#Mystical Scratches (EDIT)

[finish-the-quote]

edit: pretend wound says flesh wound.

[s4lv4tions]

numerology; nsfw

pairing; gojo satoru x reader / gojo satoru x geto suguru (past) / geto suguru x reader (past) summary; numerology — the belief in an occult, divine or mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. or: trying to move on. wc; 13.4k cw; death, angst, requited unrequited love, violence, smut (at the very end, but mentions throughout), canon divergence, spoilers for manga an; if you think you've read this before, you probably have! i posted this on my old tumblr a year or so ago, and it's still available on my ao3. this version is slightly updated and edited, but still diverges from canon as it was created at the start of the culling games arc :)

1.

The first time you bathe with Satoru, he cries.

You don't notice at first; he's quiet — abnormally so —, and his face remains pristine, unchanged. The only hint you get is a small, barely audible sniffle that stops as quickly as it starts — and you think he wants it that way. You don't think he's ever cried in front of anyone.

That's why you don't say anything. Just continue washing the suds from his hair, and pretend that the tears rolling down his cheeks are beads of water dripping from his hair — but you take extra care to massage the conditioner in, and peck his cheek as you finger-comb through silky, cloud-white strands. 

It occurs to you afterwards — as he lounges on your bed, scrolling through channels with a wayward hand planted on his stomach — that perhaps, it's the first time somebody has taken care of him. The first time ever, or just the first time since… since…

Geto Suguru's face smiles up at you from your vanity — a tiny polaroid, his face no bigger than the nail of your thumb. Beside him, Satoru grins, cheeky and bright-eyed — you don't think he's ever been any different —, and in the corner, the smudge of your thumb covers the lens. You don’t have to lift the photo and check the back to know what’s written there, in your scratchy, looping scrawl; the strongest, 2006.

"Lord of the Rings?" Satoru calls, carefree as ever. A yawn catches in his throat, and his fingers slip underneath his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at his chest. "Ooh, haven't seen this one yet…"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

It was a better time. Less pain. Less responsibility. Less death — or maybe the same amount, just shielded by the blinding cover of childhood inexperience. Suguru was still alive and burning bright, Satoru was happy (happier. He didn't cry in the bath, at least). Shoko didn’t self-medicate as intensively as she does now. The days were spent in childish ignorance and stupid indulgence, and even when things seemed their darkest, you never lost hope. 

(It probably says a lot about you that, if given the chance, you wouldn't return. Whether that's because of what you know is bound to happen, and the pain is too much to experience again, or because you're so utterly pathetic that you'll take sadness and grief and a tiny shred of affection over… whatever it is you were back then, you don't know. A smudge in the corner of a picture of the jujutsu world's greatest.)

Suguru's eyes seem to burn into you. You turn the picture over, and rejoin Satoru on your bed.

2.

"It's been two years."

Satoru doesn't like to talk after sex. Not in any way that's really meaningful, you mean, nothing that lets you in. He loves jokes, empty small talk, work politics. Chatter that's deep enough to show he cares a little without bearing any part of himself — your injury healed up? When was the last time you had a break? There's a new teppanyaki place in Shinjuku, I'll treat you. Don't work yourself too hard, you'll put me out of business! 

If you're being honest, you didn't go into this expecting anything more than a person to scratch an itch with. 

You're already friends — though, you're not sure friends totally encapsulates what Satoru is to you, romantic or platonic. You've been friends since you were 12. Satoru, Suguru, you — and then Shoko, when you all met in your first year at Jujutsu Tech. That's how it's always been.

You swear sometimes you know him better than yourself. You swear sometimes it's his voice you think with. Is that what "friends" encompasses? Somehow, it doesn't seem enough.

Whatever. The point is that your relationship with Satoru is already strong; foundations tall and proud and unshakeable. You didn't start fucking Satoru in the hopes of forming a relationship — one was already there.

It's just... Satoru is young, yes, and he enjoys flirting, but (contrary to common belief) he's not all that keen to sleep with the first person who's willing. You don’t say this with the belief that you’re special. It’s just that with work, and especially with — y'know, his… romantic history, Satoru hasn’t found the time or will to just sleep around. At least, according to him.

Sheer willpower isn't enough to make those urges go away, though, and… well, you had them too, and you were willing, and he trusts you. And you'll take anything he'll give you, really, even if it's just scraps. Even if sometimes it makes you feel worse.

Today's one of those days.

You feel sick, after. Not because of him — because of yourself. Your polaroid of Getou and any other photo he's in has been turned over, anything that could remind you of him tucked away, but — but he's everywhere today, everywhere, and you'd fucked Satoru despite it. And Satoru is covered in memories of Getou, of course. Every freckle, every shifting of muscle, every jut of bone — did Getou touch him here? Caress every bit of him he could get his hands on? Tangle his hands in his snow-white hair, breathe against his collarbone? 

When you came, you cried. Pretended it was just because it was so intense, but behind your eyelids, dark, cat-like eyes stared back.

"Hm?" Satoru hums as if he didn't hear you, eyes fixed on the TV. Dumb doesn't suit him — it's honestly a bit of an insult for him to even try it. Like you didn't sense the stiffness of his limbs the second he'd stepped inside, or the crumbling edge of his smile, or the way he'd forced you to love him harder — pull his hair harder, scratch his back deeper, his Infinity turned off and his skin yours for the marking. 

Satoru's mannerisms are scribed into your brain. You catch yourself emulating them, sometimes; hands waving, head tilting, grin wide and posture open. You wear it like an oversized coat, an ill-fitting costume, and sometimes you wish you could stop taking on pieces of him. The more you take, the more you must throw away — and it's Suguru that your memory discards. You find yourself forgetting how he hummed when he woke up from a nap, or filled his cheeks with food like a hamster; how he scrunched his face up when he laughed, pretty all the while…

The point is that even with his incredible knowledge, his awesome strength, the sheer holiness of his existence — you know Satoru. And the fact that he came to you today isn't mere coincidence.

You decide to come out with it. You've tiptoed around it for 24 months, give or take, had a shockingly brief mourning period before the jujutsu world forced you along, and… even with what he did, Suguru deserves better. "Suguru died today."

A beat of silence. Then:

"Mm, I guess he did."

You'd spent the day staring out at the grey sky, the miserable sight of soaked pavement. Grey, grey, grey. Concrete jungle. Heavy rain clouds and an ocean of multicoloured umbrellas, bobbing and rolling to destinations unknown. You hadn't said it aloud; hadn't even thought of it, specifically. The knowledge of it had just sat over your head like a thick, sweltering fog — and if you know Satoru at all, you know that he'd done the same. Maybe he hid it better.

You don't have to look now to know that his lips are pressed thin. You find the sudden thought of looking him in the eyes daunting, anyways, so you turn onto your side, back facing him, and pick mindlessly at the sheets. You don't want to see what his reaction will be when you say—

"Did you know that I loved him — back then?"

You don't want to see the shock, or the confusion — and you'd rather not see a lack of them, either. What's worse, you wonder — him knowing and loving Suguru too, or not knowing and loving him?

"...Yes."

You screw your eyes shut and try to will away the sudden surge of cold, like a sharpened dagger to your chest. 

(It turns out that knowing is much more painful.)

Suguru Geto had been the apple of your eye ever since you'd met. 11 and gangly and stupid in a way that all children were always stupid, Suguru had been a bit kinder than his white-haired counterpart. Satoru, being Satoru Gojo, had grown up with no fear of authority, no mindfulness for his less-powerful peers as anything more than people who existed around him. You and Suguru were allowed the title of friends, but very few were. Anyway — he grew out of that mindset, of course, but your fondness for Suguru stayed.

(Though they'd always seemed to be on another level than you — not even just in terms of power, but… just caught up in each other, always. Suguru had only ever wanted Satoru. And vice versa.)

And then Suguru changed. Right under your nose, he changed, and his sudden quietness made sense. His fatigue. The way his hands would always shake when swallowing an exorcised curse, always had since you were kids, and then suddenly they were ingested with a scary calm. Nobody understands the taste of curses. Not even you, not even when he’d explained it in sickening detail.

You sigh, then. Tired and lethargic and not from physically straining yourself for an hour. This is bone-deep, soul-weary. It's been held in for 730 days, or maybe more. Maybe you've carried it with you since birth. "I never apologised."

"For what?" Satoru asks — and he laughs, jolly, and the sound fits awkwardly in his throat. A clear attempt at feigning indifference, but he's a bad liar. He always has been, because he's never needed to lie. Perks of being the strongest, you guess. You can just come out and say shit — and if you can't, not saying anything technically isn’t lying. 

"I hated you, after," you confess. You dig your thumbnail hard intoyour pinky finger, taking momentary refuge in the sharp shock of pain. "I couldn't stand to look at you. When I did, I saw… I saw what you did. What you had, and what you had thrown away. I blamed you for Suguru. I blamed everyone except Suguru."

Another snicker, a bit too humourless. "You can't stand to look at me now."

"I…" You don't know what to say to that.

Truth is, you don't want to see his face. Contorted in pity, or disgust, or sadness for you. You've gotten used to living in his shadow — most everyone has — but that doesn’t ease the ever-present blanket of insecurity that you carry around your shoulders. It doesn’t dull the ache of inferiority you’ve been housing in your chest from the moment you were saddled with your technique. As you aged, you got better at hiding it, and you generally prefer your self-pity to go unnoticed, but Satoru—

He could always read you like a book. And you hated it. You hated being pitied by someone who was as powerful as him — someone as close to God as one could get. It was demeaning. Patronising. It makes you feel like a child again, bowing your head as your mother makes excuses for you.

You shift over — onto your back, and then onto your other side — and you look at him. You force yourself. Blankets pooled around his waist, his skin so pale it could be translucent, eyes icy blue and framed with fluffy white.

"You were forced to do it," you murmur. Your eyes remain trained on his chin — his are much too bright, much too all-seeing for comfort. "If you hadn't, he would've gotten worse. He never would have stopped. You knew that, you always did. It… took me a while to come to terms with it."

Satoru sighs. Then, he slumps down so that — like you — his head rests flat on the pillow, and his body arcs towards yours. He's forced himself into your sights again, in a way that’s gentle, but not so much that you wouldn't be able to figure out what he's doing: forcing you to face him.

"Would it have made you feel better," Satoru begins, reaching forward to brush his fingers against your chin, "if you were there when I did it?"

Would it have?

Would it have given you closure? Would you no longer spend your nights wondering what he'd looked like, what his last words were, his last thoughts? If he had spittled and roared in anger, if he had wept in fear, if he had attempted a smile, a joke? If he thought of you, or if you were just another insignificant blip in his radar?

In your mind, Suguru exists as his 17 year old self — smiling and mischievous, polite yet humorous. He puts extra broccoli on your plate and gently berates you to eat more. He tells you that you're a precious part of the team, that none of them would be who they are without you. He calls you crybaby because you always wear your heart on your sleeve, and tells you not to worry about things you cannot change.

Change what you can. Forget the rest and leave it to me, crybaby.

The bubbling hatred that had festered inside him has no place in your head. You want him to stay as he is, your Suguru that was never yours, shining like gold in your mind.

"No. He hated me at the end, I think," you say quietly. For a second, you dare to meet his eyes — bright and pointed in how they stare at you. You know he can see the tears that have begun to burn in your waterline, the way you ball your fists so hard you dig half-moon into your skin. He doesn’t need to be blessed with the Six Eyes to see.

"I wasn't interested in changing the world like he was, even with my Technique. That made him despise me, I think."

Satoru stares for a few more seconds. You wonder what he's thinking about. A second in your time is a lifetime in Satoru's; he must be thinking hard. 

But he blinks, at last; sighs so deeply that his chest caves in with it, before he winds an arm around your waist and pulls you close, bare chest to bare chest, only atomic space between you.

There's nothing sexual about it. You're nothing but bones and skin and blood, here. He moulds your head to his shoulder with one large hand and cocoons you in his embrace, warm. Protected. You're not sure who the action is meant to comfort.

And just when you think the conversation is over — just when minutes have passed with nothing but the sound of the TV between you both — he speaks.

"Suguru could never hate you. Trust me."

You don't want to know what that means. You're only beginning to get over it, two years later.

3.

Satoru is holding three onigiri in one hand, and two Starbucks' cups in the other — extra sugar, extra cream, extra ice, extra unicorn-marketing, just the way you both like it. 

"There she is!" Is the first thing he says as he meets you just outside the metro, grinning. 

It's sweltering hot today — the sun had risen early and would surely set late, and Satoru seems to be taking advantage of it. Gone is his Jujutsu Tech uniform and thick blindfold, but he's stuck with the all-black theme like he usually does — black jeans, black linen shirt, black socks and shoes. Even the frames of his sunglasses are black.

(Handsome. He's handsome. He's always been handsome — years later, you'd think you'd stop feeling the effects of it.) 

Lucky for him. You're not, y'know, the strongest sorcerer in the last century, so there's no leeway for you — and even in your summer uniform, the skirt and short-sleeved blouse, you're sweating. Your only respite is that the combined force of you and Satoru will mean this mission is going to be a breeze.

Satoru tsks. "Took your time. I almost ate your onigiri."

A man nearby jogs past, clearly in a rush, and Satoru has to step closer to you to avoid him. He could've stayed still. He wouldn't have touched him, anyway, with his Limitless.

"And you would've had to buy another, genius."

A pout. "You only love me for my bank account, don't you?"

(He's joking. It's a joke. 

But your hand shakes — a miniscule tremor — as you reach out to take one of the cups, and you know he sees it because he's Satoru and he sees everything. You turn away as quickly as you can, setting off in the direction of whatever place it is you're here for, and pretend that the fact that he can say it so casually doesn't kinda fucking hurt. 

(He could never say it like that with Suguru — so bluntly, so crassly. Not without softened eyes and softened smiles and a gentle tilt of his head — those are mannerisms reserved only for him, never to be seen again. Instead, you get snickers and digs in the arm and teasing pulls of your hair. Of course it’s a joke. That’s all you are.

Perhaps you should just be grateful for what you get. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a man you once loved. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a dead man. Perhaps, in the end, you just love the pain of it all.))

"Yeah," you reply, taking a large, sugary sip. "And don't you forget it, either."

Satoru catches up to you quickly, effortlessly; his arm flops around your shoulder as he tugs you in the opposite direction, chastising you for going the wrong way — but it stays there long after it needs to.

4.

Itadori Yuuji — Sukuna's dead-but-not-really vessel — thinks your cursed technique is powerful. He thinks it’s amazing that you can use reverse cursed technique — you must be really powerful, right? Gojo-sensei says you’re special grade. He also thinks you're very pretty. He tells you this over his fourth grilled pork belly wrap — this one bursting at the seams with kimchi, garlic, and roasted sesame seeds.

He doesn't say it in a flirtatious way — it's just an observation to him, simple and blunt, and you figure he has about as much of a filter as Satoru does.

"O-oh," you say, metal tongs frozen over the sizzling meat. "Thank you, Yuuji."

You had briefly met him for the first time before his death — Nobara, too. Megumi, the third piece of the golden trio, has been something of a little brother ever since Satoru had taken him in, and you know him well enough to know that Yuuji's death (or lack thereof) is weighing on him terribly. 

(There are too many parallels you could make. Suguru and Satoru. Haibara and Nanami.)

Hiding it does make you feel guilty. To experience that grief, that loss — even if it will soon go away when Yuuji rejoins jujutsu society — isn’t something to take lightly. But Yuuji needs a guide that isn’t completely off the rails. Satoru and you balance each other out, and balance seems to be something Yuuji needs.

He reminds you terribly of Satoru when he was younger. Maybe that's why you have such a fond spot for him — he's too goofy and well-meaning and genuine to dislike.

"Why are you acting surprised?" Gripes Satoru, chewing with his mouth open. "I tell you that all the time."

Your eyes narrow. You place a perfectly cooked slice of marinated beef on his plate. "You're you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He whines. "We're best friends, crybaby!"

"You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference. And don’t call me that."

"Is there?" Satoru asks, turning to Yuuji for guidance. The teen boy shrugs, preoccupied by assembling his newest monstrosity. "I call you pretty, too."

"Yeah, when—"

When you're eight inches deep in me, face buried in my neck, trying to get yourself off. Your cheeks flush with warmth at the thought, and you shut your mouth. Yuuji doesn't notice your slip up, busy as he is; Satoru does completely, and fixes you with a grin so sharp that you vow to not give him any more meat until Yuuji is completely full.

"It's not the same," you say, voice final. It's a lighthearted lunch. You don't want to ruin it by getting touchy over semantics, and that's exactly what'll happen if you keep going. "You say it to reward me. Like tossing a dog a bone."

You reach for the scissors to snip the meat into little pieces — and in doing so, you miss the brief frown that presses against Satoru's brow.

Neither of you say anything more on the matter.

5. 

Satoru has known you for five years when he realises that he resents you. Not completely, and not for one particular or solid reason, either. He prefers not to think about it, in any case, because you're one of his closest friends — and even at 17, he knows that that's hard to come by. Especially as the Strongest.

Satoru stares up at his ceiling; stares at the miniature striations only he can see, the starburst-shaped gyrations of clay used to finish it off. 

Tonight, he's thinking about it. And many other things.

He hates that you're so hesitant about everything — he hates that you believe yourself so weak that you have to tiptoe. You, with your reverse cursed technique — which is a feat in and of itself — that could transcend time and space, just like he could. A technique passed down for hundreds and hundreds of years, accumulating power all the while…

(Your technique has lots of rules and regulations, of course. A handicap, and he understands it frustrates you, but his own frustration eclipses his understanding. Why should someone so strong feel anything but their own strength?)

He hates that you curl in on yourself when you're sad, or lonely, or angry. He hates that you wear your heart on your sleeve — he's never allowed himself to, not fully. He can't, never fully, because there are people who are watching him, people who hate him, people who want him dead. He can joke. He can make his political desires clear — but he can’t love like he wants to, and God forbid he cries.

He hates that you close your eyes and bask when it's sunny, like a cat in a sunspot; hates that you remember that he doesn't like chicken wings and prefers thighs; he especially hates that you watch over Suguru like it's your job, when Suguru doesn't need it.

And some part of Satoru hates Suguru, too. It was strange for him to come to terms with it, fond of him as he is, but as he grows Satoru realises that there's no love of his that isn't closely affiliated with hate. It makes the love all the more strong.

Satoru, for one, dislikes how polite Suguru is, even when he doesn't need to be. He hates that Suguru becomes a straight-faced, unfeeling thing when he's upset, and tries to hide it — the emptiness in his eyes unsettles him like nothing else.

Most of all, above all, Satoru hates that Suguru loves you, crybaby, and is too pussy to do shit about it. Satoru doesn't understand why, anyways, because he'd made it clear that if he wanted, Suguru could have you both and Satoru wouldn't care. Usually, the thought would offend him. How can you love someone when you already love me? When you've already sworn yourself to me? You already have the strongest, who else do you need? 

But… he doesn't know. He kinda understands. You're precious to him, too, after all, sunflower soaking up the sun. 

Like he said: there's no love of his that isn’t closely affiliated with hate.

6.

Six and a half hours after the hours-long meeting that followed the ruined School Goodwill Event, you find yourselves in a diner somewhere in Harajuku. It’s one of those weird fusion places, loaning ornamentation and tokens from classic American diners, serving omurice with fries, sushi with mashed potatoes, with a cute little mascot that looks like Elvis. It’s loud enough and bright enough to make you feel timeless. It's a sensation you can appreciate. 

Something’s been telling you that time’s ticking, and you’re not quite sure what it is. Trauma, probably. Anxiety. The fact that curses have been banding together, learning spoken language, amassing power — planning an attack on Jujutsu Tech, gaining intelligence, gaining anger.

Satoru doesn’t say it — doesn’t want to say it — but you think it’s unnerved him, too. The last time outsiders entered school grounds was… two years ago, wasn’t it? It’s crazy. Everything always seems to lead back to Suguru.

The attack has fueled something in both of you, anyways; something that makes you both stay up instead of knocking out like you usually do; something that makes you both hungry and restless and liable to travel across Tokyo past midnight. By public transport, no less. No warping or high-speed flying for you, tonight.

