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linddzz · 1 month ago

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I am slamming that validation button like a rodent wanting more sugar water so here's more mostly rough draft Jayvik.

A continuation of the nicknames fic. More science dorks being dorks, this time greatly featuring some seriously questionable boundaries between totally normal lab colleagues, and much more briefly featuring Viktor being so horny it makes him stupid. Also appearing is Jayce Talis, ADHD King and allusions to Viktor's past slut era. Both fics are a sort of preview chapter in the bigger thing @amahhi and I are working on!

Thank you to @avelera for planting the idea of platonically dubious scritches in my head, and for being a constant sounding board!

Rating: PG

Pair: Jayvik pre-relationship

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It continues to be surprising, how not surprising everything is when it comes to Jayce.

A week into the partnership, and that initial bright thrill of something new has not dulled in the slightest. Nor has the perfectly ordinary, easy comfort that he feels with Jayce. The un-remarkability of this calm is what makes it remarkable. With Jayce, there is none of the discomfort of dealing with another person. None of the abrasive tension that arises when Viktor must face other people as distinct personalities which he must contend with, instead of the larger concepts of People. People as an idea have problems that he can solve, whose suffering he can reduce without any needs for interaction causing issues.

But Jayce functions outside of these issues Viktor often finds himself in. Jayce slots into a space Viktor hardly knew existed, like there had always been this jagged edge to him that, to his great surprise, was actually part of a puzzle that Jayce had the other half to.

Past experience would have him expecting that, with time, the shine would wear off. The glow would dim. He would learn all the little faults and human contradictions of Jayce and would grow to feel that jagged tension return. Spending hours upon hours each and every day for a solid week with him have revealed Jayce’s little foibles, yet not one has grown into a frustration. In actuality, Viktor has had nothing but further data points to add weight to his newly forming thoughts of destiny and its relation to himself and Jayce. For each little fault and lacking Jayce has, Viktor can help. He can, perhaps, be the puzzle piece that returns the favor to fit neatly into Jayce's life.

For example, Jayce can grow blind to his surroundings, his mind too caught in their work. Viktor had assumed that the apartment was in the state he first found it in due to an explosive force of arcane power. He still thinks that, but he has learned that this great force was not the struck gem amplifying and reflecting the kinetic force aimed at it to exponential levels, but Jayce himself. He often forgets his keys, or his mugs, or his pencils behind an ear, his goggles on his head, his tools, everything but his journal really.

It was the third time that he left his keys in the lab (on top of twice that he came in groaning that he had locked himself out of his temporary housing), that Viktor realized what the pattern was, and that he could provide a solution.

Jayce had more important things to focus his mind on, so it was both useless and counterproductive to adjust Jayce’s behavior or habits so he could track the little necessities of life. Fortunately, Viktor is well practiced on keeping track of what he needs to. It’s a skill that was refined when he first used it to avoid detection in the Academy, and then even further developed as Professor Heimerdinger’s assistant. When Jayce left his keys behind again, the answer was simple and obvious. They were already missing from Jayce’s person, so Viktor simply took them to the sort of establishment in the lanes that would never ask any questions, but would always make a perfect copy of any keys brought to them.

Jayce’s keys were neatly returned to him, and Viktor took no small delight in waiting for the next time Jayce smacked his forehead as they left for the day, realizing that he had once again locked himself out of his rooms, to reveal his backups. There was a brief moment, where Jayce stared at the keys hanging from Viktor’s finger, when he worried in a flash that this was not something a friend or colleague should do, that he had overstepped in some way. Then Jayce snorted with his grin, called Viktor brilliant if a little terrifying, but mostly brilliant, and everything was perfect.

The key was only for Jayce’s temporary rooms in the Academy housing, but Viktor could make another set once the apartment repairs were complete, even if it seems wasteful to have Jayce eventually move out of the building that Viktor lives in.

Jayce is also wonderful at taking notes for his work, but less skilled at going back to reorganize or refine those notes. His notes are exemplary, even with the little flair of him signing every single page, but it leads to problems.

These problems are their current struggle in the cramped space of their semi-lab at some odd hour of the night. Viktor stands and contemplates the board crowded with copies of Jayce’s notes, additional observations both have about that first successful arcane spell, and Viktor’s little chalked notes next to clusters of paper denoting what sections of an article each goes to. Behind him, Jayce is not exactly pacing, which would require repeating of one path, but he is in a constant state of muttering movement with occasional bursts of frustration over paperwork.

Because they can make a fully stable arcane frame that affects the gravity within the dean’s office, but that means nothing to the academy if it is not properly written and submitted for review. They are on their fourth draft of the paper, and the initial excitement over being published has dwindled with every draft that has been returned with Heimerdinger’s cheerful blue ink slashed across the pages. One of Jayce’s faults, Viktor is finding, is that he does not take such things gracefully. It takes the second set of revisions for Viktor to realize that pride is not the primary hurt that Jayce feels, but the thread of anxiety Viktor had seen woven through Jayce’s journal. The need to prove himself, and the fear of impending failure at every turn.

“How else do they want me to explain it?” Jayce groans, and Viktor does not need to turn around to know that the perfectly clean cut hair is likely sticking out in every direction.

“I was hoping the Professor would not have edited “crank it” so quickly out of the methodology.” Viktor muses. That was his greatest disappointment. “I am deeply curious on how he expects us to find half of the citations he has requested for this entirely new scientific field.”

“And when the Academy insists there aren’t more tomes on mage lore!” Jayce snarls.

“We will have to expand outside of the Academy in the future.” Viktor agrees, turning a little to once again look over the taped up pages of their latest draft and what blue marks are where. “However, I think a more concrete description of the runic array you conducted into the stabilizer may be our ticket past many of the other issues he has found.”

Instead of grumblings or more huffed complaints, a heavy weight thumps onto Viktor’s shoulder. He pauses, realizing immediately that it is Jayce’s head that has slumped against him, and Jayce’s impressive body heat against his back indicating that there is, at most, a few inches of space between them.

“I don’t know how.” Jayce groans, but it’s less petulant and quieter, almost fearful. “I don’t know how to describe what I did.”

“Hm.” Is all Viktor can say in that exact moment. He is, briefly, distracted by Jayce’s hair brushing against his jaw with the strong scent of some sort of…of fancy wood. It is not an unpleasant scent.

“Sorry.” Jayce mutters. “Sorry, I know you’re not touchy I just- gimme a second I gotta think.”

“That’s perfectly alright.” Viktor assures him. It is alright. Jayce is correct that Viktor is not nearly as tactile as Jayce is, but he is at this point well acquainted with Jayce’s propensity towards touch. His own lack of aversion or any other strong reaction to it was one of the earliest surprises in their partnership. “Take your time gathering your thoughts. This is a far less dire circumstance than that first stabilization was.”

“You told me there was no pressure then.” Jayce mumbles, already sounding a little less miserable.

“That is because I was lying.” Viktor hums, delighted at the snort he gets, and the way he can feel Jayce’s movement from the small laugh.

“Seriously V, I just remembered that night, remembered what the mage looked like and what all the magic looked like and I…did the same thing. But it wasn’t the same thing, because no one got teleported. I don’t even know if what I did was a spell.” Viktor thinks he can feel the resonance of Jayce’s voice through his core, spreading in waves from the point where Jayce’s forehead presses down at the top edge of his shoulder.

The distraction is not a true distraction however, because Viktor catches something in what Jayce is muttering. “You can remember how he moved, what the runes he summoned looked like?”

“I remember everything about that night.”

“Yes but-” There is something here. He has already seen Jayce's remarkable skill at memorizing things that Jayce deems worth memorizing. If Jayce says he can remember it, Viktor does not doubt it. “The order of them, could you remember that?”

The head on Viktor’s shoulder shifts as Jayce rolls it slightly to one side, but he doesn’t move it in the other to shake his head. It’s a contemplative movement. “Maybe…I think so. Let me...ok this is going to sound so weird but can I just uh, hang out here for a second? It helps me think.”

“By all means.” There’s something particularly marvelous about becoming a stabilizing agent for Jayce’s mind, he would be a fool not to agree to the opportunity. As Jayce calibrates himself, Viktor once again considers their paper, the problems it has given them. Jayce had moved the dial of the stabilizing framework like a conductor, with precision. Heimerdinger wants written out theories and explanations and citations, but what if they could instead find a formula. What if the precision of Jayce’s input could be broken down into components and quantified…

His free hand moves with habitual lack of awareness to where it would usually begin fiddling with his own hair, and it takes a few moments for him to notice the slight change in both texture and location of the hair he is rolling between his fingertips. Even then, he only notices because Jayce’s head becomes an even heavier weight on his shoulder.

“Ah, apologies.” He says, stopping the movement, thinking this might be a thing to feel awkward about. “Force of habit, it helps me think.”

“No, s’fine.” Jayce says, voice thicker in a way that is dangerous for Viktor’s higher thought processes. “It’s nice, actually. I don’t mind.”

After a second, Viktor continues. This time he notes the finer texture of Jayce’s hair. It’s very soft, sleek almost, with traces of the gel he uses to style it making sections of stiffness that crunch away under Viktor’s fingers.

“You smell nice.” Jayce mumbles.

A response to that requires some consideration. Viktor…considers.

There was a time, not all that long ago, where he would have leapt on someone with Jayce’s build telling him he smelled good while standing a scant inch away from Viktor. He would have assumed that the intent was for him to leap. Viktor is more discriminating than he used to be about sexual escapades, mostly because he began finding the nights spent on dalliances not worth the distractions, but even he can admit that if Jayce had put a head on his shoulder and told him he smelled good a week ago, Viktor would know exactly how to respond. It would have involved leaning back against that broad heat, turning lightly twirling fingers into a fist in Jayce’s hair, then gleefully seeing where things went from that point.

But now…

Jayce fits in like a missing puzzle piece. Whatever Jayce is, it is not one of Viktor’s brief encounters. Viktor would want to tell Jayce he didn’t need to get his apartment repaired, when Viktor lives much closer to the lab and things would be much more efficient if they lived together. Viktor can be wildly in love with this man in every definition of love that exists, but romantic or sexual entanglements (and if there is one, Viktor very much wants the other as well) often end. In Viktor’s personal experience, they ended before morning, and that was only considering the sexual entanglement. Heightened intimacy was desperately tempting, but it risked a greater end to the entire partnership. Even if nothing ever started, a proposition alone could forever poison what there already is.

Jayce is tactile in a very casual way. He flirts with everything that smiles at him for more than three seconds, and there has been nowhere near enough data for Viktor to calculate the risk of losing that side of the puzzle, or how much of a reward he would gain from taking that risk.

“Thank you.” He says eventually, slow and still considering. Then, because that feels incomplete and awkward, he adds, “I use soap.

Jayce snorts again, the head on Viktor’s shoulder shaking as Jayce’s body shakes with quiet laughter. Viktor knows he is shaking with it, because every other hitch up of Jayce’s shoulders causes a tiny sway forward, which bumps Jayce’s chest against Viktor’s back. Each of these millisecond bits of contact makes Viktor once again run through the considerations of risk versus reward in relation to getting his hands on that chest. Under the shirt. He would need both hands. There is an awful lot of chest, after all. Maybe both hands and his mouth. Definitely all three. It really is so much chest.

He takes the fantastic effort to rein his mind away from Jayce’s prodigious chest, even more effort to pull it further from contemplating the amount of shoulder matching that chest and what the rest of the torso probably looks like. There should be a response in kind to Jayce’s. A friendly compliment to return a compliment.

“Your hair is very soft.” He decides, as that seems safe as well as relevant to Jayce's compliment. Jayce’s silent laughter turns into some small hitched sounds that near a squeak, which means that Viktor’s thoughts are successfully pulled away from the sexual distractions, but only into the romantic sort.

“Thank you.” Jayce says with a dreadful mimic of Viktor’s accent, which only strengthens Viktor’s resolve to not take any uninformed risks that could lead to him losing this, “I use a leave-in conditioner.”

Viktor’s hand drops from Jayce’s hair, and he turns his head as much as he can to shoot a baffled look at the top of Jayce’s head.

“Why the fuck would you leave in a hair conditioner?” He asks, affronted. “Conditioner already feels dreadful. It’s heavy and slimy, absolutely horrendous.”

Jayce shoots up (which is a shame) so that he can lean around and give Viktor a look of equal outrage. “What does- Viktor it’s a different thing from- do you not use conditioner!?”

“Of course not. It feels terrible, I already said that.” Jayce makes a pained sound, and Viktor waves him off. “Enough of that nonsense. It is a waste of time. I have an idea.”

Jayce moves up next to him, facing Viktor with an intent eagerness. “What is it?”

“You are going to describe to me exactly what you remember. Each rune, each movement, as much as you can.” Another thought occurs to him, and Viktor snatches his cane from where it’s leaning on the board so he can turn to the inert stabilizing frame sitting on a table. “And I want you to dial in the stabilizer as you did in Heimerdinge’s lab as you do so. I will record everything. I believe there may be something we can measure, some sort of constant in the timing and the runes used, a way to-”

“We can make it an equation.” Jayce interrupts, breathless and awed, knowing what Viktor is thinking without Viktor needing to explain any of it. He so deeply wishes Heimerdinger had let them keep “crank it” in the paper. “Something concrete.”

“Precisely. The runes are instructions, a code. Perhaps the clockwise and counter-clockwise cycles of them are additional instructions. We can use your stable field as a baseline to begin working on a formula.”

“We can give them a solid theorum.” Jayce is already rushing to the stabilizing frame, even recreating the hunched over pose he had that wondrous night. “Okay, tell me when you’re ready.”

Any thoughts on conditioner or smells are gone. In the future, it will be as common as breathing for them to be drawn together when they need help thinking. Jayce’s head will always find Viktor’s shoulder, and Viktor will learn that playing with Jayce’s hair further settles his restless mind and channels his thoughts towards solutions. Whatever else there is, the most important goal to further all other goals of Viktor’s life is to keep the partnership. In the partnership there is the work, the thrill. The endless infinitesimal ways they fit together, two pieces destined to find the other. In the moment, Viktor takes up his notes and marvels again on the nature of fate, of probability, and of magic.

#arcane #jayvik #my fic #totally normal behavior for colleagues #theyre so fucking normal #oh my god they were lab partners

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amuromi · 1 year ago

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★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.9k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! heian era!au, concubine!reader, true form!Sukuna, unprotected sex, established relationship (married), canon typical violence, era typical misogyny/gender roles, unhealthy obsession, mentions of death, mentions of cannibalism and blood, (Sukuna is a lunatic), Sukuna is referred to exclusively as “Lord Sukuna”

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ I got a bit carried away with this one. My love of psychological horror was clawing to be free but I think I kept it pretty contained…

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 ✦ ⋆˙ engawa ┈ a hallway-like path surrounding the house ⋆ shoji ┈ a sliding door/divider ⋆ koto ┈ a Japanese zither/stringed instrument

The winter storm has leached everything into bleak shades of black and white, like ink on parchment. The trees are thick black strokes against the deep gray clouds, dusted with a thick layer of snow as flurries fall like stars through the courtyard. In the moonlight each snowflake shines like pearls, soft and lustrous as they dance on the wind. From the edge of the engawa it almost looks like staring into the great gaping mouth of a beast that’s swallowed the world, spears of ice hanging like jagged teeth from the edge of the roof, the wind shuddering through the estate in howling gusts. The cold night is scented with dreams of spring, sweet smelling coal burning in braziers, wafting gray wisps of floral-scented smoke into the wind.

It’s quiet aside from the sharp whistling of the wind and the hissing of snow melting over hot coals, then, somewhere within the estate, a bell tolls for the Hour of the Rooster. Nightfall, despite the veil of darkness already laid out by the storm clouds. Suddenly there’s the sound of footsteps soft as summer rain, pattering through the estate and the shoji begin to blossom with the warmth of firelight as candles are lit throughout the sprawling house. More snow gathers in soft sheets over the courtyard before there’s a gentle knock to announce a soft-footed servant coming to renew the braziers and light the lanterns. The scent of lavender is renewed as the coals are sifted and replaced and the engawa is streaked with blushing shades of gold as the pink-tinged paper lanterns are lit in turn.

Of all the rooms in the vast estate, yours is the most adorned. Which is to say, it looks as though your room is used for more than sleeping. There’s a modest desk with inks and paper, a small table for combs and perfumes, and a trunk for miscellaneous things beside the chest of drawers filled with kimono. When she’s lit the last lantern, you ask the girl to send for your personal maid. A dowry servant, though not originally one of yours. Life in this estate is fleeting in that way.

An unbalanced teacup had been the undoing of the girl your father sent to accompany you in your marriage. Stained silk and scalded skin, later soaked with splatters of blood. But the tatami were changed and the kimono and girl were replaced. Your new maid is a bit older–a few years your senior–originally belonging to a woman that came before you. Certainly not First Mistress because she would loathe to see you even look upon anything of hers. No, she served a less honored concubine that wasn’t worthy of the title “wife,” even if it’s a hollow honor in itself. Still, your maid had belonged to the unknown mistress before she perished. It all happened before you were brought to the estate, but the haggard weight of the loss still sits heavy on her shoulders. Her face always looks like a crumpled piece of paper that someone tried to smooth flat, creased with hidden worries. She arrives quickly, kneeling to await her orders.

“I’m happy,” you tell her. “A new Mistress is joining the family tonight, isn’t that right? Happy news.” The maid hums something to the tune of affirmation, long since grown used to your unflinchingly jovial disposition. She once asked if you wear a smiling mask throughout the day and take it off once you sleep. It’s a silly question, of course, but you like to imagine that you smile even in your sleep. There is nothing to be sad about. Living a life such as this is no different than a deer grazing in a meadow. There is nothing beyond the grass. Nothing farther than the horizon or higher than the tallest tree. What is there to be sad about when the world has been folded into something small enough to hold in your hands, a piece of origami meant to be appreciated and not pondered. There’s happiness in the simplicity that this life provides, though you seem to be the only one to realize it.

The other two Mistresses of the house say that you should be locked up in a rice chest and left out to die. That it’s cruel to let you live in such a state of delusion. How little they know, yet it’s still too much. At times, it seems that they are far deeper in their minds than you’ve ever been. Caught up in worries and tribulations that haven’t plagued you in a long time, since you let go of your humanity. What use is pretending to be human when you’re treated like a pet. Treasured and pampered but still inferior to the master of the house. Because your husband has no true use for human brides. In keeping the three of you, he has honored each of your families with the knowledge that their blood has produced something too intriguing to kill off just yet. Perhaps if he desires an offspring to assume his legacy he’ll have a true use for one of you.

Other brides have been offered and had their families culled like squashing bugs. It made you feel some air of superiority, knowing that you were chosen from a dozen women to be honored as a new wife to the King of Curses. It only took a few months for you to realize your place in all this and the last thread of your humanity snapped like a frayed koto string. Thinking of yourself as a person is useless when the person that holds your life within his hands sees you as no more than a doll to be toyed with as he sees fit.

“I’m happy.” You always mean it when you say it. Happiness is all you have left when faced with the truth of how finite your existence is. There is no world beyond the walls of this estate. No people beyond its residence and staff. No purpose outside of serving your husband with unwavering loyalty. In that regard you are the most precious of his wives. The others, their devotion wavers. You’ve seen it in the way they still hesitate to follow simple instructions, still tremble and shrink in Lord Sukuna’s presence even as you bloom like a flower in the light of the sun. He is your sun. There is no life without him. Which is why you are happy to simply exist in this small world that he’s made for you.

His power has greatly uncomplicated your existence, turned it to something purposeful, something that will end when you’re no longer of use. And Lord Sukuna will always tell you when you serve no further purpose to him. How many underlings has he executed because they were no longer of use? You imagine they must’ve felt great pride in the moments before their demise at the hands of their King. Pride in knowing that they did what they were made to do. As a child you had scoffed at the idea that your only purpose was to be wed and serve your husband as a proper wife should, but that was when the husband of your future was set to be someone unremarkable. Lord Sukuna is greater than any man that’s ever lived. Perhaps even ascended beyond the concept of a man to become the strongest sorcerer to ever live. As the daughter of a highly regarded family known for birthing remarkable sorcerers, you take pride in your small but purposeful place in all this. The culling of clans, the clashing of factions trying to unseat your husband. History will remember you because you will play your part until the very end. An end you’ll greet with a smile if it should come by your husband’s hand.

