#beneath the frozen soil

[misaerabl]

Fallen Grace

CW: wc… 5.4k - fallen angel reader x caitlyn kiramman, plot with some smut, caitlyn eating you out, religion (obviously), hurt/comfort, based on this request SUMMARY: Fallen from grace, you are found broken and bleeding in Caitlyn’s garden. She takes you in, tending to your wounds with reverence, even as you reject her mortal kindness. You long for heaven—for the gates that have shut you out—but Caitlyn is relentless. She shows you the beauty of the world below, the softness of human hands, and the warmth of a love that does not demand divinity. Slowly, you let her in. And when she worships you—not as an angel, but as a woman—you find yourself reaching not for the sky, but for her. In the end, heaven no longer feels so far away.

𝕴. The Descent

The night is brittle with frost, and the gardens of Caitlyn Kiramman’s estate slumber beneath a veil of moonlight. The roses, once proud and sharp with scent, bow to the cold, their petals sagging beneath the weight of frozen dew. The wind slips through the iron railings, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the hedges, but it is soured by something heavier—something bitter.

Beyond the manicured rows and trimmed laurels, in the northern patch where wildflowers disobey the gardener’s hand, something stirs. The brush is damp with mist, thorned branches heavy with rain. The ground, muddied by the day’s storm, clings to something that shouldn’t be there.

A body—ashen, bloodied, and trembling—lies crumpled in the grass. Wings, torn at the edges, barely cling to the figure’s back. Feathers, once ethereal and whole, spill loosely into the dirt. Pale gold stained with rain and iron. Some catch in the brambles, others float in the waterlogged soil. The ground drinks the blood in shallow rivulets, red seeping through the weeds.

You are still. Your breath barely ghosts through parted lips. The remnants of grace flicker faintly, a halo’s dying ember, quickly fading to nothing. The earth is unkind to you—it holds you down, its weight foreign and cruel. The flowers bend beneath your ruin.

Caitlyn finds you there, a slumped figure in the moon-drenched overgrowth. Her boots scuff the edge of the stone path as she draws near, her lantern’s glow catching on broken feathers. She pauses, breath halting in her throat, eyes narrowing at the sight.

For a heartbeat, she thinks you are already dead. But then you shudder—a broken gasp—barely more than a breath.

She drops to her knees, hands unthinking, ungloved. Her fingers press into the dirt as she reaches for you. She brushes strands of rain-soaked hair from your face, smearing blood across your temple by mistake. You flinch faintly beneath her touch, but you are too weak to recoil.

Her hands press against torn flesh, and she feels it—the heat of blood thick on her palms, seeping through her fingers. Her throat tightens. She does not pull away. Instead, she moves quickly. Her arms slip beneath your broken form. She is trembling as she lifts you, as though afraid you might fracture further in her hold.

You weigh almost nothing. A celestial ruin, cradled by mortal hands.

Her boots sink slightly in the sodden earth as she carries you toward the house. The lantern swings at her side, its flame barely holding against the wind. She does not stop to wipe the blood from her hands. She does not pause when her breath catches. She holds you closer, desperate and steady.

The night is heavy with iron and roses. The ground where you fell is quiet again, nothing but damp earth and broken feathers left behind. And you, trembling and wingless, are carried into the dark.

𝕴𝕴. The Cage of Mercy

You wake beneath silk sheets, cool and unfamiliar against your skin. The fabric clings slightly to the fever-slick sheen still clinging to your body. The bed is wide and soft, too soft, as though meant to hold someone fragile. Pillows of down frame your head, and the faint scent of lavender water drifts from a porcelain basin on the nightstand.

You shift, but your body protests. Dull aches bloom beneath your ribs and along the plane of your back. Bandages cross your chest in careful lines, soft and taut, but you feel no reverence for them. No gratitude. They feel foreign—holy remnants wrapped around something no longer sacred.

You push yourself up with trembling arms, but the weight on your back drags you down. Your wings—stiff, broken, and molting—lie heavy and useless against the mattress. Their edges are frayed, the feathers matted and torn, dull where they once gleamed. You attempt to move them, and a sharp pain lances through your shoulder blades, the muscles spasming. They twitch weakly, pathetic in their ruin.

You grit your teeth. You do not cry. Instead, you rise.

The sheets slip from your frame as you stagger from the bed, breathless and aching. Your legs threaten to buckle beneath you, joints stiff from too many still hours. You reach out, catching the edge of a carved mahogany table, your knuckles white around the wood. Your bare feet press into the polished floor, slick with the sheen of cold sweat, but you do not stop.

Your eyes catch the window. The curtains—thin and gossamer—stir faintly in the morning breeze, the fabric limned with pale gold light. You move toward it, shoulders tight with defiance.

Your knees hit the sill before you realize they’ve buckled. Your hands press to the glass—damp from your trembling palms—as you stare upward. Toward the sky.

The clouds drift slow and indifferent. There is no hand reaching down for you. No warm light. Only the cold sun and the dull ache in your bones.

Your lips part, and you begin to pray.

Your voice is cracked and raw, barely more than a whisper. You murmur psalms Caitlyn has never heard, verses in tongues no mortal tongue could shape. Your voice frays against the edges of the words, quiet and fractured. You clutch your trembling hands together, knuckles white with devotion, fingers curling tight in desperate reverence.

“Sanctus. Sanctus. Domine Deus Sabaoth…” Your voice falters. You breathe and try again. “Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua…”

You chant, broken and breathless, waiting for heaven’s reply. But no light answers you. The sky remains pale and still.

A soft sound stirs from the doorway. You don’t turn.

Caitlyn stands there, silent in the morning light. She leans against the frame, her arms loosely crossed, but there is no steel in her stance. Only a quiet, folding tenderness. Her eyes soften when they fall on you—on your trembling hands and your lips moving soundlessly against the windowpane.