But you appreciate it. And you think that Satoru is taking things slow for the same reasons you want to — to take things in, to appreciate what you never think to appreciate. To admire the mundane, even for a little while. Satoru’s less emotionally attached to the jujutsu-less aspects of life than you are — bullet trains and waiting in line and standing on the train platform, escalators and traffic — but he enjoys them all the same when he has time to. And it’s not often The Strongest gets to experience pure, genuine normality, too, so maybe sitting in this gaudy diner and watching the world pass you by is a luxury he rarely affords himself.

He orders the most complicated drink they have — a sakura-caramel milkshake topped with whipped cream, glacé cherries, and an entire slice of cheesecake. He’s down to the last dregs of melting cream within 10 minutes, swiping fries from your plate between sips, ignoring your chides of rotten teeth and high blood sugar.

Blindfold swapped for glasses. Strands of hair drifting down against his forehead. 

You’re always reminded at the worst times of how handsome he is. It’s not like it’s a secret, or he’s unaware of it — and he takes pride in his looks, if his extensive skincare shelf and general attitude is anything to go by — but he puts much more stock in his strength, in his usefulness to others, his intelligence. The things he can provide for others. Not many people realise that.

Maybe you shouldn’t act so high and mighty. It’s not like you don’t appreciate his appearance as much as the next person — hell, half the time you’re trying to stop it from distracting you — but maybe you get a pass. Y’know, as a person who actually has reason to marvel over the stretch of his neck and the flush of his cheeks and how his lips go the prettiest pink when you kiss him. Or the cords of muscle along his arms; the slender-yet-thick bands of muscle of his chest and legs. The large, veiny expanse of hand — slim, delicate fingers wrapped around a paper straw…

"Are you gonna eat those?" Says Satoru, slurping obnoxiously. “Haven't eaten since dinner."

You push the basket across the table, uncharacteristically void of argument. "Go crazy."

Satoru sets his empty glass aside, but the straw remains in one hand. The other he uses to pluck up fries, 4 or 5 at a time, his gaze suddenly fixed on you as he chews nonchalantly.

"Y'know," he says, licking salt from his fingertips, jabbing the straw in your direction, "I can always tell when you're horny."

"Excuse me?"

"You squirm," Satoru continues — matter-of-fact, casual, as if he's talking about the weather. "And you get quiet.”

“I’m a quiet person,” you snap, nails pressing against your palms under the table. “Sorry I know when to shut the fuck up—”

“And then you get flustered. And when you’re flustered, or embarrassed, you get angry.” He raises his hand — signals the cute waitress for another basket of fries, and leans back with his arms splayed along the back of the booth. “Don’t look so surprised! How long have we known each other?”

If you were a better person, you’d probably admit that yes, he’s right. You do get quiet when you’re horny, and you do get angry when you’re flustered — if you were a worse person, though, you’d remark on how you're the first person he crawls to when he’s sad, or overwhelmed. How getting you into bed and losing yourselves in each other is a sort of therapy for him. How he always tries to distract you with cheeky grins and sly, flirty comments, but then afterwards he cries in the bath as you clean him up. 

You don't say that, obviously. Seems like a pretty shitty thing to bring up today of all days. He'd probably deny it anyways, but you don't think it's a coincidence that the attack has left him restless and he obviously wants to take you home.

The new fries are delivered to the table, but he looks right past them. He bows his head slightly, glasses slipping a little further down his nose so that his white-framed eyes peek over the top of them. 

"Let's warp home," Satoru says — and oh. There's that voice. That drop in tone, that lack of boisterous humour he always employs. It's soft enough to have goosebumps rising on the back of your arms, smooth enough to have you squirming — yes, squirming, you admit it — in your seat. "Alright?"

"Yes." And it's embarrassingly breathless, and embarrassingly quick, but Satoru doesn't tease you. Just smiles, raises a hand for the bill, and watches you all the while.

7.

You count seven stitches in the forehead of Geto Suguru.

Count, because it's all you can do. Everything else is lost to you. 

Breathing.

Standing.

It feels like even your heart has stalled. Because—

Because—

Because Geto Suguru is dead. Dead, in the ground, no longer breathing, no longer living. Satoru had killed him. Satoru had demolished him.

The lips of the Geto in front of you twist — a sickening, stomach-turning imitation of the smile you once adored. On his face it's a sneer, a mockery. Your Suguru did not smile like this when you knew him.

"Hello," he greets pleasantly. His arms are hidden within the sleeves of his yukata. Hair down. Suguru always tended to wear his hair up, unless he was fresh out of the shower. Unless he was upset. It was too much hassle to take care of. You know when he took over the Time Vessel Association and donned the gojo-kesa he began wearing it down. "_____ _____, yes?"

You can't answer. Your ears are ringing. Your stomach gives a worrying lurch that winds up your throat — you think you're going to be sick. 

How? Why? Who — who is this in front of you? Because it's not Geto, not Suguru — and you don't say that because of longing or a pathetic desire for ignorance. This thing feels wrong. Inherently, blasphemously wrong. Looking at him for too long makes your cursed energy prickle. Seeing Suguru's image painted in such slimy, rancid energy has you gasping for breath.

Satoru, your mind whispers. Satoru needs to know.

He should. He needs to. But this pseudo-Geto does not look friendly in the slightest, and you are isolated.

Looking back, it had seemed fine to go alone to exorcise curses in the belly of Tokyo's metro. Taking old service tunnels and eventually entering abandoned tracks hadn't felt scary. You're a semi-special grade sorcerer with years of experience under your belt and a powerful cursed technique that could get you out of most, if not all, pinches, restrictions and regulations be damned.

"I'm sure you're very confused. I apologise, really…"

The reality of the situation hits you. Maybe hit is the wrong word — it doesn’t come as a bloody, stinging smack in the face. It’s a trickle of ice-cold water down the nape of your neck, drawing dread from your head all the way into the pit of your stomach. You don't think this is a pinch you'll come out of — at least not battered half to death, especially when a silver-haired curse decorated with stitches steps out from behind pseudo-Geto. The curse Kento had fought. The one that he said to look out for. Patchwork.

Immediately, you know fighting isn't an option. But what else is there to do, in the face of pseudo-Geto and his silver-haired, sentient curse? Your technique may not be limitless in your possession, but in theirs? If they did to you what they did to so many others — transfiguring you past the point of recognition, stealing your body and technique, desecrating your corpse with cursed energy…

"I can feel it from here," titters the curse excitedly. "So warm… I have to have it! Her soul, I have to have it!"

Fuck.

You could try to escape, but you wouldn't have enough time to run past them and through the winding corridors of the underground, even while distracting them with your cursed technique. They'd catch you within seconds. You’re sure they have curses lurking around waiting to thwart you, too.

You could burst directly into the layers of concrete and metal above — use your technique to revert them back millions and millions and years to their very first forms, atoms and subatomic particles, and then rebuild them up as an ascending platform — but that would take too much time, and you'd be completely defenceless while you did. Not to mention the toll it'd take on you.

(Not to mention the fact that you'd be bursting into the public eye from a giant crater in the ground.)

"I'm sure you know what I'm going to do," continues pseudo-Geto, amiable. "I would ask you to join us, but I know that is impossible. Therefore, there is only one course of action."

Can't fight. Can't escape. Can't get answers. Can't stay clueless. How contradictory.

You're not dying, that's all you know. And if you have to do the one thing you never wanted to do, then so be it. Anything is better than death. Death is not an escape, in this scenario — it’s a guarantee of imprisonment.

"It's a shame," pseudo-Geto sighs, bloodlust swelling. "Such a waste of a good technique."

You make a Binding Vow with yourself within seconds.

Using a magnitude of cursed energy usually out of your reach, your entire body will be reduced to atoms — intangible, untrappable, unkillable — for as long as it takes to retreat to safety. In return, you will be unable to think, unable to move according to your own will, only a mere pawn to entropy as the rest of the galaxy is — high risk, high reward.

There are many things that could go wrong.

In reducing yourself to essentially nothing, in splitting your cursed energy into billions of particles, you could reach a state of such low cursed energy concentration that you are, for all terms and purposes, considered dead. In doing so, your Binding Vow could break, and you would be unable to return to living. 

Or you could float for days, weeks, years — safety is subjective, subjective is dangerous when it comes to contracts, and you can only hope that your own understanding of it sets the standard.

It's either this, this fleeting, terrifying chance, or death. With one, you can return to your school, your students, your Satoru — you can tell them what happened. You can bring justice to whoever has disturbed Suguru from his slumber. With the other — nothing. Just plain, utter nothingness forever and ever.

(You know which you'd rather.)

The last thing you recall, in spotty haziness, is the heart-stopping sight of Suguru surging towards you, eyes bloodthirsty, face contorted in malice. 

The last thing you hope is that Satoru isn't too upset about the risk you've taken.

8.

Eight days after your solo mission, you resurface — a discombobulated, stumbling mess on the outskirts of Shibuya, eyes glazed and mouth stuttering over syllables. A nearby Window calls the college within seconds, and Gojo is there just as soon — hands shaking when he grasps your arm and turns you to face him, fingers trembling when he cups your cheeks and brushes them under your eyes.

It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, and he can breathe, he can fucking breathe, his chest is lighter than it’s been for those entire 8 days — all the while, he burns with an anger so intense it hurts. And Satoru is no stranger to anger, of course — knows it as intimately as he knows himself — but he's not sure if he can remember the last time it had rendered him breathless, trembling. Bloodthirsty.

It's not the time to think about it. Not when you're shaking in his arms, so frail and weak everywhere except your hands — no, your hands remain strong, fingers digging into his clothes and skin. He turns off his Infinity. The sting of your touch grounds him.

Shoko is already waiting in the clinic for him — she’d been preparing ever since the call first came in. The students (the ones on campus, at least) crowd together at a distance, buzzing anxiously as Satoru disappears swiftly into the depths of the infirmary with you in his arms.

Bad things happen often. Too often. Satoru isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing that they haven’t gotten used to it yet.

“Gibberish,” Satoru answers when Shoko asks if you’ve said anything competent since he picked you up. “Just gibberish.”

Shoko is poking and prodding you with the usual doctor's shit — stethoscopes and thermometers and that blood pressure band that goes around your arm — and you just lay there and take it. Head rocking side to side, limbs trembling, mouth lolling open, and Satoru's trying not to lose his head because what good is taking your temperature? Do you look like you have a fucking cold? Is the way your eyes focus and unfocus normal? The way you can’t string together two syllables that make fucking sense?

But even with how he can see your cells malfunctioning all over your body, Shoko knows more about this shit than him. So he sits pretty on her swivelling chair, twisting back and forth, body the image of boredom but mind anything but. Time and time again, he’s reminded of how unprejudiced tragedy is — how it leaves no hint, no mark of itself, no time to prepare for the toll of it all. 

Satoru had greeted you briefly before you’d left. Said something about getting lunch together, that you better be careful because you were treating him — the same shit he said time and time again, his real plea hidden within the folds and twists of his jokes and quips. Be careful. Don’t die. I can’t lose you. You’re precious to me.

You’ll be okay. You have to be — he won’t allow anything otherwise. But if he’d known last week that you’d end up like this, would he have said those things out loud? He doesn’t think so. He’s cowardly in that way.

A few moments later, Shoko straightens up. Immediately reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a cigarette and a rusting lighter, and is puffing out clouds of bitter air just seconds later. 

Shit. That’s not a good sign.

Shoko sighs. Rubs at her dark undereye circles and only makes them worse, taps her cigarette so that the ash falls to the floor. “I know what it is.”

Well fucking tell him instead of keeping it in!

“Oh?” Satoru says instead, leaning forward onto his knees. “What is it, then?”

“She used her technique on herself.”

“She does that all the time to heal."

“She didn’t heal herself,” Shoko snaps — and Satoru remembers that he’s not the only person you’re important to. That while he and Suguru had gotten ahead of themselves being the strongest, they’d left you and Shoko to stroll humbly along your own paths. The only girls in their year. The only person Shoko could fully confide in, really — at least in Tokyo —, the only person who had bothered to check up on her when she drank too much, smoked too much. Even if Shoko hated it. 

Shoko is upset. Satoru doesn't what to do with it.

(Alcohol — she likes alcohol. Satoru reminds himself to pick up the most expensive bottle of the stuff the next time he's out.)

(No. She’s trying not to drink so much, isn’t she?)

(Whatever. Life is short.)

“She dissipated herself.”

Satoru knows about your technique intimately enough that it immediately gives him pause — but he runs over the details in his head, just in case, as if it isn’t already imprinted on the flesh of his skull.

Your cursed technique allows you to disassemble items down to their most basic units — subatomic particles — while your reverse cursed technique allows you to reassemble them. Items can be reassembled into their previous form, or to another related form, but you cannot exceed the item’s natural entropy threshold. If you do, the item cannot be reverted back to a physical state, and you will bear the brunt of the resulting shift in energy.

It's a finicky technique. Finicky and fickle and the risks tend to outweigh the rewards — but you'd always used it so elegantly, so gracefully. Even when you doubted yourself, you had a handle on it. Satoru admired that about you.

("You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference."

You'd said that to him once, when he brought you and Yuuji to lunch. You'd acted like it didn't bother you but he could tell it did — he didn't need his Six Eyes to notice how your nose twitched and your eyes narrowed, displeased. 

But Satoru believes in two types of helpfulness. 

The kind he is — powerful, needed, a force to be reckoned with. Someone that keeps things afloat, that acts as a beacon in the dark.

Then there's the other kind. The usefulness of pawns, of bait. Necessary, but not fundamental. Desired, sure, but rarely crucial.

You've always been the first. Always. You and him and Suguru and Shoko, always. Even he could admit that.)

You disassembled yourself into atoms. Into nothingness. You lost your mind, your body, your energy, everything—

Satoru sighs. He's been doing that a lot today.

“I didn’t know she could do that,” Satoru says. His throat is covered in a layer of sawdust. He can’t remember the last time he had to actually focus on not throwing up. “Why would she do that?”

“She talked about it, before,” Shoko says. She leans against the bed you’re laying on, gazing over her shoulder — and the way she looks at you turns his stomach, the upturn of her brows, the sad downturn of her mouth. It’s as if you’re already dead. As if she’s looking at a living corpse. “Just… as a theory. A last resort to help her get away, if needed, but—”

“But what?”

“She knew she didn’t have the power for it,” Shoko mutters. Breathes another puff of cigarette smoke. “If she tried, she'd end up just… fading away. In breaking herself up, she'd negate the cursed energy that gives her the power to put herself together.

"And the side effects would be… well, you can see that for yourself. Stupid, so fucking stupid…”

“Well, obviously she has the power for it,” Satoru murmurs. “Or made the power for it.”

“A binding vow?”

Satoru shrugs. Clenches his jaw, watching as you scratch at the faux-leather underneath you. “It'd make sense. Explains how she put herself back together."

(But for what? What could have driven you to such lengths? 

A curse like Jogo wouldn't be all too difficult for you to defeat.

So who…?)

Shoko hums. She stares into space for a moment, eyes unfocused, and for a moment Satoru sees her younger self — the one who just started smoking, just started drinking, who carried the weight of all the people she healed (and those she'd failed to) tucked in her pocket. The Shoko that would make sarcastic quips and humble them when they needed humbling, but humour them when she knew the outcome would be funny.

A time when they had very little responsibility. Even him, shackled with it since birth. Comparing his duty from then to now is like comparing a boulder to the weight of the world.

He feels very old, suddenly, at 28.

"There's nothing I can do for her," Shoko says, softly. Regretfully. "If she did make a binding vow, I can only assume she made a condition about returning to normal. If so…"

Satoru can’t do anything about it, basically, she explains. Your condition is one that will only heal with time, patience, and the odd boost from Shoko’s technique. Maybe, she says — she's still unsure about that last bit.

It sickens him. It festers as a deep, curdling annoyance in his bones, his uselessness. It’s a sensation he had only felt once before, standing before the slumped-over body of Geto Suguru. Nothing he could do for him except put him out of his misery, and even then that felt like a cop-out.

So… he can't go directly after the thing that had forced your hand, because they had left no trace. He can't heal you, either. He can't take care of you while your body repairs itself, while your supposed binding vow returns you to your rightful state — that duty will fall to Shoko, or one of her interns. 

He can do nothing. And Satoru is nothing if he cannot be of use.

9.

Nine months after the events of the culling games, Satoru enters your room to see you sitting up — eyes wide, eyes seeing, and it only takes you fixing him with a single look to know that you're okay. 

(Subjectively. Relatively.)

Suguru Getou — Kenjaku — is finally dead — exorcised. He’s not sure which is the right word to use. All of his allies, killed or exorcised too. Nanami, murdered. Nobara, comatose. Yaga, dead. Inumaki, Maki, Okkotsu, maimed; the great houses of sorcery destroyed and rebuilt in the image of Satoru’s will. 

Itadori Yuuji — dead. Sukuna Ryomen — exorcised.

Adding up the gains, subtracting the losses, carrying the ones… Both sides seem to have lost pretty evenly. And he should be happy about it, too; things could have turned out much worse. And they would have, too, if he hadn’t pushed himself out of his pouting and escaped the prison realm — a feat that was half out of spite and half concern for the outside world, and maybe a little curiosity. Rage. Longing to see the bastard who’d stolen Suguru’s face and body, who dared to reanimate him and rouse him from peace — longing to slaughter the thing that had rendered you bedridden and half-mad for months.

He had been the one to kill Kenjaku. It only felt right to be the one to do so — he’d killed Suguru, after all; had been the one to leave him defenceless and open to manipulation. If Suguru hadn’t been dead, Kenjaku wouldn’t have been able to steal his body. 

Of course, Satoru ignored the fact that the very last rotten, desperate dregs of Suguru would have enjoyed Kenjaku’s plan — it was the only way he was able to keep his eyes open when he blasted his brain to bits. It was hard enough the first time.

All of these things sit on his tongue, bitter and souring and curdling — every detail of the battle, of the culling games, the colleagues and peers and students he’d held in his arms, the ones he’d comforted as they slipped away, the ones he’d reassured and promised. 

(Pink, blood-covered hair; a smile that never dimmed, a nervous murmur (“It’s okay, Gojo-sensei. I know what I got into.”). The shaky laugh that had followed.)

Satoru’s hands tremble at his sides.

Your eyes are wet with tears when you look at him. 

“How long has it been?” You croak — voice dry and cracked with disuse, whining in some parts, low and wheezing in others. Bone-deep, the fear in your voice, and for good reason — things had already been at a boiling point when you’d been taken down. Everything had moved past you. “Satoru—?”

Another selfish decision on his part: he doesn’t tell you. At least, not now, when the words threaten to vomit out of his mouth, when the pain is suddenly too fresh and too raw. 

(For one strange, too-long second, he’s reminded of his mother — weak, presence-less, powerless as she was. Empty-eyed and unhappy. She was hardly even a mother with the amount of governesses he had.

Somehow, though, every problem would seem worse when her eyes were upon him; every cut and bruise was more painful; every slight against him a grave insult; every mistake a cause for self-pity and temper tantrums — and none of it mattered, as long as she took him into her arms.

A rarity, yes, but… maybe one of the only fond memories he has of his childhood in the Gojo household.

Satoru feels like a kid again — suddenly sniffling from a bruise he swore didn’t hurt, his mother ready to pat his head and baby him and coo his name. Satoru. Not Gojo-sama.)

