#THE LIP TREMBLE™ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

psychedelic-ink · 2 years ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, childhood bestfriends to lovers, tlou'verse, jackson era, mild hurt/comfort

word count: 4.9k

summary: When your boyfriend is desperate to win back what he lost, he bets on you this time without your knowledge. And everyone knows you don't go back on your word when it comes to Joel Miller.

warnings: okay so technically not cheating because your boyfriend literally gambled you buuut if that's not your thing I totally get it, piv, dirty talk, choking, spitting, size kink, soft!joel & feral!joel, he likes hearing how big he is, affectionate whore calling™, a hint of analplay, oral (receiving and giving)

a/n: another joel fic inspired by p.orn, we love to see it

a special thank you to @nothoughtsjustmeds for the beta! 💕

Joel was never that into gambling.

Back before everything had gone to shit, that had always been more Tommy’s forte than his own. Joel doesn’t remember the amount of times he’d had to bail his brother out, either by protecting him while putting himself in the middle or by giving him loans he’d never ever see again. Joel hadn’t minded. Tommy was his baby brother after all. As long as he was safe Joel was happy—annoyed, for sure, but happy.

He was surprised when he learned that Jackson had a pretty heavy gambling scene and that Tommy wasn’t a part of it. He didn’t know why that was, because even on the nights where he had to go bail him out and bring him home all bloodied and bruised, Tommy just made the same mistakes. Not even Sarah’s worried expression, while she peered from between the wooden stair railing, deterred him from it.

Guess it was different when your own kid was on the way.

However, despite his lack of interest in gambling, he found himself betting away what little he had for someone else—someone he thought he would never see again. But honestly, he wasn’t half bad at it so he didn’t mind it that much. His only complaint was when he had to get messy hunting down those who didn’t pay up.

One by one the men around the table folded, only leaving Joel and Liam. A huge stack of weaponry lies in the middle of the table, Liam’s eyes constantly flit between the stack and Joel. They stare at each other long and hard. Joel knows that he’s going to win. He usually did with these face-offs.

Liam folds.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Joel’s lips. There’s nothing better than to take what someone he absolutely detests wants.

“Let’s go again,” Liam grunts, his forehead shining with sweat.

Joel raises an eyebrow, “You don’t have anythin’ else to bet on.”

“Come on now, Miller,” Liam leans back into his chair. “There must be something that you want.”

Joel’s eyes bore into his long enough for the man to grow uncomfortable and nervous. Only then did he speak.

“You still have that pretty girlfriend?”

Someone Joel didn’t bother learning the name of pipes up from his right, “I thought we were only betting huntin’ supplies this time.”

“Come on, let the man try to win his rifle back.” Joel grins.

“Fuck you, Miller.”

“Careful now,” he slowly places his elbows on the old table, his weight on it enough to let out a threatening creak. He cocks his head to the side, his smile small but still there. “My kindness wears thin.”

Liam’s an addict. And of course, he says yes.

“You fucking gambled me away?!” your voice is shaking, body trembling all over as you pace back and forth in front of the couch Liam was nestled on top of. At least he has the decency to look guilty. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Liam? I’m your girlfriend, not some kind of deer hide you can put on the table.”

“Look I said I was sorry alright?” He stands up fast enough to make you flinch. He holds you by the shoulders, thumbs moving in a soothing manner. “Won’t happen again, I promise.”

You scoff, “We both know that’s a lie.” You lift your chin up in defiance. “I won’t do it. I have free will. You can’t make me.”

That makes Liam sweat. You can’t blame him, you’ve heard of Joel’s. . . outbursts. But honestly, that’s the least of your worries. You’re mostly confused as to why Joel asked for you specifically. You’re positive that he’d been avoiding you ever since he came into Jackson, only talking to you a handful of times. Why now? And why like this?

“Baby,” Liam whines, snapping you away from your thoughts. “You have to. He’s crazy, he’ll kill me.”

“You should’ve thought of that before.”

“Please. All you’d have to do is entertain him for the night, make him happy.”

“So to be his plaything? Is that what you want?”

“Maybe he’ll ask you to cook him dinner, hell if I know.”

“Sure,” you roll your eyes. “I’m sure he’ll just want something to eat.”

You give him one more look before slipping away from his gentle hold. Your heartbeat is slow, hours spreading across every beat, making your chest feel heavy and lightheaded.

“Fine,” you cave, wrapping yourself with your shaking arms. “But after this, I’m done, Liam. I’m so tired of bailing you out.”

“You can’t leave, where would you go?”

The soft tone he used while begging you to spread your legs for Joel quickly turns into a tone with sharp, dagger-like edges. You don’t say anything. Don’t answer him or agree with him. You’re lost in a broken world.

And now, amongst all the things you’ve been through, you have to see the pity in your childhood best friend’s eyes.

You don’t want to be here. You don’t. It’s embarrassing.

Your boyfriend is in the other room, brooding on his couch, examining his life choices. You’re not doing any better. Your robe loose over your shoulders, the chill of the bedroom settling over your skin. It’s especially embarrassing because it’s Joel for crying out loud. You’ve known each other since you were kids causing mischief all around the neighborhood. You still remember the time you fell and scraped your knee, how he kissed it better and placed a pink bandaid over it because it was your favorite color.

Why the hell had he asked for you? To humiliate you? Well, he definitely succeeded.

The door opens and you jolt. His presence is large in the room, making you shudder despite yourself. Your pulse quickens. You shouldn’t be afraid of him yet here you are, trembling like a newborn doe. He closes the door with a gentle click, the wood creaking and solidifying your fate.

You haven’t known him for years. Even before the outbreak had torn the world apart. You had moved away two years prior and after everything went down you never expected to see him again. When he showed up in Jackson you barely recognized him. He looked rugged, more salt than pepper in his beard, his eyes drained of life. He had scars that ran deep and he had found a kid along the way. You were surprised but relieved to see he still had a big heart.

You were ashamed the first time you two sat down after years. Everyone knew of Liam’s gambling problem, he couldn’t help it, and you knew that Joel knew. You hated the idea of him pitying you, of him seeing the world weighing down on you. You’ve heard from around that Joel also started to place bets. Nothing too big though, unlike your boyfriend who would bet on almost anything in the house. You knew those bets could turn out violent and people feared Joel. Even in a safe utopia like Jackson, the kind of man he’d become traveled from ear to ear, striking fear. And when someone that owed him money ended up with a bloody nose and broken jaw. . . no one dared to deny him of anything.

And it seemed like you were no exception.

Joel stands in front of you, his sleeves pulled up to his elbows, exposing sinewy muscle. He stands close. Close enough that you feel his breath on your lips. Your eyelids flutter before you avert them, tears stinging the corners.

You drop the robe, the old fabric pooling at your ankles. You’re left in a decent enough-looking bra and somewhat matching underwear.

“Not interested,” Your entire body goes taut, eyes wide. You hear the blood rush in your ears. Joel moves past you and takes a seat on the bed, crossing his arms over the expanse of his broad chest. You stare at him and a thick knot forms in your throat. He gives you a brief look before explaining. “I only wanted to teach your boyfriend a lesson. He’s reckless. One of these days he’s gonna be in real debt to me and, darlin’, I don’t want you gettin’ caught in the middle.”

Your heart drops. You don’t know what you’ve been expecting but it certainly isn’t this. Tears blurring your vision, you quickly bend over and scoop up your robe, throwing it over your shoulders. Somewhere along memory lane, you forgot to remind yourself that Joel was your first; first crush, first love, first kiss, first time. But it just hadn’t worked out. You had stayed close friends until you moved away, he had Sarah, you had a promising career. You were planning on getting back to him. It just never came to be. Liam didn’t know you knew Joel, only Tommy knew about the connection you two had, mainly because he was there.

And now you had Liam—Boyfriend who calls you names because he hates everything, Liam. Shitty boyfriend, Liam. Boyfriend who put you up as a prize, Liam.

It’s just too much. All of it. Your heart can’t handle how unfair it all is. The pity Joel shows you, the way Liam treats you. He loves you, you know that much, but he just doesn’t care enough to treat you right or tend to you when he’s so broken himself. He doesn’t understand that you would take care of him just as much.

And now you’re just a shell. A shell of your former self.

The first salty tear slips from your lashes, it’s followed by another and then another.

You manage to reach the end of the bed on shaky legs, collapsing, you cover your face, heaving silently into your palms. You don’t want Liam to hear you cry, deep down you want him to think Joel is fucking you this very instant. You want him to feel guilt, or at least a sliver of the way you feel.

There’s a gentle hand on your shoulder. Your brain doesn’t even register that Joel is pulling you into his chest, wrapping solid arms around your shaking frame. He holds the back of your neck, squeezing tenderly just like he did when your mom yelled at you and he wanted to calm you down.

“Why are you cryin’?” he mumbles. “I told you I’m not gonna do anythin’ to you. Or to him. I just wanted him to think before he put you in any danger. What if it wasn’t me there? Not everyone is as they seem in this town.”

After all this time Joel Miller is still looking out for you.

“It’s not that,” you answer, between sniffled and muffled hiccups. “I’m embarrassed and so fucking tired. I don’t want you thinking I’m some damsel in distress, even though me crying isn’t really helping,” you take a deep breath and peel yourself unwillingly from his chest. “I don’t feel good about myself. I never do with him. I just feel like shit with some more shit thrown over. And well. . . now I know that you don’t want me either. It’s just too much. But I’ll be okay, thank you for looking out after me even though I’m a mess.”

He suddenly grips your chin and pulls you close enough that your noses almost touch, “What the hell makes you think that I don’t want you?”

“You. . .” with a sigh, you look away. “You didn’t want to fuck me.”

“You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?”

Squeezing your chin, he forces your gaze back to him. His lips are parted, pupils wide enough to hide the chocolate brown of his eyes. He seems just as surprised as you feel. Arousal pools between your legs, heat dripping down the curve of your spine. You press your thighs together and swallow.

Joel’s hand moves up to your cheek and cups it gently, thumb toying with the corner of your lip, “I just never thought you’d be interested if I’m bein’ honest. Especially not after. . . everything I’ve done.”

“You’ve done what you’ve had to do to survive,” you kiss the curve of his palm and he shifts, coming even closer. “I always wanted to come back to you, you know? You’re my first love, Joel Miller. Deep down I always wanted you to be the last.”

Joel was never an emotional guy. He always had trouble expressing what he thought and felt, thinking he always had to hide behind large invisible walls. The outbreak had put a magnifying glass over that quality of his. You can only tell that your words affected him by how the crease between his brows softens and his cheeks gain a subtle red hue.

He only grunts as he forcefully brings your hand to his crotch, his cock hard and throbbing under your palm. His lips skim down your neck, kissing where your pulse beats frantically. Joel grinds into your palm, “You still want to fuck with your boyfriend waiting in the living room?”

“God, yes.”

You stand up and he parts his legs for you, allowing you to take your rightful place between them. Looking up, his fingers dance up your shoulders, pushing off the robe so it once again pools at your feet. The fabric of your bra has worn away with time, meaning that your nipples meet no resistance as they stiffen under his gaze. Joel licks his lips and brings both thumbs to the peaks, rubbing them until they’re fully hard.

Then he suddenly shoves you closer to him, your aching nipple met with his wanting mouth. He sucks through the fabric. Saliva darkens the color. He sucks and moans each individual nipple until both are hard like diamonds and only then do you find yourself on the bed, his mouth still on you, starving for more. Your back forms the perfect arch, the sheets feeling like silk against your skin despite them being years old—almost rotten.

He drags his lips down your body, rough facial hair tickling your skin, your hips helplessly stutters into the air. Two large hands pin your hips down. You can’t help the noises that tumble from your lips. For the first time, you’re feeling whole. He lays soft kisses against your inner thighs and finally, he reaches where you want him most.

Joel sucks your clit through the fabric and your body jerks, seeking the heat of his mouth against your bare cunt instead. He smiles, digging his blunt nails into your flesh.

“Patience,” he licks a stripe down your clothed folds. “I want you to be loud, sweetheart. Make noise for me. If you want me to fuck you, that’s my price—your sounds.”

Liam never liked the sounds you made. Unless you were mimicking porn and whispering how close you were, which was a very rare occasion.

Joel slides his hands up to the softness of your stomach, squeezing gently. Like you might fade away at any given second. He kisses the lips of your pussy and his eyes flutter closed.

“Doesn’t it feel good,” he begins, his southern drawl more prominent as his voice grows deeper. “To have that prick in the next room listenin’ to me fuck you, riddled with guilt because he bet on his pretty girlfriend?”

It does feel good. “You think I’m pretty?”

“‘Course I do,” his brows furrow, eyes finding yours. “Prettiest girl I’ve known since the first day my dick got hard.”

The words send a tingle up your spine but Joel doesn’t allow you to linger on them for long. He slides your underwear to the side. The fabric sticky with slick, he immediately presses his lips deep into your cunt, tongue swirling around your entrance and teasing it by pushing in the tip. You cry out and grip his head, your legs pressing against his ears. Your heart hammers within the confinements of your ribcage.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans, licking himself deeper and rutting the bed. Your eyes roll back, your body melting with every fat stroke of his tongue.

Joel takes you apart slowly. His jaw moves, head lazily going from left to right. You feel so wet, soaked, from both his mouth and your slick. It’s almost like he goes slower the more soaked you are. He draws various shapes around your throbbing clit. You're left withering under him, shaking, begging, and moaning his name loud enough that the entirety of Jackson could probably hear. The wet smack of his mouth is followed by loud slurps and groans, and your stomach coils tight.

After all these years, Joel Miller had certainly learned a few new tricks. He wasn’t that same teenager anymore, though, neither were you. He feels different, yet he also feels the same. Like a familiar wind stroking your skin.

“So damn wet and sweet like honey, fuck.”

He moves away and you nearly cry out of frustration, fingers burrowing into the old sheets. You only move when you hear the deafening sound of a belt buckle coming loose. Joel’s pants drop to his ankles, cock painfully hard and slightly curving to the side. Your mouth waters, “No underwear?”

“Got too lazy to wash’em last Sunday,” he lazily strokes himself. Today is Tuesday. He’s been going commando all this time. More saliva fills your mouth, you don’t know why but the thought excites you and he seems to notice. “You always did get turned on by the weirdest things,” he mutters. “Now get on your knees, sweetheart. Been waitin’ a long time to feel those lips again.”

You pout, “Forearms are sexy, ask anyone.”

Joel sighs and shakes his head, his dark gaze makes you clench around nothing. He ignores your comment entirely. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You sink to your knees immediately after that.

He’s so much thicker than you remember. The bulbous head a beautiful shade of red, shiny beads of precome gathered at the slit. You notice the vein meandering down the underside of his cock and you trace it with the tip of your tongue. The blood pumps harder in response, his length twitches and smears the shiny pearls against your cheek.

You moan as you finally take him between your lips. The corners of your mouth sting from how wide you need to open to accommodate him. You manage to take him half way in, swirling your tongue, you hollow out your cheeks.

“That’s it—That’s it, fuck—suck me harder, sweetheart, please—” his hips rock forward, his cock filling your mouth until the head is hitting the back of your throat. You choke on him and his head falls at the way your throat constricts around the width of him. He then pulls out, prompting you to look up. His hair is a mess, lips swollen and parted. “Use your spit, need you to wet my cock good if you want me to fit darlin’. I ain’t that teenager anymore.”

You kiss the soft crease between his balls, rolling them with your tongue. You’re delighted to witness how he shudders at the soft caress of your lips, “I can see that.”

“Get on with it then.”

Joel sounds almost annoyed—no, not annoyed, but eager, desperate—to have your mouth wrapped around him with Liam in the other room. You don’t want to make him wait so you slowly allow a thin line of saliva to drip from between your lips. His thighs tense when it touches the head of his cock.

“Is his dick as big as mine?” he asks, jaw locked, words bouncing off of clenched teeth.

“No,” you gasp, dragging your lips down the length of him while staring at him through heavy lashes. “No, it’s not as big as yours.”

Suddenly you’re lifted to your feet, your body nothing but a ragdoll as he pushes you to the bed, the old mattress creaking with protest at the added weight.

“Play with that fuckin’ pussy for me, I want to see it.” He wraps a hand around his weeping cock, his strokes hard and calculated. Your breasts tingle as you push a hand between your thighs, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, approaching the end of the bed. “Spread your legs wide, honey.”

As soon as you open your legs and spread your folds for him to see how soaked you are, he’s quick to climb up the bed. Turning you to your side, he gets right behind you. Joel wets his own fingers, sucking on them with a loud groan before replacing yours with his own. He rubs your clit with precise movements, each stroke hitting the mark and making you see bright, dazzling stars. Your body moves on its own. Heat pools between your legs, your hips grinding back to feel the heft of him on your ass.

“Joel, please,” you whimper. “Please, fuck me, please—”

His lips touch your cheek and he breathes heavily, his chest heaving and rattling with every exhale. You feel the head of his cock slowly sinking into you, stretching you wide as his lips decorate your sweaty skin with fleeting kisses.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ well, honey,” your eyes roll back, a mild pain blossoming from where you two connect. He brushes his fingers over your clit, the sharp pleasure shortening your breath. “That’s it. That’s my girl takin’ my big cock so well. So good. So good for me.”

Your jaw drops as you take him inch by inch. He continuously plays with your clit, kissing you and whispering words of praise while his tongue plays with your earlobe. You feel like mush. Like dough that only he can mold. Your lashes grow wet with tears, your heart beating so wild that you swear he can hear it as well. Joel slightly pulls back his hips and pushes back in, your breath catches in your throat, and soon enough he begins fucking you with shallow thrusts.

“Is this what you wanted, huh?” he mutters into your ear. You nod helplessly, your body burning from the inside out. “Tell me, louder, come on,” a smack echoes in the small room, and pain blossoms over your ass cheek. “Come on, louder.”

“Yes!” you cry out. In a weak attempt to meet his thrusts, you roll your hips. “Yes, this is what I wanted. I’ve never stopped thinking about it—never stopped thinking about you.”

“Is this pussy mine?”

“Yes, it’s fucking yours.”

Your voice must’ve come out too much like a whisper because Joel’s pace quickens. He fucks you hard, deep, hammering into you until you’re struggling for air. He wraps thick fingers around your neck, squeezing until there’s pressure building under your eyes, your lungs burning.

He loosens his grip around your throat, “I wanna hear it, come on now, don’t make me beg for it. Tell me, is it mine?”

“Yours! It’s fucking yours!”

Suddenly Joel is underneath you and you’re on top, his hips relentless as he snaps his hips up into you. It feels even better now. The way his cock massages your walls shooting crackles of electricity up your spine. He holds your ass with both hands and spreads you for his liking.

You moan his name and when you look down, seeing him staring at your face, a sudden gush of embarrassment overwhelms you and with a small whimper, you cover his eyes with both your hands. Joel grits his teeth at that. He fucks you harder, the vicious way he presses inside making you gasp and drop your hands so you can brace yourself by flattening your palms over his chest. His eyes flash with anger.

“Why the fuck—” he growls, “would you cover my eyes?”

“I–I got embarrassed—” you squeeze your eyes shut and open them back again. You push down your hips, taking him to the hilt as a form of apology, but he doesn’t seem to accept it and holds you still. Your head falls back with his every thrust.

“If you ever pull that stunt again, I’ll take you over my knee,” he rasps, ignoring the way your pussy clenches at his words.

His finger teases your asshole and beads of sweat gather at your tailbone. Joel’s grin is dangerous, something you’d run away from rather than run towards. But you can’t help it. A wanton moan rattles your throat, your pussy clenching hard around his cock. He presses forward, burying his finger down to the first knuckle. You shudder over and over, your body building tension and releasing it simultaneously.

“You like that, wildflower?” he groans, thrusting his finger in and out while snapping his hips up. “You enjoy it when I play with your tight little asshole?”

“Fuck, fuck—Joel—yes, yes I do.”

His other hand snakes around the back of your neck and yanks you down. His damp lips touch your ear, “Gonna fuck this hole one day, pretty thing. . . gonna fuck it so hard you’re not gonna be able to stand for weeks.”

Before you can catch your breath, you’re being hauled towards the closed door, the emptiness you feel sudden and cold. He pulls your hips up, presses your cheek against the barely standing wood. Your hard nipples graze against the surface, a jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine. Again, Joel thrusts forward, filling you to the brim. The mild pain tingles within your lower abdomen and you melt against him, eyes rolling back as you wiggle your ass for him.

With every rock of his hips, your body hits the door with a thud and you’re sure Liam can hear every forceful fuck, “Tell him how fuckin’ bigger I am than him—I wanna fuckin’ hear, it come on.”

“He’s so much bigger than you!” you groan, bracing your palm against the door. “You hear me, Liam? Never had a bigger cock in my life, I’m soaked.”

Liam’s muffled voice follows through, “Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with you? You fucking whore!”

You know it shouldn’t, but his words still jar you.

“I’ll fuckin’ break his hands for that, don’t you worry darlin’,” Joel mutters into your skin, his words marking you as something untouchable. “And I’ll make it fuckin’ hurt.” He then kisses your shoulder and shouts towards the door, slamming especially hard this time so the thud of you hitting the door echoes. “You’re the one who gambled her like some kind of prize you dickhead. Don’t blame her for feelin’ good about it!”

“You could never satisfy me,” you say barely above a whisper, like you’re not entirely sure you’re allowed to feel good about this. About finally having him all to yourself.

“That’s it, tell him,” Joel growls, pushing his cock even deeper. You swear that if you looked down at your stomach, you’d see a bulge, as impossible as that sounds. “Tell him.”

You desperately grab at Joel’s forearms, feeling the sinewy muscle tense. Your slick drips down his length and wets the inside of your thighs. With a loud moan you repeat your words and it feels delightful.

You only smile when you hear the outer door close shut. Liam is gone.

“Yes yes yes,” Joel murmurs into your neck, ramming into you harder. “That’s it, come on my cock, sweetheart, please—I wanna feel it—”

Your breath catches in your throat, body seizing, “B—Bed,” you manage to choke out.

If he pulled out, you’re not aware. His body is a constant presence against your back, lips always latched on to a patch of skin, tasting the salt. Joel lays you down gently and pushes your legs high enough that it grazes your forehead with every desperate snap of his hips.

“Is this what you want?” he groans, the wet noises of him fucking into the tight fist of your cunt bouncing off the walls.

“Yes, Joel— this is what I want.”

“My whore,” he leans over and grinds into you. He slips his tongue into your mouth, sucks on your tongue. The back of your thighs ache with protest but you whimper into the kiss anyway. Breaking the kiss, Joel breathes into you, “My good sweet little whore,” and another kiss.

Your eyes roll back, “So deep,” you groan, breaking the kiss.

“Deeper deeper deeper,” Joel mocks you by mimicking your dazed tone with his drawl. He slowly pushes in, holding himself there, he halts your breath. “How’s that, wildflower? Deep enough for you?”

“Oh god, Joel—” you choke. You fist the sheets, your cunt fluttering and throbbing. He doesn’t move, he flexes his cock and the pressure of that is enough to break you.

Joel wasn’t expecting it, this much your muddled brain is able to realize from the shocked groan he lets out. His lips find purchase on your forehead, kissing and mumbling praise as your entire body clenches and releases, your pussy gushing around him. You feel the trickles of fresh wetness ripping out of you and all you can do is take it when Joel resumes his thrusts, fucking you through your messy orgasm.

Despite your insistent begging of wanting him to come inside, Joel pulls out, coming undone instantly as he does so. He rubs himself over your mound, thick ropes of come spurting across your stomach and even the underside of your right breast. He releases your legs and they fall limply to his sides.

Joel kisses you long and deep, his weight comforting above your trembling body. When he finally pulls away, he lets out a low chuckle and brushes your noses together.

“I think he left, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you mumble and press a quick kiss to his flushed lips. “All I want is you.”

Liam’s not your boyfriend anymore.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #tlou fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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wh1msic4lwasab1 · 10 months ago

Text

𝐇𝐒𝐑 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐰/𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ୭ ˚.⁺⊹ .ᐟ

synopsis: HSR men and the type of spicy piercing they have

tags: mentions of piercings, body modification, vulgar, explicit

a/n: this one was fun pls lmk if yall want more or possibly a genshin one

₊˚⊹ ᰔ BLADE…

You can feel the cold metal of his piercings pressed against your navel . He trails his lips down your neck, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake.

As he moves lower, he reaches behind you to unhook your bra. His fingers graze your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Once your bra is off, he moves his attention to your nipples, taking one into his mouth and teasing it with his tongue.

But it's not just his mouth that's working. His luster of sterling silver dropped down lower, placing itself inbetween your lips, adding an extra level of excitement to the encounter. You moan as he continues his ministrations, your body trembling with pleasure.

“You like how that feels huh?” He asks, “feels even better inside I bet.” He whispers, letting the tip of his cock slip in til it reaches your sensitive clit, even more shaken with the cold metal dragging itself back and forth.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ BOOTHILL…

With his devilish grin and tongue piercing. He moves towards you, his eyes locked on yours. You can't help but feel a little nervous as he kisses you, the piercing sharing the room in your mouth.

He pulls away, his tongue piercing tracing a path down your chest and abdomen. You gasp as he reaches your clit, the piercing adding an extra level of sensation as it teases and rubs against you.

'Oh god,' you moan, your hips bucking up to meet his tongue.

He smirks, clearly enjoying the effect he's having on you. He continues to work you with his tongue, the piercing adding a unique texture and intensity to the experience.

“Mhmm…keep squirming around like that, makes it so much more fun eh sweetheart?”

₊˚⊹ ᰔ SAMPO…

With his playful smile and nipple piercings, he's the last but certainly not least of the group. He moves in close, his chest pressing against yours as he kisses you deeply.

You can feel the cold metal of his nipple piercings against your skin, and it sends another wave of pleasure through your body. He reaches behind you to grab your ass, pulling you closer as he continues to kiss you.

As the kiss deepens, his hands move to your breasts, his fingers teasing your nipples while his own are so close to your skin they make you shiver.. He breaks the kiss, moving his attention to your breasts. He takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it.

“You like that?” he asks, grinning as he sees the pleasure on your face. “Maybe we should some matching ones for these perfect tits huh?”

You can only nod, completely lost in the moment.

whimsic4alwasab1 ™ - do not copy, translate, modify, or claim any of my work as your own.

#jo’s posts #hsr smut #smut #blade honkai smut #blade hsr #blade smut #blade x reader #blade honkai #hsr blade #hsr boothill smut #hsr boothill #boothill #boothill smut #sampo koski #hsr sampo #sampo smut #honkai star rail sampo #boothill hsr #hsr fic

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strangererotica · 7 months ago

Text

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Old Man!Logan x Reader | Includes daddy kink / ddlg, oral & vaginal sex, spanking, cum-eating, squirting, SoftDomBigDickLogan™

Porn begins right under the cut 🥀

“It-it hurts,” you sniffle, your whole body tensing. Logan scoffs against your ear, his hot breath raising goosebumps along your neck. “It does, huh?” he taunts. “Then how come you’re pushin’ back on Daddy like you want more?” He slams his hips forward, punching even deeper into your cunt. Your eyes widen in shock, mouth forming a pouty circle as the air is knocked out of you.

Logan is impossibly big. It’s hard to believe he could stretch you any wider and yet, his cock is somehow lodged so deeply inside you that his balls are tapping your ass. “Tell me to stop,” he grunts. “And I will.”

Logan stopping is the last thing you want. Even though it feels like your cunt’s never going to recover after the fuck he’s giving it, you’d gladly let him ruin your body as long as he doesn’t. fucking. stop.

“Mm-mm,” you shake your head, followed by a sharp gasp as Logan’s palm meets the fat of your ass in a hard swat. “Use your words, angel,” he scolds, his cock throbbing against your walls.

“Don’t stop,” you pant back in response. You press your ass against Logan’s belly, eyes squeezed shut as your cunt swallows the rest of his cock with a loud squelch. He curves his body around yours, murmuring “good girl,” against your neck, lips pressing a small kiss on your shoulder.

Logan wraps an arm around your upper body, pinning your back against his chest. His other hand massages and squeezes your tits, drifting over your stomach and settling between your thighs. Logan drags his heavy cock back slowly, then thrusts forward, his hand groping your cunt.

You feel like a doll in his hands, completely in Logan’s control, at his disposal to do with as he likes. He slides a hand around your throat, your pulse thrumming against his wide palm. “God you feel so good,” Logan groans, his voice wavering. Arousal drips down your thighs, the musky scent of your cum and Logan’s sweat filling the room.

