#and I really wish the Crystal Forests were real | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yongbbokkie · 4 months ago

Text

okay. so.

*endless demonic screaming*

Darling.

I don't know if I've ever enjoyed an opening to a story more. holy shit. the way you set it up and the crystal clear picture you drew with just a few lines?! insane! your talent never fails to amaze me!! the imagery you created of that house, and the woods, and the attic is so alive to me it's almost like I could reach out and touch it. I honestly don't know how you do it! somehow it felt like I had been there before! the danger and the creepiness made me legit shiver!

your characters are also, as always, amazing. I'm already half in love with this Jeongin, and his foxy side was so adorable! but also menacing... much like jeongin himself haha. and your mc feels so heartbreakingly real. idk why. she feels like a long lost friend?? somehow?? the father also feels... complicated. like, he doesn't seem like a bad guy but he's also a murder?? but it's against his wishes? so like? I feel sorry for him?? I mean, I'm glad the reader is free now, but I'm sad she had to kill her dad... on the other hand, I'm glad it was her who killed him and not jeongin or something else, y'know? coz then it's her choice (kinda), and she freed herself... but that's gonna come with a lot of complicated and messy feelings because she obviously still loved her father. gosh. it's all so intricate and tangled up! I love it!! oooh I can not WAIT to see how you move forward.

also. I have theories about the father. the cannibalism, the endless hunger, the mindless screaming when it takes over, and then also the stags that turned into humanoid creatures with elongated limbs and dead eyes made me instantly think of Wendigos (idk if that's what you were going for).

but I'm also wondering if the stags were jeongin's brothers maybe?? you know, coz stags are kings/princes of the forest? idk.

I really am so excited to see more. knowing that this ends with Jeongin eating his brothers is kinda wild, but also, I'm a bit relieved to know that he ends up okay (ish, maybe??) and I'm just really really looking forward to go on this journey!!

eee! thank you for writing, and for sharing your stories. I enjoy them so immensely, and they never fail to bring me happiness! (even the sad ones)

🤗💙

the fifteenth heir ; faerie prince au ; jeongin/reader ; part one

masterlist.

When you save the life of an injured wolf, you are not expecting him to turn into a prince and save you in return. Of course, as it turns out, fairy tales are not that simple. - A prequel to The Same But Different: The story of how Prince Jeongin overpowered his fourteen older brothers to take the throne of the summer court.

part one | chapters tba | ao3 link.

pairing: yang jeongin/reader content info: set in the faerie prince universe, the prequel to the same but different. faerie/human romance. strangers to lovers. eventual sexual content.

content warnings: please heed the following trigger warnings and read at your own discretion. this story is predominately a romance but classified under horror as well. there will be gruesome scenes, images, and threatening scenarios. this chapter features murder, isolation, mentions of human cannibalism, neglect, suicidal thoughts, explicit violence, and dark fantasy elements.

chapter word count: 7000 words.

enjoy <3

Absolute silence surrounds the house. In daylight, pests are lured closer by the meaty red stench of blood. At nightfall, every lowly thing knows to keep away from the yawning maw of that front door. Even animals understand a chasm, this black hole that swallows life and belches bones back into the woods.

You wake behind the eyes of the monster, curled up in your cot by the attic window. Even the slightest noise wakes you, the smallest disturbed pebble a thunderous exclamation in the silence.

Your eyes adjust to the moonlight darkness. You scan the yard.

Leave, you think, pleading with everything and nothing. You beg whatever is out there to get away before it gets hurt.

It’s been a week since your father’s last hunt and his hunger is going to get the better of him – and you are a selfish little girl in a terrified woman’s body and you don’t want to hear another murder.

Silence is absolute until it is not. It always ends with a scream.

Your own shriek is strangled in the sleepy rasp of your voice, startled by a shape emerging from the thrush of the woods. Your racing heart patters as the shadow takes shape in the moonlight.

Oh, it’s a stag.

Two - no, three of them.

It’s better than a person. Your father won’t be hungry for an animal this late in the week.

It’s still unsettling. Your father occasionally allows you into the woods to hunt for animals. You are not allowed to venture far and nothing intelligent approaches the house, so you never find anything more than rabbits and squirrels. If there are more animals out there, it is deep, deep in the miles of trees, well past where the footpaths fade and the branches start to tangle into a wall of impenetrable brambles.

You have never seen a stag before.

The first stag crosses the yard. It steps tentatively, as you suppose deer are wont. But there is something about the angle of its head, the curious, scrutinizing tilt as it looks at the house – like it’s really considering it, the way people might. The way people do, with a breath of relief.

Thank god, they always say. A house.

Our car broke down on the highway.

We were hiking and got lost.

There’s something about these woods.

We don’t know how we got here.

You don’t know how they get here either. Despite the repeated claim, there is no highway anywhere close. You have looked. There’s nothing but the house.

The stags cross the yard one by one, flicking their heads, their antlers waving in the dark. For a moment, the shadows look like long, spindly fingers, stretching up and up as if taunting you with a friendly wave. Hello, they say, we’re out here and you’re in there. Can you see us too?

Then the porch lights wash yellow over the blue night. Your father steps onto the porch. He always answers the door, just like you are always in the attic.

The stags run, though it seems more jaunty than afraid, a bouncing trot back into the woods. Your father hollers after them, enraged his hunger was piqued only to find no satisfaction.

You lay back down and close your eyes. This screaming is preferable to the usual kind, but it is still screaming.

And it always ends with a scream.

You are sitting by the window, legs curled up and arms around your knees. You watch the yard, the flies zipping here and there in the daylight. You have been watching for hours, wondering if the stags will come back. They seem like an impossible dream in the light of day. Try as you might, you cannot picture them in the yard. They just don’t belong there. Nothing does. It makes that murky dream feel like a nightmare.

Your watching is interrupted by a creaking on the stairs. Your father is coming up to the attic.

You jump out of bed, dressed in your too-small shorts and too-big shirt, like always, and you fetch the key under your cot, like always, and you are waiting at the closed door when he arrives, like always.

Even though you can hear each other breathing, he still knocks at the door. A semblance of politeness. Knocking, like he is protecting your privacy. Knocking, like you can’t hear him hacking his way through human bodies, like you can’t hear the mess, like you don’t know where the meat goes.

He knocks, like always.

You slide the key under the door so he can unlock it. It’s a type of understanding, isn’t it? You can’t leave without his permission. He can’t reach you without yours.

The door opens.

He is holding a hunting knife. It should scare you. He has used it against you before, the one and only time you tried to run away. He let you out to hunt and you ran for that elusive highway. Ran, got lost, got scared, got found. He cut at your legs, not to sever or maim, but in a frantic, desperate kind of threat. That he would. That he would do a lot.

But there are things he won’t do. He won’t make you eat the remains of his human catches. He hands you the knife and says, “Go.”

“Do you want something too?” you ask like you don’t know the answer.

“No,” he says, with no further explanation for what he intends to hunt and eat.

You take the knife.

It’s a cool day. You think it must be autumn but the deeper you sink into the woods, the warmer it gets. The gentle breath of the autumnal breeze vanishes as you leave range of the house. The sun brightens while the shade thickens, the forest a starker and starker contrast of light and dark. You keep to the shade because it is sweltering in the sun with no breeze.

It feels strange to do something like that. Does a moment of comfort really matter? Your legs are scarred, the woods are hot, and the house is always waiting. Does a minute of shade really matter?

Resigned, you trudge through the woods in your bare feet, stepping into patches of hot sunlight. The knife dangles in your loose grip. You hardly feel the path under your feet.

A sound bleeds into the quiet nothing. You ignore it even though it could be a catch. That’s why you’re out here, isn’t it? To find food? A rabbit, a squirrel. There are no stags. You were dreaming. There is nothing. Nothing but the house, right?

Nothing but this, like always.

You stop. Your grip tightens around the knife. Every part of you throbs like it is begging to be pierced. Maybe it will wake you out of this nightmare. Maybe it will set you free. Maybe you just want the house to spit your bones into the woods. At least you’d never have to go back in.

You hear it again. It is not the skitter of an animal or a human scream or any sound you know.

Crying, you realize. It’s the whining wail of a hurt thing, more despondent than afraid. It pierces those vulnerable places faster than a knife. A new ache replaces it.

You follow the sound. It sadness is so persuasive that you begin to cry as well.

You stumble towards some trees, their branches low and tangled. You swing at them with the knife like it’s a machete. You need to get through. You don’t know why.

It must be an animal on the other side. It could be hurt or it could hurt you. It could be one of the stags. Somehow, you know it’s not, thinking of those taunting antlers. They couldn’t make a sound like this.

The branches cave with a shatter, all at once as if tired of fighting. You stumble into an alcove, a little shelter among the trees.

In the middle of it, curled up and crying, is a wolf.

A wolf?

Its fur is a solid midnight black, darker than the shadows around it. Its big body is irrefutably canine but the face is not wolf-like.

A fox, you think, though the proportions are all wrong. Foxes are not this big and overwhelming.

You don’t dwell on it because this fox-wolf is hurt. In the obsidian darkness of its coat, you almost miss the streaks of blood, the open cuts just barely visible.

You drop the knife. The fox-wolf watches it fall, its whine gone silent in your presence. Its black eyes are steady. It looks at the knife then at you. There is a horrible sadness in its gaze, a miserable resignation to the droop of its head.

You know this feeling well.

“Did he do this to you?” you ask, as if you expect an answer. It is not more unusual than speaking to yourself.

The fox-wolf whines, a sad, imploring beg. Its gaze goes to the knife.

“I’m not like him,” you say. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Even as you say it, you are not sure your father is responsible for this. It’s not his nature. For all his abominable offences, your father does not hunt for sport. He slaughters indiscriminately but it is always purposefully. Animals, early in the week, brought back skinned and ready for cooking. Humans, later, when he changes, when he starts sweating under some invisible heat source and nothing else satisfies him.

That is when you go to the attic and let the door lock behind you. You know he’s still your father when you can hear him breathing on the other side. When the hunger possesses him, he is a screaming, mindless thing, throwing himself at that fortified door, clawing it up like an animal before leaving to hunt easier prey.

He has managed to avoid that state for a while, no longer waiting for the arrival of a meal but seeking it out in advance. Preventative measures became necessary over time. The length of his satisfaction keeps shrinking. He used to last months, then one month. Now it is a week before he hunts again.

He is hunting tonight so the hunger has not yet taken over. He did not mindlessly attack this animal. If he deliberately targeted this fox-wolf, he would have brought it back as meat for you.

You approach the animal, tentative but not as wary as you should be. It has big teeth: visible, sharp incisors when it opens its mouth. It would keep away any sane person with a reasonable fear of suffering. But a bite is not different than a walk in the hot sun.

You kneel beside the animal. You touch it carefully, parting the bloody fur and exposing the wound beneath. It is not the work of a knife. It’s a gash near the neck, an attack as wild as it was intentional.

Blinking, you recall those antlers in the dark.

“Did the stags do this?” you ask gently.

The fox-wolf whines. It sound affirmative, even though that’s impossible.

The greatest impossibility is the sudden pang in your heart. You thought it had already turned to dust. A small, broken shard beats for this hurt creature.

“Poor foxy,” you say.

You kiss the crown of the fox-wolf’s head. It emits a whimper. It rests its head in your lap.

It has been so long since you kissed anything. You kissed your parents a long time ago. Long before they disappeared on a walk in the woods, when your father came back alone and unnaturally hungry no matter how much your then-teenage self cooked and cooked and cooked.

There was one final kiss you gave each of them, but you don’t remember it now. It would have been inconsequential at the time, taken for granted there would be many more.

You will remember this one. Giving affection to another living thing is as important as receiving it. You were affectionate, once, you think.

For a time, you sit in the alcove, tucked away from the world and the woods. You stroke the fox-wolf’s head from the crown to the neck, then back up. You drag your pinky down its snout and its eyes close like a person lulled to sleep.

The fox-wolf stirs first. It lifts its head and looks at the knife. When it looks at you with those glossy black eyes, you understand.

“No,” you say without hesitation. Terrible sadness cloys in your throat. “I know it hurts, but you’re not going to die. I won’t hurt you. Don’t ask me that.”

You don’t question its seeming understanding. You know it’s still impossible, but you cling to that connection. You imagine it sees your own scars and the obvious exhaustion of your weary body. You imagine it recognizes the droop of your head. You imagine a broken part of its animal heart beats for you too.

“You’re not going to die like this, okay?” Your voice is small and rough. A tear slides right off your cheek and onto the fox-wolf. Despite your efforts, the tears keep coming, plinking along the fox-wolf’s scars like raindrops. You brush the creature with careful fingers.

“You’ll be okay,” you say. “I promise.”

You use the knife to cut a strip of fabric from the bottom of your t-shirt.

“This is the only shirt that fits me, you know,” you say, talking to keep the animal calm while you wipe its wounds clean. “It was big when I got it. We were just coming to the house for the summer. I was thirteen. I didn’t even want to go but Mama said it would be good to get out of the city for a couple weeks. It’s been longer than that now, you see. A lot longer. I’m all grown up. And Mama’s gone. It’s just me and Daddy and the House. This isn’t a good place, but you know that. The forest did something to him and now he gets hungry. He's not my Daddy when that happens. He’s just hunger. And when he’s not hungry anymore, it’s like he wakes up, and then he’s a mess, like he sees all the blood for the first time. The worst part? I think it’s all because of me.”

You never say this out loud, not even to yourself in the quiet nothing. You say it now because it’s the reason you rip your last shirt and bandage the hurt animal.

You have to save something because of how much has died to save you.

“He doesn’t want me to run away, to get too far in the woods,” you say. “I think he’s scared that what got him and Mama will get me. And whatever it is, it’s worse than this. Whatever it is, it makes the house safe in comparison. He’d rather keep getting hungry and kill all those people than risk the forest getting me.”

You kiss the fox-wolf’s head when it whimpers.

“I want to save you, foxy,” you say. “Because he only stays alive to keep me alive. He hunts so he won’t hurt me. All the horror, all the bodies, all the death… it’s to keep me alive. Trapped, but alive. And it’s not any kind of life worth protecting, but that’s what a daddy does, I guess. I’m all he has left to protect. I don’t think he’ll die until I do. Maybe I should. Maybe I should let this all end.”