You don’t see how she lingers. How she holds her breath every time your voice wavers. How she exhales slowly when you do not fall apart.

You do not see her carry the weight for you. But you feel it. And you refuse it.

She steps forward after a moment, voice careful. “Come back to bed,” she says softly. “You’re still weak.”

You flinch slightly at the sound, as though the mortal words disturb the fragile thread holding your prayers together. You do not look at her.

Your voice rasps against the glass. “Leave me.”

She doesn’t. Instead, she moves closer, footsteps light against the polished floor. She sets a tray on the table beside you—a modest meal of broth and bread. It smells warm, faintly savory. She brought it to be kind. To care.

You do not touch it.

Her voice is gentler this time, but firmer. “You should eat.”

You stare through her. You press your palms harder against the window, fingers trembling faintly.

When you do not respond, she steps closer still, her fingers skimming the edge of your ruined wing. You tense at the touch, your breath hitching, the sensation both familiar and deeply, terribly wrong. She means it to be gentle, but you recoil as though burned. You twist away from her, arms closing over your chest.

Your voice is a low rasp, cracked from disuse. “Don’t.”

Her hands drop to her sides immediately. She doesn’t reach for you again.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is heavy, stretching too long, filled with the thin space between you. You breathe heavily, staring down at your shaking hands.

Caitlyn exhales softly. She turns back toward the table, removing the lid from the small pot of salve beside the tray. The scent of mint and chamomile drifts faintly from it. She dips her fingers in, rubbing the ointment between her hands, warming it.

“Your wounds…” she says, carefully measured, “…they’ll heal faster if you let me help.”

You do not move. You do not answer. You fix your eyes on the sky, on the fragments of light filtering through the glass, and you try to imagine it is heaven looking back.

She kneels beside you. Her voice, when it comes again, is softer. “Please.”

You turn your face away.

You do not thank her. You do not accept her salves. You do not touch the food she brings you.

She speaks of the city—the warmth of summer markets, the idle laughter of children playing by the fountain, the scent of spiced bread in the lower quarters. She tries to conjure life in her voice, to breathe warmth into it. She tells you about the festival that will arrive soon, the colors that will drape the streets. She smiles softly, trying to make you imagine it, to see it through her eyes.

You stare through her. Your eyes remain on heaven, indifferent to the hands that save you.

And still, she stays.

𝕴𝕴𝕴.Soft Chains, Soft Hands

Days stretch into weeks. Time becomes a dull and heavy thing—measured only by the slow mending of your mortal flesh and the steady, inevitable wilting of the divine in you.

Your body recovers. Your limbs strengthen, and the bruises fade from your skin. But your wings—once celestial, once a thing of glory—dull from silk to dust. The feathers, once radiant and fine, shed in brittle clumps. They fall in uneven patches, leaving bare spaces along your spine. You no longer feel the tug of the sky when the wind drifts through the open windows. Gravity has claimed you fully.

You no longer speak Caitlyn’s name. You do not even look at her when she enters the room. You only call for your Father, for the gates, for the light.

When you wake, you whisper prayers to a heaven that does not answer. When you sleep, you see it slipping further away.

You become a relic of your own punishment. Trying to claw your way back to paradise with trembling hands.

But Caitlyn—relentless in her devotion—stays. She does not move like a martyr, nor a fool, but with a tenderness so steady it threatens to break you.

She brings you clothes softer than the robes of your choir, carefully folded and left at the edge of your bed. She brushes the ends of your matted hair, fingers slow and patient, working through the knots with infinite care. She never pulls too hard. When her fingertips catch against a tangle, she stops, smooths it out, and continues with quiet reverence.

She kneels beside you when your legs buckle from the pain of phantom flight. When the ache beneath your shoulder blades becomes too much—when your ruined wings spasm uselessly, still searching for the currents they’ll never find again—she is there.

She offers her arms without hesitation. And you do not reject them. You let yourself lean into her touch, trembling but stubborn, without a word.

She never asks why you do not speak. She never asks why you flinch when she presses warm cloths to your back, or why you turn your face away when she calls you by name. She simply stays.

And in the quiet moments, you begin to break.

One night, you dream of fire.

It does not begin with flame. It begins with wind. With the sudden and terrible absence of light—the cold snuffing out of warmth and grace. You see the sky rupture, clouds folding inward. The stars retreat as your wings fold downward in unholy descent.

You dream of the fall. Of gravity claiming you in a sickening pull. Of the divine spilling from your veins in molten ribbons. Of your feathers blackening mid-flight, blistered by some unseen judgment. Of sin blistering your skin as you plummet. Your own screams tear through your throat like ash.

You strike the earth with shattering force, your grace torn from you. You hit the ground in a broken heap, lightless. And then— Nothing.

You wake violently, gasping for air, the sheets tangled around your legs. Sweat clings to your skin, a thin sheen of cold across your neck. Your hands claw at the blanket, seeking purchase against something, anything—

But you cannot breathe. The fire is still in your throat. You swear you can taste the ash.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright.”

You startle at the voice. Hands—warm and steady—close over your arms.

You do not recognize them at first. You are still in the fire, still in the ruin. You thrash against the hold, your chest tight and heaving, the phantom of gravity still clutching at your lungs.

“Shh, you’re safe. You’re safe.”

Her voice cuts through the haze, low and trembling but steady, and you come back to the room by fragments—the silk sheets damp with sweat, the moonlight trembling against the window, the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth.

And her hands. Her hands, anchoring you.

“Breathe,” Caitlyn says softly. “Just breathe.”