“Will the Fourth Mistress be here soon?” A new deer to join the herd, a new flower planted in the garden.

“By the Hour of the Bird, the last message said.” Your maid agrees. Soon, a new Mistress will be here. It’s been so long since another woman has joined hands with Lord Sukuna. The last being yourself nearly two years ago. First Mistress had been collected three years ago, and Second Mistress came along only a short few months behind her. Lord Sukuna had waited half a year after that to marry a third wife, and you must’ve served him well because there’s been no need for another until now. It makes you wonder if death is close at hand. A raven had come earlier in the day, before the snow began to fall, announcing that Lord Sukuna would be returning from his excursion by nightfall. Perhaps he wanted to arrive home in time to greet his new bride.

Fourth Mistress. Unlucky number Four, terrible number Four. Blowing into her marriage with a snow storm. It’s all terribly inauspicious, but Lord Sukuna has reason for everything he does. Nothing is without purpose. Even death has cause when dealt by his hand. Even if it comes tonight you will go towards it fully satisfied. The snowfall looks beautiful, and the cold isn’t so terrible with the legion of braziers burning around you and the thick furs draped over your shoulders. It’s a wonderful night to die if it should come to that.

“Shall we go welcome her?”

“First Mistress insisted that you need not be present for Fourth Mistress’ arrival, your highness.” First Mistress, Jurina, whose hatred towards you cannot be quelled by any manner of platitudes.

When you first arrived, you’re sure it was mere jealousy that compelled her to act out against you. A multitude of wives is not uncommon among high ranking men, but rarely is it expected that they should all live together. Most wives are left in their parents’ homes to be visited whenever their husband deems it fit. To walk the hall of your home and come across the woman your husband sees when he is not with you must be jarring to the first woman he married. Jurina seemed adamant about dispelling you from the family upon your first arrival. Now, her animosity isn’t borne of jealousy, but discomfort.

Your happiness makes her nervous. She’s said it herself. Snapping and raging at you for your unflinching smile even as she and Second Mistress have slowly begun to lose themselves in the monotony of this life. Sitting and waiting, then serving when Lord Sukuna comes home. To them, your complacency, your happiness, is something eerie and othered. Akin to the curses your families seek to eradicate. Unnatural. Inhuman. Though it hardly matters what they think of you. They are not your reason for being, and Lord Sukuna seems to find your smile charming.

Despite the chill, you find yourself reaching for a fan. A gift from Uraume. They’re strangely doting towards you in a way that they aren’t to Lord Sukuna’s other wives, bringing you gifts when they accompany Lord Sukuna on long trips away from the estate. A set of calligraphy brushes, a jade bracelet, a new kimono. You’ve amassed quite a collection of possessions by Uraume’s spoiling, though the fans are your favorite. All made a beautifully lacquered wood, some painted with gilded designs, the folded paper painted by the hands of careful artists. Crashing waves and blossoming trees decorate each of your fans and you take great pride in keeping them all in pristine condition because you’d hate to perform a dance with a damaged fan.

Of all of the things filling your room, your koto is the most precious. It had belonged to your mother and she offered it with teary eyes as your wedding gift, absolutely bereft that she had to marry her daughter off to a monster to appease the head of your father’s clan. But such was your purpose in being born into a highly acclaimed sorcerer clan. Take your blood and lend your body to another clan so that you might make more powerful jujutsu users. Your father had complained of the waste in sending you off to quell the King of Curses, insisting that sending you to Lord Sukuna would be a waste of a bride. Curses have no use for brides nor, truly, does their King. Still, Lord Sukuna keeps all of you alive and well in his home. To what end? It’s hardly your concern.

“Bring my koto,” you hum. “I want to dance.”

The maid goes about carrying the large stringed instrument to the edge of the room where the opened shoji separates the warmth of your room from the chill of the engawa. It is a happy coincidence that your maid had been taught to play the koto some years ago when she was still an eligible maiden. But her father grew ill and when he passed her mother sent her off to find work to support herself because she couldn’t afford a dowry to marry her off properly. So she sits and serves, waiting for you to name your song of choice with her fingers poised over the strings. The song you choose is one of comfort, the first your mother ever taught you when you were learning to dance and play. There’s a practiced grace to your movements, smooth as a flowing river as you dance with your fan. The song is short but it is always your favorite to perform.

A rare beauty in the north, she’s the finest woman on earth. A glance from her, the city falls. A second glance leaves the nation in ruins. There exists no city or nation that has been more cherished than a beauty like this.

Flecks of snow melt against the bare nape of your neck, so cold it feels like burning, but you want to keep dancing. The weather has no bearing on your mood. Rain or shine you are happy to sing and dance, amusing yourself as you wait to be of use to your lord husband. Perhaps he has already returned home along with his new bride but without the order to accompany him you will stay in your room, performing to your heart’s content. Your maid begins to pluck out the notes of your next song request, fingers stuttering over the strings as if she’s forgotten how to play the melody. That’s alright, you will dance even without proper music, swinging your fan with practiced poise as your voice contests with the howling of the storm. It’s a song of longing and melancholy. Fitting for a woman separated from her husband.

Are you going away? Leaving me alone? How could I live if you’ve gone away? Are you going away? Leaving me alone? I want to keep you unhappy with me. I fear you may never return. Sadly, I will let you go–

“Stop whining, I’m here.” A voice interrupts your singing, a smooth timbre that rumbles like a roll of thunder. So please, come back soon after you leave. In a heartbeat you’re on the floor, kneeling before your husband. Lord Sukuna is soiled from his travels. Kimono stained and torn, the scent of blood lingering heavily around him, along with the buzzing aura of excess cursed energy leaking into the cold air around him.

“Welcome home, Lord Sukuna.” He purrs at how you prostrate yourself at his feet, always so satisfied with your absolute submission. He once told you your lack of fear was something intriguing, your unwavering adoration far more interesting than submission borne of fear. It’s something he’s found in so few of his followers and you imagine it’s why he shows such preference for Uraume’s company. Of all of your husband’s subordinates, they are by far the most devout. Perhaps even more than you because they know what Lord Sukuna is trying to achieve with all the calamity he causes. Your lord husband has never made you privy to that knowledge, and as a good wife you remember it is not your place to ask. If you are meant to know something, he’ll tell you.

“Get out.” His voice is thick with something akin to revulsion, though you don’t bother to raise your head. Lord Sukuna hasn’t spoken to you so gruffly since you first proved your devotion to him. Behind you there’s the sound of frantic movements as your maid assumedly makes herself scarce in the presence of her master. When she’s gone Lord Sukuna gives you permission to lift your head. In the low light, you can hardly see his face. It’s hard to tell Lord Sukuna’s mood even in bright lighting. He hardly changes from his stoic expression unless there’s blood being spilled, then a smile–more like a deranged baring of his fanged teeth–finds its way onto his face.

“Come bathe with me.” He doesn’t wait for you to react, already halfway down the engawa by the time you gather yourself enough to stand. Lord Sukuna traverses the estate with practiced ease, as if this was his childhood home and not all place of residence usurped from some affluent family. Though the perks of Lord Sukuna’s minions commandeering such a luxurious home for their leader and his family are the accommodations afforded to only the highest nobility. Because only families with more money than time to spend it can afford to build their home large enough to encompass a hot spring along with all the other necessary land. The air is humid around the bathhouse, curtained with steam as clouds of warm air seep out of the secluded space.

Lord Sukuna stands expectantly at the edge of the rocks surrounding the steaming pool, waiting for you to fulfill your wifely duties. With great haste you begin to undress him. His kimono is ruined beyond repair, delicate white silk tattered and stained with browning patches of blood. Still, you take great care in folding each article as it’s removed from his body. There’s no added layers despite the inclement weather, no added underclothes beneath the outer layer of clothing. Your hands reach skin sooner than you expected, flinching away from the warmth of his muscles as if his skin were an open flame. Despite your status as his wife and your consequently intimate knowledge of his body, you still err on the side of caution when it comes to touching Lord Sukuna. He had only asked you to undress him, not to run your fingers over the corded muscles of his arms. Luckily, your husband seems unconcerned with the wayward touch. Instead of snapping at you he rolls his shoulders as if the layers of clothes had been restricting his movements. In all likelihood, they probably have.

Lord Sukuna is something that is no longer human. A higher being ascended beyond the physicality of a normal man, as if his body could no longer handle the brunt of his power and needed to evolve to fit the newly emerging shape of his soul. Once, before you first laid eyes upon him, Lord Sukuna had the appearance of a mere man. An unremarkable face and body. But now he has become something beyond the shape of a human. “A two faced demon with four arms,” as the members of your clan had called him when talks of appeasing the great King of Curses began whispering through the halls of your maiden home. Of course his rumored differences held no bearing on whether or not the clan would be willing to sacrifice a bride to satisfy the Disgraced One. His four eyes and black markings make no difference to your devotion. He is still the husband you’ve dedicated your life to.

Tentatively, you try to strike up a conversation as Lord Sukuna settles himself in the warm pool. “Has Fourth Mistress arrived yet?”

“Yes, she arrived before I did. I expected you to be with the others, fawning over her. Why weren’t you?” His tone is calculated as if he is trying to decide if there is cause for punishment. Your next words are chosen carefully.

“First Mistress did not think–it was requested that I not attend to Fourth Mistress’ arrival.”

“Are you not my wife?” Lord Sukuna asks, annoyance thick in his tone. Of course you are. In this life you are nothing if not his wife. “I expect that you’ll act your part. The lady of the house is meant to greet guests upon their arrival. I don’t care what Jurina says. You’re of noble birth. You know the rules on how to conduct yourself. Act like it.”

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my lord, but I am not the lady of the house. That is First Mistress Jurina’s title.” To go against your husband’s word is wrong, reason enough for him to lash out at you, but it is the truth that Jurina is always reminding you of. She is First Mistress, the matron of the estate. It is you that is a lowly concubine in comparison to her status as a legal wife. Lord Sukuna bristles at your insolence and you duck your head to receive your reproach. He’s a short distance away, submerged to his waist in the warm water, but Lord Sukuna can move like a striking snake. It would only take half a beat of your heart for him to reach you and tear it from your chest if he so desires it.

Tonight’s admonishment is far less violent. Coming in the form of a disparaging growl before he snaps at you to undress. You do so with the same care that you disrobed your husband. As his wife, you are an extension of him, and you dare not mistreat his items in his presence. Once your clothes are folded you approach Lord Sukuna with hesitant steps. You’ve discovered that drowning and burning are the worst means of death and the boiling water of the hot spring is a combination of both. Still, if tonight will be wasted on death, at least it will come in Lord Sukuna’s arms. He reaches to help you into the water, drawing you close while his second pair of arms stay splayed on the rocks behind him. He moves you as he pleases like a doll being perched on a shelf, positioning you to straddle his thigh.

“Look at me, woman.” His tone doesn’t sound angry, but that has never been a successful way to guess at Lord Sukuna’s intentions. He can execute someone with a smile. You hope he’ll offer you that same cruel grin when he pushes hot beneath the bubbling water.

“I do not care what order I married any of you in. It should be clear by now that you are the woman of this house. First or third, it doesn’t matter. Jurina’s words hold no weight over you. Do I make myself clear?” There’s a franticness to the way you nod your head, chirping out a pinched “yes, Lord Sukuna!” as he holds your chin to keep your eyes on his.

“You’re the only wife that matters to me, stupid woman. The rest,” he scoffs, “I wouldn’t spit down their throats even if their lungs were on fire. Even the new one. Jurina is nothing and no one. I will kill her right now if it will please you.”

And that had been the original crux of Jurina’s jealousy. The priority with which Lord Sukuna always seemed to treat you. There were always rumors about the estate that you are the favored wife, the one that truly matters, but it is hard to believe rumors when Lord Sukuna hardly does anything to validate them. Though his constant quelling of his temper in your presence should be evidence enough. It’s a rare thing for your husband to lash out at you, but you always assumed it was simply because you were careful with your actions. Never giving him any reason to turn his ire against you. It’s plain to see now that the reason for your persisted well treatment is simple. You are his favorite wife.

Possessive as he is, Lord Sukuna has favorites in everything. Cursed weapons that he favors over all others, and servants that he calls on more often than the rest. To know you hold weight among his most precious possessions is dizzying. Of course, to Lord Sukuna, a favorite thing is a useful thing. It’s easy to imagine that you’re the most useful of his four wives. Neither of your seniors have remarkable cursed techniques despite hailing from quite notable families in the hierarchy of the jujutsu world. And any technique they do possess is woefully untrained as is expected of women in the world of sorcery. Women of jujutsu-laden clans are meant to be vessels from which the next generation of male sorcerers are born, not taught to be sorcerers in their own right.

It was only by a terrible coincidence that you were able to train your own technique. A jealous cousin and a well. A harsh push to your back after she whispered about how she should be the one to marry first despite her inferior talents as a homemaker. She got her wish, the husband she so covetously desired. Last you heard she’d been returned to your family’s estate after being set aside for a more fitting woman.

When she pushed you, falling felt like flying and dying felt like burning as your lungs filled with water. In the end you’d spent nearly a week at the bottom of that seldom used well, floundering for your life as your cursed technique kept you in a constant loop of dying and reviving, bursting back to life stronger than when you died. Chrysalis is what your family had taken to calling your ability when you were finally fished out with a bucket of water. Death was something impermanent to you, though the manner of which you passed holds bearing on how long you’ll be stuck in your “cocooned” state. You imagine being killed by means of jujutsu would kill you properly, forever, but no one has been bold enough to try. Certainly not now that you are a treasured wife of the King of Curses. Though you’re sure Lord Sukuna will kill you eventually, when your purpose has been served. For now, it seems your purpose is to provide him with the comforts a wife can offer her husband.

“Kiss me.” He commands, hand on your jaw already pulling you towards him. There’s never been anything delicate about Lord Sukuna as far as you could tell. He’s always had an air of harshness to him, something wild and untamed that bleeds into his every movement. You’ve decided it must be because he lives the same as you, unimpeded by the world around him. The King of Curses bows to nothing and no one, so why should he govern himself by the laws and morals of humanity. Kindness, restraint, it doesn’t seem to exist to your lord husband. The same way fear no longer exists to you. So when Lord Sukuna’s hand–large enough to hold your head in his palm–pulls you towards his fanged mouth, you feel nothing but unadulterated lust. It’s unbecoming of a woman to find herself so lost in her bodily whims but you’re no longer just a woman. You’re Lord Sukuna’s woman, and within the walls of his home, shame no longer exists. You melt against him as his sharp teeth find the softness of your lips. Blood spills between your open mouths, dripping down your bodies before dripping into the water with a soft tinge of pink.

“Sweet,” he hums.

It’s no secret that Lord Sukuna is prone to fits of bloodlust so blinding he’ll tear his teeth into anything soft he can find, no matter the origin of the flesh. Animal or human it’s all the same when he’s tearing his claws through a warm body. He’s mentioned sampling your body once. How he’s thought about tearing off bits and pieces of you to taste. Of course, he told you that he would only maim you in such a way as punishment for misbehavior–it hardly matters when death would only find you mended and made anew–though it hasn’t stopped him from sinking his teeth into you when he’s wrapped up in another kind of lust.

Usually imperceptible if you aren’t looking for it, the only sign of Lord Sukuna’s arousal stands proudly between your legs, so large they breach the surface of the water as he holds you steady in his lap. His upper arms are still splayed out on the stone behind him as he reclines as if he is seated on a throne. He’s shown you what a throne fit for the King of Curses would look like, but only once. In his domain. An infinite wasteland bathed in blood with a single shrine standing at its heart. A corrupted chinjusha of flesh and bone. All gaping maws and cracked skulls. A shrine dedicated to the only higher power Lord Sukuna will ever respect; himself. The strange mouth splitting a seam between his muscles always reminds you of his Malevolent Shrine, of the four grotesque mouths that stand where the four doors of a shrine would be. Its tongue is strangely textured, like that of a cat’s as it lolls out of his stomach to lap at your skin. Sometimes you find yourself wondering if Lord Sukuna has control over the appendage or if it acts of its own volition each time the grainy feeling drags over your body, but it isn’t your place to ask. Who has control or not, it doesn’t matter. Lord Sukuna is your husband and you relish even the smallest touch whether it’s intentional or not.

“Are you going to please your husband?” He asks. The answer is always simple. Yes. It is your sole purpose now that he’s taken you as his wife and torn your world into the smallest pieces until only this single scrap remains. It’s becoming so precious no matter how small and defaced it becomes. Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you stepped out of line. Tried to leave the estate, tried to defy Lord Sukuna. In truth, you’ll never know. Your husband is your world and your world is your husband. Of course you will do everything within your power to please him. He seems satisfied with just the look in your eyes as you stare up at him, waiting for his next command. If it would please him you’d slash yourself open, spill your innards into his lap and watch him feast on your flesh. His true wish is far more gentle, something a more humble husband would ask of his bride.

“Touch me.” His clawed hand is already guiding yours to his stiffness, wrapping your fingers over the length of him. It’s so strange that curses can bleed, but Lord Sukuna isn’t exactly a curse nor is he a human. He’s something more but his heart beats just the same. You feel it in your palm as his cock twitches in your grip, thick veins thrumming under his skin. Perhaps it’s the water or more likely it’s something innate to your husband because he always feels hot to the touch, his skin is nearly scalding as you wrap your hands around his twin cocks, fingers spread too wide to touch around his girth. Lord Sukuna looks pleased as he leans back, eyes watching you as if to catch a flaw in your presentation. A rogue frown or unintended scowl that would prove your supposed dedication false.

Even after so long he’s waiting for you to break, to truly realize what you’re doing and be disgusted enough to shrink away. The only thing you feel at this moment is heady arousal. It pools like molten lava deep in your stomach, seeping between your legs and into the water. There’s been no permission given so you remain still, but your hips ache to shift against the strength of Lord Sukuna’s chiseled thigh, to relieve a bit of the tension his lingering gaze has caused. But his hand hasn’t strayed from your hip, in fact his grip has tightened with each stroke of your hands. There’s a stinging bite as his claws dig through your skin, burying deep enough to draw blood despite the composure still set in stone on his face. He is still a man in some regard. Still a husband enjoying the touch of his wife. The thought blooms sweetly in your chest, lifting a soft smile to your lips. Lord Sukuna notices in an instant, four eyes still trained on your face. He snatches your chin up, straining your neck with how quickly he guides your eyes towards his.

“What are you smiling about, brat?” Another attempt to catch you in a lie, to find some falsehood in your contentment. Even your lord husband finds himself questioning if your happiness is true. You thumb over the head of one of his cocks, bringing the taste to your lips. And because he is watching you so intensely you make a coquettish show of dragging your tongue over the pad of your finger, gasping when Lord Sukuna’s fingers bury deeper into your delicate skin. There will be cuts and bruises when he’s done with you. There always are. Then your maid–or, on some occasions, Uraume–will come to tend to your body marked by your husband’s touch. You like the way your body burns when he’s through with you, memories of his touch simmering in your mind. He scoffs when you wrap your lips around your thumb. With a cruel smile he hooks his own thumb into your mouth, talon scraping against your tongue as he pulls your jaw until your mouth is as wide as you can bear with only the slightest twinge of pain.

Drool pools in your mouth, dripping out of the corners as they sting with the strain of Lord Sukuna’s strength. He sneers, looking pleased with the mess you’re making as he leans down to lick it up before spitting it back into your open mouth. You nearly choke and rush to swallow with a rattling cough. It tastes like blood, likely your own though you wonder if your husband sank his teeth into something before coming to you. The blood on his clothes looked dry, though you can never be certain with Lord Sukuna. You banish the thought, thrilled with the way he no longer seems to be dividing his focus.