He braces his feet on either side of yours, his thick thighs encasing you, the coarse hair on Logan’s stomach rubbing against your back as he humps into you. Your clit throbs under Logan’s touch, his fingers moving rapidly over the slippery bead. The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, the pulsing ache in your cunt growing stronger where it rests in Logan’s huge palm.

Each drive of his hips pushes more cum out of you, gushing down your legs. You tremble around Logan’s cock, arching your back against his stomach as he pumps you, massaging every inch of his shaft between your walls. The world feels fuzzy, like a haze has descended over your awareness. Everything is too intense, in the best way. Your thighs begin to shake, lips parting in a moan.

Logan removes his fingers from your clit, bringing them to your open mouth and pressing them past your lips. “Suck,” he murmurs at your ear, his voice husky and strained. “Eat your own cum for Daddy, angel…Tell me how good you taste.”

You moan softly around Logan’s fingers, the slick texture of cum melting on your tongue. He balls your hair up in a fist, his other hand closing around your chin and tilting your face to his.

“Wider,” Logan gently commands, and you open up for him, extending your tongue, slippery with the pearly liquid he fed you. He takes your tongue between his lips, sucking your cum from it. He growls at the heady taste of you, his nostrils flaring, the flavor of your cunt awakening something primal in Logan.

He pulls out of you abruptly, your cunt puckering in his absence. A gush of liquid spills from between your thighs and spatters onto the floor, your body shaking in Logan’s arms as a climax overwhelms you without warning. Logan locks his bicep around you, forcing you in place so you don’t hurt yourself.

After letting you finish, he collects your pliant body in his arms. Seeking the nearest hard surface to fuck you on, Logan approaches the kitchen table and bends you over it. His body dwarfs yours; the shadow of his frame swallows you whole. Logan fixes his palm against the small of your back, pressing your stomach flat to the table. You lay limp and compliant for Logan, letting him take you. The afterglow of your orgasm has left you completely fucked-out and dazed; Logan could do literally anything he wants with your body right now, and you’d be unable (and unwilling) to resist.

He spreads your legs wide, his hand shoved roughly between them. “Christ you’re so fuckin’ wet,” Logan marvels, parting your lips with his fingers, playing with the slick making them glisten. He spanks your ass, lurching you out of the post-orgasm daze you’ve been in. “Stay just like that,” Logan growls, kneeling between your legs. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ move.”

He presses his face to your sex, the tip of his nose penetrating you slightly, his tongue lapping your clit in wide strokes. You grip the sides of the table, arms stretched across it. Logan’s hands latch onto the fat of your hips, his fingers digging marks into the plumpness there. Bracing yourself against the table, you hump Logan’s tongue, his nose nuzzling deeper as you rock back and forth on top of it.

The sounds in the room are beautifully filthy, throaty grunts of pleasure spilling from your lips…the creaking of the wooden table beneath you as you lean against it for support…Logan’s panted breath as he pulls air through his mouth before resuming his tongue’s assault on your clit. Your forehead presses against the table, your fingernails chewing at the wood as a second climax rips through you. Logan growls into your cunt, fucking himself with his fist as you come on his face, the muscles in your pussy fluttering around his nose.

Rising to his feet, Logan grabs your hair and whips you around to face him, pulling you onto your knees at his feet. He pumps his cock over you, aiming his tip at your sweat-sheened face. Logan locks his fingers in your hair, forcing your head back. Your mouth opens instinctively, tongue lolling out to catch Logan’s cum.

He bends slightly at his knees, tapping his tip against your tongue, groaning as he empties his release inside your mouth. You refrain from swallowing, allowing Logan to catch his breath and steady himself with one arm leaning against the table behind you. “Show me what Daddy gave you, angel,” Logan says, his voice heavy and relaxed. You stick out your tongue, curving it at the tip so Logan’s cum won’t run off of it. He nods approvingly, a lazy smile coming to his lips. “That’s a good girl,” he tells you. “Now swallow.”

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deikshen · 2 months ago

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Shen Qingqiu decides that in order to avoid becoming a human stick... He should just become a woman and take a wife plot!! There are HUNDREDS of wife plots in PIDW, and well, Shen Qingqiu can become a woman and fall into one, become Luo Binghe's wife after the regulatory papapa, and be forgotten in the harem. It's not a bad idea.

(Shang Qinghua keeps his comments to himself, extremely amused by Cucumber-bro's mental gymnastics. Heaven save him.)

So, Shen Qingqiu bites the bullet and gets himself a rare flower that transforms his body into a woman body, with tits and... bottoms. He makes it look like an accident, which, combined with the effect of Without-A-Cure, has no immediate solution. Mu Qingfang is jaded but not skeptical, so they just let it be. Shen Qingqiu is still Shen Qingqiu, Peak Lord and resting bitch face™, only now he must wear robes that do not squeeze his grown chest so much and a belt that fits tighter around his waist.

Shen Qingqiu still thinks of himself as a man, the other Peak Lords and disciples still refer to him as Shixiong and Shizun, as the immortal master that he is, and more than that there is not much to say. Shang Qinghua occasionally makes a comment about him having nice tits and earns a couple of fan blows to the head, but it's not really too different from before.

He hasn't decided yet what wife plot he will use. Maybe the flower that sex-pollen-poisons him but makes him irresistible to any demon around him? It would tempt Binghe's demonic side a bit, and secure him the papapa. Or the water from that spring that would make the typical fuck or die plot only solvable with the Heavenly Pillar? Shen Qingqiu believes that he has time to think about it further; after all, there are still years to The Moment, right?

The plague of Jinlan City and Luo Binghe's unexpected and early return throw him into absolute chaos. Fuck! He still has nothing ready! Not even a flower of pollen on him that would make Binghe spare his life!

Well, Shen Qingqiu will have to cope with only the experience of trashy romance novels, improvisation and his arduous desire to survive.

...

When Luo Binghe arrives at his room, demanding answers from the elusive Shizun who hasn't even shown himself to him... Shizun only has inner robes. There's... Blush on his cheeks? Wet lips and bitten? The tunics open at the subtle curve of... Breasts? A tiny waist - even tinier than before, Luo Binghe is confident he can hold his hands around it without any problems - and wide hips where the fabric of his inner tunics almost seems transparent. Luo Binghe falls silent, his brain boiling in five different temperatures.

"Binghe?" asks his Shizun, who somehow seems to have been... cursed with this form? He looks vulnerable, a sweet fawn with huge eyes, a blushed face, and a sweet half-open mouth. "Is it really you?"

His Shizun looks big eyes on the verge of tears. He approaches, not caring about the ill-fitting tunics, not caring that one of his shoulders slides, revealing white skin, a stretch of cleavage. And his Shizun holds his face, hands cold and almost trembling, as if he were seeing a dream come true in front of him.

Luo Binghe... wonders if Shizun ever dreamed of that. If his Shizun ever dreamed of seeing him come back to now react in that way. Because now tears are streaming down Shen Qingqiu's face, and he is holding Binghe's face so lovingly in his hands that Luo Binghe can only melt into his touch.

"Shizun," he says, because it's all he wants to say, it's all he can say. His anger is a chaos that spirals out in all directions, but how can he let it out there? In front of the vulnerable Shizun who cries for him? There must be an explanation, Luo Binghe tells himself. He needs to hear that.

But he also needs Shen Qingqiu not to cry.

"My Binghe" his Shen Qingqiu says, his own heart racing. Luo Binghe lets Shen Qingqiu move him, pulling him, wrapping him in a hug. Luo Binghe must lean down to be hugged tightly by his Shizun, but there... There is a stretch of white throat exposed. There is so much soft skin exposed in every direction. He can see the pronounced curve of his cleavage, but he can feel almost beneath his mouth the throbbing in his throat, the scent of his hair, the perfume of his skin...

And Shen Qingqiu squeezes him tighter, almost making him bend over him, holding him as if he never wants to let go. And Luo Binghe can feel every curve of his body pressed against him, he can lose himself in the scent of his skin, in the strong grip of his arms. His own body is awakening irrationally and embarrassingly, but if Shen Qingqiu notices it, he doesn't say anything...

No, in fact, Shen Qingqiu is getting closer to him?

Is Shizun poisoned? Or something? Some pollen? Some flower? What's going on?

"My sweet disciple," Shen Qingqiu says, and as much as Binghe wants to pull away to see his face, Shen Qingqiu holds him against him. Luo Binghe believes it is because, despite everything, his Shizun's face is still so thin... "This... This Shizun has missed his good boy Binghe so much..."

Luo Binghe feels his own rational brain shutting down. Oh well. He'll figure out what needs to be figured out later. His cock will be taking control of all the blood in his body now.

(When Shen Qingqiu is pushed against a wall and roughly kissed, he restrains himself from pumping a fist in the air in celebration. YEAH!!! HE DID IT!! HE'S GOING TO SURVIVE THAT AND WITHOUT BECOMING A HUMAN STICK!!)

...

(Papapa - about five to six rounds, Shen Qingqiu lost count at some point - later, Shen Qingqiu is not too sure that he will actually survive. His little blackened lotus has a lot to learn. Ah, where did he learn to be so rough? Those kisses seemed more like bites than kisses. Lots of teeth, lots of teeth. And his touch is rough and not gentle at all, and Shen Qingqiu is more in pain from his clumsy fingers than from the Heavenly Pillar. Did the demon jiejie in the Abyss they hadn't taught him anything? At this point in the plot Luo Binghe should know at least something on how to be a good lover!!

Or was Airplane's poor writing now reflecting on the Protagonist!? Oh, Shen Qingqiu hoped not, because otherwise Airplane was going to pay for it with his blood.

Ah well. Once a Shizun, always a Shizun. Shen Qingqiu is going to have to teach his cute Binghe a little about this too. And sleepy after a some orgasms, the truth is that he doesn't object at all.)

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psyzcraze · 1 month ago

Text

𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪

Pairings: AgedUp!Seishiro x FEM!reader

Sypnosis: After a long week, filled with stress and work, you finally came home to your boyfriend, Nagi Seishiro resulting in him gently fucking your brains out in an attempt to comfort you after a stressful week.

Genre: Smut/Fluff

Wc: 351 words, 1995 characters

Cw: smut, raw/no protection, praise kink, fingering, cumming inside, very subtle mention of BidD!Nagi, missionary position

Author's note: Really short, not proofread 🥹, I'm so sleepyyyy, NSFW under the cut! REBLOGS are appreciated :)

"Hngh- S-sei..!" Soft moans came out of your plush lips as you trembled underneath your boyfriend, Nagi.

Seishiro's fingers continued its relentless thrusting into your tight cunt. "Behave f'me pretty girl." He spoke with that lazy and seemingly-always-tired voice of his. His gaze never leaving your face. Taking pleasure in your fucked out expression.

"B-but-" You tried to protest but was immediately caught off by him gently pressing his lips against yours, giving you a soft kiss. "No buts, you deserved this, angel."

Seishiro kissed your forehead as he continued to pump his fingers into your pussy. He groaned as he suddenly felt your walls tightening up around his digits.

"Fuck, you're just so pretty f'me aren't you?" He whispered into your ear as he kissed your forehead.

You're so close already, so so close! And Nagi's fingers were just making you go insaaane! "I-I'm so close.."

Just as you were about to reach that high you've been craving for, Seishiro suddenly pulled his fingers out of your cunt.

He wasted no time and immediately thrusts his cock in your cunt, stretching you out so suddenly, causing you to moan very loudly.

"S-sei!!" You moaned as he pounded your pussy so slowly and gently yet so deeply. "T-that's right, keep moaning f'me.." Seishiro spoke so sweet to you as he set that agonizingly slow yet deep strokes.

After a few more deep and slow thrusts, You could feel that knot forming in your tummy again. He whimpered as he felt you start to tighten up around his big cock.

"I'm so close, angel.." Seishiro said softly as his thrusts became faster and more frantic, chasing after that high you both crave so much.

Your moans became louder and after a few more thrusts, the both of you came together. His hot cum filling your insides. He gave you a few shallow thrusts to help you get down from your high.

"There we go, angel, you did so well.." Seishiro cuddled you up while keeping you stuffed with his cum.

"Thanks for working so hard all week...Love you.."

Masterlist and Rules here!

©psych0-puppete3r ™ - do not copy, translate, modify, or claim any of my work as your own.

#♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ :psyc's puppeteer show: :;#♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ :puppet's swelling heart: :;#♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ :puppet's hidden rose: :;#psy is a dum dum #idk #idk what else to tag #idk what im doing #asks #nagi smut #nagi x reader #blue lock smut #bllk smut #bllk x reader #fem reader

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ariestrxsh · 3 months ago

Note

I'm gonna revamp my ask about "gf that's obsessed with cheetah/cow/tiger print and everything bright and pastel, totally not because I'm one of them myself"™

Can we pleaseee get a drabble where she has a innocent and cutesy demeanor which turns chris on because he knows that that's not all there is to her?

My life will be even more yours that it was beforehand

Thank you for being so patient. I'm sorry it took me so long to get to this. 💖

Chris isn't buying your innocent act...

"I'm a good girl, Chris. I don't do that, you crinkled your nose and squinted at your boyfriend when the subject of masturbation came up. The two of you were lying next to one another on your bed, both sinking into your fluffy, pastel pink comforter.

He side-eyed you, giving you a skeptical look and lightly scoffing at your lies. "What? It's true. I don't ever do anything naughty," you told him, biting back a smirk. "Oh yeah?" He snarked back, rolling over on top of you.

He sensually slid his long fingers down your smooth stomach, tickling you and giving you goosebumps. Your breath hitched in your throat as you prepared for him to stick his hand down your pants.

Instead, he stopped at your hip where your cheetah-print thong was peeking out of the waistband of your Juicy Couture track pants. He hooked his finger into the strap of your g-string and snapped it against your skin.

You let out a soft whine at the sensation that sounded halfway like a disappointed sigh. He smugly grinned at you. "What did you think I was gonna do, huh?" Chris asked, raising an eyebrow and watching a needy expression sneak into your facial features. "Nothing," you giggled softly.

"I don't think I'm buying your innocent act. I bet these are all soaked," Chris taunted you, playing with the strap of your panties again. "It's not an act. I am a good girl," you reiterated, trying to uphold your pure demeanor.

"I bet if I look in here.." Chris started to say, reaching over you to slide open the drawer to your nightstand. "I might just find something that proves I'm right about you."

"Chris!" You exclaimed, trying to stop him from reaching into your drawer, but it was too late. You heard a familiar hum as Chris smirked down at you. He presented your bright purple buzzing toy to you. "Then what's this, huh?" Chris teased you, running the toy along your exposed stomach.

You shivered, looking up at him with your innocent doe eyes and chewing on your lip, but you stayed silent. "Not gonna answer me, huh? I guess I'm gonna have to show you then," Chris seductively whispered before he started kissing your neck.

He slid the toy down the front of your pants, resting it against your clit. The feeling sent waves of pleasure through you, causing your eyes to roll back into your head. "Chris," you softly moaned, finally giving up the act. "That's it. Let go," he rasped into your ear, tickling your earlobe with his soft lips.

You gave into the sensation, lifting your hips off the bed and rolling them forward. He hit the button on your vibrator, changing it to your favorite setting. He loved knowing exactly what you liked, and he got off on knowing you weren't as naive as you pretended to be. He watched you fall apart on your toy as you trembled beneath him.

"You can try to act all sweet and innocent, but I know all your secrets, naughty girl."

#sturniolo triplets #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x you #christopher sturniolo #christopher owen sturniolo #chris sturniolo drabble #chris sturniolo blurb

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hoshifighting · 11 months ago

Note

OKAY BUT IMAGINE JEONGHAN EDGING READER OVER AND OVER AGAIN BY A BULLET VIBRATOR AGAINST THEIR CLIT???? AND THE READER IS BOUNDED BY A ROPE!! SHE FEELS TOO MUCH BUT SHE CAN'T SAY ANYTHING DUE TO THE PLEASURE WRECKING HER 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍 (JEONGHAN IS MEAN™, LIKE NO SOFT-PLAY HERE JUST IMAGINE!!!!)

*gets a nosebleed*

meanie jeonghan edging reader with vibrator (you asked him to be MEAN™ so he is MEAN™)

you were tied up, completely at jeonghan's mercy, and he had a wicked grin on his face as he held a buzzing vibrator in his hand.

"you're such a fucking slut" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "tied up and begging for it like a whore. you're not going to get it that easily. you're going to have to beg a lot harder if you want to cum."

he increased the intensity of the vibrator, pressing the toy on your puffy clit.

as you felt yourself getting close, he pulled it away, leaving you squirming and desperate for more. but jeonghan just laughed, enjoying your torment as he continued to tease you mercilessly.

he smirked triumphantly as he coated the vibrator with your dripping arousal, knowing full well the effect it would have on you. he pressed it against your swollen clit again, and you couldn't even muster the strength to beg anymore.

''jeonghan'' you whispered.

''ah ah, no''

''hannie'' you cried.

''tsk not yet''

you lost count of the times he denied you orgasm, your whole being was focused on the overwhelming need for release, but jeonghan seemed determined to keep you on the edge.

he knew he could make you cum whenever he wanted, but he enjoyed prolonging your torment, pushing you to the brink and then pulling back at the last moment.

jeonghan's eyes gleamed as he watched you sobbing and trembling beneath him. he pressed the toy against your clit with relentless pressure, circling it teasingly as he savored your desperate cries.

"aw, does it hurt, sweetheart?" he cooed, his tone dripping with false sympathy. "does it feel too much for you? poor thing, all tied up and at my mercy."

you could barely manage a nod, your body wracked with sensation as the vibrator sent jolts of pleasure coursing through you. each touch felt like fire against your oversensitive clit, and you couldn't bear the thought of enduring any more.

jeonghan increased the intensity of the vibrator, making you gasp and arch your back, but instead of pulling the vibrator away like you expected, jeonghan kept it pressed firmly against your clit

you looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of what he would do next. would he deny you again, or would he finally let you cum?

you felt like you were on the verge of breaking. your body convulsed uncontrollably, your legs unable to close due to the ropes binding you in place

but then, with a simple nod from Jeonghan, everything changed. a wave of gratitude washed over you as you realized he was finally going to let you cum.

u cried out in ecstasy as the pleasure crashed over you, your body convulsing as you squirted uncontrollably, soaking both yourself and jeonghan in your release.

it was the most intense orgasm of your life, leaving you spent and completely drained. your body went limp against the ropes, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you lay there, utterly spent and sated.

you felt jeonghan wipe away your tears with gentle fingers.

but before you could even catch your breath, you heard the telltale buzz of the vibrator once again.

your eyes shot open in panic, but before you could protest, jeonghan pressed it against your sensitive clit.

the sensation was almost too much to bear. your entire body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending screaming with oversensitivity. you pleaded with jeonghan to stop, to give you a moment to recover, but all he did was smirk in response.

"hold it." he commanded.

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worlds-we-write · 20 days ago

Text

Shelter in the Storm

Chapter 2: Ash and Bone

pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x fem!reader

CH Summary: As whispers spread through Jackson, you're forced to confront the quiet reality growing inside you. With Joel’s steady presence and Ellie’s fiercely protective loyalty, the walls you’ve carefully built begin to crack—leaving you vulnerable, uncertain, and quietly hopeful for the first time.

Chapter WC: 5.5 K

Tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson era, slow burn, hurt/comfort, trauma recovery, emotional baggage, found family, protective Joel Miller, reader is a survivor, reader has PTSD, past hostage situation (implied), PREGNANCY reveal, soft moments in a harsh world, Joel cares in his own way™, gentle intimacy, angst with hopeful undertones, canon-typical violence (referenced), no smut (yet).

Chapter 1

The light was soft when she woke, barely filtering through the frost-covered window.

Her throat was dry. Her head heavy. The smell of woodsmoke lingered faintly in her hair, and her body ached in slow, pulsing waves—reminders of the collapse, of the fever, of whatever had dragged her under and spit her back out.

At first, she didn’t move.

Just stared up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, tracing their lines with unfocused eyes, waiting for the panic to catch up. It didn’t come—not like it used to. There was only the stillness. A thick, weighted kind of quiet that filled the room like fog.

Her blankets were bunched up around her, but beneath them she was still dressed from the day before—minus her coat.

Except—

She turned her head, slowly.

Joel’s jacket was there.

Draped over the back of the chair beside her bed, like someone had set it there with intention. It still smelled like him—faint leather, smoke, snow. Comfort. Safety.

She stared at it too long.

Her stomach turned.

The memory hit before she could stop it—Joel’s voice, low and steady beside her in the infirmary.

“You’re pregnant.”

She sat up too quickly.

The dizziness was instant—sharp and disorienting, forcing her to brace herself against the edge of the bed, teeth gritted. She breathed through her nose, trying not to vomit, willing the wave of nausea to pass.

It didn’t.

Her hand slid to her stomach.

Still flat. Still hers.

But not.

She dragged herself to the mirror and stared.

There was a girl there. Pale. Hair tangled. Eyes sunken and tired. Lips cracked from the cold. A scar above her eyebrow. Faint bruises on her neck that hadn’t faded yet.

She looked like someone who hadn’t chosen her own life in a while.

Like someone still trying to convince herself she deserved to have one.

You’re pregnant.

Her hands trembled.

“No,” she said aloud. Just to hear the word. Just to defy it.

It didn’t change anything.

She paced after that. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t lie back down.

She cleaned the table. Rearranged the firewood. Lit the stove, then put it out again. She didn’t even know what she was doing—only that if she stopped, the weight of it would crush her.

The silence inside the cabin was unbearable.

She half-wished Joel would knock.

She half-hoped he wouldn’t.

The memory of his hand on her cheek, the way he carried her like something precious—it scared her. Not because it was wrong.

But because it felt like care.

And care was dangerous.

Care meant someone could hurt you again.

Eventually, she sat by the window with a cup of water, watching the snow fall quietly over Jackson. The town moved like it always did. Chopping wood. Pulling sleds. Horses breathing steam into the cold air. Voices distant.

Life, happening anyway.

She felt a kick of anger in her chest.

Everything inside her was changing, twisting, breaking—and the world just… kept moving.

She was invisible again.

But Joel had seen her.

And now, he knew.

“You check on her?”

Tommy’s voice broke the morning stillness as he tossed a small log into the fire barrel outside the mess hall. He glanced sideways, knowing the answer before Joel could speak.

Joel didn’t look up. “She’s home. That’s all that matters.”

“She looked bad yesterday,” Tommy said, tone soft but honest. “Real bad.”

“She’s been through worse.”

Tommy nodded slowly. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean she should go through it alone.”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

He kept his eyes on the snow-covered path ahead, hands in his coat pockets, like if he focused hard enough on the horizon, he could avoid the way something in his chest had been twisting since yesterday.

Tommy finally sighed. “Y’know, it ain’t weakness to give a damn, Joel.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Joel muttered.

“No, but you’re walkin’ around like you gotta hide it.”

Joel turned then—just slightly.

“I ain’t tryin’ to fix her,” he said. “I just… don’t want her to think no one’s gonna show up.”

Tommy nodded again; this time slower. “Then go. Leave something. Say somethin’. You ain’t gotta be loud about it.”

Joel didn’t move.

Tommy threw another log onto the fire.

“I’ve seen you carry the weight of ghosts for twenty years, brother,” he said quietly. “Don’t let her become one of ‘em.”

Joel swallowed hard.

Didn’t answer.

Just turned and started down the snowy path toward her cabin.

Joel stood outside her cabin, hands deep in his coat pockets, pretending like he wasn’t there.

He wasn’t planning to knock. Hell, he hadn’t even meant to walk this far. He just… ended up here. Boots crunching softly on fresh snow. A thermos of hot coffee in one hand, the other wrapped too tightly around his wrist like it might keep him still.

There was light in her window.

That meant she was awake.

He watched her shadow move behind the curtain—slow, aimless pacing. Not frantic. Not panicked. Just the kind of movement someone made when they didn’t want to sit still with what was in their head.

He knew that feeling.

Too damn well.

He shifted his weight, debating.

He’d already stayed through the night. Sat by her bed until the nurses told him she’d be okay. He could’ve left it at that. Should’ve. She probably didn’t want him hovering. Probably didn’t want anything from him.

But the look on her face when she’d woken up—frightened, lost, trying not to let it show—it stuck with him.

Like a splinter under the skin.

He didn’t want her to feel alone in that.

Even if she told him to go to hell for it later.

He stared at the thermos in his hand.

He’d been bringing Ellie one just like it every morning since the cold rolled in. It was routine. A comfort. Something simple that didn’t ask for anything in return.

He stepped up to her porch. Slowly.

Set the thermos down on the top step.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t say a word.

Just turned and walked back through the snow, jaw clenched, hoping the smallest thing he could offer might be enough to get her through the morning.

The next morning, she got up before the sun.

The sky outside was still a dark shade of gray, the edges of it just starting to turn blue as she pulled on her boots with shaking hands. The fire in her stove had burned low overnight, and her cabin was cold—but that wasn’t what made her fingers numb.

She hadn’t slept much.

Every time she closed her eyes, she heard his voice again. Joel’s voice. You’re pregnant.

The words echoed, too loud for such a quiet truth.

But she couldn’t stay in bed. She couldn’t sit with it.

She needed something real. Something that didn’t care what was happening inside her.

The stables didn’t ask questions.

By the time she made it there, the town was just starting to wake.

The frost clung to the wooden fences. The horses’ breath puffed into the air in soft, cloudy bursts. A few of the morning shift workers were already there—Mason, Cara, one of the younger boys, Dillon. They glanced at her when she stepped inside, but no one said anything.

Not at first.

She didn’t expect a welcome, but the silence still pressed against her skin like judgment.

Everyone knew.

Or at least… they thought they did.

Word traveled fast in a place like Jackson. Someone passes out in the middle of the stables and doesn’t come back for a day? People ask questions. People assume.

She kept her head down.

Started brushing Dusty like she always did. The mare whuffed softly and leaned her head into her shoulder, same as usual. That alone nearly made her cry.

At least Dusty didn’t look at her differently.

Her body moved through the motions. Feed, hay, clean, check the buckets. But everything felt heavier today—her limbs, her breath, the weight in her belly that wasn’t even visible yet but felt like it was pressing down from the inside out.

By midday, the work caught up to her.

She’d been pushing harder than she should’ve—lifting feed buckets, hauling water, moving through the stalls like if she kept her muscles moving fast enough, her brain wouldn’t have time to catch up. Like if she pretended everything was fine, eventually her body would believe it.

But it didn’t.

She felt the shift as she bent to latch the bottom of one of the stalls.

A low, pulling ache in her lower belly—deep and slow, like something winding tight from the inside. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t dramatic. But it stopped her cold.

She froze, one hand braced against the gate, breath stuck in her throat.

Not pain exactly. Just… change.

Her body reminding her, in no uncertain terms: You’re not the same anymore.

You’re not alone anymore.

She pressed her hand just above her waistband. Nothing there. No bump. No movement.

But she felt it anyway.

And the feeling brought nausea with it. Not the usual queasy, morning kind. This was different. This was dread. Hot and bitter, curling up into her chest like smoke.

She stood too fast.

The world spun again.

And then—his voice.

"Hey."

Joel.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. But somehow, he always was, like he knew when she was about to fall apart without even looking at her.

She turned, already shaking her head. “I’m fine.”

His brow creased. “You’re pale.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She regretted the sharpness the second it left her mouth.

But Joel didn’t flinch.

He just looked at her—long, steady—and then stepped past her to unhook the latch she’d been fumbling with.

She watched his hands, rough and capable, move like he’d done this a hundred times. Maybe he had.

“I’m not broken,” she said, more quietly now. Not a declaration—more like a plea.

Joel paused.

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

And that was it.

No lecture. No pushback. No pity.

Just the acknowledgment that she didn’t want to be seen as fragile—but that maybe she was, in ways she couldn’t help yet.

They worked in silence for a while.

Joel stayed close—not hovering, not watching—but there. Steady. Like a second rhythm in the room. Like if she stumbled again, he’d already be moving before she hit the ground.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

“People are talking,” she said finally, her voice low.

Joel looked at her, unreadable. “Let ’em.”

“They think I’m—” She stopped. Couldn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t know how.

He didn’t push.

After a moment, she said, “I don’t need your help.”

“I know.”