Her thumbs stroke slow, tender circles along the inside of your wrists. Her voice—rough from sleep—carries the faintest tremor. You feel the ghost of it on your skin.

You shudder in her hold. Your hands, still shaking, curl weakly into the fabric of her nightshirt. You feel the tremor in your fingers even as you grip her, even as you press your forehead into her collarbone.

You feel her breath catch sharply when you do. But she does not pull away.

“Did you dream of it?” she asks quietly.

You do not answer. Your throat is too raw, too tight, to speak. But she doesn’t need you to.

She shifts slightly, pulling you further against her. You feel the strength in her arms, the solid press of her palm against the back of your head. She holds you as though you might fly apart, fingers curled into the fabric of your sleep shirt, gentle but unyielding.

Her breath ghosts over your temple, uneven and warm. “You’re here,” she murmurs softly. “You’re alright.”

You are not alright. You are anything but. But she repeats the words like a prayer, low and steady, as though willing them into truth.

Her fingers stroke softly along the sharp ridges of your shoulder blades, where your ruined wings twitch faintly beneath her touch. She is careful. Reverent. The weight of her hand warm against the place where your divinity once rested.

And though you will not admit it, you lean into her. Your hands remain fisted in the fabric of her shirt, knuckles white and trembling. Your forehead stays pressed against her throat, your lips parted, pulling shallow, uneven breaths.

You feel the warmth of her arms encircling you completely, the faint press of her lips at your temple—so light, you might have imagined it.

You breathe against her skin. And you do not pull away.

For the first time since the fall, you do not dream of fire. And she does not let you go.

𝕴𝖁. She, Your Eden

Caitlyn begins bringing you out into the gardens—the very place where you fell. The place where the earth first cradled your broken body, where the grass still remembers your blood.

You resist at first, your legs still weak from disuse, your steps faltering as though your body does not recognize gravity’s grip. She stands beside you, patient, always within reach but never touching.

The morning air clings cool to your skin. The scent of damp earth rises beneath your feet. You walk side by side, though you never brush against her. Your hands remain clasped behind your back, fingers lightly interlaced, as if in silent prayer. As if holding your holiness like a barrier between you.

You always keep one step ahead. And Caitlyn lets you.

But her eyes linger. She watches you. Always.

She watches the way you tilt your face toward the sun, as though waiting for it to split open the clouds and carry you back to grace. The way your eyes flutter closed, desperate for warmth that no longer recognizes you.

She watches your lips form prayers that never rise. She watches your knuckles tighten when you clutch at your own hands, as though trying to hold yourself together. She watches you fall apart.

She speaks of life. Of mortality. Of things that bloom in the dirt and not in the clouds.

“Look,” she says softly one morning, gesturing toward a cluster of wild roses growing unruly along the garden wall. Their petals are pale gold, blushing faintly at the edges, heavy with dew. Some have begun to wilt at the tips. Bruised by the cold. Imperfect.

“They’ll be gone by next week,” Caitlyn muses, crouching beside them, brushing her fingertips over a drooping stem. She glances at you over her shoulder, lips pulling into a faint, almost mischievous smile. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You look at her, disbelieving. “It’s dying.”

Her smile does not falter. She plucks the bloom from its branch and holds it out to you. Her voice is quiet, steady. “And still beautiful.”

You do not take the flower. You turn from her, from the roses, from the dying beauty she speaks of, and walk away.

She does not stop you. But when she finds you the next morning—hunched by the fountain, your fingers trembling over your beads of prayer—she kneels beside you without a word. She does not speak of flowers that wilt or the beauty of decay.

She only presses a shawl around your trembling shoulders, her fingers warm against your skin. And you let her.

When she realizes the garden cannot reach you, she tries the city. You refuse the first time she asks. And the second. And the third.

But she is stubborn. And when she stands before you that morning, her eyes suddenly soft but unbearably earnest, her voice quiet but breaking faintly at the edges—you cannot deny her.

“Please,” she says softly. There is no command in her voice. No persuasion. Only a quiet, fractured plea.

And so, you follow.

The city is a tangle of warmth and dust. Stone and iron. Smoke and spice.

It is nothing like heaven. And yet, she keeps showing it to you. As though it might be.

She takes you to the market first. You walk beside her, your posture rigid, unsure. The crowd swells around you, voices low and rough, unrefined. Mortal laughter clatters against stone walls, uncontained and imperfect.

You do not understand the appeal of it. But Caitlyn does.

She stops by a fruit stand. The merchant hands her a sliver of honeyed pear on the edge of a dull knife. She turns, holding it out to you, eyes glinting with unrestrained delight.

“Try it,” she says simply, her voice lighter now, teasing at the edges.

You stare at the sliver of fruit, brow faintly drawn. “I don’t need it.”

Her smile tilts, coy and knowing. “No. But you might want it.”

You glance at her. The sun catches in her hair, turns it to dark silk, makes the blue in her eyes burn a little brighter. And against your better judgment, you take it. You place the sliver of pear against your tongue, slow and uncertain, and the taste—syrupy sweet, clinging to the roof of your mouth—shocks you with its richness.

Her eyes flicker with satisfaction. But she says nothing. She only hands you another.

You do not refuse.

In the following days, she shows you more of the city. She lets you walk behind her at first, always allowing you the space you demand, though her hand lingers close enough to catch yours.

She buys you books filled with mortal poetry—thin volumes with gilded edges and worn spines. She leaves them by your bedside. You tell yourself you will not touch them.

But you do. You read them before you sleep. You read about broken hearts and fleeting beauty and stars that live and die in the same breath. You read about a world meant to end and bloom again in the ashes.

And when she finds you on the veranda one evening, book still open on your lap, you scowl at her. She only smiles. The slightest tilt of her head. Like she knew you would.