He crosses the room and plants himself upon your bed and takes you into his arms for the first time in months, and—

And for the first time since Yuuji’s death, since Nanami’s, since Suguru’s, since your injuries—

He cries. Openly. Heaving, chest-wrecking sobs; red, wet nose and ugly whimpers. It’s overwhelming. It’s cathartic. It makes the pain worse, for a second, before it begins to taper out in a bruising wave; with it, he remembers his darling underclassmen who died, his colleagues that he’d wanted to live at least a few more years; he remembers that despite years of being told so, he’s not God — he couldn’t stop Yuuji’s death, or Suguru’s, or Toge losing his arms, or—

“Thirteen months,” he manages to get out. “Thirteen months — you couldn’t talk, or move properly, or—”

Satoru grabs handfuls of you — hair, waist, belly, it doesn’t matter. He can feel you beneath his skin. Rushing, pounding blood, cells, micromolecules — and he doesn’t need to, but he engages his Six Eyes for a moment — actually engages them, doesn’t let them run unconsciously in the background. It’s a comfort to let himself see each receptor interact with each signal on each plasma membrane, to let himself see the tissues that formed organs that formed organ systems forming you, breathing, living, sentient—

He kisses you — or you kiss him, he’s not sure — but it’s far more intimate, far more tender than any touch he’d delivered unto you; hands clutching the sides of your face, your fingers digging into his wrists. You’re crying, salt on his tongue — and he only knows they’re not his own tears because you give a great, shuddering sob when you part, trembling like a leaf in the wind. 

“I had to,” you gasp, and he wants to tell you that he knows, he knows, he doesn’t blame you, sweet girl — did what you had to do to live, to survive— “I had to—”

“Only go where I can follow, okay?" His eyes are burning again, voice cracking with the promise, regardless of the fact that he’d rather you do it 100 times over than die. But it's the only way he can tell you he loves you without telling you he loves you, and he can't remember the last time he said the words aloud.

(He does. He remembers. And he remembers that Suguru wouldn't mind if he said it to you — that Suguru loved you as he loves you. And he remembers that Suguru is dead and doesn't have an opinion anymore, so it really doesn't matter, anyways.)

Satoru calls Shoko when he rights himself, barely pulling back from your embrace to text her something barely understandable and hurried. You don't say much while he does; still acclimating to being aware, being awake — he catches you with your eyes screwed shut and your nose buried in his jacket, fingers tight on his arms again. Grounding yourself. Reminding yourself that you're alive, and with him.

Shoko scolds you between rummaging around for a thermometer and scribbling your prescription in messy, barely legible cursive — calls you a dumb bitch for doing what you did, tells you that you owe her a bottle of wine and a trip to a fancy hot spring, and it all seems a little lighter.

(She cries a little — if the slight glassiness of her eyes can be considered crying. Satoru only teases her a bit for it, though you're quick to mention how he'd blubbered like a baby when he saw you, and he's humbled quickly.

It's the most normal he's felt in weeks.)

Shoko clears away after a few hours — gives you strict orders to rest, and sends him a knowing look that he's not all too sure of the meaning of. 

"You look tired, Satoru," you finally say when you're alone again. Your smile is sad, knowing, and Satoru curses it all. You deserve a grace period, a moment of ignorance before the grief settles in. "What happened?"

But when have you ever wanted a moment of ignorance? When has he ever been able to hide the truth of things from you? When have you ever been anything but his equal, his confidant?

"Everything," Satoru says. A short, humourless laugh punctuates his single-worded sentence. "Everything, crybaby. Everything that we thought could happen, and everything we thought couldn't."

A flicker of a smile — uncomfortable, flat. Your eyes flicker down to the bland, starched sheets of the hospital bed. "Did you see him?"

He doesn't need you to elaborate. There's really only one person you both mean when you say him.

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

Satoru shifts in his seat. "An ancient sorcerer named Kenjaku. His cursed technique allowed him to transplant his brain between bodies and possess them."

"And he chose Suguru."

"Yes. And many others, too."

"And you killed him."

"Yes. For Suguru, and for you. But mostly for Suguru.”

“I’m glad,” you say, but your fingers twist the sheets tightly. “When I saw him, I was angry. So angry, I… I wanted to kill him. I knew I wasn’t strong enough, and I knew he would kill me, but for a second—���

He understands. God, does he understand. “You wanted to take the risk.” No matter the cost, no matter the damage to your own body. Anger like that consumes.

“I did.” You swallow. Your eyes meet his. “It was like… adding insult to injury. As if it’s not enough that Suguru is dead, but this — this Kenjaku has to puppeteer him too. Disturb his peace."

The wind rustles the trees outside. The late-afternoon gold of the sun settles along the horizon, a burning orange that stretches the shadows and warms the wind and turns the side of your face honey-soft and sad.

“But I realised that I was probably the first person he’d revealed himself to," you continue, "so I was the only one that could warn you."

Always thinking about the good of others. It was another thing he admired about you — Nanami, too. Satoru, for all his big talk about changing the world of jujutsu, about being better than those who came before him, is really quite selfish. 

It's why his hands had trembled when he'd had to kill Yuuji. It's why he couldn't put Suguru in the ground the first time they met after he became a curse user. Even when he knows things are necessary, he tries his damnedest to hold on — just for the chance of it all. The chance that Suguru could change his mind. The chance that Sukuna could be removed from Yuuji without him needing to die. 

"And…”

One snow-white brow raises. “And?”

“You’ve already lost too many people that you love,” you say simply, shrugging — like it's a simple fact, no need for experimentation, no need for an academic paper complete with its own abstract and footnotes. Like you've always known, in some little way, but you're only able to bring yourself to say it now.

And Satoru — well, it's no secret to him, is it? He's known it since he was 13, 14, 15 — had a bit of a buffering period, sure — and now here at 28, he knows it just as well. The point is that you're not supposed to know. Not while you're still healing from Suguru and… being attacked by fake-Suguru.

Regardless of what he knows and how long he's known it, Satoru feels his throat begin to close up, twisting and turning and holding his breath tight. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Love?” He echoes. His voice has gotten a little empty. It's too soon for him to say it aloud, he thinks. It was okay when he whispered it in his head after making love to you; it was easy when he grinned at your scrunched up nose and scoffed comments and thought fuck, I love you. It was easy when he could pretend it was a simple, passing comment, a trick of the mind — but having it said as fact? 

Not so simple. But you don’t need to know that. “Is that so?"

You don't seem to notice his momentary pause — a lifetime of rambling in his time, a second's hesitation in regular time — too busy staring at the space where his fingers stretch apart over the sheets. Just inches away from yours. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Oh.

"Oh." Satoru blinks back. "Oh, yeah. Best friends, you and I, crybaby."

"I know it's normal for us," you say, ploughing ahead, "to just lose and lose and keep losing, but… I'll be honest. I never fully got used to it, and I don't want to."

He wishes he could say the same, but he can't.

He understands, in some capacity. Nobody wants to see the people around them die, a continuous and vicious cycle. Nobody wants to get so used to loss that most funerals no longer hold any emotional significance. But getting used to it had saved him. Getting used to it helped him act without consequence, without remorse, and that's what the battlefield both needs and requires of him.

He could count on both hands the people he wants to save in this world — about half of them were dead, at this point. A lot of them died while he was imprisoned. Two, he had to kill himself. He swore he'd protect the rest with all Six Eyes, every non-existent boundary of his Limitless.

So Satoru doesn't care much about getting used to death and dying and loss and grief. As long as you're okay, he's okay. As long as his job as the Strongest is done, everything is as it should be.

He doesn't say that to you, of course. You'd probably curse him out and call him a heartless bastard. Instead, he nods, hums and agrees and tells you the names of those who died when you work up the courage to ask.

It's a long night. It's an even longer list.

10.

Shoko keeps you for observation for 10 days after you wake up — three days longer than necessary, but she won't hear it from him, no matter how many times he reminds her that technically she falsified her degree—

He's joking. Mostly.

Satoru volunteers himself to help you back home, taking with you the plastic bag filled with your cleaned sorcerer's garb and weapon. He carries it over his shoulder along with two teddy bears, a half-wilted bouquet of tulips and a half-eaten box of chocolates (all courtesy of the second years — except for the chocolates, which are half-eaten because of him). He winds his other arm around your waist even though you can walk perfectly fine, but — it's just in case. Purely precautionary. For once, you don’t argue about being babied.

In the midday sun outside, you tilt your head back and close your eyes and smile. For a moment, it's as if the sadness has melted away from you — the tears you shed over Yuuji, Nanami, Suguru. The tears you shed over him, and he wasn't even dead. Satoru is glad your eyes are closed — even beneath his sunglasses, it's painfully obvious that he's staring.

You decide to take the subway home — it's my first time outside in almost a year, you remind him, so he pushes down any arguments he might have and enjoys the too-cramped journey towards Akihabara. You’re both shoved standing together, between a panicked looking man holding a tray of coffee and a woman with her child hanging about her legs, your head bobbing against his chest as the train moves. 

For a moment — as the train passes momentarily out of the underground and becomes encapsulated in light — it's easy to drown in the normalcy of it all. For a moment, he sees himself looking in as a stranger would. Here, he isn't the Six Eyes; just a simple man taking his girlfriend home, standing close on the train, wishing to be closer. Riding home to your shared apartment where he'll peel oranges and feed them to you, where he'll lay his head in your lap and hold your hands to his heart.

His nose wrinkles. He prefers reality, he thinks, where he can be powerful and have you by his side; where he can protect you, uphold peace, change the jujutsu world for the best — and then go home all the same, and have you to hold.

"What are you thinking about?" You mumble against his collar.

"Oranges," he replies.

"I don't have any at home," you say, "or if I did, they're rotted."

"Don't worry — we cleaned your kitchen up. Me and the kids." It was an afternoon of Yuuji attempting to shove rotting potatoes in Nobara's face. That was before Shibuya; before everything, really.

"Oh? You got your hands dirty?"

Satoru tries to not think about that same beaming, smiling Yuuji's last breaths. "Of course! This is me we're talking about, honey. I was front and centre."

You snort, soft against his neck. It's a wonder he went almost a year without you. "Housewife Satoru. I'll keep it in mind."

When you return to your apartment, you shower together for the first time in forever. He spends extra time and care massaging shampoo into your scalp, detangling each knot; spends extra time rinsing the suds out, tilting your head back with a gentle tap to your chin. 

Steam clogs his mind. Almond shower oil and citrusy shampoo fog his senses. The realisation that you could have potentially been taken away from him sits heavy like a stone in his stomach — why it hadn't sunk in in the past, oh, 13 months or so, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he's terribly bad at caring for precious things — but if he could, if it's possible, he'll remould and reshape his hands, his heart, his mind, just for the chance—

"Satoru," you breathe against his lips, "Bow your head."

(Bow your head, you say. He'd kneel if you asked him to.)

You brush your hands through his hair; rinse him free of suds and bubbles and kiss his temples as you shut off the water. What is supposed to be healing for you is quickly becoming therapy for him — muscles relaxing, mind clearing of all responsibilities, mournings, obligations. All he knows are the soft, newly washed sheets beneath him and your nose in the crook of his neck.

It's a strange sensation, the lack of tension, his brain not working overtime. But hardly unwelcome.

11.

Satoru asks you if you saw anything when you were indisposed. Memories, flashbacks, prophecies? Blurry half-truths, nonsensical babbling? You tell him that you can't really remember — and you can't, not really, but you do remember one thing.

When you were 11, you met Satoru and Suguru for the first time. It's that memory that you can remember playing in your head, over and over and over again: Satoru and Suguru, scrawny and still-faced in their yukata. 

Satoru was from a great, traditional house. Suguru was not, but upon discovery of his powers, was taken into unofficial custody of the higher-ups. In most circumstances, you wouldn’t have been allowed within two feet of them — but the elders had deemed your cursed technique a great gift, and so you were warily accepted into the upper echelons of jujutsu society, a stranger, a foreigner.

Introducing you to the most powerful sorcerers your age was nothing more than political play, of course. The adults followed behind as you walked through the grand grounds of the Gojo family — (maintained by a team of 12 gardeners, according to the Lady of the house) — muttering and scheming between themselves, making sure nothing would go awry.

Nothing did, of course. Satoru picked his nose and Suguru told him it was rude and they bickered for a while — Satoru bickered, Suguru replied calmly and quickly. Satoru asked you if your technique was good or bad ("No such thing," interjected Suguru) and whether or not you think you could beat him in a fight. 

(That last question was to stroke his own ego, of course. Everyone knew he was the strongest sorcerer born in the last century.)

At some point, Satoru made you cry. 

You can't remember what about, all these years later — you'd think you'd remember, considering the fact that you know the amount of gardeners employed by the Gojo estate — but you know that you had tried to stop it; fists balled, teeth gritted, full-body heaves. Crying was the last thing you had wanted to do. Crying meant weakness. Weakness meant being taken advantage of.

But you were so scared. It was all so alien. You wanted to go home, but home didn’t exist anymore. You wanted your mother, but your mother was long gone. All you had left were stone-faced adults that were only interested in your abilities. 

Suguru had been confused at your reaction to what he took as a harmless quip — a little callous, as most children are — but he had reassured you nonetheless.

"Don’t cry. Satoru speaks before he thinks," he'd said, nudging your shoulder. "Sometimes you have to ignore him and he'll be so bored that he has to think."

"I can hear you," Gojo huffed. "I didn't mean to."

"See?" Suguru smiled. "Works like a charm."

Yes, Suguru had always been there to protect you. Emotionally, at least. He was willing to be kinder to people. More gentle, more forgiving. He'd believed that it was his duty as a sorcerer to protect those that couldn't protect themselves, and—

Well. That had changed, by the end, but having that memory replay in your head made you see the bigger picture of it all. Suguru's place in things. Your place in things.

You'd loved Suguru, no doubt. And you’ll probably always carry a piece of him with you — you'd hate to do otherwise. You’ll carry his kindness and his jokes and his catlike smile, all tucked away in bubble wrap somewhere in your chest cavity — but you will never disregard his wrongdoings. Since his death, you'd argued against the two sides of him; felt guilty for loving him after what he did, felt guilty for hating him after loving him and knowing him for as long as you did. Two halves of a whole. Darkness in light and light in darkness.

He was both of those things. You love him, but you don’t forgive him, and you probably never will. He will never again be the boy that comforted you after Satoru made you cry; he will never again be the boy who let you braid his hair back. He won't be the boy who slaughtered innocents, either — death's funny like that. Indiscriminately doing away with both the good and the bad.

And that's okay. Kenjaku is dead, after all, and Suguru can finally rest — and with him, your warring mind.

12.

Midnight strikes and you're still awake. You don’t even seem tired, and that's after a long shower and takeout and a movie. Usually you'd be a drooling mess by now, but tonight is different. Feels different. Satoru isn’t sure if it's just a year's worth of built up sexual tension or something else, but he feels it regardless. 

He's flopped on his stomach, hair still damp; you're curled up in the shape of a C, skin reflecting the light of the TV. He might visit Nobara tomorrow. Megumi usually goes on Wednesdays, too — they could make a day out of it, and you could tag along, too. He's got a craving for the pistachio macarons they sell near—

"I'm in love with you," you announce. 

Satoru doesn't bother asking you to repeat yourself because he knows he didn’t mishear. It isn't the knowing that shocks him — he's not stupid, and you wear your heart on your sleeve — it's the sudden, quick verbal affirmation of it that catches him off guard. After all, haven’t you two been putting this all off? Yearning for a dead man? Being pulled from two opposing poles?

He turns his head towards you, opens his mouth to ask you just that, and—

"After Suguru, I thought I'd never be happy again," you say, and you’re smiling like you didn't just say something inherently heartbreaking. But no, you look fond — content, even, blinking slowly at him. "And I thought I'd never feel for someone as strong as I did for him. But here I am: happy, and in love, and okay."

Satoru opens his mouth — then closes it quickly. For some reason, he remembers something Suguru said to you when you were younger: "Satoru speaks before he thinks." But he wants to think about this — about what he should say. How does he respond to you quite literally baring your heart to him? How does he tell you what he wants to tell you, what you deserve to hear? He's never been good with real, genuine words — emotional shit never came easy to him out loud. His thoughts are much more concise than his mouth is, but he guesses it's because it moves so fast in comparison.

Pity you can't read his mind. It'd make things much easier. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” but he wants to, don't you know? "You don't have to pretend. It’s okay. I know that… maybe you don’t love me as much as you loved Suguru, but I know you love me in some way, at least—”

Satoru frowns — strings of ideas and thoughts bunching up and stopping short as your words register. “As much as I— hey, stop putting words in my mouth—"

"The truth is," you continue on, "I feel lighter than I have in years. I don't dread life so much anymore. I don't dread you anymore."

"You… dreaded me?"

You hum. Your legs stretch down, arms forward, face scrunched up in a passing yawn. "I'm not stupid to think you didn’t know how I felt, but… I hated that I was so obvious about it. Even when I was fighting with myself about it, I was obvious. It made me hate being around you, sometimes."

You sigh, then — not as heavy and melancholy as they used to be, no. This is a sigh of relief, of cathartic release. 

Satoru blinks, and attempts to wade through the seventy-or-so compulsions telling him to make a joke, to laugh, to tease you. Maybe he should actually be serious for once. Say it straight and say it firm, so you can't take anything the wrong way. If there was ever a time for him to not beat around the bush…

"I've liked you since I was 17," he confesses, finally. "Me and Suguru, we were together, y’know, and we were happy. And Suguru loved you, and somewhere along the line I… began to do the same, but we were so young and then… Everything changed so fast. Everything broke so fast.”

Your fingers brush against his, and he breathes in a sigh. Your eyes are wide and watery, low light reflecting like glitter in your eyes. 

"Sometimes, it keeps me up at night," Satoru says, laughing a pained sort of laugh. "Out of everything, that's what keeps me up — that we could've been happy together, all three of us. It never would’ve been enough to make him change, but…"

At least you would’ve known what it was like. To be happy together in that way. To be content. To find your places in the world, hand and hand. To know what it was like — even if Suguru’s fall from grace was inevitable — so you wouldn’t have to keep wondering until your untimely, gruesome, sorcerer-style deaths, or whatever. 

Back then, Satoru didn’t understand why Suguru never told you how he felt. He couldn't understand how he could be content watching from afar, looking but never touching. What Satoru wanted, he learned to take; the Strongest didn’t need to ask for permission, only forgiveness. 

He learned quickly that some things were better left unsaid. And now, 28 years old, half of his friends, students, colleagues dead — he understands even more. 

He remembers how Yuuji had tried to stave off tears when he realised he had to die; remembers how his student’s throat had felt being crushed in his hands. He loved Yuuji like a little brother. Like a son, even. He was family. He was his student, and yet his death had been necessary, and Satoru battled with it. It allowed him to succeed in the mission he was born to complete. But he had given up Yuuji in return.

There is no curse more twisted than love.

Therein lays the problem, he supposes. The second you love someone, you run the risk of having them end up like Yuuji did. Like Suguru did. Like Nanami did. When you are burdened with incredible power like Satoru is — like Suguru was — you must be able to sacrifice for it. The closer that people are, the more likely they are to be caught in the crossfire, the more likely you are to be hurt. Suguru hoped to avoid that at all costs. It was easier to watch from afar, less painful. 

Satoru is a tad more selfish. Which is bad, he knows, because he's too prepared to sacrifice. Even now. Even now, he knows that if caught between saving you and saving society, he would be forced to — to—

Satoru inhales. The only thing for it is to simply stop things from getting that far. 

He could explain all this to you. He could talk circles around you about it, in fact, but the truth is that it's all conjecture. Suguru isn’t here to tell him why he did what he did. He can’t speak for him, no matter how well he knew him.

"I don't know why Suguru never told you," Satoru says instead. He folds his fingers tighter, taking yours in his grip as he does so. "Guess that's something he took with him to the grave."

"I've stopped wondering," you say. “I’ll never stop regretting, but I’ve stopped wondering. I can’t stay rooted in the past any more. It was doing more harm than good."

And you raise your interlocked hands — nestle them under your chin and screw your eyes shut, like you're wishing on the evening star, like he's something precious to be treasured. All of a sudden he's 17 and confused about why he can't stop staring at you. He doesn’t have Suguru to tease him about it, now.

“I’ll never forget him,” Satoru announces — a warning, or a reassurance, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s telling the truth and nothing but the truth, and whether or not you like his truth is not his concern. He respects you too much to lie about this to you.

Your lips twitch upwards, a phantom of a smile. “Neither will I. "

"I'll never forget you, either."

The smile grows, blooms, blossoms, until it stretches bright and full across your face. The first smile of yours he's seen in a while that wasn't at half-mast, or tinged with sadness, or pain, or fatigue.