“But you keep showing up anyway.”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

So she turned back to Dusty, ran the brush through her coat again even though she didn’t need it, and tried to focus on the rhythm. The quiet.

But Joel didn’t leave.

He stayed. Just like always.

And somehow, that was the only thing in the world that made sense.

She didn’t realize how long she’d been standing there—knees locked, shoulders tense, fingers clutched too tightly around the brush—until her vision blurred again. Not like before. Not dizzy. Just… detached. Like her body was still here but the rest of her had wandered off somewhere else.

She blinked hard.

Her hand slipped.

The brush clattered to the ground, and she jolted at the sound, startled by her own fragility.

A second later, Joel was beside her.

She hadn’t even heard him move.

“Hey,” he said softly, hand reaching out—but not quite touching her.

She didn’t look at him.

Her breath hitched, chest tight. The stall spun just a little.

Joel took a step closer.

And then—his hand was on her arm. Warm. Steady. Just above the elbow. His fingers didn’t squeeze, didn’t urge. Just anchored.

“You’re alright,” he said quietly.

That was all.

Not a promise. Not an order.

Just a tether.

And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she didn’t pull away.

She just stood there, eyes closed, muscles slowly unclenching under his touch.

The moment stretched—longer than it should have.

Then, gently, Joel let go.

She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for a year.

“Sit down a minute,” he said. “Ain’t no one gonna yell at you for takin’ a second.”

She nodded.

Didn’t argue.

He hadn’t meant to touch her.

Hell, most days he tried not to touch anyone if he could help it. Not since… not since long before Jackson. But when he saw the way her knees locked, the way her hand trembled around that damn brush, something in his gut kicked hard.

She was about to break.

And he couldn’t just stand there and let her.

So he moved. Quiet, careful. Reached out before he could talk himself out of it. Hand to her arm—just enough pressure to let her know she wasn’t drifting off alone again.

He expected her to pull away.

Hell, he braced for it.

But she didn’t.

She just stood there. Rigid. Breathing shallow. Eyes closed like she was trying to disappear—but not from him. Not this time.

It did something to him. More than he liked.

He held his touch for a second too long. Let it go before she could realize how much it mattered.

“Sit down a minute,” he said, like it was no big deal. Like his heart hadn’t started pounding in his chest when she leaned just slightly into his steadiness.

She nodded. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t look at him.

But she sat.

Joel turned away, slow and deliberate, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

He didn’t know what scared him more—the fact that she let him steady her…

Or the part of him that didn’t want to stop.

Joel was halfway back to his cabin, boots leaving a trail through fresh snow, when Ellie fell into step beside him like she hadn’t been lurking around the corner waiting for him to walk by.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just walked.

Then: “You were at the stables a long time.”

Joel grunted. “Feeding the horses. Helpin’ out.”

Ellie side-eyed him, dramatic. “Since when do you volunteer for things?”

He didn’t answer. Kept walking.

She squinted up at him. “Is this about her?”

Joel didn’t stop moving, but his shoulders stiffened just slightly.

Ellie smirked. She had him. “It is, isn’t it?”

“She collapsed yesterday,” he muttered. “Ain’t right to leave someone hangin’ after that.”

“I didn’t say it was wrong,” she said, tone softer than he expected.

They walked a few more steps.

“She okay?”

Joel hesitated. “No. But she’s tryin’. Showed up this morning like nothin’ happened.”

Ellie snorted. “Sounds familiar.”

He shot her a sideways glance.

She shrugged, grinning. “Takes one emotionally repressed weirdo to recognize another, I guess.”

Joel sighed. “Ellie…”

But she was already walking ahead, calling over her shoulder, “Just don’t be weird about it!”

He didn’t answer.

He just looked down at the snow where their tracks overlapped—and wondered when exactly he’d started hoping she’d show up again tomorrow, too.

The knock at the cabin door came late—after the sun dipped below the mountains and the last bits of light turned gold along the rooftops.

She thought about ignoring it.

Her body ached in places she couldn’t name, and she hadn’t stopped shaking since she left the stables. She didn’t have the energy for a conversation. She didn’t have the words for one, either.

But the knock came again. Not loud. Just… steady.

Insistent in a quiet way.

When she opened the door, Maria stood on the other side, arms crossed, her coat pulled tight around her frame.

“Evening,” she said.

You stepped back automatically, leaving the door open without saying anything.

Maria walked in like she belonged there—not uninvited, not imposing, just sure. She’d always had that kind of presence. Quiet authority. A steady kind of strength.

“I was on patrol when they found you, y’know,” she said, not looking at her right away. “The day you came in.”

You stayed silent.

Maria turned to face her, meeting her eyes. “I’ve seen a lot of people crawl out of worse. Not many stand up again.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her throat was too tight.

Maria didn’t wait for her to. She nodded toward the table. “You sitting? Or am I lecturing you standing up?”

You hesitated, then dropped slowly into the chair across from her.

Maria sat down too. Pulled off her gloves, laid them on the table, then looked her square in the eye.

“I know what’s going on,” she said softly. “Or at least enough of it to be worried.”

Your stomach twisted. “Joel told you.”

“No,” Maria said quickly. “He didn’t say a word. Man barely says anything unless someone’s bleeding out in front of him.”

That almost earned a smile. Almost.

“I’m not here to make you talk about what happened,” Maria continued. “That’s yours. No one’s entitled to it.”

She paused.

“But I am going to say this—you need help. Medical help. You’re not just exhausted. You’re pregnant. And if you don’t start letting someone take care of you, this place we worked so damn hard to build? It’s not gonna be enough to keep you alive.”

You looked down at her hands, fingers curled into tight fists in her lap.

“I’m fine.”

Maria shook her head. “No, you’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

Silence.

A thick, heavy kind.

Then:

“Do you know how far along you are?”

She flinched. Couldn’t answer.

Maria softened her voice. “There’s a midwife here. Name’s Elise. Quiet, kind. No judgment. She’s helped women through worse than this. She won’t ask questions you’re not ready to answer.”

Still, you said nothing.

Maria leaned forward, voice firm but gentle. “Don’t punish yourself by pretending you don’t need help.”

That hit harder than it should have.

She swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

“I didn’t choose this.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Maria nodded. “You don’t have to. But now it’s here. And you don’t have to face it alone unless you want to.”

That was the second time she’d heard those words in two days.

She didn’t trust them. Not fully.

But something in Maria’s tone made her believe it might be true.

Maria stood, pulling her gloves back on.

“There’s food in the mess hall if you’re up for it. And if not… Joel said he’s bringing something later.”

Your eyes lifted, startled.

Maria smirked. “Like I said. He didn’t say much. But he didn’t have to.”

Then she walked out, leaving the cabin quiet again.

But not quite as cold.

She didn’t move after the door shut.

Didn’t stand. Didn’t speak.

Just stared at the table like Maria’s words were still hanging in the air, floating there like smoke, curling around her ribs and squeezing.

“You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

She pressed her hands flat to the wood.

Felt her fingers start to shake.

She’d been holding herself together with frayed thread and sheer willpower for days—maybe longer—and one conversation had unraveled it all. Joel’s steady voice in the infirmary. Maria’s eyes that saw too much. The way Dusty leaned into her that morning, like she knew.

Everyone was seeing her.

Everyone knew.

And she hated it.

Not because they judged her—but because they didn’t.

Because they cared.

And that was worse.

Caring made it real.

Her chest tightened.

Breath caught in her throat, hot and brittle.

She tried to breathe around it. Tried to blink away the sting in her eyes, the pressure building behind her ribs. She was stronger than this. She’d made it out. She was still here.

But her body didn’t care.

And the tears came anyway.

No sobbing. No gasping.

Just the quiet, terrible sound of someone finally breaking under everything they’d been holding in.

Her shoulders hunched. Her hands covered her face. And she cried like it wasn’t even her choice—like her body had decided for her.

Tears for the things she couldn’t say out loud.

For the things that had been done to her.

For the life growing inside her that didn’t feel like hers.

For the quiet that followed, and how heavy it felt.

She didn’t know how long she sat there.

Eventually, the tears slowed.

Her hands dropped into her lap.

Her face burned, her chest still aching. But the release—God, the release—left her hollow and heavy and a little more grounded than before.

Not better.

Not even close.

But… lighter.

Like maybe she could get through the next hour.

Maybe.

It was dark when the second knock came.

Softer than Maria’s.

Slower. Hesitant.

She was still sitting at the table, sleeves damp from wiping her face, eyes sore and unfocused. For a moment, she thought about ignoring it again. Pretending she was asleep. Pretending she wasn’t coming apart at the seams.

But something in her gut told her who it was.

And that not answering might feel worse than whatever came next.

She opened the door.

Joel stood there.

Snow on his shoulders. A beat-up Tupperware container in his hands. He didn’t meet her eyes at first—just shifted on his feet, jaw tight like he’d talked himself into this three separate times on the walk over.

“Ellie made too much,” he said gruffly. “Figured I’d bring some by.”

She blinked.

She didn’t believe him. Not for a second.

But she stepped back.

Didn’t say a word.

He took that as permission and walked inside.

The cabin was dim. Fire still low. She hadn’t moved since Maria left. The weight of that conversation, and the weight of the breakdown that followed, still clung to her skin like a second layer.

Joel set the container down on the table. Didn’t comment on her red eyes or pale face. Didn’t ask if she was okay.

Just opened the lid, revealed something that looked like rice and beans, and set down two mismatched spoons.

She almost laughed.

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“I didn’t ask,” he replied.

Not unkind.

Just matter-of-fact.

Like hunger didn’t have to be real to eat. Like it wasn’t about food at all.

She sat.

He sat across from her, hands steady, spoon already halfway to his mouth before she’d even picked hers up. No small talk. No questions.

Just the quiet sound of eating. The soft crackle of firewood.

And for the first time in what felt like days, her stomach didn’t twist at the idea of food.

Halfway through the meal, she spoke.

“Did Maria tell you to come?”

Joel didn’t look up. “No.”

She studied him. “You just… decided to show up.”

He finally met her eyes. Steady. Serious.

“You looked like you needed somethin’ today.”

That was all he said.

But it landed hard.

She nodded slowly, throat tightening again—but in a different way now. Not from grief.

From the terrifying warmth of being seen and not judged.

They didn’t finish the food. Neither of them really tried.

But when she moved to stand, Joel stopped her with a quiet word.

“You got someone checkin’ on you regularly?”

She hesitated. “No.”

His voice didn’t change. Still calm. Still solid.

“You do now.”

She looked at him.

Really looked.

There was nothing performative about Joel Miller. No fluff. No empty promises. Just the man who had been there when she collapsed, who sat with her in silence, who didn’t flinch when things got hard—and didn’t ask her to be anything she wasn’t.

Something in her chest shifted.

Still aching. Still raw.

But steady.

Like maybe—just maybe—she could survive this with someone beside her.

And that was more terrifying than the silence had ever been.

Later that night, after Joel had gone, she sat alone in the stillness of the cabin.

The bowl of half-eaten rice and beans sat cold on the table. Joel’s jacket still hung on the back of the chair where he’d left it, smelling faintly of smoke and pine and something solid. Unshakable.

She hadn’t spoken another word after he said, You do now.

There hadn’t been anything else to say.

She lit a candle near the bed. It flickered unevenly, casting long shadows on the walls and soft light on the floorboards, and for the first time in days, the room didn’t feel like it was closing in.

She sat on the edge of the mattress.

Stared down at her hands in her lap. Palms open. Skin dry from cold.

Then slowly, tentatively, she let her hand drift down.

Fingertips settled over her lower stomach.

Still flat. Still quiet. Still… hers.

But not really.

Something lived there now.

Something that didn’t ask to be created. That didn’t belong to anyone. That existed anyway.

She hated it.

And she didn’t.

Both things lived in her chest, side by side, tangled and violent. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to hold on.

It was too much.

She sucked in a breath. Closed her eyes.

Tried to feel something—anything—other than panic.

What came instead was grief.

Not fear. Not pain. Grief.

For what had been taken. For what she couldn’t undo. For the fact that this thing growing inside her might survive when part of her didn’t want it to.

It wasn’t fair.

None of it was fair.

And the cruelest part was that her body didn’t care.

Her body moved forward without her.

Growing. Shifting. Creating.

Like it didn’t know she wasn’t ready.

She lay back on the bed, one arm curled under her head, the other still pressed lightly to her stomach.

Not protectively. Not lovingly.

Just… trying to understand it.

Trying to believe it was real.

Because for the first time, it felt real.

Not in pain. Not in sickness.

But in the quiet.

In the way the silence inside her body had changed. In the way it didn’t feel quite as empty anymore.

That emptiness had been her armor. And it was slipping.

She didn’t cry this time.

She just stared up at the ceiling, eyes open, heart beating too fast.

And whispered into the dark:

“I don’t want this.”

Not like this.

Not this way.

But the silence didn’t judge her.

It didn’t comfort her either.

It just sat with her, the way Joel had, like it understood.

And for now… that was enough.

(Joel POV)

Joel walked home in the dark, boots crunching in the snow, the cold nipping at his fingertips even through his gloves.

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t take the usual shortcuts.

Just moved slow, like the weight of the night hadn’t quite settled yet. Like if he walked long enough, maybe the questions in his chest would start answering themselves.

They didn’t.

Her cabin light was still on when he’d left.

She hadn’t said much while he was there.

Didn’t eat more than a few bites. Didn’t meet his eyes for most of the meal. But she’d let him in. Sat across from him. Let him stay.

That meant something.

And the way her hand hovered over her stomach when she thought he wasn’t looking?

That meant something too.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with that.

But he knew what not to do.

He passed the corner of the mess hall and spotted Tommy leaning against the porch rail, smoking something rolled tight between his fingers. Joel gave a short nod as he passed.

“You doin’ alright?” Tommy asked, voice low.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

Then: “She’s keepin’ it together.”

Tommy exhaled, slow. “Yeah. So were you, once.”

Joel paused mid-step.

Didn’t turn around.

He just nodded and kept walking.

Back in his own cabin, Joel lit the fire, stripped off his coat, and stood near the hearth without moving for a long time.

The warmth didn’t reach him.

Not really.

He rubbed his hands together, then stared down at them — calloused, lined, rough with years of trying and failing to protect the people who mattered.

He didn’t want to make promises. Not to her. Not to anyone.

But something had shifted the moment he saw her on that stable floor.

Something in him had cracked open and refused to close again.

She didn’t need saving.

She didn’t want fixing.

But she needed someone to stay.

To be there in the in-between. The quiet. The bad days and the worse nights. The ones where silence felt heavier than gunfire.

He could do that.

He’d done harder things.

He pulled out the Tupperware container from earlier, rinsed it out slowly, hands moving on autopilot.

Tomorrow he’d make something better. Something with real protein. Eggs, maybe. Cheese, if he could trade for it. A thermos of hot tea. Something easy on the stomach.

She’d say she didn’t want it.

He’d bring it anyway.

Because when everything else fell apart, showing up was the only thing that ever really mattered.

He didn’t write a note.

Didn’t need to.

She’d know where it came from.

And if she left it untouched on the porch for the wolves to sniff at, so be it.

But he’d keep bringing it.

Every day.

Until she told him to stop.

And maybe even after that.

She woke early.

The kind of early where the sky was still gray and soft, like the sun hadn’t fully decided if it wanted to rise. Her breath curled into the cold air inside the cabin, the fire having gone out sometime in the night.

She sat up slowly.

Her body felt… strange.

Not painful, but different. Like everything inside her had moved half an inch to the left. Like her bones and skin were still adjusting to the reality she hadn’t wanted to face the night before.

But she’d made it through the night.

That had to count for something.

She stood, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and walked to the front door without really thinking. Her boots were cold as she stepped outside, but the air was still. Quiet. A fresh layer of snow blanketed the porch.

And sitting on the top step—

A thermos.

And a small bundle of cloth.

She stared at it.

Didn’t touch it right away.

The bundle was neat, tied with a strip of frayed fabric. Inside: two boiled eggs, a slice of bread, and a piece of hard cheese wrapped in wax paper. Balanced, intentional. The kind of breakfast someone made with care, even if they’d never say it out loud.

She knew who it was from.

Of course she did.

No note. No name.

Just Joel, written in the way he moved, the way he showed up without asking, the way he let her take space but never left it empty.

She held the thermos in her hands for a long time.

It was warm.

That alone nearly broke her again.

She didn’t eat right away.

She didn’t cry, either.

She just sat on the top step, the snow melting beneath her, and watched the morning wake up around her.

People started moving through the streets. Smoke rose from chimneys. Horses shifted in the distance. The sound of life continued, soft and persistent.

And she breathed.

Not easily. Not freely.

But steadily.

She took a bite of the bread.

That was something.

One step.

Later, when she made her way to the stables, her limbs were stiff and slow, but she walked with purpose. Dusty greeted her with a soft snort. She smiled for the first time in days—small, quick, gone before it could be caught.

Joel wasn’t there when she arrived.

But she knew he would be.

Eventually.

He always was.

But that night, the dreams came back.

The ones she couldn’t shake.

Hands on her wrists. Firelight flickering. The metallic tang of blood and breath and fear. The no that never made it past her lips.

She woke up gasping.

Sweat cold on her neck. Hand on her stomach like she could shield it from the memory.

And just like that—

The ground she’d gained crumbled beneath her.

She sat awake for hours, knees pulled to her chest, eyes fixed on the window.

She didn’t feel strong.

She didn’t feel brave.

But when the morning came, and the knock echoed softly against her door, she opened it.

She didn’t speak.

Just stepped aside and let him in.

She was still ash and bone, raw and unfinished—but somewhere beneath it all, something was still trying to live.

Thank you so much for reading and sharing in the emotional journey of this chapter. I know we explored some difficult feelings here, and I deeply appreciate your patience and care with these characters. Remember, healing isn’t linear, and it’s okay to take things slowly. Your support truly means the world—please feel free to share your thoughts, or simply take a quiet moment to breathe. Take care of yourselves, always.

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daisies-daydreams · 1 year ago

Note

Okay so I was listening to the song agora hills (not saying I like Doja but her song hit okay? Hate the sinner love the sin) ANDDDD it have major hobie brown x lovesick puppy reader. Like this woman is DEVOTED to her mans. Like really devoted. On her knees with puppy eyes type of love. Always wanting to be on him and nuzzling him. Whines when he tries to move. Just very..loving. Hobie doesn’t mind obviously. And it gets worse when they have sex. She whines while his cock rams into her, grabbing the sheets tightly to ground her🙏. SO YES I NEED A FIC LIKE THATTT…just very fluffy but smeggsy sex

Somethin’ Different About You (Hobie Brown x Lovesick!F!Reader)

Pairing: Hobie Brown x Lovesick!F!Reader Category: Fluff/Smut Tags: Swearing, Reader Gets Whiney, Making Out, Foreplay, Vaginal Fingering, Cock Piercings (Prince Albert), Dirty Talk, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Doggy Style, Unprotected P in V Sex (You Know the Drill), Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Creampie, Post-Sex Cuddling, Cockwarming, Ass-Lover Hobie™ Word Count: 3k+ A/N: I literally listened to Agora Hills for the first time a few weeks ago and it was 😩👌Anywhoooo, thank you for the spicy request and I hope you enjoy!

“Guess we’re havin’ a night in,” Hobie shrugged as he peeked at the thick blanket of snow covering the street below. Frost caked the outside of your flat’s window as a tiny space heater hummed in the corner of your room. Your boyfriend closed the blinds shut before turning towards you with a quirked brow.

“You cold, babydoll?” Hobie asked as he watched you tremble beneath the thick comforter. You nodded as your teeth chattered incessantly. Hobie pursed his lips before he lumbered towards your bed. Your heart skipped a beat as your love cupped your cheek, his palm already warming you to the core.

“You want me to help warm you up?” he murmured, a hint of desire laced in his words as he looked at you with a soft, half-lidded gaze. You swallowed the thick lump in your throat as you eagerly nodded your head.

“P-Please,” you frowned and wiggled beneath your comforter. Hobie cracked a grin and chuckled before he grabbed the bottom of his red t-shirt. Your eyes widened as he quickly slipped his shirt over his head, his puffy wicks fanning out as he tossed the clothing aside. You sucked in a sharp breath as you raked your eyes over his lean abs, your eyes eventually landing on the thick, dark happy trail.

“Like what you see, lovie?” Hobie snickered with a teasing grin. You bit your lip as your cheeks swelled with heat.

"I can't help it," you muttered sheepishly as you glanced away. Your boyfriend snickered as he unlatched the buckle of his studded leather belt, his ripped jeans falling to the floor not long after. You felt a wave of heat wash over you as you caught side of Hobie's dark boxers loosely hanging around his sharp hips. He chuckled again.

“Scoot on over, baby,” he lilted. You immediately did as you were told, your heart pounding in your ears as he slid beneath the covers with you. You instantly came to his side and snuggled against his warm body, your lips curled into a giddy smile as he wrapped his lanky arms around you. “Mmm, there’s my pretty girl,” Hobie cooed before gently kissing the crown of your head. You squealed and dipped your head into his chest as he wrapped one of his ankles around yours.

Hobie sighed, letting his warm breath cascade over the back of your ear and down your neck as he held you close. Your heart skipped a beat as he nuzzled his face into your neck - his plush lips delicately brushing over your pulse and nose ring gliding against your skin.

“I was thinkin’…maybe after the weather gets better, we could go iceskatin’? I know you've been wantin' to go for a while,” he suggested as he traced mindless shapes against your hip. Your eyes lit up as you wiggled at his suggestion.

“Really?” you breathed while tilting your head over your shoulder. Hobie hummed and gave a lopsided grin.

“Really really,” he replied. Your smile grew as you turned around and pecked his lips. Hobie grinned into the kiss as he spread his palm across your waist. His lips on yours felt like sunlight on a spring day: warm and soothing to the touch. You whined when he suddenly started to slip away.

“Babe, I’m just gettin’ a glass of water,” Hobie laughed. You pouted as you gazed into his deep, brown eyes.

“No, you’re too warm,” you keened and rolled on top of him. Your lover chuckled softly as you shoved your face into his neck. He sighed and stroked his hands up and down your back as he pecked your temple.

"I'll be gone for a bit, yeah?" he said while gently brushing his thick thumbs over your hips. Your heart fluttered at his light touch as you parted your lips against his skin. Hobie’s breath hitched as you gently kissed his pulse, letting your lips linger against his neck as you felt his hands tighten around your waist. “Please? Just a little longer?” you murmured, your lips dancing over his sensitive pulse as your breasts pushed against his chest. Hobie swallowed thickly as he tilted his head back. His pupils grew by the second as you gave him your best puppy-dog eyes. Your boyfriend sighed and scratched the back of his head.

“Well…who am I to deny my baby ?” your lover said with a cocked grin. You squealed and wiggled on top of him, drawing another deep, melodic chuckle from his throat. You smiled widely as you finally felt like you were starting to warm up against your beloved’s body, his hands wandering up and down your sides as he peppered your cheek with kisses. You giggled before he suddenly laid his palms against your ass and tenderly squeezed your supple cheeks.

A mischievous smile crossed Hobie’s features as he rested his forehead against yours.

“Y’know…there’s another way I could help warm you up,” he whispered while smoothing his hands up and down your bum.

You squealed as he suddenly flipped you over, his long body draped along your back as your stomach and breasts pressed against the ruffled sheets. You whined as you felt him trace his hands along the curve of your butt.

“You wanna feel my fingers stuffin’ that perfect pussy of yours, sweet girl?” Hobie purred as he teased the band of your pants with his nimble fingers. Your walls fluttered as you gulped.

"Y-Yes please," you murmured and swayed your hips side to side. Your jaw went slack when he suddenly tugged your pants and panties over the globes of your ass.

You shivered as the cold air rolled over your exposed skin while Hobie slipped his hand between your soft thighs. You keened and arched your back as Hobie gently circled his fingertips over your slick, needy hole. You trembled as he pecked over your neck and slid his long, heavy fingers up and down your juicy slit. You moaned and wiggled beneath your lover as he spread your folds apart, the small squelch sending a pulse of heat through your dripping snatch.

"Keep making those noises f'me, baby. Love hearin' your sweet voice," Hobie purred before puckering his lips over your neck. You gasped and mewled as he suckled on your pulse while smoothing his fingers over your sensitive bundle of nerves. "Mmm, good girl," he groaned before lathing his warm tongue over the fresh hickey adorning your neck.

"Hobie, please," you pouted and shifted your hips as he continued to tease your puffy clit with his digits. You felt him smirk against your pulse as he trailed his fingers further down your slit. You squeezed your eyes shut and ducked your head into your arms as he gently prodded your entrance wide open with two thick fingers.

"God, you feel so fuckin’ warm," Hobie rumbled before sucking over your neck once more. You panted as you felt him sink his digits even deeper inside your wet heat, feeling every inch of his long fingers drag along your velvety walls.

“H-Hobieee~,” you keened as you felt your tight hole being stretched by his nimble digits. Your walls pulsed as he peppered your neck with wet, sloppy kisses. The deep groan that reverberated inside Hobie’s chest made you quiver as he began to slowly pump his fingers inside your dripping sex. A sharp cry fell from your lips as he scissored his digits within your tight heat.

“Such a sweet girl,” your boyfriend murmured as he skillfully curled his fingers with a wet squelch. You squirmed as he slipped his other hand up your burning body, his fingers taking a greedy handful of your breast before giving it a tender squeeze.

“F-Faster, please,” you begged him while slapping your ass against his palm. Hobie’s snicker reverberated against your neck before he slammed his fingers down to the knuckle. You squirmed and keened at the delicious push and pull of his digits against your sensitive, velvety walls.

“Fuck,” you choked out as you ducked your face into the pillow. Your body jiggled each time he thrusted his fingers back into you, drawing out heavy sighs and sonorous moans from your pretty lips.

“Yeah, that’s it baby girl,” your boyfriend praised as he snaked his other hand around and began to draw sloppy shapes around your clit. You tensed beneath him as your walls fluttered against his long, curved digits. “Don’t hold back - I want you to cum on my fingers before I fuck this cute little pussy of yours,” your lover rumbled in a low, husky voice before nipping at your earlobe.

Your eyes rolled back as he rubbed your clit with even more fervor, each stroke bringing you closer and closer to the edge of your sweet release.

“H-Hobie,” you writhed as he tugged the collar of your sweater to the side. A small gasp left you as Hobie nibbled on your shoulder before lathing his warm, wet tongue over the tiny bite mark. Your legs violently shook as your boyfriend's fingertips brushed against your gummy cervix, the sensation causing the band inside you to violently snap.

“Fuck yes!” you cried out and threw your head back as your pussy squeezed his digits in a greedy vice - soaking his nimble fingers with your warm, delectable nectar.

“Christ,” Hobie cursed as he slowly dragged his fingers inside your puckering hole. “Makin’ such a mess, babydoll," your lover drawled. Your jaw went slack when he curled his fingers against your g-spot; a massive wave of pleasure rolling through your fluttering cunt as you mewled. “I fuckin’ love it,” Hobie murmured while smirking against your shoulder.

You felt like your limbs were turned to jelly by the time your walls stopped pulsing around his thick digits. Your breath hitched as your boyfriend slowly pulled out his deft fingers, leaving your entrance raw and oozing with your cream. You slowly opened your eyes when you felt something warm and slick against the corner of your mouth.

"Go on, lovie: see how good you taste," your lover rumbled. You parted your lips with a heavy sigh before Hobie slipped in his slick-coated digits. You moaned softly as the sweet taste of your own cum washed over your delicate tastebuds. Hobie groaned and pulled his boxers down as you curled your lips over his fingers and suckled on them tenderly.

"Fuck, that's a good girl," he praised as you swirled your tongue around his thick, long fingers. You fluttered your lashes as he pulled his fingers towards the inside of your cheek. You mewled and thrusted your ass back as you felt the cold bulb of his cock piercing rub up and down your drenched slit.

"You still want me to stretch out this cute pussy with my thick cock, hm?" Hobie chuckled as he teased your needy clit with his throbbing tip.

"Fuck, yes!" you slurred against his fingers as you threw your ass back. You could practically feel the smirk on Hobie's face as he slipped his fingers from your mouth with a wet "pop". You shivered as he traced his wet fingertips along your spine before smoothing his palm over one of your supple asscheeks. You squirmed against your lover's touch as he lined his tip to your weeping entrance. The ache to be filled with his long, veiny cock drove you into a lustful frenzy as you whined.

