my phone away."

"Then it looks like I will be the bad guy tonight."

"Maybe. Until you fall asleep." You shrugged.

You hear the handcuffs being pulled out.

Shit.

Xavier:

3:02 AM, it says on the clock. You weren't on the bed. It was cold and it was proof that you never went on it, which was odd considering you told sleepy little Xavier that you were going to stay over. Poor little tired hunter was exhausted after a day's work and couldn't help but doze off while watching you do your little night ritual of moisturizing and doing a facemask.

Xavier sat on the side of the bed, letting out a big yawn. He didn't know where you were, but all he knew was that he didn't like being alone. From his palm, a faint whirlpool of light emanated, enough to guide him through his dark abode. His first thought was maybe you were watching in the living room. You weren't there. He then headed to the small bedroom right beside his, a spare one for guests, but it went unused when you both shared the same bed now.

He tried his best to quietly open the door. There he saw a little bump on the mattress and it made his heart squeeze; you were adorable and looked so small. Xavier tiptoed and folded the blanket away from you. He took a deep breath and lifted you up bridal style, pressing you against his chest.

"hm?…Xavier?" you slurred, vision dark and blurry.

"I'm moving you to our bedroom," he kissed the top of your head and continued his journey to the other room.

"You were sleeping," you paused, looking for the word. The drowsiness didn't seem to go away. "didn't want to…disturb you."

Xavier wanted to say something, but he and you both arrived at the side of the bed. He gently laid you down and placed a pillow between your limbs, which you automatically hugged. Xavier crawled to his side of the bed and yanked the cover over the both of you. Though you both weren't exactly touching, the little hunter's heart eased at your presence.

Gladly, he went back to sleep, hoping to maybe see you in his dreams.

Zayne:

Zayne's house was far too quiet when he arrived. It was only 7 o'clock, and by then you'd usually be in the kitchen, peeking your head out with a ladle in hand. There was no "welcome back" nor a simple "hello," but what did he expect? You were mad at him.

It's a shallow fight, really. Zayne decided to put you on alcohol time-out and took your hidden beers that you were so ready to drink after a grueling day at work. Zayne's judgment was far better than yours because when you get drunk beyond mental capacity, you tend to make a mess of the house, and you turn into a rage-filled, feisty lady. Moreover, you'd been chain-drinking for the whole week, and Zayne was getting concerned because you kept having hangovers.

His hands twisted on the knob to the little library of his house, where he would always find you on nights like these. There you were, curled in the lazy boy sofa and turned away from him. You were awake, but you didn't want to look at your lover.

"I'm home," Zayne declared.

"Dinner's in the fridge. Heat it up," you responded and closed your eyes. Zayne's footsteps grew closer and closer to you, and you felt his palm land on your shoulder.

"Your back will hurt if you sleep in that position."

The sofa might look soft and admittedly it's pretty comfortable to sit on for a long period of time, but with the curled-up position you have, it was bound to hurt when you fall asleep.

"I'm perfectly fine," you replied.

"Don't be stubborn." Zayne decided to pick you up. You wanted to thrash and get out of his grasp, but then you would look childish.

"I don't want to be with you tonight."

Zayne kept his lips in a thin line. He's more than aware that you're saying that because you're mad, but still—It hurts to hear it from you.

Gently, Zayne settled you in the middle of the bed. "I'll sleep in the living room. Stay here," he whispered and tucked the blanket over your shoulders. It was dark in the bedroom, so you couldn't exactly see him. You rolled over to face away from your lover and patiently waited for him to leave.

1:34 AM. You couldn't sleep. A can of beer would do you some good, but your tongue wasn't craving the bitterness of it. Instead, your mind looped over to a few hours ago when you said something that you didn't mean. It was harsh now that you think about it.

Now Zayne is keeping his distance from you. The owner of the house is sleeping on the couch.

With two pillows and a blanket in hand, you made your way down the flight of mahogany stairs. The living room was in full view, and Zayne was fast asleep on the couch. You nudged the two ottomans to the space between the coffee table and the main sofa. Then you threw the pillows and spread the blanket wide, letting it flutter down while you made yourself fit on the ottoman chairs.

You left a few spaces between you and Zayne, one that was filled by the cold pillow.

2:46 AM. Zayne stirred awake and found a blanket draped over his body. Beside him was his supposedly angry lover, clutching the hem of his shirt. He stared up into the chandelier above and took the pillow that was bordering between them, used it as his own, and pulled you closer, nudging the blanket over both of you even more.

Rafayel:

He's standing by the doorway, tapping his foot while a plushie was tucked under his armpit. He was frowning, and you could even see it through the dark.

"What?" you asked, shining the phone his way.

"So you're going to leave me alone tonight? Is that how you're going to play?" He was mad-mad, but that's why you were confused.

"Hey, drama king—you were complaining earlier in the day about my bad sleeping habits—I'm giving you the bed now so you can be at ease, but now you're mad at me again. Do you want me to sleep on the floor of your bedroom or something?"

"Duh? Of course not. I'm just complaining because it's true, but I never said you should sleep in the guest room."

"Then are you going to be alright with my sleeping habits?"

"No."

"Then sleep alone."

An audible gasp could be seen on the expression of the Lemurian. He looked so offended with the end of the conversation, but you weren't having it, so you plopped back onto the bed and hid under the covers, hoping that he'd go away.

The moment you peeked back out, you were rapidly crushed under heavy weight, making you sink to the bottom of the bed. Rafayel lay spread out on top of you, keeping you in your position and crushing you underneath him.

"Get off me! You're heavy!" You struggled underneath the blanket, nudging him and kicking him, but he pretended to be a dead body floating in the water. Rafayel kept still; if verbal convincing won't work, then he'll have to make you change your mind.

"Fine! Fine! I'll sleep with you!" you screamed. He rolled to the side, propped his elbows up, and rested his head on his palm. You just wanted to rub that triumphant grin off his face. He happily scooted underneath the blankets and hogged your side of the bed, wrapping his hand around you and shutting his eyes.

You didn't want to make a big deal of it further and decided to head to bed as well.

You were stirred awake by a strain in your neck. The lids of your eyes lifted at the electrifying pain that traveled to your head. You squinted, barely able to process the faint blue outside the window. Your body was spread out again, and nearby you could see Rafayel making use of the awkward space he was left with.

Guilt washed over your tired body.

Without much thought left, you held onto two pillows and let your body slip down to the carpeted floor. You hugged the pillow and placed another one under your head, liking the furry texture that brushed the side of your bare arms and legs. You closed your eyes again and let the tiredness wash over you.

It was cold for a summer morning. A large yawn escaped your lips and you patiently waited for your eyes to focus, and when they did, your eyes widened immediately at the beautiful sight of a sleeping Lemurian. Rafayel, too, was now on the floor, using his own arm as a pillow.

You tapped on his shoulder, and he just pulled you down back to the floor. "Five more minutes," he groaned, burying his face in your collar. Luckily, it was a Saturday, and you didn't have to go to work. You could indulge him in the meantime.

Author's footnotes: lol the tiktok was very cute, something that you'd see in a rom-com enemies to lovers sort of romance story. It would be a pretty redundant snippet if every situation is the same for the love interest so I took the liberty of changing things a bit.

Layout by me, using Canva Premium | Do not repost

[virtueofsanityx]

as the night goes on, ross goes more warm and fuzzy, and as that happens, he starts to feel more loose and uncareful. he says more things that he probably shouldn't say, he offers a few more little brushes of his hand or lets his eyes roam, but the night seems to come to an end before he can think to extend it, and though some part of him wants to offer maksim a sleepover, maybe a tour of his toybox, since the night is still so young, the man is already leaving and he feels like he's choking on the words.

like it's not the right time yet.

he watches the other man leave with mild interest, eyes definitely lingering even after the door is closed, the buzz of the alcohol making him too warm to function any longer in the clothes he'd tossed on, and he ends up stripped naked and laying sideways on his bed, asleep before he can truly think too much about it.

and then life seems to circle back to mundane. time spent in the classroom teaching, time spent out of it preping for more teaching, mind occasionally wandering toward maksim, pulling up their text thread to look at it, starting to type and then quickly deleting it. he wants to ask if maksim has been on the date yet, though the thought of it makes something in his stomach turn at the idea. he isn't interested in this absolute fucking jerk of a man, but...

maybe it's that tentative friendship thing that ross has been trying to convince himself might be there. he wants his possible friend to have good things. he wants him to find happiness or whatever. so he's feeling sick about the idea of some blind date that's probably gonna suck, and maybe he's hoping the person that maksim's going on a date with is also a little ugly, so what? normal possible tentative friend behavior, if you ask ross.

midterms finish up, and the couple of week break is a great chance for ross to try and get his place cleaned up, to catch up on some of the relaxing he barely lets himself do, and it startles him when his phone chimes with a new message, blinking at it for a moment, starting to respond and stopping when he notices the little dots appearing.

so the date had to have gone bad. that was the deal, right? he isn't sure why that makes his stomach swoop the way it does, but it certainly does.

[ Big Guy ⟶ ✉︎ ] doms can sniff out other doms, right? i like a big guy, someone who could just hold me up and fuck me without straining too much, you know? that type. [ Big Guy ⟶ ✉︎ ] take it the date didn't go super well, then, since we're planning a night out? i'm sorry to hear it. but i'll keep an eye out. [ Big Guy ⟶ ✉︎ ] you know deep down inside that i have to make that weird, right? are you sure you aren't telling me to wear a pretty little plug so that you know i have it and you can get yourself all revved up to fuck whatever unsuspecting little bottom i find for you?

he's smirking as he sends the messages off, though some part of him is flustered, heart racing, cheeks pink, pants a little tighter. he doesn't want to admit that last part, even to himself, so he ignores it and moves toward his closer to find that stupid see-through top he said he's wear out. he could always say it lost it, but where's the fun in that. then, after a brief moment of what can only be insanity, he's digging through his toybox and pulling out an array of his plugs, laying them out across his mattress and snapping a photo.

[ Big Guy ⟶ ✉︎ ] (image attached) [ Big Guy ⟶ ✉︎ ] which one? if you're gonna offer advice, may as well go all the way. [ Big Guy ⟶ ✉︎ ] i'm partial to the red one, myself, that's the thickest, but how warmed up do you think i should be? are you planning to actually get me laid?

his face is definitely red by the time he's done with that string of messages, and he's moving to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, breathe in and out, and then look at himself in the mirror, try to calm down a little. he feels almost foolish. this is just banter, why's he getting so worked up over it? blowing out another long, slow breath, he picks up his phone again.

[ Big Guy ⟶ ✉︎ ] do you wanna talk about the date, btw? was it just not fun? boring? lame?

Initially, Maksim easily brushes off the beyond ridiculous chatter about toys and other trivialities-------- after all, none of it's directed towards him or meant to be suggestive. And so it's effortless to let everything roll off his shoulders. Everyone has their own ways of seeking pleasure, and if maybe they're hopeless in the dating department or uninterested in a string of meaningless hookups, there's nothing wrong with just getting the job done yourself. Maksim, however, can't fully relate. A big part of his ability to get off comes from something far more innate... domination. There’s nothing quite like the whimpered noises and soft mewls of someone succumbing to him completely, the intoxicating power of breaking them into submission. Of course, he keeps that to himself; Ross’s tipsy jabbering is far too amusing to interrupt, and, admittedly, Maksim finds it fun to poke and prod at the bratty little bottom. Whoever ends up dealing with that in the future is going to have their hands full. After spending just one morning with Ross, Maksim had felt an animalistic urge to fucking tear him apart. ...Annnnnd here he was now, making bets and somehow agreeing to hit a club with him someday. Was he really so bored (or maybe so stressed out of his fucking mind) that he’d let a singular human become his best source of entertainment? Perhaps. But it could’ve been worse. At least Ross was easy on the eyes, far more enjoyable to look at than to listen to when he was whining and bitching. Maksim could appreciate that, even if it meant tolerating the rest. Ahem.

After a bit more idle chatter about nothing of consequence, and with most of the food gone thanks to him, Maksim found himself feeling significantly looser, far more at ease than before. He credited the alcohol for that, along with the occasional laugh the human had managed to pull out of him, though he wouldn’t go as far as giving Ross any direct compliments. That just wasn’t his style. Once the cleanup was finished, a slow, relaxed smirk spread across Maksim’s lips, piercing blues roving down Ross’s form, lingering on the way the smaller man swayed unsteadily on his feet before bumping clumsily into the counter. "Looks like it’s bedtime for you," he remarked, and with a long arm of muscles rippling beneath his skin, Maksim reached around Ross to grab the half-full bottle of vodka sitting nearby. "Drink some more, and then go to bed," he instructed, the playful lilt in his tone matched by the wag of his brows. "Haven’t picked up on anything concerning in the area, so you’re free to get your beauty sleep." His gaze swept over Ross one final time, lasting just long enough to take in the sight of him, before he stepped back. Grabbing the keys to his motorcycle, the Alpha abruptly made his way toward the door, solidly hulking frame moving with mesmerizing purpose as he slipped out into the night. But just as the apartment door clicked shut behind him, he paused. That overpowering confidence faltered as a troubling thought crept its way into his mind; it wasn’t just the alcohol or the warmth of the night that had him hesitating. No------ deep down, buried beneath layers of hardened indifference, Maksim knew the truth. He didn’t want to leave. Not really. What nagged at him was the fact that he hadn’t been invited to stay, not because of danger or necessity, but simply because Ross wanted him there. It was an outlandish notion, one that made no fucking sense, and yet it rooted itself stubbornly in the carved masculinity of his chest. Frowning, Maksim glanced down at the crack beneath the door, his broad shoulders tense. Nah, that's not it, he decided firmly, brushing the thought aside. It’s definitely just the loneliness talking.

After that, Maksim heads back to his pack’s makeshift village, setting the wheels in motion for the upcoming date with a member of a neighboring pack. It’s with some little male Omega, apparently so stunning that he’s managed to get several Alphas and Betas fighting over him, and was currently fending them off like trying to beat back some wild dogs with a stick or some other absurd drama. Nevertheless, Maksim’s skepticism ran deep. When you’re used to beautiful bottoms practically throwing themselves at you, and you’ve had the kind of upbringing he’s had, your standards tend to be a bit more discerning, even complicated. Maksim knows the connection he seeks depends far more on physical chemistry. He wants that spark, the one-of-a-kind gravitational pull that tells him right away that this is the one, the mate. And though he’s never experienced that instant recognition, he’s not about to let his hopes run wild. So, he reaches out to the Omega, sets up the date, and goes about his pack duties------ leading meetings, lending a hand with family matters. In between, he makes a random stop in town at a dingy little bookstore to pick up Lord of the Flies, feeling slightly stupid for caring about some juvenile kindergartner's book. Finally, he takes care to ensure he’s well-groomed and presentable by the time the blind date rolls around.

For the date, Maksim brings the Omega on a typical werewolf-style adventure, nothing extravagant, but enough to feel like an experience. A hike through rugged terrain leads them to a stunning waterfall, its cascade shimmering in the daylight, before finishing with a peaceful picnic in a meadow. Maksim’s prepared for comfort, bringing enough blankets to keep them cozy, though the cold has no effect on them------- werewolves always run hot, after all. But as they settle in, Maksim quickly realizes he’s the one doing all the work in this conversation. He’s the one asking questions, pushing for any spark of energy or intrigue from the little wolf, but it’s like pulling teeth. The Omega only seems content to giggle softly and nod in agreement, never straying from the script, offering all of the submission but none of the personality. Maybe they’ve been told this is simply an arranged connection meant to unite their packs, with zero deeper elements of mate-selection even considered. It’s frustrating, because Maksim inherently knows the real bond with a mate is supposed to feel different. There should be chemistry, a shared fire, but there’s nothing here but polite pleasantries. Maksim can’t help but wonder: is this how they all see him? As the overbearing Alpha, too in love with the sound of his own voice? Does his pack truly believe that he needs someone who won’t challenge him, who’ll simply let him take charge and never rock the boat? That’s how this date feels-------- like a carefully orchestrated performance. And while it’s irritating, Maksim can’t really blame his loved ones. They just want him to be happy, even if they’ve got the whole thing wrong. But one thing’s for sure: he won’t be talked into this kind of bullshit again.

Despite the lackluster outing, Maksim manages to wrap things up on a relatively bright note, politely declining when the Omega shyly suggests coming over to his place . It would be easy, almost too easy, to snatch up the offer and get his dick wet, but for some inexplicable reason, Maksim finds himself more interested in heading home to have a heated conversation with Ross instead. He drops the Omega off with a courteous "thanks for the lovely time," his tone polite but distant, before making his way back to his own home. There, another Omega is already preparing his bath and getting his bed ready for the night. And later, in the quiet of the evening, Maksim lies sprawled across his crimson sheets, the luxurious fox fur pillows propping up his head as he relaxes completely naked, a single scrap of crimson silk draped across his chiseled thighs and hips. One massive arm gets tucked behind his head, supporting his weight as his other hand taps out a message, a devilish grin curling on his lips.

[ Little Brat ⟶ ✉︎ ] Hope you and your toy collection are ready, we're going out Saturday.

For a moment, Maksim’s mind goes into overdrive, thoughts spinning out of control as his brain becomes consumed by the dark and tempting fantasies. He can't help but imagine Ross, stretched out on the thickest toy, the image searing through his mind all too captivatingly. The idea of asking for a video of it crosses his thoughts, but he immediately discards it. There’s no way he’s letting himself be seen that desperate for a human. Sure, he’d have no problem if Ross introduced him to one, or even tried to set him up with one at the club. But that was different; Maksim owed nothing to an ordinary human, and the thought of them meant little beyond the moment. He wouldn't care if he killed them when his inner beast became too much; in fact, Ross would be leading a lamb to the slaughter on that night, much without his knowledge.

[ Little Brat ⟶ ✉︎ ] What's your type btw? So I know what to look out for. [ Little Brat ⟶ ✉︎ ] I like a man who's pretty, thick. Has some tummy, ass, thighs, all of that good shit. Enough for me to grab onto. [ Little Brat ⟶ ✉︎ ] Also can I suggest something without you making it weird? [ Little Brat ⟶ ✉︎ ] Wear a pretty little plug when we go. What guy doesn't want his sub all warmed up in public? Thank me later.

[mononijikayu]

to you 2,000... or... 20,000 years from now… — ryomen sukuna.

As they stand to leave, his gaze drifts to one of his portraits—a work that captures a moment from another time, another life. In it, the King of Curses sits beside his beloved concubine, her expression full of light and laughter, radiant in a way that suggests an unbreakable bond. Ryomen Sukuna pauses, his hand still entwined with hers, and a rare, gentle smile crosses his face. Looking at the painting, he lets himself hope, just a little. Perhaps, even in a world he once saw as cold and unyielding, there are threads of something beautiful woven into his story. Perhaps, even for someone like him, there could be a happy ending, one he’d never dared to imagine. He leans down and whispers softly, almost as if confessing a secret. “I like to think they found each other again, you know? That somehow… this time, they got to be happy.”

GENRE: alternate universe - reincarnation;

WARNING/S: post canon, future timeline, fluff, possible romance, getting together, mild angst, reincarnation, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, dreams and nightmares, distress, grief, feelings, physical touch, character death, moving on, flashback, humor, no curse future au, pining, light-hearted, happy ending, depiction of the future, depiction of reincarnation, depiction of letting go, depiction of flashback, depiction of getting together, depiction of depiction of character death, depiction of distress, depiction of grief, mention of character death, mention of the past, mention of letting go, mention of grief, reincarnated! sukuna, reincarnated concubine! reader;

WORDS: 15k words.

NOTE: this concludes the final part of the main story of the other woman. i'm genuinely grateful for you love and attention towards my story. this was never supposed to be a series, it was supposed to be a one off fic. but because of your love for concubine reader, i was inspired to bring more to her life.

as i promised, this is a happy ending. well, the happy end that i think would suit the story. of course, this is not the end of concubine reader's story. there will be drabbles of sukuna and concubine reader's life that i never managed to put out.

if you have any suggestion or questions about the story, you can drop some words down in the inbox!!! i'm very happy when you ask questions about the story or have suggestions of what you wanna see next!!! please do so everyone!!!

i hope you look forward to them!!! thank you for reading, thank you for your support and love. i'll continue to write for you all!!! i love you <3

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HE DOESN’T KNOW HOW HE’LL GET THROUGH THIS. He’d never felt like this before. What do his other artist friends call it? Oh, that’s right. A slump. An artist’s slump. Yeah, that’s what it’s called. He’s never had that before.

But why should he? Ryomen Sukuna was a protege. He was a stellar artist with a golden hand, one who never stops. The one who works as though he’s running out of time. It’s him. 

And yet, at that moment, he wasn’t.

Ryomen Sukuna had a problem.

He was stumped from hell and back.

And he doesn’t understand why.

A loud exhale releases from his mouth as he looks up at all the drying canvas in front of him in the various easels. They’re all beautiful, don’t get him wrong. But they’re all the same.

And that bothers Ryomen Sukuna as he purses his lips in a flat line. His own studio has become a homage to these paintings and sketches as of late. There was nothing else coming out of him. Nothing else was occupying his mind.

In the maze of half-finished canvases and dried paint of his studio, there were only those same eyes staring at him. He could feel it even now under the dim lighting casting long, wavering shadows across each and every tender gaze.

He couldn’t stand up anymore. He’s exhausted. He’s been up since god knows when. Everywhere there was paint. His hands are stained, his shirt splattered with colors that have long since dulled. It’s been weeks.

He doesn't know how to deal with this. How could he, when she finds him in every moment? How easy it was to be that way. He’s stopped keeping track of time, because time means nothing when all he can see, all he can paint, is her.

As of late, it was this that haunted him. It was the same as always. It was this woman with those kind eyes looking back at him. That same tender smile greeting him. That same beauty yearning towards him. Everything about the woman’s face consumes him. Everything that she is continues to follow him like a ghost, over and over. 

He can’t even pinpoint when it started. It just started happening out of nowhere. At one point there were normal dreams and soon enough, there were something else.

And as time passed by, there was nothing else left but her. Her beautiful smiling face looking at him. Every single time, she never fails to be warm towards him. As though she could feel him, as though she could see him.

She’s become more than a fixation; she’s an infection, seeping into every corner of his mind, haunting the hours he’s awake as much as those precious few where he drifts into a broken sleep.

She first appeared in his dreams like a fleeting whisper, but her image has grown, intensifying with each passing night, filling his dreams with a crescendo of color and dread. And over and over, it was repeating.

Like a piano key stuck on the board, playing over and over that same repetitive note. And yet, it was still lovely. It was still tender. And then suddenly, it wasn’t. That was the worst part of it all, he thinks. He captures the beauty of her and then suddenly, it just disappears. It goes. Almost like smoke. 

The dream is always the same every night. At first it was terrifying to him. He’d never seen anything like her before. He’d never seen what happened to her before, not to anyone. Not ever. But with her, it repeats.

That nightmare continues over and over again. And he hated it. He hated how he has memorized it. He has hated how it was all he could see over and over again. He hated how this was the fate that such a beautiful, kind woman had to meet.

That beautiful lady, she would stand there and smile at him. Often, she stands at the edge of a crumbling cliff, the ocean roiling and dark beneath her, waves crashing against jagged rocks far below.

She turns, her eyes fixed on him, lips curling into a smile that might be tender, might be mocking, it shifts each time, eluding any attempt to decipher it.

She extends a hand, beckoning, imploring him to come closer. His heart races, his feet propel him forward, but just as he reaches for her, she slips, and he’s left grasping at nothing but empty air.

Again and again, he tries to save her. Again and again, she falls.

The dream wakes him in a cold sweat, heart pounding, breath shallow. He stumbles to his studio, and without thinking, he begins to paint. Her face materializes with each stroke, her eyes holding secrets he can’t unlock.

Her smile flickering with a mystery that tightens his chest. He paints her until his fingers go numb, until his eyes blur from exhaustion. He paints her even when he’s on the verge of madness. And he hates it—hates her—but he’s powerless to stop.

The people around him have noticed the shift, though they don’t understand it. They speak of his new works with reverence, captivated by the haunting beauty of the unknown woman he’s made famous.

But they don’t see the toll she takes on him. They don’t see the shadow of sleeplessness etched into his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the wild desperation lurking just beneath his cool exterior.

Every time he tries to paint something else. Absolutely anything else, it does not work. Not anymore. He would feel his hands freeze, his mind goes blank, and all he can see is her smile.

She’s everywhere, a ghost in his waking hours, her gaze piercing through every wall he builds to keep her out. The thrill of creation is gone; all that remains is the raw compulsion to recreate her face, an act that feels more like exorcism than art.

Ryomen Sukuna slumps back into his chair, eyes trained on the painting before him, hands limp and smeared with shades of red and soft violet. Her face, the delicate arch of her brows, the smirk teasing at her lips. All of it stares back at him, alive, taunting. 

It’s as though she’s watching him, laughing softly at his obsession, fully aware of the hold she has over him. The painted eyes seem to flicker, and in his exhaustion, Sukuna wonders if he’s the one painting her, or if she’s the one reaching through the canvas, carving her image into his mind with a precision that leaves him helpless.

“Damn it. This is so annoying.” he mutters, his voice echoing hollowly in the quiet room. He reaches for his brush, the movement automatic, but his hand falters, dropping it back onto the table as he releases a frustrated sigh. 

The curse feels weak, a pitiful attempt to regain some control, but he knows it’s useless. She’s an endless riddle, one he’s compelled to solve yet doomed to never fully understand.

No matter how many times he paints her, he can’t capture her—not completely. The harder he tries, the more elusive she becomes, as though she’s slipping through his fingers, mocking his every attempt.

He sits there, shoulders slouched, the steady tick of the clock filling the empty space around him. Hours blur into each other, and yet he can’t bring himself to look away, his gaze locked on her face, that faint smile hinting at secrets she will never share.

And then, just as the clock strikes midnight, he hears it. That tender voice giving him grief. That warm voice turning him cold. That voice echoed that whisper, soft as a breeze, calling his name.

“My lord…..my lord Sukuna.”

He closes his eyes, the sound reverberating through him, familiar and yet so distant. She’s there, in his mind, like an echo carried across lifetimes, the warmth of her voice stirring something deep inside.