Before he had looked uninterested, as if his mind was elsewhere even as he looked at you servicing him so happily. Now he’s leaned in close enough for you to see his eyelashes, a rare treat with his immense stature. He’s nearly all you can see, all you can feel and you revel in it as your world shrinks to this tiny pinprick. There’s nothing outside this bathhouse. Only the infinite nothingness that surrounds a domain. The world could come apart outside these four walls and you wouldn’t care as long as Lord Sukuna keeps you in his arms. As if he knows your thoughts, the very deepest desires of your heart, Lord Sukuna drags you up his leg by the hand still embedded in the fat of your hips and the feeling sings through your body as your clit catches against the firmness of his thigh. Your hands tighten around his cocks still pulsing in your hands, though his only reaction is the slightest twitch of his lip.

“Am I doing a good job, Lord Sukuna?” You ask around his thumb, truly desperate for approval. If you were any more pitiful he might’ve pet your hair like a loyal hound. Instead he laughs, something short and sardonic as his teeth nip at your cheek. Warmth blooms then drips down the curve of your face and you know he’s broken skin once more.

“Enough with the stupid questions. If you want my praise you know how to earn it. Show me how badly you want it and I might reward your efforts.” You slip from his lap, mourning the loss of his leg pressing between yours as you kneel in the water. It’s up to your neck as your knees meet the bottom of the pool, steam billowing like a veil in front of your eyes as you center yourself at the apex of Lord Sukuna’s thighs. He’s spread out above you like a proud effigy, a statue meant to be worshiped. You feel a transcendent kind of devotion kneeling at the feet of your lord husband. The taste of him lands heavy on your tongue as your lips tease at the head of his dick, swallowing him in slow increments. Despite the harsh preparation of your mouth, you still wish to savor every moment spent servicing your husband.

His face is clouded in shadows again as he leans back, head tilted towards the ceiling. The lanterns flicker playful shadows across his body, highlighting and shrouding pieces of him as you bow to take him into your mouth in earnest. Your jaw still aches from the way he nearly unhinged it, but it works in your favor as your lips wrap around his length.

There’s nothing dignified about the way you’re swallowing his dick, little focus being allotted to your own comfort as you take him as deeply as his size will allow. His body is strange, of course, but it’s all you’ve ever known of a man. Aside from Lord Sukuna you’ve never seen any man bared beyond his chest, although you know innately that humans aren’t meant to have the endowments he does. His second cock presses against your cheek, dribbling over your skin as you hollow your cheeks until Lord Sukuna’s thighs twitch. Muscles seizing tighter as the head of his cock meets the tightness of your throat. Breathing is far from your mind, a need secondary to pleasing your husband. It’s a messy endeavor and you loathe to think of how terrible you must look. It’s always been a point of pride to preen yourself to perfection because husbands like their women to look beautiful when they arrive home, or at least Lord Sukuna seems to prefer it. Though he never seems bothered by what is surely a horrid display as split slicks down your chin and tears dot along your lash line as you gag around his dick.

Lord Sukuna flicks your forehead after a while, likely drawing another scratch between your brows. It’s a fraction of his power. It’s likely he could take your head apart as easily as squashing a peach under his heel yet he hardly puts effort behind the reproach. Only enough to draw your attention as he drags you, coughing and drooling, off of his cock. They’re both gathered into one fist so he can drag the taste of his leaking precum over your parted lips.

“You know better.” Lord Sukuna does not take things in half measures. His intentions are clear. If you’re going to pleasure him, do it right and do it well. Your jaw pops open again, wide enough to take his twin cocks into your mouth. He stretched and strained your mouth but there’s only so much that can be done with the sheer size of him. And while he does well to shield his thoughts at the best of times, you imagine he must be gleaning a fair bit of pleasure from your messy sucking as his hand remains in your hair. His claws scratch against your scalp, gentle enough to keep your skin intact as he keeps your mouth wrapped around him. A burning type of exertion settles painfully in your jaw but you’ll endure. Lord Sukuna never likes to keep you like this for long. With both of his weeping cocks tangled between your lips you can hardly take more than the head of each. In the end, his preference will always be the wet heat brewing between your legs. Another bout of pain sings through your scalp as Lord Sukuna pulls your mouth away from him, leaving threads of spit dripping between your bodies. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, pressing against the grooves where his teeth bit into your skin until they begin to bleed anew.

He manipulates your body as if you’re merely a puppet dancing on strings. A flex of his arm and you’re lifting off your knees, hips stretched wide to accommodate the width of his body between them. His spit-laden cocks are pressed between your bodies, grinding into the soft expanse of your stomach as he pulls your bleeding mouth to his. He suckles at your torn skin, humming at the taste of your blood seeping onto his tongue. His hands find your hips, pressing into the marks he’s already left there as he hikes you higher against his body. The tongue lolling out of his stomach finds its way between your thighs, lapping at the mess that’s left after the water washed away the first wave of your arousal. It’s nearly too much with how textured the wide appendage is but you welcome any type of relief you can find as Lord Sukuna pulls your head to the side quick enough to send a stinging twinge up the column of your neck. The pain is only intensified as he noses against the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder, as if he’s looking for something.

His tongue sweeps over your skin before his fanged teeth make a home in it. There’s a rippling groan that thunders in his chest as a true taste of your blood spills into his mouth. Before long, your head is spinning from blood loss. Lord Sukuna must feel the change in your pulse as it turns slippery, harder to catch beneath your skin. He pulls away with a satisfied groan as his hands press your hips deeper into the expanse of his lower tongue.

“Enjoying yourself, brat?” Lord Sukuna sneers, and because you have no sense of shame you find yourself nodding earnestly. He’s hardly touched you and what touches he’s shared have been steeped in equal parts pain and pleasure, yet you’ve enjoyed it all the same. It’s awkward and teasing because there’s no tact to the way his lower tongue moves between your legs. It’s like striking a flint without starting a fire, dull sparks of teasing pleasure that leave you wanting more. You’d rather have his face between your legs and a more dexterous tongue teasing you to the edge, but it would be presumptuous to make any kind of demands of your husband especially when he’s a man like Lord Sukuna.

In most regards, your pleasure is incidental. Secondary to his own. So when his teeth snap over his claws, biting the sharp points into flattened nubs, you feel your excitement growing. He’s learned from experience that his rough treatment of your body should not extend to certain places. After only a few times he pressed his clawed fingers inside you, Lord Sukuna learned that it would better serve him if his nails were dulled before he went poking them inside you. And they’ll be grown back to full length by night’s end. He can manipulate the shape of his body as easily as fire melting snow. His hand smooths over the side of your body, sliding against your ribs and hips as he makes his way between your legs. His fingers plunge inside with little warning, forcing you open with a swiftness you could almost call desperation. If something so undignified could ever be said about the King of Curses.

Lord Sukuna is a behemoth, dwarfing you in every regard, and his hands are no different. His fingers reach deep inside you, stroking over the place that has your back bowing as he makes space for himself inside you. He hums at how easily you take his fingers, sounding somewhere between amused and approving. It flutters through your chest and settles atop the arousal already building inside you.

“Give your body to me, woman. Open yourself to your king.” You try to say something as he slips another finger inside you but it comes out as little more than a breathy whine. This is already too much and yet it can’t compare to how full you’ll feel when he gets his cocks inside you. His fingers are a luxury offered in preparation for his true reward and you take it happily. He smirks at the way your thighs strain as you try to grind against his touch. The heel of his hand is pressed tight against your clit and you buck your hips against the feeling. Lord Sukuna’s skin is thick, nothing like the softness of your own and it feels just the right amount of rough against your clit. One of Lord Sukuna’s hands finds your hair again, yanking hard until you’re looking up at him with tears shimmering in your vision.

“There’s my spoiled brat. This is how you act. This is how the wife of a king is meant to be. Take what you want, woman, take everything I give you.” A dark laugh booms through the room as you whine and paw at Lord Sukuna’s chest. He adds another to the litany of scratches decorating your skin as his teeth nip at your neck, distracting you from the sting of another finger finding its way inside you.

“You were made for this,” he reminds you. “Made to be mine. My bride. You can take it.” He sounds almost patronizing, voice softening to a teasing lilt as his thumb presses against your clit. Like with everything, Lord Sukuna is harsh, forcing you to the edge quicker than expected. Each curl of his fingers yanks at the string tightening inside you, pulling you closer and closer to the edge as he moves his hands with inhuman speed inside you. Everything is hard and fast and your thighs start to tremble in his hold, body shivering as Lord Sukuna all but wrings the orgasm out of your body. You clench hard around his fingers, pussy dripping down your thighs as you try to steady yourself with your hands on Lord Sukuna’s shoulders. He allows it, revels in it as he pulls you into another bloody kiss. But even as you tremble in his arms, Lord Sukuna doesn’t stop. His thumb is still circling your twitching bud even as you try to whine out a plea for mercy. It only brings a fanged smile to his lips.

“Take it,” he grunts, “I know you can.” It really feels like you can’t. The tension brought on by your orgasm hasn’t dispersed and you feel like a knot being pulled ever tighter, back curling until your face is buried against his chest. He smells like the bath. Like sweet oils and wildflowers as your nose is buried against his scalding skin. With your forehead pressed against his chest your eyes have nowhere to look but down. Down at the way his cocks are straining to be touched, flushed and leaking just out of reach. You look up to distract yourself with the black markings etched into Lord Sukuna’s chest. Your kisses are sloppy, wet and open-mouthed as your tongue peeks out to trace the shape of each tattoo. It’s not until your teeth begin to nip at his chest that Lord Sukuna scruffs you once more.

“Trying to leave a mark on me, brat?” As if you could. Your teeth are likely no different than trying to pierce his skin with a blade of grass. “What a greedy little bride I have. So eager to defer to another wife’s authority when you’re this possessive of your husband. Isn’t that right, woman?” You try to shake your head. Of course, you aren’t possessive of him, you know your place. You are the Third Mistress. Perhaps you are his favorite but there is a hierarchy that must be upheld in the household. To so brazenly try to claim full authority over your lord husband would be lunacy. There is no higher authority than the King of Curses himself. You’re simply a pebble lingering in the shadow of the highest mountain.

“Yes you are,” he grins. You whine as he pulls his hand from between your legs. “Look at the mess you’ve made trying to mark me up like a bitch in heat.” There’s no sense of embarrassment welling at his degrading words. What sense is there in hiding how well your husband pleasures you? And Lord Sukuna seems proud as his tongue licks up the mess you’ve made on his hand before pressing a kiss to your parted lips. You taste yourself on his tongue. Your blood and your pleasure.

“You’re going to take me so well, aren’t you?” It’s hardly a question. Simply an ordered phrased as if you could deny yourself the feeling of being split open on Lord Sukuna’s cocks. He starts with one, always. Dragging the leaking head through the mess he’s made of your cunt, tapping against your clit until he finally presses inside. His body is a marvel and you’re blessed to be so acquainted with it as the length not pressing inside you grinds against your clit as he makes you take him as deep as your body will allow. Lord Sukuna has been known to be rash and unpredictable, a being of pure chaos when the mood strikes him, but when he’s with you like this everything he does is deliberate.

He’s rough but not destructively so. Yes, you’re bleeding as he bounces you in his lap, drawing a litany of breathless sounds from your lips, but he’s always intentional when drawing blood. You’ve been trained well in these years of marriage to take him. To weather any storm Lord Sukuna throws at you. His hands are bruising on your hips as he drags you up and down his length, hands that could shatter your bones with the slightest bit of effort and yet he only uses enough strength to hold you close. You’re not deluded enough to think that Lord Sukuna loves you, certainly not in the way a lover should, but he cares enough to treat you with a level of gentility.

“Thank you,” you babble it like a prayer, over and over. Worshiping at your husband’s altar for even the briefest thought given to your safety, your pleasure. It can never be said that Lord Sukuna is a neglecting lover, at least not with you. He’s everywhere all at once. Hands on your hips and at your breasts, pinching at the aching peaks of your nipples. His face is buried against your throat, teeth surely raising welts as his tongue laps at the taste of blood and sweat dampening your skin. You cling to him in turn, nails digging into the thick muscles of his arms with no hope of ever drawing blood. Still, he grunts out a laugh as you drag your dull nails across his skin, leaving nothing but the whisper of claw marks behind. An arm slips out from under your grasp, unbalancing you, but Lord Sukuna is quick to steady your boneless body as he reaches between you to take hold of his second cock. It’s thick and straining, leaking against your skin as he presses it in beside the first. The stretch is harsh, a stinging pinch between your legs soothed only in part by his thumb drawing shapes against your clit. He hushes you when your whining gets too loud, hands clamping tight to your hips to keep you from squirming away from taking all of him.

“Be a good wife and accept your reward.” Lord Sukuna hisses as he presses deep inside you. The weight of him settles like molten heat inside you, his hand pressing over the shape of himself through your stomach. “Hush, you can take it.” He hisses, biting at your cheek as tears well in your eyes once more. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a strange feeling to be so full all at once.

“My pretty wife.” He’s only this sweet when he has you close to breaking, teetering on the edge of insanity from the way he’s taking his pleasure from your body. “Look at me, woman. Keep your eyes on your king.” It’s hard to look anywhere else. He isn’t sweating, this is hardly more than a leisurely stroll for him, but the humidity has left his skin beaded with moisture. It makes him shimmer in the torchlight like the divine being that he is, wasting his time on a creature as lowly as you. It’s your blessing that he’s so enraptured with you at the moment. Your eyes slip shut, tears streaming down your cheeks as every corner of your body feels lit aflame, the heat only made worse as Lord Sukuna’s hand finds your jaw.

“I said, eyes. On. Me.” He growls. With a bit of resistance, your eyes flutter open, white light swimming at the edge of your vision as Lord Sukuna drags you to the precipice of insanity. He’s close. Far less careful and coherent as he drags you up and down his lengths with startling strength. He’s pressing against every sweet spot inside you, igniting a thousand flames at once that threaten to swallow you whole. There’s a pitchy mantra of “wait, wait, wait” playing on your tongue but it only seems to further entice your husband.

“You gonna sing for me, woman? Go on, let me hear something pretty when you come for your king.” He’s taunting you, laughing at how shrill your voice sounds. It nearly does sound like you’re singing as you wail his name, back bowing as he rips another orgasm from your spent body. It’s as quick as a lightning strike and nearly as blinding, eyes clouding white for a moment as you fight to keep your eyelids from fluttering. From taking your eyes off Lord Sukuna for even a moment. You feel yourself clawing at him, clinging and grasping to keep yourself grounded as pleasure shatters through your body. Vaguely you can hear Lord Sukuna laughing, something tinged dark with amusement as he works you through your orgasm. He has no patience to wait for you to regain your breath, to see the light of coherence return to your eyes. Instead, his hands grip tighter to your waist, nails biting into your skin as he works you faster over his cocks. His voice dips low, a rasping gravel as he grunts, squeezing every bit of his own pleasure from your body. It’s barely a change, just the slightest shift, but you’ve done this so many times that you can almost sense when he gets close.

Lord Sukuna gathers your loosening muscles back into some semblance of an embrace, holding you tight to his chest as he pushes your hips low enough for your bodies to meet in earnest. The feeling is a wet slide of skin against skin, the mess of your joined pleasure slicking up your bodies. It nearly feels like choking as he holds you still, the shape of him pressing every so slightly against the softness of your stomach. He’s more gentle now, but only by a hair’s breadth, as he thumbs over the shape of his body making a home for itself inside yours. There’s always a hint of softness at the edges of moments like this. A bit of the darkness bleeds from Lord Sukuna’s eyes as he guides your hips to grind against him, thumbing where he sees himself beneath your skin. Lord Sukuna has always been smart, his intelligence far exceeding that of your woefully undereducated mind.

There’s never been a time where you were certain of his thoughts, but in moments like these you think there’s a hint of curiosity sparkling in his eyes. Something desirous of the unknown and intangible. He moves in shallow thrusts, thumb dancing lazily over your puffy clit for only a moment more before he’s spilling inside you with a satisfied groan. But, still, he keeps you there. As if forcing your body to take to everything he’s given you. If it were up to you, your womb would quicken to give him a child; proof of your devotion. But even the fantasy sounds impossible. Lord Sukuna has shed his humanity and with it, you assume, his ability to continue his legacy by way of heirs. Though he hardly needs them.

Lord Sukuna is a shining beacon of the height of jujutsu, proof of what greatness can be achieved when you’re willing to go beyond the standards set out by society. He’s immortal, indomitable. Children would only be another jewel in his crown, more pawns to serve his greater will. And it’s unlikely such children of greatness will ever come to pass. In all your years of marriage, there’s never been a single moment where you thought for even a moment that Lord Sukuna’s seed took. And it likely never will. It’s wasted as he lifts you off of his softening length, everything he gave you dripping out into the spring water. The light flickers and for a moment it almost looks like there’s a spark of disappointment in his eye, then the torches shift again and the shadows are gone.

“You did well, woman.” He hums, running his hands over the length of your body. The heat of his palms and the babbling water works to soothe the aches and pains of being so thoroughly used by your behemoth of a husband. “Who do you love, wife?” He asks after the breath finally returns to your lungs. Of course it’s him. There is no one else. No man could compare, like a pebble being compared to a shining jewel.

“Good girl.” He says when you’ve finished your babbling. Like a true king, Lord Sukuna loves to hear his own praises and you’re more than happy to sing them. Sometimes it’s startling how perfectly the two of you exist together. He’s the sun and you’re a flower turning your face to gaze upon him always. Which of his other wives could ever share in a fraction of your devotion? No one will ever love Lord Sukuna as you do, save for maybe Uraume. Perhaps they don’t love him, but there is a fine line between love and admiration. The loyal servant comes bustling into the bathhouse after Lord Sukuna has had his fill of soft caresses and breathless praises.

The fact that both of you are bare makes no difference to Uraume. They lift you from Lord Sukuna’s arms with startling strength, hands frigid against your skin as they guide you to sit and go about drying your body and combing your hair. It’s always strange to be tended to by someone other than your personal maid, more so when it’s by the hands of Lord Sukuna’s most trusted servant, but it seems Uraume sees you as an extension of Lord Sukuna as much as you do. They dry and dress you, sending you back to your room so that they may speak privately with your husband. Some time later when the bells of the estate are tolling for the Hour of the Dog, the strumming of your koto is interrupted further by screaming. Something bloodcurdling terrified as it rings through the house, echoing into the snow speckled night. Vaguely you think of how the screaming sounds like First Mistress Jurina.

#sukuna ★#sukuna x reader smut #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader #jjk smut #★ mine!

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admiringlove · 4 months ago

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falling stars. the sixth part of @angstober is here! i really loved writing this one, ugh. anyways, happy reading <3 masterlist of the event can be found here.

being immortal was both a blessing and a curse.

zhongli had always been the god of contracts. it was the essence of his existence, a purpose etched into the very marrow of his being. he wasn’t always the composed, reserved man who carried the weight of centuries with quiet dignity, his gaze heavy with the nostalgia of eras long past. no, once, he had been sharp and unyielding—a man who lived and breathed duty. his loyalty to liyue was unshakable. liyue came first. always.

duty was his creed, his unwavering religion. the god of stone and earth, as immovable as the mountains he shaped. whenever his focus wavered, that mantra echoed in his mind: liyue comes first. duty comes first. it was an unrelenting rhythm that kept his soul in check.

but then, somehow, you happened.

you were the anomaly, the gentle rain that smoothed his jagged edges. he never quite understood how you slipped past the walls he’d spent millennia building. the god of contracts, once as steadfast as the stone he commanded, found himself softened—worn down not by time but by your presence. you were like the tide, subtle yet persistent, shaping him with a patience he didn’t know could exist. his rigid mountains melted into quiet hills, his soul drenched in the warmth of your laughter, the soft glow of fireworks, and a nostalgia he had never allowed himself to feel.

and now, for the first time, zhongli questioned where duty ended and where you began. you weren’t just a fleeting moment in his never-ending timeline. no, you were something far greater. you held his entire existence in your hands, like magic woven into your fingertips. you weren’t just his past—you were his present, his future, everything all at once.

and he hates that he’s slowly forgetting you. hates that he's still here, living, while it’s been eons since he last heard your voice, since the scent of you clung to his memory.

your scent. it was the first to fade, slipping through his grasp as the years stretched on. he remembers fragments—how you always smelled of the river, like the waters of qingce village clung to you. you loved the water, always said it felt like home. he’d once joked that you should have been born in fontaine, where the tides ruled, but you loved him long before you knew who he truly was.

you loved your god, and your devotion to rex lapis was so pure, so sacred, that it unsettled even him. most revered him with fear, with trembling awe, but you—no, you loved him as effortlessly as breathing. it's how he'd found you, standing before his statue, lighting incense in the stillness of prayer. he approached as zhongli, hands behind his back, watching as you offered your quiet supplications.