The fox-wolf whines again but not from pain, lifting its head to turn those solemn eyes onto yours.

“I know,” you whisper, scratching behind its ears. “I guess we never know why things happen the way they do. Maybe I was meant to be here so I could find you and help you. Let’s make a bargain.”

Steady black eyes gaze up at you.

“I saved your life,” you say. “And maybe that was the purpose of mine. So you have to use it. You can’t lay down and die in these woods. You have to be okay. Then you have to go back where you belong and you have to keep using the life I gave you. Okay?”

You curl around the fox-wolf. You hide your tears in its fur, uselessly because it can feel your shoulders shake.

“I think I’ll be okay for a little longer,” you say. “Until it gets me – the forest, or the hunger, or him. But I’ll be okay if I know you’re alive, all right? You’re the first real thing I’ve seen in years. I forgot the world could make such beautiful things. If I can think about you free somewhere outside of the woods, it will make me happy, foxy. Please be alive for me.”

The fox-wolf curls around you too, twining in a big coil of wolven bulk and fur.

“Thank you,” you say.

You lay there for another moment, until the sun has shifted in the sky and the shadows fall differently. The hot light touches the border of the alcove. By then, your tears have stopped.

You sit up and wipe your wet face. You take a breath and the fox-wolf watches.

“I have to go now,” you say. “Be careful, foxy.”

You kiss its head once more.

Then, because you never take a kiss or word for granted anymore, you say, “I love you.”

Because you do, because all the love you had for the world and your family is somewhere inside you still. It needs somewhere to go. It feels right, giving it to this sad creature that needs more life.

“Take care,” you say.

It does not whimper or whine. It watches with those steady eyes as you take the knife and leave the alcove in your too-small shorts and ripped-up shirt, the only thing left that’s yours as you leave your love and hope behind.

Your father usually hunts through the night. You don’t know where he goes and you don’t what the path is like. You just know that he doesn’t trust to send you down it even though you could get away once and for all. You suppose it’s not hard to believe the path would be laden with monsters. After all, he must be one of them.

The house is empty. You go inside with a bundle of berries cupped in the remains of your shirt. The front door swings behind you. It doesn’t lock because nothing approaches it willingly. If it does, it won’t last long.

You go to the attic. It’s the only locking door. It traps you, like always.

You put the berries on the bed and the knife under the bed beside the key. Your shirt is now a sticky, juice-spattered mess, cut at the belly, but it doesn’t really matter. You sit on the bed and eat your berries one by one, watching the yard.

You fall asleep at some point. You wake hours later in your cot, long after the sun has set and the gloaming is gone.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dark. You peer through the attic window across the moonlit yard, looking for the disturbance that woke you. It might be your father. He is due back. Sometimes he kills his catch on the way but sometimes he waits until he’s at the house. The body ends up over the fire in what used to be a cozy sitting room.

You don’t go there. You don’t need to see when you can hear and smell.

You hear a clatter on the porch. He must have reached the house before your eyes adjusted. The automatic porch lights flip on, that wash of yellow over the dark yard.

It illuminates something on the border between the yard and the woods. It’s another stag, tall and broad with spindly antlers. You can just barely see the shadow of more stags behind it. It’s hard to count them, antlers blending into branches.

The first stag steps forward. Your head tilts as you watch, bemused by its awkward step. Is it hurt? It seems to crick and creak as it moves. You imagine a pop as it lumbers forward.

Then it rears up. It lifts its head.

No. No, it doesn’t.

Its neck is craning, its torso elongating. It lengthens and pops and rises until it looks halfway like a person in the yard, hunched with too-long arms dangling down the length of a tall body. It still has antlers.

You fall back in a panicked jump when the front door opens and closes. For a moment, it’s you that feels like an animal, skittering frantically on all fours. You climb onto the cot and peek out the window. More antlered half-human figures are in the yard, watching the house. The yellow porch light glints in the eyes of the closest one, human-shaped but flashing bright with a heated anger.

It looks at the door. Then it looks at you.

You drop down, not making a noise, too scared to even scream.

There are footsteps on the stairs. It’s welcome for once. You have a monstrous thing of your own. Your father has returned from his hunt. Maybe he killed and ate it on the way. He’s coming to see you and he will be clear-eyed and horrified but maybe, maybe, maybe you can find your father in that pain. He will comfort you and tell you monsters aren’t real, like he did when you were young, when your father was the most indomitable force in the world. He could keep out any monster.

You grab the key and dash for the door. You wait for the breathing, the gentle cadence. Yours come rapidly.

You slide the key under the door and it scrapes the ground, like always, then it’s inserted into the lock, like always. The mechanical unclick. Like always.

But it doesn’t open like always. You stare at the door, breathing louder than any scream. You push it open. Your eyes are raised to look at your father, but he’s not there.

Your gaze drops.

“Foxy?”

You don’t understand the sight. This is irrevocably the fox-wolf, the very same one, still bandaged in your t-shirt scraps, still with those steady black eyes. It’s sitting on its haunches, gazing up at you. The key is on the floor beside a small covered basket.

You take a tentative step to look around. The house is empty. Your father has not returned.

The fox-wolf, who somehow unlocked your door, accepts your unintentional invitation and trots into your room. You watch as it sniffs around then waits patiently beside the cot.

You pick up the key and the basket, at a loss to do anything else. You close the door and it locks behind you. You don’t know how you are going to hide a wolf from your father, but right now you don’t care. Its presence is an immediate and thorough balm. You rush to the cot and take a seat. A peek out the window shows the yard is now empty.

“You scared them away, foxy,” you say, rubbing its head. Its tail thumps happily, its eyes scrunching with pleasure. It has an almost-human smile. You kiss its head. “I think you’re a sweetie,” you say. “The woods are full of scary things. We sweeties have to stick together.”

You place the key under your bed and the basket on your pillow. The fox-wolf nudges it with its nose, whining eagerly. Its tail continues to hammer with excitement.

You smile. It’s probably an ugly smile, unpracticed and strange, but the smallest uptick of that unused muscle fills you with unparalleled delight. You didn’t even know you could still feel that way.

“Is this for me?” you ask.

The fox-wolf watches with that squinty-eyed grin. Your smile returns, still an awkward flicker on your long unsmiling face, but true.

You uncover the basket. You are truly shocked at what you find.

As much as the monsters scare you, they are not unusual. You are used to the woods and the horror. You are not used to smiling and you are not prepared for a basket full of baked goods.

When did you last see such a thing? It feels like a memory of a story, fantasies of someone else’s life. The basket is filled with rolls of pastries sprinkled with powdery sugar, leaking purple berry and yellow custard. Dark sugar sprinkles, a spicy scent – cinnamon, you think. You remember. Was it your favourite? Maybe it will be now.

You don’t know where to start or what to say or do. You look at the basket of sweet sugar wealth, overwhelmed. The scents are so sweet that it’s almost sickening, your near empty stomach roiling. Your smile quivers and breaks and then you are crying with hysterical abandon.

The fox-wolf whines with concern, its front paws up on the cot as it stretches to check on you. You wipe your eyes and try to speak, though it takes some time to sound coherent through the gasping.

“I’m sorry, foxy,” you say. You are even more distressed to find those black eyes glassy with sympathy. “I promise I’m happy,” you say. “I just don’t know how to be. I’m sorry. I promise I feel it inside.”

It continues to look at you with concern, its short ears wilting. You rub the top of its head affectionately and try to smile again. It feels toothy, like an aggressive snarl more than a smile, but it’s not afraid.

You look at the pastries again. You truly don’t know what to do next. As much as the fox-wolf seems to understand you, it can hardly communicate, so you can’t ask where it found so much luxury in the woods. It makes you think your father might be close, that the fox-wolf found this treasure abandoned by unlucky humans.

You feel guilty, but the pastries are so tempting. There is something especially wondrous about them. Maybe because it’s been so long. The longer you look, the more your mouth waters, and the more it looks like something from a dream.

You lift a pastry, feeling a combination of hunger and nausea. You haven’t eaten anything like this in years and you are scared your body will reject it. You still crave it. You didn’t even realize you wanted it all this time. You didn’t realize you were capable of wanting anything ever again.

You take a small bite. The pastry is delicate. It flakes and melts on your tongue, the sweet sugar leaving a powdery residue on your lips. You lick it off. It’s so sweet but so soft that you cry again.

“It’s perfect, foxy,” you say.

The fox-wolf still looks morose, one ear perked to gauge the slightest negative shift in your tone.

Your smiles are not reassuring, so you extend a gesture instead. You break a piece of the pastry and offer it.

“Please,” you say. “Share with me. It tastes even better that way.”

It tickles when the fox-wolf licks the pastry off your fingers. If a smile felt strange, laughter feels bizarre, an awkward guffaw, subsumed in the gasp of your tears.

You eat a few more bites, sharing with the fox-wolf. Then you cover the basket and put it under the bed. You pace yourself. You know you won’t keep down more than that. Your stomach is already rebelling under the onslaught of foreign sweetness.

There’s also a special pleasure in knowing it’s there. You don’t even want to finish the basket because then it will be gone forever.

You look at the fox-wolf. You know it will be gone soon too. It can’t stay here. It’s not safe. Even at his best, your father will see a beast fit for food. He won’t care about the intelligence in those dark eyes.

For now, the house is empty and the basket is full. You rub the fox-wolf’s head. Its tail thumps again. You smile a smile you thought you had lost.

“Come on, foxy,” you say. You make room on the cot.

The fox-wolf jumps. It turns in a small circle near the foot then settles. It rests its chin on your knees.

You stroke your pinky down its snout as it blinks with sleepy contentment.

For the first time in a long time – since a life that no longer feels like yours – you lay down to sleep with a smile on your face.

You usually sleep lightly, disturbed by the smallest noise as it breaks the silence, but the silence is not absolute tonight. The fox-wolf breathes and the gentle cadence of its slumbering breath is like a lullaby.

It’s the deepest sleep of your life. You hardly ever dream in your light dozes but it comes in vivid colour tonight. Swirls of monsters, antlers, and hunting knives. Also sugar, cinnamon, black fur and dark eyes squinting in an obvious smile. In your dream, those eyes change, the intelligent but animal gaze softening to something human. You dream of your attic room, a dream so vivid it almost feels real. You can feel the cot under you, the chill of the nearby window, the familiar moonlight.

But it isn’t real. It can’t be. The fox-wolf is gone. A young man sits on the end of the cot, gazing out the window into the woods. If this was real, you would petrified, but you feel that same peaceful calm, his company a comfort. Old hurts and present fears feel far away.

The young man looks at you. Moonlight and shadows dance across his features, but you think he is beautiful, with eyes so dark and focused, hair black and smooth. His cheekbones are sharp. His face is like a knife and yet –

And yet –

There is something unspeakably gentle about him. Not because he’s helpless, not because he’s dull, but in spite of all that danger and sharpness. He looks at you with an undoubtedly affectionate gaze, tilting his head as he holds your gaze.

You blink. You think you might be waking because you shiver, but you don’t want to wake. You want to stay right here with him. You have been wanting him before you knew you could. You want to look at those eyes forever. You want to feel this safe always.

He moves, swift and soft as a shadow. A blink and you would miss it. He tugs the blanket back over your shoulder. Your eyes stray along the length of his bare arm, across his bare chest. The scraps of your t-shirt bandage a scar that runs along the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

Then you look at his hand, so close to your face. Any other hand and this dream would be a nightmare. But this is a good dream. You sigh contently as his long fingers gently brush the crown of your head. His fingertips trace your temple, carefully down your jaw. No one has ever been so gentle with you, not in a long time.

You sigh again. He softly sweeps his pinky down the bridge of your nose. Your sleep deepens. You sink into a perfect peace, undisturbed for the rest of the night.

The morning is another matter entirely. You wake in sunlight, more groggy than ever. It’s not the familiar pale light of early morning but the golden heat of noon. You haven’t slept for so long in years.

You feel the usual ache of sleeping on a rickety cot, something designed for weeks of use, not a decade.

You sit up. The fox-wolf is gone. There’s nowhere in the attic for it to hide, the space under the cot too small. You crouch on the floor and check anyway. The key is there, the knife beside it. The basket is there too.

The fox-wolf disappearing is an impossibility among many, but you know it was all very real. You uncover the basket to find the pastries as fresh and appetizing as last night, not even a little stale from sitting out all night.

You look around the empty room, sitting with the basket cradled protectively in your lap.

You don’t know what to do. You haven’t felt that way in a long time. Everyday has been the same, passed through a disassociated state of bland observation and slow breathing. This single disruption has uprooted everything. You feel the basket in your lap and you know you can’t spend another day sitting at the window.

The choice is made for you. There is a clamoring in the yard so you look out the window, not sure what to expect.

It is the most mundane of all creatures. Your father is dashing back to the house in a clumsy sprint.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge. There is something wrong about the way he’s moving. There’s a stumbling desperation to every wide leap. He looks more like a stag than the stags did.

Did he come home last night? His hunt should be over. The hunger should be satisfied.

The front door swings and slams. You can hear his frantic thunder up the stairs, so much thudding he must be racing on all fours. You curl away instinctively, pressed up against the window, as far away from the door as possible.

He throws himself against it with a scream. You squeeze your eyes shut.

He’s still hungry. Maybe his hunt turned up nothing or maybe it didn’t satisfy him. You don’t know what happens now. Maybe he will eventually beat the door down. Maybe he will drive himself to death in his hysterics. If he dies, you’ll be trapped, sealed in here with that basket as it slowly empties. Eventually it will taunt you, like the stags, waving, mocking you caged in your glass like an animal –

You are getting hysterical too, even with your hands clamped over your ears to block out your father’s wailing. It’s not even just the fear. He’s your father, sometimes, somewhere in there. He used to make you laugh and tell you stories, lift you on his shoulders and tell you about the world. He used to scare away the monsters.

“Daddy,” you try, voice breaking on a childish cry. “Stop it. Please. Daddy, it’s me.”