He knows it’s a dream, an illusion conjured by his own obsession, but he doesn’t care. For a brief moment, he lets himself lean into it, lets her voice wash over him like a balm.

“My lord, my beloved lord Sukuna…” Her voice is softer this time, coaxing, filled with a strange tenderness that he’s certain only exists in his imagination. He can almost feel her fingers trailing along his cheek, the faintest touch, leaving warmth in their wake.

“What do you want from me?” he murmurs, his voice a weary plea, barely audible, as if afraid to break the fragile spell she’s cast over him. “You’re there every night, haunting me, making me see you even when I close my eyes. But what do you want?”

In his mind, her laughter echoes, soft and familiar, as if she’s toying with him. “You know what I want, my lord Sukuna. You’ve always known.”

He clenches his fists, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Then tell me, damn it. Tell me what I need to do to set you free.”

“Set me free?” she repeats, and there’s a hint of amusement in her voice, as if the very idea amuses her. “Oh, my lord Sukuna… it’s not me who needs freeing.”

His breath hitches, her words cutting through him like a blade. The realization settles over him like a heavy weight, and he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that she’s right.

She isn’t the one trapped here—he is. Bound by his own memories, his own regrets, unable to let go of the past that has woven her image into every part of him.

He opens his eyes, staring at the canvas again, her face seeming to shift. It was almost ever so easy for her to taunt him like that, to tease him. Everything about her gave him that feeling that overwhelms him. Feelings that he's never felt in his entire life.

He could feel her eyes glinting with a knowing look that sends a shiver down his spine. He reaches for the brush, hand trembling as he adds another stroke, trying to bring her into focus, to finally capture the essence of her that has haunted him. But no matter what he does, he can’t reach her, can’t grasp the fleeting vision that seems to dance just beyond his reach.

“I’ll keep painting you. I swear.” he whispers, his voice raw, laced with something close to desperation. “Every night, every dream, until you’re satisfied. Until you let me go.”

But he knows, even as the words leave his lips, that she won’t; she’ll never truly leave. She’ll linger there, a silent muse, a relentless force guiding his hand, embedding herself deeper with every brushstroke.

And he, trapped in this beautiful, maddening cycle, will keep painting her face, night after night, each canvas only revealing a fragment of her and yet never enough.

The clock ticks on, marking the hours that slip away in her wake, but he’s long since stopped noticing. She’s there, in every line, every shadow, every flicker of light on the canvas.

She’s his prison, his muse, his madness—and he knows, even as he tries to break free, that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

══════════════════

BY THIS POINT, HE WOULD HAVE BEEN FINISHED WITH HIS COLLECTION. Usually, Ryomen Sukuna finishes his pieces weeks ahead, leaving everyone else; especially Gojo Satoru—scrambling to catch up. Well, perhaps because he usually doesn’t work until he stops messing about. 

Still, the rivalry is a running joke among their peers. Gojo Satoru  would tease him endlessly, his voice loud and mocking. “The world might as well end if you didn’t finish first, Ryomen Sukuna. I’d have to check if hell froze over.”

Gojo Satoru would say with that infuriating grin, and Sukuna would just roll his scarlet eyes, barely dignifying it with a response. He didn’t need to—he’d simply outdo him, his work claiming the prime spot at the National Gallery, cycle after cycle. That’s just how it works for them.

But now, as the days tick by and his canvas remains trapped in this maddening loop, the weight of that old joke feels heavier. Maybe it would be better if the world did end, he muses grimly, his frustration boiling under the surface. Each day that he fails to paint anything else, fails to break free from this woman’s image—drains him. 

Every line, every shadow, every detail is etched with painstaking care, and yet each piece feels incomplete. He lets out a heavy sigh, his eyes narrowing as he looks once more at the canvas, the same haunting face staring back.

Another artist would leave the piece for a day, perhaps even a week, and come back with fresh eyes. But not Sukuna. He’s stubborn, relentless. Yet this time, it feels as though he’s been bested, and that thought is infuriating.

A soft knock sounds at the studio door, but he doesn’t respond. The door creaks open, and he doesn’t need to look up to know who it is—he can practically feel Gojo Satoru’s grin from across the room. This was a rare visit from his rival and somewhat friend. But, he already regrets giving him his address.

“Not done yet?” Gojo drawls, strolling in with a lazy confidence, hands shoved into his pockets. “Well, this must be it—the end of the world. Should I start making apocalypse preparations?”

“Leave, Satoru.” Sukuna mutters, his voice a low growl. But Gojo just chuckles, unperturbed.

“Can’t. I live wayyyyyy tooo far. Besides, I came all this way to see the fall of the great Ryomen Sukuna. And boy, is it a sight.” Gojo steps closer, his gaze shifting to the canvas. “Her again, huh? Your mystery woman? I thought you were done with her!”

Sukuna’s jaw tightens. “Say another word, and you’ll be painting with your own blood.”

Gojo just laughs, crossing his arms as he leans back against the wall. “Fine, fine. But it’s… interesting, don’t you think? You, stuck on the same image, over and over. And all of this because of one woman.”

Sukuna can feel his patience fraying, each word from Gojo Satoru like sandpaper on a wound that refuses to heal. But Gojo doesn’t stop, his tone shifting from mocking to genuinely curious. It’s already giving him a headache.

“So, bestie……” he says, a glint in his bright blue eyes. “Who is she? A muse? Some long-lost love? Because whatever it is, you’re about to drive yourself mad over her.”

“She’s nothing.” Sukuna says sharply, but the words lack conviction. He doesn’t want to dive into it. Especially for Gojo Satoru. He’d only try to make it all a joke and laugh about it. “Just a woman. Just a damn face that refuses to disappear.”

Gojo Satoru couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow. “Nothing? Could’ve fooled me, seeing as she’s all you’ve painted for weeks. Either she’s ‘just a woman,’ or she’s haunting you.”

Sukuna clenches his fists, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I can’t… get her out of my head, no matter how many times I try. It’s like she’s taunting me. Every stroke feels like a chase, and I can’t catch her.”

For once, Gojo’s grin fades, a shadow of understanding passing over his face. “So that’s it, huh? You’ve finally found a challenge you can’t conquer. Even after all these years.”

Sukuna scowls, eyes narrowing. “It’s not a challenge. It’s… more than that.” His voice trails off as he glances at the painting, his expression a mixture of longing and frustration.

“Then stop,” Gojo says bluntly. “If she’s driving you insane, stop trying to capture her. Paint something else. Anything else. Get back to your work, to the craft that’s kept you sane all this time.”

But Sukuna only shakes his head, his gaze fixed on the canvas. “It’s not that simple, Satoru. I can’t stop. I need to understand… Why is she here? Why does she keep coming back to me?”

Gojo sighs, running a hand through his bright snow colored hair, clearly torn between amusement and pity. “Well, I can’t say I envy you. But maybe you should try looking beyond the canvas, for once.”

Sukuna scoffs, though a hint of doubt creeps into his expression. “You think there’s anything outside this room that could give me answers?”

Gojo shrugs. “Who knows? Sometimes the answers we need are the ones we’re not looking for. But if this is what’s keeping you chained…” he nods towards the door, his voice lowering, “then maybe it’s time to find out why.”

Ryomen Sukuna says nothing, his gaze flicking between Gojo and the woman’s face on the canvas. And as Gojo slips out the door with a knowing smile, Sukuna feels the weight of his words lingering, as if daring him to break free of the chains he’s crafted for himself.

Gojo Satoru stayed in his studio for a while; the entire time his head hurt. But he couldn’t help admitting that his frustration was put on hold and that he was grateful for it. Annoying as he was, it was better than suffering what he had been suffering with the woman that haunts him.

But when Gojo Satoru leaves, he finds himself unable to leave either. From the night before, he hadn’t really found himself to sleep. But if he was still being honest, he really doesn’t think he made any progress from the ones he had already made  that he feels happy about.

Well, except perhaps three more additions to his deluded dreams of this woman. He couldn’t stop with that. That was not something he could enjoy. It didn’t look good. He didn’t think it was the best he had ever done. He looks at his canvas again and squints his eyes. It was as though he was hoping that he had painted something else. But he knew he hadn’t. There was no need to double check. 

Okay, well, he should be more honest — it’s four now. This is the fourth one. The fourth one for a while and it’s only past lunch time the next day.  Wait, is it really lunch time? He looked around again and saw his clock. His mouth agape in shock. It’s already been a whole day? It’s already the blue hour? What the actual fuck is going on?

He groans as he puts down his paintbrush and covers his face with his hands. A loud groan echoes against his skin, reflecting that bitterness he feels. He was going mad, he’s genuinely sure that he’s really going mad. This time for real. The world is ending and he’s going mad.

Once more, Ryomen Sukuna sits slumped in his studio chair, the dim, cold light from the nearby cityscape casting a pallor over his face. How can this be possible? He's rubbing his temples, staring at yet another drying and yet truly unfinished portrait of her when a familiar voice cuts through his brooding. Ryomen Sukuna turned his back and turned it back once more, just as quickly.

Fuck, its Uraume.

Shit, shit. Is it already that time?

He hasn’t messaged them for two days.

How the fuck is he going to survive—

“Sukuna–san, you have the exhibition in two weeks, you know that!” Uraume reminds him, waking over with their tone both gentle and insistent. They’re standing at the edge of the cluttered studio, arms crossed, their eyes flicking between Sukuna and the growing stack of canvases lining the walls. “Everyone’s expecting new work, Sukuna–san. You can’t just say you aren’t producing anything when this is—”

He cuts them off with a frustrated wave of his hand, as if trying to dismiss both them and the exhibition out of his mind. “I know, I know, Uraume–san. You already know that I know. Don’t you think I know? I just…… What’s the point of even going here? It’s not…it’s not finished—nothing is complete.” 

“That’s not what you’re supposed to be telling me—”

“I know, I know.” His voice trails off, heavy with exhaustion. He looks at the half-finished canvas before him, her familiar eyes staring back, mocking him. “Look, I need time. Okay? Just a little more time to get over it. I promise. It will be done soon.”

Uraume steps carefully, sidestepping the mess of brushes, scattered paint, and half-finished canvases that litter the studio floor. Their usual calm is tinged with a hint of bewilderment, their brows furrowing as they glance over at Ryomen Sukuna, who sits slouched in his chair, staring blankly at the portrait before him. 

This is the first time they’ve seen him like this—so unfocused, so… lost. It’s unnerving. For as long as they’ve known him, Sukuna was always in control, his power and his confidence absolute. Nothing stumped him; nothing could shake him from his single-minded determination.

And yet, here he is, surrounded by portraits of a woman they’ve never met, trapped in a spiral of obsession that they don’t understand.

“Get over what, exactly?” Uraume asks, a soft but firm edge to their voice, breaking the silence that has grown heavy in the room. “The exhibition is practically sold out already. You are the star of this show—you know that.” 

They hesitate, crossing their arms as they study his profile. “If you let yourself slip now, you’re going to lose everything. They expect something… groundbreaking, something other than…”

Their voice trails off as they catch sight of another painting, and then another; all of them of her. Each one shows a different expression, a different tilt of her head, a different light in her eyes, but always the same haunting face. Uraume’s gaze lingers on the latest painting, her smirk, subtle yet all-consuming, as if she’s daring anyone who looks at her to understand.

They shake their heads slowly, exhaling in frustration. “This obsession of yours…” They struggle for the right words, their gaze hardening as they glance back at him. “I don’t understand it. Who is she? And why are you letting her control you like this?”

Sukuna looks up, his expression weary, but there’s a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes, a glint that only appears when he’s truly challenged. “You wouldn’t understand, Uraume–san.” he mutters, his voice low, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “No one would. Not unless you felt what she did to me.”

Uraume raises a brow, taken aback. This isn’t like him—this vulnerability, this almost painful honesty. They’ve seen Sukuna bring cities to their knees, watched him command fear and respect with the simplest look, but now? Now, he looks more like a man haunted than a man in control. 

“Then tell me, Sukuna–san.” Uraume says, their voice softening slightly, more curious than before. “What is it about her? Why does she matter so much?”

He leans back, a bitter smile crossing his lips. “It’s like… no matter how many times I paint her, she’s always out of reach, Uraume–san.” he says, his eyes flicking to the painting in front of him, the smirk that never changes. “Every stroke, every color—it’s as if she’s taunting me, daring me to try again, knowing I’ll never capture her.”

There’s a pause, the weight of his words settling between them, thick and tangible. Uraume takes a step back, their expression wavering. They’re used to seeing Sukuna drive toward a goal with relentless force, breaking anything that stands in his way. But this? This is something else. Something they can’t touch.

“Is she worth all this?” Uraume asks, more gently than they intended. “Worth losing your edge, your control?” They gesture to the canvases around them. “If she’s haunting you this much, perhaps it’s time to let her go.”

A dark laugh escapes Sukuna, low and humorless. “Let her go?” he repeats, his gaze still fixed on the painting. “I’ve tried, Uraume–san. But she’s there, every time I close my eyes. And I can’t…” He stops himself, the words caught in his throat. “She won’t let me go.”

Uraume watches him, feeling a pang of something they can’t quite name—pity, perhaps, or fear for what this fixation could mean for him. They take a step forward, daring to place a hand on his shoulder. 

“You’re stronger than this, Sukuna–san.” they say softly, but firmly. “Whatever hold she has over you, it doesn’t control you. You’re the one in charge here, remember?”

For a moment, Sukuna seems to consider their words, a flicker of clarity in his eyes. But then he glances back at the canvas, at her knowing smile, and his face hardens, as if he’s resigned to the fact that he’s already lost.

“I thought so too, Uraume–san.” he murmurs, barely loud enough for Uraume to hear. “But I’m beginning to wonder… maybe she’s the one painting me.”

Uraume watches him in silence, feeling the cold truth of his words settle between them. They realize, in that moment, that they may be witnessing the unraveling of the man they thought was unbreakable. And for the first time, they wonder if he can even escape from the shadows of his own creation.

Sukuna follows their gaze, feeling a surge of irritation and helplessness. “It’s not that simple, Uraume–san. God, it’s just….” he mutters, running a hand through his messy fuschia hair, which is starting to look as unruly as he feels.

“She’s—she’s everywhere to me. And maybe that’s why she’s always here. Every time I try to start something else, there she is. Like a bad dream I can’t wake up from.” 

He glances at Uraume, searching their face for some flicker of understanding. “Don’t you get it? I need to work through this. You can’t just snap your fingers and make it go away. If I had magic, it would have been fine, but I just….”

“Then maybe make her part of it.” Uraume replies, unphased by his frustration. “People will want to see this obsession—whatever it is. But they won’t be satisfied with half-finished canvases of the same face over and over.”

He stands up abruptly, pacing, as if movement will shake off the weight pressing down on him. “It’s not an obsession,” he says, though the words sound hollow, even to him. “I just need… time. To figure this out. To move past her.”

Uraume watches him with a calm patience that only irritates him further. “You’ve had time, Sukuna-san. And every day, I’ve watched you do nothing but chase shadows.” They gesture to the rows of unfinished canvases, the dozens of faces that all share her haunting expression.

“Maybe you don’t need to get past her. Maybe you need to go deeper, to figure out what she’s trying to tell you.”

Sukuna clenches his jaw, feeling the heat rise in his chest. He hates that Uraume, of all people, might be right. But how could he go deeper when she’s already consuming him? They should know that this is not what he needs right now. He needs support about this trying situation. He needs kindness about this. He needs—

He turns his eyes slightly and soon enough, they land on the first portrait he’s drawn of her. It was rough around the edges, it was true. But he was trying really hard to capture what he had found in her. He thought he would never see her again. That first time, it was all too interesting. Because he thought he would never see her again. And her smile would have been everything even that one time. 

That once would have been enough, it would have fulfilled him whole enough. That one portrait, that first one — it would have been enough for Ryomen Sukuna to feel like someone was always going to look at him kindly. 

That someone would always look at him with such tender eyes. He purses his lips in a line. Here she was. Once again, staring into his soul. Frozen in time. Looking towards him as though he was the world. As though life can only be known through looking at him. He gulped.

“I’ll figure it out, don’t worry.” he says finally, forcing his voice to steady. “Just… let me handle it my way.”

Uraume sighs, a long, exasperated sound. “Fine. But remember, Sukuna–san, time waits for no one. Especially not for you.” 

And with that, they turn, leaving him alone once more in his dimly lit prison, with nothing but her face and the ticking of the clock to keep him company. Ryomen Sukuna could not move anymore for a while. He couldn’t. Not when you were looking at him like that.

The echoes of the night pangs into the slumber of the bright starry sky, and the silence in Ryomen Sukuna’s studio is absolute, broken only by the occasional soft creak of his chair or the quiet scratch of his brush against the canvas. And he despises it. Usually, he would be happy about that. It helps him focus on his work. 

Yet, he’s almost afraid to move or make more noise or appease the silence with his enjoyment. Ryomen Sukuna was afraid that if he does, he’ll break the spell that’s settled over him, the fragile connection that’s come alive between him and her.

This ghostly woman, this chasing woman who has rooted herself so deeply in his psyche. He knows she’s not real, and yet every inch of him feels as if she’s in the room with him, closer than a shadow, more vivid than any memory.

The woman on the canvas feels different this time. He’s pushed past the limits of his frustration and reached a depth of expression that feels raw, unnerving. Her face, no longer a series of lifeless shapes and colors, seems to breathe on the canvas. 

Her smile is softer now, her eyes almost… knowing. But the knowing isn’t comforting; it unsettles him, strikes some primal nerve deep inside. He steps back, shaking his head as if to clear it, to dispel the irrational thought that she’s looking back at him with intent, with purpose.

But even standing back, even half-closing his eyes, he can’t unsee her. She seems more real than ever before, like he’s peeled away another layer, only to find her hiding deeper within. He feels his heart beat faster, a slow wave of dread creeping into his veins. How can a face he created himself feel so alive? So sentient?

He backs away from the canvas, his hands covered in paint, feeling a chill settle over him. He’s been pushing himself to exhaustion these past few weeks, painting her in every possible way, but this—this feels different, like he’s crossed an invisible line. For the first time, the compulsion to paint her is laced with fear.

Still, he can’t look away. Her presence fills the room, and he feels the weight of it like a physical force. His eyes roam over her face: the faint shadows around her eyes, the suggestion of pain hidden in the tilt of her lips, the look of sorrow mingling with defiance. Each detail tells a story he’s not sure he wants to know, yet he’s desperate to understand it.

Uraume’s words echo in his mind again: Maybe you don’t need to get past her. Maybe you need to go deeper, to figure out what she’s trying to tell you.

He shudders, the thought reverberating through him. What if this woman, this apparition, isn’t just an accident of his imagination? What if she’s here for a reason, some purpose he’s been too afraid to uncover?

He recalls the dreams—the cliff, the ocean raging below, the way she extends her hand to him with that haunting smile, beckoning him forward only to disappear again and again. It’s always the same. He can’t save her, but he can’t let her go.

He’s always believed that his art comes from somewhere deep within him, from emotions he doesn’t fully understand, from memories he can’t articulate. But this feels different to him. He had never dealt with this before. 

It was almost as if it’s coming from outside of him, as though she’s reaching through the boundary of his mind, using his hands as a conduit. He lets out a shaky breath, clutching the paint-stained edge of his workbench. Is this woman, this image, an echo from his past? A ghost? Or something darker, something he’s unlocked without meaning to?

The thought stirs something in him, a strange, unexplainable pull to keep going, to lose himself in this process of bringing her fully to life. He walks back to the canvas, hand trembling as he picks up his brush once more.

This time, he paints her hand, reaching out, as if extending toward him. The fingers are delicate, almost ghostly, and he layers shadows beneath them, giving them depth, weight. He works until the details blur, until his vision is smeared with exhaustion.

He steps back again, chest tight. Her hand stretches toward him now, inviting him, her fingers just a breath away. The air in the room feels thick, electric, as if she’s drawing him closer, beckoning him to cross some unseen line. He reaches out instinctively, the tips of his fingers barely brushing the canvas.

In that instant, a shiver courses through him, the chill going bone-deep. He feels his hand pull back, but it’s as if something is holding it there, holding him in place. His heart races. He hears the ticking of the clock, each tick louder, more insistent. The woman on the canvas seems closer now, her eyes sharper, more alive, her expression shifting as though she’s on the edge of speaking.

He tears his hand away, stumbling backward, the sudden movement jarring him back to himself. His studio comes into focus, the familiar mess of paint and brushes scattered around, the quiet hum of the city outside. But she’s still there, her face on the canvas, watching him with that faint, knowing smile.

His heart still pounding, he grabs his coat and stumbles out of the studio, leaving her behind, feeling her gaze burning into his back even as he shuts the door. The air outside is cold, crisp, and he gulps it down, trying to shake off the feeling that he’s walked out of a nightmare he can’t wake from.

But even as he steps into the city streets, even as the lights and the noise surround him, he can still see her in his mind, as clearly as if she were standing beside him.

And he knows, with a strange certainty, that no matter how far he runs, she’ll be waiting for him, waiting in the studio, in his dreams, until he finally dares to confront whatever truth she holds.

══════════════════

HE REALLY CAN’T HELP IT. Ryomen Sukuna’s heart hammers in his chest, louder than the muffled hum of voices in the museum, louder than the memories raging through his mind. He stands frozen, his scarlet eyes locked onto her.

This was the woman from his dreams, the face he painted until his hands went numb, until his sanity frayed. The woman he has known is like the back of his hand. She’s here, in the flesh, not on a canvas or a hazy memory, but real, close enough to reach out and touch. And yet, at this moment, she feels farther away than ever.

The woman doesn’t notice him. Of course she wouldn’t have. Why would she? He doesn’t expect her to know what he’s feeling now. She’s oblivious to the storm her presence has unleashed in his chest, the way his pulse spikes as he watches her, every nerve in his body caught between reaching for her and running away. 

She’s gazing intently at the displays, her head tilting thoughtfully as she studies each artifact, and with each subtle movement, she reminds him achingly of her—of the woman he’d known in that past life, his concubine, the one he’d lost so long ago. She has that same air of quiet intensity, that gentle focus, the same soft curiosity he remembers.

And then she steps closer to the display holding the hairpin. That hairpin—the one he’d given to his concubine as a symbol of the promise he couldn’t keep, the one she had treasured even on the darkest nights, when the weight of their hidden love had pressed heavy upon them both. The hairpin he’d clasped in her hair before she was taken from him.

The sight of it had been a punch to the gut even before he saw her. But now, watching this woman—a stranger, yet painfully familiar—reach out as though to touch the glass, Sukuna feels something crack open inside him, a wound he’d buried lifetimes ago tearing fresh and raw.

She lifts her hand, her fingers hovering near the glass, her eyes lingering on the hairpin with a look he recognizes—sadness, longing, nostalgia she can’t possibly understand.

Her face is calm, her expression serene, but he knows that look, knows that feeling. Does she feel it too? Does she feel the echo of something lost, something distant yet so deeply embedded in her soul?

His own hand trembles at his side. He wants to go to her, to pull her aside, to demand to know if she remembers, if somewhere in her heart she feels that same aching void he’s carried for centuries. But the reality sinks in, cold and unyielding: to her, he’s a stranger. 

She has no idea who he is. She doesn’t remember their stolen moments under moonlight, their whispered vows, the quiet, forbidden love that had bound them tighter than any promise. She doesn’t remember his face, doesn’t know the agony he’s endured, living each lifetime haunted by her ghost, painting her face in the desperate hope it might bring her back.

And yet, the hairpin calls to her. He watches her, rooted to the spot, as she studies it with a reverence she can’t name, can’t explain, an inexplicable connection to something lost to time. He can almost see the weight of her past life hovering over her like a shadow she doesn’t even know is there.

Sukuna’s fingers twitch, aching to touch her, to break this unbearable silence and tell her everything: that he’s waited lifetimes for her, that he’s dreamed of her every night, that every stroke of his brush was a desperate attempt to remember her, to reach her, to feel even an echo of what they once had. But how could he explain that? How could he unload centuries of grief, of longing, on her shoulders, when she doesn’t even know his name?

She turns, moving slowly to the next display. But for a single heartbeat, her gaze drifts in his direction. Their eyes meet, and in that split second, the air thickens, everything around him falling away. Her eyes—those same eyes, dark and deep, full of questions and secrets—fix on him, and he feels the weight of their shared history settle like a heavy cloak over them both.

He watches as something flickers in her gaze, an almost imperceptible flash of recognition. She blinks, and it’s gone, but he clings to it, desperate. Did she feel it, even if only for a moment? Did she feel the weight of a life before, a life they shared, a love they lost?

But she turns away, her brows furrowing slightly, as if shaking off a strange thought, and the moment shatters, leaving him stranded in a sea of regret and unspoken words. She disappears around the corner, her silhouette swallowed by the shadows of the exhibit.

A bitter pang cuts through him, deeper than anything he’s felt in centuries. She’s here, alive, within his reach, and yet she’s still lost to him. He’s still haunted by the echo of her smile, the shadow of her memory, the woman he could never save.

Slowly, Ryomen Sukuna forces himself to step away, his gaze lingering on the hairpin. He clenches his fists, feeling the familiar sting of regret, of promises broken, of lives tangled and torn apart.

He’d thought he was prepared to face her, though he could handle the pain that would come with seeing her again. But the reality is raw and relentless, tearing open old wounds he thought were healed.

In that moment, he was the only one who knew the truth: he’ll always be trapped in this cycle, drawn to her only to watch her slip away. No matter how many times he finds her, she’ll always be just out of reach, a dream he can never wake from.

Ryomen Sukuna’s heart nearly stops when he feels a soft hand on his arm, drawing him back to the present. His present. In front of this woman, this woman who haunted him with everything and anything in him.

“Are you… okay?” the woman asks, her voice gentle, her eyes warm with concern.

He’s stunned, his breath catching as he looks down at her, the stranger with the face he’s known all too well, the stranger who feels like a ghost comes to life. But he forces himself to gather his thoughts, to act like this is a normal interaction with a stranger, even though every nerve in his body feels charged with recognition.