"did you know he's the eldest of the seven?" he murmured, his gaze lifting to the likeness of himself carved in stone. there was something serene in your posture, a calmness that baffled him. most would pray with reverence or dread, but you. you smiled softly as you waved the incense in the air, placing it at the statue’s base.

"everyone knows he's the eldest," you replied, casting him a sideways glance, "but most people don’t realize that barbatos is the second eldest."

zhongli blinked, a flicker of surprise playing at his lips. it was true—his old friend, the carefree anemo god, was the second oldest, though few knew this because of barbatos’ lighthearted demeanor.

"you seem well-versed in the ways of the gods," he remarked, curiosity piqued as he watched you. you chuckled, the sound light and warm. "my father’s a priest. i suppose that’s why. but i think rex lapis is different from the others."

zhongli’s interest deepened. he tilted his head. "how so?"

"you’ll laugh if i tell you," you teased, a grin tugging at your lips before you looked back at the statue, "but i think he’s a romantic. being the eldest must come with so much responsibility. i imagine he’s tired, weary from the weight of it all. from all of us."

zhongli frowned, something in your words striking a strange chord within him. "but that is his duty, is it not?" he asked, his brow furrowing, unsettled by the way your insight crawled beneath his skin.

you simply shook your head, smiling to yourself. "duty and purpose don’t always align, you know. rex lapis is a magnificent god, strong and wise. but i like to think he’s also present in the small moments, like an old friend. sometimes, i talk to him about my day."

zhongli’s gaze sharpened, a mix of amusement and suspicion in his eyes. "do you now?" he asked, voice low. "then perhaps he’s listening."

"if only," you laughed softly, the sound like wind brushing through leaves. "gods are mysterious creatures. i doubt they have the time to listen to a priest’s child ramble on about their mundane life."

if only you had known how closely he listened, how deeply your words had taken root within him, like seeds planted in the fertile soil of his heart. you were like water—gentle yet unyielding—flowing into the spaces between his thoughts, shaping him without him even realizing. after that day, you became something he could never quite shake, lingering like the soft glow of a lantern after dark—an ever-present warmth, like coming home after centuries spent wandering.

he finds you again, unexpectedly, sitting alone by the harbor in liyue city. there’s a heaviness to your expression, your brow furrowed as your eyes gaze out at the endless stretch of the sea, as if seeking solace in its waves. the wind tugs at your hair, carrying the salt of the ocean in the air, and you sigh—a quiet, resigned sound that makes something tighten in his chest. he watches you for a moment longer before making his way toward you.

"it’s you," he murmurs, his voice soft as the breeze, "from qingce village."

your head lifts slowly, and at first, your gaze holds no recognition, dulled by the weight of your troubles. but then, your eyes widen, lighting up with sudden relief. "you! by rex lapis, am i glad to see you."

his amber eyes, with their distinct diamond-shaped pupils, flicker in surprise. he hadn’t expected that reaction. you press on, your words tumbling out with a mixture of frustration and desperation. "this city is impossible. my father sent me here to assist a doctor with medicinal herbs, but i’m completely lost. and not one statue of morax inside the city! not one! where am i supposed to go every morning to pray?"

a small chuckle escapes him, low and warm, and he tilts his head slightly. "that is true. the nearest statue is just beyond the city’s borders, but it can be a dangerous journey. perhaps... you could join me for tea each morning instead. madame ping brews the finest oolong, and we often sit together in the high grounds before i start my day. you might even find your doctor there."

"really?" your face lights up, like the skies of liyue igniting during lantern rite, a spark of hope rekindled in your eyes. "you’d do that for me? include me in your routine, even though you barely know me?"

he smiles softly, settling onto the bench beside you. "you’re fond of rex lapis, aren’t you? so is madame ping. and so am i. i believe you’d make for good company."

"that’s... incredibly kind of you," you murmur, fingers loosening their tight grip on the straps of your bag, a hint of vulnerability slipping into your voice. "i never got your name, though."

he turns to face you, his gaze steady, the sunlight catching the red liner beneath his amber eyes, making them glow with a soft, almost ethereal light. "zhongli," he replies, watching you carefully, as though gauging your reaction.

you take in a slow breath, your eyes widening slightly as you look at him, something shifting in the air between you, fragile and significant all at once. "you know," you say, your voice a little softer now, "zhongli, you have a very familiar face."

he chuckles, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through the quiet of the harbor. "do i, now?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone. "i’ll take that as a compliment."

and so, the friendship between you and, unbeknownst to you, rex lapis began. you spoke of him in the way a devout follower might speak of their deity, yet with a warmth, a familiarity, that zhongli couldn’t quite grasp. it was as if, in your heart, rex lapis was not a distant god ruling from on high, but a cherished friend; someone you could confide in without fear. and that comforted him in a way nothing else had. for once, someone revered him not out of awe or terror, but out of love. someone placed rex lapis on a pedestal for reasons beyond his power, beyond his duty. simply because they cared for him, deeply, genuinely.

perhaps that was why fate had woven your paths together. to teach him that he was more than his role, more than the weight of his eternal duty. to remind him that his purpose did not need to be solely bound to protecting liyue until the end of time. there could be more—there was more.

"i don’t think i can love anyone as much as i love the god of geo," you once confessed, after finally mastering the confusing streets of liyue harbor. the two of you were descending the stone steps after your usual morning tea with auntie ping—though now, you had grown fond enough of her to call her that. zhongli’s brow raised at your words, his steps slowing to match your pace, for you were always a little slower, always taking your time. "what do you mean by that?"

"i don’t know," you sighed, your gaze flickering to the distant horizon, "i have this... strange relationship with rex lapis. i love him. i idolize him. i think of him as an old friend, someone i can share my burdens with. but i also feel that... if someone were to love me, it would be hard for me to return the same intensity. i think it would pale in comparison to the way i love him." your voice trailed off, quieter, more uncertain. "it’s strange. like i said, a strange feeling to have. i don’t even know why i’m telling you this."

zhongli’s eyes softened as he watched you, his lips curving into a gentle, knowing smile. "i believe the word you’re searching for is sacred," he said quietly.

you blinked, surprised by his response, and for a brief moment, you narrowed your eyes at him as if trying to figure something out. because that familiar feeling tugged at you again—like a jigsaw falling into place, though you couldn’t quite see the whole picture yet. the way he smiled at you, the way he seemed to understand. it made your heart skip, just a little.

and, without realizing it, you began to favor a certain funeral parlor consultant over the god you once idolized.

he made you smile wider than you ever had, more than you ever did for rex lapis. zhongli had quietly woven himself into the fabric of your life, so seamlessly that it left you baffled, wondering when it all began. your days started to revolve around him—sometimes even your nights. he would tell you stories of liyue’s ancient history as if he had witnessed every moment himself, painting vivid pictures of a time long past. it left you in awe, admiring him more with every tale, until the realization struck like a wave crashing against the shore.

you had come to love zhongli more than rex lapis.

the thought gripped you with quiet terror. the way his eyes would crinkle with a knowing smile, the way his soft chuckles echoed in the silence after you mentioned your god—it all made your heart stumble, beat after beat. he was hiding something, you knew it. and it wasn’t just you who noticed. even auntie ping, with her ageless wisdom, seemed in on the secret. zhongli had once called her an old friend, but just how old, you couldn’t quite tell.

"how did you meet auntie ping?" you asked one evening, crossing the bridge near the funeral parlor, heading towards dinner. he paused, a flicker of hesitation passing through his amber eyes. "i don’t quite remember anymore," he said quietly, "we’ve simply been friends for a very long time. there was another once, but... she’s gone now. her name was guizhong."

"was she beautiful?" the question left your lips before you could stop yourself. "was she clever?"

his soft laugh carried through the evening air. "immensely," he said, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. "we miss her, every now and then."

"did she..." your voice faltered as you stopped in your tracks. "did she pass away?"

he nodded, a touch of sadness lingering in his expression before he resumed walking. you remained rooted in place, pieces of a larger puzzle scattering through your mind. but it was as if your thoughts grew foggy whenever you were near him—like familiarity slipping through your fingers, just beyond reach. zhongli glanced back at you, tilting his head ever so slightly. "aren’t you coming?"

you murmured a soft “yes” and quickened your steps to catch up, brushing away the weight of your thoughts. "how did morax befriend cloud retainer?" you asked, steering the conversation back to familiar ground. he seemed to know so much more about your god than even your father, things lost to time.

and with every answer he gave, you found yourself more bewildered than before.

your curiosity always brought a quiet joy to zhongli, a chance for him to indulge in your questions, your wonder. at first, he thought nothing of it, simply an opportunity to share the knowledge he had gathered over centuries. but slowly, he found himself captivated, drawn to you in ways that puzzled even him. he started accompanying you outside the city, watching you in silence as you lit incense and knelt before the statue of rex lapis. but today, something was different. your expression had shifted, lips set in a thin, guilty line. like a river running cold, your posture stiffened as if weighed by an unspoken burden.

"is something troubling you?" his voice was gentle, though there was a faint edge of concern as he watched you stare up at the stone likeness of the god. you blinked, shaken from your daze, shaking your head with a quiet denial. but zhongli had known you long enough to see through the facade. "you’re different today. while you pray."

your throat tightened, words tangling within you. how could you admit that the man beside you, the one you’d come to know for mere months, had taken up more space in your heart than the god you had worshipped all your life? it was a storm within you, like water crashing through the valleys of your soul, eroding the bedrock of belief you had built.

"i can’t tell you," you murmured, turning your back to him. "this is between me and rex lapis."

"am i not your friend?" his voice was soft, almost too soft. "am i not as close to you as rex lapis is?"

he faltered then, realizing the weight of his words. what had he just revealed? he hoped the slip of his tongue wouldn’t shatter the delicate line he had walked all this time. you were clever—more clever than anyone he’d known—but perhaps your heart would refuse to see the truth.

yet why had he even said it? he was rex lapis, wasn’t he? so why did it matter that zhongli, the mortal, had become more important to you than the god? why did he feel envy, for his own self?

"you are not him," you whispered, a note of disturbance in your voice. "you are mortal. he is my god."

"he is your friend," zhongli replied quietly, searching your face, "and so am i. if something troubles you, something that disturbs your prayer, why not tell me? i don’t want to see you unhappy like this."

"i can’t," you insisted, your shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. "why don’t you understand-"

"but why not?"

"because i’m in love with you!" the words bursted from you, raw and trembling in the space between you both. your voice did not crack with tears, but the defeat in your eyes spoke of an agony deeper than tears could show. "and you’ve taken up more space in my life than my god. and that... that breaks me."

the confession hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, as if the world itself had stilled in the wake of your words.

"oh," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "i am sorry."

he watched as your face twisted in thought, a realization settling behind your eyes, something heavy and final. "i know," you murmured, turning away, your voice distant. "we should head back into the city before it gets dark."

"wait, i must tell you-"

"no, zhongli." you shook your head, your defeat palpable. "i know you don’t feel the same. it’s alright. i shouldn’t feel this way either. i’m supposed to love him more."

"but i do feel the same," he said, his voice suddenly firm, cutting through your words with a softness that startled you. "i feel the same, so why shouldn’t you?"

your mind went blank. his words left you utterly speechless, like the world had tipped sideways. you blinked up at him, confusion written across your furrowed brows, eyes glassy as you struggled to make sense of what he had just said. it felt almost sacrilegious. zhongli stepped closer, his hand finding your shoulder with the familiarity of an old friend. "it is why i want to spend every moment of my life with you. why i want you to stay by my side until my last breath. is that not fair?"

you stared at him, blinking rapidly, fighting back tears that threatened to spill. how could this be real? how could the man who had become your constant, your guide, feel the same way you did? he spoke again, his voice steady and warm, as though wrapping you in a promise. "if you love morax so much, then let’s draw a contract between us. that you will love me with the same intensity as you love him. and in return, i’ll help you love him more. i will tell you stories about him, i will show you more of liyue harbor, i will take you to the temples, and pray alongside you until your last breath—if that is what keeps you content."

his words washed over you like a tide, a promise carved from stone and time. you felt the weight of it, the gravity of his offer. this man, this mortal, who had unknowingly become the center of your world, was offering himself wholly to you—not in opposition to the god you revered, but alongside him, like two halves of the same whole. it was a contract, a binding of hearts, one that felt as sacred as the prayers you had once whispered at the foot of the statue.

and so another chapter of zhongli’s infinitely long life began. but you were not infinite—you were fleeting, a moment in time that would fade. you aged like the finest wines of mondstadt, while he remained the same: tall, revered, handsome. your hair greyed, lines formed at the corners of your eyes, and soon, you grew older than auntie ping. and then, just like that, you were gone.

the scent of you vanished with the passing breeze, the smell of the rivers from qingce village where you grew up, the fragrance of old history books you lovingly stored, cleaned, and kept in your home. all of it—gone.

but zhongli remembers. he remembers every lantern rite spent by your side, watching the fireworks burst in the sky, but always, always watching you instead. the way your eyes lit up in awe at the colors that painted the night sky—he treasures it more than any celebration. and even after you were gone, liyue continued to bustle, unchanged. and zhongli stayed the same.

he lived on, because immortality was both a blessing and a curse. every year, he would stand on the high grounds, watching the fireworks bloom in the heavens with a weight in his chest that only grew heavier with time. and every year, he thought of you—your boundless curiosity, your devotion that never wavered.

he remembers the day he found your letter, tucked away like a relic, jagged edges and all. the curiosity that once led you to him now led him to unfold that paper with trembling hands. your words were simple, but they cut deep.

you had told him to live a long life—how ironic. as if he could do anything but. to eat well, as if you were still there, cooking for him each morning and night. to drink tea with ping, because you knew the weight of his loneliness. and you told him you loved him, as if he didn't already know, as if he couldn’t feel it in the way you breathed life into everything around you.

and then, what struck him most, what lingered in the back of his mind even after centuries passed, was how you signed it.

"thank you for everything, rex lapis. i leave you with love."

it was the last thing he had from you, and yet it was more than enough to keep your memory alive—because in the end, you had known. you had always known.

in his long life, he had done countless great things, and shall do countless more still. as they say: the waters change course, but the mountains move not.

so zhongli continues to live. carrying your love with him like an echo in his heart, as eternal as he was.

#zhongli x reader #zhongli fluff #zhongli angst #rex lapis x reader #rex lapis #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact angst #genshin x reader #genshin angst #genshin impact zhongli #angstober #genshin impact fluff

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lightningant · 4 days ago

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Sometimes I wish Hermoine was not the Self Insert Woman who gets the girlboss polish because there is not a doubt in my mind that Hermoine going to school in the Marauders era would create the most NASTY school rival dynamic with Snape. They would hate everything about each other on a fundamental level. Hermoine would be trying to get Snape into detention nonstop and chastise him for his APPALLING and DANGEROUS spellcrafting until she needs to break a rule and then she's stealing his notes. Snape loathing her suck-up rule-abiding uncreative regurgitation of textbooks but unable to resist the urge to influence her. The Marauders bullying her for being a constant snitch finally giving Snape an in for a truce (and a Gryffindor insider who doesn't scoff at his beef). Hermoine vindictively going after his asshole friends. Lily who is reminded unduly of Petunia from her perspective annoyed that Snape is seemingly trading her out for someone who doesn't tolerate his shortcomings.

Snape did all that because he had no social equalizers it's time to subject him to a Hermoine who is also without those equalizers. No direction no emotional support just jagged edges shoved down each other's throats

#the DMV has more sauce than canon snamione but the great thing about fictional characters is that you can rewire them into pipe bombs

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vanteguccir · 8 months ago

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── ୨୧ !　𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗔𝗚𝗔𝗜𝗡

　　　　　　　　　𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 x reader

SUMMARY: Y/N is caught between the past and the present, struggling to overcome her love for Chris while trying to move on with Alex, a kind and understanding man. When Chris reappears in her life, Y/N is forced to confront her feelings and make difficult decisions.

WARNING: Crying, angst/comfort with a happy ending.

REQUESTED?: Yes, by @ecliphttlunar and @sturniolohisteric

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Ever since she was a teenager, Y/N had always wondered what death would feel like. Those who have experienced it are not here to tell stories of it. Would it be painful? Would she feel it squeeze her heart with its dark touch, or would she sigh for the last time in her sleep, letting the darkness take her without noticing the transition?

But now, for her, death was not the last breath escaping her lungs, nor the melodic sound of machines beside her body in a hospital room. It was something that drowned her from the inside out.

His style is infused throughout her closet, his smile carved into the Polaroids she's kept as memories for years. She could still hear his voice, everywhere, in the people passing by on the street, the same Boston accent fresh in her mind.

Dying was not a singular event but a collection of small moments, of broken promises and shattered hopes.

Y/N wondered if she would ever be able to erase those memories, or if his shadow would always be there, an inescapable presence around every corner, in every look.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The city skyline, jagged and imposing, reflected in the windows of the triplets' Los Angeles home. The rooms were simple, modern and decorated perfectly to suit their personalities, but they seemed cold and impersonal at that moment, devoid of the warmth that once marked their lives with Y/N, but especially that of one person, Chris. It had been six months since they broke up, but Y/N's absence permeated the air, a ghost haunting every corner.

Chris was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the framed photograph on the nightstand. It was an old picture of him and Y/N, taken during a trip to the coast where they were celebrating their two years together. Their smiles were wide and genuine, their arms wrapped in a tight hug. The sea breeze had tousled her hair, and her eyes shone with unspoken promises. Now, it seemed like a lifetime ago, a different era when happiness seemed to last forever.

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. Emma, his current girlfriend - or not anymore -, had left a few hours ago after a tense homemade dinner. They had been together for a few months now, but the connection felt forced, artificial. He tried to be present, to participate, but his mind always went back to Y/N. The laughter at the simplest jokes, the comfort of touch, the silent understanding that flowed between them effortlessly. With Y/N, he felt complete, understood, at home.

Meanwhile, across town, Y/N stood on the balcony of her new apartment, the city lights casting a soft glow on her face. She had also started seeing someone, Alex, a kind and patient soul who seemed to genuinely care. But try as he might, Y/N couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.

Alex was wonderful, but he wasn't Chris.

The memories of her time with Chris were a constant, painful reminder of what she had lost.

Y/N crossed her arms around herself, trying to ward off the cold that didn't just come from the cool night air. She remembered the nights spent in Chris's arms, the way he held her close, her back pressed firmly against his chest covered in Fresh Love's hoodies, his heartbeat sounding like a comforting beat against her ear. Those nights were full of whispered confessions and shared dreams, a sanctuary of intimacy that now seemed so far away.

Y/N wandered into the living room, unable to bear the sight of the painful memories any longer, it was comical how she could almost hear his loud laughter and whispered promises of love against her ears.

The girl poured herself a drink, hoping it would ease the pain, but she knew better. Alcohol might provide a temporary distraction, but it would never fill the void Chris had left.

She wondered if he thought about her, if he missed her as much as she missed him.

As the night grew darker, both Chris and Y/N found themselves reaching for the phone, the desire to hear the other's voice almost unbearable. But they stopped themselves, knowing it wouldn't change anything.