You can’t find the strength to yell. You doubt he can hear your wobbling voice over his own screaming. The door shakes so hard that you imagine all the walls crumbling under the force of each slam.

You drift in the fantasy of it, of this whole house crumbling around you. There’s nothing to do but stare, silent, and wait to die. It’s a better end than you expected, a last meal, a good sleep, a sweet dream to send you off.

You close your eyes.

Something changes in the air. You don’t hear it or see it, but you feel it, a rush of warmth that fills the house. Gentle as a hand drawing a blanket over your shoulder. The sun brightens and heats the window at your back.

You lower your hands. It’s then you hear a piercing bark, almost a scream but not quite. Almost human, but not quite.

It can only be one thing. You whip around and watch as the fox-wolf careens through the yard, fast as a bullet. By the time you are on your feet, it’s already in the house and racing up the stairs.

“Back!” your father screams, the only coherent word out of his mouth.

You can hear them fighting. A body thumps down the stairs but the weight of it sounds too heavy to be your feral, emaciated father. He must have pushed the fox-wolf.

More than anything, that propels you into action. You made a bargain with that fox. You gave it a life. You’re not going to sit here and let your father take another life at the expense of yours.

You put the basket on your pillow. A part of you wants to eat the whole thing while you have the chance, die with a full stomach and a face powdered with sugar, but there’s no time. You reach under the cot and you grab the knife and the key.

Will he even have the clarity to use the key? You’re not sure, but you slide it under the door. There is clearly some intelligent thought churning in his mind, because he picks it up. He fumbles the lock while the fox-wolf stampedes back up the stairs.

The door explodes open. Your father and the fox-wolf crash inside, tangled in a violent fury. Your father yells at it, prying at its jaw to release its brutal clamp on his forearm. He is not stronger. The fox-wolf might have ripped his arm right off it you hadn’t cried out.

The fox-wolf releases your father so it can look at you. Your father kicks it in its distraction, sending it hurtling to the door with a yelp.

“Don’t hurt it!” you cry. “It’s already injured!”

Your father does not reply. When he looks at you, your heart stops. There is nothing of your father in his eyes, something vicious and lost staring back at you.

No. Not at you. He doesn’t see you anymore. He sees a clear path to prey and he takes it.

He charges you, too fast for you to react in your terror. The knife clatters to the floor as he tackles you and slams you onto your back.

Your body fights, an instinctive propulsion from something buried deep inside you. Under all that disassociation, all that resignation, there is a part of you that wants to live. It claws its way to freedom. You push your father, your adrenaline spurred by his. You scream with the same abandon.

The weight and smell of him abruptly disappears. The fox-wolf has clamped its jaws around his ankle. It drags him clear across the room where your father is left to scrabble against the floorboards.

Then the fox-wolf pounces on you. You don’t know what’s happening until you’re lifted, grabbed by the arms and hoisted onto your feet.

Except –

Foxes can’t grab. Wolves can’t stand.

It happens so fast. You are on your back, the ceiling overhead, then you are on your feet and the only thing you see is a pair of dark eyes.

Dark human eyes. You blink at a face, a familiar face, the face of the young man from your dreams. If he was beautiful in moonlight, he is devastating in sunlight. His hair is so black that it sparkles blue in the light, his features so sharp in contrast. He is like a drop of starlight.

The beautiful man grips you with two humans hands. He stands upright in a human body. You can’t look away from his human face, all those sharp and delicate angles. He is so beautiful that he hardly seems real. You would have been less surprised to see another monster.

His grip tightens. It wakes long slumbering parts of you.

“Foxy?” you say in a pathetically small and fragile voice.

Your father is back on his feet and the – the man? –

The fox-wolf-man –

He dives at your father and lands in canine form, those sharp incisors snapping at his face.

The knife is within your father’s reach. You see it but the fox does not. When your father grabs it, you jump, catching his arm before the knife can do any damage.

The three of you are locked in a messy tangle. Your father is bleeding from wolf bites and the animal is snarling. Everything feels wet. You can’t tell finger from claw, limb from wound, spit from blood.

You kick and scratch and bite like an animal, seeing nothing but red in the terror of your frantic adrenaline.

That part of you so desperate for life is at the surface. You feel your whole body for the first time in a long time. You feel the shattering pain when your father hits your head with his own and you spill back. He holds you down while grappling with the knife.

The whole thing is over in seconds. Your mind is flooded with every gory image of a tooth in a slab of meat. You don’t reach for the knife. Your father is close, his neck within reach, and the animal of your body rears with terrified instinct.

Do you mean to kill him? Do you want to kill him?

It doesn’t matter. You kill him anyway.

The skin breaks shockingly easily as you tear into his throat with your teeth. Blood spills out of him, pounding jugular and a bath of red.

You sputter and choke on it. You use a last burst of adrenaline to shove him off you. You are not sure how fast he dies. You don’t look, spitting up blood and retching.

You wipe your mouth, smearing more of the relentless red mess. You are on your hands and knees. You lift your head and open your eyes.

The fox-wolf is a man again. He is on his hands and knees as well, his face only inches from yours. He is staring like you are the wondrous anomaly, his mouth open with his shock.

You look at each other for a long moment. Then he smiles. He has deep dimples, frighteningly sweet next to the sharp inhuman incisors still visible in his mouth. Like your own crooked snarl of a smile, it is not a pretty grin so much as it is big. And like your broken smile, you can see he means it truly affectionately.

You can’t speak with the blood on your mouth. You try but you sputter.

He reaches for you. He gathers a red wet smear on his fingers, gently wiping your lips. It wracks your whole body with a shiver, the shock of violent residue, the shock of being touched.

You finally take a clean breath. He looks at the blood on his fingers.

He flashes you that sharp, dimpled smile again.

“Wow,” he says with a wheezing laugh.

You can’t even think about asking what’s so funny. The last drop of adrenaline bleeds out of you. The floorboards rush to meet you as your arms and legs buckle.

Your body surrenders your mind to blackness.

#i'm sorry it took me a couple days to come back #a masterful opener!!#so excited to see how this develops #yang jeongin x reader #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids #skz #yang jeongin #i.n #also #idk if you have any personal experience with it #but the way you wrote the reader's issue with hunger and malnutrition was so real #her only eating one of the pastries because she knew she'd probably throw it up if she ate more #as someone who struggles with earing consistently this was so real to me #you always manage to write about these subjects in a subtle but powerful way

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zealsoughtsequesterustanxiedemon · 7 months ago

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Danmachi watch update:

-Finished Sword Oratoria

-Watched Arrow of Orion movie

-Started S2

So Sword Oratoria was overall fine. It was interesting sort of getting a side story season to get a perspective of S1 from different characters. I think it's at it's best when Ais's perspective is being focused and it reaches an enjoyable quality of S1.

Lefiya even sort of views him as a sort of a rival, and it feels sad both because it's completely one-sided and because, as a viewer, you know she has no chance, inside the show or out, of beating him. The friend I watched it with had an apt way of describing it; her parts of the show sort of feel like fan fiction. Like we aren't meant to take it seriously, some off story that feels disconnected from the main plot and could be easily cropped out without anything changing.

Unfortunately, it's at it's worst when following the other main character, Lefiya. I think she works fine as a side character, but as a main character she suffers from a couple big issues. The biggest is: She is a 2nd Bell, but is not Bell

To elaborate, she feels incredibly similar to Bell in a handful of ways (admiration of Ais, struggle to improve, social awkwardness, low self-worth, etc). Having a new character, especially a main character, not feel unique is not great. It's tough for her especially feeling like a repeat of the MC of the mainline story because we know her plot relevance is going to immediately plummet as soon as we get back to Bell. We know the story is going to prioritize Bell's importance to Ais over her's.

Also, this is minor, but it also didn't help endear me to Lefiya to have my favorite part of the season, Ais, be completely mischaracterized in her fantasies. I'm a big fan of kuuderes and Lefiya's fantasies of Ais just kind of make me think, "what do you even see in her?". I still enjoyed getting Ais's perspective for chunks of this season as well her own story, but Lefiya's parts were definitely a step down from S1.

I don't feel like we really got to see any new sides to our established main characters. Like it's still somewhat enjoyable because we already like them and their antics, but there's nothing really new or stand out with them in the movie. The new goddess doesn't really feel all that unique. Her becoming obsessed with Bell isn't all that surprising or interesting. There's this air of suspicion around her, but the explanation for that turns out to be not that eventful or meaningful. It hurts that it sounds like the real Artemis was more interesting than the one we got to interact with.

Onto the movie! Unfortunately a similar situation as Sword Oratoria. Going into the movie, I knew it wasn't canon, that it didn't connect to the main story at all, but, lord, I wish we got something unique out of our main characters or world.

The plot initially interested me because we were leaving the city, first time the story has really done that. However, we really don't get much of anything by leaving it. Just a generic forest that gets generically corrupted and a generic castle with generic black scorpion monsters led by a generic CGI evil force with 0 dialogue or motive beyond it going to eventually destroy everything. It makes the world outside of Orario feel emptier.

The twist that bell will have to kill her is an engaging challenge to put him through (not being able to save the girl), BUT I don't think they communicated it visually well. So like the story tell us well enough that it's something he has to do, but it fails to show us the necessity. Like Artemis's main body looks very isolated from the monster with her being in the crystal prison and all. Bell even shatters the crystal prison; you'd think that instead of killing her he'd just rescue her and then they'd deal with the big bad now that it doesn't have her divine powers. That is what it looked like they could do. But instead, he goes ahead and stabs her after cracking the crystal prison.

He also, like, doesn't seem to really change after having experienced it. Like end of the movie Bell just turns to Hestia and says "I need to get stronger" and like BELL THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU WERE SAYING BEFORE THE MOVIE. Not only do you not feel different, but you actively feel like you're taking the wrong thing away from this traumatic experience.

What puts movies apart from other video mediums is being able to tell spectacular stories in a very compact amount of time, and this really fails to elicit much spectacle at all. I was very ready to switch gears to start season 2 to get something out of this series again.

Luckily the two episodes of season 2 started of STRONG. The stakes somehow are already feeling higher than the movie. Our two main characters do not feel safe within their own city and it's not because of monsters it's because of other people. We've somehow gotten more character, comedy, and drama out of half as much runtime. Needless to say I'm look forward to how the main story develops.

#danmachi #zealthoughts

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roaring-eeveen-louder · 1 year ago

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I wish I could describe what it was like there. Properly. I could never do it justice. Mostly because I’m not great with words myself. But you really had to be there. It didn’t feel real at all. The ground would shift and change in some areas. Breaking apart constantly and then refitting itself back together into new formations and shapes. Sometimes floating islands.

The sky was always a different color, or a color that humans couldn’t explain or perceive. Nearly maddening.

There were endless forests so tall you couldn’t tell if what was above you was the canopy or the stars. There was one place made entirely of crystals. Wherever you stepped it made a noise. Mars had fun there. She made music by tapping different sized crystals different ways. But we learned it wasn’t smart to make noise there.

There were so many places. Maybe I’ll try and describe them all. I do have notes in my journal, but the Dimensional Research lab is currently in possession of it. Copying my notes. It’s for research so I don’t mind.

#-pluto #pkmn irl #lost and found #((hope I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes with ultra space stuff))#((I’m sure someone is doing things with it but I haven’t seen any personally))#((so brain went heheho free real estate))

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coutelier · 2 years ago

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Irongate - Killer Aqua Bunnies

(Excerpt from the new draft. About 850 words.)

As Angela sauntered to the bar, Ashley trailing behind her like a trained animal, Sayuri took a deep cooling breath. “My brother used to tell people I had a demon inside me,” she said, “kind of wish he was right. To summon a writhing mass of spikes and tentacles down on Ange’s empty head is pretty appealing right now.”

“But you don’t believe in violence, right?” Kaya reminded Sayuri as she sat down.

“Well, it’s not very Zen, but I think someone has to knock her teeth out. It’ll be for her own good as well.”

“She never used to be this bad,” Kaya lied. Angela had always been a bully; if she couldn’t destroy someone physically she’d wreck them in other ways. Kaya just excused it because being friends with a bully gave her security, and if you were someone with few prospects an in with Stan. Angela’s father being a well known legitimate businessman enabled her, even though the two were quite estranged. Chances were Stan wouldn’t care at all if someone slapped some sense into her, would be grateful even, although Kaya still didn’t want to risk it. She still wasn’t nearly secure enough. But now when she looked at Angela she saw not a strong indomitable boss no-one would dare mess with, but a kitten trying to roar for attention. She sighed, “maybe she’s stayed the same but I’ve changed. Why do you hang out with us?”

It seemed a fair question. Kaya had no place else to go, but Sayuri was smart, her family owned their own business - a little general store - there really seemed no reason for her to subject herself to this. “It’s kind of therapy,” Sayuri explained as she played with a little braid in her hair, “when I’m drumming I just imagine I’m whacking Angela’s face or anyone else that’s annoyed me. Don’t get to let loose like that at home. Besides,” she looked over with an enticing half-smile, “not like everyone here is a lost cause.”

Unfortunately for her Kaya had buried her head in her hands, moaning, “I just don’t know what to do with my life. Don’t suppose you know any chants or crystals that’ll let me relive the last ten years do you?”

“Pretty sure if there were it would create some universe ending paradox,” Sayuri sighed, “have you thought about getting a little one?” Now Kaya looked straight at her, shocked. “No! I meant a pet. A little bit of responsibility, something to make you feel wanted and needed, it does actually improve your mood.”

“I’m in no position to take care of anything right now. Still looking for a new apartment. And I got fired. Again.”

“Well, what was that? Nearly two weeks? New record anyway,” Sayuri rubbed Kaya’s shoulder reassuringly, “I’m sure there’ll be other opportunities. My horoscope this morning said a big change is coming.”

“Not for me. I’m pretty sure I’m cursed. Karma or something. I’ve done horrible things to people.”

“Hey,” Angela returned with Ashley in tow roughly shoving bottles across the table, “if it’s a curse you’re dealing with Cade, maybe you should see the witch.”

“What witch?” Kaya asked, not really expecting this to go anywhere.