"How lucky I am," you whisper, "to be known by you, Gojo Satoru."

It should be the other way around, he thinks.

(12.5.

It's the first time he makes love in years.

Satoru has always fucked you. Always. No matter how tired you both were, no matter how injured — he'd always force himself to be rougher, force his touches to not linger as much as he wanted them to.

If he felt too much, he'd crack a joke instead of drowning in it; if he felt his eyes beginning to burn he'd bury his nose in the crook of your neck and push it down. If he thought of long, dark hair and cat-like eyes, he'd tighten your grip in his hair and the shock of pain would clear his mind. He fucked quick, and when he was done he'd lay far away enough that he couldn't feel your skin against his.

Tonight, he lets himself love and be loved again. 

You're on top of him, ass flush against his thighs, taking every inch he has to give you; his hands have found your jaw, thumbs brushing back and forth across your dewy, sweat-slick cheeks. One hand of yours clasps around his wrist; the other bands to his chest, nails digging red into his skin. Your cursed energy blooms, flushes, flourishes when he opens his eyes to look at you. 

He sees every pore, every hair, every dimple, every broken capillary, every scratch and scrape. Every part of you, bending to him in some places, unfalteringly stubborn in others. 

"Look at you," he mumbles, blinking dumbly. "So… pretty…"

You snort something like a laugh, and continue: up, down, up, down. Slow, grinding gyrations of your hips that make his head spin pleasantly; and with his Limitless nullified, he feels every inch of skin, every tensing of muscle, every scrape and press fully and completely. He’s never felt so engulfed in it before — the sensations of it all, the warmth, your scent, your weight above him.

He'd drown in you, if he could. Take you in his mouth and nose and ears and everywhere, until he's left gasping for air and grappling for something of substance. Maybe once upon a time he would keep those thoughts to himself, for whatever reason — but now he's allowed to be selfish in his affections, allowed to give more than surface-level compliments and vague declarations of love.

Between pleasure-ridden shudders and sloppy, wet kisses, he breathes:

"I want you everywhere," he says, "All the time. Over me, on me, in me—"

You raise a brow, impudent and teasing in a way that makes his abdomen tighten. "In you?"

And maybe he didn’t mean it in the way that you took it, but he plays along anyways, waggling his brows. "You heard me."

"You're terrible."

"I'm not joking," Satoru argues — but it’s hard to take him seriously when his voice quietens, when he arches up eagerly to meet your lips— 

When his grip on your lower back becomes painfully tight, when his lips part in a moan and his eyes screw shut and he throws his head back, hips rutting up to meet yours, and—

His peak rises to greet him — and his heart swells all the while. He finds himself clawing for you as his orgasm builds, hands clambering against your back, your neck, your hair, until (with a great, shaking breath, may he add): "Fuck, I — mmf, I love you—"

It carries him off to a state of fuzzy, empty-minded ignorance — pleasure tightening his entire body, fizzling from the tips of his fingers to his curling toes. Your name on his tongue, slurred and mellifluous, his smile dizzy and drunk. 

As you smile down at him, so unbearably fond, Satoru thinks that he doesn’t mind saying I love you aloud after all.)

[angelpuns]

50Au Part 11

“FUCKING! I CAN’T BELIEVE- I'M GONNA KILL HIM WHEN WE GET OUT IF HERE!” Donnie growled, summoning some sort of definitely-too-big-for-the-lair-gun. 

Raph wasn't always the most cautious before, but even he knew that wasn't a good idea. 

“Dee, put that thing away! You're gonna blow the whole lair to smithereens!” He grabbed the back of Donnie's shell like he was a kitten, Donnie hissing and clawing in a much less cute way than a kitten would. 

“PUT ME DOWN RAPH I'M GONNA KILL THAT BLUE BASTARD!” 

“HEY!” 

Donnie stopped struggling so much when Raph raised his voice, which Raph tried not to think too hard about. It made a lump of guilty claw its way up his throat, but Raph cleared it away and put on his ‘ Big Brother Voice’. 

“ Look, I'm pissed at him too, but we can't go bustin' outta here willy-nilly and bust up the lair, ‘kay?” He gave Donnie a look, the softshell grimacing and reluctantly putting the gun away, “ You worked too damn hard sprucin’ this place up and makin’ it home again to just blast it to pieces. Now-”

He set Donnie back down and cracked his knuckles, “ watch your big brother do his thing”

Raph grabbed two of the bars and began to pull. He admittedly wasn't as strong as he used to be, but in his defense he'd been recovering from a lot of shit, so give him a break. 

Still, it shouldn't have been this much of a strain. Where the hell did Leo find this thing!?

“ Not to be a pessimist, Raph, but I don't think its working,” Mikey muttered, leaning over his shoulder to examine the bars, “where did he even get this? There's no way we had it lying around the lair, right?” 

Raph let out a grumble, “c’mon…Raph…Raph can bend ‘em easy,” 

He strained and pulled against the bars, but they were just a little too tough for him. 

There was a ker-chunk and a click and Raph thought maybe he had done it- until he turned and saw that Donnie had summoned some sort of saw tool. 

“ Close your eyes, gentleman. I didn't bring extra safety goggles,” Was the only warning they got before Donnie flicked his goggles down over his eyes and began cutting into the metal. 

It surprisingly worked. Raph looked down at his hands, scarred and rough from both injury and fighting. Damn. Maybe he really was gettin’ weaker. 

It took nearly an hour, but Donnie managed to cut a hole big enough for them to squeeze through. And thankfully none of them ended up getting scratched, cause that was a one way ticket to a tetanus shot. 

“ I was startin' to think that metal was too strong to break,” Raph admitted, chuckling a bit to try and tame the unease he felt. The lingering worry of him becoming weak was like a stone in his stomach, weighing the moment down despite it being s victory. 

“ Well, it was mystic,” Donnie started for the lab, Mikey following behind him and asking what the new, new plan was. Since they had technically had,like, four plans fail now. 

Raph breathed out a momentary sigh of relief. Mystic. Of course. So he wasn't becoming useless after all. 

He followed Donnie and Mikey unto the lab to hear the new, new plan, Donnie already rambling about a hundred miles a minute and cursing Leo out every few words. 

Raph, while he was definitely worried out of his mind, found that he too wanted to grab Leo and shake him til he understood what was going on. 

But of course, he wasn't gonna do that. He'd be happy just to see his face at this point. 

----

Wanted to write a fun silly part. Yes they have issues but also...whimsy.

I think this randomly writing and posting without editing and it being super super unofficial as an au is good for me probably. Let's me fuck around cause there's no stakes for me emotionally. Unless we start to like it too much then I'll probably take it too seriously like I end up doing for everything

Also the only part I have a solid idea for I can't even write yet cause I accidentally made too much lead up and I gotta finish out this first section smfh. I wanna write that part so bad but because this is so spontaneous/unplanned idk what's gonna happen between now and that plot point so :/

Part 1 | Part 10 | Part 11

[dancingdonatello]

rottmnt m.list #2

All

-> reader cannot eat dairy

-> reader has mystic shadow powers

-> reader can phase through walls

-> they are jealous of their future selves

-> churring

Raphael

-> size difference

-> cherry raph version

-> reader’s favorite childhood show is Mrs. Cuddles

-> crushing

Leonardo

-> reader shows up randomly at night

-> leo realizes he’s in love with a human

-> shell scratches

-> 3AM cookies

-> leo forgot your anniversary

Donatello

-> reader gets chronic migraines

-> clingy but shy

-> future donnie

-> reader loves physical touch but always asks

-> oblivious reader

-> reader is smitten

-> DONNIE is smitten

-> reader bites him

-> proper name, place name, back story stuff

-> reader dresses up as Atomic Lass

-> donnie cannot flirt

-> turns

-> meow

-> he gets caught watching edits of famous reader

-> witch reader

-> softy reader

Michelangelo

-> adopting a kitten together

[x-press-it]

Devilish Desires - 6/8

Dangerous Temptations, Irresistible Touch 🎞️❤️‍🔥🌹⚔️🖤💻🖱️

Sub!Logan Howlett x Dom!OC (They/Them)

Summary: Logan, typically guarded and dominant, finds himself captivated by E, a mysterious being with a devilish allure and ancient presence that challenges his control.

Context: This story unfolds 'within' the "Days of Future Past" new timeline, during Logan's early years as a history teacher at Xavier’s School. It’s set well before his consciousness from the original timeline reconnects with him in 2023, as seen at the film’s end.

Content Warnings (for the whole story): Smut 18+ (Dry humping, Edging, Unprotected p in v.) - Dom!Logan into Sub!Logan - Pet Names (Good boy, pretty boy, pet, pup, amongst others…) reversed age gap (Logan is younger) - OC Notes: Established name, backstory, powers, fighting style, female body but gender fluid character (Logan misgender them at first because he doesn’t know, even in the descriptions) - Mention of other character from the MCU and subtle references to the comics for flavor (not mandatory to understand what is happening) - Flash back and mention of past trauma - Very quick mentions of drugs - Fluff with Dark Undertones: Emotional tension and possessive affection - Worship Themes: Religious imagery, reverent language and awe - Ancient Mysticism: References to otherworldly or demonic presence - Mental Health: Power dynamics, personal vulnerabilities - Trope: Rivals to lovers.

I'm back after 10 years of iatus and fairly new to how things are done on tumblr now, so sorry if I missed any warnings. Also english isn't my first language so there might be typos/weird sentences...

Notes: Got very inspired by sub!Logan and repeated listening of "Between wind and water" by Hael. Cover made with canva from an idea I got from this post. If you know who made the picture, tell me so I can credit them - Click on the divider to find the creator. Also this was meant to be an imagine turned into a full story. Just so you know, some chapters are very short, other are long. I'm in the process of editing/writing/rewriting parts so I'll post a chapter everytime I have one fully edited.

Stuff happened, got seriously derailled by Tony Stark this weekend... so I didn't finish chapter 7, but as I'm not that far from it, I decided to post chapter 6 anyway because it's getting too long and I can't wait for you to read that one. I hope you're feeling peckish, lovelies because it's time to feed the hunger once again and take a cold shower after reading this ;p

Need some music? I've got you

Previously: in Devilish Desires

Chapters: 6/8

Word Count: 9.5K / 60K+ for now (7.5K of pure smut and I'm not even sorry.) MINORS DNI

As promised, the paperwork arrived the next morning, neatly prepared and tucked into a crisp folder. The early light filtered through the kitchen window, casting soft shadows across Logan’s rugged features as he thumbed through the pages. Each section was meticulous, outlining boundaries, expectations, and a footnote that highlighted the confidentiality agreement extending to everyone in the mansion—alongside the strict no-kissing policy he’d insisted on.

Across from him, E sat with one leg casually crossed over the other, sipping their coffee in a manner that exuded nonchalance, as if this were any other routine contract. The morning air crackled with unspoken tension, and Logan’s senses picked up the subtle notes of their scent, stirring something within him that he quickly pushed aside.

Satisfied, he nodded approvingly and took the pen in hand. The familiar scratch of the ink gliding across the page seemed to echo in the still room, each stroke a mark binding them to something both exhilarating and perilous. He couldn’t shake the notion that this was more than just an arrangement. It was a challenge, a dance neither of them knew the full steps to, but both were determined to lead.

When he pushed the folder back across the table, E’s smirk was unmistakable—a mixture of confidence and playfulness that tugged at his instincts. They picked up the pen and signed with a flourish, a little glint of mischief in their eyes as if sealing a pact they’d secretly rewritten the rules to. The sound of their pen moving across the paper felt like the last click of a lock before the inevitable tension broke free.

They slid Logan’s copy back to him, fingers brushing his just long enough for a spark to ignite, fleeting and undeniable. The room felt warmer suddenly, charged with something neither of them cared to name aloud.

E stood up, the light playing off the contours of their figure as they tucked their copy of the accords under one arm. They paused, eyes meeting his with a look that was both a promise and a taunt. “I’ve got to deal with something. See you around, pretty boy.” Their voice had a lilt that left him balancing between a smirk and a snarl.

Logan watched, jaw tight and eyes narrowed, as they walked out. Their hips swayed in that deliberate way that made him curse under his breath. He tracked them until they disappeared from view, the echo of their footsteps still rippling through his thoughts.

A low chuckle escaped him, and he allowed himself one moment to savor the way his gut twisted in anticipation. Yeah, they knew exactly what they were doing. And damn it if he wasn't enjoying it.

In the days that followed, they crossed paths a few times, each caught up in their own busy routines. Logan had plenty to do between missions, the history lessons and helping the kids at the mansion, but the thought of E lingered at the back of his mind more than he'd like to admit.

It wasn’t until one particularly restless night that he found himself staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the image of their devilish grin and mesmerizing eyes. His thoughts drifted—first to the sway of their hips, then to the curve of their smile, and eventually to how intoxicatedly powerful they’d looked when they revealed their true form.

A soft knock at his door interrupted his reverie, making his head snap toward the sound. Instantly, he caught their scent—spice wrapped in smoke. With a knowing grin, he swung open the door to find E standing there in dark red satin pajamas, their little horns peeking out from their black hair, looking a little longer than usual, their tips reddening.

“Hey,” Logan greeted, his voice low and filled with a hint of the desire he'd been harboring.

E’s lips curled into an amused smile. “Nice to see you too. Liking what you see, pretty boy?”

It wasn’t a question—it never was.

“Maybe.”Logan leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “What brings you to me so late at night, counselor?” he teased, eyebrow cocked.

“You know I can feel you through walls, right ? When you think of me?” E replied, mirroring his smirk. The confidence in their voice sent a shiver down Logan's spine.

For a brief moment, his smile faltered. He hadn’t thought of that. But the smirk returned on his lips just as quickly as it had disappeared. “You don’t like it?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

“Didn’t say that,” they purred, casting a quick glance at the hallway before pressing a hand to his chest, leaning forward, and gently urging him back into his room. Logan let them guide him, retreating toward the bed as they closed the door behind them and locked it with a quiet click.

“Though, I was thinking…” E's voice trailed off, eyes gleaming with playful intent as they pushed him again, this time until the back of his legs hit the bed to make him sit. “If we're going to do this—if you're going to think about me this much, Logan—then we'll have to play by my rules.”

Logan arched a brow, his gaze flicking up to meet theirs as they towered over him now. The low hum of anticipation curling in his gut kept him from refusing outright. "Your rules, huh?" he huffed, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips before he nodded. "Fine."

E’s tail slipped out of their pajama pants, making its way toward his forearm to stroke his skin, light as a feather “Good.” The word was stretched, as if it had a flavor and they were enjoying its taste.

As exhilarating as the idea of giving them the lead was, his reason screamed at him to push back, to stay in control. But as they had both agreed, the energy in the room shifted. It wasn't just their words that held him he realized—it was something deeper. He felt the subtle weight of their power settle over his mind, not enough to force him but enough to keep him tethered to the spot. Like a leash held loose in their grip.

E's smirk deepened as they caught the flicker of resistance in his eyes, the internal struggle. “You’ll stay still… unless I tell you otherwise. That’s the game tonight, pet,” they said, climbing over him, straddling his lap with a grace that made it impossible for him to look away. “For now, at least.”

He clenched his jaw, fighting to reclaim some control. His hands twitched, itching to grab their hips, but the unspoken leash kept him anchored. He could break it—he knew he could—but that was their game, wasn’t it? And tonight, he agreed to let them win.

“I had a question,” E began again, their voice dripping with sensuality as they made themselves comfortable, the weight of them on him only adding to the heat pooling low in his belly. “Regarding the contract.”

He gripped the sides of the bed, every muscle tense as they leaned in closer, breath ghosting over his neck while their tail possessively wrapped itself around his calf.

“You said no kissing, right?” they purred, lips grazing the sensitive skin of his throat. Logan managed a nod, even as his thoughts scattered at the first brush of their mouth against him.

“But what about biting?” they asked, lips still hovering near his neck before their teeth nipped at his skin, sharp but not painful. “Or licking?” Their breath was hot against his skin, sending a shiver straight down his spine as the heat of their tongue dragged, slow and deliberate, along his pulse point, making his fists clench on the bed frame. “Or sucking?” E finished, lips sealing over the tender spot they’d just teased.

Logan’s breath came out shakier than he'd like as they pressed their mouth to his neck, sucking softly on the skin. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. He wanted to move, to touch, but E's command held him in place—not just because of their words or the way they moved, but because every time he tried, it felt like a weight pressed down on him. A collar. And the more they teased, the tighter it became.

Everything was calculated, every move deliberate as they traced a path of wet kisses to his jaw, moaning softly. Each touch, each sound sent a surge of heat pooling in Logan’s belly, the restraint coiling tighter with each one.

“What about here?” E whispered, their breath warm against his ear before their teeth grazed the sensitive lobe, sending a shudder through him. A groan slipped out before he could stop it. “Do you like that, pretty boy?”

They shifted on his lap, pressing down just enough for him to feel them against the hardness growing beneath his sweatpants. E’s hand slid between their thighs to reach for him, brushing against their own warmth on the way, and Logan’s entire body tensed as their longs fingers found his hard length that was impossible to ignore. Their grin widened, feeding off the sensations radiating from his need.

“Yeah,” E purred, a surge of power making their voice drip with satisfaction. “I think you do.” Their voice was barely above a whisper now, but the sensation of them shivering in pleasure, feeding off his reaction, only made the need in his chest more intense.

A low growl rumbled deep in his chest as E’s hand teased his hard length again, making his body tighten, every muscle coiled and strained.

“You agreed to my rules,” E whispered, their lips brushing his ear, sending a jolt down his spine. “But I wonder… can you really keep up with me?” They shifted in his lap, grinding just enough to draw a low groan from deep within him. “Think you can handle it, pet?”

Could he? Hell, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Logan’s hands twitched, the urge to grab their hips, to flip the game around, surged through him. But the way they moved, the way they smiled with that knowing look, kept him still—kept him wanting.

“You’re a piece of work, E…” he muttered between gritted teeth, his voice raw with frustration. Desire blazed in his eyes, but he held himself back—just barely.

E chuckled softly, leaning in closer, their lips hovering over his. “Good boy,” they whispered, breath fanning over his skin—a soft, teasing taunt. The warmth between their mouths was palpable. Yet, even with the closeness, there was no pull, no energy drained; as long as there was no true intent to close that distance, the boundary would stay in place. This was a test, a game of willpower and restraint.

“Let’s see how long you can stay nice,” they murmured, eyes flicking down to his lips before returning to meet his gaze. The space between them felt charged, every second of restraint like a coiled spring waiting to snap.

Logan gritted his teeth, jaw clenched as the battle within him grew fiercer.

“Mmm, gods, you’re delicious,” they murmured, breathless, their lips finding the crook of his neck as they fed off the raw energy pulsing from him. Logan’s mind spun, caught between raw need and unfamiliar territory. He’d faced dominance before—plenty of women liked taking control—but this? This was something else entirely. It wasn’t just dominance; it was a command of him so total it left him speechless, breathless, a stranger to his own instincts.

For the first time, words failed him. He surrendered, lost in the sensation, as E reveled in their power, every calculated move more intoxicating than the last. They were like a deadly poison—dangerous, but too tempting to resist, and Logan found himself craving more, despite the edge of danger that came with it.

E chuckled, sensing the shift in him and the soft sound brought him back to reality.

“Sorry, pet,” they murmured, easing back just enough to let him catch his breath, the tension loosening like a tether unwinding. “You looked so tasty… Guess I got greedy.”

Logan blinked, dazed, breath ragged as he tried to ground himself. “Greedy, huh?” His voice came out hoarse, and he shifted, hands flexing with the urge to pull them close.

E leaned back just enough to look into his eyes, their smirk never wavering. “Didn’t hear you complaining, pup’,” they teased, fingers still tracing slow, lazy circles over his inner thigh but not pushing further. They knew exactly what they were doing—exactly how much control they had in that moment. Hell, they both knew it.

Logan swallowed hard. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. “You’re—” His words faltered, and he cleared his throat. “You’re dangerous, E.” But somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he liked it.