They really tried to move on and build new lives apart, but their hearts still belonged to each other. It was a cruel irony, to be so close and yet so far away, to love so deeply and yet be unable to be together.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The next day, Chris met Emma for lunch after fighting hard against Nick and Matt's complaints. He had to apologize and put an end on it.

She talked excitedly about her day, her eyes shining with excitement. Chris was smiling and nodding, but his thoughts were miles away. He wondered what Y/N was doing, if she was having lunch at her favorite Italian restaurant at that moment, if she was accompanied or alone, if maybe she found someone who made her feel complete again.

He felt a pang of guilt, knowing that Emma deserved someone who could give her all her attention, someone who wasn't haunted by the past.

It was not necessary to note that Emma soon noticed, again, his mental absence. A fervent discussion installed itself between both bodies, where Chris just nodded, knowing that he was on the wrong end, keeping his eyes down.

The boy left the restaurant without a girlfriend.

Meanwhile, Y/N was in a coffee shop with Alex, who was explaining a new project at work. She tried to focus, to be present, but her mind kept going back to Chris. She remembered how Chris listened intently to her, his eyes never leaving hers, making her feel like she was the only living person in the world.

With Alex, it was different. He was kind and caring, but there was no spark. There was no magic.

She felt suffocated.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Days turned into weeks, and both Chris and Y/N continued their charade, pretending that they were fine, that they had moved on. But in the quiet moments, when they were alone with their thoughts, the truth was inescapable. They were still in love, still yearning for each other, still incomplete. Their new lifes seemed like shadows, pale imitations of what they had shared.

One night, Chris was sitting by the huge window in the living room, looking out onto the sparsely populated street, feeling the emptiness in his heart almost suffocating him.

The boy fished his phone out of the front pocket of his hoodie, his finger hovering over Y/N's name. Should he call? Would it make any difference? He hesitated, torn between his desire and his fear of rejection.

Across the city, Y/N was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Alex had kissed her goodnight and quickly fallen asleep, but Y/N was wide awake. Her eyes, which roamed the darkness of the room tirelessly, found her cell on the bedside table, thinking for long seconds before picking it up, her heart pounding.

Her fingers scrolled through old messages from Chris, the words a bittersweet reminder of their love. She wanted to send a text, to say something, anything, to bridge the gap that had grown between them. But doubt gnawed at her.

What if Chris had moved on? What if her text only opened old wounds?

At that moment, as if guided by some invisible force, both Chris and Y/N decided to connect.

Chris took a deep breath and dialed Y/N's number, his heart racing with each ring. At the same time, Y/N typed a short, halting text: "I miss you."

The phone rang twice before Y/N's screen lit up with Chris' name. Her breath caught in her throat as she processed what she was seeing before sliding her thumb over the green button.

"Chris?"

"Y/N." He said softly, relief filling his voice.

Y/N's eyes filled with tears upon hearing the voice that her ears had begged to hear again. Her eyes darted briefly towards Alex before she slowly got up from her own bed, walking out of the room stealthily, towards the balcony.

"I was about to text you." The girl's voice came out in a timid whisper, her free hand curling into a fist of anxiety. "I miss you, Chris."

"I miss you too. Every day, every moment. Being without you… feels wrong." Chris let out a shaky laugh, a mixture of joy and pain.

They fell silent, the weight of their words hanging in the air. It was a painful truth they had been avoiding, but now it was exposed.

"Chris, do you think we made a mistake?" Y/N asked after long minutes of listening to his breathing on the other side, her voice shaking.

"I think about it every day." He admitted. "We thought we were doing the right thing, giving each other space, but all I felt was emptiness. Nothing and no one compares to you, Y/N."

"Oh, Chris." Tears streamed down Y/N's face, her teeth gripping her bottom lip in a death grip in an attempt to hold back the sobs.

"Can I see you?"

"Now? Chris, I... Alex is with me." Y/N shook her head, even though she knew he couldn't see her, sniffling as her fingers pressed her eyes lightly, trying to ease the tears.

"Right, Alex..."

Chris was silent for a moment, processing the situation. His mind was in turmoil, but the need to see her, to be with her, was overwhelming. He knew he couldn't wait any longer, that every moment away from her was torment.

"I understand." He said finally, clearing his throat awkwardly, trying to keep his voice steady. "But... Can we talk in person tomorrow? I really need to talk to you."

Y/N nodded. She knew they had to. Ignoring her feelings wouldn't get them anywhere. It would only hurt them more.

"I know. Can we meet tomorrow? Maybe at our place?"

Our place. The little cafe where they spent so many mornings together, laughing and planning the future. Chris's heart skipped a beat when he heard those words.

"Yes, of course. Tomorrow at ten?"

"It's a date." Y/N replied softly, feeling a mix of anxiety and hope.

After hanging up the call, Y/N remained sitting on the balcony, her mind rushing. Chris's words echoed in her head, and she knew she had to make a difficult decision. She looked inside the apartment, where Alex was sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the internal conflict she was facing.

After a few minutes, the girl took a deep breath and returned to her room. She sat in the corner armchair, hugging her knees and watching her casual date sleep. He seemed so calm, so serene, which made her feel a weight in her heart, the last thing she wanted to do was hurt him, but she knew she was already doing it just by being with him.

The hours passed slowly. Y/N couldn't sleep, anxiety gnawing at her insides as her fingers moved against each other frantically. Her thoughts were a tangle of memories, doubts, and hopes. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Chris's face, felt his touch, and heard his voice. And that made her more awake than ever.

Around seven in the morning, Alex started to move. He turned over in bed, ready to get up, looking for Y/N next to himself. When he didn't find her body, he opened his eyes slowly, blinking to adjust to the low light in the room, a consequence of the sun that invaded through the cracks in the white aluminum windows. His eyes quickly found the girl's silhouette in the armchair, and his confused expression turned to concern.

"Y/N?" He called softly, voice hoarse with sleep. "What are you doing there? How long have you been awake?"

"Alex, hey... I lost sleep." The girl met his eyes quickly, sadness and determination reflected in her eyes.

"Is everything okay?" Alex frowned, his orbs studying Y/N's facial expressions, noticing her discomfort.

"Alex, we need to talk."

"What happened? You look worried." He sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to find the right words, her eyes lowering to her fingers, which were clenching her palms in anxiety.

"I... need to be honest with you. Something happened tonight that made me realize a few things."

"What was it? You can tell me." Alex tilted his head, concern rising.

She slowly got up from the armchair and walked to the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress, next to him. Her right hand worked to find Alex's hand, feeling the warmth and gentleness in it, and that only made everything more difficult.

"Chris called me."

"Chris? Your ex-boyfriend?" Alex frowned slightly.

Y/N nodded, her tongue moistening her lips quickly, preparing to begin.

"Yes. We talked, and... I realized that I still have very strong feelings for him. I tried to move on, I tried to build something with you, but it's not fair. It's not fair to you, and it's not fair to me." She pressed her lips into a thin line, feeling Alex's fingers squeeze hers.

Alex was silent for a moment, processing her words. Finally, he sighed and looked down at his clasped hands.

"You still love him, don't you?"

"Yes, Alex. And it's not because you're not wonderful. You are amazing. But my heart… my heart, is still with Chris." Her voice broke slightly as her eyes filled with tears, her heart clenching in fear and guilt. "I'm sorry for holding you back for so long." A lone tear escaped, running down her cheek slowly.

"I appreciate your honesty, Y/N... I knew, you know? In a way, I felt like there was something you were holding back. Something that was keeping you from being completely with me." He squeezed her hand gently, his eyes full of understanding.

"Aren't you mad?" She raised her eyes to him, widening them in surprise at his response, sniffling as her free hand reached up to her own face, wiping away the single cold tear.

Alex shook his head slowly.

"No, I'm not. I'm sad, of course. I really like you, and I thought we could build something together, I had a million expectations. But I understand that you can't control your heart. And you were honest with me, and that's more than what a lot of people would do. I can't force you to stay with me."

Y/N let out a shaky breath, relieved by his understanding, feeling her heart lighter.

"I didn't want to hurt you, Alex. You deserve someone who can love you completely, without reservation. And I... need to work this out with Chris. See if there's still a chance for us."

"I hope you find what you're looking for, Y/N. And if things don't work out with Chris, I hope you find someone who makes you happy. You deserve it." Alex smiled sadly, but with genuine kindness.

She squeezed his hand one last time, feeling a rush of gratitude.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Y/N's head was a mess as she carefully dressed, choosing an outfit she knew Chris liked. As she looked in the mirror, trying to tame her hair, she remembered the lazy mornings when he would do this for her, a playful smile on his lips.

Chris was also anxious. He tried to hide his nervousness from Nick and Matt, but his brothers - who knew him more than he knew himself - noticed.

"You're going to see her, aren't you?" Matt asked, a knowing smile on his face as he spread peanut butter on his rice cracker, watching him from his seat at the dinner table.

Chris just nodded, taking big, quick gulps of his Pepsi.

"I have to do this. I need to know."

"Good luck." Nick muttered, patting him on the shoulder as he walked past him, sitting in the chair opposite Matt's. "We're rooting for you."

The cafe was almost empty when Y/N arrived. The girl chose a table at the back, where they usually sat and waited, feeling her heart beating wildly. Her eyes traveled frantically from the door to the window and back again, watching the passersby, trying to calm her nerves as she cracked her knuckles.

Chris arrived a few minutes later, still as handsome as she remembered. The boy stopped in front of the glass door of the establishment momentarily, his eyes sweeping the place, accompanied by his brow furrowed in confusion and anxiety, quickly meeting hers.

It was as if an instantaneous and joint spark ran through their bodies, both of them feeling a wave of emotions that almost knocked them over.

Chris took a deep breath, starting his steps towards her, sitting down with a shy smile in the free chair in front of her.

"Hey." Chris whispered, his voice soft, full of contained feelings, and only at that moment did Y/N understand how much she missed hearing the boy's voice in person.

"Hey." Y/N, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, an embarrassed nasal laugh escaping before she clears her throat, blinking rapidly.

The silence between them was not uncomfortable but full of unsaid things and pure feelings.

Finally, Y/N broke the ice.

"I... haven't stopped thinking about you, Chris. Ever since we split up, everything feels so empty."

Chris nodded, leaning his upper body on the base of the table and taking Y/N's hands - which were still tangled up in an act of nervousness -, interlacing their fingers gently.

"Me too. Nothing and no one could fill the void you left. I tried to move on, I really did, but it's impossible. You're the person I love, and it took me so long to notice that. It cost me almost losing you completely."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. They both knew it wouldn't be easy, that there would be many things to resolve, but at that moment, all that mattered was that they still loved each other.

"I don't know what it's going to be like." Y/N resumed, her voice shaking as her eyes traveled from blue eyes to pink lips. "But I know I want to try, Chris. I want to rebuild what we lost. I can't let you go. Not again."

"I also want that." He responded quickly, his voice increasing in volume significantly, squeezing her hand tighter. "I know we made mistakes, but I want to fix them. I want you in my life, Y/N. I can't live without you. I don't want to."

The relief and joy that flooded Y/N's features were undeniable. For the first time in months, she felt like there was hope that they could find a way back to each other.

They spent hours talking, remembering the good times and acknowledging the mistakes of the past. They decided that they wouldn't rush things, that they would take it all one step at a time, but most importantly, they would be on this journey together.

When they left the cafe, hand in hand, they both felt that a new chapter was actually beginning. Maybe there were still obstacles to overcome, but they knew that as long as they had each other, they could face all of it. Their love, despite all the challenges, was strong and truthful, and that was all they needed to start over.

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ariiamgoblin · 1 year ago

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I kept on thinking about the idea of the scars...

Note: my mother tongue is Spanish, so the translation of this little text is made with my basic knowledge and an online translation tool. I apologize for any mistakes that the translation may have, and thank you for understanding. Spanish version under the cut!

—The past

The faint moonlight spilled across his skin, splashing him with silvery reflections. Silence filled the room, interrupted only by the murmur of the gentle breeze that drifted through the large glass windows, whispering through the velvet and crystal.

The goblin city glittered under the blanket of night, tucked into a dark, billowing sky, motionless before the castle that towered above it. The goblin city, so still, so calm, that the sight of it through the great window seemed almost an illusion.

Jareth's chest swayed with his breathing, so faint, the movement was almost imperceptible. The ruffles of his shirt spilled down his chest, down his sides, exposing much of his scarred torso. Past whitish and pinkish marks from wounds of all sizes dotted his chest and sides. The largest, thick and jagged, appeared on his right side, extending upward, almost to his heart.

With a gentle movement he brought his hand to that scar, stroking its edge slowly, wearily. His narrowed eyes stared out the window, lost in the tide that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Lost in the memories of the past.

—El pasado

La tenue luz de la luna se derramaba por su piel, salpicándolo con reflejos plateados. El silencio colmaba la habitación, viéndose interrumpido sólo por el rumor de la brisa suave que se colaba por las grandes cristaleras, susurrando a través del terciopelo y el cristal.

La ciudad de los goblins relucía bajo el manto de la noche, arropada por un cielo oscuro y ondulante, inmóvil ante el castillo que se alzaba sobre ella. La ciudad de los goblins, tan quieta, tan en calma, que su visión recortada a través del gran ventanal parecía casi una ilusión.

El pecho de Jareth se mecía con su respiración, tan tenue, que el movimiento era casi imperceptible. Los volantes de su camisa se derramaban por su pecho, por los costados, dejando a la vista gran parte de su torso, colmado de cicatrices. Marcas de heridas pasadas, blanquecinas y rosáceas, de todos los tamaños, salpicaban su pecho y los costados. La más grande, gruesa e irregular, aparecía en su costado derecho, extendiéndose hacia arriba, casi hasta su corazón.

Con un movimiento suave llevó su mano hasta aquella cicatriz, acariciando su borde despacio, cansado. Sus ojos entornados miraban al otro lado de la ventana, perdidos en la marea que se extendía hasta más allá de donde alcanzaba la vista.

Perdidos en los recuerdos del pasado.

First post: https://www.tumblr.com/ariiamgoblin/718284307454722048/ever-since-i-saw-the-movie-for-the-358th-time-a

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rogueshadow1124 · 5 months ago

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LOST AND FOUND

[Ryomen Sukuna x reader]

Summary: back in the heiran era Y/N and Sukuna found each other but Y/N disappeared just as quickly. Now it's far in the future, a new era, but what was to come.

Word count: 1595

Warnings: none.

In the ancient era of the Heian Period, Ryomen Sukuna ruled over all with an iron fist. He was the undisputed King of Curses, feared by all who dared to cross his path. His power was legendary, his cruelty unmatched. The very mention of his name caused shudders of terror to ripple through the land. But there was one person who had not feared him—one person whose presence softened the jagged edges of his monstrous soul. Y/N Y/L/N.

Y/N was a mystery, a wanderer who had appeared one fateful day in Sukuna’s life, completely oblivious to the terror he commanded. She had stumbled into his domain, her life fragile and flickering, yet her spirit unyielding. For reasons even Sukuna couldn’t explain, he had spared her, kept her by his side instead of obliterating her as he had done to so many before. Over time, their bond deepened, and for the first time, the King of Curses felt something strange, something foreign—a tenderness that gnawed at the darkness in his heart.

But just as quickly as she had appeared, Y/N vanished, slipping from his grasp without a trace. The years that followed were filled with rage, frustration, and a hollowness that Sukuna could never fill. His wrath grew more terrifying, his cruelty more sadistic, all because the one person who had brought him any semblance of peace was gone. Eventually, Sukuna was defeated, executed by the combined forces of Japan’s most powerful sorcerers, but even as his body was sealed, his mind lingered on Y/N.

He never forgot her.

Centuries later, Sukuna awoke in the body of a boy named Yuji Itadori. The world had changed—its people, its culture, and its technology—but the dark, brooding anger that swirled within Sukuna remained the same. Itadori was nothing more than a vessel, a container for Sukuna's immense power. In this new world, Sukuna sought nothing but the restoration of his former strength, eager to reign over the weak and claim his place as the King of Curses once again.

But something unexpected happened.

As Sukuna adapted to this unfamiliar time, bound to the whims of the young and surprisingly resilient Yuji, he began to notice an eerie familiarity. A presence, almost imperceptible at first, haunted his senses like a whisper from a past he had long tried to bury. For weeks, it was nothing more than a feeling—a fleeting sensation of déjà vu. But one day, while Itadori was on a mission with his comrades, Sukuna sensed it clearly, an unmistakable tug in the pit of his soul.

It was Y/N.

The air was heavy with the scent of rain as Itadori, Megumi Fushiguro, and Nobara Kugisaki approached an abandoned shrine in the heart of Tokyo. The sky was dark, thick clouds rumbling with the threat of a storm. The mission had been simple enough—exorcise a low-level curse that had been terrorizing the area. But the closer they got to the shrine, the more uneasy Itadori felt.

Suddenly, Sukuna stirred within him, more forceful than ever before.

"Itadori," Sukuna’s voice dripped with an uncharacteristic urgency, “stop.”

"What? Why?" Itadori muttered, confused by the sudden demand.

"Stop moving. There’s something here… something I need to see."

Despite his better judgment, Itadori hesitated, coming to a halt as the others glanced back at him, perplexed.

“Is something wrong?” Fushiguro asked, his brows furrowed in suspicion.

But Itadori’s focus was inward, grappling with the sudden shift in Sukuna’s demeanor. The curse had never been like this—never this intense, this… frantic.

Before he could respond, the air in front of them shimmered. The faint outline of a figure emerged from the shadows, bathed in the dim light of the setting sun. A woman, her silhouette familiar in ways that sent chills down Itadori’s spine.

She stepped into the light, her form becoming clearer, and Sukuna—locked deep within the confines of his vessel—felt the earth shatter beneath him.

It was her. It was Y/N.

Sukuna’s heart, if such a thing still existed in that hollow chest of his, slammed against his ribs. He had convinced himself that Y/N was gone, lost to time like the rest of his ancient past. Yet here she stood, in the same flesh, the same soft features that had once haunted his dreams. Her eyes, wide and confused, scanned the group before landing on Itadori.

On him.

On Sukuna.

"Who are you?" Nobara asked, her voice steady, though tinged with wariness.

The woman’s gaze never left Itadori, and Sukuna knew she recognized him—or rather, what was inside of him. It was as if she could see through the boy, beyond the surface, and into the dark pit where Sukuna's soul resided.

Y/N’s voice trembled when she finally spoke, “Ryomen... Sukuna?”

The sound of her voice—it was like a knife twisting in his chest. How many years had passed? How was she still here? How could she still be alive?

Itadori could feel Sukuna’s overwhelming surge of emotions, emotions that he had never associated with the malevolent curse. For once, the King of Curses wasn’t angry, wasn’t vengeful—he was something else. Shocked? Unsettled?

Sukuna forced himself to the surface, taking control of Itadori’s body with a wave of energy that made the boy's companions stumble back.

"Sukuna!" Fushiguro growled, his fists clenching in preparation for a fight.

But Sukuna wasn’t interested in them. His eyes were fixed on Y/N, his gaze sharp and disbelieving as he towered over her, standing in a body that wasn’t truly his.

“How are you here?” Sukuna’s voice was low, dangerous, yet laced with something akin to wonder. “You should be dead. Long dead.”

Y/N’s eyes were wide, brimming with the weight of centuries of memories. She stepped forward, her face pale but resolute, as if searching for some remnant of the man she had once known within the demon now inhabiting a stranger’s body.

“I—I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice fragile, trembling. “I don’t know how I’m here. One day I was in your time, and the next… everything was different. I’ve been searching for answers, for you… ever since.”

Sukuna’s expression hardened, though his emotions swirled chaotically beneath the surface. His memories of Y/N—of the years they had spent together—came rushing back, vivid and raw. She had been the only person to ever see him as something other than a monster, and it had driven him mad when she disappeared.

He had scoured the earth, razed villages, and destroyed kingdoms, all in a vain attempt to find her, to reclaim what had been taken from him. Yet, even in his most vicious moments, he had never imagined she would be here—in this time, in this world.

"You left," Sukuna growled, the bitterness in his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "You vanished without a trace. Why?"