“Ah… yes, I’m….I’m good.” he finally says, his voice rough but steady. “I just find the gallery… interesting.” The words feel absurdly inadequate, but it’s the only thing he can manage.

A small smile breaks over her lips, and the sight of it sends a sharp pang through him. It’s so familiar, so achingly familiar, that he has to clench his fists to keep himself grounded. She glances around the exhibit, her expression softening with a hint of pride.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it, stranger.” she says. “It was… hard to tell the story. To do it justice, I mean.” Her gaze returns to his, warm and inviting. “I’m a Mikoto, by the way. A descendant of Hiromi.”

He feels his heart stop at the name, and it takes him a beat to respond. “Ryomen… Ryomen Sukuna, that’s my name.” he says, his voice catching slightly as he introduces himself. 

He could only watch as her eyes widened in surprise, and she studied him, the weight of recognition glinting faintly in her gaze, though she didn't seem to realize its true depth. She probably did not expect him to have that name, that exact name, also.

“A descendant of Hiromi, too?” she asks with a soft laugh, her expression open, friendly. When he doesn’t answer, she shakes her head with a lighthearted smile. “It’s okay. The family’s too big for everyone to know where they come from anyway.”

He nods stiffly, a bit overwhelmed, struggling to keep his composure as memories flicker before him. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he aches to tell her, but he swallows it all down, letting the silence sit between them, as heavy as it is fragile.

Then, gathering his nerve, he glances at her. “Can I… can I ask you something about the exhibit? About Ryomen Sukuna?”

She tilts her head, curious. “Of course, you can.” she says. “But fair warning—it’s going to be a long story. A sad story.”

He meets her gaze, and in that moment, he sees a flicker of recognition in her eyes, something deep and familiar that calls to him. He nods. “That’s okay.” he says softly. “I think I need to hear it.”

She studies him a moment, as if trying to understand his need to know. Judging from her own reaction, it's a difficult story to even try and tell. But he was curious. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he wanted to know so badly.

He wanted to know more than anything how these two people lived. How she lived, that woman in his dreams — the woman right in front of him. He looks at her tenderly, curiously. And she nods, a quiet understanding in her expression. 

“Ryomen Sukuna… and his concubine. Their stories are really not easy. Nor is her own. His concubine’s story is difficult. She led a long, sad life. They were together for a long time, longer than Sukuna and Hiromi were wed.” Her eyes lowered, the sight gleaming with sorrow as she touched the glass, trying to reach for the hairpin. 

“She was devoted to him, in all the ways that one could describe devotion. And yet….she suffered under him… Quite a lot, if we’re to be honest. She gave him a son and she lost him and his indifference at times, it broke her.” She hesitates, glancing at him before continuing. “Though in his own way, he loved her. But well, was it enough? We cannot truly tell. From what we know from Ryomen Chiharu, she died without knowing. But perhaps, those are claims.”

The words pierce him like a knife. Hearing it from her lips, from her gentle voice, makes it all feel too real. The bitterness, the heartbreak, the weight of it all surges within him, yet he can’t look away from her. Is that what she has had to live through all that time? Was it only the heartbreak she had lived through? In that past life, in her past life — was it just grief born out of more, one after the other? Is that why she kept falling to her death? Suffering in all that pain? 

“If he had loved her then….” Sukuna could feel some sense of anger bubble through him. “Why is it not ever clear, his feelings? If you love someone, you….you tell them! You make them know when they’re alive. Not when they’re gone! What kind of man is he? Is he even a man at that point? That’s cruel….That’s…..”

In that moment, her eyes turned wide as she gazed at him. She had seen people get angry on behalf of the long suffering concubine of the King of Curses. That was normal, to feel anguish on her behalf. And yet, this mayhaps is the first time he’s ever seen someone so infuriated. And aggrieved. And bitter. Truly, in the sense of the word. Her heart felt warm about that. 

She smiles softly at him and places her hand on his own. “You know….he still did care. Even if he was a terrible man. In some ways.”

“Even then—”

“Come with me, stranger!” she says, her voice soft as she takes his hand, her touch sending an electric shock through him. She leads him to a long table draped in dark fabric, a single scroll lying open at the center. It was a magnificent piece of work.

In the middle was her, that concubine. With her elegant features and her bright eyed gaze, her tender smile that could bring life to a mundane world. The colors illuminated her with such ethereality that one couldn’t even understand. It would have taken much too much time to do this in their lifetime, during the Heian Era.

 And yet, it was so carefully made, carefully thought of. So full of devotion to her, details that one couldn’t even find in any other portraiture in that time. Sukuna could only watch as her fingers glide along its edge with a reverence that pulls him in, as though she’s sharing a secret between them. Her smile grows wider.

“This is painted and written by Sukuna himself, mayhaps, a few years before she passed.” she whispers, her eyes shining as she looks at him. “We don’t know, if he had painted and made this in secret. Or if she had known and seen it.  But….it was to her… a message. From him to her.”

The scroll is faded, ink blurred by age but unmistakable. And as Sukuna reads it, he feels his breath leave him, his pulse racing as he takes in the words he never thought he’d see again. In ancient script, barely visible, are the words he remembers writing so many lifetimes ago, a promise that felt foolish and desperate even as he wrote it:

“To you, my little one, from a thousand years to another twenty thousand years from now, you who will continue to be dear to me.”

His vision blurs, and he forces himself to swallow down the ache rising in his chest. How is that man ever so contradictory? How could he cause her hurt and then do…do something like this? How can one ever make amends, or show love, knowing they had caused grief and pain and suffering? 

He purses his lips, his face echoing in conflict. He could feel his hand tighten in a fist. The woman he saw in his dreams, and the woman he sees before him now. How they both suffered to get to this point. 

That smile a thousand years ago, so gentle and yet….so pained. And now, so beautiful and serene, happy. Truly so happy. He couldn’t help but be so overwhelmed by emotion. By all of this. She looks up at him, her face soft with empathy and warmth, her hand still resting lightly on his arm.

“What kind of person do you think could write something like that?” she asks gently, studying his reaction.

He swallows, searching for the right words, his voice barely a whisper. “Someone who knew… he’d never find peace without her.” he says, almost to himself, his gaze lingering on the scroll. “Someone… who wanted more time.”

Her eyes meet his, something unspoken passing between them, a quiet understanding that hangs thick in the air. She doesn’t say anything, but her expression shifts, her gaze softening, as if she’s sensing something she can’t quite place, something from another life pressing against the present.

In that moment, he knows he can’t tell her, can’t burden her with the weight of it all. This life may not hold the memory, the pain, the love he’d lost, but here she stands, still at his side. The universe, fate, something unknown has brought them here, and for now, in this fragile moment, it’s enough.

Sukuna’s mind swirls, each beat of his heart drumming louder against the silence that now surrounds them. The faint traces of this man’s ancient words—his promise, his plea—are scrawled on the scroll, untouched by time. 

The weight of it feels unbearable, as if this fragile piece of paper holds not just a message from the past but the entirety of his soul. He risks a glance at her, the woman with his concubine’s face, her warmth, her spirit.

She’s watching him with an intensity that pulls him back from his reverie. “I wonder if he ever found her, if he was ever reborn and given new life.” she murmurs, more to herself than to him. “If… across all that time, they somehow managed to find each other again. And are more truthful to each other. I always thought that, even when I was a child. I hoped and prayed that they found happiness together in a new life.”

Her words send a chill down his spine. He wants to tell her they did, that he’s standing here, right now, because of her. But he knows he can’t—no matter how much his heart aches to reach out, to let her in on the truth he’s carried alone for so long. The curse of knowing, of remembering, is his burden alone.

Instead, he lets his fingers drift across the edge of the scroll, keeping his gaze lowered. “Maybe he never stopped searching. Even if he is reborn. Maybe if he doesn’t remember it all. He should find her and make amends.” he says softly. “Maybe that’s why his name and his memory linger even now. So that she’ll notice. And…maybe they’ll live the way you want them to.”

She tilts her head, considering him, her smile touched with the slightest hint of sadness. “That’s a beautiful thought. Almost… almost as if he’s still out there, waiting. Even if he had to endure every lifetime alone.”

Sukuna swallows, struggling to keep his composure. “Sometimes, we don’t have a choice, about it all.” he says, his voice low. “We’re bound by memories we can’t remember, by the promises our futures will have to remake, even if we have to carry them alone.”

She studies him for a moment, her expression thoughtful, as if she’s trying to glimpse the truth beneath his words. “That sounds like something he would have said, perhaps….perhaps to her.” she murmurs, almost to herself.

The weight of her gaze feels like a hand pressing against his heart, pulling him toward her, tethering him in a way that feels more ancient than memory. But she turns her attention back to the scroll, breaking the spell, and a soft smile touches her lips as she reads the words he once wrote.

“You know,” she says after a pause, “my family used to tell stories about Sukuna. He’s more of a legend now than a real person, but there are so many conflicting tales. Some say he was ruthless, others say he was capable of great kindness. I’ve always been fascinated by that contradiction.” She glances up at him, eyes alight with curiosity. “What do you think? Was he a monster… or was he something more?”

Sukuna’s breath catches at the question, the answer sitting like a stone in his throat. How can he possibly explain that the truth was more complicated than either legend or history could capture? That he was both and neither, a man torn by his own humanity and haunted by a love he couldn’t protect?

“It’s hard to say what he was.” he answers carefully. “Maybe he was both. A monster to some, but to others… he was someone who gave everything he had. No one is….no one is truly a villain, after all.”

She nods slowly, seemingly satisfied with his answer. “I like that answer.” she says quietly. “I think we all have pieces of light and shadow inside us. Maybe he was just… someone trying to find a balance, even if he had caused so much hurt. Even if he had failed.”

The irony cuts deep, the tragic poetry of her words like salt in an old wound. Her voice is gentle, but there’s a conviction in her tone that makes his chest tighten. If she knew the truth—if she knew what he’d lost, the sacrifices he’d made—would she still look at him this way, with this soft reverence and understanding?

Lost in thought, he hardly notices her reaching for his hand. Her fingers wrap around his, warm and grounding, and he’s stunned by the simple, natural ease of her touch, as though they’ve done this a thousand times before. Her hand fits perfectly in his, and for the first time in centuries, a glimmer of hope stirs within him.

“Come with me again, stranger.” she says, leading him past the scroll and into a smaller room at the end of the hall. “There’s something else I want you to see.”

They walk in silence, and he lets her guide him, his heart racing, wondering if perhaps, just maybe, she’s starting to feel the pull too—the invisible thread binding them across lifetimes. She stops in front of a display case holding a small, intricately carved pendant, its silver chain gleaming under the soft lights.

“This pendant, it was passed down to Ryomen Chiharu, after a few years.” she says, gazing at it with a fondness that surprises him. “It belonged to her. His concubine. One of the only things she kept close to her heart.”

Sukuna stares at it, his mind reeling. The pendant was once his gift to her, that King of Curses—a token, a promise of protection. Seeing it now, preserved and cared for, feels surreal, a whisper of the life they once shared. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, his voice thick with emotion he’s barely keeping in check.

He wondered, maybe if it was the right time, the right place. If he hadn’t been so enthralled with another — maybe it would have been a match that would have ended with less pain and more joy. Perhaps if the King of Curses had found himself able to move forward, he would have been happier. Maybe his concubine would have been happier. 

But that was a thousand years ago. And humanity keeps making that same mistake. Little by little, you could find people repeating it over and over again. That makes Sukuna so bitter and sad, grievous and angry all at once. How could fate be so twisted? How could fate seem so indifferent to it all? How could…how could fate not stop such suffering of people who wish to be happy? 

“I always thought it was sad, you know?” she continued, her tone soft. “She must have known he’d never be hers completely. But she still kept this close to her heart.  Thinking of him. It’s like she never stopped hoping.”

Sukuna’s throat tightens, the weight of her words pressing into the raw ache within him. “Hope….hope is fragile.” he echoes, his voice hollow. “It can be a painful thing to carry, especially when there’s no chance of seeing it fulfilled.”

Her gaze turns up to him, searching, as though she can sense the depth of his grief but can’t name its source. “Maybe.” she says, her voice a whisper. “But sometimes… hope is all we have.”

He looks away, afraid she’ll see the truth in his eyes. He wonders if she understands, if somewhere deep down, a part of her remembers. But even if she doesn’t, he can feel her empathy, her gentle warmth reaching out to him, soothing his restless spirit.

She squeezes his hand, her touch gentle and grounding. “Thank you,” she says, smiling softly. “For listening to her story with me. I know it’s heavy, but… it’s part of our legacy, isn’t it?”

He nods, his heart raw and open, feeling the weight of the centuries fall away, even if just for this fleeting moment. It’s not enough—not enough to heal the wounds, to bring back what they’d lost—but for the first time, he feels something close to peace.

And in that silence, in her quiet smile, he dares to hope that maybe, just maybe, there will be a way to find and know each other again. She was right there. He likes to think she is. Right in front of him. There was hope, somehow. 

That she would be happy. That maybe, just maybe – he could see her smile so beautifully again. A smile that would reach all the way to her eyes and warm her face and towards the reach of all the heavens.

Sukuna stands there, his fingers still brushing the edge of the glass case, the pendant gleaming faintly beneath his touch. He feels an unfamiliar warmth stirring within him, a strange, hesitant urge for something… more, something real and tangible. He looks down at her, her expression still soft with that quiet empathy that unsettles him as much as it comforts him.

Before he can second-guess himself, he clears his throat, casting a sidelong glance her way. “Would you, uh… would you like to grab a coffee sometime?” he asks, a bit gruffly, as if trying to sound casual. “Maybe you could help me with some ideas for my art. I’m….an artist by the way. ”

The question hangs in the air between them, and for a moment, he feels exposed in a way he hasn’t in centuries, like he’s offering a piece of himself he’s long since hidden. He braces himself for rejection, for her to smile politely and turn him down.

Sukuna watches her smile, a genuine, radiant expression that spreads across her face like dawn breaking over a darkened sky. It’s infectious, igniting something deep within him, as though it was a feeling that has lain dormant for centuries beneath layers of pain and regret. 

Everything in him felt warm inside. Everything in him grasped to life, hoping that she could nourish it to last forever. Her acceptance feels like a lifeline thrown into the stormy sea of his existence, and he clings to it with a desperation he can’t quite articulate.

“Tomorrow sounds perfect, stranger.” she says, her voice a gentle balm against the jagged edges of his heart. “Oh, I should stop calling you that, shouldn’t I? My apologies, Sukuna–san. I wanted to tease you for a little more time.”

As she writes her number on a slip of paper, the world around them fades into a blur. The museum, the exhibits, the weight of history—all of it dissolves until it’s just the two of them, suspended in this fragile moment of connection.

He takes the paper from her, fingers brushing against hers for the briefest second. It sends an unexpected spark through him, and he’s momentarily lost in the warmth of her skin, the softness of her touch. He forces himself to pull away, catching her gaze again, wanting to savor the moment a little longer.

“What do you like to drink?” he asks, trying to keep the conversation going, to stretch this fleeting connection into something more tangible.

“Coffee, mostly. I love a good espresso.” she replies, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. “But I’m always open to trying new things. I’m sure the cafe will have new wonders. How about you?”

He nods, remembering the countless cups of coffee he’d consumed over the years, each one a bitter reminder of the countless sleepless nights spent alone. “I’m more of a dark roast person myself. Stronger the better.”

“Then I’ll make sure to introduce you to the best place in town. They have the most incredible brews, fit for a long suffering artist.” she says with a playful grin, and for the first time, he can’t help but smile back. It’s a small, simple thing, but it feels monumental, like a bridge forming over a chasm he thought would always divide him.

“Great….I uh….” he replies, his voice a little steadier. “I look forward to it.”

They linger for a moment, both seeming to hesitate, caught in a bubble of anticipation and something deeper that he can’t quite name. He’s never been one for lighthearted interactions, especially when it comes to connections. Yet here he is, standing before a woman who feels like a piece of his lost history, someone he feels inexplicably drawn to.

With one last lingering look, she steps back, her smile still warming the air between them. “See you soon, then, Sukuna–san.” she says, her voice light yet meaningful.

“Yeah….. I’ll see you soon.” he echoes, his heart pounding in his chest as he watches her walk away, the soft sway of her figure leaving him breathless.

As he turns to leave the gallery, the weight of the memories of a thousand years presses less heavily on him. He had left behind Sukuna's world, and birthed a new. He hopes he can. He wants to. He wants to make that woman happy. She deserves to. She deserves to be happy, in the way he couldn’t do it. He promises himself that.

For the first time, he feels a flicker of inspiration reigniting in his chest, like a spark that’s been waiting for just the right moment to burst into flame. The idea of coffee, of sharing thoughts and laughter, of discussing art with someone who understands the nuances of his legacy—it excites him in a way he hadn’t felt in what seems like an eternity. It excites him to burn with joy.

The streets outside are bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, the colors alive and vibrant, reminding him of the canvases he has yet to fill. He can almost picture it now, a new piece forming in his mind—a swirling mix of shadows and light, of loss and hope, reflecting everything that has led him to this moment.

In the days and nights that follow, he begins to sketch again. The woman’s face, a beautiful blend of familiarity and freshness, dominates the canvas, layered with strokes of longing and the bittersweet pang of memory. He paints her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and the gentle warmth that radiated from her smile.

Every brushstroke feels like a conversation, a way to weave their stories together—a blend of art, history, and the unspoken connection that binds them. The artist’s block that had once felt insurmountable begins to crumble, each session at the easel pulling him deeper into his thoughts and feelings, and farther from the suffocating grasp of despair.

He dreams of their meeting, the way her presence felt like coming home, and as their coffee date approaches, he finds himself wrapped in a mix of excitement and nerves. What would they talk about? What would she think of his art?

That evening, as he stands in front of the mirror, he catches a glimpse of himself—disheveled fuschia colored hair, weary bright scarlet eyes; but beneath it all, there’s a glimmer of something he hasn’t seen in ages: hope. A hope for the future. A hope for a new world, a new life. One that will echo years and years from now about joy.

Tomorrow, he tells himself as he brushes down his shirt, it will be different. 

Tomorrow, he’ll make her the happiest person in the world.

Tomorrow, he’ll hope that she will never have any more days to frown.

When the sun rises, he feels it all too well. There was a flutter of anticipation in his chest as he prepared to meet her. Each step feels lighter, each moment filled with possibility. The thought of sharing coffee and stories—his past entwined with hers—ignites a spark of creativity he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

As he enters the café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee envelops him, and he scans the room, searching for her familiar face. When he spots her, seated at a cozy corner table, her hair cascading softly around her shoulders, he feels a rush of warmth.

Her smile brightens the space around them, and as their eyes meet, he knows he’s ready to embrace whatever this connection holds. It’s a chance to delve deeper into their stories, to explore the tangled threads of fate that brought them together.

“Hey!” she says, her voice lighting up the air between them as he approaches. “I’m so glad you made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” he replies, the weight of the past lifting as he takes a seat across from her. “So, what’s first on the menu?”

As you sit together, enveloped in the warmth of shared memories and laughter, Sukuna leans forward, his gaze both intense and gentle. The edges of his usually guarded expression soften, and the small lines near his eyes deepen with a smile that’s almost boyish.

“You know," Sukuna says, his voice low and thoughtful, “I have to say this to you… but… I never thought I’d find someone who could understand me like this. The things I’ve seen—it’s hard to explain to people who haven’t lived through the same nightmares."

He glances down at his coffee, a faint smirk on his lips. “But with you, it doesn’t feel like explaining. It’s like I’m just… remembering with someone else who was there too. This feels so natural. Between you and I.”

She smiles, feeling a warmth blossom within her. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I mean, if someone had told me even a month ago that I’d be here with you, talking like this…” She trails off, laughing softly, feeling a little lost for words. “I would’ve thought they were crazy. But here we are.”

Sukuna chuckles, the sound surprisingly warm, free of his usual biting edge. “Crazy doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He pauses, his gaze meeting hers, searching as if he’s trying to decipher something hidden. “It feels like I know you… not just from now, but from a long time ago. Almost like I was meant to find you.”

His words send a shiver through her, a feeling both comforting and unsettling in its intensity. She nods slowly, letting the feeling settle within her. “I know what you mean,” she whispers, her voice barely above a breath. “It’s like we’re picking up where we left off… wherever that was.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving hers. “Every lifetime,” he murmurs, as if saying it to himself. “Every single one, I think I’d find you.” His hand drifts across the table, his fingers brushing hers in a tentative, almost reverent way. “And every time, I’d be the luckiest man alive.”

She looks down at his hand, his touch grounding her. “Do you believe in that, then? In soulmates? Lifetimes together?”

He smiles, almost a little sadly, as if unsure of his own answer. “Maybe I never did before… but with you, I can’t help but think maybe I was wrong.”

A comfortable silence settles between them, the words hanging like a delicate thread binding them together. After a while, he speaks again, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You… you make me see things differently, you know that? I just met you, but I just… I think it’s meant to be.”

There’s a vulnerability in his eyes, one she’d never expected to see. “Like maybe life doesn’t have to be as lonely as I thought it was. Or maybe, it just doesn’t matter, as long as I’m here… with you.”

Her heart aches at his words, sensing the pain he’s carried and the hope he’s now daring to hold onto. She laces her fingers with his, giving a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore, Sukuna-san,” she says softly. “Not as long as we have this. As long as we have each other. Maybe… maybe we’ll find something more to life together.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding. When he opens them again, there’s something raw, something almost fragile in his gaze. “I’m… I’m honored,” he whispers gently, a small smile forming on his face. “If that means I’ll be able to live by your side in this life.”

She blushes, feeling the depth of his sincerity. “I’m just as grateful, you know?”

“Thank you.” he says, the words rough, yet sincere. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“You never have to say thank you to me.” She whispered back to him, smiling even wider. “Or say sorry. Okay?”

“Okay.” He smiles back at her, almost contagiously. 

“So, do you….do you wanna watch a movie with me?”

“I’d be honored.”

In that moment, it feels as though nothing else exists—just her and him, caught in the quiet gravity of each other’s presence. 

As the sun sets outside, casting a warm glow over their table, Ryomen Sukuna feels a flicker of something he thought long extinguished. 

And as long as she’s beside him, he knows he’ll be right there with her, finding a new meaning to every breath and every heartbeat, perhaps better than he’d ever dreamed. 

After that day, Ryomen Sukuna stopped having those nightmares about that long suffering concubine.

Instead, he started to dream of a tall man and that long suffering concubine, walking away from him — smiling. Together.

══════════════════

HE WAS LUCKY HE MADE IT. He hadn’t slept much, but it was all worth it. He liked to think that he made his best gallery presentation yet. He knew she liked it just as much as he did. And that had made him even more happy. 

He wasn’t the best of storytellers, he knew that much. Writing was more or less something else to him. But, art like this? He could do it. And so, as he promised, he would make happiness appear on his canvas. He would make that concubine happy again. 

 As the evening progresses, the atmosphere in the gallery transforms, infused with a blend of excitement and reverence. Guests drift in and out, their whispers and laughter weaving a tapestry of shared appreciation for Sukuna's work. 

The vibrant energy of the space pulses with life, but at its core lies a poignant sense of introspection; a collective acknowledgment of the stories each painting holds.

Sukuna stands near the centerpiece, his gaze lingering on the depiction of himself and his concubine, locked in an eternal moment of tenderness. The hues swirl together, capturing not just their faces but the very essence of their souls; a connection that feels almost palpable. Each brushstroke is infused with the weight of longing and regret, but now, standing beside his companion, he recognizes a glimmer of hope amid the sorrow.

As the crowd ebbs and flows, Sukuna finds solace in watching her interact with the guests, her warmth radiating in waves. She engages effortlessly, sharing her thoughts on the art, her enthusiasm infectious.

He catches snippets of their conversations, her laughter ringing out like music, and he can’t help but smile at the ease with which she navigates the social landscape. It’s a stark contrast to his own guarded demeanor, and yet, her presence encourages him to lower his defenses, to engage in this world he once viewed from the shadows.

With each passing moment, Sukuna feels a shift within himself. The uncertainty that had plagued him for so long begins to dissolve, replaced by an exhilarating sense of possibility. As the crowd gradually dwindles, he glances at the painting again, his heart swelling with emotion. It’s more than just an image; it’s a testament to love that transcends time, a narrative that binds past and present.

Suddenly, he turns to find her standing close, her expression reflecting a mixture of admiration and something deeper. “You’ve poured so much of yourself into this, Sukuna.” she says softly, her eyes shimmering with sincerity. “It’s not just about the concubine; it’s about you, too. You’ve laid bare your soul.”

The intensity of her gaze sends a shiver down his spine, and he swallows hard, feeling exposed yet liberated. “I wanted to capture the essence of what we had… to honor her, in my own little ways.” he replies, his voice low and steady. “But I realize now it’s also about my journey. This is as much about my pain as it is about her love.”

She nods, her understanding palpable, and in that moment, he feels a deep connection; there was an unspoken bond that links them through shared experiences and emotions.

The weight of his past no longer feels like a burden; instead, it becomes a source of strength, a wellspring of creativity he can draw from as he embraces this new chapter in his life.

“I think you’ve done an incredible job of that, you know?” she says, her voice softening. “You’ve shown that even in our darkest moments, love remains a guiding light. It’s beautiful.”

Sukuna’s heart races at her words, and he feels a warmth blooming in his chest—a mixture of gratitude and affection. “Thank you, really.” he replies, his voice sincere. “It means a lot to hear that from you. You’ve been… a source of inspiration for me.”

Her smile deepens, and there’s a spark of something electric in the air, a subtle shift that sends his pulse racing. “I’m glad I could be here for you, you know?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s a privilege to witness your journey, to see you reclaim a sad story to a happy one.”

He looks at her, the soft glow of the gallery lights illuminating her features, and he feels a wave of emotion wash over him. For so long, he had been shackled by the weight of his past, haunted by the ghost of his concubine and the mistakes that had led to their separation. But here, in this moment, standing with her amidst the beauty of his creations, he feels the chains loosening.

“Will you stay a little longer?” he asks, almost hesitantly, fearing her response. “I’d like to talk more… about the paintings, about everything.”

Her eyes light up, and the warmth in her smile reassures him. “I’d love that.” she replies, and they find a quieter corner of the gallery, away from the remnants of the evening’s festivities.