“Madame Lumina?” Sayuri offered.

“Lumina is a fake hex,” Angela told them, “apparently, west of down out in the hills there’s this tower - like an old lighthouse or something, and a strange woman who lives there on her own.”

“We’re nowhere near the sea,” Kaya pointed out, “why would there be a lighthouse?”

“Some sort of teleportation magic?” Angela shrugged. “It is real,” she nudged Ashley, “show them.”

Ashley held up her phone for them all to see the photo of what did appear to be a lighthouse stood alone on a hill surrounded by forest.

“They say,” Angela went on, “if you get close, this fog appears and from it you hear the howling of trapped spirits, and then the ground rattles your bones and empties your bowels. So,” she cracked open her bottle, “you want to go check it out?”

The lighthouse may have been real, but if there was someone living there they definitely were not a witch and even if they were, inflicting Angela on them was a cruelty Kaya would no longer stoop to. “Maybe next week,” she said. By then they’ll have hopefully forgotten.

In fact Angela was already distracted. As she swigged her drink she caught of the Goths blatantly glancing in her approximate direction. It was enough to set her off again. “Is that freaking vegan vampire wannabe trying to hypnotize me or something? Hey!”

And she was gone. Before Kaya could get up to stop her Angela was over there clipping their ears while the startled Goths bleated and herded together. Like a bitch loose among sheep. In the past Kaya might have just left her to it as at least she wasn’t bothering her, but now? Maybe her mistake had been trying to change too much too fast. She could start small right now, pulling Angela back before anyone could be mauled.

#writing #writeblr #writing community #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #wip #my wip #current wip #irongate

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grimmweepers · 2 months ago

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even before i started reading i was SCREAMINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG at the content tags. it’s so up my alley and i knew i was going to love this. i wish i could idk take this all in and rub it all over my body and eat it hehe.

but courtney!!!! where has your writing been all my life!! i can’t believe this is your first time writing sukuna. you write him so amazingly and you have such an eloquent way of setting the scene and describing feelings that i just feel so immersed. it genuinely feels like i’m getting pulled away when i have to stop reading. and a whopping 8.3k words… you have spoiled me 🥹💖

i also really appreciate how you characterised reader (me… i can’t believe it!!!). every dialogue reader says just has me nodding and agreeing and cheering her on because i, too, would say those things. while i was reading i made a list of parts that made me unwell /pos because i tend to do that when i read and if you do not mind, it does involve screaming so be prepared !!!! :

They carry the weight of something unspoken a recognition of the four-letter word he is not yet ready to voice

“If I’m to entertain a mortal festivity it will not be done poorly.”

He walks to you, thunderous steps shaking the forest floor but doing little to shake you tucking and readjusting your furs once more before ushering you back to the estate

HE IS SO LOVING IN THE MOST SUBTLE AND SUKUNA-ESQUE WAYS IM SO GOOEY RN!!!!!!

i’ll just be including this entire thing because it’s so beautifully written and i still can’t believe it’s about me.

YOU ARE SO THOUGHTFUL AND I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW I ACKNOWLEDGE AND AM OBSESSED WITH THESE EASTER EGGS. love changes people and if this isn’t the most crystal clear form of proof….

the whole hansel and gretel scene made me giggle. his nodding of approval when they spoke about eating the kids and luring them in lmfaooo!!!! i’m crying KGVAJAHAAJABNWJWAHAN and i love the way you characterised his tummy mouth to be like a lil puppy. it almost makes it endearing, especially imagining it dusted with cookie crumbs and frosting hehe so silly

“This isn’t the Heian era, despite how much you like to talk about it.”

I LAUGHED OUT LOUD

“He trespasses into their domain and then defiles it. Disgusting.”

ANOTHER FAVE. he can sound like such a baby sometimes HAHAHAHHAHAAH poor ‘kuna getting hot and bothered by christmas

OH AND THE PART AT THE SOFA WHERE WE WHERE WE WHERE WE AHGQBAJFQBHANHABAJQHQBWNJQVABAJWHWVWBJWHWBWKJWBWNWKWJWBWNWKHWBWNWJWBWBWJWJBW WJWJWBWNWJWJWBW SKWKWJBWWKWK sigh that’s all i have to say about that

AND WAIT THERES MORE…. WITH HIS TUMMY TONGUE KISSING ME NOW HFFGABAJAJQHABAJAJBANAKAJABAJAKAJANP. that scene was so absolutely HOT. it’s only 12:30pm here but i just woke up and wow what a way to start the day. i never thought i’d say this but sukuna is so adorable trying to guess what i’m gifting him

OH MH GOD HE GIFTED ME PERFUMEEEEEEEEEE THAT HE CRAFTED HIMSELF AND IT SOUNDS SO PERFECT AND ETHEREAL I WISHED I HAD IT IN MY HANDS RIGHT THIS INSTANCE 😭😭😭 the blends the notes - i wish it were real. courtney this is the best!!!!!

“You see me,” he finally speaks, uncharacteristically hushed. You see him—demon and protector, destroyer and creator, ancient force and the being who has learned to nestle mortal joy in hands only meant for destruction

the sheer rawness in this paragraph. i’m in awe. i’m also hushed because the way you write makes me cry. you really explain him in the same way i view him :(

“And I see you, Ryu.”

AND WHAT IF I DIED WHAT THEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IM TEARING UP. THIS IS TERRIBLE. MY HEART IS JUMPING OUT OF MY CHEST

The naked feel of you against his torso pleases him, and beneath the prideful smirk against your mouth, beneath the snicker from his belly, you taste that four-letter word in his mouth, siphoning as much of it as you can before you pull away and rest your forehead against his.

A mortal who hates spiders, but loves Gothic architecture, monsters, and the many books that line his walls.

hehe what can i say… spiders scare me… monsters don’t … like sukuna

AHFDHFHFJJGBA AND THE END. thank you so so so so much for the gift. i can tell you really did your research and i am eternally grateful and will be keeping this close to my wee heart. i don’t talk about sukuna all that often anymore but he was my first ship and first comm ever EVER! so he will always remain special to me. and lately i’ve been feeling a little doubtful about that ship. only because i begin to wonder if our personalities would even mesh well which would inevitably lead to me getting insecure about sukuna becoming soft for me. but the fic - your gift - showed me that even after all these years, ryukuna can still work. that he can love me. and that i can love him while still being myself. i’m so sorry this is so rambly and long. i woke up with my heart a lil heavier today for unrelated reasons but this just made me feel 1999999616161881 times better. you have such a way with words that scratches an itch in my brain and i know i will be coming back to this when i miss sukuna or when i’m feeling sad. every time you referred to me as Queen i get a little giddy. because even without sukuna, that is the type of confidence i should have. that’s how i should see myself. i am a fiery woman by nature so it’s a huge affirmation seeing myself depicted this way. in fact reading this might give me the confidence to talk about him more and even write about him again. what a wonderful thing gifts can be :[

courtney thank you for your time and kindness and thoughtfulness and talent and all of the above ! may YOU have a merry christmas and may YOUR heart always be full <3 i am elated!! on cloud 9!!

Merry Christmas from my little corner at the @pixelcafe-network. Thank you so much for hosting this gift exchange! I had so much fun writing this for my elf @grimmweepers. Your Christmas list gave me the opportunity to write Sukuna for the first time. I wanted to lean as much into your likes as much as possible so that it feels like it's you in this story.

I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: True Form!Sukuna x Reader (Ryu)

Rating/CW: slight dark romance, fluff, implied sexual content, dark themes (references to violence, blood, destruction, and a hint of cannibalism because it's Sukuna). MDNI!

WC: ~8.5K

Summary: Sukuna gives in to mortal festivities, for the promise of a worthy gift, unaware that some traditions leave marks deeper than ancient power.

Divider: @cyberbeat @arminsumi @firefly-graphics

The winter night drapes itself across the ancient estate, stars scattered above like diamonds on black velvet. Fresh snow has transformed this formidable domain into something almost magical—though no amount of pristine white can truly soften the centuries of power that seems to pulse through every shadow of the grounds.

You used to take these walks alone, finding solace in the environment that gave way to the shifting change of the seasons. But now, on this chilly and almost silent night, your solitary footprints are accompanied by another. Deeper, more commanding treads belong to Sukuna, whose very presence seems to make the stars above burn brighter, as if they, too, acknowledge the power that moves beneath them, feeding off the cursed energy he emits with every breath.

Your exhale forms a frosty white cloud before vanishing into the night air. It’s cold, far too cold for a walk, but you’re out here to clear your thoughts, to quell the overwhelming urge to ask Sukuna a question that you don’t want to imagine the answer to.

The thought first emerged when fall gave way to winter, the autumn leaves replaced by the starkness of bare branches now hidden beneath blankets of snow. The thought of markets late at night adorned in yellow lights, of hot cocoa and gifts wrapped in red ribbon.

The words, having coiled behind your teeth for days like a spring, finally slink past your lips. “I was thinking…what if we celebrated Christmas together?”

“Christmas.” The word leaves his mouth not as a question, but as if it’s not worth inflection.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting your rolling anxiety. He’s never been one for new things. This is his domain, after all—his home, his formidable walls that he has erected and ruled with an iron fist. The mere thought of anyone—let alone a mortal—suggesting something outside his design is almost laughable.

You pause in your footsteps, tracing his looming shadow in the snow before you look up at him. He’s tall, looming with a height that comes not from this realm, his silhouette dwarfing everything around him. While you are covered in furs and wool and warmth, he stands in a simple black Haori, barely covering his skin and open to show his chest.

The dark markings of his tattoos glow like black embers in the moonlight, each one a testament to the ancient power that pulses beneath his skin. Two pairs of muscular arms fold across his chest, large and thrumming with strength. An archaic strength that can level cities and destroy with little effort, yet those same fearsome arms cradle you with unexpected gentleness in the depths of night.

The fact that you understand this side of Sukuna, gives you the strength to press on.

“It’ll be our first Christmas together,” you press.

“A mortal festivity,” he claps back, naturally sharp but with little heat.

“I’m a mortal,” you counter, meeting his gaze head-on, refusing to back down from the menacing glare you can see right through. “And from what I remember, I am your Queen.”

Quadruple crimson eyes narrow from your truthful declaration, their glow cutting through the frost-laden air like embers in the snow. The two on the right gleam brighter against the rough texture of his half-petrified cheek, like jagged stone contrasting with smooth flesh on the other side. “You mistake indulgence for approval.”

You shrug, nonplussed, sniffing the chilly air up your runny nose. “Then indulge me. Mortals, like myself, put up Christmas trees, decorate their homes, bake treats, and watch movies.”

He hums, taking a step toward you. As he draws closer, the air shifts. While you have no cursed energy, you’ve come to know his intimately. It presses against your skin like an unseen force, electric and stifling, its movements mirroring the emotions he tries to smother. You’ve learned to read it like your favorite book, though it’s a story only you seem privy to, and you don’t intend to let him know.

“Indulge me?” you try again.

He remains unconvinced, his characteristic indifference plucking at your cold skin as you look up at him unflinching. It’s not like he denies you often. Sukuna, for as powerful as he is, gives to your many asks with a wave of his hand as if your happiness is unwarranted, even if his gaze flickers to you minutely for praise at haven catered to you.

Your confidence has only grown steadily, but that anxiety that curls around an ask still tastes sour. So you pull out another mental note card, a line you practiced in the mirror for days for this very moment.

“Gift-giving is also another tradition,” you sigh in faux nonchalance, pursing your dry lips as you try to ignore the flicker of curiosity you see on his face. The subtle tick of his jaw, the way one of his eyes tightens just so, the feel of his cursed energy pausing in its movements as if to hear you more clearly. “I know you’d never turn down any sort of offering. Especially from your Queen.”

Only seconds of anxious silence pass before that deep hum permeates the air, a gentle give. “You use that title often, Ryu.” You shrug again, biting the flesh of your cheek to suppress the victorious smile you can feel in your muscles. “Why must I wait for a specific day of the year to receive a gift? I can simply take what I want with little effort.”

His hubris knows no bounds. Neither does your perseverance.

“You put up with a few days of Christmas cheer, and I’ll make sure you get the best gift ever. Something wonderful and fitting for the King of Curses,” you promise, hoping to bring him home with your sales pitch. “But no griping.”

Sukuna scoffs, indignation heavy in the sound as he puffs white smoke into the air. “I do not gripe.” The look you throw him is unimpressed; one brow arched in a silent challenge that grants you a narrowed-eyed glare of concession in return. “Why do you assume you will get what you want?”

He reaches for you as he complains, and despite his sharp tone, you lean into the weight of his touch. You’ve come to know the language of his hands, each gesture a revelation of the complex nature he embodies. Like now, as he adjusts the furs draped around your shoulders—precious things hunted and skinned himself. His movements are deliberate, with hands impossibly gentle despite their proven capacity for destruction.

“Because you see me,” you whisper, the words soft but heavy with meaning. They carry the weight of something unspoken, a recognition of the four-letter word he is not yet ready to voice—your understanding of his care beneath his praise, his protection weaved into his possession.

A sales pitch now seems trivial, disrespectful even, in light of how the tone has shifted around you. Shame prickles at your skin, but it fades just as quickly, overwhelmed by the truth of your words. You do see him, even when he's being stubborn.

Sukuna’s answering hum to your question—to the anxious worry that started this conversation—reverberates through the air, an unspoken approval that settles in the space between you both.

Days later, the skies bloom with gentle hues of cotton candy—pale blue and pastel pink, slowly darkening as the sun peeks on the horizon. The dawn of winter greets you with its chilly embrace, its breath sharp and unrelenting, its touch frostbitten. You’re bleary-eyed as you shuffle over broken branches and moss-covered paths in the East forest.

The weight of your determination keeps you moving, even as your body protests, regretting your tenacity because why would Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, buy a tree when he can simply ‘get one from the backyard.’

“I like that one,” you offer, shakily pointing with a heavily gloved finger at a modest six-footer, its snow-laden branches slumping under the weight.

“If I’m to entertain a mortal festivity, it will not be done poorly.”