Y/N’s face twisted in pain as she tried to piece together the fragmented memories of her past. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t even remember what happened. One moment I was with you, and the next… everything was gone. I was alone. I’ve been alone for centuries.”

Her words hit Sukuna harder than he expected. Centuries. She had been alive all this time, wandering a world that had forgotten her. The thought of her suffering, of her searching for him while he had been sealed away, ignited something deep within him—a fury that had nothing to do with curses or power.

"Why didn’t you come for me sooner?" Sukuna’s voice was dangerously low, but there was an undercurrent of desperation in it.

Y/N shook her head, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I didn’t know where to look. I didn’t know if you were even alive. I’ve been trying—trying to find you, to understand why I’m still here, why I haven’t aged or died.”

For the first time in his long, violent existence, Sukuna found himself at a loss for words. The King of Curses, the monster that had terrorized the Heian era, stood frozen in the face of something he had never known how to confront—vulnerability. Y/N was the only person who had ever made him feel anything beyond the lust for power and destruction, and now, centuries later, she stood before him, just as broken as he was.

In a rare moment of clarity, Sukuna released his grip on Itadori’s body, allowing the boy to regain control. Itadori stumbled, gasping for air, his eyes wide in confusion as he tried to process what had just happened.

But Y/N’s gaze never left Sukuna, even as Itadori looked at her with bewilderment. She knew who she was speaking to, even if the body was not his own.

“Ryomen,” she whispered, her voice soft and aching. “I never stopped searching for you.”

Itadori, still recovering from the sudden loss of control, glanced between Y/N and his comrades, unsure of what to do. But before he could say anything, Y/N stepped closer, her hand trembling as she reached out to touch Itadori’s chest—Sukuna’s chest.

“I don’t know why fate has brought us here,” she murmured, her fingers ghosting over Itadori’s shirt as if she were trying to reach the man buried beneath. “But I’ve been waiting for this moment for longer than I can remember.”

And for the first time in centuries, Sukuna—the King of Curses, the most feared being to have ever walked the earth—felt something other than rage. It was the faintest glimmer of hope, a small flicker in the endless darkness that consumed him.

It was Y/N. And she was here.

#ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu sorcerer #x reader #x y/n #jjk #sukuna x reader #sukuna #king of curses #jjk x reader

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nihilityuniverse · 6 months ago

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𝟎𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐱 𝐅𝐄𝐌! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ 𝗦𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿 ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇʏᴠᴀᴛ 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗕𝗼𝘀𝘀.

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Minors do not interact

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Story inspired by Acheron's Lore, Power, and Personality...

ENG is not my First language

I do not own Genshin Impact or any of the pictures used.

Do not Repost

Story is also available at Wattpad

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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟖

𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐨 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐎𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐥

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Guyun Stone Forest.

A place where the echoes of a forgotten era still linger, the jagged cliffs standing like silent tombstones for the old gods.

It was here, amidst these towering stones, that Morax, now known as Zhongli, once clashed with Osial, a god and sea monster of unimaginable power. The stone lances that pierce the islands are the remnants of that fierce battle, each one a testament to the violence and destruction that reshaped the land.

Now, bruised and battered, Zhongli stands beside you, having guided you here by your command. You stand at the edge of the highest cliff, your gaze fixed on the ocean where Osial lies sealed beneath the ruins of the Jade Chamber.

The waves crash below, quiet yet chaotic, as if they too remember the horrors buried in the deep. The sky above is shrouded in grey clouds, a fitting shroud for the sorrow that hangs in the air.

Your eyes, usually cold and unyielding, hold a deep sadness as you stare into the distance. This place, once filled with lively memories and the warmth of your first love, now only reminds you of loss and betrayal. The memories of joy that once flourished have long since faded, leaving only the harsh reality of mortality and the fragility of existence.

This is where it all ended — where your belief in the worth of mortals began to waver. The same place where your faith was shattered, and where the light of your love was extinguished, leaving only the lingering question of whether any of it was ever truly worth it.

You remember his eyes — those stark, marine blue eyes that gazed into yours with a gentleness you had never known. It was as if he saw you for what you truly were: something fragile, something that could shatter at any moment. In his gaze, there was a softness, a tenderness that made you feel different, something almost like hope.

Before him, your life had been nothing but a long, lonely journey through the cosmos. You wandered from planet to planet, from one universe to another, without a purpose, without a destination. You fought, you killed, you survived. That was all you knew.

Those who crossed your path, who dared to stand against you, became nothing more than casualties in your relentless march. The stars themselves were silent witnesses to your existence — an existence without meaning, without a place to call home, without anyone waiting for you at the end of your journey.

You were lost, adrift in a sea of countless stars, each one a reminder of the infinite emptiness you felt inside. You had no roots, no ties, no love. All because you followed the path of Nihility, presided over by the Aeon IX. You were an Emanator, an anomaly that should not exist. The Emanator of Nihility.

Your very presence was a harbinger of war, a force that could spark countless conflicts across the galaxy. And yet, despite all this, he looked at you with those soft, understanding eyes, as if you were not a harbinger of destruction, but a fragile being in need of care.

He could see the void within you, the emptiness that had consumed you long ago. He knew you had lost the will to live, that your existence had been reduced to nothing more than a series of battles and bloodshed. He understood that you had only known fighting, killing, and surviving. And yet, he looked at you as if you were something precious, something worth saving.

As you stand on the cliff, staring out at the ocean where Osial is sealed, those memories come rushing back.

Will he still remember you? Will he recognize you? Will he still be alive, or has he become nothing more than a mindless beast, driven by a desire for destruction?

You don't know. The past, as you know, always returns to Nihility. But even so, you find yourself unable to let go of him, of the memories you shared.

For so long, you have believed that all that is past is meaningless, destined to fade into nothingness. But here, now, you find yourself clinging to those memories, to the gentle gaze of the one who saw you not as a weapon, but as a person.

And you wonder, for the first time in a long time, if perhaps there is something in this vast, empty universe worth holding on to.

"Follow me." Your voice, cold and detached, broke the silence as you commanded Morax, your presence both calm and aloof, though tinged with an unspoken sadness.

Without a second thought, you leapt from the cliff's edge, landing effortlessly on the sands below. The impact was insignificant, as if gravity itself dared not challenge you.

Zhongli followed suit, maintaining a respectful distance, his gaze occasionally drifting to the wound on your neck, where dried golden blood clung like tarnished gold.

You strode towards the ocean, your heels sinking slightly into the icy water. Without so much as a pause, you raised your right arm and, with a single, effortless motion, slashed through the air.

The ocean responded instantly, parting cleanly down the middle, as though nature itself bowed to your will. The walls of water stood tall on either side, held in place by your mere intent, defying every natural law.

Zhongli's eyes widened in awe, a silent acknowledgment of the power you wielded. There was no doubt in his mind now — you were not just a force of nature; you were the Creator of Teyvat.

Without a second glance, you began to walk through the parted sea, your heels clicking against the exposed seabed, the sound echoing eerily between the towering walls of water.

Fishes swam alongside you, trapped within the suspended ocean, their movements graceful yet confined. From a distance, the sunken Jade Chamber came into view, its once-grand structure now a shadow of its former glory.

"We need to hurry," you said, your voice resolute, your pace quickening as your thoughts centered on one thing — Osial.

You finally stand before the sunken Jade Chamber, the remnants of its grandeur submerged beneath the ocean's surface.

As you approach, you feel the unmistakable pulse of elemental energy radiating from beneath the water, a force both powerful and familiar.

This energy — Osial's energy — wraps around you like a long-lost embrace, filling you with a bittersweet comfort.

Memories flood back, clear and vivid, of the times he would conjure a massive heart out of water, floating in the air, with the words 'I Love You!!!' written boldly beside it.

He had always been so proud of his displays, a creature of immense power who wielded it not for destruction, but to create beauty and express his affection.

Despite the stories that have twisted his image over the centuries, you know the truth — Osial never sought to harm the innocent, never reveled in chaos. He loved to fight, yes, but it was always with purpose, always with restraint.

You clenched your right fist, this time wearing your metallic finger guards before tilting your head to Zhongli, "Unseal Osial." You ordered, leaving no room for an argument.

Zhongli stepped forward, his expression serious as he channeled his elemental energy. His amber eyes began to glow with the power of Geo, and in response, the Jade Chamber shimmered with the same golden light.

The structure cracked, the stone and debris crumbling away as it was consumed by his energy. Piece by piece, the Jade Chamber disintegrated into a cloud of dust, revealing the true source of its power — a sealed barrier, glowing faintly with an ancient light.

Inside the barrier, you saw him — Osial, the Overlord of the Vortex, his form massive and imposing, a five-headed hydra with a body of swirling water. His presence, even in slumber, was overwhelming. Your eyes widened as you took in the sight, your heart tightening with longing.

The barrier around Osial began to glow brighter, its light intensifying as Zhongli extended his hand, focusing his power on the seal that bound the creature. With a final surge of energy, he removed the seal, and in that moment, the barrier shattered into fragments of light, dissipating into the air.

Freed from his imprisonment, Osial roared with fury and liberation, the sound echoing across the ocean and shaking the very earth beneath your feet.

The ocean itself seemed to tremble in response, waves crashing violently against the remnants of the Jade Chamber. Osial's enormous form, now fully unleashed, surged forward, his roar reverberating through the air, a powerful and primal sound that signaled his return to the world.

You could feel Osial's elemental energy crackling in the air, a familiar yet overwhelming force that once brought you comfort.

Osial's five hydra heads thrashed wildly, each one a towering, serpentine figure made entirely of water, their eyes glowing with an intense, almost blinding light. The ocean rose to meet him, waves towering like mountains as he unleashed his wrath upon the world. His power was immense, a force of nature that few could ever hope to challenge, let alone survive.

But you weren't here to fight — at least, not to harm him. The thought of cutting down the one being who once showed you love, who once made you feel something beyond the void, weighed heavily on your heart.

You could still remember his gentle voice, his playful nature, the way he would create hearts out of water just to make you smile. Yet, here he was, consumed by rage and destruction, no longer the Osial you once knew.

He struck first, all five heads lunging at you simultaneously, their jaws snapping with the intent to tear you apart. You moved with lightning speed, your body reacting instinctively as you dodged his attacks, your form a blur against the backdrop of the stormy sea.

Each of his strikes was a testament to his power, each movement capable of leveling mountains and causing tsunamis. But you were faster, your movements precise, calculated. You dodged, twisted, and weaved through his onslaught, refusing to counter with lethal force.

"Osial, please... stop this," you whispered, though you knew he couldn't hear you, couldn't understand the pain in your voice.

He responded with another attack, a jet of water so forceful it cut through the ocean itself, aimed directly at you. You spun out of its path, the sheer speed of your movements causing the air around you to crackle with energy.

But despite your evasions, Osial's attacks grew more relentless, his anger fueling his power. Each missed strike seemed to enrage him further, and you could feel the sorrow in your heart deepen with every blow you dodged.

His fury was palpable, a mix of betrayal and pain that resonated with the turmoil within you. He was no longer the gentle god you once knew; he was a creature of pure elemental fury, driven by a desire for vengeance that you couldn't quench. But even so, you couldn't bring yourself to strike him down — not yet.

Osial lunged at you again, and this time you countered, a swift and precise movement that sent a shockwave through the air, deflecting his attack just enough to send him reeling back.

The force of your counter rippled through the ocean, parting the water beneath you as if cutting through the very fabric of reality itself. But still, you held back, refusing to unleash the full extent of your power against him.

"I don't want to hurt you, Osial," you said, your voice trembling with the weight of the words.

"But I can't let you continue like this..."

Osial's response was another furious assault, his heads snapping and thrashing with unrelenting aggression. You continued to dodge, countering only when necessary, each strike a reminder of the bond you once shared, now shattered beyond repair.

Your heart ached with every blow you deflected, knowing that each moment you held back, the more dangerous he became — not just to you, but to everything around him.

Then, in a moment of clarity, you knew what had to be done. It was the only way to stop him, the only way to save him from the madness that had consumed him.

"Please, forgive me..." you murmured, your voice trembling with emotion. "I promise we will be together... Please, have a bit more patience."

With a heavy heart, you unsheathed your Divine Key, Nihility. Its monstrous power combined with yours created a shockwave that rippled through the air, a testament to the immense strength you wielded, yet it was far from its true, awakened state.

As Osial lunged at you once more, you moved with a speed that defied comprehension, dodging his attack and positioning yourself above him. In one fluid motion, you slashed downward with your blade, the force of your strike so powerful that it seemed to tear through the very air, creating a shockwave that reverberated through the ocean. The first of Osial's heads was severed, the hydra's water-like form dissipating into mist as it fell away.

A roar of pain and fury erupted from Osial, but you didn't stop. With a heavy heart and tears in your eyes, you slashed again, cutting off the second head, then the third, and finally the fourth.

Each strike shattered the air, each slash tearing at the fabric of the dimension itself. The ocean around you trembled as the power of your attacks broke through the barriers of reality, the very sky above you cracking like glass.

As the final head fell, Osial's massive form began to collapse, his once mighty power fading into nothingness. But instead of sinking into the ocean, his body was drawn into the cracks in the dimension, the force of your slashes creating a rift in the very fabric of space. The rift widened, pulling Osial into a dark, endless void, a dimension you had inadvertently created through your immense power.

Osial's remaining head, the last vestige of his consciousness, turned to look at you one final time, and for a brief moment, you saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes — a glimmer of the Osial you once knew. It was a fleeting moment, but it was enough to break your heart all over again.

"Please rest... my dear," you whispered, as the rift closed around him, sealing him away in a place where he could no longer cause harm, but also where he could no longer be harmed.

"You will return to normal soon... The Doctor will see to it..."

The ocean slowly returned to its normal state, the waves calming as if nothing had happened. But you knew better.

You stood there, alone, your heart heavy with the weight of what you had just done. The sadness, the pain, the love — all of it mixed into a single, overwhelming emotion that threatened to consume you.

Would you ever see him again, as he once was? Would the warmth of his smile return, or was this truly the end of the Osial you had loved? You didn't know. But for now, you had done what you must, even if it meant carrying the burden of that sorrow alone.

You looked out at the horizon, the remnants of the rift barely visible, and allowed yourself to grieve, to mourn the loss of what once was, and to carry the burden of the decision you had made.

"...Let's go home, Osial," you whispered, your voice trembling with sorrow as you took one last, lingering look at the remnants of the rift where he had disappeared.

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Your heels sank into the wet earth with each step, leaving shallow imprints as you walked through the rain-soaked landscape of Sumeru, heading back to Snezhnaya.

The red paper umbrella you held aloft provided little protection against the downpour, but you didn’t mind.

Your crystal-embedded dress shimmered faintly beneath the large, heavy coat that shrouded your form, the hood pulled low over your head, concealing your sorrowful, emotionless face.

Do you still remember the story of the unknown lady?

In ages long past, she was spoken of in hushed tones, her beauty silent yet profound, a mortal with a presence akin to the gods. She captured the attention of Morax, the God of Contracts, and became his second lover.

His first love, Guizhong, wise and gentle, had already held a cherished place in his heart, creating what seemed to be a harmonious trio, bound by mutual respect and love.

But in the shadows, envy festered. Osial, the Overlord of the Vortex, was consumed with jealousy. He coveted what Morax had — especially the Unknown Lady. And so, a battle of life and death erupted between these deities, a clash that shook the earth and altered the course of history.

Rex Lapis emerged victorious, sealing Osial beneath the ocean’s depths, and Guizhong stood faithfully by his side until her death. The Unknown Lady, however, vanished, her fate lost to time.

So...

Do you still remember the story of the unknown lady?

It was all a lie.

Because...

The victor writes history.

And the victor can always twist the truth to their liking.

A long, long time ago, before the Archon War had even begun, there was a beautiful lady whose name was never known. She was a mortal, yet she moved among the gods. She was not Morax’s lover — no, she was the beloved of Osial, the Overlord of the Vortex.

Morax saw her, and despite having Guizhong, he was captivated by her beauty, falling deeply in love. Guizhong, however, harbored feelings for Osial, a secret love that turned bitter.

She whispered lies, spreading rumors that the Unknown Lady was unfaithful, that she was entangled with Morax. When these poisonous words reached Osial’s ears, his heart was filled with fury, and a cataclysmic battle erupted between him and Morax.

In the end, it was Osial who lost, sealed away at the bottom of the ocean, not because he was evil, but because of a lie — a cruel rumor that twisted love into hatred and set the world ablaze.

Osial was never the villain.

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As you entered the dense forest of Sumeru, the steady rhythm of rain against the leaves was interrupted by a faint wailing.

At first, you dismissed it, assuming it to be some distant creature, but as the sound grew softer, almost desperate, a reluctant curiosity tugged at you, urging you to follow.

The ground beneath your heels was soft and muddy, your steps sinking into the earth as you moved through the underbrush, the cold rain seeping into your clothes.

The crying became clearer, more distinct, guiding you deeper into the heart of the forest. Pushing aside wet branches and overgrown foliage, you found yourself in front of a small, hollowed tree.

There, nestled within the hole, was a baby, hidden from sight and shielded from the rain by the natural curve of the trunk.

Your eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the infant, its cries now loud and clear in the stillness of the forest. You quickly scanned the area, searching for any sign of the baby’s parents, but there was nothing — no footprints, no trail, only the sound of the rain and the rustling leaves.

The child was alone, wrapped in a simple, thin cloth that did little to protect it from the cold. You noticed the baby's shivering, its tiny body trembling as the wind blew harshly through the trees.

With a moment’s hesitation, you reached out and lifted the baby from the hollow, unsure of how to properly hold such a delicate being.

The weight of the small life in your arms felt foreign, unsettling, yet something within you softened. You gently tucked the infant beneath your cloak, holding it close against your chest in an attempt to share your warmth. The baby’s cries quieted slightly as it nestled into your embrace.

"What a poor child..." you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, devoid of the usual emotion, yet carrying a faint hint of something more — perhaps a trace of the sorrow you so often kept hidden.

Why would anyone abandon their own child? A baby is so weak, so defenseless — an easy target for monsters and wild animals alike.

The thought was incomprehensible to you, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. You will never understand humans...

As you looked down at the small, fragile life now resting peacefully in your arms, a new question began to form in your mind:

What should you do with this little one, who has found safety in your reluctant embrace?

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#creator reader #genshin impact #genshin x reader #yandere genshin x you #aeon #yandere genshin impact #genshin x female reader #osial #Osial x you #0th harbinger #angst #genshin x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #various x reader #yandere x y/n

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tha-wrecka-stow · 10 months ago

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#soul and r&b #soul #r&b #rnb #r&b/soul #music #1990s #90s #jagged edge #gotta be #i gotta be #a jagged era #so so def #so so def records #jermaine dupri #gif

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creativeashproductions · 10 months ago

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Shadows of Haven // Luke Castellan

IN WHICH: Reader's been a sleeper agent for Kronos longer than most campers have been at Camp Half-Blood. Patiently waiting for the last piece of the plan it's a pleasant surprise that that piece happens to be the boy who see reader as his haven.

Warnings: Swearing, angst, hatred of the gods, dark!reader, manipulation vibes, Kronos mention, talk of death, and talk of betrayal.

Pairing: Luke Castellan x fem!reader (nicknamed Haven)

Words: 1.1k

A/N: I binge-read all of the PJO books and the Heroes of Olympus books. And the idea of the reader being in cahoots with Kronos and nudging Luke to join Kronos has been festering in my brain since the last episode.

Masterlist

You’d known Camp Half-Blood longer than most of the campers. Call it cruel, but it was a mixture of having no mortal parent and also watching naive, wannabe heroes stupidly dying for the gods. You had no love for the spawns, how they were abandoned by their godly parent and spent their short, meaningless lives trying to make them proud.

It made you sick.

It made you sicker that one of those gods was sentenced to be camp director. Not only did you have to hear about the gods from the demigods, but you also had to breathe the same air as a god.