One evening, the wind is sharp with the promise of rain. You shiver slightly when it drags its cold fingers along your skin. You do not complain. You would not dare.

And yet, without a word, Caitlyn unwinds the scarf from her own neck and drapes it around your shoulders. Her knuckles brush against your collarbone, slow and deliberate, before they retreat.

The scarf is warm with her scent. You clutch it closer without meaning to. And you despise yourself for it.

You watch her as she glances away, her eyes settling on the rows of lanterns swaying softly in the evening breeze. You do not see the smile she hides.

You still pray. Still beg for the gates. Still clutch at your beads with trembling hands.

But she cannot bear it. Cannot bear the way you gaze at the sky with longing eyes, waiting for the light that will not come.

She watches you ache for a heaven that has already closed its gates. And so, she decides.

If you will not stay for the world, She will become your reason.

She will make herself your Eden. And she will be merciless in her devotion.

𝖁.Soft Damnation

That night, you break.

It happens without warning. The sky offers no omen—only emptiness. Ink-black and void of answers.

The stars are sharp, pale shards scattered across the heavens, and yet they do not hear you. No light answers when you beg. No voice calls your name.

So you fall. Again.

You collapse to your knees in the dirt where Caitlyn once found you. Where you first became something unholy. The cold earth clings to your skin, biting against your bones. But you do not rise. You only bow lower.

You press your trembling hands together, knuckles white with desperation. Your voice rasps against the stillness, cracking with every breath.

“Domine, adiuva me.” Lord, help me.

But the words feel like ash on your tongue. Dry and dead. Familiar and useless.

You clutch at your beads, fingers unsteady, the rosary trembling in your grip. You pray again, louder this time. “Domine, ne derelinquas me.” Lord, do not forsake me.

But there is no answer. There never is.

You feel your throat tighten. Your eyes burn with the betrayal of salt. And you shatter. Into something less than divine. Something broken. Something mortal.

She finds you like that.

Caitlyn’s breath catches in her throat when she sees you—the fierce, unyielding creature who once spoke of salvation with such reverence—now trembling in the dirt, splintered by absence.

“Hey,” she calls softly, her voice barely a whisper. But you do not lift your head. You do not answer.

You only press your forehead deeper into the soil, as though the earth might swallow you whole. As though you wish it would.

“Please.” Her voice is closer now, low and unsteady. The smallest fracture in her tone makes your spine stiffen.

You feel her hands on your arms—gentle at first, uncertain. Fingers hesitant against your skin. But when you refuse to rise, when you resist her, she grows bolder.

“Stop—” You twist away from her, your nails biting into your palms. But she is stronger. Her arms circle around you, unyielding. And this time, she holds you.

“Stay,” she murmurs, her voice breaking. She buries her face against your neck, her breath uneven, trembling. “Stay. Please.”

Her lips are too close. Her words too human. Too pleading.

You feel her desperation in the way her arms tighten around you, anchoring you to her. You feel her voice quake against your skin.

And you break. Utterly. Completely.

First in sobs, sharp and breathless. Then in silence, your body trembling in her arms. And finally—finally—in her mouth.

You do not know who moves first. Only that your lips find hers, seeking with the violence of sorrow. A collision of trembling mouths and sharp breaths.

Her lips—warm, mortal—burn against your trembling mouth. You taste the salt of your own grief on her tongue. And she tastes the sorrow on yours.

Your hands, still shaking, rise to her face, fingertips unsure. But she holds them there—keeps them against her cheeks with her own trembling hands. Grounding you.

She murmurs against your lips—desperate, reverent, wild. “Stay with me.” The words press against your mouth like a vow. Like a plea.

And you answer her in the only language you have left. In the only prayer you have left.

You pull her closer. Your hands tangle in her hair, wild with grief and need. Your fingers twist into the strands at the nape of her neck, desperate to keep her near, to feel the weight of her. To know she is real.

You kiss her with the fury of a lost soul seeking light. And she answers you. With no hesitation. No grace. Only need.

That night, Caitlyn worships you. But not with reverence. Not with delicate prayers. But with hands that devour. With lips that consume.

She carries you into her room, your limbs weak and unsteady. And when your knees buckle, she catches you. Her arms steady around you, her breath at your ear.

“I have you,” she whispers. A promise, low and feral.

She lays you down on the bed, her hands trembling as she undresses you. You let her. You do not resist when her mouth finds your throat. When her lips trace the hollow beneath your jaw.

She leaves her mark on you—soft and fleeting at first. But then harder. Fiercer. Like she wants to brand herself into you.

“You’re mine,” she rasps against your skin, her voice raw with need. A confession. A claim.

You do not protest. You do not stop her when her teeth scrape softly against your collarbone, when she bites down just hard enough to make you gasp. You do not stop her when she kisses her way down your stomach, slow and deliberate. Her mouth reverent but merciless. A prayer in every press of her lips.

Her hands trace the curve of your hips, shaking with restraint, afraid you might still disappear. But you don’t. You stay. You stay with her.

You cry out softly when her lips trace the inside of your thigh, when her mouth finds the heat between your legs. You bury your hands in her hair, trembling as you pull her closer. Her breath is hot and heavy against you, and you arch into her mouth, into her devotion.

She leaves no part of you untouched. No part of you unworshipped.

Her lips press prayers into your skin—desperate, broken prayers. Her mouth speaks the only gospel she believes in now: You.

And when she rises over you, when she sinks into you with shaking hands and a trembling mouth, your back arches off the sheets, wings limp and breathless. Your nails score soft marks down her back, and she gasps at the sting.

“Say my name,” she pleads against your lips, her voice barely more than a broken whisper. Her eyes—dark and raw—search yours, aching. “Please, say it.”