You’re far too cold to point out his first gripe of the day. His voice carries that familiar edge, but beneath it rests a note that only you can hear—the same careful attention he uses when observing the movements of his enemies, now turned to the expansive forest to the east of his estate.

You close your mouth around an exhale, your cheeks puffing like a fish in your own rendition of a pout as you follow him. The forest stretches silent and vast around you, a living extension of how far his power goes. Sukuna stops abruptly, still as stone as he surveys the trees with a menacing gaze. The dominance he exudes seems to make the air itself hold its breath. You’re simply a spectator—watching an apex predator stalk its prey—it would be a marvelous sight if you weren’t shaking like a leaf.

“This one,” he declares at last, voice carrying the familiarity of pride and authority as he looks up at a magnificent pine.

It’s uncharacteristically different in every way; a shadow brown trunk as thick as his waist, strong branches that house deep green needles, forming their own canopy over the other and covered in the white blanket of snow. Its towering height practically pierces the sky, a physical representation of how the being in front of you sees himself—ambivalent and all-seeing.

With a flick of two fingers, Sukuna’s Cleave technique slices cleanly through the thick trunk. The looming pine shivers, snow plopping from its arms in white globs before it slowly falls to the ground with a muffled thud. The wind that picks up from the disturbance tousles his pink hair, strands whipping against his marked face. One of Sukuna’s muscular arms grabs his prize and effortlessly hoists it onto his shoulder.

You can’t help but admire the broad expanse of his back. The curve and dip of muscle against black markings that shift with each movement, the skin warm to the touch despite how cold he makes himself seem.

The sight of him makes you think of his Christmas gift—your secret project—the fabric carefully chosen to embrace that strength with something just as enduring. You wonder if he will notice the details, the painstaking intricacy you’ve chosen just for him.

His gift is soon forgotten when his gaze falls on you, an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Carmine pools that invite you to step closer and gaze beneath its liquid, to see small slivers of vulnerability presented in the form of the pine on his shoulders. He’s waiting, expecting not praise for his strength, but praise for what he has provided. An offering.

You smile gently, genuinely, and without quivering despite the temperature. “I love it,” you compliment, watching as your words card over his offering like a caress that only fans the flames of his pride. His belly mouth curves into a smirk, chuffed in agreement with its host, white teeth glistening and ghostly breath puffing in steaming plumes.

He walks to you, thunderous steps shaking the forest floor but doing little to shake you, tucking and readjusting your furs once more before ushering you back to the estate, his unspoken need for you to get warm carving a smile onto your face.

In Sukuna’s vast estate, where shadows roam, and servants move with silent reverence, there is no room for joviality and merriment. He rules unflinchingly, with a face usually etched in disinterest and a heart that beats only in the throes of violence and battle. But since you’ve set foot in his domain that he keeps dark and teeming with fear, things have changed.

Now, the halls carry the scent of your vast perfume collection, a blend of smoky oud and earthy florals that linger in the air long after you pass. The servants, once bound by fear, now offer gentle smiles to the mortal who goes against the rules of this cursed realm.

Now, the shadows walk with you, satisfying your thirst for the paranormal as they follow you like a silent watchdog, a testament to the orders of their master—a being with four arms, four eyes, and a grudging acceptance of your presence.

Now, the mortal who carved her way into Sukuna’s domain with hardly a blink, the mortal who can see beneath his veneer of bleach-white bone and hardened blood…

Now… that mortal has decided to bring Christmas to these ancient halls.

Darkness now flickers with light. Pine garland decorates the windowsills in the expansive front room of Sukuna’s estate, its sharp scent striking through the air with every brush of your fingertips along its needles. The front room, what was once empty and meant only as a tunnel to another destination, is now lively from your touch.

A tall fireplace, its mantle wrapped in garlands of cypress and silk ribbons the color of deep red wine that reminds you of his eyes, casts a warm glow over goblet-red curtains that frame looming windows and fur-lined chairs that you curl into when you read your many books.

Sukuna has molded his domain to fit your silent requests. Your Christmas spirit that Sukuna continues to entertain if only for the promise of his reward, breathes life. His spoils—the cleaved pine—stands proudly by the fireplace, its branches wrapped in shining white lights and delicate ornaments.

Uraume was diligent, while unwilling to entertain anything pertaining to mortals, their loyalty outshines their disinterest when it comes to their Queen. Said loyalty shines in the snow that rests on each emerald branch, crystalline shimmers colored amber and orange from the roaring flames of the fireplace. Their technique ensures it will never melt, an ethereal touch of winter preserved.

You can’t help the warm smile that graces your features as you admire the transformed space. But it’s the scents wafting from the kitchen that draw you from your admiration. Cinnamon and nutmeg dance with something darker, a metallic tang that speaks to how well you’ve learned to blend your world with his.

Uraume, for as menacing as a curse user they are, has the cooking skills worthy of Michelin praise. The kitchen is their sacred domain but is now a battlefield of flour and spices, mortal and ancient alike. The heat from multiple ovens warms your bare toes, and copper pots and pans clank and steam with soluble renditions of a Christmas feast.

Sukuna’s dutiful servant moves about the kitchen with practiced ease, refusing help from the other cursed spirit-like servants in your presence no matter how many times you’ve insisted that you don’t mind.

“The consistency is correct,” Uraume observes, subtle praise in their soft tone as they nod toward the ruby liquid you’ve folded into dough. “Sukuna-sama will find it acceptable.”

You hide your smile at their careful choice of words. Months of coexistence have taught you to read the subtle ways in which Uraume expresses care—their meticulous attention to your recipes when cooking for you, your happiness from delicious meals enough to mask their fondness they will never admit to.

“We’re going to make gingerbread houses,” you exclaim an hour later to an indifferent Sukuna. His presence in the kitchen is rare, and you’ve had to ignore the peep of garbled eyes from cursed spirits who poke through the kitchen doors in disbelief before scuttling away in fear of being caught.

The counter is littered with cooled cutouts of gingerbread house walls, arches, and windows. White icing in pastry bags that will serve as glue and gumdrops to be adorned as paneling is the perfect setup for this small occasion between you both.

Despite Sukuna’s menacing demeanor, he is astute. It’s why he’s achieved the status he has now, why he’s feared among the world, both mortal plane and astral. So he wastes no time piecing together his own creation, his eyebrows creased in concentration fitting of a warrior planning a siege.

As Uraume flutters around you both, you recount the tale of Hansel and Gretel, Sukuna’s crimson eyes gleaming with interest at the more gruesome parts of the brothers Grimm.

“So this witch,” he muses, two hands delicately pipping white icing for a jagged wall, his other two hands covered in flour. “She devoured children who wandered into her domain.” His eyes twinkle with approval, his belly mouth curving into a devious smirk. “An acceptable response to trespassers.”

“She built the house to lure him in,” you add, swallowing a chuckle as you feel his cursed energy wiggle around you in interest. “That’s why it was made out of sweets.”

“Why did these children not become a proper meal?”

“They outsmarted her,” you explain, watching in muted supplication as his face drops from satisfaction to disapproval. “Pushed her into her own oven.”

His belly mouth scoffs, frowning as his thick tongue tastes the spiced air. “Mortals.”

As your special cookies perfume the air with metallic sweetness, you admire Sukuna as he works. He utilizes all four hands to guide his gingerbread creation to completion, clicking his teeth when a wall crumbles in his palms and humming in delight when the icing holds steady. Your gingerbread house lays half-created as you watch him, observing in silence until his masterpiece sits before you.

It’s a fortress—walls as imposing as a cathedral’s, windows designed to daze would-be escapees. The path to the door winds hypnotically, sugar-crystal steps that seem to pulse with cursed energy, leading young feet exactly where he wants them. The final touch? Miniature figurines made of pretzel sticks and marshmallows that are arranged at the front door like an offering.

“The witch’s failure was in her execution, not her concept,” he declares. Where normal gingerbread houses invite warmth, his promises something darker—a blend of Christmas tradition and Sukuna’s deadlier inclinations. “No child would think to check for a secondary barrier here.” He speaks as if defending a dissertation, pointing to the candy canes that could easily become weapons instead of the holiday cheer they should represent.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles from your chest, soft and genuine, as you admire his evil architecture. Four eyes find you immediately, piercing in their gaze as if defensive, yet still holding something akin to wanting your approval. Your hand finds his marked cheek, fingers tracing the tattoos that mirror all over his body. He leans into your touch with imperial indifference, wary of Uraume’s presence in the kitchen but not indignant enough to deny your warmth.

“A domain worth of the King of Curses,” you praise, watching how his belly mouth curves into the wide grin that his master does not offer. It’s more than enough to know he’s satisfied.

“And why is yours unfinished?” Sukuna asks, crossing his arms in mock reproach despite the splattering of flour on his skin and Haori. “Surely, my Queen will make something of equal likeness.”

The oven behind you dings before you can reply, and Uraume retrieves your treat, the aroma rich and spiced. You slide the steaming plate between you, the burgundy cookies still piping hot and ready for him.

“I had other priorities,” you supply, blowing on your fingers before you offer a cookie to his belly mouth. It opens wide, tongue lolling to the side like a panting dog and already watering before you place the cookie on his taste buds. He chomps loudly, sharp teeth devouring the concoction of ginger, blood, and aged spices from Uraume’s private garden—a perfect blend of your world and his. His cursed energy warms, wrapping around your waist in approval as Sukuna throws cookies into his own mouth now.

“Is this my gift?” is all he asks, satisfied but ever impatient as he and his stomach finish the plate. You don’t resist the eye roll. “It’s a very acceptable gift. However, I wouldn’t have entertained Christmas if you only wanted to cook.”

“It’s not your gift Sukuna.” You wave him off, snatching the now empty plate before his belly mouth’s tongue can lick at the blood crumbs, another heaping plate taking its place that Uraume leaves. “And don’t try to guess. You won’t get very far.”

“Hm.” He leans back slightly, one of his hands reaching to dust flour from his forearm. You roll your eyes again, choosing instead to finish your gingerbread house while he sulks. “Then it must be something more…significant. Ancient scrolls, perhaps? Found deep within forgotten temples, imbued with curses?” His voice drips with mock curiosity as if daring you to reveal even the slightest clue.

You snort, pausing mid-pipe to give him a flat look. “First of all, ancient scrolls? Really, Sukuna?” His belly mouth grumbles at being ignored, lips covered in a red dusting of cookie smacking for more. “Second of all, what would I be doing roaming around a temple? This isn’t the Heian era, despite how much you like to talk about it.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, more intrigued than annoyed by your commentary. “So I am wrong?”

“Completely,” you answer, biting back another laugh as you return to your task of piping green icing along a gingerbread wall to resemble bushels of grass. “Do you think your gift revolves around curses and destruction?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” he counters smoothly, his tone smug and his gaze unwavering.

You roll your eyes for what feels like the nth time in only so many minutes, feeling the warmth of his cursed energy curling around your waist again, tugging at you like a child pulling his mother’s sleeve for attention. “Just eat your cookies and stop guessing, Sukuna. You’re nowhere close.”

His belly mouth snickers as Sukuna throws another cookie into it, but his narrowed gaze lingers on you as if memorizing every shift in your expression, every subtle movement of your hands, waiting for you to slip. You have a feeling that even though Christmas is only days away, his curiosity will make it seem like an eternity.

As he often says, Sukuna indulges for you quite often. Trivial mortal instruments meant to stave off your boredom. He tells himself it’s for his own peace, to keep you from pestering him in the throne room, even though he still searches for you and longs for your presence in his lap.

One of those mortal instruments? A television. He knows what they are but has never been bothered to pay attention—an invention he dismissed as frivolous and mind-numbing. The flickering screen is often a source of laughter and comfort on one of your sleepless nights, and though he swore to never sit beside you while it played, here he is. On Christmas Eve. Reclined casually on the expansive sofa in your chambers, a disdainful sneer aimed at the annoying mortal known as ‘Buddy the Elf’, judgment radiating from his very being.

“Ryu, you cannot possibly enjoy this,” he huffs, one hand picking at nonexistent lint on his linen pants, another draped over the back of the couch, and one more cradling your soft form against him.

“Elf is a Christmas tradition!” You insist, handing a heaping hand of buttery popcorn to his belly mouth who accepts with a please grumble. Unlike Sukuna, who prefers a more…carnivorous diet, his belly mouth will eat almost anything it is fed. You chuckle softly, laying your head on his naked chest as you both watch Buddy decorate the department store into a winter wonderland. "I love it."

“He trespasses into their domain and then defiles it. Disgusting.”

“I thought you agreed not to grumble.”

“I never agreed.”

You hide your smile in the warmth of Sukuna’s side, breathing in the familiar aroma of burnt incense that clings to his skin, grounding and intoxicating. The movie plays on, you enjoying, while Sukuna analyzes each scene with the precision he’d use to raze a village. He won’t admit what he’s been reduced to—a powerful being indulging in idiotic entertainment to please the mortal lady of his estate. All for a gift that he cannot guess.

You trace idle patterns on his marked arm. Each touch makes his cursed energy flutter beneath your fingertips, electric kisses on your skin that he pretends not to notice. These are the moments you love most—when the fearsome King of Curses allows himself to simply…exist beside you, his pride softened by the peace you often bring.

“A weapon,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through Buddy and Jovie’s shower singing.

You blink, craning your neck to look up at him. “What?”

He gestures expectantly to the room around him. “You’ve found a weapon worthy of my domain.”

You should have known the moment he stopped complaining about the movie that his attention had drifted. The fact that this is what he is thinking about makes warmth bloom in your chest. “Are you guessing?”

“I do not guess,” he insists, glowering at the television to avoid looking at you, his curiosity-tinged cursed energy betraying him. “I deduce.”

A weapon would be fitting for someone like him—his strength, his dominance, his endless hunger for power. But it’s a far cry from what he will get. You throw more popcorn into your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at just how wrong he truly is.

He’s silent only for a moment before he adds. “Why must I wait until tomorrow, when you can simply tell me now?” His logic is, as usual, rooted in authority and impatience. You chew another handful of popcorn deliberately, ignoring him as you keep your eyes glued to the screen.