E’s eyes gleamed, a full smile stretching across their lips, horns noticeably longer an redder now, as if fueled by their growing desire. “Good, I wouldn’t want it any other way,” they whispered, leaning close enough for him to feel the heat of their breath on his lips, though still not kissing him. “Now let’s see how long you can behave.”

They began to grind against him again, keeping their slow and deliberate pace, and Logan could feel the shift in their energy. Their breath hitched, and a quiet moan escaped them, betraying their own need. The scent of their arousal filled the air, intoxicating, primal, and it took every ounce of Logan's willpower not to move. But the way they rolled their hips against him, their warmth pressing into his hard length, was driving him mad. He could hear their soft gasps close to his ear, each one sending a shockwave of heat through his body.

Logan’s fists clenched, desperate to keep still, to play their game, but his body trembled with the urge to move, to take control. He forced himself to stay still, each nerve screaming for freedom as every sound, every breath, every shift of their body teased him further. His heightened senses were a curse in this moment—he could feel their pulse quickening against his skin, their need building, and that scent—god, that scent—it was driving him feral. He wanted to dominate them, but they had the reins now, and he could feel the tension in his body that betrayed his desire to surrender. The more they played with him, the harder it became to hold back, to pretend he wasn't about to snap. Once again, his hands itched to grab hold of those hips that had been teasing him for weeks, to pull them down harder, but just as his fingers released the frame of the bed, ready to act, E tutted softly, their hands sliding over his arms, stopping him in his tracks.

The slow grind of their hips halted for a few agonizing seconds, leaving him stranded in frustration. The sudden stillness only amplified both their desires, their breath heavy and mingling in the small space between them. He could feel the way their body trembled slightly, not just from control but from the same need that gripped him.

“Who gave you permission to touch me, naughty boy?” they grinned down at him, mischief flickering in their eyes as they held him in place, daring him to keep playing their game.

Logan’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as E took his hand and guided his finger to their lips. The heat of their mouth surrounded him, slick and tantalizing. The gentle graze of their teeth and the moan that rumbled deep in their throat, sent a shiver down his spine. His pulse raced, every nerve sparking at the contact, and he fought not to react—his body betraying him with each slow, deliberate movement. Slowly, they let his finger slip free, their lips hovering just above the skin for a heartbeat. Then, with deliberate care, E pressed soft kisses to the spaces between each knuckle, right where his claws would emerge.

The touch was maddeningly light, just enough to send sparks of pleasure radiating from each point. Logan hadn’t realized how sensitive those spots were until now, but under the heat of E’s breath, they felt like live wires, pulsing with intensity. His breath hitched as they lingered over the third spot, their lips barely brushing the skin, teasing him with a delicate warmth that made his body tighten.

Their eyes flicked up to his, catching the way his pupils dilated with desire. A sly smile curled at their lips, and only then did they begin to move again, rolling their hips slowly, deliberately grinding down against his bulge. The combination of their teasing kisses and the pulsing heat between them was enough to drive him mad, leaving him unable to focus on anything else. Logan clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to grab hold of them, to take control—but E’s teasing voice sliced through his haze, reminding him who was in charge.

“You want to touch?” Their voice dropped into a low, sensual purr, the faint trace of a foreign, exotic accent adding to the magnetic pull they had over him. “You ask, pet.”

Logan's eyes darkened at the challenge. He wasn’t the type to ask when desire burned so fiercely. He was always the take action type—if someone wanted him, it was obvious, and he responded in kind. But this… this was different. E wanted him to play their game, to bend, and he could feel his pride bristling against it.

His hesitation didn’t go unnoticed. E stopped moving entirely, their gaze flickering with a flash of concern. “You want to stop?” they asked, their voice losing its usual confidence, tinged now with a subtle layer of vulnerability.

Logan swallowed hard, clearing his throat. “No.” His voice came out rougher than usual, deeper, almost guttural. “It’s just…” He hesitated, the words stuck in his throat. “I’m not used to…”

E’s smirk returned, understanding gleaming in their eyes. “Oooh…” They dragged the sound out, hips rolling again as they resumed their slow grind. “Well, you can’t just grab what isn’t yours, pet. You need to ask permission first.”

Logan’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of them on him, the heat, the smell—it all had him light-headed. He wasn’t one for asking, but this? This had him reeling. His lips parted, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.

“Do you mind?” he rasped, his hand twitching against their side, still caught in their tantalizing grip.

E arched a brow, savoring the control they held over him. “Mind what?” Their voice dripped with playful mischief, the question lingering just long enough to test his patience. They pulled his hand up again, letting their full lips brush over his knuckles once more with agonizing slowness. Each kiss was deliberate, lingering. Logan’s breath hitched as E’s tongue flicked out, tracing the sensitive skin between his knuckles. His claws itched beneath his skin, and a wave of heat surged through him, making it harder to hold back.

The slow drag of their tongue, the way their lips lingered just a second too long, the cool sensation when their breath hit the wet spot—it was a careful unraveling of his composure. Every soft kiss made the space between them feel like it was about to snap, the tension mounting with every beat of his heart. E’s gaze locked onto his, watching the crack in his restraint widen, the way his chest rose and fell with barely contained need. They enjoyed every second of it.

Logan swallowed hard, his voice rough and feverish when it finally came out. “Do you mind if I… grab your hips?” The question wasn’t a demand but a plea, something foreign on his tongue, especially when he could feel the desire burning hotter with each passing second. His gaze was locked on theirs, his heart hammering so loud in his chest he was sure they could hear it, each thud echoing the restraint he was barely clinging to as he waited for their answer.

A sly grin spread across E’s lips as they released his hands. “No,” they whispered against his ear, toying with him, their breath hot on his skin as they reached the crook of his neck and nibbled at his pulse. There was a slight, teasing pause before they added, “I don’t mind at all.” Their words were playful but held a thread of command beneath the surface. “You see how easy it is, pet? Just use your words.”

Logan wasn’t listening anymore. The moment they granted him permission, his hands moved of their own accord, gripping their hips with a firm, hungry touch. His fingers dug into their soft flesh through the smooth fabric, and E let out a soft, breathy laugh, feeling the intensity of what coursed through him—how badly he wanted this, wanted them. The heat radiating off him was palpable, a heady mix of desire and restraint, and they reveled in the way his need practically pulsed beneath his skin.

They could feel it too—how every ounce of his hunger was feeding theirs.

Logan’s grip on their hips tightened, his hands finally claiming what he’d been aching to touch. The warmth of their body beneath his palms, the give of their flesh under his rough fingers—it sent a thrill down his spine. His chest heaved with heavy breaths as E’s laughter vibrated against his skin. That sound, low and teasing, sent a jolt of heat straight to his cock, making every muscle in his body tense beneath their weight.

Their own pulse quickened at the intensity of his touch, the need in his grip fueling a fire deep within them. His desperation was like an electric charge in the air, and they soaked it up, feeling it ignite their own desire. Gods, the way his hands squeezed, rough and possessive, it made their breath hitch, their walls clench around air. They could feel the way he wanted to pull them closer, harder, but still held back just enough, waiting for their lead.

“Good boy,” they whispered, and the words made something primal stir in Logan’s chest, a low rumble of need escaping him. E leaned in, their lips grazing his jawline before biting down through the scruff of his chin just enough to make him gasp, the sharp edge of pleasure and pain drawing a shudder from him. They felt him tense, his hands tightening reflexively on their hips, pulling them even closer, forcing them to stop moving for a few heartbeats. His heat was so intoxicating, seeping into their skin like a drug.

“You like that, don’t you?” Their voice was a sultry whisper, lips now brushing the sensitive skin of his neck as they spoke. They began to grind against him again, slow and deliberate, each roll of their hips sending shivers through both their bodies. The friction between them was maddening—each movement calculated to drive them both closer to that edge without ever toppling over. Logan’s mouth opened as if to respond, but the sensation was too much, and a deep, guttural moan escaped instead. The tension in his gut, the way he strained to keep himself in check and the sound vibrating between them, a confession of pleasure that made E’s desire burn even hotter.

They could feel his heart pounding beneath their palm, and it mirrored the quickening beat of their own. Their fingers threaded through his hair, tugging just enough to keep him grounded, as they continued to grind against him, every shift of their body an exquisite torture. The way his hardness pressed against them, pulsing with barely contained need, made them moan softly, their own body betraying the pleasure that built with each teasing movement.

“See how easy it is when you behave?” E murmured, their breath hot against his ear, the words a seductive challenge. The power they had over him, the way he trembled under their control, sent a heady thrill coursing through them. Every roll of their hips seemed to ignite a new wave of pleasure, a slow burn that made their body ache for more.

Logan’s fingers dug deeper into their hips, holding them steady as they moved against him, and his mind went blissfully blank for a moment, lost in the heat of their shared desire. He wasn’t used to being this… helpless, under someone else’s control. But with them, it felt right. Every time they touched him, it was like electricity surging through his veins, and the tension coiling in his stomach told him he wouldn’t be able to resist much longer.

“Doin’ my best,” he managed, voice strained and punctuated by a low grunt. His admission sent a rush of exhilaration through E, their eyes gleaming as they leaned closer.

“I can tell,” they praised, their voice laced with approval. “You’re being so good for me, pet. Almost too good…” The words were a balm, feeding the spark in him and pushing them both further into the intoxicating dance of control and surrender.

The tension between them mounted, the charged silence broken only by their labored breathing and the subtle creak of the bed beneath them. E’s hips rolled with a calculated grace, drawing out Logan’s low, ragged groans, each sound setting their nerves aflame. But just as he felt himself sinking deeper into the heady warmth of the moment, something shifted.

E’s horns brushed against his forehead, the subtle curve pressing against his skin and reminding him of the power they held in that instant, the lengths of their desire manifested in those growing, otherworldly marks. The contact pulled him back just enough to let the awareness seep in—a stark reminder of who commanded the rhythm, who held the reins. It sent a shiver down his spine, and E could feel it, could sense the way his body reacted to every touch, every brush of their power. The energy between them was buzzing, a current that hummed in the space where their bodies met. Logan's struggle for control, the heat radiating off his skin, the primal urge that simmered just beneath the surface of his restraint—E felt it all and it fed that bottomless hunger like nothing ever did before.

Their own body was alight with sensation. Each time their hips rolled, the pressure building between their thighs sent waves of pleasure coursing through them. They could feel Logan’s hardness pressing against them, a constant, delicious reminder of the effect they had on him. His pulse, quick and erratic, mirrored the rapid beat of their own, and the heat between them seemed to intensify with every breath. E's skin felt fevered, their muscles tensing as the ache inside them grew.

They leaned back slightly, their eyes glowing with a mixture of amusement and lust as they watched him. Logan's expression—equal parts frustration and need—was intoxicating. His eyes were dark with desire, his jaw clenched in an effort to keep himself together, and it only fueled the fire inside them. Every subtle shift of his body, every twitch of his muscles beneath their weight, was like a symphony of sensations that thrummed through them.

“You’re doing so well, pretty boy,” they purred, the words slipping from their lips like velvet as their hips rolled slowly against him. The friction between them was maddening, drawing a low moan from E as the tension coiled tighter between their legs. Their breath hitched, heart pounding as waves of pleasure surged through them, and the control they held over him only magnified the sensations. “Gods, I could so get used to this…” His need pulsed through the air—heady, addictive—and each groan he released sent jolts of pleasure straight to their cunt.

Logan let out a shaky breath, his pulse thundering in his ears. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to growl in frustration or groan in surrender. But the way E looked at him—like they were ready to devour him—the way they moved with slow, deliberate rhythm, each soft moan heightening the tension, it did things to him he wasn’t ready to admit. The way they commanded every second, reading every flicker of his desire with practiced ease, left him reeling.

“I can feel how much you’re enjoying this,” E murmured, their fingers threading through his hair before tugging it back lightly, forcing his head to tilt up. The sharp motion sent a shiver of pleasure through them both, a gasp slipping from E’s lips as they drank in his response. The tautness of his muscles under their touch, the way his body yielded, made their own body hum with anticipation. “I can feel everything, Logan.”

His breath caught, eyes locking with theirs, pupils blown wide. “Everything.” The tingling heat of their touch, the unsteady tremor in his breathing, the desperate coil of need tightening in his gut—they felt it all. It wasn’t often that someone had him this vulnerable, completely at their mercy, yet here they were, owning every second of it, of him. That awareness, the knowledge of how easily they could push him to the brink, sent a fresh wave of arousal surging through them. Their walls clenched, aching for release, but they held back, savoring the power of his submission, relishing how wholly he was theirs in that moment.

The air between them crackled with tension, their bodies charged and trembling with desire. E could feel Logan’s restraint slipping further with each heartbeat. Every breath, every touch, was another piece of his resolve that crumbled beneath their hands.

“Maybe I should reward you,” they said, inhaling the scent of his sweat in the crook of his neck. It mingled with their own, and a shiver ran through them both as they felt how drenched with arousal they were. “Tell me, pet,” E whispered, their lips so close they almost brushed his, “Tell me what you want.”

Logan swallowed hard, his pulse quickening even further. Admitting what he wanted wasn’t easy, especially as someone who was used to being in control. But with E, the dynamic shifted. He didn’t just want them—he needed them. And the way they were teasing him made that need nearly unbearable.

His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “I want you…” He swallowed again, his throat dry. “All of you.”

E’s eyes darkened, a slow, dangerous smile curving their lips. "Oh, you will, pet," they promised, grinding harder against him for a few seconds. Their hands found purchase on his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as their power seeped into the room, surrounding him like a heavy, intoxicating fog.

"But first… you're going to wait. Let’s see if you can keep following the rules."

Logan’s eyes narrowed, frustration and raw need mingling in his gaze. His hands slid up their sides, fingertips grazing the bare skin just above their waistline beneath their shirt. The urge to flip them over, to take control, clawed at him, but he held back—barely.

“Ah, ah, careful now,” they warned, their voice a soft, teasing melody. “I said you could touch, but let’s not get greedy, pet.”

Logan swallowed again, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The way they called him pet made his blood run hot, his steady composure fracturing as his breath hitched. He couldn’t decide whether to be frustrated or completely enthralled, but he was leaning dangerously toward the latter.

“I ain’t greedy,” he rasped, though he wasn’t sure if that was true. His grip eased, just a fraction, not wanting to overstep. E’s smirk deepened, sensing the battle within him—the push and pull of his restraint.

No?” they hummed, their lips ghosting over his jawline, fingers trailing down his chest to rest just above the waistband of his pants. “Then what’s this, pretty boy?” Their palm pressed against his lower abdomen, making him feel the undeniable evidence of his desire, burning inside him like a wildfire, consuming every shred of resolve. Logan exhaled sharply, his breath ragged.

"You think you can keep me under control all night?" he growled, his voice laced with challenge, fighting to hold onto his composure.

E’s eyes glittered with amusement as their hand slid down to the inside of his thigh, dangerously close to where he throbbed with need. "Oh, I know I can, pretty boy," they whispered, their lips brushing against his ear. "The real question is, how long can you last before you beg?"

Logan’s pulse spiked, the heat of their body and the weight of their words seeping into his bones. The teasing, the control, the way they held him in the palm of their hand—it was maddening. And yet, as E continued to push him to the brink, a part of him knew he’d already lost this game.

Because damn it, he was so close to begging, and they both knew it. Instead, he let out a frustrated growl. E tilted their head, the smirk on their lips unfading as they leaned in closer. They ran the tip of their tongue along his jawline, teasing the skin through his beard. “Oh, cute pup’,” they purred, their hands slipping beneath his t-shirt to explore the firm muscles beneath. “There’s so much more I want to teach you.”

Logan’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around their hips, desperate for any semblance of control. “What more d’you want, huh?” he rasped, voice heavy with desire and frustration.

They chuckled, the sound vibrating against his skin. “You’re good, pretty boy,” they said, their voice soft yet commanding. “But you’ll have to find out what makes me tick on your own.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, battling the mix of pride and raw need coursing through him. The words weighed on his tongue, unfamiliar and vulnerable. “Can I…” He hesitated, then swallowed, forcing himself to speak, his voice low and rough. “Can I make you feel good?”

Their lips curled into a slow, wicked smile as they combed their fingers through his hair, the touch both tender and possessive. “Oh, but you already are, sweetie,” they murmured, their long horns grazing his forehead, an intimate, almost claiming gesture. “You make me feel good already, pretty boy.”

The sound of their words, coupled with the gentle touch, sent a shiver down Logan’s spine. His heart thudded, barely contained by his ribs. But he pushed further, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can I make you feel even better?” The question was edged with challenge, his eyes meeting theirs with a hunger that dared to reclaim some control.

Their body quivered at his words, a flash of something dangerous and wanting flickering in their gaze. “What do you have in mind, cutie?” they asked, voice sultry with a hint of playful defiance.

He paused only a moment, then let his eyes drift purposefully to their chest. “What about your tits?” he growled, voice thick with need.

A low, mischievous laugh escaped them, their body trembling slightly. “What about them, pet?” they teased, meeting his eyes with that daring smirk, inviting him to continue.

Logan’s grin widened, the heat between them simmering to a boil. “Want me to touch them?”

Without hesitation, they released their hold on him, their fingers deftly unbuttoning their pajama shirt to reveal the soft, inviting curves he’d been aching to touch. “Here they are, pretty boy,” they said, their voice teasing but their eyes betraying their own hunger. “Go ahead.”

The sight was overwhelming. More beautiful than he had imagined, they took his breath away. His hand reached out, cupping one breast gently, the warmth and softness under his palm sending a rush of pleasure through him. His fingers traced the curve of their dark skin, savoring the moment as his heartbeat thundered. His touch trembled slightly as he succumbed to the temptation, feeling the weight of them, the heat searing through his skin.

The moment his hand made contact, E gasped softly, the rough, calloused texture of his skin brushing over their sensitive flesh sending a shiver down their spine and settling as heat in their core. Warmth bloomed under his touch, spreading like fire through their chest and making their breath hitch. Their nipples hardened beneath his fingers, tension coiling deep in their belly with each slow, deliberate caress. His touch, though reverent and slightly hesitant, radiated such raw desire that it left them craving more.

Before he could fully lose himself in the sensation, they grabbed his jaw firmly, pulling his gaze back to theirs. The sudden dominance of the gesture sent a thrill through him, unraveling what little control he had left. Perfect. The feeling of power—holding him in check while their own body trembled with anticipation—was intoxicating.

“New rule, pup,” they commanded, their tone hard, though edged with a tremor of pleasure. “Address me properly from now on.”

Logan’s throat was dry, and his voice wavered beneath the weight of their piercing stare. “And how should I call you?” he managed, the words slipping out in a haze of want and tension.

A gleam of mischief lit their eyes. “I know you can come up with something creative,” they taunted, halting the grinding of their hips that had been torturing him. “Need a moment for that brain of yours to catch up?” Their smile was vicious, teasing, making his stomach clench.

A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat, heavy with need. They sighed contentedly, savoring his frustration as their horns brushed against his forehead again. “Damn, you’re so tasty,” they purred, voice dripping with satisfaction.

“Don’t stop,” Logan whispered, his brows knitting as he fought the edge of desperation, his tone nearing a plea. He was slipping, teetering on the brink as the tension roiled inside him.

“If you want me to start again,” they murmured, their breath warm and tantalizing against his ear, sending a shiver through him, “you need to ask me properly, pretty boy.”

His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, desire pulsing hot and insistent between his legs. “Please,” he rasped, the single word raw with need, “don’t stop.”

Their grip on his jaw tightened slightly, and they rolled their hips only once, pulling a groan from deep within him. “Please, who?” they demanded, mock anger in their tone, amusement glinting in their eyes as they continued the game.

Logan’s mind struggled to form words, pleasure clouding his thoughts. “Please… Angel, don’t stop.”

The word escaped before he could catch it. It didn’t make any sense—everything about them screamed devil: the teasing cruelty, the glint of wicked delight in their gaze. The memory of their true form flickered at the edge of his mind, the one hidden behind their current guise. They looked every bit the demon, even with their feathered wings. And yet, the sensations they drew from him were divine, as if they were an angel in disguise, mighty and gracious in their power over him. It felt sacred, the way they owned him completely in this moment.