As they settle into a cozy nook, surrounded by the lingering essence of art and history, Sukuna feels a sense of calm wash over him. The world outside fades, leaving only the two of them and the unspoken connection that has blossomed between them. 

“What do you see in these paintings?” he asks, eager to hear her perspective.

She leans forward, her gaze thoughtful. “I see love, loss, and resilience. Each piece speaks of a journey, a struggle to find beauty amidst pain. But what resonates most is the longing—the desire to reconnect with something that was lost. It’s powerful.”

He nods, her words echoing his own feelings, and as they discuss each painting in turn, he feels an exhilarating rush of creativity and clarity. The art becomes a conduit for their emotions, a way to explore the complexities of their shared experiences.

They dive deep into conversation, their voices low and intimate, each word exchanged drawing them closer together. She shares her own stories of loss and heartache, of moments when she thought she’d never find her way again. It’s a cathartic exchange, and he listens intently, captivated by her honesty and the strength she exudes.

With each revelation, Sukuna feels the walls that the King of Curses had built around himself begin to crumble. He shares his own struggles, the weight of his legacy, and the guilt that had shadowed him for centuries.

And perhaps, redemption may soon come for him in love.  In this safe space, he finds himself opening up that man, that myth, that curse,  in ways he never thought possible, unearthing emotions he had long buried. 

The night wears on, and as the last of the guests trickle out, the gallery transforms into a cocoon of intimacy. It’s just him and her, surrounded by the echoes of their stories, and for the first time in ages, he feels a sense of belonging—a connection that transcends time and pain.

“I never thought I could feel this way again.” he admits, his voice thick with emotion. “After everything I’ve lived through… I thought I’d lost the ability to truly connect with anyone.”

She reaches out, her hand brushing against his in a gentle, reassuring gesture. “You haven’t lost that ability, Sukuna. You’ve just been waiting for the right moment, the right person….the right time.” she says, her gaze steady and filled with warmth. “I’m here now, and I want to be part of your journey.”

The sincerity in her words washes over him, and in that moment, he knows he’s found something rare—a connection that has the potential to redefine his understanding of love, art, and the future. The vulnerability he feels is both terrifying and exhilarating, but he knows he’s ready to embrace it.

As the last notes of music drift into silence and the soft, warm lights dim, the two of them sit close, hands intertwined, surrounded by the vibrant, intimate world he has created.

Each painting on the wall, each sculpture in the dim light feels like a memory brought to life, and she feels him relax beside her, the weight of his past somehow easing with each quiet heartbeat.

His thumb gently strokes her hand, and in that small, tender motion, she feels him say more than words ever could. With her here, in this sanctuary he’s built out of his own creativity and passion, he’s no longer the solitary figure haunted by shadows. He’s simply a man who has finally, against all odds, found someone who can see past his darkness and anchor him in light.

As they stand to leave, his gaze drifts to one of his portraits—a work that captures a moment from another time, another life. In it, the King of Curses sits beside his beloved concubine, her expression full of light and laughter, radiant in a way that suggests an unbreakable bond. 

Ryomen Sukuna pauses, his hand still entwined with hers, and a rare, gentle smile crosses his face.

Looking at the painting, he lets himself hope, just a little. Perhaps, even in a world he once saw as cold and unyielding, there are threads of something beautiful woven into his story. Perhaps, even for someone like him, there could be a happy ending, one he’d never dared to imagine.

He leans down and whispers softly, almost as if confessing a secret. “I like to think they found each other again, you know? That somehow… this time, they got to be happy.”

She squeezes his hand, her eyes shining with warmth and understanding. “I like to think that too.” she replies gently, her voice full of affection.

They walk out together, the cool night air surrounding them as they leave his art behind. And as he catches her smile, he feels his heart swell with gratitude and a strange sense of peace.

For once, he isn’t looking back, haunted by the ghosts of what once was. Instead, he’s looking forward—toward a future that, with her beside him, feels so much brighter than he ever thought possible.

In his heart, he offers a silent prayer, hoping that they’ll continue to find each other, in this life and in all the ones to come. And as they disappear into the night, hands intertwined, this Ryomen Sukuna hopes that the King of Curses finally allows himself to believe that, this time, happiness might be his after all.

══════════════════

THERE WOULD BE NO MEMORY OF THIS WHEN HE’S REBORN. Ryomen Sukuna knows that much. That is the will of the unknown, of the gods unseen and unheard. He does not care much about the propriety of the accuracy. Why should it matter what their name is? He was dead, why should he care?  

In the stillness of the afterlife, everything feels suspended, timeless. Everything was not what he had expected. Long ago, he had resigned himself to the thought that a final death would lead to the depths of burning inferno. And yet, it was not. He was stuck in a journey, a journey that continuously repeats over and over again. 

He does not know what those gods intended with that. What was the purpose designed by the gods? What was the purpose of this journey? He had asked himself that for hundreds of years, walking and walking like the pilgrim he was and yet without end in sight. There was no road that was left to find a stop.

Perhaps, that is until now.

Ryomen Sukuna was the first to notice.

There was a wide shoji that appeared before them.

Ryomen Hiromi was quite unsure about what that was all about. But when she stepped right in front of it, the field protecting it had barred her from even touching it. She pursed her lips in a flat line. This door was not one for her to enter. 

And she probably had already known that. Looking at him with those knowing purple eyes, she knew that it was not for her. It was for him. The gods had sent him a path, and it was not to be with her. It was a road for him to take, a road that was for him. Only him.

He took a short step towards it and allowed his hands to feel the space occupied by the massive wooden shoji. His touch could pierce its space. It was truly for him. There was no mistake in that. Uraume looked at him with a tense uncertainty. His most loyal Uraume is quite that timid  child, still. Just as when Sukuna had met them years and years ago. 

For a moment, it reminded him of Chizuru. That gentleness of that youth, that tenderness of youth. He could only see his little one. The little one that he misses most. His soul is already at peace, and perhaps Sukuna would never see him again. 

He doesn’t deserve to. He wasn’t a good father to him. But moments like this, it gives him relief. Even if Chizuru didn’t need him anymore, then someone else did. And that someone still needed him. Even if he wasn’t the person suited to be needed.

Sukuna looked down at them, and then nodded reassuringly. Uraume reached forward and gasped. Their touch too pierced through its barrier. Of course, Sukuna thought to himself. Uraume tied their entire life to him.

They were one in the same. The loyal servant cannot live without the master. No, no. Sukuna corrects himself. There was always a need for someone. People will always need people.

He stands there idly as Ryomen Hiromi stood beside him, though keeping a distance. Everything around them had grown brighter. Brighter than before. All that surrounded them had been bathed in a soft, eternal light that neither burns nor fades. 

This place, this moment, is for closure—a place where the bonds of the past can either linger or be released. A purgatory for souls, sinner or not. All souls look the same to the gods. Well, that’s what Hiromi had told him.

Sukuna’s gaze rests on Hiromi, taking in the warmth in her expression, the calmness in her presence. Even here, she glows with an inner light that he has always cherished. Serene as the moonlight, as mellow as the clouds. 

There had always been a quiet grace that no one could replicate. He had known that in his long lifetime. And for as long as he had lived, he thought that his job had been to protect it. To protect her. No matter what, with everything in him —  even if it often meant tearing down the world around him.

For a long while, they simply stand together, the weight of their shared history resting between them. A thousand years, feeling even more than that, reflected in the understanding that came in the silence. He had known her too well, she had known him too well.

There was nothing left between them. Only knowing. And perhaps, that’s why it wouldn’t have ever worked. He thinks about that. Knowing someone, even too well, will never truly be living a life with them. 

There was too much he did not know about her life. There was much she did not know about his own. They had lived lives that grew out of their tender love. People who loved each other so much, that they risked everything in the world — finally became two boats in the night waiting for each other to pass. 

Perhaps that’s all that there could be, he thinks about it now. No matter how much he loved her, no matter how much he still does love  her — they were parallel lines. Right people, wrong place. Right place, wrong time. 

That in itself was hard to admit, he knows that. He always has. But it was hard to say. It was hard to accept. Perhaps it always will be. Yet there is so much more beyond that grief of something already lost. Of life already lived and passed by. No matter how much he wants to follow Ryomen Hiromi with all the love in his heart, with all the devotion given from all his life, there will always be fate. And fate knows better than he. 

As much as he tries, he was not a god.

He will never be one, he has tried to be.

He was just a sinner, a cruel cursed sinner.

Taking a deep breath, Sukuna speaks, his voice soft, yet resolute. "I can feel it, Hiromi." he says, looking down at his feet. “Somewhere out there……..I am soon to be reborn. Soon….I must enter this door.”

Ryomen Hiromi’s face softens, and a knowing smile tugs at her lips. She tilts her head, teasing, but with a hint of sadness that she can’t entirely hide. How could she? Ryomen Sukuna was her person. He was her family. Her dearest friend, her confidant.  The man she loved, still does love. The love of her life. 

But she knew that he was not yet ready. Perhaps he will never be ready to move forward like this. There was much tying him to the world of the living. To the earthly life. And she knew it wouldn't be her. It will never be her. 

She could see it in the corner of his scarlet eyes. He too had lived a life. He had moved on. And he wants to see that loved one again. He wants to return. Even if he does not know it. He wants to see that smile on her face again.

"So, you’ll stop following me now, huh?"

He chuckles, the sound quiet, almost reverent, as he brings her hand to his chest. "I’ll love you most in the world, you know that.” he murmurs, each word weighed with truth. “You were the part of me that was good, Hiromi. Everything I am….was because of you.”

She looks at him, shaking her head. She remains smiling. “Endless flattery is not your style.”

His eyes warmed towards her. “It is not flattery if it's true. You know that most. I do not lie, not easily. Not without reason.”

“I know.” She huffs back in response, her eyes lowered to the floor. “I know you too well.”

“I need to go. You know that. There are still…..too much left undone. I have a lot to make amends for, things I must repair.” His voice grows steady, almost solemn. “I need to start with someone else I love. Someone who’s waiting, on the other side of the shore.”

Hiromi’s gaze flickers, her surprise shifting to understanding. There’s a light in her bright purple eyes, a pride that only deepens as she studies his face. For a moment, she wondered when he had grown up. When had he aged this well, lived this well. A part of her mourns the things they never saw. But she knew it was too late. He had someone else waiting to see those sides of him now. 

“I always hoped you’d find something worth living for, beyond me. Beyond our clan. Beyond Jujutsu.” she says, her words carrying an emotion he hadn’t expected. She laughs. “You’ve done well, Sukuna. I know you would. And now you’re better at admitting your faults. You’ve….you’ve truly grown up! Father and uncle would be so glad to see it, don’t you think?”

The weight of her words settles deeply into him, her silent devotion across lifetimes coming into sharp focus. Ryomen Sukuna closes his eyes, feeling the immensity of all that they’ve shared, all that he’s never truly expressed. 

“There’s still much for me to set right, Hiromi.” He looks at her, his expression softening as he finally speaks the words he’s never quite managed to say before. “But the love we shared… It's the best part of me. It’s the part of me I want to carry into the next life. Everything you taught me, it will be for the better.”

A soft laugh escapes her once more, and she shakes her head as if she’s hearing a promise she’s waited lifetimes for him to make. Her hand reaches up, gentle, almost motherly, as she brushes a stray hair back from his face. Leaning in, she presses a delicate kiss to his cheek. 

“You don’t have to say anything else. I’ve always known you loved me.” She pulls back slightly, her hand lingering against his face. “I’ll always love you too, Sukuna. But we have different lives now. Paths that aren’t tied together anymore. No paths are bound, after all. Isn’t that what was taught?” 

Her words are tender but firm, and he nods, finally accepting what she’s known all along. “I know.” he whispers, the smile on his face tinged with the bittersweet ache of goodbye. “But I think I’ll be alright, night flower. I’ve found something, someone… who I believe can make me better. She’s out there, waiting.”

For a moment, she could feel her heart shatter. In that moment, to remember what he had called her. With those words, with that tone of finality. With that tone of farewell. She could feel the warmth of water echo through her eyes. But she tries to make sure they do not pour. Those tears shouldn’t be poured. Not for him. He does not need it. She must send him happily. She must send him off with a smile. A good farewell.

Hiromi pulls away, her hand slipping from his, though her gaze remains fixed on him with a profound love and pride. Her bright eyes gleamed at him, even brighter than before. She smiles at him, though he could notice how tight it was. No matter how happy she is for him — she will mourn. She can’t help it. 

“Then, I want you to find her, hm?” she says softly, the conviction in her voice like a benediction. “Find her and find your happiness, the kind that lasts. The kind that you finally deserve.”

He nods, and there’s a rare, open softness in his expression, a gratitude as deep as the ages they’ve spent together. He takes a good look at her, as though he was memorizing this moment. For as long as it still lasts, he wants to remember it. He wants to remember her, giving her blessing. 

“Then, I’ll go, nightflower.” he says, his voice low and filled with purpose. “I’ll find her… and try to live the life I dreamed of with you.”

Hiromi smiles gently, and with one last lingering look, she turns to leave, pausing only to say. “Someday, I hope to meet her too—the one who brought you peace. Bring her back with you. So that I may thank her for taking care of you.”

He nodded at her. He takes a deep breath as he lowers his gaze and sees Uraume looking at him, as though asking for courage. Sukuna takes Uraume’s hand and tightly grips it, but is careful not to hurt them. A ghostly smile appears on his face, beaming it towards them. 

Uraume could feel their eyes glisten as they felt the warmth of that smile. Uraume could feel warmth in them, tenderness — tenderness that molds their will to live with courage. Sukuna turns his head slightly, looking at Hiromi. His smile gets wider, and becomes more honest than before. She smiled at him, waving him off. 

As he and Uraume walked towards the shoji, Ryomen Hiromi knew that she too has to move away. Ryomen Sukuna slowly watches her walk away into the path of light, alone, feeling the weight of a thousand lifetimes lifting from his shoulders. He could feel his breath hitch as he watches her walk away, perhaps for the final time, perhaps until they get reborn again. 

If you were not waiting for him, if he had not met you, if he had not loved you — perhaps he would have turned away from these doors and moved towards the path of life and rejected rebirth. He would have let his soul rest in peace for all of time. But he knows that he was no longer that person anymore. He wanted to move forward. He wanted to break the cycle. He wanted to be with you.

Ryomen Sukuna is ready to face the world again, this time with a purpose that is as clear as the love he feels for the woman he will now seek.  He must atone. He must live a new life. He must make you happy. 

Both of you will be happy, he knows that. And as he steps forward, towards his own rebirth, he carries her blessings, his heart finally open to the happiness he had once believed was out of reach. He will live it now. He will atone, he will find redemption. He will make you happy.

[ghouljams]

missing witch and fae!price hope they r doing good n fuckign nasty and intimate this halloween

Price is going to breed her on purpose. (tw for me calling price "John" lol, sorry everyone)

“John,” you gasp-moan, your fingers working over your clit, “God, yes, John, please.”

Your pretty voice echoes through the room. Echoes in his head. You know exactly what you’re doing. 

You’re doing exactly what he said, you’re staying where he left you.

Your hips are in the air, your back is arched, your face is pressed in the pillow. The only difference is now you’re using the come that drips out of your hole, the come he left, to get off. And you’re making sure he knows it. 

Price settles his chin against his palm, his fingers curling over his lips as he pushes his other hand hard against his erection. Christ the things you do to him. That he’s going to do to you. He could smell the heat on you, the need. It itched at his skin.

That damn tattoo he stuck on you…

Whatever he agreed to for the magic to work it was coming back to bite him in the ass.

“John,” The whine in your voice, drawn out and hiccuped, you’re torturing him, “I need it, please.”

You’re saying his name, knowing it’ll tug at him, knowing he’ll hear your pleas. Knowing he can’t do anything about it. 

The fall fae at the end of the table drones on about preventing a hunt this year. Something about human casualties and keeping a low profile. The big fucker radiates malice across from him, and growls when asked his opinion. A new trait he must have picked up, normally he'd dive straight into eating people.

It’s truly boring to pretend any of them are civilized. That they aren't all yearning for a hunt, feeling the pull of the wild in their veins, the hunger... Price knows as well as anyone that they’ll do the same thing they do every year: pick a battlefield and hunt the soldiers that will never go home to their families. A familiar song and dance, an unnecessary step in their own pointless bureaucracy.

His chest burns, threads tugged hot between your fingers. Rolled against your already heated skin, gods he can feel the sweat that clings to them. Damn witch.

Price closes his eyes to focus on the feeling, on the way the magic slips and slides, pulls and releases. Almost wet. Christ you’re doing something to it, something you shouldn’t. His shoulders twitch, unused muscles beating with your finger’s tugging. He catalogues the feeling, the sound of your panting breath, each whimper growing softer as your voice fades, only to be brought back to the forefront when his name drips off your lips. Wet with your spit, probably drooling against the pillow, naughty thing.

It's a blessing that the so called "King" decides now is the time to lunge across the room at his fellow fall fae. Price jumps to his feet, vaguely registers Ghost's bored shuffle to his feet, and snaps his finger. His smoke is almost as excited as he is, jumping and shivering as it implodes around him and places him right back where he should have been all along. Behind you.

And your devious fingers, pulling tethers to rub the golden threads between your folds. Naughty indeed.

Price hooks his fingers in the threads that slip beside your fingers and pulls, leaning down to lick the slick that drips from them. If magic had a taste it would be this, heady with the soft musk that clings to your sweat.

"I told you," He tries to keep his voice even, "You have to wait."

"And I told you," Cheeky, you're always so cheeky, "to breed me."

Christ it's like he never left. Your slick drips onto the sheets, his come rubbed into your skin such that he can barely find a trace of it, your hips wiggle and your face is pressed into the pillow. The only difference now is the way you turn your head to pout at him. Pretty lips pursed and your eyes watery, God-

He nearly breaks his belt buckle with how hard he tugs at the thing. "Fine," He growls, "You want it so badly, I'll make sure it sticks this time."

Oh it's worth the red tape he'll have to wade through for leaving the meeting early for the absolute pleasure of pushing into your tight wet heat. You cunt wrapping around him like pure ecstasy as you mewl into the pillow. You're so fucking wet, loosened by your own fingers, and taking him to the base in one thrust. Fuck. You're so good for him, taking him without a complaint, letting him stuff your pretty little cunt full.

Your hand reaches back to claw at his hip, grabbing his ass to hold his hips in place as you grind back onto his cock.

"Tha's it," He breathes, "nice and deep sweet'eart."

You whine, your hips twitching when he grinds right back. He can feel the way you clench around him when he hits that aching spot in the back of your cunt, the flicker of muscle that tightens your stomach and pulls him in. Such a pretty thing.

Price slides his hand over your hip and around over your stomach to wedge itself between your legs and rub your clit. Warm, like you'd been rubbing it raw. Well, he can certainly help with that, rolling the tight bud between his finger as he gives a shallow thrust into your tight cunt. Rubbing it makes shivers run up your spine, pinching makes you jolt, Christ you whine so pretty for him when he pulls out, like you really can't bear to lose even a centimeter of his cock.

He thrusts into you hard, lets you clench, trying to suck him back in as he pulls out again, setting a steady rhythm for you. Lovely to feel your hand drop from his hip, to see the way your back arches and you curl your fingers in to the sheets. Your moans pushed from your chest with each punch of his cock, your shoulders drawing up as you try to meet his thrusts.

You'll be so pretty when you're fat with his baby. He'll have to come up with new positions, make sure you're comfortable, that he can still fuck you the way you need.

"Jo-ohn," You squeal, and he releases your clit to grip your hips, pushing them up when you try wiggle out of position. None of that now.

"What sweet'eart?" He patronizes, cooing at you like you're a child, "what can I do for you?" He knows damn well you won't answer him.

His hands knead at your ass, the soft fleshy globes pulled apart by his fingers so he can watch the way your cunt swallows his cock. He spits, lets it land on your ass and drip down, only to be caught in the piston of his cock and mixed with your slick. More of him mixing with you, but not the important part.

That comes when you tighten like a vice around his cock, all your muscles seizing as your breath locks tight in your chest. You shake apart on the next thrust, your voice streaming out of you in a scream of moans and pleas. Price grits his teeth and pulls your hips tight against his, blanketing your body as he leans over you.

There's something desperate, animal, about the way he fucks you then. No steady pace, no rhythm, just the needy in and out of a man that can't hold himself back. Chasing his own orgasm as it pulls in his chest and warms his body. Your little whimpers spur him on, make him sink his teeth into your shoulder, make his ears ring with the soft whispered encouragements you murmur.

"Come on baby," You whisper, your voice like rain against windowpanes, "come for me, give me what I want."

He always will. Especially when you ask so nicely.

And if he settles his hand low on your stomach afterwards, pumps a little piece of magic into the scarred swirls of the tree that had carved his name into your womb, then that's really just an assurance that you get exactly what you asked for.

[husbandhoshi]

[9:47 AM] *suggestive

the first thing you learn about seungcheol is that his towels are embroidered. csc, they read, in gold thread on absurdly plush bath towels.

(actually, the first thing you learned about him was that he's a good kisser. you learned this the hard way, outside the bar, after all your friends had gone home and it just was you, him, and his tongue in your mouth.)

as a rule, you try not to learn anything about your late night escapades, but, evidently, you have already failed.

it's easy to notice his bathroom looks much bigger than it did last night, now that all the lights are on. he has not one, but two, matching rugs, and the sconce lights make the marble countertop look like it's made of water. nestled in the corner is a little tray with all his cologne lined up end to end—armani, dior, chanel.

you pick up the silvery one on the end and smell the cap. (yes, this one. he was wearing this one last night, right in the space where his collarbone met the base of his neck. you had kissed him there, and he had asked you to go home with him. creed, aventus, it says.)

he even has the drunk elephant moisturizer, although it looks criminally underused. it sits among a small pile of skincare that looks like it costs twice your monthly paycheck, if you had worked overtime.

you have to remind yourself you're not here to snoop through rich people's bathrooms, as fun as that sounds.

seungcheol was a quick fuck (and a really good one at that), but you already feel like you've overstayed your welcome.

the plan—in and out. you hate the sticky, too-warm goodbyes, the small talk at the kitchen table, the unexpected rattle of a roommate coming home. worst of all, they never want you as badly in the morning as they did the night before.

but the plan has already gone to shit. you woke up practically spooning him and your little bathroom detour cost you ten minutes. and it's almost 10, which is what he has his two-hundred dollar alarm clock set to.

you shut the bathroom door as quietly as you can, hoping to make a quick getaway. but it's here, caught in the waxy overcast from the huge windows, where, for the first time in your life, you almost want to say fuck the plan.

"morning," seungcheol hums, propping himself up on the bed. you take one look at him, shirtless and sweats slung low, and you lose the plot entirely.

yesterday, when you had met, it looked like he was made in some kind of factory for hot men—starched white shirt rolled to the forearms, hair perfectly gelled, and a fat breitling watch hugging his wrist. and yet, as you watch him blow a cowlick out of his eyes, he seems even more attractive, which you would have never thought possible.

"someone's eager to get outta here," he says, enjoying the way you avoid his eyes. "don't tell me it was that bad for you."

you smile nervously. what you can remember about last night is that it was anything but bad. the whole thing makes your face feel hot—you are no prude, but he sure makes you feel like one.

"is that what it looks like?" you answer. you realize you can't find your shoes. you think he threw them somewhere last night, between the memory of his hand up your dress and yours in his hair. he kissed his way up your legs and you forgot you even had shoes to worry about.

"almost, if you weren't checking me out just now."

damn. guilty as charged. you can't help it. things feel too good to be true.

first, you learned you got fucked by a million dollar dick last night. now, instead of kicking you out like any other one night stand, he's acting decent, maybe even more than decent. and he has the tits of a god.

seungcheol sees your face wrench up in puritanical shame and he laughs.

"well, if you have time in your busy, busy schedule," he starts, with a grin that makes you dizzy. "i'm making breakfast. and i would love to eat it with you."

suddenly you don't know why you ever had a plan in the first place. you watch him attempt to wink at you from all the way across the room and you think getting to know him might not be such a bad thing after all. maybe things are too good to be true, but you're willing to find out.

needless to say, the second thing you learn about seungcheol is that he cannot cook.

the third? he's an even better kisser sober.

[verstappen-cult]

i recently found out max has a nipple piercing. would be over the moon to see this included into a fic?? 🤭🤭

oh nonnie, i’ve been having dreams about this ever since i saw those pictures & i had to zoom in like a crazy woman – totally not proud of it. but like i cannot stop thinking about this exact same scenario 🙂‍↔️🤌🏼 and i’ll not be judged! i know you have all been thinking the same thing.

content warnings ✶ disclaimers. fem!reader. a little bit of sub!max. nipple piercings. cumming in pants.

Max as a tight grip on your waist as you press kisses on his neck, knees pressing against his hips as you settle comfortably on his lap.

This is the first time you’re being physically intimate. Well, apart from a few shared kisses at the end of the three dates you’ve had since meeting outside of the grocery store; after Max bumped into you.

Max invited you to his apartment for a cozy night, he cooked for you and introduced you to his cats.

You had settle on the sofa, even sharing a blanket, to watch a movie but halfway through it you’d already climbed onto his lap. Movie long forgotten now.

Max sighs into the cold night air, his calloused hands sending shivers down your spine.

You place your hands on his chest to make him lean against the cushions of the couch when you hear it more than feel it: Max’s sharp intake of breath as your palms make contact with something hard and round across his nipples. You know what it is even before your brain has time to catch up with it.

Pulling away you look straight into the blue pool of his eyes. He’s blushing but you don’t know if it is due to your passionate make out session or because you found out he has nipple piercings.

Neither of you says anything, eye contact so intense it sends a heat wave directly to your core. You decide to test the waters, so you swipe your thumb over his left nipple, feeling the piercing against the pad of your fingers. Max gasps your name.

“So, when were you going to tell me about this?” You ask with a raised brow, still caressing his pierced nipple over his white shirt.

Max blinks twice, like trying to process what is going on, before tilting his head back and whispering, “I was going to get rid of them.”