And you do. For the first time, you speak it without shame. Without resistance.

“Caitlyn.” A whisper, trembling and reverent. The first prayer you speak without heaven in mind.

And she swallows it. Takes it into her mouth like sacrament. Like she could live on the sound of it.

That night, you do not reach for God. You reach for her. And she holds you like she is the only salvation you will ever need.

𝖁𝕴. The Flightless Dawn

The morning is golden. And cruel.

The sun breaks in through the window, spilling light across your skin like a slow and deliberate confession. It exposes everything. The shallow curve of your back. The faint, bruised blooms where her mouth had lingered too long. The tender scrape of her nails down your spine.

You sit by the window, draped in nothing but the linen sheet, your knees drawn loosely to your chest. The fabric clings to your damp skin, still cloyed with the scent of her. Your hair is tangled from her hands, wild and unkempt, and you hate that you no longer know if the heaviness in your chest is from grief— or from the weight of her gaze.

Your fingers tremble faintly as you trace your own shoulder, feeling the faint indent where her lips had pressed too softly, too reverently. The memories cling like damp cloth. Too close. Too heavy.

You should be praying. You should be weeping for the sky, for the grace of it, for the gates you once called home. But you only sit there. Flightless. Silent.

You press your forehead to the windowpane, its chill biting at your skin. But the cold does nothing to cleanse you. It only makes you ache.

You hear her footsteps before you see her. Soft against the wooden floorboards. Slow. Careful.

As though she is afraid she will break whatever fragile peace exists between you.

Caitlyn enters quietly, her hair damp from the bath, clinging in darker strands at her temples. She has already dressed, loose-fitting pants and a thin button-down shirt that clings in places still damp. But she carries none of her usual formality, none of her sharpness. No holster at her hip. No stiff posture. Just her.

She does not speak. Not at first.

She only crosses the room, barefoot and silent, her eyes never leaving you. And when she reaches you, she kneels beside you, slow and deliberate.

Her fingers find your bare shoulder—hesitant at first. Testing. Like she expects you to flinch.

You do not.

She exhales softly, her hand warm and steady against your skin. Her forehead comes to rest against your temple. And she stays there. Breathing you in. No words. Only silence.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. You only breathe into each other. Soft and slow. Like two souls trying not to wake the storm.

And then her voice—low, raw from the night before—breaks the stillness. Fragile and unsure.

“Are you alright?”

The question is a whisper, meant only for you. But it carries more weight than it should. More fear. More longing.

You do not answer right away. Your throat tightens. Your hands flex faintly against your knees. But you feel her fingers trace along your shoulder—slow, soothing—and you lean into the touch before you realize it.

You feel her breath hitch.

“Hey…” she murmurs softly, shifting slightly, her other hand coming to your jaw, gently coaxing you to face her. Her thumb brushes over your cheekbone, reverent, seeking. “Look at me.”

And you do.

Your eyes meet hers, and something in your chest buckles. Because there is no demand in her gaze. No expectation. Only tenderness.

Only her.

You hate the way your eyes burn at the edges. The way the ache in your throat rises like a swell. But Caitlyn does not look away. She does not flinch from the fragility in your gaze. She only leans in.

Her lips brush softly against your forehead, lingering longer than they should. She does not press for more. She only holds you there, unmoving, like she might somehow steal away the weight you carry if she just stays close enough.

“I’m here,” she whispers against your skin. Soft. Certain. Steady. “I’m right here.”

You exhale softly—ragged, broken—and you press your cheek against her palm, eyes fluttering closed.

You do not speak of the night before. You do not say her name. You do not weep for the sky.

You only let her hold you.

She shifts, carefully, pulling you into her lap. Her arms wrap around you with a gentleness that is almost painful. You bury your face in the curve of her neck, and she tightens her arms around you, one hand threading slowly through your hair.

You do not fight her. You do not resist when she places her lips softly against your temple. When she murmurs words into your skin—too quiet to be prayers, too raw to be anything but love.

“I’ve got you…” “You’re safe…” “I’m not letting go.”

And you believe her. For once, you let yourself believe her.

The sun slips higher, spilling golden warmth across the room. You feel it stroke your bare back, warm and insistent. The light brushes your skin like a fading echo of the divine. But you no longer flinch from it.

The sky is endless. But you do not weep for it anymore.

You let yourself lean into her, your hands weak but clinging softly to the fabric of her shirt. You let her press her lips against your hair. Let her cradle you. Let her carry you.

For now, this is your heaven. And you do not turn away from it.

[harbours-lighthouse]

Company in A Bone Dead Land (Jason Todd xF!Reader; Apocalyptic AU)

[ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ]

⁀➴ pairing: jason todd x f!reader

— summary: the world as you know it is broken, crawling with those infected by the virus. you're one of very few survivors, and you're cautious of each step you take. when a man breaks into your house, you're torn between kindness and survival.

— author's note: hi loves! first thing i've been able to work on and actually finish, so hopefully you guys enjoy (a lot of inspo taken from bird box and the last of us). i'm thinking of making this into a series, but i'm not sure. let me know if i should make a part 2!

cw: apocalypitc setting; possible slow burn; semi enemies-to-lovers; death; gore; violence; graphic descriptions; overall feelings of dread wc: 5.7k divider credit: @/saradika

IT’S HOT AND DRY, and the ants are swarming. They march in dotted black lines, trailing through your garden towards the fence. You squint against the harsh white light of the sun, your skin burning beneath the thin layers you wear. 

Since the Fall happened, the seasons have become more brutal, more violent. Summer kills everything, from the bare bushes surrounding your property to the few people that stumble across the plains. But like an angry god whose vocabulary doesn’t include the term ‘fair,’ the few of those who survive the scorching summers are picked off when winter comes—leaving behind faces frozen in terror, lips nearly as blue as the lake near the Old Town when it freezes over. But winter won’t be here for a long time.