They paused, eyes glinting with satisfaction as they considered the name. “Angel, huh?” they mused, letting the word roll off their tongue with a hint of amusement. “I can see the appeal.” Their grin widened as they leaned down, lips brushing tantalizingly close to his, toeing the line of their agreement. “I accept your gift,” they purred, eyes sparkling with pleasure as they resumed the slow, torturous grind against him.

Logan groaned, heat surging through him again, but he bit back any words, knowing that speaking out might make them stop. His control was hanging by a thread, and they knew it, exploiting his desperation with deliberate care.

“Oh, you’re such a good pup,” they praised, fingers tangling in his hair as they pressed his face against their chest. “Now, be a good boy and lick.”

He obeyed without hesitation, breath catching as his lips met the warmth of their skin. He moved slowly at first, savoring every reaction they gave—the soft gasps, the low moans that deepened with each touch. The slight taste of salt on their skin was overwhelming, heightening his senses. His tongue teased around the peak of their breast, circling before flicking against it, and their hand tightened in his hair, urging him on.

“Good boy,” they whispered, their voice thick with pleasure. The praise shot through him like a jolt, making his body hum with satisfaction. His right hand continued to knead their other breast, fingers firm but reverent, as though discovering them for the first time. E's body responded in waves, every nerve alight with sensation. The warmth of his breath against their skin sent shivers down their spine, each flick of his tongue drawing a gasp that seemed to echo in their chest. Their skin burned hot under his touch, each teasing pass of his mouth and fingers leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

Their hips shifted the pace to a teasing rhythm once more, a slow, torturous grind that kept them both suspended on the edge of desperation. They felt the heat pooling low in their abdomen, building with each subtle movement. The throbbing ache between their thighs intensified, every shift of their hips against him creating friction that sent jolts of pleasure sparking through their veins. Their pulse quickened, a steady drumbeat that matched the feverish thrum of need coursing through them.

Logan’s composure was slipping fast. The need coursing through him was relentless, but he focused on their sounds, the way they shivered under his touch. He wanted more—wanted to push them over the edge as he teetered on the brink himself. His lips moved with more urgency, tongue tracing intricate patterns over their sensitive skin, while his left hand gripped their waist tighter, pulling them closer until there was no space between them.

E's head fell back, moans spilling from their lips with less restraint now, each one resonating through their body like a pulse of lightning. Their heart raced as heat spread over their skin, a blissful tension coiling tighter and tighter in their core. They tugged harder at his hair, and Logan couldn’t stop the low growl that rumbled from his chest, vibrating against their skin. The sound sent another wave of arousal crashing through them, making their thighs tremble and their breath catch. The feel of him, the relentless attention, was pushing them closer to surrender.

“You make me feel so damn good,” E whimpered, their voice a breathless symphony of need as their grinding slightly picked up pace. The words came out fractured, barely held together by the trembling need overtaking them. “Such a good boy for me…”

Logan’s left arm around their waist tightened, his own body straining as the tension between them grew unbearable. He felt the heat radiating from them, the dampness between their thighs seeping through his sweatpants, teasing him relentlessly. E felt his muscles tense against their skin, and the knowledge that he was holding back, that he was still focused solely on their pleasure, sent a heady rush through them. They moved against him with more urgency now, the friction stoking the fire within them until it was nearly too much to bear.

They were so close, the coiling heat inside them threatening to snap, but they weren’t ready to give in just yet. A wicked smile played on their lips as they adjusted the rhythm once more, pulling back a bit, making him wait. The tension was exquisite, each lazy roll of their hips drawing out the anticipation, prolonging the aching bliss. The slow, controlled movements sent deep, simmering waves of pleasure rolling through them, enough to make both their entire bodies pulse with need but not enough to push them over the edge. E was toying with the both of them—he knew it and it only spurred him on.

Despite the low rhythm, their breaths were turning ragged, their heart racing as the pleasure teetered on the edge of too much. Sparks of heat shot through their limbs, making their thighs shake with every subtle shift against him. Each pulse of friction sent shudders racing up their spine, and they bit down on their lip to hold back the cries that threatened to spill over. Logan’s heart pounded in his chest as he felt them holding onto the edge, deliberately stalling the fall, savoring every second of it. His lips and fingers moved faster now, more insistent, drawing out sharper moans from E as their control wavered. The way he touched them, the relentless press of his mouth against their skin, nearly shattered their resolve.

“Logan,” they gasped, their hips stuttering against him, the rhythm faltering as the need surged. A heady, electric sensation washed over them, pooling at their core and spreading like wildfire. Their breaths came in quick, shallow bursts, and the moans that followed were unrestrained, raw, laced with the desperation of wanting and almost having. They teetered on the edge, the build-up so intense it left them breathless, each muscle in their body tensed with anticipation.

He felt the shift—breaths quickening, moans sharper, more desperate—felt how close they were to losing control, and it only stoked the fire burning inside him. The heat radiating from their body, the way they gripped at his hair and shoulders, grounding themselves in him, made him ache in the most exhilarating way.

“Don’t stop,” they begged, their voice shaking with need, and Logan couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. He was barely holding onto control, wavering dangerously, but knowing he was the one unraveling them, pushing them to the edge—it was intoxicating. It was all for him, and he didn’t want to stop. The realization surged through him, mingling pride with a deep, consuming desire.

With a tighter roll of their hips and his name a strangled cry of pleasure on their lips, he felt them come undone in his arms, shattering. E’s body tensed against his, the climax hitting them hard like a wave crashing over rocks. The heat burst from within them, rippling through every inch of their body in a rush of ecstasy so intense it left them gasping. Their moans filled his ears, a symphony of release that seemed to echo in the room. Their fingers dug into his skin, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping them grounded, and for a moment, everything else fell away.

Logan held them through it, his hands never straying from their body, his lips still teasing against their skin, drawing out their pleasure as long as he could. The feel of their heartbeat racing against his, the shivers still coursing through their body, made his own restraint fray at the edges.

He watched them, heat swirling through his veins, captivated as they came down from their high. They were utterly breathtaking, and he swore he’d never seen anything more perfect in his life. Their breathing was still uneven, their body trembling against him as aftershocks made them shudder. The sight of them, warm and satisfied, their skin still glowing with the aftermath, drove Logan wild, but he held himself back, his own release simmering just beneath the surface, a barely contained storm.

E’s eyes fluttered open, their lashes heavy with the dazed warmth of fulfillment, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across their face. They looked at him, gaze heavy-lidded, eyes glistening with affection and teasing mischief. Logan felt his heart stutter in his chest as they reached for him, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the gentleness of their touch a stark contrast to the intensity moments before.

“Here’s my good boy,” they whispered, their voice soft, warm, laced with playful praise. They stroked his hair gently, the grip now soothing, calming the storm within him with just a touch as they leaned in to press a kiss on his cheek. The tender affection seared through him, making his chest ache in the best way.

Logan’s lips twitched into a grin, his breath still uneven as he nuzzled against their chest, inhaling their scent, feeling the soft, rapid thrum of their heartbeat against his cheek. The praise and gentle affection threatened to ignite him all over again. But this time, there was something different in the air between them—something softer, more intimate. The way they looked at him, the way their body still pressed against his, made it clear this wasn’t over. Not yet.

“You did good, pup,” E whispered, their voice soft but commanding as they gazed down at him. “But there’s one more thing I need from you.” They leaned in closer, their breath ghosting over the shell of his ear, sending a shiver racing down his spine. “It’s time for your reward.”

Logan’s breath hitched, his entire body taut with anticipation. The weight of their words, steeped in promise, made his pulse thunder. The room seemed to shrink, filled only with the warmth of their shared breath and the heat between them. He felt their hand slide into his pants, fingers wrapping around him, firm and deliberate. The sudden contact drew a sharp gasp from his lips, and his muscles tensed, caught between the pull of pleasure and the urge to submit.

“Now, be a good boy… and come for me,” they commanded, their voice low and teasing as their hand worked its rhythm with exquisite precision. Logan’s eyes squeezed shut, head tilting back as the coil of tension inside him wound tighter, every nerve ending sparking with anticipation. His hands clutched their waist, grounding himself as his control began to splinter.

Their free arm wrapped over his shoulder, sliding inside his shirt, fingers grazing down his back, scratching just enough to keep him on edge. The sensation sent a hot, rolling shiver through him, feeding into the pleasure building in waves that crashed over and over, relentless.

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat—a mix of desperation and surrender—and E smiled, taking in the way he quaked under their touch. That was it. That was the push he needed. The world blurred as the tension finally snapped, his release tearing through him with a force that left him gasping, his head pressing against their chest, body trembling in the aftershocks.

They held him close, fingers weaving through his hair with soothing strokes, grounding him as he floated through the haze. “Such a pretty boy when you come for me,” they murmured, their voice thick with satisfaction and affection. “You did so well… so good for me.”

Logan’s heart pounded, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as their words seeped into him like warmth on a cold day. Each praise, each gentle touch, resonated within him, layering pride atop the deep contentment settling in his bones. And with that pride came a deep, unspoken joy—joy that he had given them pleasure, that they had rewarded him so sweetly.

He stayed there, face nestled against their chest, the gentle thrum of their heartbeat filling his ears. Their presence enveloped him, easing the tension, leaving only a blissful peace. And with every whispered word of praise, Logan found himself anchored, sinking into the comfort they offered, drinking in the sweet words they whispered, heart and mind both wholly theirs.

Logan took a few moments to catch his breath, his cheek resting against the softness of E’s chest, feeling the steady beat of their heart begin to slow beneath him. It filled him with a sense of completeness he hadn’t realized he was yearning for until now. How long had he waited for this? For someone like them?

This had started as just a game, a way to satisfy their mutual needs, but now, something deeper stirred within him. A part buried beneath his rugged exterior craved more. The soft praise E whispered as their fingers stroked through his hair began to blur the line between reality and fantasy. Maybe this wasn’t just play. Maybe they were an angel, sent to pull him from his shadows. Maybe it was his purpose to devote himself to them, to earn their approval with everything he had.

Their hand moved to cradle his cheek, the tender touch sending a shiver down his spine. “You look so pretty when you make a mess for me,” they murmured, their voice dripping with affection. The words hit him square in the chest, filling cracks that had been empty for so long with warmth and pride.

“Thanks, Angel,” he whispered, his voice rough but laced with sincerity. E’s smile deepened, hunger still glinting in their eyes but softened, satisfied.

“Thank you, puppy,” they purred, their voice thick with contentment. “You did really good.”

The way they said those words, with a mixture of tenderness and command, made Logan’s chest tighten with something more profound than desire. He was intoxicated by their praise, the feeling of being seen and cherished in a way he hadn’t experienced in years, if ever. Instinctively, he reached up and cupped their cheek with a large, calloused hand, brushing his thumb gently over their skin. The urge to kiss them tugged at him, a magnetic pull that he almost couldn’t resist.

But as his lips began to tingle, raw energy flowing from his throat to reach E’s mouth, the memory of their agreement, the contract they’d both set, came crashing back. No kissing. No crossing that dangerous, fragile line that kept him safe from the pull of their power. If they went there, it would come with serious consequences and end their partnership. The thought of losing this, losing them, was more than he could bear. So instead, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to their cheek, just shy of their lips, his breath warm against their skin.

E sighed, a sound full of contentment, and relaxed into him. They felt it—the first seed of worship taking root within him, a devotion that surpassed simple physical desire. It was one of the most potent emotions they could absorb, second only to raw life energy. The sensation brought them a joy deeper than satisfaction, a joy so profound they could stay in this moment forever, wrapped in Logan’s warmth and reverence.

Neither of them moved, savoring the shared silence and the way their heartbeats gradually fell in sync. But after a moment, E felt the telltale pinpricks in their legs, a subtle reminder that even moments like this needed to end. They leaned in, pressing one last kiss to Logan’s cheek before shifting to leave his lap. His hand shot out instinctively, fingers curling around their wrist, tugging them back toward him.

“Can’t get enough of me, can you, pretty boy?” E teased, a sly smile playing on their lips.

Logan’s eyes softened, his expression unguarded as he met their gaze. “No,” he admitted, voice low and unashamed. “You’re addictive.”

A quiet laugh escaped E as they began buttoning up their shirt, fingers moving with a casual grace. Their touch shifted, a gentle caress to his cheek, the warmth of it lingering like an unspoken promise. “Get cleaned up,” they said, the affection in their tone unmistakable.

Logan nodded, a hint of reluctance in his eyes. He watched as E stepped away, a shadow moving gracefully across the dimly lit room. Only when they were out of sight did he stand, the space suddenly feeling emptier, lacking the magnetic energy they brought with them. Mechanically, he made his way to the bathroom, washing up and changing into clean pants, his mind replaying every whispered word and touch.

The quiet of the room wrapped around him as he settled under the covers, switching off the light before checking his phone. The time glowed back at him—1:57 a.m. His mind spun, replaying how E had held him under their control for nearly two hours, bending him to their will until they chose to yield. He sighed, a mixture of contentment and the ache of yearning filling his chest as he let his eyes drift shut.

A soft click echoed in the hallway, and the familiar, intoxicating scent of them reached him moments before the quiet creak of his door. Logan’s eyes snapped open, and he propped himself up on his elbows just in time to see E slip inside, moving like a shadow until they were at the edge of his bed.

A deep sense of peace bloomed in his chest, spreading warmth through his veins. “You want more?” he asked, the smile evident in his voice even in the dark.

They chuckled, the sound rich and teasing. “Came back for dessert,” they murmured, sliding under the covers and shifting closer to him. Their arm found its way over his waist, their leg intertwining with his, and their tail wrapped snugly around his thigh. The contact drew a shiver from him, and Logan pulled them closer, his arm curling around their shoulders as they fit against his side.

Both of them exhaled in tandem, the room settling into a peaceful silence once more.

“Goodnight, pup,” E said, the amusement in their voice hinting at the contentment beneath it.

“Goodnight, Angel,” Logan replied, voice softened with a mix of affection and relief.

They fell asleep like that, wrapped in warmth and each other’s presence, neither needing anything more than the quiet reassurance of the other at their side.

To be continued…

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don't forget to comment and spread the love 😊 More on the way!

✨ Masterlist ✨

Don't forget to follow the tags "Devilish Desires" and "xpressit writings" to stay tuned for the next chapters 😁

🔖 @quillycrow

[oldhalloweentape]

🪨Venture (OW II) x (fem) reader ⛏️

(DC Raven Reader Edition!)

(Request here! @thequeenofcupps I LOVE Raven sm, I’m so happy to do a reader based off of this character you have NO IDEA.)

- So… You're the hybrid child of a cosmic demon and a human woman, constantly fighting for control and balance against your demonic origins as you learn to harness your powers, attuning to the mystical forces to protect you and the people you love? Rad.

- Now you have a little rock-collecting raven-brained archeologist to back you up <3.

- The usual sarcastic, brooding, and standoffish personality is only natural considering everything you’ve gone and are still going through as a powerful empath of the magical arts—

- But unlike anyone else in Overwatch, Talon, and beyond can click with you like Venture does.

- Leaving many scratching their heads as they see Venture run up to you and you happily wrapping your arms around them, encasing them in that long cloak of yours as you kiss them over and over again on their face.

- As we all know, Venture is all for it, happy as a clam as they get treated with affection by their sweet and grumpy girlfriend :)

- Thinks your glorious and damn near invincible (you damn well can be considered as such) like a Valkyrie, and loves to see you train and fight …. Power is sexy ok?

- And they’re always eager to learn everything about those powers of yours, cause they know well that your magic is a big part of you and love learning about you.

- Which in turn helps them better understand when your emotions and powers are fluctuating negatively.

- This dynamic in general has so much potential, Venture has always had a rather hungry and morbid curiosity. The weirdness and strangeness aren’t much to deter them, rather only encouraging them to learn more.

- They’re the kind of person who can and will take the time to establish trust together to get you where you guys are now, and that kind of bond is something that can withstand a whole lot because of how well you both are attuned to each other.

- If something is bothering you they immediately catch on and get you away from it, and when you’re trying to practice your magic or meditate they know to make sure people aren’t going to disturb you.

- Asks permission before reading/examining your ancient tomes and manuscripts, and considering their career path if you were going to trust anyone with things like this, Sloane is the one to trust.

- In general, the romantic relationship is the best-case scenario for how your dynamic ends up because of how well your personality meshes up.

- For example, you keep Venture from being too impulsive and running into the fray without a proper plan, and Venture provides you a way to be normal— To have a more positive outlook on the life that’s been constantly being threatened with peril, loss of self, and a destiny that other people try to control.

- If you both had a choice, you guys would be forever together, limbs entangled with one another like the Lovers of Valdaro.

- Or move and exist in tandem with one another like Tui and La from Avatar: The Last Airbender in an eternal dance, push and pull.

- An easy and normal life is something you haven’t experienced in a long time, and even the life you had before realizing your paternal heritage was filled with oddities that eventually seeped into a life of learning discipline and self-restraint is something Sloane can’t possibly fathom— But, they knew then and they know now that you’re not an evil force or a ticking time bomb.

- The things you’ve gone through, the trial and strife something they can never relate to— But they have that emotional intelligence and understanding that was able to get through the rough exterior and reveal this extremely caring girl who they came to love.

- Cracking those walls you had open was a feat but it was worth it, you are as beautiful on the inside as a gorgeous geode. They can’t express that enough.

(Also, here’s a shoutout to one of my friends @goohts ! Happy birthday man, I’m so happy to have met you all those months ago, experience life with you has made life a bit easier then it used to be. Your support and help with so many things has given me the strength to be where I am now— I love you!! 💕 🎂🎉)

[wickedgifs]

CHANDLER MASSEY IN MYSTIC CHRISTMAS

CLICK THE SOURCE LINK BELOW to be redirected to +489 gifs of chandler massey as sawyer adams in mystic christmas (2023). all of these gifs were made from scratch so we would appreciate if they aren’t edited, redistributed in other gif hunts/posts, or stolen. feel free to write whatever you want with them but i would really appreciate it if you liked & reblogged this post!

triggers kissing @tasksweekly 003, 019, 022, 023

[byrdtrollsunoreversearchive]

Hunters and Prey

(Teehee, Matteo belongs to @contrastparadoxx !! who helped edit this drabble)

Here's the thing- Loneliness had never been a question from which he expected an answer. It was a presuit predator. It followed him at a steady, constant pace. His thoughts were only ever on moving fast enough to not be caught, right now. He did not imagine a life where he was not being hunted. Sweeps later trolls would say to him, it must have been so boring, living alone on that planet for sweeps. But he had never been bored. He could not afford to be. There was always food to be gathered, hunted. There was always more ruins to explore. There was always books to devour and skills to practice and more work to be done. If there was no work, there was nothing to think about. If there was nothing to think about, loneliness would hit him like a derailed train, an animal too big to fight or escape. It would throw him around in its jaws as if he were a toy, it would leave him bloody and bruised with a consuming dread that something was missing. His body knew something was missing before his mind. 

When he was younger, Papparav had visited. He had appeared at the doorway and took Lakrav in his arms, he taught him to read, and to speak. He would tell him funny stories about far away places and mystical things, words he had to write down to look up in the dictionary later but sometimes still failed to understand. It has been sweeps since Papparav came. Lakrav thinks of him all the time. He could not conceive of a universe bigger than the gentle safety of his ancestors arms. When he hoped it was always for his return. There was no way, he could have predicted what was right in front of him. The foxtroll stands still for a moment, before slowly peeling his snow goggles off his face. The winds were low. 

The snare had been set off, but not by a deer, or a moose, or even a rabbit or bird. It was easy to tell what had been upended by the rope was not an animal. His clothes were a dark, fleece-y gray that was not suited for this weather. He was shorter than him, but not by much. It was hard to tell when he was suspended upside down by a single leg. A trail of oddly colored blood dotted sparsely on the snow showed he had come from the east. He had already been bleeding when he was caught in the snare. It was likely the blood loss that rendered him unconscious. Lakrav circles the hanging troll, wide eyed, as if he could open his eyes wide enough to suddenly understand what he was seeing. 