“But why,” You look down and it’s almost funny how you didn’t notice them all night. They’re right there making fun of you. “I think they’re hot.”

He huffs, closing his eyes. He’s shy, you think.

“I want to hear the story behind this.” You pinch his right nipple, not wanting to make it feel left out and Max sees stars behind his eyes, a moan escaping his pink lips. “But now I want to…” When you don’t finish talking, Max forces himself to open his eyes. There is a hunger in your eyes that makes him realise that he would let you do anything, anything, if you ask him.

“What do you want?” He wants you to finish your thought, he needs it.

“I want to feel them in my mouth.”

You’re pouting. It feels as if you’re begging him to let you, but Max doesn’t need convincing. The image of you looking up at him with his pierced nipple in your mouth flashes through his mind, and his cock twitches in interest.

He gets rid of the shirt in record time.

“Lie back, please.” He does, back pressing against the soft cushions. You don’t break the eye contact, not as you kiss your way down his chest until you’re level with the pebbled flesh. A threaded barbell decorating both of his nipples.

Max follows your every move holding his breath.

The first run of your tongue over his nipple comes as a shock, even when he was waiting for it. His whole body thrums with pleasure when you take it between your teeth, a sound akin to a whimper echoing through the room.

“You’re very sensitive.” You save that knowledge in the back of your mind. He looks at you with furrowed brows when you raise your thumb to his face. “Open your mouth.” And he does it immediately, allowing you access. You don’t waste a moment in stuffing his mouth with it. And Max sucks and runs his tongue over it, the blue of his eyes swallowed by black and pure pleasure. “Good.” You purr, guiding your thumb and swiping over his other nipple. He shudders, arching his back when you pinch it.

You go back to sucking his nipple into your mouth, feeling the metallic taste of the piercing and how nice it feels against your tongue.

Max lets out a sharp gasp, his hips thrusting up into nothing. You continue to kiss and suck, alternating between them and marvelling at his reactions, his obscene moans and whimpers.

He’s spilling in his pants before he even has time to warn you. And you find it is the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced in your life.

do not repost, translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own. | © verstappen-cult, 2024.

[parkerslatte]

Centuries Coming

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 8.7k

Warnings: none.

Summary: Y/N and Azriel have been close friends for centuries. When Azriel begins to pull away from Y/N to spend more time with Elain, a mating bond snaps.

A Court of Thorns and Roses Masterlist

•••

It had been nearly three centuries of friendship and Y/N was sure she would never get bored of her relaxing sessions with Azriel. For two weeks, he had been away on a mission while Y/N continued her intense training sessions with Cassian. They both were well and truly exhausted. 

Y/N’s room, which was situated right next to Azriel’s, was nearly silent as the two friends relaxed. The only noise emitting from the room were the soft sounds of the pages flipping in a book and an occasional content sigh. With her left hand, Y/N held the book up to her eye level, skilfully flipping the page with her thumb when it was needed. Her other hand occupied Azriel’s head, her fingers threading through his soft locks as his head rested on her stomach. The two were utterly content. 

Once Y/N reached the end of the chapter, she spared a glance at Azriel. His eyes were closed and his breathing even. Y/N stilled her hand movement in his hair for a brief moment simply to admire the shadowsinger laying before her. He was beautiful, she had always thought he was beautiful ever since she had met him. Azriel carried a sense of elegance in his features that only stone carvings held. From the smoothness of his skin to the sharpness of his jaw, everything was sculpted to perfection. 

“Why did you stop?” Azriel questioned, nudging his head against Y/N’s hand. 

Y/N let out a breathy laugh before continuing to thread her fingers through his hair. Azriel wasn’t the only one who enjoyed this. She was very much enjoying herself too– as well as enjoying the way his arms were wrapped around her waist tightly. 

“I was just lost in thought for a moment,” Y/N replied, playing her book down on the bed next to her, the hand previously holding the book coming to rest upon Azriel’s shoulder. 

Azriel opened his eyes to view the book she had set down before his gaze shifted to meet Y/N’s. “Are you tired? You normally only stop reading when you are tired.”

The smile on Y/N’s face was soft. She loved it when Azriel noticed small specific details about her. “I’m not tired, just relaxed.”

Azriel’s head lifted from Y/N’s stomach before he shuffled himself up her bed to sit against the headboard, his wings splayed out behind him.  

“What are you doing?” Y/N questioned, curling her legs closer to her body, suddenly feeling the cold now that Azriel had moved. 

“Returning the favour,” Azriel responded before gently gripping Y/N’s arm and pulling her so her head rested against his chest. 

Y/N couldn’t help herself but inhale the familiar scent that she loved so much. Nothing relaxed her more than Azriel’s scent. Whenever she was stressed or simply having a rough day, she would always seek him out and over the course of the past few months, she hadn’t even had a reason to seek him out. Y/N just wanted to be around him. 

One of Azriel’s arm wrapped around Y/N’s shoulders and tangled in her hair whilst the other wrapped around her waist, keeping her body close to his. Y/N rested her hands on his firm torso, feeling the ridges of hard muscle beneath. She blushed. 

“Oranges,” Azriel muttered, his head turning into hers. 

“What?” Y/N asked, her voice muffled by his chest. 

“Your shampoo,” Azriel said. “It smells of oranges.”

“And other citrus fruits,” Y/N responded. “I bought it when–”

“When you went to the Summer Court,” Azriel cut her off. “I remember you mentioning it a few months ago.”

Moments like this with Azriel were quite common within their friendship. The two would often find themselves wrapped up with one another. Of course it was strictly platonic, it was what it had always been. At least that is what Y/N thought it was, but over the past few years, she had begun to notice Azriel in a new light. At first she would just take note of how handsome he looked when he was at ease surrounded by his family. She would then notice how much she enjoyed being around him while it was just the two of them. Y/N never thought anything of this at first but that feeling of disappointment that overcame her when someone else walked into the room was one she couldn’t explain. 

One particular moment where Y/N realised that she was falling hard for Azriel was on her four-hundredth birthday, just a little over three years ago. He had decided to give her her present in private. It was a small charm bracelet. Whenever Azriel would go away on a mission, he would always buy her a new charm to add to it. Nothing meant more to Y/N than that bracelet. However, the bracelet was not the thing that made Y/N realise her feelings– it was the kiss on her cheek. 

As soon as his lips touched her skin, Y/N could only wish that they had connected only a few centimetres to the left. She needed to feel his lips upon hers but she could only ever imagine it. Whenever she found herself staring at his lips when he spoke or when he wasn’t looking, she always imagined the way they would feel on hers– and other parts of her body. Even now as Y/N could feel Azriel’s lips graze the top of her head, she wished she could just lean up and capture them with her own. 

Y/N could only wish that they were more than friends.

***

Many months later, Y/N found herself knocking on Azriel’s door. She hadn’t seen much of him since she had bought her own house on the outskirts of Velaris. It was a small cottage with a large stretch of land overlooking the mountains. Y/N loved the location as she could sit and stare at the stars all night long and never get bored. But one thing she did miss was Azriel. 

As she waited patiently outside of his door, she heard footsteps approaching before the door opened and Azriel came into view. It seemed as if he had just woken up as his hair was a mess and he was rubbing sleep away from his eyes– and he was shirtless too. Y/N had to refrain herself from admiring his figure. 

“Y/N,” Azriel said, genuine surprise in his tone. “I didn’t know that you would be here.”

“I decided to stop by,” Y/N replied. “I haven’t seen you much recently, and I was wondering if you wanted to take a walk with me? I have a day off from my duties and was planning to visit the bakery that had just opened in the city.”

“Oh,” Azriel said. “I was going to take Elain there later. I promised I would go with her days ago.”

Y/N tried to keep the smile on her face, though it did falter a little. Her moving out was not the only reason she hadn’t seen Azriel much, the second reason was the middle Archeron sister who had seemed to take up a large majority of Azriel’s time.When she offered to hang out or train together, he was always with the middle Archeron sister. Even when they did make plans, Azriel always cancelled at the last minute to be with Elain.  Y/N didn’t want to say that she was a jealous person but she couldn’t help but be jealous of Elain. She was beautiful and kind. Of course Y/N was both of those things too but Elain made it so effortless, even when she wasn’t trying to be beautiful and kind– she was. 

“Okay,” Y/N said, stepping back from his door. “Well maybe we could go another time. What about tomorrow? We can make a day of it.”

The shake of Azriel’s head broke her heart. “I’m out with Elain tomorrow, as well. I don’t have the time.”

His answer was blunt and straight to the point. Y/N tried not to let his answer affect her but embarrassment seemed to encase her body. 

“Oh,” Y/N said, the smile now completely gone from her face. “I hope you two have fun, then.” Her gaze fell to the floor as she took another step back from his door. 

Before she could step further away from his door, Azriel caught her wrist in his hand. Y/N’s breath hitched as his skin touched hers. It had been a while since they had touched and it still sent goosebumps down her spine. Y/N’s eyes slowly travelled up his torso, the black tattoos swirling across his chest and shoulders. As her eyes met Azriel’s, Y/N felt as if she had stopped breathing altogether. That feeling in her chest seemed to pull her right to Azriel, pulling taunt until it snapped into place. 

A mating bond. 

The feeling of Azriel’s hand on her wrist was too much for her to bear. Y/N pulled her hand out of Azriel’s gentle grasp and held it close to her chest, missing the hurt look that flashed across his features for a brief moment. He folded his arms across his chest, hiding his hands. 

“If you want to wait, we could all go together,” Azriel said, his voice unusually quiet.

Y/N, somehow finding her voice, said, “No, I think I’ll just go on my own. Enjoy your time with Elain.”

Before Azriel could get another word in, Y/N practically raced from his doorway and out of sight. Her breathing became more and more ragged. Mate. Azriel was her mate. As Y/N hurried down the hall, she collided with a hard chest and stumbled back slightly. 

“Y/N, are you okay?” Cassian asked, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Y/N frantically nodded her head. “I’m okay. I’m fine, I was just going for a walk.”

Cassian didn’t get to ask another question as Y/N continued her path, ignoring her friend even when he called out to her. 

***

That had been three days ago. Y/N had asked Rhys for a few days off from her duties. With the mating bond snapping into place for her, she hadn’t been able to think straight. All she could think of was Azriel. The bond urged her to go to him but her mind fought back. It clearly hadn’t snapped for him and Y/N didn’t want to pressure him into anything if she told him. 

For centuries the two had been friends– close friends. She had confided in him over everything because he would always sit and listen. He would hug her in her times of need and hold her until she fell asleep. Azriel was her rock. Y/N let out a sigh as she laid down on her bed. Why now? She thought. What was it about that one singular touch and conversation that made the bond snap? 

They have had many more intimate touches before. With Azriel’s hand gently caressing her cheek. His arms wrapped around her waist as he lifted her from the floor to hug her tightly. Y/N’s hands gently touching his wing as she helped heal a painful gash. All of those touches had been a lot more intimate than the simple touch of her wrist. 

Even their conversations. The two had deep conversations about insecurity, inadequacy and many other important matters. There were conversations full of playful teasing that sometimes shifted over into the more flirtatious territory. Those conversations always made Y/N’s heart beat a little faster. But the bond hadn’t snapped for any of those. It had snapped when Azriel rejected her to spend time with another female.

Y/N rolled over in her bed and pulled the blanket further around her body. She still couldn’t believe that Azriel was her mate. The way Y/N was feeling, she was sure she had never had so many emotions within her in her whole life. 

She glanced at the charm bracelet on her wrist. It was decorated with eleven charms. The newest one was just over a year old. Normally Azriel would buy her a charm whenever he was away for a long period of time or on special occasions. Of course Y/N tried to stop him, she didn’t want him to spend his own money on her. But every time she mentioned it, Azriel would simply return with a new one much more beautiful than the last. Y/N touched the last charm he had bought her. It was a simple silver heart. There wasn’t anything special about it but it was Y/N’s favourite. 

As Y/N was lost in her thoughts, loud knocking came from her door. Y/N didn’t even attempt to move from her position on her bed, even when the knocking got louder. 

“Y/N, let me in!” Cassian’s voice came from outside. 

Y/N didn’t respond even as he complained about the cold. She pulled the blanket to her chin and looked at the heart charm. When she had first received it, she was sure that was a hint toward his feelings, that he might have loved her in the way she loved him. But only a week after gifting her that charm, he began to spend almost all of his spare time with Elain. Of course Y/N tried not to let it affect her too heavily– if Azriel was happy then she would try to be happy for him. 

“Y/N, I’m coming in!” Cassian called and she heard her door unlock. 

Cassian’s heavy footsteps came up her stairs until her bedroom door was pushed open. 

“How did you get in?” Y/N questioned, her head poking out of the mass of blankets. 

“I took the spare key from Az’s room while he was out with Elain,” Cassian explained.

Y/N felt her heart drop at the mention of Azriel out with Elain once again. He always seemed to have time for her but whenever Y/N spoke to him recently, he was always in a rush to get away or on his way to see Elain.

“What’s wrong?” Cassian asked. 

The bed dipped as Cassian sat down, pulling off his boots. Y/N turned over in the bed to face him as he got comfortable under the covers. She had missed Cassian recently. Of course he had been tasked with training Nesta so she knew that he had a lot to do but she missed these moments where they could just sit and talk. 

“I am just…confused,” Y/N said, sitting up in her bed slightly. 

“Why?” Cassian asked, folding his arms across his chest. 

Y/N looked down at her bracelet. “It’s about Azriel.”

Cassian’s gaze softened. “I thought as much.”

“What?” Y/N furrowed her eyebrows. “How would you know?”

Cassian glanced down to the bracelet on her wrist. “I was with him when he bought that bracelet for you. He made me follow him around every single shop in Velaris to find something perfect for you.” Y/N’s smile was small but it was there as she conjured up the image in her head. “Azriel decided on that bracelet for you because he could buy you the charms to add to it and it would give him an excuse to give you presents.”

“I tried to stop him but he wouldn’t accept my refusal,” Y/N said, finally looking up at Cassian.

“He’s a stubborn bastard,” Cassian said, humour lacing his tone. “Especially when it comes to you. He loves you.”

Y/N scoffed. “He does not love me. Don’t joke about things like that, Cassian.”

“I’m not joking, Y/N,” Cassian said. “He has never told me, but I have noticed it in his actions. At every opportunity he has, he seeks you out.”

“It’s only because you and Rhys probably are not around,” said Y/N. 

Cassian chuckled. “Az has sought me out before when he was having a bad day, but he has never cuddled me until we fell asleep together in bed.”

Y/N glared at him. “How did you know about that?”

“You left your door open once and you were both asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms. I have known Az all of my life and I had never seen him look so content. Every worry, every doubt, every trouble he has seemed to evaporate when he was in your arms.”

“That still doesn’t prove that he loves me, Cass,” Y/N said. “Now, can we please not talk about this anymore. I don’t have the energy.”

Cassian studied her for a brief moment. “Why did you rush out the other day?”

“I told you, I was going on a–”

“A walk, yes, but why did you rush out? You were clearly upset and you had clearly just come from Az’s room.” Cassian commented.

Y/N sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I just asked him if he wanted to come to the bakery that had just opened in the city but he was already going with Elain.”

“And you were jealous?” Cassian asked.

“It’s not that simple,” Y/N said and fiddled with a loose thread on the blanket. “It seems that since I have moved out, I have barely seen Az. I didn’t even move far away, it's about a fifteen minute walk, even faster by flying. Everyone but him seems to make the effort and whenever I make an effort, he is always busy with Elain.” Y/N sat up in her bed, now fully facing Cassian. “Sometimes I think he is purposefully avoiding me to spend more time with Elain. And I–” 

Y/N cut herself off. She had never voiced these thoughts aloud, they had just been swirling around her head for ages.

“And you what, Y/N?” Cassian asked gently. 

“I just miss him, I miss the way things were, I wish I never fell in love with him.” Y/N could feel the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. “Falling in love with him had to be the stupidest thing I could have done–”

“Don’t say that,” Cassian interrupted. “Don’t ever say that. Azriel deserves all of the love you have given him, and you deserve all of the love he has ever given you.”

“Cassian, Azriel does not love me!” Y/N exclaimed. “If he loved me, why didn’t the damn bond snap for him too!”

Everything was still and silent as Cassian took in the words of the revelation. Y/N felt a small amount of weight lift from her shoulders but it wasn’t enough for her to get out of her bed. 

“You and Az are mates,” Cassian said slowly, processing everything. 

“The day I ran into you was the day it snapped,” Y/N said, hugging her knees to her chest. “Why now? In the many years we have known each other, why did it snap now?”

Cassian shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. It’s possible that neither of you were ready.”

“I’m not ready now!” Y/N exclaimed. “Az and I barely see each other. He doesn’t have the time for me anymore.”

Cassian gently grasped Y/N’s clasped hands. “Y/N, listen to me when I say that you don’t have anything to worry about. Azriel loves you so much, it is so obvious to everyone around except you. He is in love with you.”

“You can’t be sure, Cass,” Y/N said. “I don’t want to tell him and fuck up out entire relationship.”

“Y/N, tell him,” Cassian said, squeezing her hands. “He deserves to know that he has a mate and he deserves to know that you love him.”

“You are sure that he loves me back?” Y/N asked, her voice quiet.

“I have never been so sure of anything else,” Cassian replied. “And it's Solstice in a few days, you could tell him then.”

“How do I tell him?” Y/N asked. “I don’t even know where I would begin.”

“That is the part I cannot help you with,” Cassian replied. “But whatever you do, I am sure that Azriel will love it. He loves anything you do.”

***

Y/N let out a breath as she walked through the halls to the living room. Her heart was beating out of her chest. She had asked Rhys where Azriel was and he had told her without question. The small box was clutched in her hands. Her plan was to give Azriel his Solstice present early and to tell him that she loved him and that they were mates. It was quite a simple plan but Y/N had to motivate herself to leave her house. She was rippled with nerves. 

“Just breathe,” she whispered to herself as she closed in on the living room. 

From down the hallway, Y/N could hear the mutter of a familiar voice and she smiled. It was Azriel’s voice. I can do this, she thought. 

As Y/N turned into the living room, her heart sank to the floor and the smile vanished from her face. Azriel and Elain stood in the centre of the room in an embrace and their lips only centimetres from one another. Azriel’s fingers were tangled in her hair as his hand rested on the back of her head and his arm was wrapped around her waist. Elain’s hands were placed on Azriel’s chest as her head was tilted up, waiting for their lips to connect.

Neither of them noticed Y/N, too focussed on one another. Tears immediately sprung to Y/N’s eyes. Azriel didn’t love her. If their passionate embrace connoted anything it was that Azriel’s infatuation resided with Elain. 

Y/N left the room before either of the two noticed, and she let the tears fall. Azriel wasn’t in love with her. Azriel was in love with Elain. 

Cassian was wrong. 

***

It was the morning of Solstice and Y/N stood in Rhys’s office waiting for him to enter. After she had left Azriel and Elain the previous night, Y/N had cried herself to sleep. If only she had never fallen for Azriel. If only she wasn’t his mate. Maybe then everything would be okay, she would happily tease Azriel about his infatuations with the middle Archeron sister and she wouldn’t be in this position now. 

But that wasn’t the case. Her mate was in love with another. Y/N should have seen the signs. Azriel had spent nearly all of his free time with Elain, the two had gotten so many chances to fall in love since they had began to spend time together. 

Rhys entered his office and sent Y/N a smile. “Why did you want a meeting this early, Y/N? It’s Solstice morning, you should be getting ready for tonight.”

“Send me on a mission,” Y/N stated. “Make sure that it is a long one.”

The smile fell from Rhys’s face. “Why?”

“I just need to get away for a while,” Y/N answered. 

As she lay in her bed deep into the night, Y/N just knew that she needed to get away from Azriel for a while. Just seeing him knowing that he was in love with someone else hurt her like nothing else. The bond only seemed to heighten the pain. Y/N wasn’t sure how Lucien was coping.

“Where is this coming from, Y/N?” Rhys asked. “You are normally the one most excited about Solstice.”

“This year I am not,” Y/N replied, her response blunt. 

Concern clouded over Rhys’s eyes. “Are you okay, Y/N? If there is anything you need to talk about you can–”

“I am fine, Rhys,” Y/N said, forcing a smile onto her face. “I just need to get away, preferably by tonight.”

Rhys studied her for a moment longer before finally nodding, knowing how stubborn Y/N could be. “Give me a few hours and I will have something sorted for you.”

“Thank you, Rhys,” Y/N replied. 

Without another word, Y/N left Rhys’s office. She thought that this space from Azriel would lift some of that weight from her shoulders, if anything the weight got heavier. 

***

Music was playing and laughter filled the room as gifts were handed out to each person. Azriel remained by the doorway, far away from everyone else– especially Elain. He was not sure what came over him the previous night but he was sure that he never wanted anything like that to happen again. Even as Elain sent him looks, Azriel only ignored them. 

“Where’s Y/N?” Feyre asked no one in particular as she piled presents up. “She has a lot of presents to open.”

Rhys’s joy suddenly vanished and Azriel stiffened. “About Y/N,” Rhys began, “she will not be joining us tonight.”

“Why?” The question left Azriel’s mouth before he could stop it.

“This morning she asked me to send her on a mission,” Rhys said. “I don’t know why but she was adamant.”

“For how long?” Cassian asked. 

“Three months,” Rhys answered.

“Three months!” Cassian exclaimed. “Why?”

Rhys shrugged. “She didn’t tell me.”

Azriel’s shadows swarmed around his shoulders anxiously. Y/N was gone and she hadn’t even told him where she was going– or why she was going. 

Cassian suddenly turned on Azriel. “Why would you let her leave? She told you everything and you let her leave after that.”

“Told me what?” Azriel questioned. 

Cassian’s face dropped. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Told me what, Cassian?” Azriel asked, his voice dropping lower.

“Look, Az, this isn’t my place to–”

“What was she going to tell me, Cassian?” Azriel snapped.

“That she is your mate, Az!” Cassian exclaimed. “She told me her plan and said that she was going to do it last night. She really didn’t tell you?”

“She’s my mate?” Azriel whispered, mainly to himself. 

The room was silent as everyone awaited Azriel’s reaction. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Mate, Azriel thought. Y/N is my mate. The shadows previously moving anxiously around Azriel came to a sudden halt as he pushed himself from the doorway. 

“Why did she tell you and not me?” Azriel said, trying to keep his voice level.

“That is not my place to say,” said Cassian. “You will need to talk to Y/N.”

Azriel felt everyone’s gaze fall upon him. He didn’t even register them. All he could think about was Y/N. She was his mate. How long had she known? Why didn’t she tell him? Why did she want to go on a mission? 

“Where is she?” Azriel asked, his gaze falling on Rhys. “You said you sent her on a mission. Where is she?”

“The mission was on the continent,” Rhys answered and glanced at the clock. “She asked to be gone by tonight but it wasn’t possible considering the short notice. She might still be at her house if she hasn’t left early.”

Without another word, Azriel raced out of the house, the calls and protests from his family quickly growing silent as soon as he was in the open air and shot to the skies. Azriel was sure he had never flown as fast as he had. Within a matter of minutes, he was outside of Y/N’s house. 

He remembered when she had first told everyone she was moving, Azriel had been delighted. But the longer he thought about it, the more distraught he became. Nearly every single night, he would fall asleep listening to Y/N’s heartbeat, even if she was in another room, he would hear it and it would soothe him. During those nights, he had noticed that he didn’t have any nightmares. In fact, all he dreamt of was Y/N. 

The lights in Y/N’s house were off and Azriel’s heart sank. If she had already left then he would return and demand Rhys to tell him exactly where she was going. The surrounding area was quiet, even the wind seemed silent. Azriel closed his eyes and hearted a quiet and familiar heartbeat. Y/N’s heartbeat. 

Before he even began to think, Azriel was frantically knocking on her door. “Y/N! Please let me in!”

There was a quiet shuffle from inside the house but not any movement of the door Azriel was frantically knocking on. “Y/N, please let me in, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment slipped from his lips before he could stop it but Azriel didn’t care. All he wanted was to talk to Y/N. Talk to his mate.

“Please,” Azriel whispered desperately. “I need to talk to you, Y/N.”

“Please leave, Azriel,” Y/N’s voice came through the door. “I need to leave soon.”

“No you don’t,” Azriel said. “Please don’t.”

“I am,” Y/N said, and the door was ripped open.

There was a small pain in Azriel’s heart as he looked at Y/N. There were dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep and they appeared to be bloodshot. Azriel wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and tell her that everything was okay. But from the look on Y/N’s face, she decided against that. 

“Please leave Az,” Y/N whispered. 

“No,” Azriel said, forcing himself into her house. “I’m not leaving until I talk to you.”

“I need to get going–”

“When were you going to tell me that I was your mate?” Azriel asked. Y/N stilled and Azriel noticed that she refused to look him in the eye.  He stepped closer. “How long have you known?”

Y/N took in a sharp intake of breath before lifting her gaze to meet Azriel’s. “I found out a few days ago. The day I came to you asking if you wanted to go to the bakery with me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Azriel asked softly.

Y/N scoffed. “I tried! Last night.”

Azriel furrowed his eyebrows. “You never came to me last night.”

“I did. I had this whole plan but I showed up and you were with Elain again!” Y/N exclaimed.

“Of course I was with her!” Azriel said. “Rhys asked me to look out for her and make sure she was okay. I’m only doing what he asks.”

Y/N hummed. “Did he ask you to ignore me in the process? Did he ask you to seduce her? Kiss her?”

Azriel’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “You know exactly what I mean, Azriel. Last night, I walked in on you and Elain.”

His heart seemed to drop to his feet. “You saw us?”

“Yes I did,” Y/N said, taking a step back but Azriel didn’t let her as he took a step forward. “Please just leave me alone, Az.”

“No,” Azriel said. “You are my mate.”

“And?” Y/N said. “It doesn’t matter when you clearly have your sights set on someone else.”

“Don’t say that Y/N!” Azriel snapped.

“Why? It’s true. You spend all of your time with Elain to the point where I never see you.”

Azriel groaned. “I told you, I was doing as Rhys asked.”