"Hobie, please! I-I need you," you mewled your cheeks jiggling against his taut hips as his bulbous head just barely slipped past the rim of your tight hole. You shivered as his hot breath fell against your neck.

"I'm here, baby," he murmured gently as he spread your cheeks apart. You gasped and instantly curled your fists against the soft, cotton sheets as Hobie slowly pushed his girth inside your needy cunt.

"Fuck, Hobie!" you moaned and squeezed your eyes shut as your walls stretched and molded to the perfect curve of his length.

"God, you wrap around me so fuckin' perfectly," Hobie grunted as he squeezed your bum. A shiver ran down your spine and straight to your core when his sharp hips became flush against your ass, his whole length stuffing you to the limit. You swallowed thickly and mewled as you felt his heavy balls rest snugly against your puffy clit: the light pressure enough to make you nearly fall over the edge again.

"Oh my fuckin' God," Hobie groaned as your walls pulsed around his shaft. Your eyes shot open as he dragged his cock half-way out before slowly thrusting it back inside your tight, squelching hole. "Pussy feels so good, lovie," he moaned as he rocked his hips at a steady pace.

"F-Fuck," you keened at the delectable, wet friction of his dick gliding along your silky walls. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you felt your cunt spasm and clench around his cock. "No, not yet," you begged internally before gasping as he slammed his cock down to the hilt.

Your moans nearly shook the walls as Hobie's pace began to pick up, the tightness in your core growing with every drag of his dick. Your legs trembled as you felt his Prince Albert kiss and rub against your cervix with each eager thrust.

"S-Shit, babydoll. Huggin' me so tight," Hobie grunted as he dug his nails into your hips, the pressure enough to surely leave bruises tomorrow. Your eyes rolled back into your skull as stars began to dance in your vision.

"God, yes - k-keep going," you moaned and arched your spine as you felt every nerve ending in your body glow with pleasure. Your body instantly stiffened when Hobie slipped his fingers against your engorged clit.

"Hobie!" you screamed as the cord inside you violently snapped. Your eyes rolled back as waves of pleasure crashed and tumbled over you - a riptide of bliss tearing your mind to shreds. Your legs quaked as your pussy clenched down on his dick - gripping it in a deliciously snug vice.

"Oh God," Hobie grunted as his thrusts faltered, your walls pulsing and soaking his cock with your warm slick. You babbled his name incessantly as he began to snap his hips forward once more. "You're so fuckin' hot when you squirt all over my cock, baby," your boyfriend moaned while pounding into your puffy cunt.

You could only manage a strangled mewl as your body was shaken with wave after wave of overstimulation. Your jaw went slack at the sound of your cheeks clapping each time Hobie's hips slapped against your body.

"Want me to fill you up, sweet girl?" Hobie purred as he began to rub messy circles around your bundle of nerves. You released a strained cry of pleasure when his cock twitched between your snug walls. "C'mon, baby: let me here you," your lover coaxed before gently pressing his soft lips to your shoulder. You parted your lips as you slightly tilted your head to the side.

"Y-Yes," your voice cracked as you felt yourself already growing tight again. Only Hobie could do this: make you cum so many times before he eventually filled you up with his thick, potent seed. "Yes, H-Hobie. Please stuff me so full that your cum leaks from my pussy," you mewled. You felt him smirk against the patch of goosebumps over your skin as he continued to thrust his heavy length into your aching, stretched out hole.

"That's my girl," Hobie's breath stuttered before he latched his mouth onto your skin. You threw your head back and keened as you felt the gentle suction of his lips against the tender bite mark left from before. Your mind was too far-gone with pleasure to even register the sound of your bed loudly creaking and groaning as your lover's thrusts began to falter.

"Fuck, (Y/N). Cum with me, lovie. Cum with-" Hobie cut himself off as he suddenly slammed his cock down to the base. Both of you moaned in unison as waves of pleasure rocked you to the core. "Fuck yes," Hobie gasped as his cock pulsed inside your drenched cunt, painting your walls with ropes of this thick seed. Your head spun as he panted against your shoulder, his fingers now digging crescents into your plush waist.

"S-So good, Hobie," you shuddered as your body was ravaged with euphoria. You panted heavily as your pussy sucked him deep inside you, his piercing pressing against the gummy plug to your womb as his cock continued to throb. Your heart pounded in your ears as you drifted back down from your high, your body coated in a thin sheet of sweat as Hobie groaned.

The room was filled with the sound of your combined, heavy panting as the two of you caught your breath. You whimpered as he slowly began to pull out.

"You okay, lovie?" Hobie asked as he smoothed his hands over the marks he dug into your hips. You sighed as you soaked in every dip and curve of his body pressed against yours: from his calloused fingertips lingering on your skin to his softening cock still trapped between your cum-coated walls.

"I...I just want us to stay like this," you said while biting your lip, your heart pounding against your sternum as you fluttered your lashes. "Please?" you cooed. Hobie chuckled softly as he gave a slow nod.

"As you wish," he hummed. You squeaked when he suddenly wrapped his lanky arms around your torso and plopped onto his side.

"Hobie!" you laughed as he pecked your neck while pulling you flush against him. You giggled at the cheeky smile plastered on his face as he peppered your neck with slow, lazy kisses. Your body glowed with warmth as he sighed and traced his fingertips over the curves of your stomach.

"You're so special t'me, y'know that?" Hobie said, his voice hoarse yet also endearingly soft. You slowly turned your head and gave him a gentle smile.

"You're special to me, too, Hobie," you murmured before kissing the tip of his pierced nose. Your boyfriend grinned ear-to-ear as he closed his eyes and nuzzled his face into your neck.

"Love you, babydoll," Hobie murmured as he slowly closed his eyes. You giggled when he suddenly let out a loud snore, the sound rumbling through your ear as his chest rose and fell. You cooed and pecked his cheek before pulling the covers over your worn bodies.

"Love you, too, Hobie," you whispered gently.

————

Thank you for reading! 💖

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jarondont · 1 year ago

Text

Aftermath (odypen fanfic)

TW: mentioned SA and (according to my friend) slightly (and I mean SLIGHTLY) suggestive

[I was pretty proud of this one so I wanted to share :D]

[credit to @dootznbootz for the Water Wife™ headcanon]

The palace halls were deserted this time of night. The two lovers had taken an evening stroll — more like midnight stroll — and were still drenched from the creek. It wasn’t her fault, she insisted — Odysseus started it. Had he never smugly commented about his “godlike looks,” Penelope might have not used her naiad powers and they both would probably still be dry. But no.

That lovable little bighead, she thought to herself, smiling.

“What is it?” he asked from beside her. She snapped out of her thoughts and glanced at him — then, seeing his cocky grin, looked back down. Her cheeks felt hot.

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking about how embarrassed you looked after the creek incident.”

“Did not!”

“Did too.”

“Did not!”

“Quit arguing like a child,” she chuckled.

He pretended to pout, softening his expression like a little pup as he always did to persuade her.

“Don’t make that face at me.”

His grin returned, wider this time. “Why not? Too gorgeous for you?”

She stopped walking and playfully shoved his shoulder into the nearest pillar. Before she could say anything else, he grabbed her arm and pulled her close. For a second, they stayed there, looking into each other’s eyes, barely able to breathe.

She eyed his lips. He eyed hers. She inched her face closer, almost closing the gap between them —

“Wait.”

Confused, she pulled back. “What?”

Odysseus was trembling. His breathing was shallow and uneven, his skin pale. “I just … I can’t.”

“Why not?” Penelope’s brows furrowed. “Odysseus, what’s wrong?”

He didn’t respond. His chest was heaving, his eyes flicking wildly from one spot to another — looking at everything but her. And he wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Odysseus. Ody, look at me.”

He did, but his eyes were wild.

“You can tell me if something’s bothering you. Did I do something? Say something?”

“No — no, I …” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, Ody. You can tell me.”

“Ca — ” his breath hitched. “Calypso,” he breathed, barely audible.

“What — ” Suddenly, Penelope understood. She’d heard that word before. Calypso wasn’t a what.

She was a who.

“Another woman?” Penelope took a step back. “Is that what this is about?”

No response. Just more ragged breathing.

“Answer me, Odysseus,” she spat angrily. “Who is this woman you slept with? Why did you choose her over me?”

His eyes widened more, suddenly flicking up to meet hers. “No! No, it’s not like that. She — ”

“What’s going on, Odysseus? What else haven’t you told me? What else are you hiding?”

“Penelope, listen — ” He paused, choking a little as tears formed in his eyes. “I tried to stop her but she — ” Suddenly, he dissolved in tears. “I’m so sorry.”

Oh.

Penelope’s heart dropped. He didn’t choose Calypso over her — no, the reality was much worse.

She stepped closer again. “Ody, it’s okay — ”

“No. No, it’s not. I’m sorry.”

Reaching out to touch his face, she repeated, “It’s okay — ”

But he jumped away from her hand like it was the point of a sword.

“Don’t touch me.”

She froze, realizing why he said that. “I’m sorry, Ody — ”

His expression softened. “No. I’m sorry. I — ” his voice caught in his throat as his eyes widened again.

“I have to go,” he said, slowly backing away.

“Odysseus — ”

“I’m so sorry.”

And he turned and sprinted away.

•••

“Odysseus? Ody, where are you? Odysseus!”

Penelope ran through the halls, almost tripping and cursing at her dress for being so long. She called her husband’s name over and over again, worry blossoming in her heart like a poisonous flower.

She checked the gardens. Nothing.

She checked the main hall. Nobody in sight.

She checked the courtyard. Completely empty.

Where was he?

Realization struck her — there was only one place left.

Panting, she knocked on the bedroom door. “Ody? Ody, it’s me, are you in there?”

No response. She was about to knock again but then —

Sniffle.

Her heart felt like it had been ripped into pieces. Just that one sound made her knees feel week. Odysseus was crying — because of her. Because she decided to do the one thing that made him uncomfortable — touch him.

Although, she thought, Odysseus had never acted like this before. If anything, they both loved curling up on that wedding bed of theirs and losing themselves in love. It made them feel … intertwined. Not just their limbs. But their hearts. Their souls. Like two olive bushes — one tame, one wild — growing from the same stem with their branches wound together so tightly that nothing, not even the wind or rain, could pass through.

Now, it felt as if someone was hacking at the wild branch with an axe, trying to cut him off from his stem and pry him away against his will. That someone was Calypso.

Or maybe — Penelope dreadfully thought — it was herself.

Either way, she could not let him feel like that any longer. She opened the door, stepping inside.

“Ody?”

Another sniffle.

She gently closed the door, then followed the sound to behind the bed. Curled up in a corner was the king of Ithaca — shaking, sobbing, choking on his breath with his head against the wall and knees tucked into his chest.

“Odysseus.”

A pained groan escaped his throat as he winced. His eyes were shut tight, his skin dripping with sweat and tears.

Her gut twisted. What was happening to him? “Odysseus. Ody, wake up. Please.”

“Enough, goddess,” he croaked quietly. “Please.”

“What — Odysseus, it’s me —”

“No!” His body twitched as if someone had sent a bolt of lightning through him. His brows furrowed in pain. “You’ve — you’ve hurt me enough. No more — no more games. Please, I beg of you.”

“Odysseus! Please! Wake up!” she cried, crouching down and desperately taking his face in her hands. She could feel tears forming in her eyes, clouding her vision. What must he have gone through to get this upset?

His eyes still squeezed shut, he jumped away from her touch. “Get away from me!” he yelled. “Please — leave me alone. Let me — let me have one peaceful night. One. Please —”

“ODYSSEUS, IT’S ME! It’s Penelope! You’re home, remember? You’re safe. Please, come back to me.” She choked, the tears flowing freely down her face now.

His eyes flew open as he jolted awake. At the sight of her, his breath hitched. “Penelope,” he whispered. “It’s you.”

She nodded, smiling through her tears. “Yes, my love. It’s me. You’re home.”

For a second, he was silent, taking in everything about her — her face, her electric blue eyes, now overflowing with tears. She held his gaze, watching him realize that this was Penelope — his loving wife. She’d never hurt him. Never.

Suddenly, he threw his arms around her, dissolving in tears again. She hugged him back, her fingers combing his sweat-soaked hair as sobs racked his body. She fought the urge to cry with him, knowing that she had to be strong for the both of them if she wanted to help him.

“It’s okay,” she whispered into his ear over and over again until he had somewhat calmed down. “You’re okay.”

He waited until the tears stopped flowing, then let go and met her gaze again. “I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, Penelope.”

“No, I’m sorry. I made you uncomfortable. I won’t touch you anymore —”

“No!” he exclaimed. “No, please do.” His eyes glinted with longing. “Twenty years I have been starved of your touch. I can’t hold back any longer. I just — it’ll take some time for — for me to get used to it.”

“Take your time, my love. I’ll be right here by your side.”

He nodded, biting his lip as his eyes moistened again. Burying his face into her shoulder, he sat with her in silence.

After a moment, Penelope spoke. “If you ever want to talk about it —”

He shuddered.

“You don’t have to,” she stammered. “Talk about it, I mean. I know it’s hard. I know you’re hurt. But if you do —”

“No, I do. Just — give me a second.”

“Take your time,” she repeated.

A few seconds passed as he steadied his emotions. Separating himself from the embrace, he took a deep breath. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

“It wasn’t just Calypso. Before that … Circe.”

Oh, gods. Penelope felt dizzy.

“But at least I got something out of that. Hermes told me that for her to release my men, I — I had to allow myself into her bed. So I did, reluctantly.” His voice cracked. “It worked. She released my men and sent us on our way to the Underworld. I thought that would be the last of it.”

Penelope started to take his hand in hers, then stopped herself. But Odysseus looked down, then took her hand instead. She smiled at him comfortingly.

“Calypso was a different story.” He swallowed. “After my ship was struck down by Zeus, I washed up on an island. She greeted me, appearing kind at first. She gave me shelter, food, clothing, and company. One day, I told her that I must be on my way. But she —” He hesitated. “She had different plans. ‘I gave you everything I could. It’s time you repay me.’ I agreed. ‘Anything, goddess.’” He paused. “I wish I had known what she had meant.” His voice cracked again as he finally met Penelope’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

She shook her head.

“I'm just a man, Penelope. A mortal. I was no match against this goddess. I’m so sorry. Every night, no matter how hard I resisted, she’d — she'd force me into her bed; every night after … her, I’d lie awake thinking of you — of how I betrayed you, even when you were waiting for me for all these years —” He choked, letting out another sob.

She wrapped her arms around him again as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t, Ody.”

Silence fell again between the two as he composed himself. Penelope spoke again — “This happened … every night?” she whispered.

He slowly nodded into her shoulder.

“For how long?”

No response.

“Ody —”

“Eight years.”

Gods.

Now tears fell from her eyes too as his fingers dug into her back, desperately grasping for her affection. The realization that this — being forced to betray his beloved; not the monsters, the gods, or anything else he faced — was the worst he could have ever suffered.

For eight years. Penelope felt sick.

“I’m so sorry,” he kept saying, but she only shook her head.

Her heart shattered. None of this was his fault; why was he apologizing? And this was nothing like the Odysseus she knew. Odysseus was a hero — strong, brave, and cunning. No, this was … broken. A man who had been through far more than he let on; far more than he deserved.

Even heroes need to be consoled sometimes, she figured.

They sat like that for a while, taking comfort in each other. When they finally parted, they both felt different — healed.

All that was in the past now. They had each other now, as they always would. They were safe. They were home.

They were together. And that’s what mattered.

“Penelope?” Odysseus asked.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

She only smiled.

That night, the two of them fell asleep in each other’s arms — the two olive bushes, intertwined again at last.

Never to be separated again.

#aftermath #the odyssey #epic the musical #odypen #odysseus x penelope #odysseus #odyssey #epic: the musical #odypen supremacy #penelope #jorge herrans #jorge rivera herrans #jay herrans #tw sa mention #tw sa implied #tw sa

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luvvictoria · 2 months ago

Text

The First Kiss (And It Hits Different™)

+ pairings. simon "ghost" riley x f!reader

+ tags. romance, angst, slow-burn, action-packed military romance with angst and tension

+ summary. After surviving a harrowing mission, Ghost and you share a tense moment outside, away from the rest of the team. The unresolved emotions from nearly losing each other come to a head, and the unspoken bond between you becomes undeniable. Ghost, struggling with the overwhelming relief of having you still alive and the years of emotional suppression, can’t hold back any longer, and confesses. The same night they give in to the chemistry and connection that’s been building for so long. The night is intense and intimate, as both of them find solace and release in each other, despite the dangers and complexities of their world.

+ materialist ; prev. part.

+ a/n. as you can see, I just wanted this series to finish with and also I added a small ( which is not really small ) smut scene because why now , also here is my ko-fi !!

It happened after everything. After the smoke had cleared, after the adrenaline had started to wear off, after the panic of nearly losing you had almost consumed him.

You both stood outside, away from the rest of the team, the world dimming around you. The night air was sharp against your skin, thick with the weight of everything unsaid between you. The ground beneath your feet felt like it was holding its breath, the stars above distant and cold, as if they knew this moment was coming.

You turned to him, your gaze steady but your heart hammering against your ribs. “You gonna keep avoiding this forever?”

Ghost didn’t answer at first. His eyes, the only part of his face that you could see through that damn mask, flickered briefly with something unreadable. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, as if the words wouldn’t come.

So, you took another step forward, the space between you shrinking, your voice lower this time, more insistent, “Simon.”

His name on your lips, soft and personal, made something inside him snap. His breath hitched, his body tensing as if he were barely holding himself together. And then, without warning, he was on you.

His hands were everywhere—gripping you, pulling you into him with a desperation that left no room for anything but this moment. His touch was rough, heated, as if he had been holding back for far too long. The rough fabric of his vest pressed against your palms as you found yourself being pulled closer, chest to chest, the heat between you both nearly unbearable.

His mask was still on, but it didn’t matter. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged against your skin as he held you tighter, as if he was afraid to let you go. There was nothing cautious in the way he touched you, nothing measured. It was all fire and frustration, the weight of everything he had held inside finally breaking free.

You reached up, trembling fingers grazing the edges of the mask. His breath caught in his throat, and for a brief second, you could have sworn you saw hesitation flash in his eyes. But then his hands were on you again, guiding your fingers to lift the fabric just enough—just enough for you to see his lips, enough to feel his breath mingling with yours.

You could feel the tension between you, thick and palpable. The air was electric, charged with everything that had been building up between you both. And then—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle.

It was everything you’d both been holding back, everything unsaid, every fleeting glance, every unspoken desire, every goddamn second of tension that had been hanging between you like a storm waiting to break. His lips crashed against yours with a ferocity that stole your breath away. The kiss was urgent, raw, the kind of kiss that spoke of years of restraint, of the dangerous edge of things that couldn’t be contained anymore.

You gripped the front of his vest, pulling him closer, your fingers slipping underneath the fabric, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath. His body was solid against yours, his heartbeat thudding in time with yours. He let you pull him in, let you have this, just for a moment—no walls, no masks, no barriers.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, and his voice was hoarse, almost broken. “…You’re a bloody menace.”

A smirk tugged at your lips, breathless from the intensity of the kiss, your chest rising and falling with the weight of it all. You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped back just enough to look him in the eye, the lingering taste of his kiss still burning on your lips.

You let the silence hang in the air, heavy and full of meaning. Finally, you spoke, your voice teasing but sincere, “And you love it.”

His silence was answer enough. His eyes — dark, intense — said everything he couldn’t put into words. He didn’t need to speak. Not when everything between you had already been said.

The tension between you and Ghost had always been palpable — ever since the first mission, the brief glances, the electric touches, and the deep, unresolved feelings simmering beneath the surface. But tonight, something was different. Something was about to break.

You had returned from a successful mission, and the adrenaline still coursed through your veins. The team had gathered around, but Ghost had kept his distance. His eyes, though, always lingered on you. Always.

You were sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, trying to calm the rush of energy in your body. But there was no denying it — he was different tonight. More intense. His mask of cold indifference was slipping, and you could see the fire flickering beneath his surface.

You looked up just as he approached, his tall form casting a shadow over you. His presence was magnetic, and you felt your heart race as he stood silently beside you, his hand brushing against your arm.

"You look… distracted," he said, his voice low, rough, like he was savoring every word.

You smirked, leaning back in your chair, eyes locked onto his. "Distracted? Maybe. But I've got a lot on my mind."

His gaze flickered down to your lips for a split second, and then back to your eyes. "I know what you're thinking."

A sly smile tugged at your lips. "Do you now?

The air between you two thickened, the quiet hum of the room fading as the only sound was the pounding of your heart.

Without warning, Ghost's hand reached out, fingers grazing your neck lightly, his touch sending a jolt of heat through your body. He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper in your ear. "You’ve been teasing me long enough. I think it's time we… finish this."

Your breath caught. The words, his voice, the proximity — everything felt too much, and yet, you didn’t want him to stop. Not now.

Before you could say anything, his lips were on yours, hot and demanding, pulling you into a kiss that made everything else in the world disappear. Your hands gripped the edge of the bar, the overwhelming sensation of him taking over your every thought.

But it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

His hands traveled to your waist, pulling you up from your chair. Without breaking the kiss, he maneuvered you into a quiet corner of the room, away from the prying eyes of the team

The moment you were hidden from view, the air shifted. Ghost's hands were everywhere, touching, claiming, as if he couldn’t get enough. His lips trailed down your neck, each kiss a burn, a promise. His breath was hot against your skin as he whispered, “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You gasped as his hands slipped beneath your shirt, his fingers cool against your heated skin. But you didn’t want to wait anymore. You needed him now.

You pushed him back slightly, your eyes dark with desire. “I want you.”

Ghost’s eyes locked onto yours, his pupils dilated with hunger. “Tell me you’re ready.”

With every ounce of confidence you had, you stepped closer to him, pressing your body against his. “I’m more than ready.”

That was all it took. In a flash, he had you against the wall, his body pinning you there as his lips found yours once more, harder this time. His hands moved with precision, peeling away the layers between you.

And when he finally entered you, the world around you shattered. His name escaped your lips in a breathless gasp, and you clung to him, feeling every inch of him as if your very life depended on it.

It wasn’t just passion. It was raw, it was urgent, it was everything you had ever wanted.

With every movement, the tension between you two melted into something deeper. Something that made you feel like you were losing yourself, but in the most delicious way possible. Ghost was everything you had ever dreamed of and more—intense, demanding, but also so protective.

As the night wore on, you both lost yourselves in the heat of each other’s embrace. The rest of the world faded away, leaving only the two of you — and the fire you couldn’t escape.

Ghost's hand slid around the back of your neck, his grip firm but not punishing, as he deepened the kiss. The room spun, and you felt like you were falling into an abyss filled with nothing but the taste of him and the scent of his skin. His tongue danced with yours, exploring every crevice, and you knew that this was what you had been waiting for, what you had craved from the moment you first saw him.

His other hand roamed lower, grabbing a handful of your shirt and pulling it up. Your skin was on fire wherever he touched it, and you arched your back, eager to feel his cool fingers on your bare skin. His breath was ragged, matching yours, and the sound was music to your ears. The bar was forgotten, the mission was a distant memory. All that mattered was this moment, and the raw need that pulsed between you.

The kiss grew more frantic, and you felt his hands slide down to the waistband of your pants. Your body responded immediately, your muscles tightening in anticipation. He unzipped them slowly, the sound seeming to echo through the room, even though you knew it was lost in the din of the bar. His touch was like a brand, leaving a trail of fire behind as he touched you. You moaned into his mouth, and he responded by pushing you harder against the wall, grinding into you, making it clear what he wanted.

You broke the kiss, panting, and looked into his eyes. They were dark with lust, and you could see the struggle in them — the battle between his need to claim you and his instinct to keep you safe. But tonight, there was no holding back. You reached down and pulled him closer, feeling the hardness of his arousal pressing against you.

Without a word, you both knew what was happening. You didn’t need to say it. The air was charged with it. You pushed him away from the wall and led him through the dimly lit room, away from the others, into a space where no one would find you. The door closed with a soft click, and suddenly, the only sounds were your breaths and the thundering of your hearts.

He stepped back, looking at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You stepped closer, your hand reaching for the zipper of his own pants. His eyes never left yours as you slid them down, revealing the truth of his desire. His hand stopped you, and for a moment, you thought he’d changed his mind. But then he leaned in and whispered, "You're sure about this?"

You didn't hesitate. "More than you know."

With a growl, he lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. You kissed him again, his tongue invading your mouth, claiming it as his own. His hands found your hips, and with a swift motion, he carried you to the bed, laying you down gently.

You reached up and removed his shirt, revealing the sculpted muscles that you had only ever seen glimpses of. His skin was cool and smooth, and you traced the lines of his abs with your fingertips, feeling the power of his body beneath your touch. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of you, sprawled out before him, before joining you on the bed.

The kisses grew more urgent, his hands exploring every inch of your exposed skin. His touch was a brand, leaving marks of ownership, and you didn't care. You wanted more, needed more, craved more.

As his hand reached your underwear, you felt your body shiver with anticipation. He slid them down, and for a moment, his eyes locked onto yours, a silent question in his gaze. You nodded, and he took a deep breath, his hand moving to touch you in the most intimate way. You gasped as his fingers found the spot that made your hips buck and your back arch.

The room was a blur of sensations, his mouth on your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his hand between your legs. You felt like you were going to combust, the pressure building with every stroke, every kiss.

And when he finally entered you, it was like the world stopped. Time froze, and all that existed was the feeling of him inside you, filling you up, completing you in a way you never knew was possible. The pleasure was so intense, it was almost painful, and you bit your lip to keep from crying out.

He moved slow at first, as if he was afraid to break the fragile spell that had been cast between you. Each thrust was deliberate, measured, designed to drive you to the brink of ecstasy. You could feel him holding back, trying to keep his own passion in check, but it was useless. The need was too strong.

Your nails dug into his back, and you pulled him closer, urging him to go faster, harder. He complied, his movements becoming more erratic, his breath hot and heavy against your neck. The sound of skin on skin filled the air, punctuated by the occasional gasp or moan that you couldn’t suppress.

You met his every move with your own, your hips rising to meet his, your body responding to his like it was made for him. His hands roamed your body, squeezing and caressing, leaving a trail of fire wherever he touched. You felt his muscles tense, the power of his release building, and you knew that you were close too.

The orgasm hit you like a freight train, stealing your breath and making your vision swim. You clung to him, your body spasming around his, as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. It was like nothing you had ever felt before, like every nerve in your body was alight with the fire of his passion.

As you both came down from the high, your bodies slick with sweat, you realized that this was it. This was what you had been fighting, what you had been denying, for so long. You had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.

For a moment, you just lay there, panting, his weight pressing you into the mattress, your heart hammering in your chest. Then, he pulled back, looking down at you with a mix of satisfaction and something else—fear, perhaps, or maybe regret. But you didn’t care about any of that right now.

You reached up and brushed the hair out of his eyes, feeling the heat of his gaze as it bore into you. "I've wanted this since the first time I saw you," you admitted, your voice hoarse.

He leaned in and kissed you again, gentle this time, almost sweet. "Me too," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion.

And as you lay there, tangled in the sheets, you knew that nothing would ever be the same again. The tension that had been building between you for so long had finally snapped, leaving you both exposed and vulnerable. But in that moment, all you felt was the warmth of his body against yours and the thrum of his heart beating in time with your own.

The aftermath of your passionate encounter was a gentle tapestry of soft touches and whispered promises. As you lay entwined, the weight of the world lifted from your shoulders, and for the first time in a long time, you felt truly alive. The future was uncertain, but for now, all that mattered was the present, the connection you shared, and the undeniable love that had finally found a voice.

You traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough against your fingertips, and watched as he closed his eyes, a content smile playing on his lips. His breathing evened out, and you knew he was close to sleep. But before you could drift off yourself, you had to ask the one question that had been burning in your mind.

"What happens now?" you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

Ghost opened his eyes, looking into yours, and you saw the answer there. "Now," he said, his voice filled with resolve, "we deal with the consequences."

And with that, he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you tightly. You closed your eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your chest, and allowed yourself to be lulled into a deep, peaceful sleep, the kind that only comes after a storm.

But even in your dreams, you knew the calm was only temporary. The world outside was waiting, and the choices you had made tonight would have repercussions that would ripple through the fabric of your lives. But for now, you had each other, and that was all that mattered.