Not even five minutes pass before one of his large hands brushes against the nape of your neck. His fingers card through your hair, tugging the strands—not enough to hurt, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You know what he’s doing. His touch feels like a predator sneakily luring in prey. You know this game—this is Sukuna feigning boredom because he’s curious, using seduction to coax you when you’re being stubborn. It’s as effective as it is dangerous. But this time, you’re prepared.

“If you’re going to ignore the movie,” you trail off, your voice a mix of seductive challenge and amusement. You twist in his lap to straddle his waist, sliding your hands up his chest, tracing your fingers around his nipples in slow, deliberate circles. He does not react, at least not on his face. But you can feel the imperceptible jut of his hips, feel his cursed energy hum up your calves, and wrap around your body like a warm fog.

“I know of something else we can do.” You’re suggestive, voice dropping to the pits of your stomach as your lips brush along the sharp edge of his jaw. The shift in power is immediate, and exactly what you want. His hands tighten on your waist, head tilting slightly, giving you better access to lavish him with praise.

“Is that so?” His voice is pitched low, heady already. “Anything is better than this drivel.”

You roll your eyes as you fall back on the sofa, your body arching under his touch as he pulls you closer. Your hand slides lower, tracing the edge of his haori where it hangs loose against his skin.

“You’re impatient as usual,” you whisper, nipping lightly at his neck. “But you’ll wait this time. Won’t you?”

His eyes narrow as if in protest. But he doesn’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, his hands roam your body, each touch firm and possessive. You grin against his skin, knowing you’ve managed to distract him…at least for now.

“A temple,” his voice rumbles through the darkness, shaking you from the deep edges of sleep. His massive form curves around you possessively, his warmth seeping into your skin. Both of you lie tangled in the aftermath of your earlier indulgences—the sofa, the wall, and, finally, the silk sheets of his bed. All bearing witness to his insatiable need for you.

“Mmm?” you mumble, still trying to pull yourself awake.

“Built in my honor,” he elaborates without repeating himself, shaking you again with a harshness that makes you yelp and throw a glare over your shoulder. He smirks to himself as if he’s finally solved the mystery. “That is my gift.”

You groan, burying your face in your pillow, but secretly relishing in the way he can’t seem to let this go. Rolling over halfway, you peek up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. The moonlight creates a shimmering backdrop, outlining his form with silver, blood-red eyes gleaming with determination. For someone who claims to have no interest in mortal traditions, he’s relentless about this one.

“You woke me up to guess….again,” you grumble, glaring at him through a half-open eye.

“I do not guess,” he starts, ready to repeat the same phrase from hours ago. “I simply—”

“Deduce, yes, I got that the first time.” You cut him off and surge up to give him a kiss, feeling his surprise for only seconds before he melts into your affection. “Go to sleep.”

“A secret text,” he murmurs against your lips, undeterred even as his arms pull you closer. “Written in blood.”

You grimace before answering with your lips on his again, your leg curling around a thick waist, ready to use the ammo from your arsenal just like a few hours ago. “Do I need to distract you again?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow.

The midnight air watches with bated breath as Sukuna rolls on top of you, his towering frame rousing the tingle between your legs.

“I know your method of distraction,” he whispers against the skin of your neck. His belly mouth kisses the skin of your inner thigh, licking its lips at the promise of what you might offer if you’re willing. “Considering you are no novice, one might think that you keep secrets from your King often.”

Your affronted laugh dissolves into a sigh as both stomach and Sukuna adorn your skin with wet kisses—one along the vein of your pelvis while the other works at the skin behind your ear. “O-one might think,” you manage, gasping as his mouth finds the pulse in your neck, “that my King is simply impatient for Christmas morning.”

“It is already past midnight,” he growls at the feel of your touch drifting lower, his cocks already throbbing and oozing precum. “Merry Christmas.”

“A proper Christmas morning!” you correct with a chortle, smacking his chest playfully. He hums noncommittally, the sound vibrating through you both, possessive and yet tender in a way that only you are privy to. “A few more hours. Let me wake up properly.”

With those final words, you promptly roll over, denying him any more sensual touch that could ignite the early morning. Sukuna, used to your defiance, simply grumbles at your withdrawal, choosing instead to press searing kisses along the naked skin of your back. They ignite the embers in your belly but are not persistent enough to tempt you further.

“A domain expansion,” he insists, inhaling the perfume at the dip of your spine, lips brushing the soft skin there.

“I can’t even do that.” Your voice is heavy, the dredges of sleep finally pulling at your consciousness.

“More blood cookies.”

You remain silent, using his solemn guesses as music to lull you back to sleep.

Sukuna can feel your presence even deep in sleep, his cursed energy wound tightly around you like a second skin, always attuned to your warmth, your breath, the way you shift beneath the covers. So when that connection shivers—when his energy touches only empty space—his crimson eyes snap open. Your side of the bed is still warm, a ghost of you lingering on his silk sheets.

He can still feel you in the estate, so he rises slowly, surveying his chamber. He takes in the transformation--the pine and silk ribbons that are around the mantle now present in his chambers, and the smell of cider and blood cookies that still wafts in the air around him. Resting along one wall is a beautiful vanity carved from marble with obsidian-lined mirrors and velvet surfaces adorned with your plethora of fragrances. The table near his window is littered with books, a speaker—another mortal instrument—rests quietly, no classical music that you enjoy playing.

His room—once untouchable, dark, and sacred—is now infused with you. It should feel like a violation, his personal sanctum defiled with the touch of a mortal. And yet.

His body is no longer cold in the halls because you thrive in warmth. His servants may bow in fear to him, but they smile at you. Shadows, once tools of terror, are now a source of protection and amusement, a manic gleam of fascination with the otherwordly preventing you from being fearful.

His emotions are still a mystery, but slowly unfurling like petals that have been sleeping for many winters. Anything besides strength and power, besides determination and tenacity are weak—should be weak. But you feel these emotions plenty, and to Ryomen Sukuna, you are far from weak.

The soft yellow lights from the pine tree spill against the floor, welcoming his bare feet as he enters the large living room that has come to life because of you and for you. He won’t admit it out loud, the pride that surges through his chest like a rushing wave when he looks at the tree. A pagan symbol meant to honor a god that is not himself, willingly brought into his domain by his own hand, a rare sight in his forest that only his eye could catch. He cleaved it. He carried it upon his shoulders. He cupped the approval in your eyes like water in a shallow pool in a drying desert, sacred and coveted.

His efforts have become yours, decorated in tinsel and ornaments, in obnoxiously bright lights and snow that will never melt. And you sit next to it, your silhouette glowing against the roaring fireplace, your gaze looking up at what he’s allowed you to have. You noticed his presence long ago, but you remain transfixed with the tree, a soft smile gracing your features as he draws closer.

“It is far too early,” he rumbles, his voice gentle but heavy in the silent Christmas air. “Come back to bed.”

You huff in reply, not bothering to offer words even as he sinks down next to you. His arms crossed over his chest, his legs folding in to sit with grace on the fur-covered floor. This close, he can smell another fragrance that you collect, a smoky Oud that coats your skin like a second skin.

It’s one of his favorites, yet another thing he will not admit, but you know. You know from the way he buries his face in your neck at night, his chambers shrouded in darkness beside the slanting of moonlight on his sheets, his cursed energy caressing your skin in appreciation.

“It’s a great tree, you know,” you sigh, wistfully. You hope to keep the tree up and lit long after Christmas passes. It’s a wonderful sight, a depiction of a past life before you became aware of the unknown, of curses and spirits, sorcery and realms besides Heaven and Hell. To see it now, in the domain of a powerful king, shining brightly as if the one who cut it down did not have four arms and eyes. “It’s strong…resilient.”

“Of course it is. Who do you take me for?” he snaps, tone not holding any heat as his sharp gaze looks at you from head to toe. He leans imperceptibly into you when you laugh, a sound that shakes from your robe-covered chest and into the warm air, the shadows catching it as if they are fireflies in the night.

You finally pull your gaze from the tree, looking to Sukuna and he refuses to let you hear the hitch in his breath. He refuses to tighten his jaw or let you hear the click of bone as he fights the urge to openly bask in your gaze. “I have something for you.”

You grab a box beneath the tree, the only object that decorates the skirt. You’re climbing into his large lap before he can protest, willingly invading his space without fear of the consequences. For others, a swift death. For you, a subconscious shift in his form, one of his arms falling behind you and hitching along your hip to steady you on his thigh.

“I hope you like it,” you muse, shrugging with indifference to shield your anticipation. “I know "human sentiments" are not your specialty.”

The hands not holding your back trace along the red ribbon, silky soft and tied neatly by you. But before you can push the box more insistently into his hold, his hands slide under yours, firmly stilling your movements.

One of his hands reaches behind his back, his form shifting closer before he presents you with his own box. It’s smaller than yours, crafted in dark, polished wood, the flames from the fireplace glimmering along the surface.

“How can I let you meddle and not have anything to counter it with?” It’s all Sukuna offers, tone low and edged with something warmer than usual. He places the box in your hands, his gaze heavy on your face as though waiting for a reaction. Truly, the thought of him getting you something had not crossed your mind. Sukuna seemed more than willing to put up with your holiday antics if only to get something in return. So the weight of the box in your hands, cool against your palm, feels substantial.

Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid, the dark wood creaking softly. Nestled inside a bed of rich blue velvet, is something that steals the breath from your lungs. It gleams against the firelight as you pick it up, its crystal surface refracting shards of gold and crimson that dance across your body. The shape is elegant yet otherworldly, the surface etched with markings that you’ve come to see throughout his estate. A stopper made of black Onyx crowns it, carved into a teardrop that you pinch and pull to open.

The scent curls into the air, smoothing beneath your nostrils in a delicate yet commanding embrace. It’s sharp at first, with notes of what you recognize as juniper and lemon, fresh and crisp like the frost that curls on the windows in your chamber. You’re an expert in fragrance, so it doesn’t take you long to detect the undercurrent of bergamot and pepper, adding an edge that’s reminiscent of Sukuna’s power—lurking beneath the surface.

It seems as if the notes are never-ending. Pine needles and incense weave into a rich, earthy warmth, like the forest you both walked through to cut down the decorated pine that rests behind you. Amber and balsam provide a sweetness that lingers with its base notes and a touch of vanilla. Finally, the richness of cinnamon adds a spicy conclusion, as if kissing your skin before it fades into the morning air.

“You didn’t,” you begin, mouth suddenly dry, your eyes quite the opposite. “You made this…?”

“Do you think anyone else could, Ryu?” he counters, his tone holding a rare softness that you wish you were more levelheaded to preserve forever. A hand not resting on your back drifts along your shoulder blades, caressing in a mixture of observance and reverence. “It is yours.”

Like everything else in this domain.

That is what he wants to add. Is what curls at the tip of his tongue. But he uses your fluttering eyelashes to distract that urge that throbs in his chest. Uses the sight of you resting the perfume carefully back in its velvet encasing before closing the wooden box as if it might break.

“It’s beautiful,” you finally whisper, uncaring of how shaky you sound. The gift is uniquely Sukuna, deeply reflecting his essence but still having you in mind. “Thank you.”

He offers that characteristic hum, rumbling through your body and clenching around your heart with a force he’s not yet ready to acknowledge. His belly mouth curves into a smug grin, but his eyes are still on you as if searching for something.

“Another example of my indulgence that you mistake for generosity.”

The way his cursed energy hums around you, warm and protective, tells you otherwise. And it only serves to make you laugh, finally wiping the tears from your cheeks and gently setting the wooden box on the fur rug beneath you both.

“Uh huh,” you tease, snickering at his frown you can see right through. You finally pick up your box, the surface warmed by the fire, now resting in his hands. The teasing air around you both falls to the wayside, hushed anticipation taking its place.

He’s spent days pestering you about what he would get, and now, with you on his lap and his massive hands cradling the box with unexpected gentleness, his curiosity morphs into something else. A prize he’s excited to have and now afraid to open. Not in fear—Sukuna has no room for fear—but in anticipation.

It takes everything in you not to snatch the box and open it yourself, but eventually, he does, and the purse of his lips and the narrowing of his eyes fall before you like a book as old as time finally opening.

The silk is as dark as the shadows that roam these halls, shimmering like oil in water as it slides along Sukuna’s thick fingers. To anyone else, the material would simply be silk. But to Sukuna, he can feel the cursed energy that pulses along it, no doubt stitched together with a cursed thread strong enough to embrace him and yet still soft to the touch.

You had no way to conjure or control cursed energy to weave into the fabric, so you had to turn to Uraume for help. Their frosty hands had guided yours, harnessing the cursed energy necessary for you as you wove the threads, ensuring the haori could hold the weight of Sukuna’s power while remaining as delicate as the intentions behind it.

The silk mirrors the intricate markings on his skin, its edges dyed in gradients of shadow and blood.

“It’s a Haori,” you finally speak, soft and given space so he can observe his gift without hurry. “It’s all you really wear, so I thought crafting something of my own would be….nice.”

Words gather on his tongue, and then scatter like leaves in a storm, too feeble to express the weight of what he feels. He knows that a simple hum of approval won’t be enough—not this time. Not for you. But as he readies himself to speak, opening his mouth just so, his breath catches when he looks inside one of the sleeves.

The inner lining is adorned with ancient symbols sewn in patterns only he would recognize, the same ones you’ve felt him trace in the air around you when he thinks you’re sleeping, offering protection for when he cannot be near you. They shimmer faintly, their glow deepening in the shadowed folds of silk and fading when touched by light—a testament to the darkness he commands and the solace he finds within it.

“Ryu—”

“At least put it on,” you interrupt, voice slightly shaky and betraying your exposed nerves. You hold the garment delicately, taking it from him and helping each arm through the sleeves. The silk moves like smoke around his massive form, designed to accommodate while maintaining the elegant lines that befit a being of his stature. Your eyes are on his skin, focused on the hem of his lapels as you trace over it and rest your hand on his chest.

“There,” you whisper, smiling but not looking up at him. His heart is steady beneath your palm, not fluttering like a bird in a cage, and you’re not sure whether to be upset that your gift doesn’t make his heart race. “It looks good on you.”