Y/N shook her head. “Azriel, for so many months, you have ignored me in favour of her. Every time I ask if you want to do something, you are always busy because you are with Elain. I haven’t even had a full conversation with you in weeks.” Y/N let out a shaky breath. “I don’t want to admit that I am jealous, but I am.”

“Y/N, please, I don’t like Elain like that,” Azriel said desperately.

“Az, please leave. I need to get going,” Y/N said, trying to push past him. 

Something overcame Azriel and he wasn’t sure exactly what it was. One second he was standing with his arms by his side and the next his lips were pressed against Y/N’s as her back hit the wall behind her. 

Azriel pressed his body against hers as his arms trapped her against the wall. As soon as their lips connected, Azriel felt the bond. The overwhelming feeling caused him to only kiss Y/N harder. It was almost instinct the way his arms wrapped around her body to keep her close to him. He never wanted her to be anywhere else except in his arms. It had been months since he had felt the curves of her body, although this time in a much more intimate setting. He had missed the feeling of her skin on his. He missed the feeling of holding her. He missed everything about her. 

Y/N’s hands came to rest on his chest and Azriel melted further into the kiss, his arms wrapping around her waist tighter. It wasn’t until Y/N used all of her strength to push him away and his mouth was torn from hers. As Azriel opened his eyes, he wished he didn’t. Betrayal was lingering behind the colour he loved so much. 

“Why did you do that?” Y/N whispered, clearly hurt.

“Because it's you who I want, Y/N. Not Elain,” Azriel said, his hand trailing up her body to rest on her cheek. 

Y/N shook her head. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Lie to my face, Azriel,” Y/N said. “You can’t just quickly switch where your affections lie.”

“They lie with you–”

“Oh, please stop!” Y/N exclaimed, pushing Azriel further away from her. “I saw how close you and Elain were last night. I know that Rhys asked you to look after her but did that really need to entail pushing me away. If you really wanted to court Elain, Azriel. I would have helped, no matter how painful it would have been for me. There was no reason for you to push me away.”

“I already told you that I don’t want Elain. I only want you,” Azriel said, growing more and more desperate. 

Y/N scoffed. “Only because of the stupid mating bond.”

“It’s not stupid–”

“Yes it is! If it wasn’t stupid, why didn’t it snap when I fell in love with you years ago!”

Azriel stilled at Y/N’s confession. Y/N loved him. She loved him. Those words Azriel was too afraid to say himself, Y/N had said to him. His mind screamed at him to respond but as soon as the words reached his mouth he couldn’t get them out. 

“You say that you hold no affection for Elain but your actions speak differently, Azriel,” Y/N said, stepping past him. 

“Y/N, please listen to me,” Azriel said, reaching out to grip her hand. 

Her fingers seemed to curl around his before she seemed to think better of it and pulled away. 

“Tell Cassian to come and lock my door assuming he still has the keys,” Y/N said before she left through the front door. 

“Y/N,” Azriel said, desperation evident in his voice as he followed her to her front garden. 

But Y/N was nowhere to be seen, she was gone, taking Azriel’s heart with her in the process.

***

It had been days since Y/N had left and Azriel hadn’t left her house. Each night he would curl up in her bed missing the scent of her. Even though the bed was too small to accommodate for his wings, it didn’t force Azriel to move. Rhys had tried to contact him multiple times but Azriel had ignored him as he buried his head further into Y/N’s pillows. 

There was a pain in his chest that had never been there before, it was as if he could feel all of the pain and betrayal Y/N felt and Azriel thought he deserved it. He deserved every bit of it. He should have explained better, he should have sat Y/N down and explained everything he was feeling in detail. 

Azriel pulled the covers further over his body, inhaling her scent. It was fading in favour of his own and Azriel hated that. As he closed his eyes, loud knocks sounded throughout the house. Azriel groaned. 

“Azriel,” Elain’s voice shouted through the door. “I know you are there.”

If Azriel didn’t want the ground to swallow him up before, he wanted it to now. He had no intention of speaking to Elain again– at least for a while. That night of their almost kiss was a mistake. 

“Azriel!” Elain shouted, her voice seemingly more irritated. 

With a groan, Azriel lifted himself from Y/N’s bed and he immediately missed the comfort it brought him. He dragged his feet out of the room and down the stairs until he stood in front of the door. Through the frosted glass panes he could see Elain standing there, her arms folded across her chest. 

Azriel’s hand shook as he reached out and opened the door. He revealed Elain’s face and there was an emotion upon it which he had never seen before. It reminded him of Y/N’s expression when she had pushed him away after he had kissed her.

“What are you doing here, Elain?” Azriel asked, his voice hoarse from not talking for days.

“What are you doing here, Azriel?” Elain questioned, forcing her way into Y/N’s house. “No one has seen you in days.”

“I’ve been here,” Azriel replied. 

“So it seems,” Elain said, surveying the living room. “But why are you still here? Y/N left days ago.”

Azriel remained silent as Elain inspected the flowers sitting in the middle of Y/N’s coffee table. He wanted her to leave. He didn’t want to be anywhere near her. 

“I know,” Azriel responded. 

Elain sat down on the sofa and finally met Azriel’s gaze. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

“What?” Azriel said, wanting nothing more than to bury himself underneath Y/N’s many blankets and wish the day away. 

“Ever since that night, you haven’t even looked me in the eye. Why?” Elain’s eyes filled with tears but Azriel could tell she was trying to fight them back. It only made him feel guiltier. 

Azriel’s mouth opened and closed, trying to search for an answer. But every single answer he thought of would only hurt her feelings. “Please leave, Elain. It will be better for both of us.”

Elain shook her head. “I’m not leaving until I get an answer, Azriel. Why did you pull away from me? Did all of those dates mean nothing to you?”

“They weren’t dates,” Azriel found himself saying. 

Elain looked as if she had been struck. “But you have taken me to dinner, on walks in the park, to that bakery that just opened.”

“They weren’t dates,” Azriel said, only feeling guiltier. 

Elain frowned. “Then what were they, Azriel? Because you have been very invested in my life since I have arrived here.”

“I was tasked by Rhys to keep an eye on you,” Azriel admitted, ripping the bandage away.

“What?” Elain asked, her voice quiet. “So all of those days were you just pretending to like me?”

“No,” Azriel said, running his fingers through his hair. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it, Azriel?” Elain questioned, an edge to her voice. 

“I tried, okay? I really tried to like you, I really did,” Azriel said, admitting to the middle Archeron sister what he never thought he would. “That's why I agreed to go on all of those outings with you. I could never think of you more than a friend.”

“You were trying to force yourself to fall in love with me?” Elain asked. Azriel broke eye contact and looked to the floor, he didn’t want to see her hurt expression any longer. “Why?” She followed up.

“If I forced myself to love you, then maybe I wouldn’t still love–”

Azriel couldn’t say it. He had never said it out loud before. If he said it then it would become too real and there would be no turning back. 

Elain studied his expression, rising from the sofa. “Y/N. You are in love with Y/N.” Azriel’s silence was just as good of an answer spoken for Elain. “Why would you use me like that, Azriel? Unlike you, I actually began to feel something for you. I thought you returned those feelings.”

Something wet fell down Azriel’s cheek. He hadn’t even realised he had been crying. “I am sorry, Elain. I am so sorry.”

“Can you at least tell me why? You owe me that much.”

“I fell in love with Y/N a long time ago, long before you were even born,” Azriel began. “We were friends at first, but it wasn’t long before I fell in love. She is so perfect in every single way. Her intelligence, her kindness, her strength, her beauty. Everything.” Elain nodded although Azriel could see the sadness in her expression. He continued nevertheless. “I never thought that she would love me back. I never thought that she would return my feelings so I repressed them.”

“How did you manage that?” Elain asked, quietly.

“It was difficult. I have killed, tortured many for information and sometimes that takes its toll. But hiding my love for Y/N had to be the most difficult thing I have ever done. It wasn’t until you showed up and took an interest in me where I tried to fall for you instead.” Azriel picked at a loose thread on the shirt he wore. “I thought it was a perfect plan. You are kind, beautiful and understanding. I thought it would be easy for me. And when Rhys tasked me with looking after you, I thought it would be even easier. But whenever I was with you, all I could think about was Y/N. And when I nearly kissed you–”

“All you could think about was Y/N,” Elain finished. 

Azriel nodded. “When I opened my eyes and saw you, I panicked and left without any explanation. From the bottom of my heart, I am so sorry, Elain.”

“I don’t forgive you, Azriel. You used me because you loved someone else and were simply trying to distract yourself.” Elain said and there was a long pause before she began to speak again. “But I cannot blame you. Loving someone can be hard and difficult and can make you do stupid things. And Y/N is perfect and I don’t like that you made me out to be some kind of villain in her eyes.”

Azriel opened his mouth to speak but Elain cut him off.

“Please don’t apologise again, Azriel,” Elain said. “It would have never worked out between us. I never want to be someone’s second choice and that was all I was to you.” Elain began to walk over to the front door. “It will take me a while to forgive you, Azriel. But listen to me when I say this. Tell Y/N the truth, tell her everything.”

“I’ve already fucked up whatever friendship we had, I don’t want to make it worse,” Azriel whispered.

“You are her mate and her best friend, the one who knows her better than anyone, do you truly believe that your whole friendship is gone because of one stupid decision you made?” Elain paused as she stood on the threshold. “I hope you find your happiness, Azriel. I am going to find mine and I will not be a back up choice for a male who is too afraid to admit their feelings.”

“I hope you find it, Elain,” Azriel said. “And I hope you can forgive me someday.”

With a simple nod of her head, Elain left the house, closing the door behind her. Azriel was left alone once again. 

***

It had been a month since Y/N was last in Velaris. She thought that the trip would be good for her to get her mind off of Azriel but she wasn’t needed as much as she thought she would. For the month she had been on the continent, Y/N was sure that she had only done a few hours of work, the rest of her time she spent in her room she had been so graciously allocated. 

And in those lonely hours all she could think of was Azriel. His had been the last face she had seen before she winnowed away and it was ingrained into her brain. The hurt expression on his face, the desperation that lingered beneath it. Y/N turned over in the bed. It was comfortable but it was nothing like the one at her house. She missed being in Velaris and she missed her family– and that included Azriel. 

“Y/N,” a guard rushed into her room. “A letter has come for you.”

Y/N pushed herself up from the bed and took the letter from the guard's hand. “Thank you,” she muttered. 

As soon as Y/N looked down at her name in the familiar writing, she felt her heart rate increase. Tearing into the envelope, Y/N pulled the letter from its confines. Rhys’s writing was a welcome sight of home but his words were not. 

The words she read about how Azriel was faring after her departure sent shocks to her heart. She knew it was stupid for her to feel sorry for him, after all he had brought everything upon himself, but she couldn’t help it. She was in love with him and that would never change. 

The moment Y/N finished the letter, she picked up her travel bag, she hadn’t even unpacked anything, and exited the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to go home. 

***

As Y/N appeared in front of her house, she could immediately feel the air shift. Even though it was her own house, she was reluctant to enter. Everything suddenly felt too real. 

Finally Y/N pushed open her door and found Rhys and Cassian inside while Azriel sat on her couch, his wings slumped behind him. Y/N’s heart immediately fell at the sight of the shadowsinger. The bags under his eyes were prominent and he had clearly lost weight. Y/N had never seen him in such a state. 

Rhys’s gaze met Y/N’s. “Cassian and I will wait outside.”

Y/N didn’t respond as he gaze shifted back to Azriel who continued to look down at the coffee table, fixated on the dead flowers. As soon as Rhys and Cassian had stepped outside, Y/N slowly shuffled closer to Azriel and sat on the couch next to him. The bond connecting their souls seemed to hum happily as they were finally reunited. 

“Azriel?” Y/N broke the silence. 

“I am so sorry Y/N.” Azriel’s voice was hoarse and quiet. “About Elain. About ignoring you. About kissing you. About everything.”

When Azriel lifted his gaze, Y/N could see the sadness within them and she could feel it in her chest.

“Why?” It was all Y/N could say. 

Azriel sighed. “When you told me you loved me, I was shocked because I thought that someone so kind, so smart, so beautiful, so…perfect, would never love me back.”

Y/N stilled. “You love me?”

Azriel nodded. “Y/N, I have loved you for centuries. I was afraid that if you ever found out, it would ruin our whole friendship. And if I lost you, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. You…complete me. I feel like I can always be myself around you. Before I met you I always felt like there was something missing in my life and when you stumbled into it, it was as if everything fell into place.”

“But everything with Elain? You say you love me but you have been surrounding yourself with her for nearly a year.” Y/N said. 

“I never felt anything but friendship for Elain,” Azriel admitted. “But I tried to like her romantically. I tried to force myself to fall in love with her.”

“Why would you do that, Azriel?” Y/N questioned.

“Because I never thought that you would love me back,” Azriel said. “If I fell in love with Elain then maybe I could forget all about my feelings for you, maybe they would disappear. But the more time I spent with Elain, the more I realised that I would never be able to fall for her because I was so utterly in love with you that I thought about you every minute I was with her. I thought about you that night before Solstice. When I opened my eyes and saw her instead of you, I panicked. I wanted it to be you.”

Y/N frowned, taking in Azriel’s words. “But what of Elain? Why would you mess with her feelings like that?”

Azriel’s shoulders seemed to slump. “A few days after you left, Elain came to me and demanded to know everything that was going on. It is safe to say that she is not happy with me.”

“Good,” Y/N said. “Because I am not entirely happy with you, Azriel. Why didn’t you just speak to me? Why didn’t you tell me you loved me? You just assumed that I didn’t return your feelings.”

“I couldn’t know for sure,” Azriel said. “I know it was stupid of me–”

“It was,” Y/N said. “In the three centuries I have known you, this is the stupidest thing you have done. We have always been open with one another.”

“I know. I regret everything I did. I regret using Elain to try and get over my feelings. I regret pushing you away in favour of her. I just never thought you could possibly like me back?”

“Why?”

“Because you are perfect!” Azriel exclaimed. “You are everything I am not. You are everything good in the world. You are a goddess in my eyes.” Azriel tore his eyes away from Y/N and focussed on his hand folded in his lap. “I am damaged.”

“Don’t say that,” Y/N said, moving to sit on the coffee table in front of him. “Don’t ever say that Azriel.”

“But it’s true,” Azriel said. “I have so much blood on my hands, Y/N.”

Y/N slowly reached forward and took Azriel’s hands in hers. He tried to pull them away but she held on tight. “Azriel, I have blood on my hands too. I am not perfect at all. Neither of us are, evident by the way we both handled our emotions.”

The shadowsingers gaze was no longer fixated on his hands as he slowly met Y/N’s gaze once more. “I am not going to easily forgive you, Azriel. You messed with Elain’s emotions and you made me feel unimportant as you pushed me away.”

Azriel’s shoulders deflated. 

“But,” Y/N continued. “That does not mean that I don’t still love you. My mate.”

All the weight on Azriel’s shoulders appeared to be lifted and his eyes seemed to clear. “Say that again…” he whispered.

Y/N leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his. “My mate.”

Azriel exhaled slowly and pulled Y/N’s body closer to his until he could circle her waist with his arms. “I am so sorry, Y/N. For everything.”

“I know you are,” Y/N said, threading her fingers through his hair. 

“I love you, Y/N,” Azriel mumbled into her shoulder. “Will you ever be able to forgive me?”

Y/N pulled away and rested her forehead on his. His eyes were closed but slowly opened as Y/N gently caressed his face. “You might have hurt me, Azriel, but I will forgive you. I know you well enough to know how you sometimes process things and act upon things.” Y/N pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. “And sometime in the near future, I will be ready to accept the bond.”

Azriel’s eyes lit up. “You will accept the bond?”

“Of course I will,” Y/N replied. “I am in love with you Azriel. No matter how much you convinced yourself that I never could, I do love you. I wouldn’t want anyone else as my mate. But first, I want us to get back to where we were before. Before I accept the bond, I just want my best friend back.”

“I love you so much,” Azriel breathed out. 

And when he placed his lips upon hers, Y/N welcomed them.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

older sugar daddy!anakin who's paying for your postgrad, just cuddles you after a long day of studying 😩

TW: none really, just fluff and soft praises cause bunny loves dilf!ani :3

Author's note: I love you, give me more..let your fantasy free. Also, today's my birthday, when it's posted, I'm sleeping (thanks to the queue). But I want to thank YOU for this year. In September, I celebrated without all you knowing probably, my one year on this app. One year. Year ago, I'd not even imagine that one of my dreams would come true - to post MY work, something people will enjoy..you guys made it real and for that I thank you so much! Hugging all 622 of you!!! <3333333

It had been one of those days where nothing seemed to go right. Your brain was fried from the constant cycle of lectures, readings, and assignments. The textbooks in front of you blurred whenever you tried to focus on yet another chapter of dense material, so it was no use.

You felt drained—mentally and emotionally. All you wanted to do was crawl into bed and forget about postgrad for a little while.

The soft click of the apartment door opening snapped you out of your haze. You heard the familiar shuffle of Anakin’s shoes being kicked off, his expensive, cashmere-wool blend coat draped over the chair. Before you even had the chance to look up from your mountain of notes, he was beside you, his presence filling the room with warmth and comfort you so much craved at the moment

"Hey," he greeted quietly, his deep voice gently vibrating in your ear. He could immediately sense the tension around you, see the exhaustion written all over your profile side. Without asking, he leaned down to kiss your burning temple that was heated up from way too much information for one day

Not taking your tired eyes from the whatever you were trying to focus on, your nostrils could pick up the familiar scent of him—clean, warm, with a hint of vanilla and cinnamon

Dear heavens..

"Long day?" he asked softly, his large hand coming to rest on your shoulder, thumb gently brushing the back of your neck. You closed your eyes at the contact - it felt so good, to just being able to feel the all the stress and tension slowly melt down your spine

Well, Anakin's hands were magic. In every way. They could tear you apart, pull you back together and make you beg for more. Yet today, you were way too tired to beg him to do anything

"You have no idea," you sighed, your voice barely above a whisper as you leaned into his touch. “It feels like this coursework is never-ending.”

Anakin’s lips curled into a soft, understanding smile as he tilted his head, studying your tired expression. "You’ve been at it for hours. I can tell." He glanced at the textbooks, notebooks, and laptop scattered around you. It was impressive, to say the least, but even him knew you needed to slow down "You need a break."

Before you could protest, Anakin was already moving. He gently closed your laptop, setting it aside along with your textbooks, making sure they were out of reach so you wouldn’t be tempted to keep working. At first it brought you a quicker heartbeat, to see him just so casually act like it when you still had so much to do “Come here,” he murmured, reaching out to you. "You’ve done enough for today."

Yet, you didn’t hesitate. As tired as you were, the moment he opened his arms, you were drawn to him like a magnet. You slid into his embrace, sinking into his broad chest as he wrapped you up in the warmth of his body.

Your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his sweater, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. It was grounding, a gentle reminder that you weren’t alone in all of this. He was here, as he always was, making everything seem a little less overwhelming.

“You’re working too hard, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice tender as he massaged your scalp before gently threaded his long fingers through your hair, brushing it away from your face. "You need to rest."

You sighed, sinking further into his embrace. Dammit, if he keeps it up, you'll fall asleep "I just want to get through this semester." you confessed

Anakin pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head before his hand moved to caress your back “And you will. You always do.” His voice was filled with quiet confidence, the kind of unwavering belief in you that never failed to make your heart swell.

“You’ve been taking care of everything else,” Anakin murmured after a long moment of quietness, his voice a soft rumble in your ear. “Now let me take care of you.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, overwhelmed by how much his simple presence soothed you. He always knew when to step in, offering comfort without needing to ask for anything in return. It wasn’t about money or gifts—this, right here, was what made him your anchor. The way he could make you feel safe and cherished, no matter how heavy the world felt on your shoulders.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. You pressed your face further into him, breathing him in, the scent of him calming your racing thoughts. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

"You’ll never have to find out," he replied softly, kissing the top of your head. "I’ve got you."

You shifted slightly, your legs curling up as you snuggled deeper into him, finding the perfect spot in his lap. His hand gently cradled the back of your head, fingers sliding through your hair with a touch so tender it made your heart flutter.

"I’m not letting you out of my sight for the rest of the night."

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @erosmutt @haydensprettyprincess @mistress-amidala @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @bimbo-baggins17

(if you want to be removed or added then don't be shy and let me know 💋)

[celestialowlbear]

Give You Everything

Pairing: Halsin x Fem!Reader (Tav)

Summary: Halsin gives you some morning loving. No plot. Just fluffy smut. 💕

Warnings: NSFW, 18+. Oral (fem receiving), mentions of m receiving.

WC: ~1300

A/N: My hand slipped. Oops. 😏 I have no reason for this besides Halsin consuming my thoughts by being the big sexy romantic he is. This takes place years after the end of BG3, however you may imagine it. Maybe Tav and Halsin live in a cottage in the woods? Anyway, I hope you all enjoy. Let me know what you think!

You wake to Halsin’s lips on yours, tasting vaguely of honey and figs he must have snacked on before gently rousing you. 

You stirred, eyes opening as you stretched under the animal furs you were tucked into. 

“No need to rise, my love.” Halsin kissed your exposed shoulder. “I’m coming back to join you.”

Halsin often woke with the sun, greeting the day with a stroll in his bear form. You usually joined him, but he must have let you sleep this morning. 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” You mumbled, turning toward him, realizing the sun had already risen based on the bright light speckling through the paned window. 

“You looked so peaceful, I did not want to disturb your dreams.”

Halsin huddled his face into your neck, inhaling your scent, gently tracing his large hand up your arm. 

“Not to mention, I wanted to keep you in bed.” 

Halsin’s hand lazily trailed up your torso, reverently cupping your breast and giving it a light squeeze. 

“Is that right, my bear?” You chuckled, a faint sigh departing your lips immediately after as Halsin brushed his thumb over your hardening nipple. 

“Why, oh why, would you want to keep me in bed on such a lovely morning?” You hovered your lips close to his in a teasing manner, catching his eye that was tinted with a familiar hunger. 

“It is best I show you, my heart.” Halsin rumbled as he maneuvered himself on top of you momentarily, pulling the furs off your body. 

You were naked, as that is how you slept together. He was naked as well, shedding his clothing from his morning walkabout to join you once again in bed.

Halsin ran his hands down your thighs, taking worshipful handfuls of your supple skin. 

He paused, gazing over you. 

“Always so perfect. Nothing, nothing in all of nature could ever compare to you.”

Halsin brought his lips down to your inner thigh, maintaining eye contact as he kissed your flushed skin. 

“As the sun rose, I was reminded of you.” He slowly made his way up toward your core, dampening with anticipation. 

“A bright light to guide me to new beginnings. Through any hardship or affliction, I know you will always be my rising sun.” 

You still blushed at his words, even after years together.

Halsin never held back on his feelings for you, constantly reminding you how deeply he loved you, and how thankful he was to have you by his side. 

You reminded him as well, holding dear the bashful look that always crossed his face when doing so. He was a gentle soul at heart. All the more reason to remind him of your love, and let him care for you. 

“Was that all you were thinking of this morning?” You whispered, a coy smile turning up your lips, watching him make his way to your center.  

Halsin chuckled deeply against your skin, his breath now ghosting over your center, the smell of your arousal stirring the beast within him. 

“Perhaps not…I was also reminiscing of the night before last…the sounds that left your lips that evening have not left my mind.” 

Halsin brought a finger between your folds, gently circling and exploring. 

“I would greatly enjoy hearing those sounds again. If you permit me…” Halsin kissed your clit, his tongue softly probing, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he felt your body squirm and legs tremble by his head. 

“Yes, Halsin, always for you…”

You threaded your fingers in his hair as he went to work, slowly licking and sucking at your now thoroughly soaked pussy. 

Halsin was in no rush, enjoying every gasp and soft mewl and twitch of your legs as he feasted. 

He carefully moved your legs over his massive shoulders to gain better access, holding you in place. 

At this point, Halsin knew your body even better than you did.

He knew exactly what made you squirm, what made you beg for more, what made you get intensely lost in pleasure. 

You knew the same of his body, knowing his most sensitive parts, what pushed him to the limit of his control. 

Halsin had never truly been as vulnerable with anyone else in his long life as he is with you. 

You knew every part of him, his deepest fears, the darkest corners of his mind. You helped him through his anguish all that time ago, helped him see clearly for the first time in his life. 

You held and protected his heart as delicately as one would a newly hatched bird. 

He owed everything to you. 

“Halsin…” your grip on his hair tightened, tugging in just the way he liked. “More, please…”

Halsin hummed into you in response, knowing he was teasing you by going slowly. He treasured tasting you like this, the sweetest nectar in nature could never compare.

It was a taste he craved daily. 

He didn’t want to be too selfish, though. He knew you were desperate for release. 

How could he ever deny you such ecstasy?

Halsin picked up his pace, switching between circling your clit with his tongue and fucking you as deep as he could go with his warm muscle. 

You cried out, the fire in your belly growing. You knew Halsin was aching between his legs, his body begging for his release. 

Sometimes, getting you off like this was enough, coming to his end without touch. 

You hoped you could taste him, though, to give back what he so selflessly offers to you. 

The sounds were obscene as he lost himself between your legs, mixing with your trembling moans and cries. He was wildly lapping and licking and stroking with his tongue, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs. 

“H-Halsin I’m-I’m so close, don’t stop!” You managed to coherently string together one sentence, the molten coil in your belly threatening to explode with each pass of his tongue. 

You were gripping his hair with both hands now, bucking up at him to get the most pressure possible as your climax was rushing toward you. 

Halsin was growling against your pussy, his chin dripping with your slick, his hips instinctually bucking for any type of friction against his cock. 

Your body was shaking and Halsin knew you were about to explode. 

You came with a cry of his name, chanting it like a prayer to the Gods as you fell over the precipice of bliss. Halsin didn’t let up, keeping up his ministrations, drinking up your essence.   

Halsin didn’t want to waste one drop of your pleasure. 

Your body spasmed, toes curling as your mind went blank. 

Soon, the flicks of his tongue were becoming too much, coming down from your heaven. 

You gently pushed him away and Halsin lifted his head, his eyes flashing gold momentarily as his eyes locked on your body, licking his lips, savoring your taste. 