The next day, as you faced the team, the tension was palpable. You could feel their eyes on you, their curiosity burning. But you and Ghost had an unspoken agreement—you would keep your secret, for now.

You went through the motions, pretending that nothing had changed, that the earth hadn’t shifted beneath your feet. But every time your eyes met Ghost's, the electricity between you was impossible to ignore. The rest of the team sensed it, the air thick with unspoken words and the echoes of the passionate night you had shared.

tags : @pinkpookiebear @jajouska @hao-ming-8 @illuminwtesz

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admiringlove · 11 days ago

Text

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. the pieces are in place, the shadows are shifting, and soon, everything will unravel.

➵ warnings. mentions of blood; one character almost dies; lots of fire; bickering™; crying; ; mentions of familial abuse; mentions of death; mentions of physical injuries; slight evil geto; this is the last official chapter before the epilogues; yes i'm crying too.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; SLOWBURN (NOT ANYMORE 😼😼); slight inaccuracies in the wizarding world because i did make some stuff up for the sake of the crossover; etc.

➵ word count. 33.2k (part one and two of chp7 combined!).

➵ author's note. okay, so this chapter ended up being too long to be posted on tumblr properly. i've been trying to find a loophole for the last two hours, but i couldn't. so i had to post it in two parts. i'm so sorry about that (tumblr you're a hellsite grrr). anywho, here is the ao3 link in case you don't want to go through the hassle of reading one chapter in two separate parts. enjoy!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

“Where are we going?” you ask, breathless, as the two of you race through the corridors, your footsteps echoing off the high stone walls of Hogwarts. The air is cold, sharper here in the open spaces, seeping through the castle’s ancient bones. A bitter wind whistles through the archways as you pass the Courtyard, rattling the last stubborn leaves clinging to bare branches, sending flurries of snow skidding across the worn flagstone. The sky overhead is a muted gray, clouds shifting restlessly, heavy with the promise of more snow.

Satoru doesn’t answer at first, his breathing uneven, one hand combing through his hair in a frantic motion before he suddenly skids to a stop. His boots scrape against the stone. You’re forced to halt just as abruptly, nearly stumbling forward, the map still clutched tight in your fingers.

He’s staring across the Courtyard, posture rigid. There’s something in his expression that unsettles you, something raw, crumbling at the edges. His jaw is tight. His breath curls in the frigid air like smoke.

“Satoru?”

He doesn’t respond right away. His fingers twitch at his sides. Then, finally, he speaks, voice barely above a whisper.

“He gave us the map.” A pause. A breath. A realization dawning like slow horror. “It means Suguru is there. Or he’s planning to go there tonight. Right? Why else would Dumbledore give us the map?”

The weight of his words settles over you like a thick, suffocating fog.

He’s afraid.

It’s in the way his shoulders are locked up tight, how his hands tremble even as he tries to still them. It’s in his voice, the way it wavers at the edges, too soft, too fragile. His eyes, impossibly bright even in the dim light, are wide, too wide, flickering between the map and the distant stretch of stone corridors beyond the Courtyard, as if the walls themselves will offer him an answer.

He won’t say it outright. He never does. But you know. You’ve always known.

“It’s starting.” His voice is barely audible now, but you hear it. Every syllable. The finality of it. The inevitability. He swallows, looking over at you, searching for something in your face. “The war. It’s starting. From now.”

The war.

A lump rises in your throat. The cold is suddenly unbearable, needling into your skin like a warning, like something alive.

“Yes.” You nod, softly. “Tonight marks the beginning.”

Something in him shifts. His shoulders sag, just slightly, before he exhales—a sharp, unsteady breath that curls white in the air before dissolving. He drops his gaze to the ground for a moment, as if grounding himself, before looking back toward the Courtyard.

“Do you remember when you first accidentally came across the Room of Requirement?”

The question is unexpected.

Your fingers tighten around the map. Your lips part slightly, but no words come at first. You know he’s not asking at random. He never does. It’s an anchor—pulling himself back, steadying himself before the fall.

You want to smile at the memory. You can’t. Instead, you step closer, shoulder brushing against his, silent reassurance. He doesn’t move away.

He watches the Courtyard for a few more seconds, his gaze lingering on the students outside—first years, mostly, laughing as they stomp through the fresh snow, their clothes dusted in white. Someone shrieks as a snowball flies past their ear. Another crashes to the ground, red-cheeked and breathless, arms outstretched like a fallen angel.

Tomorrow, classes resume. Tomorrow, everything will look normal. Tomorrow, nothing will be normal again.

Finally, Satoru turns his head, looks down at you.

“Yes,” you murmur, voice quiet, barely above the wind. “I was looking for you. And honestly, I hadn’t realized it, but I’d walked past the corridor thrice, like you’re supposed to. And the door simply appeared. And you were inside.”

The words hang between you like something suspended, fragile.

He stays quiet for a long time. Long enough that the wind shifts again, sending another flurry of snowflakes swirling between you. Long enough that the laughter outside feels like something distant, a memory belonging to someone else.

Then, finally, sharp inhale, sharp exhale.

“Why’d you come looking for me that day?”

You don’t answer at first. Not because you can’t. But because you shouldn’t. You blink, looking away, back toward the Courtyard. The children are still playing. The sky is still gray. The snow still falls.

For now.

He looks at you expectantly, and you look down at your shoes. The stone floor beneath you is cold, dusted with a fine layer of frost where the winter air has crept in through unseen cracks. You shift, fingers tightening around the rolled-up map in your hand, the maroon leather worn smooth with use, the edges softened from years of being passed between eager fingers. The cloth inside crinkles as you adjust your grip, your palms slightly damp despite the chill.

Your breath curls in the air as you inhale, steadying yourself. “You seemed upset,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted to make sure you were okay that day.”

You glance up at him, your eyes catching his in the dim light. The shadows stretch long across the courtyard, the sun slipping lower in the sky, casting the world in shades of pale gold and cool blue. His gaze doesn’t waver. He exhales sharply through his nose, something almost like a laugh, but not quite. The two of you hold there, caught in the quiet, the distant sounds of the castle muffled by the weight of the moment.

His lashes flutter, and then, slowly, the ghost of a smile begins to form at the corner of his lips, just the barest hint of one, fleetingly uncertain, like he isn’t sure if it belongs here. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, nodding slightly.

He nods back, mirroring you without thought, and then—before you can process it—his hand is reaching for yours. His fingers slide between yours with such ease that it feels inevitable, as though this was always meant to happen, as though it has already happened a hundred times before. His skin is warm, his grip gentle but firm, and he doesn’t look away from you, doesn’t so much as blink.

“Thank you, Fawkes.”

Your breath catches. You try to speak, but nothing comes.

The two of you have always been like this—two sides of the same coin, forged of different metals, never colliding but somehow bending toward each other, drawn together by something unseen, unspoken. Your lungs feel heavy, weighted with the enormity of what is to come, but your heart, impossibly, feels light inside your ribs.

“You shouldn’t thank me,” you manage finally. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be a Marauder today.”

Satoru tilts his head slightly, considering you. Then, after a beat, “If it wasn’t for you,” he says, voice quieter now, something softer threading through it, “I wouldn’t be a Marauder either. You know that.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. You don’t think there is a way to respond to that. So you just stand there, your hand in his, the warmth of his palm bleeding into your skin, grounding you both in something real, something tangible, even as the world shifts beneath your feet.

Silence stretches between you, thick but not uncomfortable, until he speaks again.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Your fingers tighten around his instinctively, and he lets them.

“Well,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “we both know exactly what to do.”

His eyes flicker, searching your face. He’s waiting. So you keep going.

“We know exactly what we need to do right this very second,” you say. “We always knew this day would come. Or—you did. From the beginning. Yes?”

He doesn’t answer, not right away. Instead, his gaze drops, his expression clouding as he stares down at the stone beneath your feet. The frost has melted slightly beneath your combined warmth, leaving faint imprints behind, proof that you were here, that you stood together in this moment, on the precipice of something neither of you can take back.

You let the silence settle for a moment longer before you speak again, quieter this time.

“Now that we’ve actually come to it… it’s bloody difficult,” you murmur. “And that’s okay.”

Before he can say anything, before he can even begin to gather the words forming thick and heavy on his tongue, there’s a rustling sound. A soft, barely-there chitter, high-pitched and questioning. Then, a small pink nose, twitching, pokes out from the folds of Satoru’s coat pocket, followed by a pair of beady eyes, gleaming with mischief in the dim light.

Pip.

You both freeze.

The Niffler blinks up at the two of you innocently, tiny paws gripping the edge of the fabric as he tilts his head, as if to say, “what’s all the fuss about?”. Then, as if summoned by some unspoken force, a glimmer of silver appears between his paws—a sickle, no doubt pilfered from some unfortunate soul.

For a moment, neither of you move. The weight of everything lingers in the air, thick and unshakable. The war that is brewing. The blood that will be spilled. The uncertainty pressing against your ribs. The phial, still heavy in your pocket. The cold. The knowing.

Then, all at once, the two of you start laughing.

It bursts out of you unexpectedly, a strange, almost desperate sound, like a dam cracking under too much pressure. Satoru’s head tips back, shoulders shaking, and you’re laughing so hard it’s almost difficult to breathe, the absurdity of it all hitting you at once. The war. The fear. The tension thrumming beneath your skin. The Niffler in Satoru’s pocket, looking at you like he hasn’t just shattered the moment entirely.

Everything.

It’s impossible, isn’t it? How could something so simple, so small, exist in the same world as everything else? How could there still be space for laughter in a moment so defined by everything but?

You shake your head, still grinning, pressing the heel of your palm against your temple. “We really should run to Hagrid’s,” you murmur, still a little breathless. “Get him back where he’s supposed to be.”

Satoru exhales through his nose, reaching into his pocket and gently scooping Pip up in his hands, cradling the little creature against his chest. Pip chirrs in response, curling his tiny paws around the edge of Satoru’s sleeve. “Yeah,” he agrees, rubbing a finger over the Niffler’s soft fur, his lips still twitching in amusement. “We should.”

You watch him for a moment. The way the last traces of laughter still linger in his expression, even as his shoulders relax, even as the weight of everything settles back in. You reach into your pocket, fingers brushing against the cool surface of the phial before pulling it out.

“Hey,” you start, hesitating for only a second before holding it up to him. The glass catches the light, glowing faintly in the dim corridor, a clear monument to everything it represents—the blood pact, the vow he and Suguru made all those years ago.

He stills, eyes flickering to the phial before back to your face.

“Perhaps don’t keep it in your home,” you say, quieter now, measuring your words carefully. “If your father finds something of this sort, and associates it with you, it won’t end well.”

There is something unreadable in his gaze. He looks at the phial for a long time, considering it, considering you. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he says, “You keep it.”

Your breath hitches. “What?”

“You keep it,” he repeats, firmer now, as if the decision has already been made.

You blink, eyes widening. “I cannot possibly keep something like this.”

“Yes, you can.” He shrugs, tilting his head. “You said it yourself. I can’t keep it. My father will find it.”

“I said ‘don’t keep it in your home’,” you argue, but he’s already turning on his heel, already moving, already walking ahead without another word.

You huff, pressing your lips together, watching his retreating figure for a half-second before clicking your tongue and hurrying after him. “Gojo Satoru, you are impossibly infuriating.”

He glances back at you, grinning. “I know.”

When you approach Hagrid’s hut with Gojo Satoru, the last traces of daylight are slipping beneath the horizon, casting long shadows over the sloping grounds. The castle behind you looms, its spires inked against the deepening sky, the windows glowing with the warm flickers of torches and candlelight. It is cold—sharply so, the kind of cold that settles deep inside your bones, that makes the air feel thinner, more brittle. You tug your cloak tighter around yourself as the two of you tread along the narrow path, your boots sinking slightly into the damp earth.

Satoru is beside you, quiet for once, his hands shoved into his pockets. Pip is nestled somewhere in the folds of his jumper or jeans, hidden but undoubtedly watching. There is a stillness between you, not the usual kind—the easy, companionable sort—but something quieter, heavier. A pause before something inevitable.

You stop before the wooden door, raising a fist to knock. There is a brief, muffled clatter from within—something falling, something metallic striking the floor, a yelp, followed by a loud, unmistakable, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake—stay still, will yeh?”

You glance at Satoru. He raises a brow, unimpressed. Then, after a moment, the door creaks open.

Hagrid stands in the doorway, massive and imposing as ever, his wild mane of hair casting shadows over his weathered face. He blinks down at you both, expression shifting from mild irritation to something warmer, familiar.

“Oh,” he says, surprised, eyes crinkling. “[Y/N]. Haven’t seen yeh at all this year. Been busy, I bet. With everythin’ yeh’ve got goin’ on.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Blimey, wait a second—”

Before you can respond, he turns abruptly, lunging into the depths of the hut. There is a thud, a series of frantic scrabbling noises, and then the distinct sound of something small and quick darting across wooden floors.

You watch as Hagrid straightens, victorious, holding a struggling Niffler in his massive hands.

“C’mere, yeh little troublemaker,” he grumbles, hoisting the creature up as it chirrs indignantly, tiny paws flailing.

You clear your throat. “Erm—actually, we’re here to return another one.”

You gesture vaguely toward Satoru, whose expression is unreadable as he glances down at his pocket. At that precise moment, Pip pops his head out, beady eyes darting between the three of you. There is a moment of silence—then, as if sensing the shift in attention, Pip lets out a small, questioning chirp.

Hagrid sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “So that’s where yeh’ve been.”

Satoru nudges Pip from his pocket, catching the little creature easily in his palm before holding him out toward Hagrid. The Niffler hesitates for only a moment, then scrambles up the length of Hagrid’s sleeve, curling into the thick fabric of his coat.

“Sorry,” you say, grimacing slightly. “He, um. Somehow ended up with us.”

Hagrid shakes his head, but there is no real irritation in it. “Nifflers,” he mutters, reaching up to scratch Pip’s head, his large fingers careful, gentle. “Always findin’ their way into places they shouldn’t be.”

Satoru shifts beside you, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “Yeah,” he says, voice light but distant, “tell me about it.”

Hagrid steps back, then, gesturing toward the interior of the hut. “Well,” he says, “don’t reckon yeh’ll be leavin’ straight away, will yeh? Come in, both o’ yeh. I’ve got the kettle on.”

The hut is warm, light spilling from the open doorway, flickering against the cold, creeping dark. You exchange a glance with Satoru. He shrugs, just slightly, but you can see it—the hesitation, the weariness curling at the edges of him.

You step inside first.

Then, Satoru follows.

The hut is small, cozy in a way that feels strangely suffocating tonight. It smells of damp earth and tea leaves and something vaguely metallic, like the remnants of a potion left too long on the stove. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the wooden beams, the cluttered shelves, the massive boots by the door. A worn, patchy rug is sprawled over the stone floor, fraying at the edges, its once-rich reds now dulled with age.

You move toward the rickety wooden table, its surface scored with scratches, rings of past teacups staining the grain. Pulling out a chair, you settle into it, feeling the wood creak beneath your weight. You glance up at Satoru, watching as he hesitates for just a fraction of a second before stepping forward, long legs carrying him toward the chair beside yours. He drops into it without much thought, the corners of his lips tugging up slightly, like he’s amused by something only he understands.

Idiot.

Hagrid shuffles over, his heavy footsteps making the floor groan, and then there’s the sound of clinking porcelain, the faintest tendrils of steam curling into the air as he sets two small teacups in front of you. The tea is dark, strong—you can tell just by the way it smells, thick with herbs, a deep bitterness cutting through the heat. It will warm you from the inside out, settle somewhere in your bones.

You wrap your fingers around the cup, feeling the heat seep into your palms.

“So,” Hagrid says, voice a low rumble as he moves toward the other side of the room, cradling Pip in his massive hands. The Niffler wriggles, chittering softly, but Hagrid barely notices. He leans down, setting Pip into a nest-like structure lined with what looks like old scraps of cloth and hay. “Where’d the two of yeh find this little bugger?”

You smile slightly, shaking your head. “He was stealing from people in the halls outside the Great Hall. We caught him and thought we should return him to you safely.”

Hagrid lets out a huff, shaking his head as he straightens. “Ah. This little one’s quite the thief, I’ll have yeh know. Always sneakin’ about, takin’ things that don’t belong to ‘im.” He scratches at his beard, peering down at Pip. “Pip, his name is.”

“Yeah,” Satoru nods, the movement easy, fluid, perfectly natural. “Dumbledore told us. Saw us with him.”

His voice is smooth, even, betraying nothing. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, but he only raises his teacup to his lips, sipping idly. His face gives away nothing—not the exhaustion creeping at the edges of him, not the tension coiled so tightly in his shoulders, not the truth that lingers just beneath his words.

Asshole. Knows exactly how to lie through his teeth, how to lace just enough truth into the words to make them pass undetected.

But you’re not exactly lying, are you? You’re just telling Hagrid parts of the truth. Because no one can know that a group of teenagers is about to go to war.

The fire in Hagrid’s hearth crackles low, casting flickering shadows against the uneven stone walls of the hut. The warmth is heavy, sinking into your skin, but it does little to dispel the cold knot in your stomach. Satoru leans back in his chair beside you, fingers tapping idly against the porcelain rim of his cup, his other hand resting against the wooden table. His foot nudges yours beneath it, a quiet thing, barely there, but enough to make you glance at him. He doesn’t look back. He’s still talking, still smiling, keeping up the charade of normalcy that the two of you are playing for Hagrid’s sake.

You follow his lead. Talking about classes, assignments, how awful Potions is, or how Flitwick let you off with only a warning for something that should have cost Gryffindor twenty points. It’s all meaningless. It’s all distraction. It’s all meant to assure Hagrid that the two of you are just ordinary students, that nothing is wrong, that nothing is coming. That the world is not about to change forever.

But then the conversation dwindles, and silence fills the space between the three of you. It sits heavy, uncomfortable, like a weight pressing into your chest. You know it’s time to leave. You don’t want to, but you do.

Satoru stands first, stretching his arms out as he yawns, exaggerated and lazy. "Right, well, we should be off before McGonagall or Snape catch us out past curfew."

His excuse is flimsy. Hagrid doesn’t call him out on it. He only hums, standing to walk the two of you to the door. Satoru is first to leave as well, the map in his hand. You linger for just a moment. Your fingers hesitate on the back of the chair.

“Hagrid, I—”

The words catch in your throat before you can even figure out what it is you want to say.

I’m sorry I haven’t been around.I’m sorry for what’s about to happen.I’m sorry I might not see you again.

But Hagrid grumbles, cutting you off before you can get anything out, fumbling with the deep pockets of his coat. He pats himself down, face twisting in mild frustration as he searches for something, before finally making a quiet, triumphant noise.

You watch, puzzled, as he pulls his hand free, something small and thin curled in his palm. At first, it looks like nothing more than a twig, maybe a stray bit of wood he had stuffed away in his pocket at some point. But then it moves.

Your breath catches.

The creature uncurls its limbs slowly, hesitant, its tiny, claw-like fingers flexing as it blinks up at you. Its long, stick-like body is no thicker than your pinky, its green skin almost indistinguishable from bark, its eyes black and glossy like beads of obsidian.

“A Bowtruckle?” you murmur, blinking up at Hagrid in surprise.

“Hold out yer hand,” Hagrid instructs gruffly. “Gently. Tender-like.”

You do. Without hesitation, without thought, because you trust Hagrid like you trust few people in this world. Your palm extends toward him, steady despite the way your heart pounds beneath your ribs.

The Bowtruckle hesitates for a moment in Hagrid’s hand before cautiously stepping across to yours, light as air. It clings to the tip of your finger for a second before scrambling up your wrist, making its way toward the fabric of your jumper. Its weight is barely there, its movement so delicate that it feels like nothing more than a whisper against your skin.

“Twig, his name is,” Hagrid says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Dumbledore told me to help.”

Your throat closes up.

You glance up at him, finding nothing but quiet understanding in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to. You nod, slowly deliberate, before carefully cupping Twig in your hands and tucking him safely into the pocket of your jumper. He nestles himself there instantly, curling up against the warmth of your chest.

Then, without thinking, you step forward and wrap your arms around Hagrid in a tight, desperate embrace.

“I’m sorry I didn’t visit more this year,” you whisper against his coat.

Hagrid huffs, his large hand patting the top of your head with gentle familiarity. “You were busy, kid. It’s okay.”

“That’s a stupid excuse.”

He doesn’t argue.

You pull back first, exhaling shakily, and force yourself to step toward the door. “I’ll see you when it’s over.”

Hagrid watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once. “Stay safe.”

And then you’re moving, crossing the threshold into the cold dusk air, jogging to catch up with Satoru, who is already making his way across the fields. You don’t look back. You can’t.

The grass is stiff beneath your feet, coated in a thin layer of frost that glistens under the moonlight. Every breath you take burns, like inhaling the remnants of a fire that’s long since died out. The world feels too still, like something terrible is about to happen, like something unseen is waiting just beyond the tree line.

You ignore the feeling.

Instead, you focus on the figure walking ahead of you, his breath curling white in the night air, the sharp lines of his shoulders set in a way that tells you he’s thinking, overthinking, calculating every next step before it happens.

“Satoru,” you call, voice low, measured.

He doesn’t stop at first, just glances over his shoulder, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. Then, slowly, he eases his pace, giving you just enough time to close the distance between you. When you finally reach him, your shoulders brush, your steps falling in sync as they always do, even when they shouldn’t.

You exhale, forcing the words out. “Hagrid knows.”

The night stretches over you like an iron sky, the air thick and heavy despite the bite of the cold. The grass is stiff beneath your feet, coated in a thin layer of frost that glistens under the moonlight. Every breath you take burns, like inhaling the remnants of a fire that’s long since died out. The world feels too still, like something terrible is about to happen, like something unseen is waiting just beyond the tree line.

You ignore the feeling.

“Satoru,” you call, voice low, measured.

You exhale, forcing the words out. “Hagrid knows.”

Satoru’s expression shifts—just slightly, just enough for you to notice the way his jaw tenses, the way his hands sink deeper into the pockets of his robes. “You’re kidding.”

You shake your head, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself as the wind cuts through the open field. “He’s helped.”

His brow lifts, skepticism painted all over his face. “Helped how?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t trust him—you do, more than you should—but because you know how he gets when he doesn’t have all the pieces, when something is just beyond his grasp. He’ll pry and pick and push until he has the answer, until he’s certain that nothing has been left to chance.

You can’t let him do that. Not now.

“Can’t tell you yet,” you say, shaking your head.

Satoru scoffs, tilting his head slightly as he studies you, trying to figure out what you’re hiding. “Is this one of your little charm techniques? Like the day you healed me?”

You chew your lip, considering. “No. Kind of.”

His lips curl, somewhere between amusement and frustration. “Keep your secrets.” He exhales, a heavy sound, and you catch the way his shoulders roll forward slightly, the way the exhaustion finally creeps into his voice. “I’m too tired to bother you for them anymore, anyway.”

You don’t answer. Because ahead, just beyond the field, you see them.

Two figures waiting in the half-dark, just near the tree line, their faces unreadable under the shadows cast by the moonlight. Shoko and Nanami.

And someone else.

Your stomach twists. Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers instinctively grab at Satoru’s sleeve, yanking him to a stop. His head snaps toward you, but you don’t look at him. Your eyes are locked ahead, wide and disbelieving.

“What?” he asks, confused, but then he follows your gaze. And then he sees her.

Utahime.

You swear under your breath, your heart hammering. “Why in fuck’s sake is she here?” you whisper, voice sharp, panicked. Then, louder, nearly desperate, “It’s too dangerous for everyone to—”

“What were we supposed to do?” Shoko cuts in, stepping forward, her expression unreadable but her voice sharp. “Not tell her when she asked where everyone was? Make up lies the way you’ve been doing for so long?”

Utahime stands just behind them, arms crossed, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She looks different from the way she usually does—not angry, not irritated, but hurt. Like you’ve done something cruel without realizing it.

You let out a sharp exhale, rubbing at your temple, forcing yourself to keep your voice level. “That’s not what I meant,” you mutter, shaking your head. “I already didn’t think you two should know at all. But now you do. And now, so does ‘Hime.” You look between them, your stomach sinking. “It’s dangerous. If you haven’t realized that yet, one of us could potentially die, and I’d rather it be—”

“Fawkes,” Satoru says suddenly, voice sharper than before, cutting through the cold air like a blade.

His grip tightens on your sleeve, grounding you, snapping you out of whatever spiral you were about to throw yourself into.

You blink. They’re all staring at you. A long, unbearable silence stretches between you, the tension thick enough to suffocate.

Then, Nanami speaks, steady, unwavering as always. “All of us are here because we want to be. Not because we have to be.”

Shoko exhales through her nose, shaking her head at you. “We all know the risks, dumbass.”

“You can’t just expect me to stay behind while all of you go and risk your lives for another friend,” Utahime says, stepping forward now, her arms still crossed, but her voice is softer than before. There’s something raw in her expression, and that makes you feel sick.

You clench your jaw. “That’s exactly what I expect you to do,” you bite out, voice sharper now. “I expect you to stay behind because this isn’t your fight.”

“Not my fight?” Utahime’s brows furrow, and for the first time, you see real anger flash across her face. “How dare you say that? You think just because I wasn’t there at the start, it doesn’t matter to me? That you don’t matter to me?”

Your stomach churns. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Then, pray tell, what did you mean?” she demands. “Because right now, it sounds like you’re trying to push everyone away so you can play hero and get yourself killed.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. Because maybe she’s right. Maybe that’s exactly what you’re doing.

“I’m not trying to push you away,” you say, but the words feel hollow, weak. Utahime’s eyes are sharp, unrelenting. “Then stop treating us like we don’t know what we’re doing. Like we don’t know what we’re getting ourselves into.”

Shoko steps forward, rolling her eyes. “Face it. We’re not leaving. And if you want to waste time arguing, fine, but I’d rather get this over with before sunrise.”

You inhale shakily, looking at them again, one by one. Utahime. Shoko. Nanami. Satoru, who still hasn’t let go of your sleeve.

You clench your fists. They shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t have to be here. But they are.

You let out a slow, shuddering breath, forcing the words out. “Promise me that you’ll leave. The second there’s any real danger, you’ll all leave.”

Shoko snorts, giving you a look like you’re the biggest idiot she’s ever met. “You first.”

She claps a hand against your back, too hard, and you stumble forward with a small yelp. She only smirks, before pointing at the rolled-up parchment in Satoru’s hand. “What’s that?”

You and Satoru exchange a glance. The kind of glance that speaks in silent words, in unspoken understanding. Then, you say it.

“The map to Sukuna’s grave.”

The air stills. The world shrinks. For a moment, no one speaks. They exchange glances, something quiet passing between them. Something grim.

You let out a breath, steadying yourself, and glance between them, searching for even the smallest sliver of fear. Something you can use. Something that will make them stay behind. But there’s none.

Nervousness, maybe. Determination, certainly. But no fear.

And that terrifies you.

Somewhere behind you, Hagrid’s hut is still lit, its windows casting a golden glow onto the frozen grass, the warmth of its interior already a memory slipping away. Ahead, the fields stretch into the dark, the Forbidden Forest a black mass against the sky.

“How are we going—wherever it is we’re going?” Utahime asks. She stands with her arms crossed, her weight shifted slightly to one side, brow raised. There’s something in her tone—uncertainty, skepticism.

You sigh, already knowing exactly where this conversation is going to go. You're going to hate it. They probably all are. Except maybe Utahime. She’s already had the lessons. She’s a seventh-year, after all. The sixth-years will start in February—meaning you and Shoko. But Kento? Kento is a year younger than you, and he’ll have them next year. You glance at him, already anticipating his reaction.

Gojo exhales through his nose and hands you the map, the leather feeling soft in your hands as you take it. “Kyoto, right?” His voice is easy, casual, but his fingers flex once as he lets go of the map. A tell. You nod, rubbing at your temple.

“What?” Kento’s voice is sharp, suspicious. “What’s going on?”

You groan, fully this time, dragging a hand down your face. “Disapparition.”

A beat of silence.

“What?” Kento repeats, louder now, his head jerking back. “Wait, I thought we weren’t allowed to. Not on school grounds.”

“Technically,” Gojo grins, teeth flashing in the dim light, “we’re not on school grounds. And we’ve only done it from and to the Room of Requirement. Which, again, technically, does not exist.”

Kento makes a noise of sheer disbelief. “First, you break into the Ministry of Magic, and now this?”