And you couldn’t speak openly about it with anyone at camp either. No one shared your disgust or your thirst for vengeance. To change things. You want glory, too. But you didn’t want the novelty glory these children wanted. The glory that came with the plan that had been brewing ever since you were found nestled in a bassinet on the stoop of a house that never became your home.

Your skin itched to leave the climate-controlled bubble of Camp Half-Blood and finally put the plan in motion. There was only so much talk of quests and playing Capture the Flag you could take. The plan finally started heating up when you saw the seeds of unrest, hatred, and wrath. It just made it so much better that it happened to be your boyfriend of two years.

The cold October wind bit through your thick jacket. Standing on the edge of the training grounds, your gaze was fixed on the scar marring the skin of Luke’s face. The jagged line was a fading colour from the once brilliant red it had been in July when Luke returned from the quest.

You kept your voice low, watching Luke’s shoulder heaving from deep breaths, training with his sword. “Luke, I know you’re angry. I know you feel betrayed by the gods.”

The disgust in your tone twisted around the word god like it was a serpent coiling around itself. More apparent than ever, and took Luke by surprise. In the five years he’d known you and the two years he’d been dating you, he’d only ever gotten the feeling you were neutral to the gods.

Luke turned to stare at you, “What-“

“What if I told you there’s a way to make them pay? To make them kneel before humanity?” You spoke with such conviction that it was obvious this wasn’t something half-baked but a real, thought-out strategy.

Luke dropped his sword on the ground, preferring to clench his fists, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light of rage, “What are you suggest, Haven?”

You stepped up in his space, only peering around your surroundings before whispering into his ear, “Join us. Join Kronos. With your wrath, we could finally overthrow the gods and bring a new era. An era where we have real glory, and Kronos can rule as it should be.”

You used Kronos’ name with such familiarity it was like the Titan lord was merely a long-time friend. Luke’s expression of rage faded into a mixture of shock and disbelief. His sweet girlfriend, who played referee between campers and pleaded military neutrality, was in cahoots with the absolute worst Titan, yet Luke wasn’t entirely resistant to the idea.

“You’re serious?” Luke asked, shifting his brown irises between your orbs. Only determination lights up your pretty irises.

“More serious than I’ve ever been. Luke, together, we can change the world. No more being errand runners for a bunch of selfish assholes. No more being entertainment for a bunch of fuckheads pitting us against each. Discarding us when they get bored like death isn’t permanent for us. No more fighting monsters.”

Luke’s attention was caught by the idealist future: “We could have our own home? If we want, we could have a family who won’t have to be scared.”

The wistfulness in his tone made you hide the sadistic smile on your face in the crook of his neck. You knew you made the right choice. You barely had to do anything with all the rage bubbling under Luke’s skin.

As the sun faded beyond the forest, it cast long shadows over the training grounds, and Luke made his decision. He was tired of living a life the gods thought he owed them, tired of the games, the excuses, and the responsibility that bred maturity sooner than a teen should have had.

“Lead the way. I’m with you.” Luke firmly spoke, defiantly smiling, and that same sparkle appeared again in his eye.

“Whoa there, hero.” You breathed firmly, pressing his shoulders to stop him in his tracks. “This is more delicate and important than a five-minute planned prank you and your siblings like to do. It has been in the works far longer than either of us has been alive.”

Luke furrowed his brow, “Then what—“

“You’ll find out more. When he comes, don’t fight it. It’s worse if you do. No one can know about this plan, either, Luke. You’re an important piece, and when it comes to that time…well, we’ll need your role as the camp’s Golden Boy.”

Luke captured your lips in a deep kiss before pulling away, his determination written all over his features. “When do we start?”

“First, Kronos will come into your dreams. Call him lord. Two, we’ll need to get you a weapon that fits you better.” Your nose wrinkled up in distaste at the sword Luke had used since he was fifteen.

Hands intertwined, you led Luke away from the training grounds to the trail leading back to the cabins. You steered away from the main twelve cabins to the smaller one hidden behind Zeus’ and Hera’s cabins. Zeus demanded a cabin to be built, and its location made it obvious why, even if everyone who didn’t know the reason was an idiot. Zeus was a mama’s boy at his core, and he’d protect her. Why else would he allow a cabin behind his own?

Luke hesitated after he saw it in the distance because even he had never been inside. Rumours swirled camp why you had your own cabin, and no one could find out the truth, just like why absolutely no one knew who your mom was. Luke knew your mortal parent was a man because you mentioned you lived at camp. After all, he died years ago.

When your hand touched the doorknob, the cabin door opened, “Welcome to the cabin of Titaness Rhea.”

“Kro—“

“He’s my stepfather. And what better way to overthrow the gods than by using Rhea’s own child.” Luke’s lips parted to match the grin on your features.

The cabin door slammed shut, sealing you and Luke away from the camp you would soon betray. Plans were in motion, and fuck that so-called Great Prophecy.

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan fic #caitsy and ash productions #luke castellan angst

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naeverse · 22 days ago

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Dear My Beloved (1/2)

~Ｖｉｃｅ＃３~

𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝟑: 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥

(𝐎𝐜𝐭. 𝟏𝟑-𝟏𝟗)

----

𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳:

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯.

"𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯."

Ｍｕｓｉｃ：

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘛𝘰 𝘔𝘦" - 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘍𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳

"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘮 𝘉𝘰𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘮 𝘚𝘰𝘯𝘨" - 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘞𝘰𝘰𝘥

🤎staring: Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

👗preview: But then, everything seemed to stop.

The music faded into the background as, almost in a trance, you stared at the kitchen tool in your hand, the hum slowing on your lips.

Twirling it between your fingers, your eyes traced the jagged edge. Transfixed, your hands ached with an foreign yet strangely familiar desire—one buried deep in the recesses of your mind.

The record player suddenly grabbed your attention when the previous song's lyrics of adoration from Helen Foster shifted.

The tune slowed, the pitch of the female singer’s voice deepening to an haunting croak.

“Nothing is what it seems… Oh dear, nothing is what it seems...”

💄summary: It’s your husband Miguel’s birthday, a day that should be filled with love and celebration. Yet, something feels…off.

🎂tw/cw: 1950s Era, Abuse, Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Death, Despair, Disturbing Imagery, Emotional Manipulation, Gore, Grief, Hallucinations, Mental Breakdown, Mental Illness, No Smut, Paranoia, Psychological Horror, Trauma, Violence,

💙Pet names: Amor (Love), Bebé (Baby), Cariño (Darling), Esposa (Wife), Mi amor (My love)

♥️Rating: 18+ explicit I ANGST I

🎵 Word Count: Total - 14.5k, Part 1 - 6k words

Art found on Pinterest, all credit go to original artists/designers/photographers

All credit also goes to musicians as I do not own the two songs heavily used in this oneshot. 😊

Dividers and mood board was created by me.

~ I say, Oogum, oogum, boogum, boogum ~Boogum now, baby, you're castin' your spell on me. ~

The jolly tune of Brenton Wood resonated from the record player, your hips swaying to the song while you cooked. Sunlight poured in through the drawn gingham drapes, filling your home with a warm glow that energized everyone inside.

But, in particular, you.

Your eyes occasionally glanced over at the cookbook you had "borrowed" from you and your husband's shared closet — a cookbook from his late mother.

Currently, you had tasked yourself with making a childhood Mexican-Irish breakfast for your husband to celebrate his birthday — a blend of chorizo and potatoes, black pudding, fried eggs, and homemade tortillas. However, you wanted to make it exactly how his parents made it for him all those years ago, but you were finding it difficult with how vague the measurements were.

“‘Enough oil to make things crispy, but don't be stingy, but don't swim in it either?’ Then how much oil do I use?” you whispered in slight bewilderment before continuing on, nevertheless, thankful for the English translations alongside the Spanish handwritten recipes inside the cookbook.

The smell of black coffee, just the way Miguel liked it, along with the sound of the knife slicing vegetables atop the cutting board, wafted through the air.

You hummed, singing along softly. “You got me doing funny things like a clown, just look at me~” Hips swaying, you danced over to the calendar on the kitchen wall, your heels clicking upon the checkerboard tiles in rhythm with the upbeat melody.

Your eyes ran along the autumn month, rosy red lips pulling into a grin at the sight. “October 13th, 1950. My beloved husband's birthday.” You beamed, poking the colorful orange pin into the appropriate date. Pressing a kiss to your two manicured fingers, you placed it upon the date, completely in love with your husband.

Spinning back towards the stove, the blue dress and white apron you wore flaring with your movement. Your hands moved about, dashing seasoning here, a slice of butter there, and a mix with the whisk here. The Oogum Boogum Song played steadily in the background all the while.

You heard, amidst the song and noises of the kitchen, the small pitter-pattering of feet on the mint and creamed checkered floors. It wasn't long before the owner of such adorable footsteps hugged your leg, tugging at your apron to get your attention.

“Good morning, mommy,” your daughter, Gabriella, whispered from your side.

Your daughter, Gabriella, now six, was your bundle of joy. You loved your little girl so much, willing to go through any lengths to ensure she knew how much you did.

You grinned, wiping your hands on your apron before crouching down to her level. “Good morning, my sweet girl,” you greeted, unable to help but giggle at her messy brown hair, showing she had instantly run downstairs as soon as her eyes opened from her slumber.

You ran a hand along her head, smoothing the wild strands with your palm. Adoring how your daughter beamed up at you in her pink floral nightgown that reached down to her ankles and how she tightly clutched her stuffed rabbit, Flopsy, in her arms — an old gift from Miguel and you upon learning of your pregnancy.

“You seem happy this morning. Did you sleep well?” you asked, caressing the top of her head. However, you watched her bright smile falter at your question, causing your eyebrows to furrow.

You already knew the reason for her change in mood.

“Another bad dream, huh?” you sighed, stroking her cheek with a finger, almost as if she were fragile glass that could break any moment.

“Yes… another bad dream. It's always the same, Mommy. I just wish they would go away,” she said, her eyes starting to glisten with approaching tears.

Your heart clenched as you reached out to embrace your daughter, hugging her close to your chest. “I know, baby, I know. I'm so sorry you are going through this.” you soothed. “No one should experience this, especially not a young girl like you.”

The first tremble and shaky sob that escaped your little girl's mouth was like a knife to the heart. “We don't have to talk about it if you do not want to.”

“B-but I want to, Mamá,” she quickly interjected, surprising you. “P-Papá told me t-talking about it could… make them go away.” Your daughter sniffled, remembering your husband’s words the last time she had a nightmare.

You gave her a squeeze, hating how such dreams were tormenting your little girl. “Okay…” you agreed, pulling away slightly to meet her eyes, bracing yourself to hear about the terrors she experienced in her sleep.

“Was it about… Mommy again?” you asked warily. The question was simple enough, but the way your heart skipped a beat made it feel much deeper.

The sad nod Gabriella gave you made you frown. “Really? Was it… bad Mommy again?”

“N-no.” She replied in a brittle voice, her tanned cheeks growing a rosy red. “Y-you weren’t scary t-this time, Mommy. You were… sleeping.”

“Sleeping?” you asked, not expecting her reply. She confirmed with a nod. “You were dressed in a… w-white dress, and you were l-laying on a white bed,” Gabriella explained, twirling the fabric of her pink gown around her finger. “There was a sound that wouldn't stop. A...b-beeping sound, I think." Your daughter said between trembling lips.

"People were t-talking, but I couldn't understand them, and...you laid in the center of them…

Sleeping.”

Your eyebrows rose, a horrid thought instantly coming to mind as you imagined what your daughter could have dreamt. You shook the thought away, unwilling to linger on it.

You smiled at Gabriella, cupping her cheeks. “I know dreams can be scary and confusing, but they’re just dreams,” you told her. “I’m okay, completely fine, my sweet. See?” You held your hands and arms out to her with a grin, showing her you were, indeed, okay.

You felt at peace when she returned a small smile of her own. “I know, Mamá…” she trailed off, taking your hands in her smaller ones. She fiddled with your fingers for a moment, lost in thought.

“Mamá… you'd never harm me or Papá… right?” Gabi asked, her question striking your core.

“What!? No, of course not, honey,” you assured her, squeezing her hands. “I’ll never harm you or Papá.”

“I know…” Gabriella replied with a small smile.

“Good. I love you, Gabi,” you said, kissing the top of her head. She returned your affection with a peck on your cheek, making your heart soar.

You gave her head a gentle pat. “But on a happier note,” you began, springing back to your full height to tend to the sizzling beans and eggs, feeling the joy of the morning return once more. “Do you know what today is?”

“Papá’s birthday!!”

“Shhh, not so loud,” you said, hastily clasping a hand over her mouth, making you both giggle. You didn’t want your sleeping husband to know you had plans for him.

“Sorry… it’s Papá’s birthday,” she whispered this time, watching from her short height as you returned to cooking, adding the appropriate herbs and vegetables to the dishes.

“Good job, it is,” you grinned, turning to her once more. “And did you finish your present for him?”

Frantically, Gabriella nodded. “Uh-huh, I did, and it was really hard work, so I hope Papá will like it.”

“He will, I assure you,” you promised, chuckling as you took note of her disarrayed hair once more. “We’re staying home all day to celebrate Papá’s birthday, so why don’t you return upstairs to get dressed?” you told her. “I’ll call you down when breakfast is finished.”

With a nod and another quick kiss to your cheek, Gabriella skipped off, her footsteps disappearing up the stairs.

You returned to the task at hand, but Gabriella’s dream lingered in your mind.

‘Is there a reason she’s having these dreams? Is it something she’s eating? Watching?’ you pondered, your parental fears taking root.

Setting the spatula aside, you moved toward the record player, wishing to change the song—when it hit you.

Sharp.

Sudden.

Like a spike driven into your skull.

The pain burst through your head, making you stagger. You gasped, bracing yourself against the counter.

Your vision blurred and clouded with white spots as a low ringing filled your ears.

It felt like the room was tilting, the ground shifting beneath your feet. You whimpered in agony, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to steady yourself, but the pain lingered, pulsing relentlessly.

“G-gosh, what is happening?” you whined, gripping your temple in a futile attempt to quell the ache.

Without realizing it, the throbbing pain vanished as quickly as it had come—disappearing without a trace, leaving you shaken and breathless.

Slowly, you straightened, disoriented and confused, glancing around your kitchen.

Everything seemed normal again—the stove, the breakfast, the cheery sunlight—but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The air felt heavier, as though an unseen force was pressing down on you.

“I-I’m just tired,” you muttered, trying to shake off the strange sensation. You continued toward the record player in the corner of the kitchen, which sat atop a circular table. “Tired, indeed,” you affirmed, convincing yourself that the odd occurrence was nothing more than exhaustion from trying to perfect your husband’s birthday.

Still, you reminded yourself that the tiredness was worth it.

It was for your husband, the man you cared so deeply about, after all…

“Nothing like music to help ease my troubles,” you whispered, running a finger along the records until you stopped at a familiar one. “Yes… this one.” You smiled fondly, the events of just moments ago fading from your mind at the sight of the worn sleeve.

You carefully pulled the vinyl from its case—one of yours and Miguel’s favorites. Slipping it free of the sleeve, you replaced the previous record, The Oogum Boogum Song, with the new selection, placing it delicately on the turntable.

The needle dropped, and the warm, familiar voice of Helen Foster filled the kitchen.

The song, You Belong to Me, always made your heart flutter. It was the soundtrack to so many of your happiest moments.

It played at your wedding as you walked down the aisle, the same song you and Miguel slow-danced to the night you discovered you were pregnant with your little girl.

It was also the song Miguel often sang while strumming his guitar, each deep note passing his lips a promise of his undying love.

The melody had wrapped around the two of you like a promise. Every time the soft, wistful notes filled the room, it felt like your love was stitched into the very air.

It was your song, the one you always came back to, every single time.

Hearing it now made everything feel right.

Perfect.

You breathed easier, allowing the song to calm you and completely erase what had happened before.

Everything was normal once more.

Everything was fine…

Returning to the pan of food, you found everything perfectly cooked. “Wonderful,” you murmured, feeling pleased. Turning off the stove and covering the finished dishes, you moved to begin setting the table.

You placed floral plates over perfectly selected napkins, then added a glass of cold juice for Gabriella, along with two mugs of coffee—one black for Miguel, and the other with sugar and cream for yourself. Lastly, you set the utensils in their proper places.

Each pastel-colored fork, spoon, and knife was meticulously arranged beside the empty dishes, perfectly aligned. Any deviation, no matter how slight, would surely unsettle you.

While setting the table, you hummed along with Helen Foster, holding a knife poised to place it on the pale yellow Formica dining table.

But then, everything seemed to stop.

The music faded into the background as, almost in a trance, you stared at the kitchen tool in your hand, the hum slowing on your lips.

Twirling it between your manicured fingers, your eyes traced the jagged edge. Transfixed, your hands ached with a foreign yet strangely familiar desire—one buried deep in the recesses of your mind.

The record player suddenly grabbed your attention when the previous song's lyrics of adoration from Helen Foster shifted.

The tune slowed, the pitch of the female singer’s voice deepening to an haunting croak.

“Nothing is what it seems…

Oh dear, nothing is what it seems...”

You froze in horror, the knife slipping from your grasp and clattering onto the floor. The sound snapping you from your trance, but a foggy haze lingered.

Your heart pounded like the rapid thump of a rabbit’s foot, your wide eyes fixated on the record player. Its eerie chant looped, searing into your mind.

“Nothing is what it seems...

Oh dear, nothing is what it seems...”

Over and over the words were repeated, searing the horrid message into your brain.

Chest heaving, you backed away to collide into the table, causing dishes and glasses to rattle. “W-what—” you could only stammer in terror.

Before you could spiral further in your petrified state, calloused hands reached out to you, cupping your face. With gentle caution, you were guided to meet a pair of familiar amber eyes.

“Cariño?”

“Is everything okay?”

The deep, concerned voice brought you back to reality. Its steady tone grew louder, grounding you amidst the chaos of your thoughts.

“Qué te pasa? Talk to me, miel.”

You met the gaze of your beloved husband, Miguel who stood in front of you, his features tight with worry. Slowly, the fog in your mind lifted, and the room regained focus.

“Esposa?” Miguel prompted, his voice low and steady as his thumb and forefinger tilted your chin, urging you to look at him.

“M-Miguel, I—” you faltered, your gaze darting toward the record player. Helen Foster’s soothing voice now played once more, making you question if you were going crazy.

But the chant—its ominous message—still echoed in your mind.

Miguel frowned, his concern deepening. “Mi amor, you’re shaking.” Your husband said, grabbing your attention. “Take a seat.” His tone left no room for argument, as he was already guiding you with a hand upon your lower back to one of the dining chairs.

You complied, feeling the soft cushion shift underneath you. Miguel’s large hand enveloped yours, his thumb brushing soothing circles across your knuckles.

For a moment, he studied you in silence, however, you hardly noticed as you could only focus on your lap, where your hands trembled slightly.

“What happened, miel?” he asked, breaking the silence. His voice was steady but laced with unease.

You gulped, simply recollecting the moment, causing your head to ache painfully. Your mouth opened and closed, unable to find anything to explain. “I-I don’t know,” you admitted, swallowing hard. “I... thought I heard something.”

“Heard something?” Miguel inquired, straightening to his full height. He began to pace the kitchen, his black slippers shuffling across the checkered tiles.

“It may have been Gabi,” he suggested, his attempt at humor evident despite the worry in his tone. “You know how our princesa tends to get carried away with her dolls.” He chuckled, knowing your daughter sometimes became noisy when she was excited during playtime. However, you could hear his nervousness.

Hastily, you shook your head, dismissing his assumption. “It wasn’t Gabi!” you exclaimed, louder than intended. Looking up to meet your spouse’s gaze, certain your fear was etched into every line of your face.

For the first time, you noticed Miguel’s attire—a burgundy robe that concealed his undershirt and casual trousers underneath. His outfit did little to conceal his musculature that pressed against the soft fabric of his sleepwear.

Miguel stopped pacing and crouched in front of you, his robe parting slightly to reveal his broad chest. “Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured, pulling you into his arms. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He whispered soothingly, the timbre of his voice the only thing keeping you grounded.