The line of ants isn't usual, so you follow along the trails, unlocking the gate and circling around the fence. Dried soil shifts beneath your shoes; twigs crack in the stale air. Flies buzz around sun-bleached bones, and it’s the tip of your boot that kicks them away from the fence that wraps around your property. 

The mesh buzzes, a low hum that sings of the electricity coursing through it. The ants swarm around the corpse as it lies face-first in the brown grass, bony hand stretching forward, and only a single phalanx hooked around a loop in the mesh.

You move the tip of your boot against the side of its head, peeling skin and tufts of brown hair shifting with the light breeze that smells of dust and rotting flesh. There’s a low crack, bones that were stiff beneath the sun moving against their will as you reveal the face of the corpse. 

Blank white eyes lock with yours, and bile rises up your throat. Relief accompanies it. The birds haven’t been able to pick at the eyeballs yet, so you’re now able to identify that it’s a survivor and not one of the infected—a gouger. 

You sigh heavily, feeling as if those lifeless eyes are staring up at you, pleading. Why didn’t you save me? I was right here!

You know exactly what Johnny would say if he were standing beside you. 

“Poor guy probably died before he even felt the shock.”

He would’ve said it with that gravel-laced chuckle of his, though there wouldn’t be any humour in it at all.

You watch the rotting corpse with the sun beating down on you, wisps of wind pushing your hair into your face. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, and you shove the sound of Johnny’s voice to the back of your mind. You don’t want to remember him.

Brows pinched inward, you wonder why you hadn’t noticed the corpse until now. It’s obviously been here for a while, with much of its skin already peeled away like dried parchment. The clothes that barely hang from its skeleton are tattered and bleached, but it’s in far better condition than what any of the gougers wear. With a calculating survey across its unmoving form, you decide that there’s nothing you might poach from the body. Nothing useful. 

Leaving the ants alone to feast on what little is left of the decaying man, you circle around the whole fence to check for anything else, though you have a feeling you won’t find anything. It’s not common for anything to show up here—at least not in the last seven months. This lonesome survivor is the first in a long time. 

The plains themselves are mostly empty and have been for years. Only a small smattering of twig-like trees dot the landscape, reminiscent of thin lines dashed across the horizon. Excluding Old Town, your property is the only splash of colour to be seen for miles: a white farmhouse with bleached siding and a partially broken porch, a rusting generator that still rattles with power, and the electric fence Johnny built three years ago.

It’s the fence that makes sure they never come too close. The infected. Or the more common term given to them: ‘gougers.’

Not only do you find the remains of those who crawl to the fence for protection—and ultimately die there with nothing and no one—but you also find the remains of those whose minds were whittled away to nothing, reeking of rotting flesh and gore.

It’s been years since fear accompanied the thought of them. With age and loss, you’ve only grown more angry. And since Johnny’s death, the pistol strapped to your hip feels heavier than normal, and your fingers twitch with the animalistic urge to go searching—killing those that took everything from you. 

The last thing Johnny saw was their broken faces, the dark sockets where their eyes should be—gouged out in their insanity. And you couldn’t do anything.

Swallowing thickly, you pull yourself away from the lingering images of what were once people, sane and normal. 

Idly kicking away loose stones and twigs, you amble back towards the gate. Looking over your shoulder, you linger to watch the horizon; waves of heat warp the line between land and sky.

Frowning, you notice a tree in the distance, and it’s larger than the rest. Squinting harder against the sun, you watch its thin figure, a pale grey shadow in the haze of heat and dust. But it’s not a tree, you realise, and your heart stutters inside your chest.

It’s smoke. 

Feeling your throat seize, your heart starts thudding against your ribcage. What you thought was the distant canopy of a large tree is really the billowing cloud of a column of smoke. And it's not the heat warping its shape, but the smoke rising higher in the sky, a fist of ash, and a sign of fire. 

You move on instinct.

You rush through the gate, making sure the several locks and chains rattle behind you, securing your home. Hopping up the steps of the porch, the floorboards groan under your weight, and you glance back at the dark pillar in the sky. 

You can’t take any chances. 

The front door slams shut, rattling the old picture frames on the walls. Your breathing deepens, your pulse throbbing inside your ears as adrenaline rushes through you. Like a well-trained soldier, you check that each of the windows has its curtains drawn shut, wooden boards hidden behind thin white lace. 

The house is dipped into pale light and shadows. Only slivers of sunlight that shine through the wooden boards peek through the gaps in the curtains. It’s quiet, not even the wind whistles through the cracks in the glass. 

But your heartbeat doesn’t slow.

Glancing at the heavy chest of drawers in the foyer, you exhale sharply through your nose before striding towards the old piece of furniture. Pressing your palms against the side of the once-polished wood, you dig your feet into the floor and push. It barely moves.

“C’mon, c’mon,” you mutter harshly, pressing your shoulder against the chest and leaning all your weight against it. With a sharp scrape against the floor, the chest dislodges. You almost trip, feet sliding, before pushing it with relative ease to barricade the door. 

Straightening with your shoulder aching, you glance over the barricade with a small pang of satisfaction, but you know that a lone piece of furniture won’t save you. 

Moving through the house with purpose, you cut through the living room to the kitchen, and you pull open a cabinet mounted on the wall. The hinges squeal in protest, but the gold glint of ammunition is what you're after. Grabbing as many of the cardboard boxes as you can, you carry them upstairs.

There are three bedrooms upstairs and an attic. Every single window has been boarded up ever since you found out the hard way that gougers can climb, though you still had Johnny back then, and you hadn’t set up the electric fencing yet. 