Gojo’s smirk doesn’t waver. “You didn’t have a problem when Fawkes and I were parading around the castle breaking almost every rule there is because of your little notes?”

“That’s different—”

“How exactly?” Gojo steps forward, just slightly, and the tension spikes immediately, suffocatingly thick.

“It just is,” Kento snaps, exasperated, fists clenching at his sides. “That was, at least that was within the castle. This is different. This is Apparition. If something goes wrong, one of us can lose a limb—”

Gojo scoffs, shaking his head. “Oh, come on, it’s not that hard. I’ve done it loads of times.”

“You’re acting like it’s nothing,” Kento bites out. “Like there aren’t consequences if we mess up.”

Utahime cuts in then, arms still crossed. “He’s right. It’s dangerous, and none of you are trained. You could splinch yourselves, or worse—”

“You didn’t have a problem coming along till now,” Gojo says, turning his sharp gaze on her now.

“Because someone has to make sure you don’t get yourselves killed,” Utahime retorts. “Or are you forgetting that none of you are actually of age?”

“I am the strongest one here,” Gojo points out, raising a brow.

“Oh, piss off,” she snaps.

You step in before it escalates further, pressing a firm hand against Gojo’s chest to stop him from moving forward. “Stop it. All of you.” Your voice is quieter than the others, but no less commanding.

Gojo’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move past you. Kento exhales sharply, shaking his head, looking away. Utahime scowls but doesn’t say anything else. The argument settles into a charged silence, everyone simmering but unwilling to ignite it further.

Shoko, who has been watching with an almost amused sort of patience, finally speaks up. “Can we just get on with it?” she sighs, rubbing at her temples. “I’m already getting a headache from all the bickering.”

You glance at Gojo. He meets your gaze, then shrugs. “Alright,” he says. “But if someone throws up, it’s not my problem.”

Kento groans again, but no one else argues. The decision has been made, whether they like it or not.

The five of you stand in a loose circle, the cold night air pressing in from all sides, thick with the weight of what you are about to do. The frost clings to the hem of your robes, brittle grass crunching beneath your boots. There is no sound but the distant rustling of trees and the low whisper of the wind sweeping across the empty grounds. The castle looms behind you, a dark and ancient thing, its spires disappearing into the clouds. Hagrid’s hut still glows faintly in the distance. You wonder if he’s watching.

You tighten your grip on the map, feeling the leather beneath your fingers. One last look. Just once.

You look at Shoko first. She meets your gaze without hesitation, her expression unreadable, but when she gives you a slow nod, you understand. You can do this. You will come out of this whole, unbroken.

Kento is next. His jaw is tight, his shoulders squared, his grip on Utahime’s hand firm. His eyes, they’re a promise that he will be the first to drag you all back if this goes sideways. It is comforting in its own way.

Then, Utahime. There is a flicker of regret in your chest when you meet her eyes, but also something else. Something like pride. You know she is strong. You know she can do this. But that does not mean you wanted her here. That doesn’t mean you’re not worried.

And finally, Gojo. Satoru.

He is inches from you, his fingers wrapped around yours. His palm is warm despite the cold. He looks at you in that way of his—half knowing, half unreadable, always something just beneath the surface. He has already sensed it. The hesitation. The apprehension. He squeezes your hand, just enough for you to feel it but not enough for it to hurt. A reassurance, an unspoken promise, a challenge all at once. Your throat tightens, but you nod. You have to.

The pull is immediate.

It takes hold of you from the inside, twisting sharply fast, a thread of something metallic running through your gut as the world warps around you. Everything collapses inward—your mind, your breath, your body, dragged through the smallest possible point in space. It is dark. Infinite. The pressure builds and builds and builds until suddenly, there’s air.

You gasp. The shift is violent, from nothing to everything in the space of a heartbeat. The sky is lighter here, the horizon touched with the first hints of dawn. The street is quiet in the pale hush of morning, the stones beneath you damp with lingering mist. The lamps lining the road flicker weakly, their amber light casting long, spindly shadows against wooden facades. The air smells of rain and incense, the faintest traces of something floral carried by the breeze.

The streets are empty, save for a handful of early risers—elderly men stretching their limbs, women in layered shawls walking side by side, voices low. Stray cats pick their way through the alleys, their sleek bodies slipping between the wooden slats of fences. White parasols, beaded with dew, lean against a storefront, untouched. Everything feels suspended. Waiting. Holding its breath.

The nausea does not hit you this time, but when you finally tear your gaze away from Gojo’s—when you force yourself to look—Shoko and Kento are already keeling over at the other end of the street. Utahime is beside them, rubbing their backs, her voice low and soothing as they struggle against the violent lurch of their stomachs. Kento braces a hand against the nearest wall, his other clenched into a tight fist, while Shoko swears under her breath, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead.

You exhale, slow and even, feeling the weight of the map still in your grasp.

Kyoto.

You are here. With Satoru. With everyone.

"Get the map," Gojo says, his voice cutting through the hush. His breath leaves wisps of vapor in the cold air. "You're our guide now. I'll check on them."

You nod, though he’s already turning away, making his way toward Shoko and Nanami, who are still doubled over, trying to fight off the nausea that lingers after the violent wrench of Disapparition. Utahime still kneels beside them, her hand rubbing slow circles against Nanami’s back, murmuring something too low for you to hear. He doesn’t lift his head, but he nods, barely, a stiff, rigid movement.

You swallow and exhale, turning your attention to the task at hand. Your fingers are stiff from the cold as you unroll the map, the parchment crackling slightly as you flatten it against your knee. You pull your wand from your robes, holding it steady despite the slight tremor in your grip.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The words slip past your lips like a whisper, the magic unfurling beneath your wand, light ink bleeding into the dark parchment’s surface. Lines stretch and twist, unfurling like white veins across a living body, revealing pathways and turns, markings and symbols that shift and realign as the map takes shape. Kyoto, sprawling and intricate, appears before you, inked streets winding into alleys, temples, hidden spaces. At its center, a point pulses faintly—you.

You glance up for a moment, just to check on the others. Gojo crouches beside Shoko now, pressing something small and dark into her palm. A vial. His voice is low, but you can still hear him.

"Half of it," he tells her. "Nanami, you take the rest."

Shoko doesn't question him, just pulls the stopper out with her teeth and takes a quick sip before passing it over. Nanami hesitates for only a second before doing the same. The effects are near immediate—Shoko straightens first, rolling her shoulders back, her lips pressing together as she tests the steadiness of her breath. Nanami exhales, long and slow, his head still bowed but his shoulders no longer trembling. Utahime watches them, her face a careful mask of concern.

Gojo had come prepared. Not for himself, not even necessarily for them. For you.

And yet, it had helped them, instead, because you’d outgrown the feeling. The realization settles into you like warmth, quietly certain, threading through the cold air.

He had known. Had anticipated. Had thought ahead, just in case. Because you mattered, because this mattered, because despite everything—the weight of what you were about to do, the risks, the inevitable consequences—you weren’t doing it alone.

A small thing. A simple thing. But it steadies you. He doesn’t say a word.

Instead, he just looks at you, lips pressing together, the faintest crease between his brows. His hair, still slightly tousled from the journey, catches the dim morning light. The weight of his gaze settles heavy on your shoulders, like he’s searching for something in your face. Or maybe he’s apologizing with his eyes.

You stare back, mirroring his expression. And yet, there’s something different in his eyes. Something you can’t name, but you know it’s there.

Because Gojo Satoru has always been full of wonder. Even in the darkest moments, when everything feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, he carries it with him. That spark, that relentless energy, that infuriating, impossible certainty that somehow, things will work out. You don’t know how he does it. But he does.

And for the longest time, he’s been your rock. Unwavering. Steady. Even if you never realized it.

But now—now, his silence unsettles you.

The moment lingers for only a heartbeat before Utahime’s voice cuts through it. "Which way do we go?"

You blink, pulling yourself back to reality, back to the weight of the parchment in your hands. You don’t want the moment to end. But it does.

Your throat feels tight as you lower your eyes to the map, tracing the inked streets, the winding alleys, the mark that pulses faintly at the center—the glowing, golden dot marking your position. But the grave? You don’t see it.

It’s there. You know it’s there. It should be, right? You furrow your brows exasperatedly, looking down, before you look up at everyone again.

"I don’t know," you murmur, quietly.

The reaction is immediate.

"What?!"

Shoko curses, a sharp string of words under her breath, pacing in frustration. Utahime’s expression is a mixture of disbelief and concern. Nanami exhales through his nose, the disappointment in his face so apparent it almost makes you flinch.

And Gojo—he is silent.

That’s what unsettles you the most. You expected him to laugh, to tease you, to say something sharp and cocky about how this was so typical of you. But instead, he just stares, his jaw tightening for a moment before he speaks, voice quieter than usual.

"What do you mean, you don’t know?"

You swallow. "The map—it’s not like the Marauder’s Map. It’s showing our location, but it’s not telling us how to get there. There’s no route. No landmarks." You shake your head, frustration building in your chest. "It just—just is."

Shoko groans, dragging a hand down her face. "You’re telling me we came all the way to Kyoto and we don’t even know where we’re going?"

"You have eyes, don’t you?" Gojo says, looking at you, but there’s no bite to it, no humor either. "We’ll figure it out."

"You say that like it’s so simple," Nanami mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We’re wandering through a city we barely know, looking for a place that’s supposed to be a secret, and we don’t even have a real plan."

"We have a plan," Gojo corrects, "we just have to… improvise a little."

"A little?" Utahime echoes, incredulously. "This isn’t just sneaking out past curfew, Gojo. This is serious. We don’t have time to just wander and hope we stumble across it. We also don’t have a plan."

"I know that," you snap, surprising yourself with the sharpness of your voice. But you’re frustrated, you’re exhausted, and you can feel the weight of all their expectations pressing into you like a vice. "Do you think I want to be lost? Do you think I don’t care that we don’t know where we’re going?"

The words hang heavy in the air, thick with something unspoken.

For a long moment, no one says anything.

Then, finally, Gojo sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, and looks at you. Just you. "Okay," he says. "We’ll figure it out. We always do."

His voice is softer now, the tension easing just slightly. And somehow, just hearing it makes your chest feel a little less tight. Because he’s right. You’ve made it this far. You’ll make it the rest of the way.

You have to.

You look back down at the map, eyebrows furrowing, trying to make sense of the glowing mark at the center. But without a route, without a single guiding path, it may as well be a cruel joke. You sigh, glance around. There’s nowhere to sit, nowhere to lay the map out flat and trace the roads with your fingers, nowhere to argue and theorize the way you would in the Room of Requirement, with its much-beloved long table.

You exhale sharply, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. And then you spot it—a small place, tucked into the curve of the street. A restaurant, barely stirring to life in the early morning. The old man at the entrance pulls open the shutters with practiced ease, setting up for a slow, quiet day.

It’s perfect.

"Do any of you have cash?" you ask, turning to the group, raising a brow. "Real cash. Not wizard cash."

Everyone exchanges uncertain glances, patting down pockets and checking their bags. For a second, you wonder if you’ll have to try and charm your way inside—maybe convince the old man you’re lost travelers in need of a place to sit.

Utahime raises her hand hesitantly. "I—um, wait, I’ll have to check." She reaches into her bag, fingers brushing against her wallet. "I keep some Japanese currency on me, just in case I ever visit my grandmother in Kyoto—"

"You’ve been here?" Your voice comes out louder than you expect, eyebrows raising in surprise.

She shrugs meekly. "I don’t know the city like the back of my hand, but I know the tourist spots. Yeah."

"You are such an idiot," Gojo cuts in before you can say anything else, exasperation heavy in his voice. "You couldn’t have told us this a minute ago? When we were all panicking because the map wasn’t showing us the way?"

Utahime whips around to face him, scowling. "Shut up! How was I supposed to know the map wouldn’t show the way?"

"Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you’re the only one who’s actually been here?" Gojo retorts, throwing his arms in the air. "Might’ve been useful information!"

"That doesn't even make sense! It wouldn’t have changed anything! It’s not like I know the exact location we’re looking for!"

"Oh, but you know the tourist spots! That’s just great! I’m sure Sukuna’s grave is right next to a bloody souvenir shop!"

"You’re such a twat, I swear—"

"And you’re useless!"

"Enough!" You snap, voice cutting through their argument. They both shut up instantly, though Gojo rolls his eyes and Utahime crosses her arms. You press your fingers against your temple for a brief moment before turning your attention back to Utahime.

"’Hime," you say, steadying your breath. "Do the restaurants here have small private rooms for bigger crowds?"

She frowns, caught off guard by the shift in conversation. "Uh. Maybe? It really depends on the place. But nobody really disturbs you this early in the morning, even if you go to a small spot." She follows your eyeline toward the restaurant. "Is that what you’re thinking?"

"Yes." You nod. "That is exactly what I’m thinking."

When you’ve all filed into the small place, the quiet hum of morning settles over you like a thin veil, one you could almost mistake for peace if you weren’t pressed against the urgency of your task. The restaurant is old, but well-kept. The wooden floorboards creak under your steps, and the scent of dried tea leaves clings to the air.

The old man behind the counter barely acknowledges your presence at first, methodical in his motions as he lights an incense stick near a tiny, lovingly tended shrine on the far side of the room. A small brass bowl rests at the base, filled with dried offerings—flowers, coins, perhaps a folded note someone left behind. The smoke curls into the air, thin and ghostly, disappearing before it reaches the ceiling.

Utahime orders you all tea without asking, her voice measured but respectful, and the old man simply nods before turning away to prepare it.

It’s nice. Quaint. You’d probably sit and enjoy it if you weren’t in such a time crunch.

You waste no time, rolling the map out onto the long, bar-style table at the center of the space. The parchment crackles softly as it unfurls, edges curling slightly where the paper has been worn by age and use. Gojo slides into the seat next to you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans in. Shoko takes the spot on your right, exhaling deeply as she settles. Nanami seats himself beside Gojo, Utahime next to Shoko, their expressions tight with thought.

“Okay,” you hum, tapping a finger against the glowy dot pulsing near the map’s center. “That’s us. I know because it was like this in Dumbledore’s office. I’ve seen what Hogwarts looks like on a map before, and it was the same there.”

“Right,” Shoko nods, her fingers tracing the edges of the parchment. “So the map shows where we are. And the surrounding places. But not where we’re supposed to go?” She frowns, eyes narrowing. “How is that supposed to be helpful? I thought you said the map leads to his grave directly.”

“We never actually said that,” Gojo murmurs, almost absentmindedly, his eyes flicking over the dark parchment. “All we know is that it leads to his grave. That’s what Dumbledore made us believe.”

“Well, Dumbledore wouldn’t lie,” Nanami mutters, scratching at his temple as he scans the map, his brow furrowing.

You almost agree. Of course, Dumbledore wouldn’t send students on a suicide mission across the world. He wouldn’t lie to you, wouldn’t set you up to fail.

Would he?

The words Gojo’s mother had said still ring in your ears. Something about Dumbledore being a selfish man who wouldn’t stop at anything until he got what he wanted.

Was this a mistake? Were you being used for something none of you understood? A slow, unsettling nausea curls at the base of your stomach, but before you can dwell on it, you hear it.

“Fawkes?”

Gojo’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle, so quiet, so unguarded, that you blink out of your thoughts. Your eyes snap up to meet his. He’s watching you closely, eyes narrowed, concern hidden beneath the surface.

You shake your head quickly. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

A short silence stretches between you all, filled only by the distant sounds of the restaurant—the bubbling of water, the old man shifting behind the counter, the soft clatter of cups.

Your fingers curl against the edge of the map, pressing into the maroon leather under the parchment.

Then, you notice it. The golden dot at the center of the map, pulsing faintly, as if it were alive. You watch it, a slow realization unfurling in the back of your mind.

“Satoru.” You pause, glancing at him. “Tell me everything you know about Sukuna. Even if you’ve already told me. We must have missed something.”

Gojo exhales, his breath slow and measured, an elbow braced against the countertop, his long fingers tapping idly against the wood. His sleeves are pushed up just enough that you can see the slight tension in his forearms, the way his muscles tighten and shift when he moves. He’s staring at the map, but when he speaks, his voice is eerily steady, his tone devoid of his usual arrogance.

“Sukuna Ryomen was a madman. He killed people for sport. He was a wizard with no allegiances, no beliefs beyond his own power. He didn’t just kill—he massacred. There are records of entire villages disappearing overnight because of him.” Gojo pauses, shifting slightly, his eyes flicking over to yours before he continues. “He died here, in Kyoto, from what we know. And, before that, he sealed his soul into twenty Horcruxes.”

You hold his gaze, your pulse thrumming against the delicate skin of your wrist. “Are you sure that’s all?”

He blinks, and for a moment, something unreadable flickers behind his eyes. He doesn’t break eye contact. The two of you are inches apart, and the weight of everyone’s attention only makes the space between you feel smaller.

“I think so.” His voice is lower now, like he’s doubting himself, and his fingers run absentmindedly through his hair before settling at the back of his neck.

Utahime breaks the moment after letting out a shaky sigh. “Is there anything personal about Sukuna?” she asks, leaning forward slightly. “Something that could give us a hint? Kyoto is full of important cultural landmarks. If his grave is here, it’s got to be somewhere significant. Maybe a shrine, if we’re lucky.”

Before anyone can respond, the old man behind the counter moves, placing a green porcelain cup in front of each of you. His movements are slow, deliberate. The tea is strong—you can smell it before even lifting the cup, something earthy, slightly bitter, but warm. It reminds you, distantly, of something Mirai Gojo might have offered you if this were any other time.

You nod in thanks before wrapping your fingers around the cup, letting the warmth seep into your skin. You take a sip, and the heat of it spreads through you, comforting in a way you don’t entirely expect. Across from you, Shoko mutters a quiet thanks before taking her own sip. Utahime does the same.

You let yourself breathe. Just for a second.

And then—

Gojo inhales sharply. He practically gasps.

“How could I forget?” His voice is urgent, disbelieving, like the answer had been in front of him the whole time and he’s only just realizing it.

You whip your head toward him, brows raising. “Oh, do share any sensitive information before we all get killed. Or, I don’t know, before your best friend becomes the vessel for the most dangerous wizard to ever live.”

Gojo rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. He meets your gaze, but this time, he’s already moving past you, his mind spinning too quickly to get caught up in the usual banter.

“Buddhist,” he says. “Sukuna was Buddhist. His grave can’t be near a Shinto shrine. It has to be near a Buddhist site.”

The realization settles like a stone in your stomach. You exchange a glance with Utahime, who looks as if she’s already running through the possibilities in her head.

Your fingers grip the edge of the map. “What does that leave us with?”

“At least fifteen locations near us,” Utahime says, blinking, “At least.”

“Are you saying we’ve got to check all of them?” Gojo asks, looking between you and everyone else. You bite your lip, peeling the skin off with your teeth as you think. “I don’t know. Perhaps? How many Buddhist temples are in Kyoto, anyway?”

Gojo looks at you first, then at Utahime, something unreadable flickering behind his expression, something cautious and restrained, as if he’s weighing the consequences of answering your question at all. The candle the shopkeeper had lit earlier flickers across Satoru’s face, casting thin shadows beneath his sharp cheekbones. His fingers twitch against the wooden bar top, like he’s resisting the urge to move, resisting the urge to do something.

You frown, gaze narrowing. “What?”

Gojo’s silence stretches a second too long. Then, his voice, low and deliberate: “There are at least one thousand six hundred Buddhist temples in Kyoto.”

The words do not come from him.

All at once, the room stiffens, the air cooling. You don’t know why the voice startles you at first—low, gruff, edged with years of disuse—until you realize that it’s the old man, still standing behind the counter, still pouring himself tea in slow, practiced motions. The steam rises from his cup in lazy tendrils, curling toward the rafters above. His hands, aged and steady, do not waver. He does not even look up as he speaks.

But you do.

You all do.

The weight of the realization sinks in slowly, thickly. One thousand six hundred temples. You swallow, glancing at the others. No one speaks. Shoko sets her cup down carefully, Nanami shifts slightly in his seat, Utahime exhales sharply through her nose. Gojo, for once, does not quip, does not sigh, does not even roll his eyes.

It is impossible.

There is no way to search them all. No way to narrow it down unless—

“There is a temple not far,” the old man says suddenly, breaking the silence, stepping forward just slightly. You watch as his eyes flick over the map, though his expression betrays nothing. “Only two hundred meters from where we sit.”

Your head snaps down so fast that pain lances through your neck, but you ignore it, hands bracing against the edges of the parchment as you scan over the markings. The golden dot pulses, steady and calm, as if unaffected by your growing frustration. You can’t make out a shrine, not yet, but—your eyes catch on a section of land with no buildings, no shrubbery, just empty space between the winding roads. That must be it.

But before you can say anything, Utahime leans forward, shaking her head. “Higashi Hongan-ji. It’s from the Edo period,” she says, too quickly. “We need a temple from the Heian period. Older. And powerful.”

The old man hums, his face impassive as he crosses his arms over his chest. The room stills again, the faintest crackle of burning incense filling the air. The shrine at the far side of the small shop glows softly, the flickering flames illuminating the tiny offerings of rice and folded paper charms. He is thinking.

You take the chance.

“Does the name Sukuna Ryomen mean anything to you?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. He only shrugs.

A slow exhale pushes through your nose. Damn. It was worth a try.

The incense is burning lower now, the embers dimming. A curl of smoke drifts lazily past the counter.

“There are three,” the old man says at last, tone unhurried, like it makes no difference to him whether you hear the answer or not. “Enryaku-ji. It may be the most powerful. There is Ninna-ji, where the imperial family once served as head priests.” A pause, and then: “And the oldest. Kiyomizu-dera.”

The last name lands like a thunderclap.

“Kiyomizu-dera,” you echo, staring at him.

“It is not far. You must cross the river,” the old man adds.

And then, before anyone can react, before anyone can even move, Gojo stands.

Not just stands. Scrambles out of his seat, knocking back the wooden stool slightly as he does. His sudden movement sends a ripple of tension through the room, all of you turning toward him, blinking in mild disbelief, as if he’d grown an extra head.

He meets your gazes easily, shoulders squared, hands in his pockets. And then he shrugs. “We don’t have time.”

Once you’ve all stepped out of the tea shop, the door creaks behind you, the bell above it jingling softly before falling silent. The sky has begun its slow transformation, the indigo veil of night thinning, giving way to the first streaks of dawn. The air is cold, crisp in a way that nips at your exposed skin, slipping beneath the collar of your Gryffindor sweater, biting at your fingertips. It smells of damp stone and earth, of the faintest traces of incense from the shop behind you, still curling from the open window.

Utahime lingers at the entrance for a moment longer, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear as she turns back toward the old man. He shakes his head when she extends a few folded bills, murmuring something about first customers, about not needing the money. But Utahime is stubborn—has always been—and as she steps onto the pavement beside you, she leaves the cash anyway, pressed against the wooden counter, weighed down by the edge of an empty porcelain cup.

You unfold the map with slow precision, smoothing the parchment between your fingers. The golden dot, still pulsing gently, wavers as the breeze tugs at the edges of the map, the wind lifting it slightly before settling again. Your eyes scan the markings carefully, tracing the roads, the rivers, the bridges. You squint, tapping a point with your finger.

“There.”

The others step in closer, huddling around the map.

“Kamo River,” you murmur, dragging your thumb along the dark line representing the water. “There’s a small bridge for pedestrians nearby.”

Shoko exhales, rubbing her hands together for warmth before tucking them into the sleeves of her coat. “We can walk, right?” she asks. “Not too far?”

You hesitate. The map doesn’t show exact distances, only approximations, and the city sprawls in all directions, unfamiliar and vast in the dim morning light. You frown, tilting the parchment slightly. “That’s what the old man said. I can’t tell exactly how far—”

“Two kilometers to the temple.”

The voice comes from just behind you, smug and self-satisfied, and when you look up, Gojo is standing there with his hands stuffed in his pockets, grinning like an idiot. The early morning glow casts a faint silver sheen over his white hair, his glasses catching the light, reflecting the faint pink creeping into the horizon. In his hand, he holds up a sleek, glowing rectangle.

A phone.

You stare at it. Then at him.

Your voice is sharper than you intend. “Since when do you use a phone? And why didn’t you tell us you had it?”

He shrugs, all nonchalance, like he hasn’t just broken every established rule of his own ridiculous existence. “Emergencies.” A beat. Then, with a smirk, “And games. Games are nice.”

You close your eyes, inhale slowly. Exhale. Try not to let your fingers curl into fists at your sides. “You are the most infuriating person I have ever met.”

Gojo grins wider. “And yet, here you are. Stuck with me.”

You don’t dignify him with a response. Instead, you lower your gaze back to the map, studying the roads, tracing the paths with your fingertips. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. What matters is getting to Kiyomizu-dera. What matters is getting there before it’s too late.

You walk for a few hundred meters when you reach the bridge. The city stirs around you as you do.

Dawn stretches thinly across the sky, its light still coolly pale, casting long shadows across the pavement. The buildings are bathed in a muted glow, their rooftops catching the first hints of morning. The roads are mostly empty, save for the occasional figure—an elderly woman sweeping the steps outside a small storefront, a man in a heavy coat walking his dog, its paws clicking softly against the stone. The world feels fragile like this, delicate in its quiet, as if it hasn’t quite woken up yet, as if the weight of day has not yet settled onto its shoulders.

The Kamo River runs beside you, its waters a dark, sluggish grey in the dim light, reflecting the soft ripples of wind across its surface. The air is cool, damp with the lingering chill of night, but fresh in a way that fills your lungs, clears your thoughts. Somewhere in the distance, a crow calls out, its voice sharp, echoing across the rooftops.

Ahead, the bridge comes into view—narrow, arched slightly, its railings dark with morning dew. The path leading up to it is empty, save for a single cyclist who passes by, the hum of rubber against pavement cutting through the silence. They do not glance your way, do not even seem to notice you, only continue forward, disappearing around the bend in the road.

Shoko sighs as she steps onto the bridge, her breath visible in the cold air. “At least it’s pretty.”

You don’t respond right away, only glance over the railing. The river moves sluggishly beneath you, its surface rippling under the faintest breeze. It is not beautiful—not in the way that you have seen rivers gleam under the midday sun, their waters sparkling and blue—but there is something about it that stills you, makes you pause. The way it moves, slow and deliberate, steady despite the world around it. The way it reflects the shifting sky.

You let out a breath, barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It is.”

The five of you walk in silence, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm against the damp pavement. The air is shifting now, the deep chill of dawn beginning to thin, the city exhaling as morning unfurls across the horizon. The bridge is behind you, the river fading into the distance, swallowed by the streets and stone. Ahead, Kyoto stretches outward, its quiet neighborhoods still heavy with sleep, the only sounds the occasional rustle of wind through bare branches, the distant hum of a passing car.

You walk between Shoko and Gojo, your shoulders brushing against theirs every so often, though neither of them seems to notice. A few steps ahead, Nanami and Utahime move steadily forward, their backs straight, their pace unwavering, both of them focused, determined. There is something in the way they carry themselves that reminds you of war, of battles fought not with wands but with sheer willpower, with the understanding that the world is not kind, that the only way through it is forward.

Then, in the quiet, Gojo speaks.

“Do you remember fourth year?”

His voice is softer than usual, quiet in a way that feels uncharacteristic. You glance up at him, surprised. His expression is unreadable, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze distant, as if he isn’t entirely here.

“When we first started the Marauders’ business?” he adds, tilting his head slightly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

You stare at him for a few seconds, trying to gauge what exactly he’s thinking. Then, you nod. “Yeah,” you say slowly. “Why?”

He exhales, barely more than a breath, shaking his head as if the thought is something fleeting, something inconsequential. “It’s nothing,” he murmurs. “I just find it funny that we, as fourteen-year-olds, were sneaking into professors’ offices and stealing things for people way older than us.”

You roll your eyes. “You do tend to find stupid things funny.”

He hums in agreement, but then, after a moment, he says, “Yeah? What if I tell you I also miss doing that?”

You look at him again, more carefully this time. He isn’t smiling—not really. There is something in his expression that is wistful, something that settles deep in his eyes.

“Miss doing normal Marauder things?” you ask. “But we started to hate it. Or at least, I did. It got boring and stressful after a while.”

He shrugs, kicking a stray pebble down the road. “I miss the simplicity of it.” His voice is quiet again. Thoughtful. “Tell me, if you had a choice between risking your life or going back to the way things used to be, would you still risk your life?”