It fits him perfectly and thrums with a warmth that echoes the temperature blooming in his chest. That three-letter phrase—that elusive word that’s made his lip curl in disgust since the beginning of time, now pounds in his ears from the garment that sits on his skin.

It’s not just a garment—it’s an acknowledgment of who he is in his truest form, a declaration that you see his beauty in both his power and his evolution. The way it drapes over his marked skin, how it seems to pulse with its own life in response to his cursed energy—these details speak to your understanding of him, how you’ve learned to…love both the demon and the subtle changes your presence has wrought in him.

They’ve always been directed at you. Not from him. He’s never said them before. He’s never really known how, and part of him has always been envious of how the words can fall so effortlessly from your lips.

He’s never said them before. And yet now, at this moment, it feels like if he doesn’t act, the opportunity will be lost forever, forced down into the pit of his belly for who knows how long.

You hold your breath when you feel one of his hands cradle your cheek, massive enough so that his fingers card through your dark hair.

“And I see you, Ryu.”

The words feel like a promise. Like they will probably be rare but will only hold more and more weight as time goes by. And that’s okay for you. To be in his presence. To open him up and show him that he is capable of something gentle enough to hold you. That’s your gift that you will never need to wait until the 25th of December for.

His belly mouth is unusually silent, but his cursed energy tightens around you like a caress. Warm and vibrating, a protective weight that will remain around you for as long as you breathe. It speaks volumes that his pride won’t quite let him voice.

You lift a hand to rest on his cheek, tracing along the smooth skin that gives way to the rough texture that wraps around his right side. His two eyes on this side are more narrowed, encapsulated in the hard surface around it but still oozing dominance that could make others cower and definitely not come closer like you do. You cup his jaw before finally meeting his gaze—soft meeting a harshness that will never affect you, love meeting the beginnings of the same that linger beneath crimson pools.

“I see you too, Ryomen.”

The sound of his name makes his chest tighten, the organ behind his sternum pounding irregularly for only a second before falling back in line. His given name is forbidden for any who wish to speak it in likeness—he will only tolerate the name ‘Ryomen’ if it is wrapped in fear, or if it falls from your lips.

The silence lingers for what feels like forever, his hands holding you on his lap while he lets you map his face. Your heart flutters, happiness pulsing through your veins with every beat, cataloging every aspect of this moment in your mind forever.

“There is one mortal tradition,” he finally muses, his voice carrying that particular note of mischief that always makes your breath catch, “that I find…acceptable.”

It’s the kind of tone that usually follows lips along your skin and hands between your thighs, reminiscent of a man who can only bask in vulnerability for moments before shifting to something heady and tinged with lust.

Before you can question his motives, one of his hands lifts to hover above you both. His cursed energy manifests between his fingers, dark and potent, morphing itself into something that makes you snort in delighted surprise. Dark tendrils grow slowly from the mass of energy between his fingers, twisted and mangled to form branches, its leaves pitch black with berries that gleam like drops of blood.

A twisted version of mistletoe, the only representation that would be acceptable to someone like Sukuna.

“Of course, you’d make it look menacing,” you tease, giggling softly as his other arms draw you closer to his chest. His belly mouth snickers from below you, ready to join his host in whatever is planned. One of your fingers traces the metal of his gauges, your eyes narrowing in playful indifference.

“Then I advise you to have one ready for next year.”

Your heart stops, lungs seizing in your chest as the words tunnel into one ear and out the other. Next year. The idea hangs in the air, fragile and precious—proof that even Ryomen Sukuna, with all his arrogance and dominance, is willing to entertain a future with you.

The mistletoe pulses above you, casting reddish shadows across your faces, and you don’t need to think any longer as you lean in to slide your lips along his. His hands widen the expanse of your back, your robe slipping off your shoulders to hang in the crevice of your elbows, the heat from the pulsing mistletoe spreading over your chest. The naked feel of you against his torso pleases him, and beneath the prideful smirk against your mouth, beneath the snicker from his belly, you taste that four-letter word in his mouth, siphoning as much of it as you can before you pull away and rest your forehead against his.

“Merry Christmas,” you whisper against his lips, your body warming even further despite the heat from the fireplace.

He offers that hum—that characteristic hum that means so much.

Acquiescence.

Agreement.

I see you.

The mistletoe falls to the floor, crunching beneath your weight as Sukuna lays you on the fur, hands tracing your waist, sliding along your spine, hiking your legs around him. He doesn’t speak, content to admire you beneath him—a mortal without cursed energy who loves perfume, the paranormal, and classical music. A mortal who hates spiders, but loves Gothic architecture, monsters, and the many books that line his walls.

A mortal who has crawled beneath his skin and nestled there, unwilling to leave. And he’s too ashamed to admit that he gave up trying to pry you from inside of him a long time ago.

You throw your arms around his neck, impatient and tired of his staring, carding your fingers through deceptively soft pink hair to pull him down so that you can once again honor this particular tradition—one that, like everything else between you, has been transformed into something uniquely yours.

Merry Christmas, @grimmweepers !!!!

#recs 📚#ryukuna #i’m so sorry this was long winded #i don’t even think this captures the entirely of how reading this made me feel #entirety**

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joshleyson · 2 years ago

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Bohol In My Mind // film dump

07/29 - 08/02 :: Panglao, Bohol

I’ve always been fascinated by Bohol since I was a kid as I always see the iconic Chocolate Hills in my favorite history textbooks and wonder what they look like in real life but I just never got the chance and the timing to visit there. I committed last year that I would visit this beautiful island this year and I'm so happy that I did after my Boracay trip last month. I stayed in a very peaceful villa near Panglao with my friends for almost a week and it was one of the most beautiful trips I've been on this year mainly because it's not just pure beach trips and booze, those kinds of stuff, but also countryside trip tours where I get to explore the other side of the island. I brought my Kodak film cam with me to take some snapshots and here are some of the shots that were developed by a wonderful photo lab called Sunny16 somewhere in QC.

Baclayon Church, the oldest Christian church in Bohol built in 1556. I’m so amazed how structures from the past can withstand the test of time and natural disasters considering they were built without the current modern technology. I'm also amazed how recent restoration efforts did not diminish the original, classic aesthetic of the church.

The countryside trip itinerary that you can book in Bohol also includes stops in parks like the Xzootic Animal Park in Loay where you can see exotic animals. I have mixed feelings about this one. I'm not gonna lie. I was fascinated by how BIG and calm the snakes were lying in the park in a crowd of people and I was extremely bewildered how giant snakes were just lying there unbothered AF lol. Though I trust that the people in Bohol take good care of these animals, I still cannot help and think about the kind of stress these animals have to endure knowing they're animals that necessarily don't like human interaction and prefers to be on their natural habitat but they're being carried around like stuffed toys for people wanting to take selfies with them. I specifically saw one yellow snake (the one on the pic) where it seems to walk away wanting to go back to its cage and not feeling the people around him but was carried back again by the zookeepers for people who wants to take a pic with it including us! I felt a sense of worry and a sense of guilt about that but again, I know these parks operate within the bounds of laws and regulations so I'm just gonna put all my worries into that and praying they're really taking good care of these animals and hopefully touching them is no longer a practice in the future.

One of the highlights of the countryside tour was the buffet lunch on Loboc river. I wish the trip was a bit longer though but I have to say the food was great! Before we went to Chocolate Hills, we passed by a tarsier sanctuary and their man-made forest which I thought was a park but a highway with busses and vans passing through. So it's a photo-op moment at your own risk.

If there's one thing that I liked most about the countryside tour, it was the ATV around Chocolate Hills. It was fun and muddy, and I'm screaming and panicking but in a good way. It was my first time. It's like biking, but with an ATV and THEE Chocolate Hills around you. What a playground! I don't mind having my white Stan Smith sneakers covered in mud after that because it was hella fun.

The remainder of our tour was spent on island hopping and beach bumming, the latter of which is my all-time fave travel activity. But please never ever forget your SPF 30+ if you're just like me who loves to beachbum all afternoon! Panglao Bohol also has a "Boracay-like" stretch of white sand and one of them is the famous Alona Beach. Though smaller, it has finer white sands too with crystal clear open-to-all beach with restos and establishments on the beachfront for food trips that offer a variety of cuisines to try.

We also visited the infamous Virgin island the same day where some tourists were charged 26k worth of food. Honestly, I can say that their food was indeed kinda expensive for me too, and good thing we had already eaten on a nearby island after snorkeling because we knew for a fact that their food prices will be very high. It was a right choice.

The villa that we stayed in was just right. It was quiet, gave us a lot of privacy, and was just in the right proximity to Alona beach and surprisingly the food that they cooked for their guests was kinda cheap but very delicious as well. We lounged, ate, and drank in their pool once we get back from touring the island and it was a great way to cap the day.

Our stay in Bohol was kinda memorable for me as it was a combination of long roadtrips and also being able to relax on the beach and just enjoy the sun and the fresh air and it recharged me in a lot of ways. Bohol was my last stop after flying to Zamboanga and Boracay and by that time, for some reason, I kinda missed going back to work when I was in the airport flying back to Manila and I think it's a great indication that disconnecting for a bit is indeed a good motivator for our capitalist-enslaved spirits and how it breaks the tedium of "quiet-quitting" or moments when everything is just too much of a thing to get into. I’d definitely go back! : )

Balik balik sa Bohol,

vimeo

Connect with me IG & Twitter @joshleyson

📸: Kodak 35mm Funsaver 🎞: Sunny16 Lab 📱 Additional Photos: iPhone 13 Pro Max 🏡: Pineale Resort and Spa Villas 🚙: Bohol Travel and Tours

#Travel #Life Update #Film #Analog #Kodak #Bohol #Philippines #itsmorefuninthephilippines #Vimeo

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rosaliesimp · 2 years ago

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Twilight Appreciation Week 2022

Day 2: Favorite Relationship, Family, or Coven

It's basic, I'm fully aware, but there's something about the unconditional love of Edward and Bella that I adore. Here's a small Bella x Edward fic in the meadow. Tried to write how Meyer does, wish me luck.

The Meadow.

I still hadn't learned how to navigate the uneven ground easily, and I still hadn't agreed to let Edward pull me on his back and run us there. So, it was no surprise when I tripped on a tree root and fell in to his awaiting arms.

We laughed as he set me back on my feet, and I glanced up at the canopy covering the sky to check for the sun. All the green and moist air didn't seem so bad when I was with Edward, but I still flinched when a piece of the morning dew fell from the leaves above and landed right on the tip of my nose.

I wiped it off with my palm, and rubbed my palm against my jeans. "Almost there," Edward announced. I smiled in anticipation. I couldn't wait to see the bright sun against his marble skin, and lay next to him in the flowers, watching it glisten.

He hurried forward to clear the way so I could have my fairytale entrance. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in, waiting for him to return to my side. When I felt the familiar cold touch on my hand, I exhaled and opened my eyes.

A beautiful archway of twisted vines on moss covered branches introduced the sunkissed meadow. Compared to the rest of the dark, damp forest, it looked almost yellow.

"My lady," he said, doing an arm motion to tell me to go forward.

I held my breath as I took the first step, and everything felt so magical. There was a small stone bench off to the side of the circular meadow, and the birds were somehow more clear than before. The bright purple, white, and yellow flowers made me feel like a princess.

His steps made no sound, but his firm hands rested on my shoulders, rubbing them slightly. He kissed the top of my head, and I felt him smile against my hair. Even under his cool touch, every inch of my body seemed to burn.

"Your meadow..." I started, but I wasn't sure what to say. "Our meadow," he corrected.

I nodded as I stepped deeper in to the circle of tall grass and flowers, sitting on the dry ground. Everything felt so much real here. If I could be a princess with a beautiful garden in a place like this, surely Edward could look at me with such adoration, such happiness, and love me just as much as I loved him.

"What's mine is yours," he whispered as he sat beside me, quickly kissing my cheek. "Everything. Everything and anything," he whispered, leaning closer to me.

"Really, you being here..." I paused as I realized his shift in weight was to reach in to his pocket.

I stared at the box as he slowly opened it. The ring was beautiful. Two bands of gold with intricate metal work, with tiny crystals in between them. In the center was a small, but beautiful diamond in the shape of a teardrop.

I couldn't believe that it was meant for me. I looked at Edward, who had a completely serious expression, and realized this was no joke. "You're serious," I choked out. Edward smiled as he reached up to my cheek, wiping away the tears that had fought their way out.

"Isabella Marie Swan... I've loved you from the minute we met, and I promise to love you every minute more. Will you marry me?" he asked, his amber eyes waiting for my answer.

My mouth hung open, but nothing came out. My hands shook, and one of them trembled against my face. Finally, I managed to do something.

I swallowed once, and smiled. "Yes."

#twweek22 #twilight saga #twilight #team edward #edward cullen #bella x edward #bella swan

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violettelueur · 4 years ago

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— JUJUTSU KAISEN EPISODE TWENTY || NONSTANDARD

↳ featuring : basically everyone at this point from jujutsu kaisen

↳ warnings : mention of blood + mention of violence + slight mention of suicide + EXTREME grammar issues

↳ form : story

↳ published : 15 april

↳ pronouns : she/her

↳ word count : 3.1k

↳ synopsis : within the jujutsu world, there were three famous clans to be aware of, the Kamo clan, Zenin clan and the Gojo clan. However, unknown to many sorcerers there was one last family that was known to be apart of the three, only for them to disappear after the golden era leading some to speculate that they had died in battle after the sealing of ryomen sukuna, but....

↳ previous episode : black flash

↳ next episode : jujutsu koshien

↳ barista’s notes : let me admit, this episode took so long to plan and so long to type out because i did at least 4 drafts and this was the best out of all of them...sorry for the lack of activity today but enjoy this episode and good luck ╲ʕ·ᴥ·　╲ʔ

BEFORE READING, I NEED YOU TO BE AWARE OF THIS:

1. the whole story belongs to Gege Akutami and the credits go to them and them only.

2. the spell curses used belong to Tite Kubo due to them being the ‘Kidos’ being used on the manga and anime ‘Bleach’ - but none is mentioned in this chapter.