Dropping the boxes of ammo, you crane your neck upwards at the string hanging from the ceiling. Jumping, your feet land with a thud at the same time that your fingers wrap around the wooden knob at the end of the string, and you pull.

A groan deep inside the house reverberates around you, and the attic ladder unfolds with a wooden creak. Inhaling sharply, you gather up the boxes again before ascending the ladder.

The attic itself is mostly empty, save for only a few boxes sporadically piled around and the thin mattress and blankets tucked in a corner that you keep up here in case of emergencies—like today.

Hunching your back so as not to hit your head against the slanted ceiling, you shuffle further into the wide room towards the two windows on your right side.

These windows remain open and unboarded, giving you a clear view of the front yard, and specifically the gate to your property. If things hit the fan in a disastrous way, you’ll be able to slide out one of the windows and scurry up onto the roof. Thankfully, you’ve never had to resort to that. 

You let the boxes of ammo clatter to the floor, and the smell of dust is so thick, you can taste it on your tongue. You move to the other side of the room and pull away a pile of boxes. A plume of dust hits the floor, and you sputter out a choked cough, gagging as your eyes flood with water.

Waving a hand in the air to dispel the yellow cloud, you kneel to the floor and pull at one of the wooden boards.

There's a soft creak before the board pulls away and reveals a hollowed-out space. It's large enough and deep enough to hide away a perfectly intact, gleaming M21 sniper rifle.

Your heart stutters against your chest, the steady beat of your pulse loud inside your ears. You haven’t touched it in seven months.

The gun glints in the bright light that streams through the windows, winking at you with all of its memories just as clear and bright as the nocturnal scope mounted on the barrel of the rifle. Swallowing thickly, you push through the nerves that hold you captive for only a moment and gently ease the gun out of the empty slot.

“Alright,” you murmur into the empty space around you, “let’s get this show on the—” 

The explosion rattles your entire house. Gasping, your fingers tighten around the body of the M21 as the frame of your house shakes violently. The noise rings inside your ears painfully, rippling through the air and piercing through the walls of your home and straight through your chest.

Staggering forward, you move to one of the windows and peer out across the plains. You can't see anything other than the column of smoke in the distance, but you rapidly scan the horizon for anything else—a mushroom cloud punching through the sky or an orange-red ball of flames.

With your ears still ringing, all you can do is wait as the earth slowly settles again, the soil no longer quivering and the floorboards no longer shaking beneath the soles of your feet.

Panic hits you like a truck. It's been months since anything like this has happened—which is why you had stored the M21 in the attic in the first place. You didn’t need the gun, and its owner is dead. For whatever foolish reason, you’ve let your guard down.

Sucking in a trembling breath, you realise just how tightly you’re gripping the M21. Unclenching your iron-tight grip, your mind races.

Someone must have caused that, and not just anyone. Sure, gougers weren’t entirely dumb, but they weren’t usually capable of setting off explosives either. And as for survivors…it was rare that anyone had the means or strength to detonate something that powerful. 

This was something else, and your skin crawls at the thought. Quickly, you snap your gaze to the electric fence, staring hard at the mesh and waiting for a tell-tale spittle of electricity to catch your eye. You need to know if the generator had been affected by the shockwave; if your generator was down, so was your fence.

There’s a spark of blue, and you breathe a sigh of relief before returning your hawk-like eyes to the horizon. You sigh heavily. 

Tonight’s going to be a long night.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

The crickets chirp angrily inside leafless bushes, perched on thin twigs as they play their nightly choruses. Usually, you take comfort in the noise they make, but now, it only adds to your nerves.

Lying on the thin mattress in the corner, you strain your ears to listen above the sound. Anything out of place could mean something—a twig cracking, a rustling of leaves or clothes. Nothing can be brushed aside as simply ‘nothing.'

It’s too hot for any of the blankets, and even if it were cold, you wouldn’t dare slip underneath them. If you had to jump up at a moment’s notice, the blankets could entangle you and cost you precious seconds.

Seconds that could result in your death. Or worse. 

The M21 is cradled in your arms, fingers resting lightly along the stock. The safety is on, but you can just imagine Johnny scolding you for sleeping with a firearm. 

“You try’na kill yourself before anything else can, kid?” 

A fragile smile pulls at your lips, though it disappears as your thumb gently brushes across the initials engraved on the side of the stock.

J. B.

Jonathan Barnes. 

Johnny. 

Your throat tightens, and you swallow thickly. It’s been seven months. You need to stop crying about him. 

With a hollow exhale, you curl around the M21, ears perked for any noise. All you can hear are the crickets and the low groan of the house as the wind pushes against it. 

You’ve gone over every possible situation that could have resulted in the giant explosion, and you guessed that it came from the Old Town. It didn’t make much sense, though, considering the Old Town is miles away and completely deserted. Nothing but hollowed-out frames of what were once bustling stores and stylish saloons remain there. Relics of a past you can hardly remember now. 

There’s a scuffle outside, and you immediately shoot upright. Your fingers flex around the sniper rifle. You sit and wait. 

The house remains quiet; the crickets keep chirping. For a long, drawn-out minute, you sit as still as a statue and listen. Even your breaths are quiet, too scared to miss any other telltale noise that you’re not alone. 

You don’t hear anything else. 

Your muscles are as tense as a coiled-up snake, but you slowly shift back onto your side. The grip you have around the gun doesn’t ease up, and your heartbeat is painfully loud in your ears. The night will drag on, and you’re sure you won’t be able to relax the entire time.

Johnny’s voice rings softly in your ears.

“Loosen up, kid. We’ll be fine.” 

You close your eyes, wishing that Johnny could be as quiet in your mind as he is in the grave. The grave you dug. The one you filled with dirt and tears. 