The caught troll had weird ears- they were not pointed like his, but instead sprung from his head in a strange pink fan, like an angry, oddly beautiful lizard. The blood was very, very pink. The wound was unlike any he had seen from a scratch or a bite or a trip or even frostbite. It was like a tiny little circular punch through the person's side, made easily visible by how his shirt hung down backwards towards the forest floor. Lakrav circles him, he looks through his pockets. There are some things he recognized as useful. A pen, a knife, a small piece of paper. There were some he immediately discarded. A tiny leather pouch full of plastic squares, one with a photo of the troll's head and writing on them. A little metal box with some buttons. He did not know what a phone was, and, not knowing how to turn it on, tossed it. He takes more time than perhaps he should have, before gently lowering the troll back to the earth. The candyblood thinks for a moment, before wrapping the sleeping body up in a sheet, and loading him onto the sled as if he were any other kill. 

.

.

.

.

.

Lakrav probably didn’t need to have dressed his wound so thoroughly, (he had no idea of the troll’s regenerative powers) but he did. He didn’t have the sense or the know-how to try and remove the bullet from the body, he probably could not have guessed it was there. But he had carefully disinfected the wound, and stitched it shut with three well placed vertical mattress sutures, interrupted. He had switched him into clean, dry clothes, fleece and wool pants and a colorful t-shirt, leaving only the man’s undamaged jacket wrapped around his shoulders. He had set him by a fireplace, and put on a pot of stew and tea, guessing the troll should probably eat after the amount of blood he lost. 

And then he had left him there, going to work on his other chores while the fushia’s body slowly warmed and healed. There were still animals to be cleaned, more prepping to be done for the cold season. He could not afford to lose an entire day to this strange circumstance. An hour or two passed before the man started to stir, his eyes blinking slowly in a strange, sleepy half squint at the warm tones of the place that surrounded him. He took in the smell of herbs and meat, the crackling of the fire, the softness of fabric on his skin, the faint and distant pain in his side. A strange feeling of safety overtook him for a long, half awake moment. But slowly, his eyes started to actually process what surrounded him. 

The sight of the room he was laying in makes so little sense that Matteo briefly wonders if something bad happened when all the blood went to his head. The place sits at an ever so slight tilt, snow up to chest height stacked up in the windows. Some parts of it bore the marks of a hunter- animal pelts, bones, weapons and ropes glinting sinisterly in the firelight. But right beside them, there are stuffed animals- colorful and garish fabrics hung like decorative drapes on the wall. There are bright pictures of plants, some more well done than others. A little down the hall, there is a massive map. It seems to show the whole of the long abandoned colony where Lakrav had spent his entire life. A good portion of it was marked by a long, meandering trail of Xes. The Xes at the end of the trail are quick, steady, and decisive. The ones at the beginning are shaky, overlarge and colored, as if made by a child. The room is littered with half finished art projects. There is a corner of the room where, inexplicably, five long rows of various minion and spongebob plushies are hung like a watchful jury. He would laugh, if he was not so scared. 

Suddenly, the man in the adjacent room perks up, perhaps having heard him shuffling with a very attuned ear. Lakrav steps out of the animal cleaning room, hanging up an apron and some gloves on the wall. The bloodstains on these items seem to do little work to ease Matteo’s anxiety, even with the childish and curious look on the man's face. Lakrav walks over, leaning over the fushiablood, who recoils ever so slightly. He does not seem to have a great idea of personal space. 

“Hi!” he says. “You’re awake!”

Matteo does not answer, not sure if he could find a way how to, even if it weren’t for the months-long period of going non-verbal he was already enduring. Why is this guy so close to his face?

“Do you speak standard?” The man asks. “Do you want soup? Do you want tea? Who are you? What's your name? Why are you here? Did Papparav send you? Do you know him? Why do you have a crown? Why are you dressed so weird? Do you want to be friends? Are you good or evil?” He asks in succession, his social skills clearly a little rusty from lack of use. And then continues to stare as the fushiablood proceeds to answer none of these questions. 

“What did this to you?” He says, pointing at the bullet wound. “You fell over on a pointy rod, heh? A perfectly circular bee?” He asks. 

And the question itself is so bizarre that without even thinking, the word, 

“What…?” Escapes Matteo’s lips. 

The foxtroll lights up. 

“You do talk!” He exclaims. 

“It… seems I do” Matteo says slowly, as if just as surprised to discover this as his companion is. 

“You should really have soup” Lakrav decides, stepping back to ladle some into a bowl from the pot. “You lost a lot of blood.” 

“It’s- I’m-“ He begins to object, but then as the smell gets closer his body seems to realize that he is, in fact, hungry. He takes the bowl in his hands, warming them.

“I’m Lakrav,” Says Lakrav, pouring himself a cup of tea. “What’s your name?” 

“…Matteo,” The fushia says, short answers still easier.

“Who hurt you?” The other troll asks, blowing gently on his mug. “What’s this?” He says, pointing to the crown on his head. Repeating his earlier questions as if he did not grasp the man may have had a reason not to answer them. 

“I was, attacked” Matteo says, in between soup spoonfuls. His hand going to the little golden band that wrapped around the Heir's head. “It’s- a sign of royalty.” He sighs, “I’m a Prince” He says, not sounding that happy about it.

“Heh,” Lakrav says. “I didn’t think it was real! Wow! A Prince!” with incredibly genuine enthusiasm for a turn of phrase that would have lent itself so well to sarcasm anywhere else. “I hoped you were a chef, heh” He admits, touching his beanie. 

“Wha- why?” The fuchsia stutters. 

The mutant leans over and presses a single metal finger to his shoulder.

“You have a fork on your shirt” He jokes. 

Matteo pauses, and looks down at the trident stitched onto his uniform’s jacket, then back at the stranger. “…I think it’s actually a threek”

“A three-k” Lakrav echoes, with a blank expression, silent for a moment, and then suddenly bursts out into vicarious laughter, like a man who has not heard a joke from someone else in a long, long while.

“Eheheh!!! That’s not a real word” He says, jovially lightly punching the other guy's shoulder, before suddenly frowning, remembering his wound.

Matteo winces ever so slightly, but cannot help but let a tiny smile tug at his face for a half second. He takes in the strangely hard and cold feel of the punch, and the shininess of the mutant's hands. 

"Sorry" Lakrav says.

“What happened to your fingers?” Matt answers.

“Hmm?” Lakrav says, holding up his hands. His palms are flesh, but the digits themselves are clearly metal, held in place by a bony little exoskeleton that rested on top of the skin. 

“Frostbite” he says, his tone still light and easy. “When I was six. You are lucky I found you so soon, ya? You might have lost some too” He grins, with all the casual tone of someone talking about their breakfast. 

“Right” Matteo replies, thinking about attempting to explain his deepdweller traits that allowed him to survive lower temperatures, but quickly surmises it would likely be more trouble than it’s worth. 

“How did you get here?” Lakrav asks, ever curious. “I’ve never seen anybody besides Papparav around here.”

“My ship,” He explains. “To observe the planets state”

“A ship!” Lakrav says. “Like a pirate? Are there more of you?” He seems very thrilled. He’s very close to Matt’s face again. It was hard enough to wrap his head around one troll- a whole ship of them! Who would have thunk?

“Yes,” Says Matteo, his fins pinned back in discomfort. “But-” He starts, his hand going to his wound, probably in an indication that he and the people on his ship were perhaps not quite on each other's sides right now. But he is interrupted. 

“Can I meet them?” Lakrav says, with unbridled enthusiasm. 

“I don’t think… that’d be wise” He deflects, staring at the troll across from him. 

“Why not?”

“For the…” Matteo trails off. He attempts to figure out how to answer, gesturing in hopes  the candyblood will pick up on his subtext. “Obvious… reasons?”

“The reasons?” Lakrav answers, his eyes still wide with more curiosity than hurt. “They are not obvious to me.”

The Fushia paused as he stared into the open trusting eyes of the troll across from him. Pupils like deep weights that were unwillingly dragging his heart down lower into his chest. Did he really- have to be the one? To have this conversation with him?

“You don’t… know…?” He says, slowly. 

“Know what?” Lakrav answers. 

“You’re a mutant?” Matteo says, his mouth almost wincing around the words leaving him, fins now both back and down. At least there was no one to be mad that he was showing his emotions on his sleeve.

“You know what?” Lakrav says. “I don’t. Let me go find my dictionary.” He says, with a joyful thumbs up, setting down his tea and walking back to his bookshelf, pulling an old, old standard dictionary off the wall, and leafing through it. The man reads the definition, and then frowns, reading it again, once, twice over, his brow furrowing in confusion and upset. 

“This is a bad word” He says, sounding a little hurt. 

“It’s-” Matteo stutters. 

“Listen” Lakrav says, that trace of pain in his voice turning to righteous anger. “If we’re going to be friends. You can’t be calling me these kinds of things.” 

“It’s- no, uhm” Talking was starting to hurt, after months of doing none. “Not… meant as an insult. Just- just a descriptor.”

“Well” The troll huffs, closing his eyes. “I think you are a mutant.” He says, clearly still caught up in his misinterpretation of the definition that this was an insult that could be applied to just about anyone, like idiot, or freak. 

“I think you are being a total mutant to me right now” He says, crossing his arms. 

“Im… a Fushia?” Matteo attempts. “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.” 

“It doesn’t?” Lakrav asks. 

“Its-“ he worries, biting his lower lip, careful to not let his sharp teeth draw blood “Uhm, okay. Maybe it's a bad word. But it’s only ever used to refer to people like you- with strange blood colors or traits outside of the norm.”

“Why isn’t there a nicer word for that?” Lakrav asks, with seemingly genuine curiosity. 

Matteo stares at him for a long while, before breaking eye contact, his face turning to the wall. 

“I can’t answer that,” he says. 

“Hmm” Lakrav says, picking up some of his subtext all the same. “You say this to me like it’s a very bad thing. Does it mean I am sick or something? Why wouldn’t somebody want to be one? I like my blood. It’s one of my favorite colors.”

“There are a lot of people” The fleet troll says slowly. “Who really hate mutants. They don’t think they should exist. They will likely treat you harshly. It’s dangerous for people like you.” 

“I’m sure they would not feel this way,” Lakrav says, with unabashed confidence. “If they got to know me.”

“Many won’t try.” Matteo answers. Lakrav stares at him for a long moment, before his shoulders fall, disappointed. 

“Are you one of these people?” He asks. 

He opens his mouth to answer, but there is a sudden bang on the door, and Matteo goes deathly still.

Another bang, and it falls open, a whirlwind of ice cold snow overtaking the room instantly chilling both inhabitants. The fire dims in its place, and Lakrav stands up immediately. 

“Hey!” He says. “Could you close that!” He pleads. 

The perpetrator of this break in steps forward, glancing around the room.

“What kind of fucking circus is this, Princeling” She says dryly, glancing around at the strange decor, resting her chin on her hand. She does not bother to answer Lakrav’s question, her eye’s immediately locking in on the other highblood in the room. “Do you have any idea how much time and money we just wasted, me and the crew wandering around in sub zero looking for you? I’m going to write to the higher ups. Thought you were over this nonsense.” She complains. The neutrality of her tone does not mask the venom of its intentions. She then looks away, pressing a button on the black earpiece that clings to her pointed ears.

“This is Habitt Ferawn back to the Raptor. I have him. In some kind of underground lair with a possible hostile. Call back the scouts onboard, I can handle it.” 

Lakrav pauses, wary, not knowing much about technology, he is hopelessly confused about who she is talking to. He glances back at Matteo. “Is she a prince too?”

Matteo only looks back helplessly, seeming to have lost the words that had been quietly making their way back to him. 

The purpleblood turns to him. “Who’s your friend?” She says. 

Matteo drags himself to his feet, not saluting the woman, because, of course, she was of slightly lower rank, but all of the sudden standing like a soldier, his mildly baffled tone turning into a reserved one so fast and hauntingly it was like a switch had been flipped. Lakrav squints at his new friend.

“Officer Habitt,” Matteo begins. “He found me when I was injured. He took me here and nursed me back to health. He is not hostile.” 

Habitt tilts her head. “Of course you’d find your voice now.” She says. “Of all times. You better not have snuck him in on the convoy, there haven’t been trolls on this planet for thousands of sweeps.” She accuses. 

“There have been trolls on this planet for ten sweeps” Lakrav asserts. “Because that’s how old I am.” 

Habitt stares at him for a moment, not dignifying this with an answer either. Nor asking the mutant any of her own questions about his situation, because well, she truly cared that little. It would not change how she thought of him. The cerulean pulls a short range pistol from her holster. 

“Wait! M’am!” Matteo exclaims suddenly, his eyes widening, the man snaps into action, and tackles her just before she fires the shot, successfully deflecting it into the nearby wall.

Lakrav pauses. His hand going to his knife in his pocket. He glances at the circular hole in the wall, and the loud noise, and Matteo’s reaction, and quickly pieces it together. 

“She hurt you with that,” He says, taking a step back, remembering the Prince’s wound. 

“He lived.” The purpleblood answers. “He heals.” 

“Listen,” The Fushia pleads. “Respectfully, Officer Habitt, we could-” 

“You can’t expect me” Habitt frowns, but seems more mildly surprised by this development than anything. “To leave him here? A random unregistered Candyblood on an empty planet? Just you wait, Princeling, they breed like roaches.” She says, hitting him hard and square with her elbow, and Matteo lets go, and she re-aims the pistol. 

Lakrav draws his knives in answer.

“Officer Habitt!” Matt cries, again, knowing how a knife brought to a gunfight ends. “Habitt, M’am, We could take him with us! We could- we could escort him back to the ship and acquire him. He could be of use to the fleet.” He begs, probably the longest string of sentences he has formed this night. “He has skills.” 

“Well if you’re going to be a bitch about it” She says, a surprisingly crude response for how put together Matteo’s plea had just been. “Fine.” 

Lakrav pauses, never having been asked his opinion on all of this. Part of him, in his overconfidence, truly believed he could take that woman in a fight. 

“Go back to your ship?” He asks Matteo “With the crazy lady?” 

“Please,” Matteo whispers. “She’ll kill you otherwise.”

“Not the right way to treat a guest.” The foxtroll answers. 

“We can go anywhere in the galaxy” The man says. “Just come with me”

That, at last, finally seems to grasp the mutant. Anywhere. With a desperate tug, his feelings on the situation pull in a landslide the opposite direction. Anywhere?

Here it is, the moment he had heard about in storybooks since he was but a child. He had not imagined it coming quite so literally. Come on Lakrav, you know how this one goes. A Prince finds a Princess in a tower. Happily ever after. Why does he hesitate to step forward? The dreamer in him wants to lunge. The hunter in him wants to wait, is too familiar with traps not to recognize a shiny bit of meat on a stick. This cannot be safe. This was the very woman who hurt his new friend. 

But… he cannot stay. He cannot fit the leviathan of this friendship back into the tiny box he called home now that it had been taken out. The moment the world got wider is also the moment these walls started closing in. 

And he knows, from the hairs rising on the back of his neck, in the shadows of this tiny well-loved cavern of trophies, Loneliness waits. Loneliness lowers its weight to its haunches, loneliness softly treads across the floor, silent and deadly as a ghost, its lips watering and its eyes fixed. Caught up at last. An animal that could never have been more rabid, could never have been more hungry, could never have been more terrifying, more ready to kill him than it was at this very second. So it was a trap- it might not be one he would have to escape alone. Slowly, Lakrav steps forward. 

“You will protect me?” He says, more of a demand than a question, even in a voice as open and passive as his always was. 

“Yes,” Matteo says. And maybe he could, with his rank and his status.

And Lakrav stares back, his head tilted ever so slightly to the side with the questioning glance of a troll who had never, that he knew of, been lied to. He breaks eye contact, turning away. He gives one last glance to the room he had spent his whole life coming home to behind him. The mutant pauses, walking just over to the side, staring forlornly at his minion and spongebob plushie wall. He seems to debate between them for a second before grabbing a medium sized, slightly fuzzy one, and tucking it under his arm. He walks back over, and with his free arm, takes the fushia’s hand in his. 

“Okay” He says, “Let's go.” 

And he follows Fleet Officer Matteo Nyxxus out the door.

[charismatictrait]

Alpha edits everywhere! an Afterglow dump (long post ahead)

Leahlillith liza, converted by @socialbunny (i used the lower poly v2), i removed the strands to clean up the hair a bit. PF-EF Download here.

Stealthic's baby doll converted by @julietoon, edited by me to be way shorter (the og was very anime-esque). this has some weird distortions and a neckgap but i love the mesh anyways. TF-EF Download here.

Peggyzone's Juice 62 hair, reminds me of lana del rey. i removed a little hair strand that was mapped super badly. PF-EF Download here.

Sunair T032 - this is such an old mesh, but i have no hairs this shape + it has a very nice low polycount. all i did was just removed the headband. PM-EM Download here.

@furbyq's Cupcake hair - I've never seen this hair retextured before so points to originality. i fully remade the alpha from scratch, since the original was very pixelated and crusty *couldn't fix that huge polycount though) It's kind of a hot mess but like... i likes it. PF-EF Download here.

@mystic-hysteria's conversion of Wings ON0512 - I disliked that vision blocking strand, so i removed it. looks like a normal guy hair now! PM-EM (i think?) Download here.

Raon M035 (atleast that's what it's called on the database) - the alpha was super wispy originally so i made it thicker. looks really fluffy. PM-EM Download here.

@xwhitepolar's balinese zen mashup hair. another cute yet a hot mess hair (the shines on this were a mess i couldn't figure out), the ponytail is slightly shorter now. CM-EM (?) Download here.

@profesionalpartyguest's mathilda hair - i took aguilegia's edit of the maxis hair this is edited from on this and layered afterglow's wavy texture on top. came out really cute! YF-EF. Download here.

@the-afterglow-archive

[simon-roy]

A BRIEF REMINDER:

The final order cutoff for the Image Comics edition of GRIZ GROBUS is TODAY! So if you're a comic book store owner, a independent bookstore manager, or anyone who reads comics, consider ordering the book!

What is Griz Grobus? Here, from the solicitation text:

On a distant planet, a prying scribe, a sentimental constable, and a mayor resurrect a sleepy town’s long-defunct priest-bot. But "Father Stanley" is not what he seems. Meanwhile, in another universe, a hungry wizard accidentally conjures a war-god into the body of a goose. These two intertwined tales make up GRIZ GROBUS, the hit Kickstarter graphic novel sensation now at Image Comics!

Perfect for fans of Hayao Miyazaki, Asterix, and Arthur C. Clarke, and readers 12 and up!

Arriving: June 5, 2024 Lunar Code: 0424IM239 ISBN: 9781534397866

Nice things other comics professionals have been saying about the book:

 "Griz Grobus' dual dovetailing narratives let us discover an alien world and a human heart, full of Ghibli style and the finest Tor-novella poise. The team creates a universe, and is generous enough to let us live there." —Kieron Gillen, The Wicked + The Divine, Die, Phonogram

"Rich, beautiful and very funny—one of my favorite comics. Get every book Simon makes." —Tonči Zonjić, Lobster Johnson, Who is Jake Ellis?

"Simon's worldbuilding skills are yet to be matched, but on top of that his stories are both crazy and profound!" —Carlos P. Valderrama, Giants

“It’s amazing. You won’t get a better world builder than Simon Roy. He’s taking us places and I am here for it. Do not miss this.” —Daniel Warren Johnson, Transformers, Do A Powerbomb, Wonder Woman: Dead Earth

"When Simon Roy announces a new book it's an event - and a must buy for me and anyone who loves the medium of words and pictures!!!” —Geoff Darrow, Shaolin Cowboy, Hard Boiled

“Simon Roy’s science-fiction embraces heady ideas of futurism while never forgetting for an instant the foibles and frailties of the humans that exist in it. Griz Grobus is no different—an alien world made lived-in and real by the very human characters who exist within it, where at the end of the day, a full belly is what is worth aspiring to. Another extraordinary piece of work, an addition to a growing body of modern classic science-fiction, Griz Grobus continues the trajectory that began with Habitat.” —Jed McKay, Avengers, Moon Knight, Doctor Strange

“Simon Roy has a way of making strange & alien worlds utterly charming. His world building is unique & filled with quirky characters I strangely want to eat with. AND—I really want an Elaphure.” —Ben Templesmith, 30 Days of Night

"Griz Grobus combines beautiful art and mystical storytelling with an intriguing look at humanity on a world half-alien, half-familiar. A sly and often funny take on the creation of new myths and the rediscovery of the past." —Adrian Tchaikovsky, Hugo and Nebula award winning author of the Children of Time series

"Seriously, it's the perfect kind of Ursula Le Ghibli world and I adore it. The right measure of everything from the writing to the art." —Goran Gligovic, Dagger Dagger, Company of the Eagle

PS - If any of this piques your interest, I'm also running a kickstarter campaign for the hardcover edition of REFUGIUM, - the sequel to this very book! If you or your customers enjoy Wayne Barlowe's strange creatures, or the work of Dougal Dixon, it might scratch a particular itch for you...