“Beautiful, my heart. Perfection.” 

You were trying to catch your breath, your body gelatinous. You motioned for him to come back on top of you. 

Halsin crawled up your body, hovering over you. You lifted your head, capturing his lips to yours in a fervent kiss of thanks. Your tongues danced, Halsin immediately submitting to your passion. Your hands grasped at his back, pulling him down into you. 

Halsin let out a deep groan as you rubbed your sensitive pussy on his throbbing cock. 

“Take me, my love. Take your pleasure, too.” You nibbled at his bottom lip, wrapping your legs around his waist. 

“Believe me when I say I get my greatest pleasure from watching you come undone on my tongue.” He replied, breaking the kiss momentarily.

“Let me do the same, then.” You smiled against his lips, bringing a hand down to grasp his rigid, thick length. “Come undone on my tongue.”

Halsin shuddered and let out a low moan at your touch, your hand gliding over his hot, velvety skin. 

Halsin nipped at your chin, flipping you both so you were on top of him, your legs barely able to straddle his wide body. 

“You know I cannot deny you anything, my heart.” 

You smiled sweetly, sliding down his body, watching his eyes glow gold at the anticipation of your touch, ready to return him the favor.

-ˏˋ⋆ Thanks for reading, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! ⋆ˊˎ-

[g0dlyunsub]

hii!! loved what u wrote for my orher request - i have another one - could you write abt the reader doing his slicked back hair that he has at the end of season 1? she wanted to play around w the bob-ish hair and use gel, which he was reluctant to at first but he has a soft spot for her so let’s her do the prince charming hair

adore you.

spencer doesn’t know if he wants you to style his hair, but you know the perfect way to convince him.

pairing :: spencer x fem!reader

warnings :: established relationship, fluff

word count :: 1k

author's note :: thank you for being so patient with this request <3 enjoy this fluffy little piece before i burrow myself away in more angst :0

accompanying song :: when you wash your hair by matt maltese

“wake up, i miss you.”

you rub your eyes, but they only sink further back into your head as spencer’s hushed croons breeze into your ears.

his i miss you, along with the breathy squeak he emits as he leans over your body, has you ready to leap into his arms in an instant, but you don’t show it.

instead, you groan in protest, turning to the side and grasping onto the blankets a little tighter. 

because absolutely nothing can compare to the feeling of lying in the soft threads of spencer’s bed — especially when the curtains are still closed and are preventing the warm flush of early morning from pouring into your eyes.

but spencer seems to see right through you, and you hear the thuds of his footsteps quiet down as he makes his way to the other side of the room. with the sounds of curtain fabric whipping against air, the light that once striped your face through the cracks swallows you whole.

“nooo, spencer,” you roll over once again, squinting as the brightness penetrates your eyelids. “close the curtains, pleeease.”

the way you mewl your words so softly makes spencer stop in his tracks, because it’s too pretty to ignore — one might even say piteous.

“we’re both going to be late for work,” he hums amusedly, and kneels by your side of the bed. his broad hands caress your cheek and send a pleasurable chain of chemical reactions to your brain, lulling you even closer to sleep.

it’s like he’s doing it purposely, trying to draw you back into slumber. 

“so what if we’re late?” you say with a slight rasp, slowly opening both of your eyes to look sleepily into his lidded gaze. you almost whimper when he traces the sides of your face and rearranges your disarrayed strands of hair with his graceful fingers.

“hm. don’t you have a presentation to give today?” he chuckles, and the way his voice rises and falls rhythmically feels too hypnotizing. if he keeps this up, you’re seriously going to fall asleep.

“screw the presentation. i want to stay here. i need,” you lick your dry lips and watch as spencer sucks in a breath, “some more sleep.”

“well,” he chuckles softly in thought, “as much as i’d like to join you, i’ve just been called in for a case.”

“can’t you call in sick?”

“do you really want me to?”

“yes.” 

a brief flicker of amusement dances in spencer’s eyes. 

you sigh. “well… no. they need you.”

“more than you need me?”

you roll your eyes. “no… oh come on, spence. you’re making me look like the bad guy here.”

“sorry,” he says with an apologetic smile, and continues to rake his fingers through your hair. 

you can only stare blankly at the ceiling as he continues to brush your hair with his slow fingers, and as he gingerly untangles some of the strands along the way. you can smell the lingering scent of his shampoo, and the pleasant smell blossoms in the air as he lightly fluffs your hair.

you shift your gaze to look at him, admiring the way his hair, still damp from his morning shower, falls delicately over his eyes. suddenly, you get an idea.

“can i style your hair today?”

spencer looks mildly taken aback by your request, and his fingers halt in the soft pile of your hair.

“you want to, um-”

“please?” you look at him pleadingly, and grin as his contemplative gaze softens into a look of surrender.

“will that get you out of bed?”

you giggle. “it’s the only way.”

“fine.”

you practically leap out of the bed. swinging your arms around his neck and planting a kiss near his collarbone, you grab his the hand and lead him to the bathroom.

spencer laughs, unable to protest because of how you’re literally shining with excitement rummaging through the shelves to retrieve the case of hair gel. so he kneels on the bathroom floor and leans his head back ever so slightly, then looks up to meet your shimmering gaze.

“go ahead.” 

with his silent approval, your fingers linger excitedly around his face. unable to shake the feeling, you dip your head to kiss him on the cheek. instinctively, spencer closes his eyes.

at first, you just comb through his hair with your fingers, feeling how his soft, wispy strands flow around your skin. 

then, you dribble a small amount of gel on your palm and rub it so that it spreads across your entire hand. slowly, you run your fingers through his hair again, starting from the top and moving towards the back in one fluid motion. as you comb through the mop of his hair, you tuck the hardening strands behind his ears.

you look down to see that your boyfriend’s eyes are still closed, and smile.  

as if he can feel the radiance of your gentle expression, spencer slowly opens one eye and then the other, offering a beautiful smile of his own when his steady stare meet yours.

“are we done?” his smooth lips frame themselves to whisper the words softly, and the pleasant sound rubs against your ears.

“unfortunately, yes.” 

you cap the lid of the container and step back so your boyfriend can stand, and he uses your arm to help lift himself. 

inspecting the finished arrangement, spencer hums contently. “this looks great, thank you.”

he then turns to face you, and loops his outstretched arms around your waist. 

your mouth spreads into a wide smile as his lips sink against yours, and your feeble echoes of you're welcome vibrate in your muffled mouth.

pulling away at last, spencer takes both of your hands and moves you towards the sink, then turns on the tap so the water runs over both his and your hands. 

his fingers move between the crevices of yours as he lathers the soap over your skin and scrubs at the leftover grease. 

after rinsing your hands under the water, he proceeds to pat your hands dry with a towel. keeping the fabric in between his and your hands, he leans in and plants another kiss -- this time, to your neck. 

but then, without warning, your stomach lets out a low grumble.

spencer flicks his eyes upwards.

you pull back with an embarrassed smile, fully expecting spencer to react by stifling a chuckle. you hunch your shoulders and bite your bottom lip in anticipation of a teasing remark.

instead, he looks at you with an expression full of adoration. 

“how about we grab some breakfast?”

[respondedinkind]

I wholeheartedly believe anyone in your position would have turned bitter forever. Turning to anger is one of the most tempting human vices. You could have given in; You didn't.

Those spoken words cause Khan to inhale without him even being able to stop the action from happening; Nostrils flare as his lungs are filled, accompanied by blue eyes flicking away, falling seconds later, glancing at the drink that's being held by slender fingers, curled around the cool glass.

A swallow follows, a brief purse of full lips that display a wave of emotion crashing through a sturdy frame; Khan did give in, after all, and he had been bitter for almost all the time ever since Marcus had awoken him, forced a superior mind and loyal heart to take what had been dished out to him. Two of his family have died, killed by a pair of wrinkly fingers and a wicked smirk - and when Khan had tried to flee, been discovered, there was no doubt existing within him that the Admiral had followed up by killing all the remaining ones of what he holds most dear.

Khan knows, however, that the younger man is speaking about now, about everything that had happened after him surrendering on Kronos; Instead of turning against those people on board of the Enterprise, Khan had allowed himself to put some sort of trust into this very peculiar and yet so capable Captain. They had infiltrated the Vengeance all by themselves, with the help of that Chief Engineer, taken control of the vessel and... well.

Khan could have handled all of it much differently, after all: Taken out both Kirk and Scotty, made sure the Admiral's daughter wouldn't intervene, killed Marcus with his own hands and then demanded his crew back - the seventy-two torpedoes, sitting within the belly of the Enterprise. Once done, he could have ended those people's lives and then made his way out into the vastness of space---

---He did not. He'd forced himself to not act out on his ongoing urges, and this might have saved his life here - as well as the lives of his sleeping family, currently resting back on Earth, waiting for their own former Captain to pass this test the Federation has allowed him to go through. Perhaps, depending on how well Khan will do, his people will get a second chance, allowed to be alive - on a different planet, perhaps, where they can build their own society, make their own rules...?

All of this is far in the future, out of grasp for now; Khan pushes those thoughts to the side, takes another breath before bringing the glass back up to his lips, followed by a slow-blink.

---The brief urge to comment on Jim's words is rising, the need to remind him of the fact that he did give in, in fact, and that this is why the blond had lost that one father-figure he'd felt so close to... But no, Khan does not. He's sure that Kirk knows, will never forget about that painful moment in his life, and perhaps Khan just needs to take his words for once, let them stew a little. Maybe it's an additional offering of peace, in a way, especially since there's more words following - a possible exchange of people decades from now, thinking about the Enterprise and that man who has lived for centuries...

Oh, part of Khan wishes that all of this will be the case, that he can be remembered as a man who did precisely that: Turned his life around after having lashed out before. Ruled over earth, killed people, but then decided to do good... such things. Maybe, just maybe, things will be okay...

...A smirk replaces that previous purse of full lips, and the act even reaches his eyes when that tease follows; Khan hums out a low noise, takes another sip, then forces himself to relax as he looks back at that man who has turned into what he would consider a... friend, perhaps.

A friend. That's... impressive to think about. Who would've thought that they would do this - sit together, have a drink?

"---I have to.", is the reply given, and Khan is very much exaggerating his own behavior here, in return to the younger Captain's previous teasing; He chuckles, just for a fraction of a second, then exhales a breath that has been stuck inside his chest for a long while. "...And I certainly hope to be able to do it. As we have established, after all, we're both expecting each other to be remembered on a positive note, am I right?"

And with that, Khan lifts his own drink and holds it toward the other, offering to clink their glasses together - to seal the deal, perhaps.

how  much  his  opinion  changed  on  the  man  accompanying  him  is  nothing  short  of  miraculous.       after  the  trial,       Jim  had  no  expectations  whatsoever  that  they  would  become  good  friends,       let  alone  have  conversations  beyond  what  their  respective  jobs  demanded  or  a  simple  good  morning  that  he  throws  to  every  crew  member  on  his  ship.       the  weight  of  their  past  would  be  too  much  to  bear       &       that  they  would  drift  apart.

that  was  it       ;       that  was  the  expectation.       &       yet  reality  continues  to  blossom  differently.       truthfully,       Kirk  never  thought  he’d  feel  comfortable  listening  to  him  this  long,       not  feel  a  tinge  of  regret  or  the  ghosts  of  his  past  sticking  their  heads  out  from  the  shadows  of  his  mind  to  remind  him  of  what  had  happened,       of  what  he  could  never  change.

instead,       he  is       WILLING,       even  excited,       to  listen.       he  doesn’t  compliment  Khan  as  often  as  he  should  be  complimented.       however,       he’s  one  of  the  most  efficient  officers  he’s  ever  worked  with,       &       given  the  progress  they’ve  made,       who  knows  what  will  happen  later       ?      

his  comment  about  keeping  his  name  is  what  he  expected  of  him.       at  least,       THAT       was  one  thing  that  didn’t  deviate  from  his  guess.       he  can  see  it  in  his  calm  blue  eyes,       a  kind  of  spite  that  would  also  surround  his  irises  if  he  had  a  similar  story.      

indeed,       almost  everyone  gets  handed  shitty  cards  to  play  the  game  of  life  with,       but  they  make  do.      

they  find  a  way.       &       their  names  are  more  than  what  they  serve.       he  cannot  physically  stop  himself  from  gluing  his  gaze  onto  his  profile       ;       his  lips  are  slightly  parted  as  he  takes  in  the  subtle  rain  of  compliments.       so  this  is  what  he  thinks  of  him       :       special,       distinct.      

❝          THANK  YOU,          ❞       he  says,       realizing  how       LOST       for  words  he’s  become  after  his  friend’s  small  speech.       it  goes  through  him.       it’s  clear  as  day  that  it  impacts  him  profoundly.       ❝          but  don’t  sell  yourself  short.       i  wholeheartedly  believe  anyone  in  your  position  would  have  turned       BITTER       forever.          ❞       Jim  is  sure  that  if  it  were  him,       he  would  be  dead  by  now.

❝          turning  to  anger  is  one  of  the  most  tempting  human  vices.       you  could  have  given  in       ;       you  didn’t.          ❞      

if  anyone  understands  the  frustration  of  feeling  like  he  will  never  be  able  to  make  up  for  his  mistakes,       it  would  be  Jim.       while  it’s  true  that  captain  Pike  will  have  a  special  place  in  his  heart,       he’s  not  the  only  person  he’s  lost.      

his  crew  suffered  losses  before       &       he,       to  this  day,       thinks  the  burden  is       HIS       to  carry.       all  he  can  do  is  go  forward  to  honor  them.       all  Khan  does  is  honor  his  promise  to  the  captain  of  the  Enterprise       &       hope  for  a  semblance  of  peace.      

❝          i  know  history  tends  to  talk  about  a  starship’s  captain  more  than  its  crew.       i  feel  that  Enterprise  will  be  an  exception.       it  will  speak  of  its  officers,       too.          ❞       Jim  loves  the  spotlight.       but  without  his  crew,       how  far  could  he  have  possibly  gone       ?      

❝          they  will  say  ‘hey,       remember  that  man  who  ruled  the  world  then  decided  to  serve  it       ?’.       ‘he  turned  his  life  around,       maybe  we  should  have  more  hope’.       ‘what  about  that  Khan  guy       ?       he  was  as  smart  as  Mr.  Spock’.       i  can  already  hear  it.          ❞       his  laughter  is  barely  audible.      

❝          CAN  YOU       ?          ❞       he  adds  with  a  serious  voice,       his  Khan  voice  —  or  his  futile  attempt  at  sounding  like  him.       ❝          sorry  i’m  not  trying  to  make  fun  of  you.       turning  questions  around  is  one  of  your  little  quirks  i  find  amusing.          ❞  

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Lost FLowers (Lucifer x Human!Reader)

CW: Sex pollen, compromised consent, smut, oral sex, fingering Rating: Adult Summary: Imps doing whatever the fuck they did dropped a sex flower in the human world and it's Lucifer's problem as the king of Hell to find it. When he finds it, picked up by you, he has a obligation to help you ride out the effects.

You walked through the streets, kicking rocks down the sidewalk. Anger seethed under your skin, making you feel like an ass. You were not mad at him. It wasn’t his fault he stood you up on your date. He couldn’t help getting murdered. 

Or maybe he could.

You didn’t know; it was too early to know for sure. 

All you knew was once again, the universe fucked you over. It had been months since your last date and you were excited. Fuck, you spent money to have your hair done up nice. You got your nails done, spending more money.

Just one night, that’s all you wanted. One night out on the town with someone to make you feel pretty, even for a little while. It had been so long. 

Just some affection, some flirting. Was that too much to ask? 

Clearly. 

“Fucking bullshit,” you snapped under your breath, kicking the rock down the sidewalk again. At least home wasn’t terribly far away. “I even shaved everything.” 

It was silly. Not only had you shaved everything you could, you spent money on a cute white and gold bra and panties set on the off chance that your multi month long dry spell would come to an end. 

“So much for that,” you continued, turning the corner. Home was just a block away. So close and yet so far away. 

On the ground, nearly crushed by your stomping heels, was a strange purple flower. Reaching down, you plucked it up, wrapping your fingers around the dark green steam. The petals were a shade of purple you’d only seen in fiction. It didn’t smell particularly strong when you brought it to your nose, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

“Well, at least the sidewalk can give me a flower today,” you sighed, tucking the unique bloom behind your ear as you marched home. 

Lucifer stomped his black boots as he pinched the bridge of his slight nose. “I can’t believe you dropped a sex flower in the living world.” 

“Look,” the small red imp had no right to be as sassy as he was being. “It’s one flower. I was on a time crunch. The fuck you want from me?”

“I want you to not be making my life harder with whatever it is you do.” 

“We’re assassins, Your Majesty.” Lucifer’s eyes only glanced at the other imp. 

“I don’t care,” he said while making a mental note to figure out why the fuck there were hell assassins coming to the human world.

“It wasn’t a fresh one,” the imp said again, waving his hand as if to brush the issue away. “There wasn’t enough pollen on it to kill a human. Whoever picked it up will be fine.” 

“They’ll be out of their mind with lust,” Lucifer corrected, shoulders sagging. “Fine. Fine. Get out of here. Don’t make your business my problem again or I will fuck you.” He paused for a moment before more words rushed out of his mouth. “I’ll fuck you up.” 

“Right, Your Majesty.” The imps all bowed, leaving him with the task of finding the flower while they ran off, tails between their legs. 

“‘Make imps!’ she said,” Lucifer grumbled to himself as he walked, trying to catch a hint of the magic he used to create everything in hell. It would feel different from the lingering traces of what he had expelled in the earth’s creation and all upon it. Then he was working with a pure divine power. After his fall, the threads of his magic felt different. They were tainted. 

“‘They’ll be fun!’ she said. Now where the fuck is she?” Lucifer was well onto a rant as he walked down the sidewalks. 

“Nice suit!” someone yelled from a passing car. 

Perking up, Lucifer smiled and turned, “Thank-” 

“Loser!” the voice added, the truck speeding away as Lucifer’s smile fell.

“Figures.” He kicked a rock as he made his way down the sidewalk, mentally reaching out for a sense of what was his. “That’s why you all end up down there, with me. Who’s fault is it, anyway? Hey, hey, hey! It’s mine.” 

You looked at the flower sitting in the medicine bottle turned tiny vase. It was dumb; you knew that. It was the only flower anyone had given you in over a year and it came from the streets. 

“Just like me,” you whispered. “Fuck, I’m losing it.” 

You flopped back on the bed, trying to put your wasted night out of your mind. It wasn’t fair. Loneliness clawed at you. 

Maybe you should get up, go out and get a few drinks. Someone would pay attention to you for a little while. Maybe someone would kiss you. Fuck, maybe someone would touch you. 

You rubbed your thighs together, skirt bunching as you laid back. You didn’t want some random man to spend some time fucking you. It would probably be unsatisfying. Deep down though, you knew Buzzy the vibrator or Cocky the dildo couldn’t scratch this lonely itch.

Your hand ran up your thigh as you gave in, pushing your skirt higher and higher. 

Lucifer paced on the landing between the apartment doors. He knew he needed to knock, go in and get the flower before it could cause too much trouble. If the imps- what the fuck was their names? He needed to remember so he could put them out of business or bury them in rubber ducks. 

If they were right, maybe the flower would hold no power. Maybe it wouldn’t be able to influence the living. 

“Ah, who the fuck am I kidding?” Lucifer pulled the hat from his head, running his hand through his hair as he looked at the door. “It’s going to have some pollen on it still.” 

He reached up and rapped his knuckles against the dented metal door. Hopefully, no one would be inside. If whoever had found the flower left, he could just let himself inside and take it. He waited before knocking again. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You ripped your hand from under your skirt as someone knocked on your door again. Fucking again. Was it not obvious enough that you didn’t want to be bothered when you didn’t answer the first fucking time?

Stomping over to the door, you threw open the door, “What the fuck do you want?” 

You blinked at the man, hardly taller than you wearing a rather comical white suit that looked to be more at place in a circus than on the city streets.

“Well,” the man chuckled lightly. “You have a purple flower in there. I- a friend of mine actually dropped it.”

“You’re here for a shitty flower?” You looked to the side, eyeing the make shift vase with the weird flower inside. “How do you know I have it?” 

“I do,” Lucifer smiled, “Don’t lie to me, I’m the first lier.” 

Saying the words stung. He hadn’t intended to corrupt the truth. He hadn’t lied to anyone, as far as he intended, yet that was one of the many crimes he had been accused of. 

Fine, they wanted to brand him a lier- he would embrace it. He embraced everything they charged him with. At least, that’s what he told himself. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You looked at the unnaturally pale man, his eyes looking yellow, jaundiced, felt unnatural. The high flush on his face stood in contrast to the near paper white of his skin. 

There was something wrong about the man standing in your doorway and yet you couldn’t stop your eyes from running over his body. You needed to get laid, you realized, as your eyes greedily took in the way his comically striped vest spread over his chest. 

“You have something that doesn’t belong here,” he said, stepping forward. Though he lacked anything resembling impressive height, his presence was powerful and you stepped back. “It’ll be better for you if we get rid of it.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” you asked as he crossed the threshold into your apartment. The door swung closed behind him, though he didn’t move a muscle to touch it. “What are you?”

“It’s a sex flower,” Lucifer answered, walking directly to the little purple flower. “I made them for my wife… ex-wife, I guess.”

“Sex flower?” You rubbed your thighs together under your skirt, sure you had lost your mind. 

“Yep,” He popped the p as he twitched his hand, fire sparking in the flower and spreading, quickly turning the bloom into ash. “My wife,” he sighed, “Ex-wife wanted something to spice things up.”

“What are you?” You asked again.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, turning to you. “The flower has some rather unique effects- works as an aphrodisiac but amped up through the roof. Hellborn tolerances are much higher than humans.”

“I’m sorry- what the fuck is going on?” 

“You’re horny,” Lucifer observed, eyeing the way you rubbed your thighs together. “That- that was rude, I’m sorry. The flower will influence you for the next eight to twelve hours. You should… you should call your boyfriend to ride it out with you.”

“I don’t have one,” you screamed at him, face ablaze.

“Oh!” He looked at you with wide eyes. “Girlfriend works too. You just need a partner- someone, not something.” 

“I don’t-” you realized he still hadn’t said who he was. Fear and arousal ran through you as you reached out, smacking the comical top hat off the man’s head. “You haven’t told me who the fuck you are.” 

“Was that- that was childish.” 

“So is not answering my question or calling someone horny,” you countered. 

“But you are,” He sighed, running his hand through his bright blond hair. “But you’re right. I’m sorry. My name is Lucifer.”

“Lucifer? Like the devil?” 

“The one, the only.” He said as if it was nothing. To him, it was no big deal. It was just who he was. 

“Lucifer, the devil.” You blinked. “Let me get this straight. I found Lucifer’s lost sex flower while walking home from getting stood up for a blind date I hoped would end my massive dry spell. Not really stood up- he got murdered on his way- and now the flower is going to make me horny as fuck and I’m doomed to suffer unless I have someone to fuck it out with?” 

“Well,” Lucifer started, surprised only to have you cut him off. 

“You’re serious?” You laughed, running your hands through your hair as you stepped away, turning your back to him only to round and face him again. “This is a fucked up dream.”

“You… you should call someone.” Lucifer watched as he questioned if your sanity could hold up to the information. 

“I don’t have someone to call,” you snapped. “If I did, I wouldn’t be in a six-month dry spell!” 

“Well, ah- have fun with that.” Lucifer picked up his at and stepped back.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

“Hell?” Lucifer answered, looking at you with an eyebrow raised.

“I’m horny,” you said, unashamed and deciding it was a dream. “And your stupid flower caused it. Shouldn’t you do something about it? You’re the fucking devil. Tempt me or something. You convinced Eve to eat the appl, for fuck’s sake.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” Lucifer set his hat down, stepping up to you. “Sit down and let me show you how I tempted her.” 

You did, everything feeling too real when he ran his forked tongue from between his lips. Lucifer watched as you sat stone still. He leaned forward, running his nearly nonexistent nose along your neck. 

“You do smell lovely,” he whispered, hands reaching out to touch you for the first time. 

You hadn’t been prepared for the way your body reacted to his touch. It was feather light and yet it had you sighing. Though he hardly touched you, it set your nerves alight. His hands reached up, resting on your shoulders and pulling a moan from your lips.

“What are you doing to me?” 

“Nothing,” he sighed, “It’s the flower.” 

The sound of the zipper gliding down your back was impossibly loud. Shudders racked through your body as his hands slipped under your dress, pushing the back open and guiding it to fall from your shoulders. 

“This… this isn’t a dream, is it?” Your voice came out breathy as he pulled you to stand slightly, letting the dress pool around your ankles before sitting you down again as he sank down to his knees. 

Looking up at you, you realized his eyes were red, “No, dear. No dreams.” His eyes left yours, roaming over your curves, white silk and red accents hugging your curves. It was as if you dressed just for him. 

“Are you going to kill me?” you trembled as you watched his eyes settle on your panties, sharp tipped black gloves running up your thighs. No, those were not gloves. It was his hands. “Are you going to take my soul? Take me to hell?” 

“No,” he laughed softly, “I’d like nothing more for you to never join the ranks of hell.” 

Fingers wrapped around the band of your underwear and guided them down your hips. Shamefully, you realized you were wet. Not a little wet, but body ready to slip over a cock without hesitation or resistance wet. 

“Red and white are my favorite colors,” Lucifer said as his eyes ran over you greedily. “You have a lovely apple. Nice and ready for me to take a bite.” 

There was no chance for you to second guess what you were doing or to back down, not that you could anyway. Need and desire ran through you as the flower’s influence took root. You had been sexually frustrated before but now there was no going back. 

“Are you, are you going to fuck me?” Terror and arousal were both thick in your voice. 

Lucifer pushed your thighs apart, forked tongue once again running over his lips as he glanced up at you one last time. “I’ll take care of you like this, give you some relief. You should be okay, then.” 

Long, thin tongue ran from his mouth, slithering up your soaked folds as you gasped loudly. Each pass of his tongue ended with a flick against your clit. He moaned as he leaned forward, focusing more intently on his work. The pointed tongue caught in your opening, slipping inside of you. 