You slow your steps slightly, considering the weight of the question. The easy answer is yes, of course. Yes, because you know what’s at stake, because you know what happens if you don’t do this. But it isn’t just about knowing. It’s about choice, about the burden of it, about understanding that you could walk away, that you could choose a simpler path if you wanted to.

But you don’t.

You shake your head. “I’d stay,” you say finally. “I’m doing this for a reason. We’re doing this to save lives. Countless lives. Especially yours. I’d rather continue doing this than go back to living the simple life.”

Gojo says nothing. He is completely silent.

The absence of his usual teasing, his usual arrogance, his usual deflections—it makes the air between you feel heavier. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t react. He only keeps walking, his hands still in his pockets, his gaze fixed ahead.

And then, before the moment can settle too deeply, before the silence can stretch too far—

Shoko exhales loudly, shaking her head. “Alright, enough of this existential crisis at dawn nonsense,” she mutters. Then, glancing at you and Gojo, she smirks. “Remember that time in fifth year when you two tried to steal those restricted books from the library and ended up setting off the alarm charms instead?”

Gojo blinks. Then, as if on cue, he breaks into laughter.

“You were the one who said it was safe!” he accuses, nudging you lightly with his elbow.

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” you retort, shaking your head. “You were the one who swore up and down that Flitwick wouldn’t have warded the third shelf! Apparently, he’s not tall enough for that!”

Nanami, a few steps ahead, groans. “They’ve complained about this loads of times. Can’t believe I didn’t know they were the Marauders.”

Utahime rolls her eyes. “The best part is that they still got the books in the end.”

Shoko grins, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. “Yeah. Because [Y/N] flirted with Filch to get out of detention. Thank Merlin he knew she was a prefect.”

You groan, but the tension has eased.

Gojo’s laugh lingers in the morning air, and for now, that is enough.

Kiyomizu-dera stands before you, bathed in the soft, pale light of early morning. Mist clings to the temple grounds, curling around the ancient wooden beams and drifting lazily over the stone steps leading up to the main hall. The scent of damp earth and distant incense lingers in the air, carried by the breeze that rustles through the bare branches of cherry trees lining the path.

It is quiet here. Too quiet.

You all stand at the base of the steps, your breath coming in soft clouds of condensation. The city below is still waking, a few distant sounds of life echoing from the streets far beneath the temple’s perch on the hillside. For now, though, the world feels small—just the five of you and the towering temple ahead, a place that has stood for centuries, unmoving, unyielding, as time passed around it.

You unroll the map, fingers stiff from the cold, and carefully open it, pressing out the creases as your eyes scan the dark parchment.

And then your stomach drops.

The map is blank.

Nothing. No intricate pathways drawn in ink, no flickering golden line to lead you forward. Just the pulsing dot that marks your own location, hovering over the place where you now stand, surrounded by empty space and buildings surrounding you.

Gojo curses under his breath, running a hand through his hair, the strands standing on end as his fingers rake through them. His lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening.

Nanami exhales sharply through his nose, the sound short and full of irritation. Utahime lets out a quiet whine, shifting on her feet, arms crossed tightly over her chest, while Shoko remains still, silent.

You swallow, trying to push down the sinking feeling in your gut. The cold suddenly feels sharper against your skin, the morning air biting at your exposed fingers.

“Where else could it be?” you ask, voice steady despite the unease curling in your stomach. You glance at Gojo, waiting. He licks his lips—an absentminded habit, perhaps—and the cold air immediately turns them a deeper shade of pink. He hesitates, his expression unreadable, before finally meeting your gaze.

“I don’t know,” he says, voice quieter than usual. “I really don’t know.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and unrelenting. The weight of the situation presses down on your shoulders, settling into the space between your ribs. You don’t have time for dead ends. You don’t have time for uncertainty.

Shoko finally speaks, her voice mild but edged with dry amusement. “So, what now? Do we wait for divine intervention?”

Gojo lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Might be our best bet at this point.”

Nanami exhales again, rubbing his temple. “We need to regroup. Figure out what we’re missing.”

Utahime shifts beside him. “We’re not missing anything. We’re just at the wrong place.”

Your grip tightens on the map, fingertips pressing into the parchment. The ink doesn’t change, doesn’t move, doesn’t offer you anything new. Still, something gnaws at you, a thought forming, just out of reach.

Your eyes flick toward the temple steps. The main hall looms above, its dark wooden beams strong and unmoving against the morning sky. Kiyomizu-dera has stood here for over a thousand years, watching as empires rose and fell, as people came and went, leaving only footprints behind. If Sukuna’s grave isn’t here, then at the very least—

You look at Gojo. “We should visit the temple.”

He raises a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite everything. “Since when are you so religious?”

You roll your eyes, already folding up the map and tucking it away. “We’re here. Might as well pay our respects.”

For a moment, he just watches you, that smirk still ghosting across his lips, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he shrugs.

“Alright,” he says. “Lead the way.”

continue reading chapter seven here. tumblr wouldn't let me post all of it (i surpassed the word count 😭🙏)

#gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru angst #gojo satoru fluff #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk x reader #jjk angst #jjk fluff #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n

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wh1msic4lwasab1 · 1 year ago

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"𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫"˚ ₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

synopsis: after losing a bet in the casino a day prior, your boyfriends gamble against you was for his girlfriend to show up with him the next day in a sultry, but fun outfit ;)

tags: semi-public, oral, pet names (bunny), vulgar, explicit

wrd cnt: 600+

a/n: i wasn’t even a huge aventurine fan before this but lord this was fun to write

Aventurine, your boyfriend, stood before you, his piercing eyes gleaming with anticipation. He was dressed to impress, his tailored suit accentuating his chiseled features. You, on the other hand, were clad in a bunny costume, complete with fluffy ears, a cotton ball tail, and a revealing corset. It was his request, and you had reluctantly agreed, knowing it you’d be a swindler for all eternity if you didn’t complete your end of the bet.

The casino was bustling with people, just like the day before. The sound of clinking glasses, chatter, and the constant hum of slot machines creating a cacophony of noise. You had chosen a relatively secluded spot, nestled between two rows of slot machines, but it was still very much in public. The thrill of being caught added to the excitement, and she could feel her heart racing in her chest.

"Get on your knees, loser," Aventurine chuckled, his voice low and husky, as he ran his fingers through your hair, sending shivers down your spine.

You nodded, her eyes locked on his, as she dropped to her knees. The cold, hard floor beneath you was a stark contrast to the warmth of your skin, but you didn't care. You were here to make good on your word, and plus, it was all too ridiculous to take seriously.

Aventurine's eyes never left yours as he unzipped his pants, revealing his already-hard cock. "Go on, bunny," he whispered, his voice laced with desire.

You obliged, fingers wrapping around his shaft as you began to stroke him. You played with his tip, slapping it down on your tongue while looking at him as he played on the slots, flushing money down the drain as if it was worthless.

You kissed down his length, teasing him just a while longer before uour mouth enveloped his cock, taking him deep into your throat. Aventurine's eyes fluttered closed, a soft groan escaping his lips as you worked your magic.

"Fuck, you're so good at this," he whispered, his voice trembling with pleasure. "You're a dirty little whore, aren't you? Yeah…now keep going.”

You hummed in response, the vibration of your lips sending shivers down his spine. His hips began to buck, his cock pistoning in and out of your mouth as he chased his release, while trying to stay as neutral as possible as people constantly walked by.

The sound of clinking glasses and laughter from the nearby bar grew louder, but you didn't care. You were lost in their own little bubble of desire, where nothing else mattered.

As Aventurine's orgasm approached, he pulled out of your mouth, his chest heaving with excitement. "I'm going to come all over your face, mkay’ bunny?," he whispered, his eyes blazing with intensity.

You nodded, your heart racing with anticipation.

With a few swift strokes, Aventurine came, his load splashing across your face, dripping down your chin and onto your corset. Your closed her eyes, feeling a rush of arousal flow down into your cunt, wishing he’d just let you ride him where he sat; and he probably would if he was just a little drunk and had no problem with getting you two arrested.

As you opened her eyes, she saw Aventurine's gaze locked on your, his eyes burning with desire. "Shall we make another bet?"

whimsic4alwasab1 ™ - do not copy, translate, modify, or claim any of my work as your own.

#jo’s posts #hsr smut #hsr aventurine #aventurine x y/n #aventurine #aventurine smut #aventurine x reader #bunny suit

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nanamineedstherapy · 3 months ago

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Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader X Gojo Satoru X Nanami Kento

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader X Ryomen Sukuna

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage.

Trigger Warnings: Contains Spoilers: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Emotional Turmoil, Redemption Arc, Alternate Endings, Heavy Angst, Mentions of Suicide, Grief, Emotional Neglect, Smut (18+), Pregnancy Loss, Cursed Energy Themes, Love Triangle, Second Chances, Found Family, Protective Sukuna, Tragic Backstories.

Minors DNI. As always, parts marked with {} can be skipped.

A/N: Hi, babes! So, this is the FINAL part of Alt Ending 1. Thank you for sticking with me through the emotional rollercoaster. Up next is Alt Ending 2 (Grovel Arc™), where Nanami and Gojo try to fix their sh*t. Honestly, no man has ever apologized to me properly, let alone grovel, so this is gonna be… interesting to write. 😭 Pray for me. Lastly, I NEED your thoughts: How did the smut go? This was my third attempt at writing it, so be brutal but kind. Oh, and for those worried about Sukuna meeting a woman at the hospital, don’t worry, I got you—mystery solved in this chapter! 👀" Sukuna literally goes feral mid-something in this, so brace yourself.

Chapter 8 (alt ending 1.4) - Fractured Tides (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 9 (alt ending 1.5 Final Part) - The Shadows We Bury

// Playlist

The sea was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city. You sat cross-legged on the beach, a blanket draped over your shoulders, while next to you, Sukuna leaned against the low table, arms crossed. The air smelled faintly of rain, the night’s chill biting but bearable.

He was watching you—he always was—but tonight there was something different in his gaze. A weight, an intensity that made your skin prickle despite you watching in the waves in the opposite direction, far from him.

“What?” you asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

He didn’t answer immediately, just reached into his pocket with a deliberate slowness that made your chest tighten. When his hand emerged, it held a small, velvet box.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as he opened it, revealing a ring. The diamond shimmered faintly under the city lights, but there was something about it—something that made your stomach flip.

“They’re yours,” Sukuna said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

They are yours.

Those words were engraved in your soul at this point.

“I had the lab make this... from them. Took longer than it should’ve because the idiots didn’t know what they were doing.”

Your hands trembled as you stared at the ring , realization crashing into you like a wave.

“It’s okay if you don’t want this,” he continued, his crimson eyes flicking to yours, cautious but steady. “If you’re not ready, if this feels like too much, I’ll wait. Hell, I’ll wait forever if I have to. But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you—all of you. And if nothing else... you should keep it. They’re yours, after all.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until your vision blurred, the first tear slipping down your cheek. Sukuna’s hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.

“Say something,” he muttered, his voice rough, almost pleading.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, you surged forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face against his shoulder. His arms encircled you instantly, strong and grounding, holding you like you might slip away.

“Ryo,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his skin.

“I mean it,” he said, his breath warm against your hair. “You don’t have to—”

You cut him off, pulling back just enough to press your lips to his. The kiss was soft at first, a whisper of a connection, but it deepened quickly, the raw emotion between you igniting like a spark to dry tinder.

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, desperate and unsteady, as if anchoring yourself to him could keep you from drowning in the moment.

When you finally broke apart, your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling in the cool night air.

“I’ll keep it,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “And I’ll keep you too, if you’ll allow me.”

His chuckle sounded like relief-wolfish, but his eyes betrayed something softer, something that made your heart ache. “It’s about damn time, princess.”

The weight of the world felt lighter as you leaned into him again, his arms around you and the city lights stretching out before you.

---

// Playlist

Japan

The penthouse was dark, the blinds drawn tightly enough to block out the world. The faint glow of the city seeped in through the edges, casting jagged patterns on the floor. Gojo sat against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, the bottle of sake dangling from his fingers. The liquid inside sloshed lazily, mirroring the emptiness in his chest. His gaze drifted toward the mirror across the room, but he couldn’t bring himself to look. The last time he had, he’d seen your tear-streaked face, heard your muffled sobs echoing in his mind.

His six eyes still flickered with phantom images—the twisted forms of the children who never had a chance. Every blink brought them back: the boy’s elongated limbs, the girl’s fused fingers, the shared split-colored hair. His hands shook, the bottle slipping slightly before he tightened his grip.

Across the room, Nanami stood by the window, his shirt wrinkled—a stark contrast to the man he used to be. His reflection stared back, gaunt and lifeless, a stranger wearing his face. He hadn’t slept in days, his mind too loud and unforgiving, hadn’t eaten in days, and the tremor in his hands betrayed the toll his guilt was taking.

“Do you ever stop seeing them?” Gojo’s voice was barely audible, the words slurred and heavy.

Nanami didn’t answer immediately, his hand pressing against the cold glass. “No,” he said finally, his voice brittle. “I see them every time I close my eyes.”

Gojo let out a bitter laugh, hollow and broken. “Figures.” He raised the bottle to his lips, taking a long swig. The alcohol burned, but it wasn’t enough to drown the ache in his chest.

Later that night, Nanami found himself on the rooftop. The wind bit at his skin, sharp and cold, but he barely noticed. The city sprawled out before him, a sea of lights that felt impossibly distant.

I was supposed to protect her , he thought to himself. I was supposed to be better than this. Better than those creatures we gave her.

He gripped the railing, the steel cold under his palms. The height didn’t scare him. Nothing did anymore. The thought crept in again, unbidden and relentless.

One step. Just one step, and it’s over.

Behind him, the door slid open. Gojo stepped out, his hair disheveled, his shirt hanging off his frame like it belonged to someone else. He didn’t say anything as he walked over, leaning against the railing beside Nanami.

“You thinking about it?” Gojo asked, his voice devoid.

Nanami’s grip on the railing tightened. “Every day.” He answered; Gojo was probably asking about his first thought, not the second one.

Gojo nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Yeah. Me too.”

Then, without preamble, he pulled out his phone as it buzzed with an incoming text, the screen glowing in the dim light.

“Sukuna wants to talk,” Gojo said, his voice low. He held the phone out toward Nanami, his expression unreadable.

Nanami’s brow furrowed as he hesitated.

Gojo dialed him back immediately, “It could be about her.”

The name went unspoken, but it was enough. There had never been anyone else, and there never would be, except you.

Nanami’s grip on the railing tightened before he stepped back, taking the phone. He pressed the speaker, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

“Stop trying to reach her,” Sukuna’s voice came through, unforgiving. “Stop pretending you’re regretful. You failed her. Both of you did. She doesn’t need your guilt, and she doesn’t need you.”

Nanami’s jaw clenched. “How is she?”

“Alive,” Sukuna replied, his tone casual, mocking. “Happier than she’s been in years. And she’s staying that way. You two will stay out of her life.”

Nanami’s shoulders sagged, the words hitting harder than he expected. He glanced at Gojo, who was staring at the phone with no expression, unable to think or speak.

Gojo leaned forward, his hands trembling. “Can we—”

“No,” Sukuna interrupted, his voice cold. “You can’t fix this. You can’t fix her. You don’t deserve to.”

Before he could respond, a faint sound filtered through the call. Laughter. Your laughter. Nanami’s breath hitched, his chest tightening painfully. Sukuna hadn’t hung up. He was letting them hear. You probably didn’t know.

“Hey!” Your voice came through, light and unguarded. “Guess what I remembered today? A ridiculous song I used to love.”

There was a rustling sound as you continued talking; they couldn’t hear what you were saying; they heard the next parts loud and clear.

“You’re mine,” Sukuna’s voice came next, low and possessive. “I’ll never share you with anyone.”

Your laughter bubbled up, unrestrained and genuine. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gojo’s grip on the phone tightened, his jaw clenching as he heard you hum a tune, your voice carrying a joy that had been absent when you were with them. The silence stretched as he listened, the pain evident in his eyes.

Nanami watched Gojo, the tension between them unspoken but palpable. The call was still live, but neither could bring themselves to speak. Sukuna’s voice cut through again, smooth and calculated, as you left.

“You hear that?” Sukuna’s tone was dripping with amusement. “She’s happy now. You both should’ve let her go sooner; she wouldn’t have had to go through that cursed pregnancy. You must have seen the reports. She stopped talking for months.”

Gojo’s eyes closed, his breath shaky as he muttered, “You’re hiding this from her. She doesn’t know we’re listening.”

“Of course not,” Sukuna replied, almost lazily. “Why would I let her see the people who broke her? Unlike you, I don’t hurt the people I care about.”

“You sent the reports?!” Nanami asked, frowning.

“Of course I did. You were spared because I was there in the hospital. I actually saw. Both of you deserved to carry the cursed knowledge of what you did to her.” Sukuna said, jaw tightening.

“Thank you for letting us know.” Nanami said, despite everything. They would have liked to know under any circumstance.

“Whatever, the last favor I will do is send you their remaining ashes. And you will stay away, or I’ll kill you. Capisce?” Sukuna challenged.

“Fine.” Nanami spoke after a beat too long.

Sukuna finally ended the call. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the city below, indifferent to the wreckage above.

Then he turned away, his hands curling into fists. The rooftop seemed smaller, the air heavier.

“She’s better off without us,” Nanami said finally, his voice hollow.

Gojo didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

There was nothing left to say.

---

Far away, you sat in Sukuna’s lap with your head on his chest, sipping a glass of wine as you sang the tune you’d remembered. Sukuna’s hand rested on your waist, his smirk softening into something almost tender. He watched you with an intensity that bordered on reverence, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin.

“You’re happy,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you.

You nodded, your smile radiant. “Yeah. I am.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, his smirk sharp but softened by something deeper. In his pocket, your old phone sat buried, silenced forever.

Sukuna wouldn’t let the past touch you again. Not Gojo, not Nanami, not even the truth. Because for the first time, you were free—and he’d burn the world to keep it that way.

You looked up at him as his crimson eyes held a fierce intensity, drawing you into a world where darkness and allure intertwined, awakening a sense of danger and exhilaration. In that moment, you felt both vulnerable and alive, caught in the intoxicating dance of Sukuna's presence.

{Without much thought, you kissed him, nipping at his lower lip.

He lowly growled in response, sending heat pooling in your stomach, and before you could think, he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist.

The world blurred as he carried you to the bed, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

He kicked the door shut behind him, his hands firm on your hips as he carried you effortlessly into the room. Both wine glasses clattered somewhere on the floor outside, forgotten in the heat of the moment. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, your fingers tangled in his hair as his lips moved against yours with a hungry, almost desperate fervor.

Your back pressed against the wall, your breaths shallow as his hands gripped your waist, firm but reverent. His body heat radiated through your clothes, and the faint scent of his cologne—spicy, dark, and utterly intoxicating—wrapped around you like a second skin.

“Still sure about this, princess?” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, thick with restraint.

You nodded, your eyes meeting his, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the hem of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling him closer until your lips were a breath away from his. “I’m sure,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through you as his mouth claimed yours, the kiss deep and unrelenting. His lips moved against yours with a skill that made your knees weak, coaxing soft gasps from you as his hands roamed, tracing the curve of your hips and the small of your back.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly as you tried to anchor yourself in the storm of sensation. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the walls, the warm light painting his sharp features with a golden hue.

His hands moved with purpose, tracing the curve of your waist, the line of your thigh, the hollow of your neck. Every touch was deliberate, reverent, as though he were memorizing every inch of you. When his thumb brushed your cheek, his gaze softened, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the intensity, so rare it made your breath hitch.

The world blurred as Sukuna moved with you into his arms, his movements unhurried but filled with intent. He carried you to the bed, laying you down gently, as though you might shatter under anything less. Hovering over you, his lips trailed from your jaw to the tender spot below your ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine. The scrape of his teeth made you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips.

“Bewitching,” he murmured, the word low and reverent as his hands slid beneath your shirt, pushing it up and over your head. His crimson eyes darkened, hunger and awe warring in his expression as he took in the sight of you.

Your fingers worked at his shirt, fumbling in your urgency to push it off his broad shoulders. The fabric fell away, revealing the intricate tattoos that wound across his chest and arms, their lines shifting subtly in the dim light. Your fingers traced their paths, marveling at the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. His breath hitched, the sound low and guttural, as you explored the hard planes of his body.

His lips found the hollow of your throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your skin. The faint graze of his teeth sent sparks of pleasure coursing through you. His name slipped from your lips, breathless and soft, spurring him on.

Sukuna’s kisses trailed lower, his mouth mapping your body with an intensity that left you spinning. When his teeth grazed the edge of your bra, you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Patience, princess,” he teased, his voice rough, but his smirk betrayed his own restraint. His hands found the clasp of your bra, undoing it with practiced ease. The garment slipped away, leaving you bare to the cool air and his heated gaze.

His lips returned to your skin, tracing the curve of your breast. His hand squeezed gently, his touch firm, as his mouth followed, lips closing around your nipple. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and your hands tangled in his hair, tugging at the strands.

He groaned, a deep, resonant sound that sent heat pooling low in your belly. His fingers traced the line of your throat, their touch impossibly gentle despite the fire burning in his gaze.

Your back arched into him, his mouth and hands working in tandem to draw sounds from you that you didn’t know you were capable of making. His tongue and teeth teased you relentlessly, each movement precise and devastating. For a fleeting moment, jealousy flared at the thought of anyone who had experienced this before you, but it evaporated as quickly as it came.

You were too close, too lost in him, your body trembling on the edge of release.

Sukuna pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. His crimson eyes burned, and a smirk tugged at his lips.

Dammit, the fucker knew what he was doing.

This was insurance for Sukuna, not that he needed it.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him as his lips crashed onto yours. The kiss was brutal, his tongue invading your mouth with a possessive fervor that left you gasping. His large frame, his strength, overwhelmed you, and yet you found yourself leaning into it, craving more.

He made quick work of your shorts and panties, discarding them in a single motion. Before you could process the loss of contact, one of his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. His free hand moved with precision, and suddenly, a second mouth materialized on his palm.

Your eyes widened, your breath catching, but the memory of his earlier teasing about his extra limbs calmed you.

“Relax,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a mix of amusement and command.

The mouth below moved, its tongue dragging a slow, deliberate line up your slit. The sensation was overwhelming, a shock of pleasure that made your body arch into him. Sukuna’s lips never left yours, his kiss fervent and unrelenting, muffling the moans spilling from your throat.

The tongue below was relentless, its movements brutal in their precision. It licked and sucked, the pressure perfectly calibrated to drive you to the brink. Your hands clung to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as your body trembled beneath him.

Your vision blurred, your senses narrowing to nothing but the feel of him—the heat of his mouth, the strength of his hands, the intensity of his presence. He devoured you, body and soul, leaving no part of you untouched, no desire unfulfilled.

Then, without warning, he curled one long finger, then a second, and slid them inside you with a deliberate slowness. The stretch made you gasp, your body arching instinctively into his touch. His right arm gripped yours, holding you in place as his fingers began to scissor inside you, exploring and opening you with an expertise that had your breath catching while simultaneously his other mouth continued suck your clit.

It felt like you were being sucked and fucked at the same time.

Your body betrayed you almost immediately, writhing and trembling under his relentless attention. It had been so long since you’d felt this—since anyone had touched you like this—and the pleasure hit you like a wave, fast and unrelenting.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him. The way his biceps flexed as he worked you open, the faint clench of his jaw as he focused entirely on you—it was intoxicating.

“Ryo—” you choked out, your voice breaking as your orgasm crashed over you, pulling a cry from your lips.

But he didn’t stop.

His fingers continued their relentless pace, his palm-mouth sucking harder as if determined to wring every ounce of pleasure from you. The overstimulation made you thrash, your hands grabbing desperately at his hair, pulling harder than you intended. He groaned against you, the sound low and guttural, his breath hot against your skin as his fingers added a third.

The stretch was exquisite, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You screamed his name, tears stinging your eyes as he pushed you into another orgasm almost immediately. Your body shuddered beneath him, your nails dragging across his scalp as you held onto him for dear life.

He groaned, his voice heavy with satisfaction as he felt you fall apart again and again beneath him. “Good girl,” he murmured, his tone rough but tinged with pride.

And he didn’t stop.

By the time he coaxed the fourth orgasm from you, you were a mess beneath him—your body trembling, your voice hoarse from screaming his name. His smirk grew with every shudder, every broken sound you made, his crimson eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction.

“Ryo, please,” you finally cried out, your voice shaky and desperate.

His palm-mouth withdrew, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat he’d left behind. His gaze burned into you, feral and unrelenting, his lips curling into a dangerous smirk.

You didn’t hesitate, your hands fumbling to undo his belt. He helped you, his movements quick but controlled, until his pants and boxers were gone, and he stood before you in all his glory.

Your breath hitched at the sight of him. He was huge, his cock thick and heavy, perfectly complementing his frame. The sight made your mouth water and sent a pang of nervous anticipation through you.

Tentatively, you reached out, your hand wrapping around his length. His breath hitched, his chest heaving as you began to stroke him slowly.

Your confidence grew as his breathing quickened, his head tipping back slightly, his eyes glinting with barely restrained hunger. You cupped his heavy balls with your other hand, rolling them gently as you increased the pressure on his shaft. A groan rumbled from deep in his chest, his eyes fluttering shut as he gave himself over to the sensation.

“Enough,” he growled, his voice strained. He caught your wrists and pushed you back onto the bed with a force that left you breathless.

You smiled smugly at him. Two could play this game.

The sound of the condom tearing was quick, his movements inhumanly fast as he rolled it on. He lined himself up with your entrance, his gaze meeting yours as he paused.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice softer, a rare moment of restraint.

You nodded, your body already arching toward him.

He pushed in slowly, the stretch making you gasp. The burn was sharp, but the way he peppered your face with kisses, his deep baritone voice murmuring reassurances, made you crave more.

“You’re perfect,” he grunted, his forehead resting against yours.

You gripped his hips, pulling him deeper despite the overwhelming sensation. By the time he was fully seated, you were trembling, the fullness leaving you breathless.

Sukuna stilled, giving you time to adjust, his lips brushing against your wrist in a gesture so tender it made your heart ache. When you nodded, he began to move, his pace slow and deliberate, as if savoring every moment.

Your nails raked down his back, drawing a growl from him as his restraint began to slip. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, each one drawing a cry from your lips.

He was unable to control it anymore.

The air shifted as Sukuna leaned back, his smirk turning feral. His tattoos began to glow, spreading across his skin like dark ink as his true form emerged.

You gasped when another set of arms materialized, their strength pinning your hips gently but firmly. Panic flashed through you for a moment, memories of past hurts threatening to surface, your husbands.

“Shh,” Sukuna murmured immediately stilling, his voice soft and grounding. He rested his forehead against yours, his gaze steady. “It’s just me, princess. Just me.”

You nodded for him to continue, your breathing evening out as his lips captured yours again, pulling you back into the moment. The extra hands gripped your hips as you held him closer, their hold unyielding but careful, anchoring you as he thrust deeper, his pace unrelenting.

The stretch, the pressure, the sheer overwhelming sensation—it was too much, and yet not enough. You moaned his name, your body trembling as he drove you higher and higher, his voice and touch grounding you even as he unraveled you completely.

Sukuna’s claws scraped against your skin, the faint sting leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. The sensation wasn’t frightening; it was exhilarating, a primal rush that left you breathless. When you met his gaze, his four crimson eyes gleamed with a mixture of raw desire and something deeper—reverence.

For a fleeting moment, Sukuna hesitated. His form, larger and more imposing, wasn’t meant for tenderness. He feared you might flinch, might look at him with the same disgust he’d seen in others before. But then you wrapped your arms around him, your hands threading into his hair as you pulled him into a kiss that was all teeth and ferocity.

The message was clear: words would fail you, but your actions wouldn’t. He wasn’t just desired; he was wanted.

Sukuna groaned into the kiss, his claws gripping your hips as his larger body pressed against yours. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered, his voice rough and thick with emotion.

His lips claimed yours again, desperate and feral. The weight of him, the sheer power radiating from his form, should have been overwhelming, but it wasn’t. It grounded you, pulling you into the intensity of the moment. Your hands explored the new ridges of his body, fingers tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his horns, the rippling muscles beneath his cursed marks.