[serregon]

bg3 mods I use

character creation

tav's hair salon

dreadlocs and curly hairstyles part 2

kylin's selunite hairstyles

more beards for dwarves

tiefling horns and tail for all

flora and fauna horns

horns of faerun

tav's dadbod (come get your food Halsin tummy fans)

companions

terpischore wyll edits (longer hair, unique starting armor, transes his gender)

karlach's glowing horns

fangs for halsin

armor and clothes

vestments of the faithful

gothyanki gear

fancy camp clothes

druid wildshape items (also changes some vanilla gear to extend effects into wildshape)

mystical fashions

moonlight armor

tasha's cauldron of outfits

weapons

origin themed weapons

upgradeable phalar aluve

druid wildshape items

quality of life

fix stragglers (fixes companions getting stuck on jumps)

auto send food to camp

druid quality of life (wildshape with either an action or bonus action, absorb effects from summons, moonbeam doesn't hurt your allies anymore, and more)

dice

runa's rattling rose dice

dice of eilistraee

selune dice

difficulty

tactician plus

absolute wrath (gives enemies random skills)

other

scratch and shovel (makes scratch, shovel, us, and boo stronger to scale with your level)

dynamic wildheart barbarian (wildheart barbarians can choose between wildhearts in combat)

[thana-topsy]

Liminal Bridges [Excerpt]

I've made some changes to Liminal Bridges while writing new content/gearing up to start posting again! I've always been the type of fic writer that flat-out refuses to go back and change/edit/re-write things I've already published. HOWEVER. The way the plot is progressing, there were a few things I wanted to tweak in earlier chapters. Namely.... I wanted to add J'zargo into the story. Here's what a couple of scenes from Chapter 7 now look like, featuring my favorite pyromaniac:

--

The classroom was surprisingly full when Neloth pushed through the door and walked to the head of the room. The soft murmur of conversation died immediately as all eyes tracked him with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. 

“Whatever you think you know about the school of Mysticism, I want you to forget it.” He let the book in his arm fall heavily against the desk. “With the blessed collapse of the Mages Guild, the study of Mysticism has become more and more scant, very rarely leaving the halls of the Psijics on the isle of Artaeum. However, the Telvanni have known and utilized the practices of Mysticism for millennia.” 

He opened the book. There was a soft, collective noise of scrolls being unfurled and ink pot lids being flipped open. 

“First, the thing you must understand above all else is that to study Mysticism is to open your mind to the inherent paradox of reality. It is not for the faint of heart, nor for the weak willed. My intent is not to lead any of you into madness, though it is always a possibility. Now…” Neloth heard someone in the front row of the class audibly swallow. “What types of spells and rituals fall under the category of Mysticism?” He looked out at the class expectantly. 

Silence followed. 

“Sometimes, I ask questions that aren’t meant to be answered, but this one is. So speak up and don’t waste my time.”

“Absorption spells.” The answer came from a Khajiit who sat in the center of the room. He was familiar—the one who had gone toe-to-toe with Neloth in his first lecture on Destruction magic over a year ago.

“Correct. What else?” 

“Teleportation,” the Khajiit answered again. 

“Correct, again. Are you the speaker for the class?” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “J’zargo seems to be the only one to have answers.”

“Very observant. What else?” Neloth asked him directly this time.

“Soul trapping.”

“What else?” 

J’zargo opened his mouth, then paused, faltering. He looked to one of his classmates beside him, then back to Neloth. “Divination?” 

“Correct.” A slow smile spread across Neloth’s face. “But why?”

“Eh…” The Khajiit’s cool demeanor was gone, replaced with nervous doubt. “This one… does not know.” 

“Then this is where we shall start for today. I do hope the rest of you were writing all this down while your classmate carried your dead weight.” There was a flurry of movement as quills frantically scratched across parchment. 

“We’ll begin with the principles of Mysticism.” 

—

“Master Neloth, I had a question regarding the assignment.” 

The first week of classes had come and gone with relative ease. Neloth had only held two lecture-heavy classes and sent all of his students off to do a significant amount of reading before the next session. It was really quite simple. There was nothing to question. 

“What might that be?” he asked, only half paying attention as he copied his most recent research into his journal.

 “Will we need to know all of Sotha Sil’s lessons on Artaeum for the exam, or are there like… certain terms to memorize?”

Neloth paused in his writing, slowly looking up from his journal. The student, a shaggy-looking Breton boy, took a nervous step backwards. 

”I’m sorry. Were you expecting me to compose a vocabulary list?” 

The student shook his head, dark brown hair falling into his eyes. “No, sir, I just meant—” 

“You just meant ‘are there any shortcuts I can take’? Is that right?” 

“No, I—”

“For the exam, you and you alone, will be required to transcribe from memory the entirety of 3rd of Sun's Dawn, 2920. Any future inane questions will result in more assignments.” Neloth pointed at the door with the tip of his quill. “Out.”  

The boy opened his mouth, sucked in a breath, held it, then quickly ducked his head and strode towards the exit. Neloth went back to copying. It took him a long moment to realize there was someone else still standing in the room. He set his quill down with a loud sigh. “Yes? What else?” 

“This one also has a question, but not about the assignment.” It was the know-it-all Khajiit from class. He had a muscular build beneath his mage’s robes, the fur around his muzzle carefully coiffed into a ridiculous little mustache that framed his mouth. “J’zargo can wait until class, if you’d prefer.” 

“You’re already here and you’re already bothering me. So you might as well waste my time now as opposed to later.” 

The Khajiit smirked, shuffling through his scrolls. “J’zargo simply wanted clarification. You said that Mysticism and The Old Way were used interchangeably by the Psijics. But while ‘The Old Way’ can refer to Mysticism, Mysticism does not necessarily refer to The Old Way, yes?”

“Correct. Because one is a religious philosophy, while the other is a theoretical school of magic.” 

“This one is simply confused by what separates the two.” 

“Did you read Tetronius Lor’s treatise on Mysticism?” 

“Yes, which is why J’zargo is confused.” 

Neloth rubbed at his temples with a sigh, but the question was intelligent enough. Worthy of answering, at least. “The Old Way refers specifically to the practices of the Psijics on Artaeum. They use meditation, thought exercises, and riddles to better connect with what they believe to be the purest form of magicka. The study of Mysticism is far less spiritual, at least as far as House Telvanni is concerned. It’s more of a science than a religion— identifying patterns and working with cause and effect, direct action and reaction. It is something that can be mapped and traced. Experiments can be performed and repeated with reliable results.” 

The Khajiit nodded, looking thoughtful. “Forgive, but are these not the same thing?” 

“Hardly,” Neloth scoffed then paused. “But explain your reasoning.”

“Well, meditation and riddles… This is just another way of identifying patterns, yes? Thought exercises are psychological. Scientific, as you said. So it feels, to this one at least, like it is just splitting whiskers based on pomp and circumstance— one group refusing to be associated with the other.” He tilted his head curiously. “J’zargo thinks it counterproductive to say they are two different things instead of considering them as a whole.”  

Neloth pursed his lips. “J’zargo, was it?”     

“That is this one’s name, yes.”

“Well, J’zargo.” Neloth smiled thinly. “In addition to your reading assignment, I’d like you to write a short essay on the similarities and differences concerning the religious and secular practices of Mysticism.”

J’zargo’s eyes glittered mischievously. “Are you punishing this one for asking questions?” 

“Do you feel punished?” Neloth asked as he leaned back in his chair. J’zargo shook his head. Neloth nodded. “Good. The Arcanaeum should have a copy of Concerning the Psijic Order as well as Origin of the Mages Guild. Those are the main resources you need.” 

“Thank you, Master Neloth.” 

Neloth pointed to the door with the feather end of his quill. “Out.” 

[ceruleanmusings]

Holes 20th Anniversary: Fanfic Edition!

If you thought I was going to let the Holes 20th anniversary pass me by without talking about fanfics, you were wrong!

I've been reading and writing Holes fanfics since, well, 2003! Back then they were all the same: a girl goes to CGL and falls in love with one of the guys. (I did this too! I'm calling myself out as well!) Usually Squid, sometimes Zigzag, and then Magnet coming after for the het ships. Otherwise SquidZag was THE ship of the fandom with a somewhat distant but close runner-up with SquidMag. (Stanley/Zero did have their supporters but they weren't as vocal then as they are now.)

So to say this far in the future when I dive back into the Holes fandom to read and that I was looking for something special or unique, it's an understatement.

I've read nearly every Holes fanfic available. I'v re-read my own (yes, even the really cringy one from the early 00s) and keep looking for something new to scratch my itch and I didn't think I'd ever find it.

And then I found Desperado by @theblerdbox on Wattpad and I. Was. Hooked.

It emulates the book's writing style in a way that, while brisk, doesn't lack substance. It's not a rewrite either, but its own story wrapped in the Holes universe to bring more background to the Zeronis and their lineage in a world of magic of mysticism.

With Tyler as the heroine and her connection not only to Stanley but to Zero, we get a new look into how Camp Green Lake runs, what the Zeronis were up to between Madam Zeroni casting her "curse" and Zero ending up at Camp Green Lake, and what exactly it means to live up to family expectations.

A great binge read that leaves me coming back for more, Desperado is a fresh take on Holes fanfiction with fantastic world-building, bright characters, and a tightly waved plot that would impress Louis Sachar himself. RJ leaves me astounded with every re-read due to all the carefully laid plot points and foreshadowing that, I'm sure, would get Louis Sachar's stamp of approval. You are missing out if you aren't reading this fanfic!

Bonus, it's followed up with an in-progress sequel called Wicked Games! Don't miss out!

I couldn't let this anniversary pass by without shouting out who I'm pretty sure is the only other person in the fandom with me, lol. This book and movie has brought a new and special friend in my life and I love knowing that there's someone else out there that understands just how much this book means, how much this book did for the world and storytelling, and how much I love Squid. (Jake will have a problem if he ever meets one of us, lol.)

@theblerdbox you're a fantastic writer and, as I say a lot, an amazing world-builder. You're very creative, innovative, and a bright spot in the fandom. I'm very lucky to be able to see your process up-close and constantly remain in awe at how you handle and pull all the puzzle pieces in your world together. You inspire me as a writer and as a creative persona and I can't wait to see what you do next! Happy 20th Holes anniversary!

Desperado and Wicked Games are available on Wattpad!

[bast-sims]

Get to know you - Sims Style

I was marked, thanks   🤗  💗:   @descendantdragfi    

What’s your favorite Sims death? 

There are no favorite deaths for Sims. I would like everyone to live forever, healthy and happy. That's why it's so hard for me when the elders in the acting out family have to leave it. I'm always so sorry. Apparently that's why I mostly play mystical characters that can live forever.

Alpha CC or Maxis Match? Alpha CC.

Do you cheat your sims weight? Sometimes  😇

Do you move objects? Very often 🏋️‍♂️

Favorite Mod? NRAAS!!! - otherwise it will not be possible to play.

First Expansion/Game Pack/Stuff Pack? All mystical editions  🧛

Do you pronounce live mode like aLIVE or LIVing? aLIVE

Who’s your favorite sim that you’ve made? I love all the sims I create.

Have you made a simself? Yes

Which is your favorite EA hair color? Black, white, red.

Favorite EA hair? Hmmm.... Two ponytails (it's good that now there is a mod that replaces them by default)

Favorite life stage? Any age to play. Each is beautiful in its own way.

Are you a builder or are you in it for the gameplay? I love all the stages! 🛠️ But sometimes construction is very tiring 😵

Are you a CC creator? Yes.

Do you have any Simblr friends or a Sim Squad? Yes.

Do you have any sims merch? No

Do you have a  Youtube for sims? No

How has your “Sims style” changed throughout your years of playing? Radically. More thoughtful approach to the process. Sometimes I even create entire cities from scratch for history.

Who’s your favorite CC creator? I love everybody! And those who are just starting and those who have been doing this for a long time! You are beautiful! Do not listen to the negative (there is always some bad in any pool), do what you like and share with us! And we will always appreciate!

(P/S: I am also very grateful to those who do reblogs !!! Thanks to you I learned about so many wonderful creators!!! Thank you 💓)

How long have you had Simblr? From September 2020

How do you edit your pictures? I only edit photos for my Sims in Photoshop, which I post for fun. BUT I NEVER edit photos of what I create. I think you should know how exactly this or that item will look in the game. Therefore, only the original with my logo.

What expansion/ gamepack is your favorite? World Adventures, Ambitions, Late Night, Supernatural - TS 3/

I will note:   @monocodoll  @gaiahypothesims  @math-blogging  @olomayasims  @echoweaver  @daniel-fortesque  @bietjie  @mainlyjustthesims  @syninplays  @eternal-infamy  @6x7aa  @aprilrainsimblr  @boringbones  @pudding-parade  @phoebejaysims  @gifappels-stuff  @maryjanesims3  @drawing-way-outside-the-lines  @zoeoe-sims  @aa6x7  @flotheory  @rstarsims3  @rachel-homeanddesign-sims  @solori  @declaration-of-dramas  @purespirithorses  @joojconverts  @simaddix  @aisquaredchoco  @buckleysims  @greenplumbboblover  @omedapixel  @anitmb  @venusprincess-ts3  @technicallyswagpizza 

And everyone who wants to!     🌹  

Do not hesitate to ignore if you are not interested 😊

[awalkoflife-arc]

+ harrison morgan's senior prom, mystic falls edition.

❝ har ---- you want to tell me the real reason you're still sitting here? ❞ iris asked, glancing at the 6'5 statue by her side. harrison was exhausted, slumped down in the chair beside his best friend, having barely conversed with anyone the entire night. the full moon had a lot to answer for, at least that's what he wanted to tell her, but how could he? after being locked up by his brother, he'd managed to escape. for the first time since his initial transformation, he was let loose in mystic falls. all day, he'd scoured through the local papers, flicked through the news channels, awaited the dreaded terror that would accompany learning that he'd been responsible for some tragedy, but luckily, there were no reports. he didn't want to worry caroline about it, but that's all he'd thought about. what if he'd tried to find her? what if he had a run-in with her and tyler? what if the worse thing that could happen, happened? what if, what if, what if.... the possibilities were enough to drive harrison insane, not to mention the fact that his entire history with the blonde was composed of that very question. what if?

all day, he'd been too anxious to check in. she was literally next door and he couldn't even make the thirty second journey to her front porch. given that today was his senior prom, they'd also skipped their newly formed tradition of spending the day together. harrison was, for all intents and purposes, iris' beard. but he'd woken up in the middle of nowhere, with scratches across his chest and down his sides. some other creature had obviously attacked him during the night, not that he had any recollection of it. none of that mattered though because he'd made a promise to his friend. so he found his way home, showered, shaved and turned up for the only girl who knew his second biggest secret. ❝ she's not com---- ❞ before he can even finish the sentence, the brunette cuts him off. the look she gives him is a mixture of frustration and impatience, one that settles deep into the furrow of her brow. ❝ no shit, she's not coming. you didn't ask her. you asked me because my parents would disown me if they knew the truth. but you've done your bit so i'm telling you to go. now. make your prom night memorable with the girl who should be sitting here with you. bring her to coop's after-party? i can meet you both there. ❞ he's hard pressed to fight her on it because if there's one person who can read him like an open book, it's iris endler. she's like the female version of him minus the part where she wolfs out every full moon.

harrison decides not to argue and without another word, he stands to leave. cooper was crowned prom king an hour ago and iris is already making eyes at the yearbook editor on the other side of the room. all is well. aside from the communication he's been having with molly, his non-girlfriend, who has been blowing up his phone all night. molly, who insisted that he was so lame for even wanting to go to his senior prom. she didn't seem to grasp the fact that he was only attending for iris. harrison doesn't have the energy to respond, so he switches off his cell and makes the familiar route home. there's no way to know for sure if caroline will be there when he arrives or if she'll even want to speak with him after his radio silence. still, she's the only person he wants to share this night with ---- it's one more milestone, one more memory and there's no one else he could ever envision spending it with, no matter how cheesy it is. he's not into romcoms, he's also not known to make grand gestures of affection, but for caroline forbes? all bets are off.

hannah isn't home when he makes a trip inside to grab his portable speaker. by the looks of it, liz isn't either, her patrol car absent from the driveway. there is however, a bedroom light on directly across from his, the familiar golden glow illuminating the walls he knew so well. there's a flicker of movement behind the curtain and before she catches him, he disappears outside and into her back lawn. in true romcom fashion, or because maybe, for once in her life, she deserves to feel like the star of a john hughes directed movie, harrison throws a handful of stones up against her window. he turns his cell back on and connects it to the speaker, playing a rendition of a song caroline had let him hear a month or two prior. some country singer who had been a guest performer for taylor swift on her 1989 world tour. the lyrics are a little too appropriate ---- try as i may, i can never explain, what i hear when you don't say a thing. it was the first time in a long time that they'd gone the entire day without speaking post full moon. but the smile that appears when she peers out to greet him says it all and maybe, just maybe she feels the same, looking at him almost as though he'd returned from the war. it'd only been a few hours, but it felt like a lifetime. ❝ it's still our day. ❞ harrison reminds her, ❝ so, will you come out here and dance with me? ❞

[merelygifted]

This is pretty great, despite some misspellllings - the correct spellings for those I noticed are Azurite, Fluorite, Aventurine, Septarian. Here's a pink gem who's not on the list:

Pezzottaite!

There are even Cat's Eye Pezzottaites!

They're not pink, they're ¡PANK!

Also: Genuine Moissonite comes from meteorites, so pretty much everything on the market is lab-created. Mystic Topaz has an easily scratched-off coating that gives those rainbow effects; I imagine it's the same re: Mystic Quartz. Howlite that's not white has been dyed, and is often used as fake Turquoise. Some of the Rutiles shown are actually Black Tourmaline inclusions.

Edited to add:

I just realized this list is missing a great green gemstone, too.

Moldavite!

Moldavite is a tektite. It's the result of a major meteorite fall in the Moldau Valley. It's a form of glass.

Fun was had by all whenever I had Moldavite rings cleaned at jewelry shops, ages before it became more well known. I'd ask the staff to show it to the gemologist, after I'd already been asked what it was. The gemologists always came out smiling, but confused. "I've never seen a stone this color! It's obviously not Tourmaline...and it looks like glass, but I know it can't be glass!" They were fascinated upon learning it's a tektite, and its place of origin. I always thanked staff for cleaning the rings for me, and the gemologists always thanked me for introducing them to a unique stone.

I've also realized the list is missing a fascinating yellow stone.

Libyan Desert Glass!

Libyan Desert Glass is found at the border of Egypt and Libya. It's an impactite - fused desert sand was liquified and turned to glass, after a massive meteorite either struck or exploded over the area. It's less well known than Moldavite, but a world famous piece of jewelry features LDG as its centerpiece.

This pectoral is from the tomb of Tutankhamon.

Until recently, the center scarab was thought to be some sort of Feldspar or Chrysoprase. A geologist visited the Cairo Museum, and on viewing the pectoral, immediately knew the scarab must be Libyan Desert Glass. He convinced the museum to run tests, and was proved correct.

Rock nerd and weirdo that I am, I knew the scarab was LDG many years before. Seeing the pectoral again in one of my books after learning about the stone, I recognized it, too. :)

By LabradoriteKing on Pinterest