It twisted, turned and caressed your walls as his face nudged your clit, pushing you closer and closer. Each touch felt like fire. Your chest rose and fell, breasts held perfectly in place by your new bra as he looked up at you with those dangerous, beautiful eyes. 

He let his tongue slip from your opening again, shifting on his knees. He wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking and nibbling on it. Your back arched as you moaned. 

Lucifer moaned with you, the taste of you coating his tongue. It had been years since he had tasted anyone. He forgot how good it had felt to give pleasure. It made him feel good to know he caused your thighs trembling under his touch, not from fear but from how good he was at what he did. 

He loved pleasure. He prided himself on his ability to give it.

It had been too long. 

“You taste divine,” Lucifer moaned into your folds as he ran a palm up your thigh. Your body jumped as he pressed a finger into your tight opening. Your walls twitched and tensed around him, so ready to send you over the edge. All you needed was a push. 

“Oh fuck,” you moaned as he added a second finger. Sweat rolled down your back as he worked the long digits in and out of your tense walls. “I’m so close.” 

He hummed in response, hips rocking on instinct against nothing, seeking friction. “Come on, angel,” Lucifer whispered, licking his lips as he took a moment to adjust his jaw. “You’ll sing for me, won’t you?” 

A second finger pushed into you as your body tightened around him. He matched each curl of his fingers with a harsh suck on your clit that had your hips bucking. A surprisingly strong hand pushed your hip down, pressure on your inner thigh. As his fingers pulled out from you, he ran his tongue over your clit just to suck hard on it again, fingers pushing and curling inside. 

“Fuck,” you cried out as he worked his fingers into and out of you, wet squelching highlighting the pace his fingers fucked into you with. It had been so long since anyone had touched you. 

“Fuck,” you said again, body wound tight. It had been so long since you had anyone had been inside you. “Oh, fuck. Please,” you begged. “Please, please.”

 Shudders ripped through your body as your orgasm crashed into you. Fingers reached down, tangled in the devil’s hair. You gripped him as you rode out your orgasm. He moaned as your grip pulled strands taught. 

“Better?” Lucifer asked as he pulled his slick face from your twitch cunt. 

“Worse,” you answered, realizing you were pulling the devil’s hair. “Sorry,” you let your grip go slack.

“Don’t need to be,” Lucifer said as he leaned forward, placing a soft kiss on your sensitive clit. “I’ll head out now,” 

“No,” you whined, leaning forward until you slipped off the couch. Arms wrapped around him as your knees landed between his. 

“Oh,” Lucifer held his hands out as you pressed your nearly naked body to his. The warmth of you soaked into his clothes. The soft mounds of your breasts, still held ever so nicely in position by the white and red bra pressed into his chest and hell, he forgot how good it felt to be held. 

“Please,” you whispered into the ear of the devil, tempting the tempter. “I feel like… like I haven’t been touched in a lifetime. I need you,” 

“S-sit back on the couch,” Lucifer’s hands hovered over your sides, a groan fighting its way out of his throat as you rubbed your thigh against the hardness he had been ignoring in his pants. “I’ll keep going. I’ll give you another.”

“No,” you looked at him with tears in your eyes. “It’s not enough.” 

“What?” He swallowed hard. “What do you need?”

He knew, of course. He had attended plenty of parties featuring the flowers, hosted by his own wife. Ex-wife. He knew how they worked, what it took to scratch the itch the flowers birthed. Orgasms would help, but it wouldn’t be enough, really, to buy you more than a few moments of peace. 

“Please, I need you,” you said, hands running up his chest and over his shoulders, slowly pushing his jacket from his sounders. “It’s been so long.”

“Has it?” Lucifer asked as he indulged in the feeling of your hands running over his arms. 

“Over six months,” you cooed, hands moving to run over his chest. “Please, I can’t stand it. I want more. I need more.” 

“Are you sure?” Lucifer asked, knowing full and well that you could not be sure, even if you thought you were. The power of the pollen clouded your mind, influenced what you wanted. He knew that, but he also knew how much he missed being wanted, the feeling of hands running over his body. “I’m the devil.”

“Who better?” you purred, hand moving down his abdomen. He groaned as your hand wrapped around his cock, caressing him through his pants. “Who better than the devil to break my dry spell?” 

“You want me?” Lucifer asked, face ever so close to yours. You could feel his breath, smell yourself on him. 

“I want you, Lucifer.” 

Lucifer was never a strong man. His heart and mind were weak, fickle things. That’s why he fell, ultimatum. He was too weak to resist the temptation of humanity. In turn, he tempted them. 

He wrapped his arms around you and stood, taking you with him. Once you were on your feet in front of him, he reached down and hooked his hands behind your knees. You jumped, trusting him to hold you. Legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pressing your naked, soaked core against his abdomen. 

He carried you through the small apartment, not needing directions to identify the one closed door that led to your bedroom. While he walked, you ground yourself against his body, seeking any stimulation against your sensitive core you could get. Trembling fingers worked at the buttons of his vest and shirt. 

He groaned as your fingers slipped under his shirt. Warm touches smoothed over firm muscles as he set you down on the bed. Hands left you as he pulled his vest and shirt up and off, throwing it to the side. 

He had hidden strong, lean muscles under the clothes. He was the devil. You should have expected that he would be well built. The suit, though it clung to his frame, obscured it. 

“Please,” you were whimpering now, watching as he worked his belt free.

A cock too long or thick for the size of the man it belonged to sprang free, slapping his stomach. Shamelessly, needily, your eyes ran over the vast amounts of exposed flesh. It was like you were looking at a marble statue.

“You okay?” he asked, sitting next to you on the bed. 

“Why don’t you look very devilish?” 

He could almost believe you were functioning without the influence of the flower, if not for the way you ran your hand over him. Need burned in your eyes as you explored his chest and shoulders. 

“Have to tone it down,” Lucifer sighed into the touch, gathering you into his lap only for you to straddle him eagerly. Wet heat soaked his cock as you ground yourself against him. 

“How?” 

“Magic,” he could feel his face flush golden.

“Wanna see it,” you whined, “Wanna see you before you go.” 

“We’ll see,” Lucifer said as you rose up, sliding his thick cock into your opening with ease. “Oh, hell,” he moaned, head falling back.

Leaning forward, you kissed his neck. Was it too much? Too forward? Too soft to do with the devil? You didn’t care. Your body needed what it needed. Using his shoulders as leverage, you worked yourself up and down his shaft, moaning at the stretch. 

“I’m not that great,” you laughed, only to have the sound die in a squeak. He threw you down, rolling his body with yours into a missionary position. 

Another deep moan left him as he thrust into you, pulling your hips to him. “You’re perfect,” he said. “You all are,” he thrust into you slowly again and again, cock dragging against sensitive walls, “so perfectly imperfect. That’s why I fell.” 

“Lucifer,” you moaned his name as he worked your body softly.

Fanged kisses dotted your neck as you clung to him. Your need for him only grew as he pushed you closer to your finish with each soft, steady thrust into you. His small nose nuzzled the soft skin under your ear as he kissed along your jaw. 

“Please,” you moaned, turning to him, lips begging for the kiss you were so scared to ask for. 

He indulged you, lips slanting over yours in a kiss that, while starting sweet, quickly turned passionate. His thin, forked tongue worked into your mouth, allowing him to swallow your soft moans as he pushed inside your warm walls again and again. 

“You feel so good,” Lucifer whispered as he ran his hands over you, cupping the soft swell of your breast through the silky bra. “So good, wrapped around me.” 

“Lucifer,” you moaned, body craving his touch, needing his kiss. “Please, Lucifer.” 

“You’re close,” his honey voice dropped nearly directly into your ear, “I can feel you tight you are. Every twitch of your muscles. Every wave of pleasure through your core.”

“Fuck, Luc-lucifer!” You cried out as he pushed you over the edge, diving into the rhythmic waves of your orgasm. Each contraction of your walls rippled around his cock, continuing to push into you as he prolonged your orgasm.

Only when your core stilled did Lucifer’s thrusts slow. Panting breaths ripped through your lungs as he kissed the collum of your neck. Just as he was starting to think you had been satisfied, you began to whine and rut against the cock still buried in you. 

“Better?” Lucifer asked, somewhat surprised to find your body seeking more from him. 

“More,” you looked at him with tears in your eyes. “Harder? More? It’s not enough.”

“Harder?” Lucifer asked, pulling back from you.

“Please,” you chased him, wanting his touch. It felt like you needed his touch to survive. Nothing he was giving you was enough. “I’m burning up. I need more. I need, fuck I need you.” 

“But you want it harder?” Lucifer kissed you softly as you chased his body.

“I want the devil to fuck me,” you spoke into the kiss. “Show me what you can do.” 

Lucifer chuckled, “Alright then- on your hands and knees, little dove.” 

You trembled in want and fear as you rolled over onto your stomach. Lucifer stood at the foot of the bed, watching as you moved. Slick ran down your thighs, evidence of your orgasm and the impacts of the flower’s pollen in your system. He didn’t want to hurt you, but it felt so good to be inside you. 

The bed jerked as Lucifer pulled it easily away from the wall. The feet scraped against the carpet as you squealed, looking back over your shoulder at him. He moved the heavy bad frame as if it was nothing. For him, it was nothing. The man you were desperate for the cock of was far from human. 

“What are you doing?” you whined, hips rocking side to side as you leaned forward, presenting your puffy folds to him. The slick poured from your opening. You could feel it running over your sensitive folds as gravity pulled it down your body. “Please, Lucifer. I want you. I need you back inside me.” 

“I thought your neighbors wouldn’t like the sound of the headboard banging the wall,” he said. 

“It burns,” you whimpered, hand reaching down to run along your soaked folds. 

The sight of your fingers entranced Lucifer. They glided over your clit, sinking deep into your fluttering opening. A breathy moan fell from your lips as you looked at him over your shoulder. “I want you. Fuck, I need you. Please, Lucifer. It hurts. I ache so bad. I need you back inside me.” 

“Fuck,” Lucifer groaned as he climbed into the bed, black hands running up your thighs. “I’m so sorry, Dove. You’re like this because of me. It’s my fault. I should have had better control over the imps. That flower should never have come here.” 

“Please,” you whimpered, “I need you.” A sob racked through your body, born of need, desire, and shame. “Fuck, I’m begging the devil for his cock. I’m going to hell for this, aren’t I?” 

“I don’t know.” Your skin was so soft under his hands. Warm palms ran up your back, smoothing skin and unclasping your bra with practiced hands. “I don’t make the rules. I fell before they were in place. Are you sure you want this? I can stay like this instead.”

“Please,” tears ran down your face, fire swallowing you alive. Slick squelching sounds never stopped as your fingers worked in and out of you. “Please, I want the devil.” 

“Don’t worry,” Lucifer purred, lineing his cock up with your opening. Your wet fingers reached out from between your legs, leaving the warm wet heat of your core to wrap around his shaft. It was a battle to reach, arm stretching to pump his shaft, still coated in your slick. “I’ll fuck you.” 

His voice was deeper, power radiating off each word. You watched as the flush on his cheeks deepened, skin growing whiter. The yellow of his eyes deepened and the rusty brown of his eyes changed, becoming a bright vermillion. 

Fear ran through you, eyes locked on him. The blunt head of his cock pushed into your waiting walls, parting them as you watched him change with wide eyes. Teeth grew pointed while a black spade tipped whip extended out from behind him. 

“Oh fuck,” you leaned down as he bottomed out, bra crushing under your chests. 

“If it gets to be too much,” Lucifer leaned down, whip-like tail wrapping around your thigh as he spoke directly into your ear, “Just say ducky.” 

“What?” You yelped as the spade tip of his tail smacked your ass. “Fuck, okay. Just fuck me, please.”

“Good girl,” he said, straightening up.

For a moment he was frozen, looking at the delicate human woman speared on his cock. Soft and wanting. Would you want him if not for the flower? Would you let him touch you if you had anyone else?

“Please,” you begged, and his tail tightened around your thigh. “Fuck me,” 

He smiled, a sharp, cutting look before pulling back from you. His cock dragged through your slick walls, slick coating his shaft in shiny ropes. The thrust that followed was hard, forcing your body to bounce as his hips connected with your ass. 

Each harsh thrust pushed you forward, hips kept up by the bruising grip of his hands. You moaned, eyes looking at him over your shoulder as you rested your head on the bed. The devil was fucking you, spreading you over his thick cock again and again, and it felt so good.

There was a thrill in the danger of it. The sin of submitting to the king of temptation. He filled you perfectly, stretching you around his girth as his tip pressed into your cervix again and again, just enough pressure to tell you he was there. 

“Oh,” you gasped as his balls slapped your clit, each thrust punctuating with it as he rammed his cock into you with a bruising pace. The tail wrapped around your leg caressed you, squeezing and releasing in time with each thrust. 

“Fuck,” you cried out, pushed closer and closer to your orgasm until his powerful thrusts shoved you off it. “Fuck, fuck. Oh, Lucifer, Fuck!” 

“That’s it,” Lucifer groaned, walls convulsing around his cock as he continued to fuck into you. He leaned over you, running his hands up your side as he wrapped his tail around your waist. Your breasts were hot in his hands as he indulged in their soft weight, pulling you up off the bed by them. 

Your orgasm wracked through you, shudders running down your spine and up your legs as he pulled you onto your knees, shoulders against his chest. Each thrust into your quivering walls had you moaning. 

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Lucifer whispered in your ear as your orgasm subsided. 

He continued to thrust into you, pace turning soft as you gasped for air. While he ran his hands over your front, twirling his fingers over your nipples and taking in the way your breasts moved with each thrust into you, his tail ran down your waist, spade finding your clit.

“How are you feeling?” Lucifer whispered into your ear, hips continuing to push into you at a lazy pace. Your slick dripped from his heavy balls, running down his thighs. 

“Good,” you whispered, head turning to look into the inhuman eyes of your lover. “So good.” 

Taking a chance, you leaned forward, slotting your lips over his. The kiss was sweet and thankful, catching Lucifer off guard. There was a rustling sound, drawing your eyes open again to witness a sea of feathers falling within your room.

“Sorry,” Lucifer whispered sheepishly as your lips left his. 

“You have wings?” You were in your post orgasm haze, a sea of fuzzy satisfaction that your brain floated on, lost in the Devil’s arms as his tail caressed your clit. Each soft pass of the smooth spade had your hips jerking, oversensitive. Pebbled nipples sent shocks of pleasure through your body. “With feathers?”

Lucifer smiled, plucking one from the bedsheet. When he crossed into the human world, he always shed more feathers. It was annoying, a mess, and yet you looked at them with wonder. Perhaps it was the flower. Perhaps it was the cock still wedged inside you. 

He wanted to believe it was just because he was him. 

“I do.” He ran the soft tip of the feather in his hand down your chest, teasing your nipple with it as you shivered in his arms. “I didn’t lose my wings when I fell. I’m the devil but still an angel.” 

“Oh,” you gasped, arching into his back as the feathers teased. 

“Are you done?” He asked, cock twitching inside you. 

He had no business continuing to touch you. Every caress just encouraged the flower’s influence rather than giving it a chance to fade. It was wrong, but he didn’t want you to be done yet. He wanted to finish inside you, with you, and not spill into his fist yet again. It felt good to be with another. 

“More.” you rutted your ass against him, begging with your body and your words. “I want more,” 

“Do you need more?” Lucifer asked, feather running over the bud of your nipple. 

“I want it,” you whimpered. “I want you.” 

“Want?” Lucifer teased, “Not need?” 

“Please,” you whimpered. In truth, you were not sure where want began and need ended. It didn’t feel like you’d burn up without his touch, but you were not ready to be without it yet either. “Please, don’t leave me yet. I want more, please.” 

“You want me,” Lucifer moaned, pulling from your gripping heat as he turned you in his arms. “You want me?” 

“Please,” you wrapped your arms around him, fingers caressing down his feathers as you pressed your body against him. His cock, soaked in your slick, pressed between your bodies. He rocked his hips, thrusting between you as he kissed you hungerly. 

Lucifer grabbed your thigh, lifting it around his waist. His tail slapped against your ass, the sound loud and sharp as he sank back into your wet heat. Sharp teeth scratched your tongue as it danced with the devil’s. Your breasts pressed into his strong chest. 

“So full,” you sighed as he fluttered his six wings forward, feathers caressing against your skin as he laid you back down. 

Fingers dug into your thigh as he pulled it up, higher and higher until he was hugging it to his chest. There was a beat of silence as he looked down at you. Eyes ran over your face, slack and flushed with the fire of pleasure. Breasts moved as you gasped for air, nipples standing out, begging him to run his tongue over them. 

You watched, the fire of the flower still burning through you as his eyes ran down your body, focusing in on where his cock was lodged into your cunt, spreading you wide.

“Please,” you begged, “Fuck me.” 

“You’re so greedy,” Lucifer teased, hips beginning to once again piston into you. Your back arched as his cock pressed against every sensitive tissue of your core, pushing against your stomach.

“Harder,” you moaned as he worked his cock in and out of you. He pulled your hips to him, each thrust brutal as your leg curled around his waist. The thin whip of his tail wrapped around your calf, holding it against the small of his back. “Please, harder.” 

There was a flash of fire as his eyes changed, black and yellow inverting. A loud moan ripped from your chest, nothing more than a pathetic mockery of a scream as tall red and white horns extended from his head. 

A simple small flame stood out between the points. He was terrifying and yet; you reached out for him. Fingers wrapped around his forearm, wanting to him as your body jerked with each powerful thrust. 

“Are you scared?” Lucifer asked, leaning down over you as he folded your leg, bringing it closer to your chest. “Fearful of the devil?”

“No,” you answered honestly, though you should have been. “More.” 

He fucked into you harshly, each powerful thrust driving the bed closer to the wall. Your hips ached. Your ass stung where his body slammed into yours again and again. He nipped and kissed your nipple, hips pushing you deeper and deeper into the mattress. 

“I’m so close,” you whimpered, fingers carding through his hair without care of the horns that brushed the side of your face. “Please, Lucifer, please.” 

“You’re so tight around me,” he moaned as your walls fluttered, a telltale sign that you were as close as you claimed. “Fuck, angel, you’re going to make me cum.” 

“Harder,” you begged, limbs tightening around him. 

“Just for you,” he whispered, strong hands flexing, fingers digging into flesh as he fucked you hard and fast, moaning curses each time his balls slapped against you. The pointed tip of his tail caressed your slick covered clit. 

“Fuck,” you moaned, nails digging into white marble skin as your body ripped apart at the seams, convulsions undoing everything you were, “Fuck, fuck! Lucifer! Fuck!” 

“I’m going to,” he moaned as fingers dug into his hair, pulling at his scalp with the force of your muscle spasms. He fucked into you, the pace harsh and wild as he drove himself closer and closer to his own finish. “Fuck, angel, let go or-” 

“Lucifer,” you moaned, limbs gripping him, breasts presented to him as your back arched. “Fuck, Lucifer! Fuck, Fuck! Don’t stop! Don’t fucking stop!” 

“I’m going to-” He moaned, head burying in the crook of your neck. 

“Don’t stop,” you moaned, his name a prayer on your lips as his punishing pace kept you on the tail edge of your orgasm, unsure if it was one long one or many hitting back to back. 

“Fuck,” Lucifer tried to rip himself from the tangle of your limbs, only to lift your back from the bed, body unwilling to part from him. “Going to-” he gasped out as wave after wave of convulsions gripped his cock, “I’m cuming, dove.” 

He slammed into you, wild and reckless. His cock exploded into you as the headboard slammed against the wall. Hot ropes painted your walls white as his cock swelled and twitched, depositing everything he had as he fucked his seed deeper and deeper. 

Only when he had nothing left to leave inside you did he still, panting as he looked down at you. Your limbs grew slack and fell from him. Dazed eyes gazed up at the devil. 

“Fuck,” you gasped, trying to shove air into your lungs. “I can’t take anymore.” 

“Good,” Lucifer said, smoothing some hair back from your face. “You’ll be able to rest now. When you wake, you’ll be back to normal. Won’t remember a thing.” 

“I want to though,” you whispered, body relaxing. 

Lucifer only chuckled. No human would want to remember being bed by the devil. “I’ll get you water,” he said instead of arguing. 

When he returned to the room, you were already asleep. Anxiety clawed at him, pushed deep down as he focused on what was in front of him. You lay, thighs spread with his seed leaking from your opening. Bruises dotted your skin and feathers were everywhere. 

The devil scooped you up into his arms, carrying you to the head of the bed. He used his tail to pull down the blanket, giving him room to set you down. Carefully, he covered your naked body. 

You slept peacefully, body spent as the devil moved around your room. Water was placed on your nightstand and feathers cleaned up. Lucifer took a moment, eyeing the medicine bottle that had housed the cursed flower and the feathers in his hand. 

He pointed at the bottle and it changed into a red and white vase, classical lines accented with gold. Inside, he tucked in the nicest of his shed feathers. It wasn’t flowers, but it was a token at least. 

Looking back at you, he knew he should wipe your memory. Humans didn’t need to know of the divine. You didn’t need to remember you had taken the devil himself into your bed. 

He needed to, but… the way your hands felt on him, the taste of your kiss made him want to believe in the way those touches felt.

“Good night, little dove.” 

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers including the first page of the next chapter of MisD a day early!!

[tiredeg]

People everywhere sense imminent danger all around. They sense that whatever just happened is the beginning of the savagery, not the end. People abandon their vehicles and begin to flee on foot. They exit buildings, run down stairs and out doors. People in subway trains and on busses, in halted elevator cars, work to pry open emergency exits and doors. They crawl, walk, and run for their lives. The most basic human instinct is to survive.—Annie Jacobsen, Nuclear War: A Scenario

They’re going to die, probably.  

“It was stupid of us to take the elevator,” Oscar says. 

Carlos manages an eye roll back at him. Oscar’s surprised the motion of his eyeballs doesn’t unbalance him, perched as he is on the railing around the edge of the elevator car, calves straining, reaching his phone up towards the emergency lighting strips. As high as possible, as if he can will the texts out of his phone, force the words out of the frozen elevator, up the shaft and out into the sky, send them floating through the air towards the recipients, soaring past the bombs coming the opposite way. 

Oscar’s no expert but he knows enough Spanish to be able to decipher the glimpses he’s managed of the screen. I will be ok. I love you all. Incongruous against the previous message in the thread, a picture of a scrappy white dog asleep on a couch. Oscar had watched Carlos add a heart react to it not two hours ago when they got back to the hotel after FP2. 

God, two hours ago. One hour and fifty minutes before someone told them to check their phones, before the awful silence as they watched the video. A farmer somewhere in California had put it on Facebook, a mushroom cloud blooming over a power plant. It was shared everywhere, Oscar had watched it with Kim, hunched over Twitter, or X, or whatever. The farmer is probably dead now. Facebook certainly is, anyway.

The bomb hit hundreds of miles away from their hotels in Vegas. Not far enough.

Finally, Carlos hops down, collapsing beside Oscar on the floor of the cab. The wall opposite them is a mirror, floor to ceiling, so Oscar doesn’t have to turn his head. It’s easier this way. 

“I think they have gone through,” Carlos blurts out, like he’d wanted to keep quiet but the words forced their way up his throat. “It has the two grey ticks. I think that means it's gone from my phone but I will not get blue ticks without signal.” 

It takes Oscar a second to catch his drift. There’s no way the messages went through. The signal’s been gone for a few minutes, Oscar reckons, about the same time the elevator stopped. Carlos isn’t an idiot, he must know. Oscar knows. 

“I think that’s right,” Oscar says. “They’ll have signal in Spain still, so they’ll have got it.” 

He feels Carlos sag a little at his words. They’re touching from shoulder to knee, something they wouldn’t have risked this morning. Doesn’t matter now. Probably shouldn’t have mattered at the time. 

“How would you go, if you could choose?” Carlos asks.  

Oscar shrugs. “Dunno, never really thought about it.” 

“Don’t be boring, think about it now.” Carlos shoves into him, puts his body weight behind it, but Oscar’s expecting it, can see him decide in the mirror. He braces himself, doesn’t move. Now they’re tangled. Now he can think. 

“I guess I read this book in school. It was nuclear stuff but not bombs, just radiation, so it was really slow. This one girl took her boyfriend’s good car out for one last drive, then floored it off a cliff in the end. I think I’d like that.” 

Carlos doesn’t say anything, just leans his head onto Oscar’s shoulder proper. If they stay like this too long Oscar won’t be able to feel his arm. Maybe that’s how he’d like to go, let Carlos lean on him limb by limb until he can’t feel anything anymore.  

“He was with her? The boyfriend?” Carlos mumbles. 

“Huh?” 

“In the nice car. Was she with her boyfriend?” 

“Oh, well not exactly, he was in a submarine I think, I don’t remember it all. They might not have been boyfriend and girlfriend actually, or maybe they were, I don’t know. They definitely loved each other.” 

“Oh,” Carlos says, “that’s nice.” 

“Yeah. What about you, what way would you go?” 

Oscar watches in the mirror as Carlos looks up at him.  

“I had a different answer but I like yours better, I think.” 

“Copycat. I suppose you can come along.” Oscar shifts, rearranging Carlos’s arms around him. 

“Who would drive?” Carlos asks. 

Oscar wants to be the one who wants to drive. He could take that role, let Carlos hold on as their imaginary car gets closer to the point of no return, make the decision to keep the car pointing forward, his foot to the floor. He could take the wheel, if he had to. 

In the mirror he can see Carlos is still looking at him. He meets his own eyes in the reflection, then lets his head turn, lets himself look for real. 

“I don’t want to drive,” Oscar whispers.

“Okay,” Carlos shrugs, easy. “I’ll do it.” 

The emergency strips go dark. Oscar doesn’t know what that means, why they worked when the power went out or why they’ve stopped now. He’s annoyed at how he expects his eyes to adjust, blinking hard when they don’t as if he can force the nonexistent light into his pupils.  

He can still feel. He’s shaking, he thinks. Carlos’s arms tighten around him, unsteady too. Oscar revises his previous answer, overwhelmingly glad of the elevator; they can’t get lost in here, it’s too small. He doesn’t really know the timeline on these things, maybe it’ll take a day, maybe a few seconds. They’re here for now.