Your hips bucked against him instinctively, drawing a low, wicked chuckle from his throat. “Needy little thing,” he murmured, his smirk teasing.

“Take me, princess,” he grunted, his claws gripping your thighs as he thrust deeper.

The intensity grew, Sukuna’s movements becoming less restrained. His hands—now four—worked in perfect unison. One gripped your hips, holding you in place as he thrust into you with a brutal rhythm. Another two cupped your breast, his thumbs flicking over your nipple, while the fourth wrapped gently around your throat, his grip firm but not constricting.

His other mouth reappeared below his Adonis belt, its tongue flicking over your clit with maddening precision. The combined sensations made you arch against him, your nails digging into his shoulders as moans spilled uncontrollably from your lips.

“Mine,” he growled, his voice reverent yet commanding, the words vibrating against your skin.

The air seemed to thrum with energy as Sukuna’s pace quickened, each thrust deeper and more powerful than the last. Your cries of pleasure filled the room, his name falling from your lips like a mantra.

“Ryo I'm going to—please,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your body trembled on the edge.

“Let go,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ve got you.”

You shattered beneath him, the pleasure consuming you in waves so intense they left you gasping for air. But Sukuna didn’t stop.

He flipped you effortlessly into new positions, his strength and stamina leaving you pliant and trembling. On your back, on your knees, straddling his lap—each time, his thrusts were calculated, his touch both demanding and tender.

By the fifth orgasm on his cock, a few of them ending with you squirting, your body was shaking uncontrollably, your voice hoarse from screaming his name. Sukuna groaned deeply, his grip tightening as he buried himself to the hilt, his growl vibrating through your body as his release followed yours.

The room fell silent, save for the sound of your ragged breaths. Sukuna withdrew, his hands moving with care as he disposed of the condom. Then he shifted back into his human form, his arms—still strong but less imposing—wrapping around you as he pulled you close.

His forehead rested against yours, his fingers brushing stray strands of hair from your damp face. “You okay, princess?” he asked softly, his crimson eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort.

You nodded, your lips curling into a tired, blissful smile. Words failed you; you were too spent to form a coherent response. But Sukuna’s smirk grew as he watched you, the smug satisfaction in his expression undeniable.

Before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out, soft and unguarded: “I love you, Ryo.”

Sukuna stilled, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly as if processing your confession. For a fleeting moment, you thought you’d made a mistake, your chest tightening with uncertainty. But then his smirk softened into something rare, achingly tender. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your forehead in a gesture so gentle it made your heart ache.

Then he pulled back slightly, his expression shifting to one of careful scrutiny. “As much as I’d like to hear that, I need to know if it’s real,” he said, his tone quieter now, almost hesitant. “Your judgment might be... clouded after that. And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way tomorrow.”

His claws stroked through your hair as he studied your face, his crimson eyes searching for something—hope, maybe, or reassurance.

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. “I’m sure of it,” you said, your voice steady despite the rawness of the moment. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze locked onto yours. Then he pulled you closer, his breath fanning across your lips. “I never thought this day would actually come,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

You chuckled softly, the tension breaking just enough for warmth to creep in.

His smirk returned, sharp and wolfish. “I love you too, mortal,” he said, the teasing edge in his tone undercut by the sincerity in his eyes. He captured your lips in a kiss so intense it left you breathless, his hands tangling in your hair as if anchoring himself to you.

“If you weren’t about to pass out, I’d fuck you through the night,” he added, his grin turning mischievous.

You laughed, weak but genuine, and nestled closer to him. “You are a succubus.”

“Good for you,” laughing he murmured, his voice warm.

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as if the world outside didn’t exist. For a moment, it truly didn’t. It was just the two of you, wrapped in the aftermath of something far more profound than passion. Something real. Something unbreakable.

His touch remained tender, his hands cradling you like you were the most precious thing in his world. For once, there was no need for words; his actions spoke louder than anything he could say.

As the night wore on, he cleaned the two of you, and the intensity softened into a quiet, lingering closeness. Sukuna held you against his chest, his larger form enveloping you protectively. His claws traced lazy patterns along your back, soothing and grounding you. His breath was warm against your hair, and the steady beat of his heart lulled you into a peaceful haze.

For the first time in almost a year, you felt whole—safe, cherished, and utterly loved.

The next morning, however, the beast you’d unleashed made itself known.

Sukuna woke you before dawn, his smirk as sharp as ever. “I’m not done with you yet,” he murmured, his hands already wandering.

By the time you were scrambling to get dressed for work, your legs trembling and your voice hoarse, you’d lost count of how many times he’d made you scream his name.

“You’re insatiable,” you muttered, glaring at him as he leaned lazily against the doorframe, shirtless and utterly unbothered.

His laugh was rich, unrepentant.

You were late for your meetings that morning, and Sukuna wore his wolfish grin like a badge of honor.}

---

Japan

// Playlist

Their apartment was as cold as the men who once occupied it. The furniture, meticulously arranged, now felt sterile—lifeless. The whiskey bottles cluttering the kitchen counter told a story of nights spent drowning in regret. Dust coated every surface, a physical manifestation of the neglect that had seeped into every corner of their lives.

Nanami sat on the edge of the bed, the sheets still wrinkled from the last night he’d spent sleepless there.

Your old bed. The one he had ignored you in. The one that bore silent witness to his failures.

His elbows rested on his knees, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles turned white. He stared at the floor, not really seeing it, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the physical world. His hair, once meticulously groomed, was disheveled.

The weight of his thoughts pressed down on him, suffocating. His lips moved, the words barely audible.

“I failed her.”

The room offered no answer. It never did.

His mind drifted back to you—your face, your laughter, the light in your eyes that he had so carelessly extinguished. He had failed you—his wife. You had been overlooked, neglected, and trapped in a marriage where their loyalty had wavered. His nights tangled with Gojo had driven a wedge too deep to repair.

You had begged him, hadn’t you? Pleaded with him to see you, to acknowledge you, to love you. But he hadn’t. He’d been too consumed by his own desires, too blinded by the illusion of control.

He had known you deserved better, but when you walked away, he hadn’t chased you; he hadn’t even realized you left after weeks.

And then there were the twins—his and Gojo’s. He hadn’t even noticed the cursed energy signatures you carried and hadn’t paid attention to the life growing inside you. Gojo had been his gravity, pulling him into an orbit that left you forgotten.

The miscarriage had been the final blow, a tragedy that shattered the fragile remnants of what once was. The hollowness inside him grew unbearable. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw them—the grotesque, malformed fetuses, twisted by the very cursed energy that had created them. The image was seared into his mind. Those fetuses weren’t children—elongated limbs, twisted spines, faces that seemed to accuse him even in death. They weren’t children. They were an abomination, a reflection of the sin that had consumed him. He couldn’t forgive himself for what he had done to you, for the pain he had inflicted in the haze of lust and neglect.

His breath hitched as he remembered your last gaze. The fear, the disgust—it had been etched so deeply into your features that he couldn’t forget it even if he tried. You had looked at him as though he were a monster, and maybe you were right.

Nanami’s hand reached for the blade on the nightstand, its edge glinting faintly in the dim light. It was the same blade he had wielded as a grade one sorcerer, a tool that had once been an extension of himself. He hadn’t used it in years, not after becoming a special grade, but tonight, it felt like the only thing that made sense.

He ran his thumb along the edge, the sensation grounding him in a way nothing else could.

A solution to the endless loop of failure and regret that played in his mind.

The silence in the apartment deepened, wrapping around him like a shroud. He thought of you, far away, happy in a life he no longer had a right to touch. He thought of Gojo, somewhere out there, probably drinking himself into oblivion. He would likely bounce back to his usual obnoxious self once his suspension would be removed and he’d be back with his students.

He thought of the twins.

This wasn’t a risk. His life had always been a series of moves, risks weighed and measured, but this—this was certainty.

His breath was steady. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. This was the only way to silence the ghosts, to end the endless loop of failure and regret.

As the blade fell, so did he—into the stillness that had always eluded him in life.

---

// Playlist

Gojo arrived hours later, the front door slamming shut with a loud thud as he chucked his shoes away and drunkenly called out for Nanami. But when he didn’t get a response. His six eyes immediately took in the scene: empty bottles scattered across the floor and the stark red contrast of blood staining everything in its path. The red so vivid it burned into his retinas.

“No,” he whispered, the word barely audible, breaking like glass in his throat. His heart dropped as his feet carried him forward towards the bedroom.

The ground beneath him felt unstable, as if it might crumble and drag him into the abyss waiting just beyond his senses.

Nanami lay on the bed, lifeless. His cursed blade was still clutched in his hand, a cruel mockery of the strength that had once defined him. Even in his final moments, Nanami had been methodical.

Gojo dropped to his knees beside the bed, his hands trembling as they reached for Nanami’s face. His fingers hovered just above the skin, unable to make contact, as though touching him would confirm the unbearable truth.

“Kento,” he croaked, his voice cracking. “No. No, no, no—what did you do?”

Nanami’s skin was cold, devoid of the warmth that had always been his anchor.

Tears blurred his vision, but his six eyes betrayed him, sharpening every agonizing detail: the slackness of Nanami’s jaw, the pallor of his once-warm skin, the faint streaks of dried tears on his cheeks.

Gojo pressed his forehead against Nanami’s, his body wracked with sobs. “You were supposed to stay,” he choked out, his voice breaking like glass. “We were supposed to figure this out. Together.”

The silence mocked him, louder than any scream could have been.

His cursed energy flared uncontrollably, crackling like a storm that had lost its anchor. The room trembled under the weight of his despair. Mirrors shattered, furniture splintered, and the air itself seemed to vibrate with the force of his anguish.

But none of it mattered.

“You promised,” he muttered, his voice raw and broken. “You said you wouldn’t leave. You said you’d stay.”

He didn’t know who he was pleading with—Nanami, himself, the universe—but the words spilled out, jagged and desperate.

“You were supposed to stay,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “You were all I had left. You promised.”

Gojo had lost everything. Suguru, his best friend and the only person who had ever understood him completely, had been the first to leave. His departure ripping a hole in Gojo’s heart that had never truly healed.

Then you—his wife, his home—had walked away, pushed to the edge by his arrogance and neglect. He’d been too wrapped up in his own chaos, too blind to see the damage until it was too late.

The twins came next—his fragile, desperate hope. They had been taken before they could even take a breath, their twisted forms a cruel reminder of his hubris. He had destroyed them before they had a chance to live.

And now, Nanami.

The one person who had endured it all. The one person who had stayed. The one person who had endured his flaws, his chaos, his failures—who had held him together when he couldn’t do it himself. The one person Gojo had trusted to never leave him. Gone.

He staggered to his feet, his body trembling like a brittle structure on the verge of collapse. The air thick with the scent of blood and regret. Stumbling out, he didn’t know where he was going, only that he couldn’t stay.

The city swallowed him, its noise and vibrancy an unbearable contrast to the void inside him. He wandered aimlessly, his vision unfocused, his feet dragging him forward without direction.

The streets were alive with chatter and laughter, the kind of mundane joy that had long since become foreign to him. He hated it. Hated how the world kept turning, indifferent to the wreckage of his life.

He stopped in the middle of a crosswalk, cars honking and lights flashing as the chaos of the city surged around him. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru felt utterly, completely powerless.

The strongest sorcerer, brought to his knees by the weight of his own failures.

He whispered your name, barely audible above the din, as if calling out to you might anchor him. But there was no answer. There never would be.

And as the world moved on without him, Gojo stood frozen, a man who had lost everything.

He took a split-second decision to go around Tokyo or its nearby areas—as far as his body would allow—and kill as many curses as possible in one night, but as he ran, the hollow ache, the insufferable pain, grew.

The streets of Tokyo were getting more and more restless, pulsing with the life of a city that never stopped, never cared. Gojo moved through them like a phantom, his body a blur, his six eyes scanning for curses. He wasn’t hunting them out of duty, nor out of anger. This was something else—something desperate, something final.

His cursed energy crackled around him, unstable and feral. Each exorcism was brutal, accurate, and devoid of the flair that had once defined him. He didn’t toy with the curses, didn’t smirk or taunt. He simply destroyed, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

The hollow ache in his chest deepened with every step, every swing of his cursed energy. The pain wasn’t physical; it was a void, vast and insatiable, devouring him from the inside out.

By the time the sky had an hour to lighten, he had crossed half the city, his legs heavy and his cursed energy flickering like a dying flame. He had done what he set out to do. And yet, the ache persisted, gnawing at the edges of his sanity.

Somehow, his aimless wandering brought him back to the rooftop. Their rooftop. Your rooftop.

The wind howled, whipping against his face with a biting chill, but it didn’t numb the pain. Nothing did. He stood at the edge, his silhouette stark against the approaching twilight. Below, the city bustled, oblivious to the man standing on the precipice of existence.

Gojo lowered himself onto the edge, his legs dangling over the side. The movements were slow, like he was savoring the weight of his own body, the solidity of the world beneath him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, the act almost ritualistic now.

The flame from his lighter flickered in the wind, but he shielded it with his hand, lighting the cigarette. The first drag burned, the smoke searing his lungs and grounding him in a way nothing else could.

“Guess you got tired of my bullshit too, huh, Nanamin?” He muttered, his voice rough and tinged with bitter humor. The words hung in the air, unanswered, as the city buzzed far below. How would a deadbody answer him lying in his own house?

He exhaled, the smoke curling upward and dissolving into the vast expanse of the night.

The rooftop began to tremble, subtle at first, then more violently as his cursed energy spiraled out of control. Cracks formed beneath him, spiderwebbing across the concrete as the air around him grew thick with pressure.

Gojo extended his hand, summoning a miniature Limitless Void. The black orb hovered above his palm, expanding slowly, its presence suffocating and absolute. The edges of reality bent around it, the weight of infinity pressing against the fragile fabric of existence.

For the first time, he welcomed the crushing stillness.

He leaned back, his head tilting toward the sky. The stars were faint, barely visible against the encroaching light of twilight sun—the sun you had once said he was. His six eyes shimmered, their brilliance dimmed but still hauntingly beautiful.

“See you on the other side, Nanamin,” he whispered, the words soft but resolute.

His eyes fluttered closed as he let the void consume him, the weight of his burden finally lifting.

By the time the sun rose, the rooftop was silent. The first rays of light crept over the city, illuminating the faint scorch marks where Gojo Satoru’s lifeless body lay.

The air was still, the remnants of his cursed energy lingering like an echo. The city below carried on, its rhythm unbroken, oblivious to the loss of the strongest sorcerer.

There were no witnesses, no grand farewells. Just the quiet, empty rooftop and the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air.

And as the sun climbed higher, the world moved forward, leaving behind the man who had once carried it on his shoulders.

---

A few years later, the bustling streets of Tokyo felt foreign now, though they had once been your home. Each corner carried ghosts of a life you had long buried, fragments of memories too sharp to touch.

This trip wasn’t planned—it was a last-minute necessity. You needed to retrieve your signed divorce papers to legally marry Sukuna. You’d hesitated to return, the thought of facing the past like a jagged blade pressing against your skin, but Sukuna had insisted he’d tag along.

“Can’t let you face this place alone, princess,” he’d said, his smirk softer than usual, a rare glimpse of the man beneath the monster.

The courthouse smelled like old paper and regret, the kind of place where lives were signed away with a flick of a pen. You sorted through stacks of paperwork, your hands steady, your heart a fortress. Then, a familiar voice pierced the quiet.

“It’s tragic, really,” said the lawyer, an old man who had once been on retainer for Gojo’s family to handle the endless property damage claims Gojo racked up. His tone was heavy with the practiced sympathy of someone who dealt in human misery daily. “What happened to Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento? They—well, you must know. It was all over the news back then.”

You froze, the papers slipping from your hands and scattering across the desk. His words hung in the air, suffocating.

“No,” you said, your voice devoid of emotion, as though speaking through a layer of glass. “I don’t know.”

The lawyer’s eyes widened in genuine shock. “You didn’t hear? They… they took their own lives. Together. It was years ago.”

“Ma’am?” A voice behind you called out.

You turned to find one of the witnesses to your wedding with the dead men.

“Hello Ino. You can call me by my name.”

“Umm ya. I was here to get my license back after racking up a few tickets. Gojo San killed all the curses and curse users in one night around Tokyo that day before… But ahh.. I got this a few days after... you know the day... in my mail along with instructions to cremate them with the twins. I flowed their ashes in Tokyo Bay, and I didn’t know where you were, so I have been caring it around ever since.” He said, nervously handing you an envelope.

The room tilted, the fluorescent lights above flickering like a dying heartbeat. You bent to pick up the fallen papers; your movements were mechanical, detached.

You took the letter and kept it. You didn’t care about reading it; you just didn’t want Ino to carry its burden.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice clipped, as though thanking both men for telling you the time instead of ripping open a wound you thought had long been scarred over.

Outside, Sukuna leaned against the car, smoking with Choso. Yuji sat in the backseat, watching some brightly colored anime on his phone, the laughter from the tiny screen a cruel juxtaposition to the hollow ringing in your ears.

“Done already?” Sukuna asked, straightening up as he and Choso flicked their cigarettes.

Sukuna leaned in to press a kiss to your temple as he guided you towards the passenger door, his crimson eyes scanning your face.

“Yeah,” you replied, slipping into the passenger seat, your expression unreadable.

Once he got in the driver's side while Choso hung in the back with Yuji, Sukuna’s gaze lingered, his intuition catching the faint tension in your shoulders, the tightness in your jaw. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said, turning to look out the window.

And you were. There was no ache in your chest, no tears burning at the corners of your eyes. The news was a fact, a statistic, nothing more.

“They’re gone,” you whispered to yourself, the words as weightless as the ashes Sukuna had flicked into the wind.

Sukuna didn’t press, his silence offering comfort words never could. He just drove, his hand briefly brushing against yours on the console, steady and unyielding as ever.

That night, as you lay in your bed back in the Seychelles, listening to the quiet hum of the city outside, you thought about them for the first time in years. The memories came unbidden, like waves lapping at a shoreline long abandoned.

You remembered the nights you spent with them, wrapped in the illusion of love and stability, the promises whispered between breaths, the warmth of their hands on your skin. And then you remembered the way they looked at each other, their gazes, a language you were never fluent in, the moments when you became invisible, a shadow in your own marriage.

The twins—your twins, theirs—had been your breaking point. The miscarriage had gutted you, left you hollow and raw, and they hadn't offered anything but their own grief, twisted and selfish when the most powerful sorcerers should have been the first to know of their children in your womb. They hadn’t even noticed you fading; the light in your eyes extinguished. They had been too caught in their orbit, too consumed by each other, to see you drowning.

And when you finally begged them, they didn’t care. Nanami’s stoic silence had been a knife to your chest, and Gojo’s arrogant laughter, masking his disbelief, had been the salt rubbed into the wound.

“They made their choice,” you whispered into the darkness, your voice steady, your heart unmoved.

Sukuna stirred half asleep beside you, his arm pulling you closer to his chest. “What choice?”

You didn’t answer, and he didn’t ask again. His hand rested over your stomach, where life had once flickered and faded, his touch a silent vow that you would never feel that emptiness again.

For the first time in years, you slept without nightmares.

“Dada, when will Mama wake up?” Emi’s small voice broke the morning stillness. She clung to Sukuna’s leg, her wide, heterochromatic eyes—one the cerulean blue, the other the deep amber—gazing up at him with an innocence that belied her very nature.

“She’s tired, Emi. From the jet lag,” Sukuna replied, his tone conversational as he sliced through vegetables.

“Mama didn’t get nightmares last night,” Kōen chimed in from the counter, where he was perched, slurping instant ramen. His split-colored hair glinted in the morning light, an eerie echo of his parentage. “I sensed it.”

“I sensed it too,” Sukuna affirmed, cracking eggs into the bowl.

Despite his thousand years as a curse, Sukuna had never imagined himself in this role: a father to beings so uniquely terrifying. His long existence had been marked by solitude, reflection, and eventually, the decision to end it all—only to be reborn, half-human, half-curse, in his own descendant’s bloodline.

He had tried being a sorcerer again, but the endless cycle of death and corruption left him disillusioned. The weak died; the strong grew drunk on power. He had walked away, vowing never to look back.

When Megumi had first arrived looking for you and Sukuna had to leave for a few days, he hadn’t anticipated the call from the hospital. It was the same place where you’d undergone the dilation and curettage after losing the twins. Uraume’s frantic voice still echoed in his ears.

“There’s something happening at that precise hospital. Suicide rates have spiked out of nowhere,” they’d insisted. While the hospital floor manager spammed him every hour.

Reluctantly, Sukuna went. The morgue was cold, sterile, and silent, save for the faint cries echoing from the shadows. His stomach twisted as he stepped closer, his eyes landing on the source of the sound.

Two grotesque forms writhed on the floor. They were the size of newborns, their twisted limbs and split-colored hair an unmistakable resemblance to the children you’d lost. Their cries were hauntingly melodic, a siren song that chilled the air and sent shivers down his spine. They crawled after the hospital staff on their knees, like infants seeking comfort.

They didn’t even acknowledge Sukuna at first.

His chest tightened, an ache spreading through him as he stared at the malformed beings. Slowly, he began to hum. The lullaby—their lullaby. The one he’d made up for them when they were restless, keeping you awake through the night.

The cries softened. Their heads turned toward him, their movements jerky and unnatural.

But they were horrifying to look at. Their forms were wrong, their very existence a violation of nature. Sukuna knew he couldn’t leave them like this.

When Uraume arrived, Sukuna had already made his decision. He moved the twins to a secure location and did the only thing he could think of: he shoved ten of his own fingers down each of their throats. It’s not like his soul would possess them; his soul was reincarnated.

The transformation was immediate. Their twisted forms gave way to soft, perfect skin. The grotesque cries became soft coos. They were no longer curses of suicide; they were infants, whole and complete.

But the relief was short-lived.

As Sukuna studied their energy, the truth became clear. These children were curses of death after their own deaths. Any non sorcerer who saw them—truly saw them—would die within sixty seconds. Only the dying could perceive them safely.

Bringing them to you was out of the question. Letting you know could result in you doing reckless things in order to see them, and Sukuna would not let that happen. The kids understood this as they grew, their burden weighing heavy on their small shoulders. Sukuna, Uraume, Choso, and Yuji became their guardians, raising them in secrecy. The twins adored you, but they could only watch from the shadows, unable to interact directly.

It seemed they had inherited their fathers’ burdens. But they didn’t have a hand in their death; they had been with Sukuna at the time. That was all their fathers’ own doings.

They were special grades unlike anything the world had ever seen, their cursed energy carrying traces of Gojo, Nanami, and Sukuna himself because of his cursed fingers. At just four years old, they had not one Domain Expansion, but three—one from each of their fathers, with the potential to develop more. Even Gojo and Sukuna didn’t know what the fuck domain expansion was at that age.

Sukuna’s thoughts broke as he heard you stir in the bedroom, the sound of the sheets shifting pulling him back to the present.

He turned to the twins, who were now perched on the couch, waiting for his instructions. Their mismatched eyes glinted with curiosity, though they didn’t speak.

“Time for school,” Sukuna said, his voice firm but gentle. “Choso’s waiting downstairs. Don’t make him yell.”

The twins scrambled off the couch, each hugging one of Sukuna’s legs before running out the door. Their laughter echoed down the hall as Choso’s exasperated voice rang out, “Don’t run! You’ll trip and break something!”

Sukuna sighed, shaking his head. They were a handful, but they were his. And he'd do everything to keep them safe, not that they needed it.

As he turned back to the kitchen to finish the omurice, he couldn’t help but glance toward the bedroom, where you were beginning to wake. For all the burdens he carried, the sight of you—alive and at peace—was enough to keep him moving forward.

----

It was folded so carefully that it seemed Nanami believed its neatness could shield you from the chaos within. The scent of aged paper filled the room. It's ink was slightly smudged, as if tears had fallen on it during its writing.

The words stared back at you, raw and unpolished, unlike Nanami’s usual precision.

To the woman I failed to deserve,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. Maybe I’ll find the courage to send it; maybe it’ll stay buried here with everything else I couldn’t say aloud.

If you’re reading this, I wasn’t strong enough to say it aloud. I always thought there would be more time—more moments to make things right, to fix what I broke. But time has a way of slipping through your fingers when you need it most.

I don’t even know where to begin. How do you apologize for a crime so immense it feels woven into your very being? How do I tell you that every breath I take now feels stolen from someone better, someone who wouldn’t have left you alone in the dark?

When we started this, I thought I could give you everything you deserved. Stability. Love. A partner who would always stand by your side. But somewhere along the way, I lost sight of you. I let myself get caught in the orbit of something I thought I needed, and I let you drift further and further away.

I should’ve seen you.

Every day, I should’ve noticed the way your shoulders carried a weight too heavy for one person. I should’ve seen the way your eyes dimmed as you fought to hold yourself together. Instead, I turned away, selfishly clinging to the things that made me feel whole, even as they shattered you.

I let you carry us. And when you couldn’t anymore, I let you go.

The twins…

God, I can’t stop thinking about them. I dream about them every night. They’re always there, reaching for me, crying out, extending their tiny hands... but I can’t hold them. I can’t even touch them. They never had the chance to exist outside of you. It’s like the universe is punishing me for daring to believe I could be their father.

You carried them, even when it tore you apart, because you loved them in ways I never gave you the space to love me. And when you lost them—when we lost them—I wasn’t there to hold you. I wasn’t there to take even a fraction of that pain. I can never forgive myself for that.

I wasn’t there.

You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. But I also know that strength comes at a cost. I see it now—the toll it’s taken on you, on your heart.

If I could rewrite the story, I’d choose you every time. Not out of obligation, but because you were always the one. You were the constant, the one who made everything else bearable.

You deserved someone who could’ve seen the warning signs, someone who would’ve been by your side before the storm hit. Instead, you got me—a man so consumed by his own failures he didn’t notice yours until it was too late.

And now, I’m left with nothing but this: words on a page you likely will never read. Words that will never be enough to undo the damage.

You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this, why I’m making you carry this too. But the truth is, I can’t leave this world without telling you the one thing I was too much of a coward to say before:

You were my salvation.

Every smile, every glance, every moment you gave me—those were the only times I felt like I was worth something. But I wasn’t. I see that now. I wasn’t enough for you, and I wasn’t enough for them.

You were my lighthouse in a storm I couldn’t escape, and I turned away.

I’m not asking for forgiveness—I don’t deserve it. But if you can find it in your heart, I hope you can find peace. Not for me, not for Gojo, but for yourself.

You deserve a life without shadows. A life where you can breathe freely again.

You deserve love. You deserve someone who will see you for the incredible, breathtaking force of nature you are.

Sukuna deserves you. From the only time I met him, I knew he would do anything to keep you safe. He looked at you the way Gojo and I used to look at you. Maybe he will keep you safer than we ever did. And even if he doesn’t, I hope you are happy and protected wherever you go. I hope you and Megumi become friends again.

I love you. I’ve always loved you.

I’ll never be able to stop loving you.

Even now, even when I’ve become the very thing I feared most—another ghost haunting your life.

Goodbye, my love,

Always your Ken

A/N: AND THAT’S A WRAP ON ALT ENDING 1! I’m sobbing; how about you? Let’s unpack: I’m already bracing myself for Alt Ending 2. Y’all wanted groveling Gojo and Nanami, so it’s coming. And by ‘coming,’ I mean give me a few days because writing men who actually apologize is harder than exorcising curses. I know Sukuna kind of dominated this fic (pun intended). Confession time: I used to LOATHE Sukuna, but after reading Bloody Inheritance by the legend @@sadistic-kiss, I am now officially a Sukuna apologist. Like, who gave him the right?? If you’re in a Sukuna hangover after this (like me), I HIGHLY recommend it. But please, for the love of cursed energy, read it's trigger warnings first. Okay, I NEED your thoughts on three things: How was the smut? Be honest but gentle—this was my third attempt, and I’m sweating. Did Sukuna as "Daddy Sukuna™" hit as hard for you as it did for me? The hospital floor manager mystery is solved in this chapter. Satisfied? Or do y’all still think I rushed it? 👀 Also, let’s talk about the playlist. What’s your favorite song to cry to while reading this? Asking for research purposes. 👀" P.S. If this chapter emotionally destroyed you, comment so we can cry together. 💔 Let’s make AO3 and Tumblr our group therapy session.

Next Chapter 10 (alt ending 2.1) - Silent Reckonings (Tumblr/Ao3)

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