2.5. for the ‘cursed spells’/kidos (bleach) i will link this video here and tell you the time stamp to check out what i am intending to show - remember i add a few twist here and there by adding the katana to link with Y/N’s cursed technique : hopefully this video is slightly better...

Destructive Curse Spell Number Thirty-Three : Sokatsui (6:00-6:07)

Destructive Curse Spell Number Eighty-Eight : Hiryu Gekizoku Shinten Raiho (6:55-7:12)

Domain Expansion : Hanging Evergarden (BLACKPINK DDU-DU-DDU-DU : 2:30-2:42)

3. if you are confused on anything, please don’t hesitate to message me since i know this whole thing is so confusing.

“Mother?” you whispered, as your arms began to gradually become limp causing your polearm to be lowered while you still stared at the woman in front of you with extreme shock residing in your eyes as you both stood at each side of the river.

“Hi there,” your mother replied back with a soft smile on her face while waving her hand to you as if she was just a longtime friend that you haven’t seen in a while when in reality it had been six years since you saw the face that you dearly missed. Yet, for some reason, there was something creepy about the woman standing in front of you right now.

“Is that...really you?” you asked in a stutter trying to make your mind comprehend that the person in front of you was really the person that was announced dead six years ago leading tears to begin welling up in the corner of your eyes which caused your sight to waver slightly.

“Yeah, alive and well in the flesh...I can see that you are also doing well, that’s a nice uniform you’re wearing there,” your mother commented, as her eyes started to travel up and down your body coming to the realisation that you were now wearing a Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College uniform.

“Why?” you then question, ignoring the fact that she was giving an offended look at the clothing you were wearing right now while a plethora of questions began floating around in your mind, trying to understand and process everything that's happening at this current moment in time.

Right now, there was an attack happening right now at your sorcerer school with a veil constructed over the Exchange Event’s location (probably due to the mole telling the intruders where it was going to happen) while currently there was a special-grade curse located at least two kilometres in front of you with Itadori and Todo fighting it with a least three other intruders lurking around due to the faint cursed energies you could sense. However, there was also a minimum of four people being injured, who were Inumaki, Kamo, Fushiguro and Maki with you having no clue about the others due to the tournament that had commenced before the ambush happened and now you were here with the woman, who you thought was dead.

“Recall situations huh? That is the Y/N I know,” your mother mentioned leading you to snap out of your concentrated thoughts to focus back on the other intruder that was now standing with pride written all over her face.

“You didn’t answer the question,” you replied back with a lowered threatening tone, as your arms began to gain back their strength leading you to grip tightly onto the gift the Gojo had given you as if it was something that could give you the comfort you needed right now.

“Which one do you want me to answer dear? Why am I alive? Why did I fake my death? Or why am I attacking Jujutsu Tech right now?” she answered with a smile on her face as if she was mocking you for not already having the answers for yourself.

“ALL OF IT!” you screamed, as the tears began to decline down your face, dripping down on to the earth below you with your shoulders trembling. “Why are you here? Why are you doing this? Why are you on the curses and curse user’s side? WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME FOR SIX YEARS?” you yelled out in agony as if you were now releasing all the pain and suffering that you had bottled up with more tears continuously streaming down your faces as if they were waterfalls at this point.

“Why wouldn’t I leave you?” your mother then queried leading your eyes to widen further in shock after what she had just announced.

‘What…’

“What did you say?” you replied back in a whisper-like tone, as confusion and betrayal began to cloud your thoughts, questioning if you were hearing right on what she had just asked you.

“Why wouldn’t I leave you? You’ve grown stronger without me, I think it was the perfect decision to leave you, in my opinion,” your mother commented with the smile on her face becoming a smug smirk until it suddenly turned upside down into a frown as if something just came up in her mind, “well, that was until you got caught and found by none other than Gojo Satoru,”.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT? WASN’T IT SUPPOSED TO BE A MOTHER’S JOB TO PROTECT THEIR CHILDREN? WASN’T YOU THE ONE THAT TOLD ME THAT?” you cried out in extreme agony leading your voice to become strained. “What happened? What made you come like this mother?” you whimper as the torment of your mother’s word became evident with the expression you were presenting. An expression you never wished to show anyone.

“I WOULD HAVE PROTECTED YOU IF YOU WERE MY REAL DAUGHTER!” your mother yelled back before freezing once her words began to process in her mind, while you were now just standing in front of her with nothing but complete astonishment written on your face leading your once tightened grip to now completely loosen causing the polearm to fall down with a clung once it hit the ground before rolling off to the side, more than an arm’s reach away due to the small gust of wind blowing against you.

“Huh?” you gasp out as the sudden announcement that was violently thrown at you to as more tears descended, which caused the woman in front of you to start laughing once she had now fully finalised what she just exclaimed at you leading her to cover her face with one hand as she threw her head back with her laughter echoing the whole forest - something that the others could hear if they were still in the forest.

“Ah~ I messed up, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that now~” the woman giggled before facing you again with a smug smirk landing on her face once she witnessed your disheartened face that was painted in both betrayal and confusion.

“Ah, damn it~ this is what I get for breaking the seal of the baby that Lady L/N left for the L/N clan to figure out,” the woman began to mutter under her breath. Although, it was somehow still loud enough for you to hear with the fact that your heartbeat seems to cloud all your senses right now.

With your staggered breathing, you began to aggressively wipe the tears off your face while trying to construct the newfound information that the intruder in front of you just declared before placing your hand on the tree trunk behind trying to balance yourself as you didn’t want your legs to give out.

“What’s the point in hiding it anymore, I’m not your mother Y/N,” the intruder announced as if you needed another reminder leading your breathing to stagger once again, as you struggled to get into a regular breathing pattern.

“Might as well tell you now huh? You are not my daughter...but rather the daughter of the last sorcerer of your inherited curse technique a thousand years ago...the same sorcerer that sealed you away for some reason, leading the L/N clan to flee once Sukuna was sealed away by the same woman,” the woman explained before letting out another fit of laughter as if it was stuck in her throat for a long time and it now needed to be coughed out.

“I am too from the L/N clan, we both are...it’s just...we are not related as you thought we were...but I do wonder how powerful the sealing was? After all...you didn’t age one bit within that sealing crystal,” the woman questioned causing you to turn your head towards her with both distrust and rage within your eyes.

Your body was in pain, mind clouded with uncertainty and heart filled with betrayal. As much as you didn’t want to believe the woman in front of you - you still didn’t, but rather you were indecisive of what to believe - she seemed quite certain to be telling you everything that was nothing but the truth.

Yet, for some reason, you now just felt extremely empty.

“I don’t care,” you muttered under your breath causing your opponent to turn to you with a surprised expression on her face.

“Pardon?” she then asked, in a perplexed tone.

“I..don’t...care anymore...how many of you are there? Four? Five?....Actually, that doesn’t really matter right now huh?” you muttered before taking your hand away from the tree trunk as you processed to turn your body to make it face directly towards the stranger, who now seemed to be worried about what was going to occur.

‘This is going to be quick enough to wipe them out...ah...what a drag...I don’t want to use this…’

Lifting both your arms together, you gently placed your pinky and thumbs together before spreading your other finger, representing what seemed to be like petals on a flower, leading the woman to be more confused about what you were planning to do.

“Domain Expansion,” you announced, causing the intruder in front of you to widen her eyes in shock before lifting her metal tonfas in a complete panic as if they were going to shield her from whatever was going to come towards her.

Just below the ceiling of the veil that was overcasting everyone, there was a sudden construction of a stone square ceiling with pink flowering hanging with their petals downwards leaving a white squared light to shine down towards you, who was now standing on a stone pedestal with empty eyes casting down on the woman in front of you.

“Hanging Evergarden”

You could tell that everyone within the battle right now was confused about what was going on since there was a sudden darkening within the veiled area due to the stone ceiling that you had constructed with your cursed energy. However, they could not have been as more perplexed than the woman was who standing below you, looking fearful of what you had just cast.

“Since you want to play with my heart and the lives of everyone here, I might as well gamble with your life as well as your little friends in the area,” you commented in a deadpan tone, while a few on the pink petals from the flowers above became to fall down gracefully giving the people below an eternally beautiful atmosphere away from the stale yellow coloured view they were in right now.

“By the way, I think you should somehow tell your friends that they shouldn’t let the flower petals touch them in any way…” you announced desolately, as you noticed one of the petals slyly beginning to gently land itself upon your opponent’s shoulder.

“Destructive Curse Spell number thirty-three: Sokatsui,” you chanted, leading to the same flower petal to explode with a torrent of blue cursed energy to which caused you to notice how there were other explosions around the area, noting that the other curses and curse users were also inflicted with the same curse spell.

“Sorry, did I give you the warning too late?” you mockingly asked before looking up to see one of the flowers beginning to slowly fall leading to a small smile appear on your lips. However, it wasn’t one with happiness.

“My domain expansion is barrier less and uses as much space as it can to fill the void that I want it to fill, the flowers are just cursed energy manifested into that shape allowing me to use them at will with any curse spell I cast without suffering the consequences of losing more cursed energy or permanent ones...from what I could remember...there are at least 10,000 flowers with 100 petals each...that means...I can cast up to a million curse spells if I use each petal individually,” you explained as the smoke in front of you began to subside leading to an appearance of a woman with a large gash going from her shoulder to the middle of her stomach with slight burns concealing her whole left arm.

‘Maybe that petal didn’t have as much cursed energy as I thought it did’ you mention internally, as you looked at your opponent in front of you before lifting your arm to lightly grasp on the flower that finally descended within arms reach above you.

“Or...I could use a whole flower with 100 petals to cast a stronger curse spell,” you muttered as you lifted the flower to your face while your fingertips held on to the stem as delicately as possible.

“Pretty right?” you rhetorically asked, as you tilted your head to the side as you began to inspect the flower that you were holding onto right now.

Even with its vast amount of petals, the flower was quite light as the petals were quite small, leading them to be somewhat difficult to detect by your opponent once they had landed on the ground or somewhere upon their body. However, even with the explanation, you had given to your opponent, who was injured to somewhat critical lengths, that wasn’t all you could do with your domain expansion - yet, you weren’t going to hand over that information so easily.

Unexpectedly, there was a sudden change in the colour of lighting causing you to look up to find that the veil was beginning to rapidly deconstruct as the sides began to subside causing your stone ceiling to be the only thing sheiling the entire area, as well as the person who was on top of your stone construction right now.

‘Gojo?’

Steadily, your stone ceiling began to also subside due to you deactivating the structure leading the stone that was starting to gradually crumble from the side to convert themselves into the same petals from the flowers that began to fall down as well leading to a rainfall of the pink flower petals to pour down upon everyone.

Standing above the floral blanket was Gojo, who was floating in the air without his blindfold on, leading you to widen your eyes in surprise since it was one of the first times you had seen them exposed due to the fact you were used to them being covered by his black-tinted glasses.

Suddenly, your white-haired teacher disappeared from your sights leading you to sense his cursed energy from the other side of the area in front of you to which caused you to concentrate on the woman in front of you, who was holding her wound with one hand, which was a futile attempt to halt the bleeding that was dripping down from her large wound.

“I’m retreating! There is no way I am facing both you and Gojo at the same time,” your opponent suddenly announced, causing you to look at her with a deadpan expression painted on your face, as you slowly stepped down from your stone pedestal - which the stone began to crumble while turning into pink petals like your stone ceiling did - with nothing filled within your eyes.

Lifting up the surviving flower in front of the woman (who you used to call your mother), you stare directly into her eyes as a wooden structure begins to enclose around her causing you to come to the conclusion that it was the special-grade curse that was helping her escape.

“Destructive Curse Spell number eighty-eight: Hiryu Gekizoku Shinten Raiho,” you chanted in a whisper, causing the flower to suddenly fire a gigantic beam of blue electrical and cursed energy leading to anything in front of you to create an impact as flames began to engulf the tree on the other side.

However, your eyes unexpectedly notice an immense purple beam rapidly coming towards you leading you to widen your eyes in shock before your body began to relax even in the current situation you were in.

‘Could I block it? Nah, it’s a technique that convergences and divergences...it probably cancels everything like a black hole...that’s quite nonstandard for him...I don’t care anymore...I guess I can go to sleep again....’

On the other hand, before you could even feel the agonising impact of what was coming towards you, there was a sudden feeling of impact pushing you away from the purple hallow, causing you and whatever had pushed you to just marginally avoid the attack leading you to look over the person’s shoulder with broadened eyes as you didn’t expect someone to save you from the blast that you were willingly going to take.

“What were you thinking?!” Someone shouted at you before painfully grabbing your shoulders to make you look at him, only for you to discover that Gojo was right in front of you with a rare terrified look on his face - but all you could give him was an empty look with wide eyes.

“Why?” you whispered, causing Gojo to now look at you with shock as he didn’t understand why you were asking such a type of question.

“WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?” you then screamed painfully as multiple tears began to burst from your eyes as you violently shock your adoptive father, only to finally let your body lose all its strength it somehow maintained as you instantly dropped onto your knee (which the fall was pillowed by the immense amount of petals covering the ground) causing Gojo to come down with you, as he became even more surprised on the sudden tears that were spilling down your face.

“WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY?” you cried with agony coating your voice leading Gojo to peer at you with compassion as he then gently pulled you into a hug, letting your painful scream ring into his ear as he allowed you to let whatever you were holding in escape.

Gojo didn’t know the reason why you were crying, nor did he know how he could comfort you at this very moment in time. As much as he told you to call him your father, he never really had that much of an experience of being one, let alone how to even act like one. All he knew was that you were now suffering and he didn’t know why at all.

“I’m sorry,” Gojo muttered before pulling you back to make you face him leading the sorcerer to find you with bloodshot eyes as well as the known wet stains of the tears that were still flowing down as redness covered your whole face.

Pressing his two fingers in the middle of your forehead, you began to subtle notice how your vision was getting hazier causing your mind to be plagued by confusions before your consciousness was suddenly lost leading your head to land upon Gojo’s shoulder before he proceeded to pick you bridal style before gradually making his way back to Jujutsu Tech.

“It’s going to be okay, just rest now”

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