You buried your face into his neck, letting his comforting words and the gentle strokes of his hand on your back to calm you.

“It’s just stress, sí?” he murmured. “You just needed a moment to rest.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, his warmth grounding you.

And like always, you wanted to believe your husband with all your heart—to accept his reassurance. But the chant lingered, clawing at your thoughts like a dark shadow.

“Nothing is as it seems...

Oh dear, nothing is as it seems...”

You managed to push through the festivities, finishing the breakfast your husband scarfed down with a grin and playing family party games that ended with your little girl winning (with some assistance). Now, it was time for your husband to blow out his candles.

“Here it is!” you shouted, bringing from the fridge the handmade cake that Gabriella and you had created the day before.

You set it on the pale yellow dining table: a vanilla cake adorned with white frosting, doused in sprinkles (Gabi's touch), and decorated with piped, wavy red and blue trimmings. A singular lit candle sat in the center of the cake, its flame flickering gently.

Gabi bounced up and down excitedly. Her orange blouse, knee-high skirt, and matching ribbon hair ties made her look even more adorable. “See, Papá?! I told you I helped!” she exclaimed, bringing a smile to Miguel's lips.

“I see, princesa,” he grinned. “No one quite has your... expertise in sprinkle quantity,” he chuckled, his chest rumbling at the sight of the overwhelming amount of colorful candies atop the white cake.

Your husband's previous sleepwear had been replaced with a simple white button-up, black slacks, and slippers. His dark brown hair was styled as usual—slicked back with precision, each strand flowing neatly to the back of his head.

When he settled his gaze on you, his eyes softened. “Esposa,” he practically whispered your name longingly, holding out an arm to wrap around your waist. Pulling you to his side, he pressed a gentle kiss to your head. “You did all of this for me?” he asked, stroking a thumb along your cheek.

You nodded, cupping his face. “Of course, baby,” you replied with a gentle smile. “You always take such good care of Gabi and me, so I wanted to do this for you—no matter how many times you tell me not to.” You giggled as your husband simply stared at you for a moment, his eyes glowing with adoration.

Leaning in close, he nuzzled your nose with his own, breathing you in. “Cómo demonios tuve tanta suerte?” he muttered, his lips seeking yours for a quick peck—only to be interrupted by none other than your daughter.

“When are we going to cut the cake!?” she cried out, her attention fixed on the sweet treat as she licked her lips eagerly.

Miguel snickered, giving your waist a squeeze. “Later. Much later,” he said, the fire in his gaze promising you a much needed night in his arms. The sight made your cheeks flush and your heart to skip a beat.

“Okay, okay, go turn the lights out, Gabi,” you instructed with a laugh, watching her hastily race off to flick the light switch, encasing the dining room in darkness except for the warm glow of the cake.

The three of you surrounded the table—you stood behind your daughter, your hands gently stroking her shoulders, while Miguel took his place in front of his birthday dessert, his eyes fixed on the glowing candle.

“I feel like I should make a grand speech,” your husband joked, glancing up at the two of you before settling his gaze on Gabi.

“Thank you, my sweet girl, for filling my days with your light and granting me the honor of being your father,” he said, his deep voice full of love. “There isn’t a day that you don’t amaze me with your intelligence, imagination, talent, and humor.” He expressed. “You make me proud to call you my daughter, my Gabriella.”

Gabi’s eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and pride at her father’s words. She looked up at him, grinning widely, and then, in a small yet confident voice, she replied, “And I’m proud to call you my Papá. You’re like… the best dad ever!”

Miguel chuckled, his gaze tender as he looked at her. “Oh? The best ever, huh?” he teased gently, warmth lacing his tone.

“Sí!” she insisted, nodding eagerly. “You work so hard, but you always make time for me. And you teach me so much—like how to stand up for myself, help others, and to not let my emotions control me.”

Miguel’s expression softened as he reached out to gently ruffled her hair, his voice sweet. “You’re going to do amazing things, Gabi. I’m just lucky to be here to watch it all happen.”

Her smile widened, and she beamed up at him, her eyes filled with admiration. “I’m the lucky one, Papá. You’re my hero.”

Your husband, visibly touched by her words, shifted his gaze to you, his eyes brimming with the kind of love and gratitude that left you breathless.

In that moment, as if he were seeing into your very soul, you felt a surge of overwhelming adoration that no words could capture.

“Y/N, my beloved,” Miguel began, his voice trembling, almost on the verge of tears. “You’ve stood by me through my worst, mi amor. You’ve endured my workaholic ways, my stubborn temper, and all my flaws… yet you stayed by my side.” He snickered softly, the sound filled with both gratitude and disbelief. “Because of you, I’ve become a better man.”

He cleared his throat, placing his palms on the wooden table as if trying to ground himself. “Thank you, mi amor, for your unwavering presence, for loving me unconditionally, and for bringing our little miracle into my life.” He glanced lovingly at Gabi, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I truly don’t think I would be here today without you.”

Your heart swelled as you listened, each word deepening the adoration you already held for him.

He took a shaky breath, his eyes glistening in the warm candlelight, vulnerability etched across his face—a rare sight that made this moment feel even more precious.

“You’ve given me more than I ever thought I deserved,” he continued, his voice soft and sincere. “And I am endlessly grateful for every day, every laugh, every memory we’ve made together. You both are my everything.”

Gabi leaned back against you, her small hand finding yours as she whispered, “Te amo, Papá.” The simple words broke the last of his composure, and a tear slipped down his cheek. "Te amo, mi princesa." He replied wholeheartedly, giving his daughter's cheek a loving pinch that made her giggle.

Miguel reached out, taking your hand in his, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I promise to keep working, to keep growing, so I can be the husband and father you both deserve.” He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a deep kiss to your knuckles, sealing his promise.

Your husband released you and closed his eyes, whispering his wish before blowing out the candle. Darkness momentarily engulfed the dining room before you applauded, your own emotions welling up as Gabi hurried to turn the lights back on.

The cake was forgotten as Miguel took two long strides toward you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you into a deep embrace—one he surely needed.

“Te amo, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice full of emotion as he gave you a tender squeeze.

You melted into the hard planes of his chest, your arms encircling his neck. “I love you too, Miguel,” you replied softly, feeling the warmth of his love radiating through the embrace.

A small hand pressed gently against your back, making you smile. Both of you glanced down to find Gabi standing between you, her little arms wrapped around you both. “I love you too, Mamá and Papá,” Her laughter like a melody that filled the room with joy.

You welcomed her into the embrace, holding both of them tightly.

In that moment, as you stood together, you marveled at the depth of love you felt—a love you had never believed yourself capable of, let alone for two people who meant the world to you...

The three of you were now settled in the living room. The familiar scent of the cake still lingered in the air as you and Miguel sat together on the couch, the cushions soft beneath you, the fabric slightly worn from use.

The soft glow of the lamp next to the couch highlighted the pastel green walls. Evening light from the window casted dim shadows across the vintage floral wallpaper, while the small box TV that flickered white and black images rested on a shelf in front of you. The clock on the wall ticked quietly, its hands slowly marking the time.

Gabriella sat cross-legged on the floor; her plate of cake balanced on her lap as she eagerly dug in. You rested your head on Miguel’s shoulder, letting out a small sigh as he fed you a bite of his own cake. His eyes met yours with a grin, and you returned it, savoring the sweetness.

“May I get another?” Gabriella’s voice interrupted your quiet moment, light and innocent as she looked up at the both of you, her lips already smeared with frosting. You blinked in surprise, your eyes flicking to her plate. It was already clean. Miguel nor you have even finished yours.

“Gabriella!?” you exclaimed, the shock clear in your voice.

Miguel’s laughter erupted beside you, warm and full of affection. “Sorry… it was really good,” Gabriella said with a pout, her lips dusted with frosting like a mischievous little angel.

“It’s fine, bebé,” Miguel chuckled, his finger brushing one jumbo curl behind your ear in a way that always made your heart skip. He stood, towering over both you and Gabriella in an instant.

“This will be her last slice,” he promised, amusement in his voice. “Come on, you little cake monster. Let’s get you another slice,” he teased, walking toward the kitchen, Gabriella rushing behind him, eager to get there first.

You watched them both, a smile tugging at your lips. The love between the three of you felt so natural, so full, like this moment could stretch on forever. It was simple, perfect even.

You leaned back into the couch, feeling the soft cushions beneath you, and took another bite of your cake. It was the perfect slice, just sweet enough, and the warmth from Miguel’s touch still lingered on your skin.

But then something shifted...

You couldn’t quite place it, but there was a slight prickle at the back of your neck, an unsettling feeling that crawled across your skin like a soft whisper you couldn’t hear.

You paused, feeling the hairs on your arms rise.

Something… felt off.

The strange sensation was eerily similar to what had overcome you in the kitchen.

You were certain of it.

You couldn’t put it into words. It wasn’t a sound or a sight—just a feeling.

A quiet shift in the air...

Instinctively, your hand reached up to the back of your neck, fingertips brushing over your nape in an attempt to shake off the unease. That’s when it happened.

Your fingers grazed a lump, one you’d never noticed before. At the contact, a sharp pain exploded in your head, and your eyes rolled back into your skull.

Images, voices, and a crushing wave of dread surged through your mind all at once.

“Y/N, we have to be better for Gabi. You have to be better,” Miguel’s voice rang out, sharp and filled with disappointment.

“I am trying, Miguel! I don’t know what you want from me!” you shrieked.

The voice—your voice—sounded deranged and very unfamiliar despite being your own.

“Public breakdowns? Outbursts? I don’t believe that’s you trying to be better!” Miguel’s tone cut deep, piercing and accusatory.

“Just get out! Get out!” you screamed, hurling a glass vase. It struck the wall and shattered into a cascade of glittering shards.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as you snapped back to reality. Your chest heaved, each breath shaky as your trembling body fought to regain control.

‘What was that?’ you thought, panic swirling in your mind. ‘What did I just see?’

You clutched your plate of half-eaten cake, fingers trembling as the memory replayed in your mind.

‘Miguel and I were…arguing?’ The very thought made your chest tighten painfully.

But the details... The setting, the clothes you and Miguel wore—it didn’t match. It wasn’t here. Not in this perfect, gleaming life you’d built together.

No, this memory felt wrong.

Your throat tightened, and you forced out a quivering breath, trying to steady your trembling hand. “I’m just... tired,” you muttered, your voice weak, as if saying it aloud would make it true.

‘Just tired. That’s all it is,’ you told yourself.

You shut your eyes, hoping the storm raging inside you would settle, that when you opened them again, everything would be normal.

When you finally opened them, your gaze fell to the plate of cake in your hands, and your heart instantly froze.

In pure terror, you watched the once neat red and blue frosting of the cake start to become uneven—distorted, as though someone was standing beside you, dragging their finger along it to write something in the icing.

You stared, petrified as the words formed one by one, the weight of dread building with every stroke until the final letter was etched…

OPEN YOUR EYES.

You froze, shaking, unable to tear your eyes away. No... this couldn’t be real. It had to be some trick of the light, a cruel fabrication of your mind.

But the message didn’t vanish.

And you couldn’t ignore how it had appeared—slowly, deliberately—as though someone had been watching you while they wrote it.

“M-Miguel!” you screamed, panic rising in your throat, your voice sharp and pleading.

The room seemed to tilt. Your vision blurred, and everything shifted in an instant.

An overwhelming pressure built in your chest, as if the weight of the world had collapsed onto you. The last thing you saw before your eyes snapped shut was the half-eaten cake with the horrid message—and then, darkness.

Suddenly, the sounds of the living room sharpened, each one more vivid than the last. The soft ticking of the clock on the wall. The faint rustling of fabric. And Miguel’s warm voice, gently calling your name.

“Mi amor? Is something wrong?"

You blinked, disoriented, struggling to find your bearings. The living room was just as it had been—the soft, plush couch beneath you, the warm glow of the lamp, chatter from the television, familiar scent of cake lingering in the air and your family close by.

You blinked again, and realization struck.

Your breath hitched.

Miguel and Gabriella were still in their same positions. They hadn’t gone anywhere. You hadn’t seen them leave to get more cake.

Glancing over at your daughter, still seated on the floor cross-legged as before, you saw her happily eating her first slice of cake—not her second.

Your gaze darted to your own plate, the one you distinctly remembered nibbling on, the one that had held that ominous message. But instead of the eerie writing, the cake sat uneaten, perfectly pristine.

A cold chill ran down your spine, your breathing beginning to quicken.

Things weren’t making sense. And it was starting to scare you.

Miguel’s hand cupped your face, warm and grounding, his concerned eyes searching yours. “Mi amor?” His voice was softer now, tinged with tenderness. “You dozed off. Are you okay?”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless, your mind racing to make sense of what had just happened.

What had just happened?

To you, it felt like you've done more then simply 'dozed off.' You recalled your love ones going to the kitchen, the shift in the air, heated occurrence between Miguel and you and then the...horrid message upon the cake.

You could speak the memory out loud, explain each detail like it was happening once more. So, why did it seem like it didn't happened - that it couldn't have happened.

Gabriella’s innocent gaze rested on you, her brows furrowed in worry. “Are you okay, mamá?” she asked, her small voice full of concern. The frosting smeared on her cheeks from her first slice of cake made her look even more endearing.

Her question snapped you out of your troubled thoughts, however, you couldn’t answer right away. Your throat felt dry, and your thoughts were swirling in a chaotic storm. The distorted memory that had overtaken you only moments ago lingered like a shadow, unshakable.

“I... I thought Gabriella asked for more cake,” you stammered, your voice unsteady. It made no sense. You could’ve sworn you’d seen them leave, yet part of you was convinced they hadn’t.

Miguel raised an eyebrow, a mix of concern and confusion crossing his face. “Are you okay, bebè?” he asked, chuckling nervously, as though trying to lighten the mood. “You told Gabi she can only have one slice, and was quite adamant before you went to sleep." Your husband explained. "So no, neither Gabriella and I have gone anywhere. We’ve been right here with you the whole time.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you more closely. "You were mumbling a lot as you slept, it made me worried. Did you have a bad dream?”

You blinked again, willing yourself to calm down. The confusion still clung to you like a heavy fog, but Miguel’s steady voice and familiar presence helped ease the edges of your panic.

The room felt normal again.

Everything looked... normal.

But you weren’t so sure.

Forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, you murmured, “Perhaps...”

Your gaze dropped to the plate of cake in your hands. It was untouched, as if you’d never taken a bite.

Out of fear and a sudden loss of appetite, you hastily set the plate on the nearby pastel-green end table, wanting it out of your sight.

Like before, everything went back into motion. Your daughter seeking to savor every crumb and frosting of cake on her plate as Miguel returned to watching television, the words from the box of wires falling deaf to you.

Wrapping your arms around your husband’s burly one, you rested your chin on his shoulder. Nuzzling his sleeve, you clung to him like a lifeline. Your heart was still hammering against your ribcage from the previous occurrence, still unable to decipher if what happened was true or not.

‘What is happening? Am I going insane?’ You found yourself wondering, squeezing Miguel’s bicep tighter. Your perfectly sprayed jumbo curls brushed against your cheeks but you could hardly feel it, still completely rattled. The only solution that came to calming you was to confide in your husband, like you always did.

Glancing up at your spouse from where you rested on his arm, he gazed ahead of him at the black and white images that were flashing across the miniature television. You hesitated before leaning in, your rosy lips brushing his ear. “I—I have to talk to you,” you whispered, your eyes silently begging for his undivided attention.

You needed to tell him what was happening—how you felt like you were losing your mind.

But then it hit you…

It was your sweet husband’s birthday.

You didn’t want to alarm him with this—not today, the only day he was able to get a break from his demanding job and be free of the workload.

You can wait…

An worried expression appeared upon his face as he sipped from his glass of water. “What’s wrong, esposa?” he asked, his smiling features shifting into intense concern. The sight pierced your heart.

Laughing nervously, you shook your head and pulled away, hiding the trembling of your manicured hands in your lap. You tried to ignore how desperately you wanted him to comfort you. “Actually…i-it’s not that important,” you said, though the quiver in your voice betrayed you. The more you tried to dismiss his worry, the more troubled he seemed.

Luckily, Gabriella came to your rescue.

Having finished her slice of cake (and every crumb) she jumped up, her mouth still smeared with frosting. “Can I show Papá my gift now?!” she exclaimed, the sugar clearly taking effect. Her orange ribbons bounced in her hair with her excitement.

Miguel glanced briefly at Gabriella but remained unsettled by your earlier unease. You leaned into him, masking your distress with a playful smile. "How about it, my love? Ready to see our gifts to you?" you asked, your heart clenching at the way his eyes softened, adoring your words yet oblivious to the truth they were meant to conceal.

“Sí, princesa. I’d be delighted to see your present,” Miguel replied with a grin, flicking off the television with the remote. The two of you watched Gabriella race upstairs, her footsteps echoing and fading, leaving you alone with your husband in the living room.

A moment of silence passed, the air thick with the lingering excitement of your daughter’s energy, before Miguel smirked at you. “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me alone, hmm?” he teased, giving your cheek an affectionate pinch. “I know you only ask for me like that when you want something…” His eyes glinted with desire, unaware to the turmoil swirling within you.

You forced a soft laugh, schooling your features. “And… w-what if I did?” you replied, your voice faltering just slightly, your breath hitching when he leaned in closer.

Without warning, he pulled you into a kiss. The world around you seemed to melt away as his arms wrapped around you, his lips warm and urgent. Each kiss chipped away at your worries, his touch both soothing and electric. You pressed into him, feeling his heartbeat sync with yours.

He chuckled against your lips, each kiss leaving you hungrier for more. “So that was your plan? Hmm… Mi chica traviesa, traviesa.”

You gasped as his fingers brushed the nape of your neck, holding you steady. His touch was both tender and possessive, and the taste of him—sweeter than the cake you’d abandoned—flooded your senses, leaving your body humming with need.

Before you could process it, he gently pushed you back onto the couch, his lips never straying far from yours. A breathless laugh escaped you. “Miguel—”

Your halfhearted scolding was silenced by another kiss, and then another, each one more urgent than the last, until your bodies seemed to fit together seamlessly.

Your fingers combed through his dark curls, undoing the careful styling he’d done that morning. You tugged him impossibly closer, each kiss a promise—a vow that felt as eternal as the one he’d made to you on your wedding day.

And then, the spell shattered.

The sound of Gabriella’s blood-curdling scream pierced the air, cutting through the tranquility of the room like a knife.

Your heart dropped in an instant.

“MAMA!!”

You froze, eyes wide, breath catching in your throat. Hastily, you pushed Miguel away, panic rising in your chest. “Did you hear that?!” you asked, your voice tight with alarm.

For once, Miguel’s expression mirrored the terror that gripped you. Rising from the couch, he reached out to steady you as both of you looked toward the stairs, your pulse pounding in your ears.

The air between you was heavy now—this wasn’t just the innocent sound of a child’s call.

Something was wrong...

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed the first part of Dear, My Beloved! What exactly is happening in the O'Hara house? Is the life inside those perfect green vintage walls as idyllic as it seems, or is there something far more sinister at play? 🤔

Also, I know I've mentioned this before, but once again, my apologies for the late posting of Despair and Greed for this event. Life became unexpectedly overwhelming toward the end of 2024 for my sister and I, and during my break, I found myself needing to take some time to recharge. The last thing I want is for writing to shift from a hobby to a chore, so I hope you all can understand! ❤️❤️

This one-shot was also in dedication to Miggy's B-day, so happy belated birthday to the handsome Spider-man himself. 💙❤️

Lastly, Part 2 of Dear, My Beloved comes with a LOT of trigger warnings—seriously, a lot. I'll include them in the warnings list when it’s posted but consider this an extra heads-up! ⚠️⚠️

If you’re excited for the next part of Dear, My Beloved, and to see what else my older sister, @powerful-niya and I have in store for Vicetober (I know, I know 🤧), be sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow! Wishing you all a wonderful day—stay safe! 👋🏾💙🤎😈

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