You fall asleep within seconds. 

***

Your eyelids are heavy as you peel them open, and dread stirs inside your stomach. Confused, you prop yourself up onto your elbow, squinting through the inky blackness and listening to the noises around you. 

The crickets are utterly silent, and not even the wind whispering through the bushes can be heard. It’s only your soft breaths that seem loud in the still atmosphere of the attic.

You groan lowly beneath your breath, rubbing a hand over your face. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. How stupid could you be?

Just as you're about to stand and move to the window to get a better look at the horizon, a noise stops you in your tracks.

It was low, barely perceptible. But with the silence of the crickets and wind, you could make out the sound.

Footsteps.

Your pulse bursts to life, throbbing almost painfully in your throat. Swiftly, your fingers latch onto the M21 that had drifted from you in your sleep, fingers flexing against the polished wood.

Straining to hear any more sounds, you eye the panel of wood you placed over the attic hole and the heavy box you had placed on top of the panel as an added precaution. It was something Johnny had done when you'd both camped out in the attic. He said it made it look as if there was wood nailed to the entrance of the attic and would possibly deter anyone from even trying to climb the ladder.

You hoped that it would work this time too, as the footsteps grow louder. They're heavy, belonging to something that must be large and bulky. Your stomach twists with anxiety, sweat gathering along the back of your neck.

Slowly, as if you were a hunter stalking prey, you stand on your feet, making sure your movements are measured enough to avoid making any noise. You can’t afford to be heard from below, can’t afford to make any of the floorboards creak beneath your weight as you stand.

With your breathing strained, you press the butt of the rifle into your shoulder, and your fingers are shaking. It's been months since you've had to fire a gun at something that wasn't a rabbit or shrew, though those were extremely rare to find in and of themselves.

The footsteps are loud. They thud along the upstairs floor, directly below you. Your brows furrow.

Whatever or whoever it is, it's not consciously trying to be quiet.

There's a low scrape, shuffling footsteps, before a long pause rings in your ears.

The silence is loud.

You flinch violently when the first thud echoes, a step taken down the staircase. Breathing in a shuddered breath, you close your eyes, relief flooding through you. Whatever it was, it wasn't interested in the attic ladder leading up to what looked like a panel of wood.

You listen intently to the footsteps thudding down the stairs before the sound recedes, and you're thrown back into silence again.

The muscles in your arms are taut, your thighs braced to run to the window and climb onto the roof. You want to relax and unclench your jaw, but you know that the thing must still be inside your home.

Then it dawns on you. The fence. The electricity.

How did it get in?

Taking tentative steps, you make sure to walk where the wood doesn't groan, and you move to the open window.

Your heart drops to your stomach. Next to the gate, the mesh wiring has been cut in a large arch, opening up a hole in the fence for anything to slip through and into the yard.

Swallowing down the bile bubbling in the back of your throat, you take a deep, calming breath, though it does nothing to soothe the panic that's rooted inside your chest.

This thing is smart, you think. It's capable.

Gougers aren't able to problem-solve. They don't have eyes to see, and their minds are purely animalistic. Carnivorous. If something in front of them is alive and moving, they'll ravage it and tear it to shreds. But if there's a fence in the way, the gougers are useless. They can only wail and shriek, but they can't solve the problem.

So whoever is inside your house isn't a gouger, and that's ten times worse.

"Remember," Johnny grumbled, "you can always outsmart a gouger. But an uninfected? They can be just as smart as you."

You need to kill this person before they find you.

Slowly, you walk over to the box and the panel and sling the rifle over your back. Crouching, you nudge the box out of the way, careful to move it gingerly enough that it doesn't scrape along the floor.

Once the box is out of the way, you shimmy your fingers under the panel and carefully dislodge it from the opening.

Looking down, fear curls inside your stomach. The lower floor is shrouded in darkness. Leaning over the edge of the hole, it feels as if you're staring into a void, and you can just imagine bright eyes looking up at you from below. Murderous. Inhuman.

Shaking the thought away, you remind yourself of your safety. Of your home. Some jerk had decided to trespass on your property, and with your life on the line, you were going to put a bullet through their head because of it.

With tentative steps, you ease your way down the ladder. You don't let the ladder fold in on itself again, just in case you need to book it to the attic and climb onto the roof.

Glancing down the hallway, you bring the M21 back into your hands, fingers flexing near the trigger guard. None of the lights are on. 

It's completely dark.

Breathing through your nose and out through your mouth, you do what Johnny taught you to. Steeling your nerves as best as you can, you slowly descend down the stairs.

You know this house better than anyone. You know exactly where to step, an ingrained map of the house's aches and groans etched out in your mind.

When you reach the ground floor, your skin crawls. A quick glance down the foyer reveals the front door wide open, pale light spilling across the dust-coated floorboards. Outside, the hole in the fence gapes mockingly at you, and the thin trees look like sentinels watching you. Waiting. 

You listen for noise, for footsteps. Moving through your house, you stare into every corner and every shadow, waiting for something to reveal itself. The M21 is heavy, but the trepidation inside your chest is heavier.

If Johnny were here, he'd be taking point. He'd be holding this gun. Not you. Never you.

"I don't want you touching my gun, kid."

"Why not? Scared I'll break 'her'."

"Smart aleck."

"Old man."

A shrill clatter reverberates through the house, and you slap a hand to your mouth to keep from gasping audibly. Your fingers are shaking as you peel your hand away, and you swallow thickly.

Get it together.

The noise came from the kitchen.

With the butt of the M21 digging into your shoulder, you cut across the living room, eyes carefully glancing around you before snapping to what's ahead of you.

You nearly gag as the overwhelming odor of gunpowder and sweat floods your senses, and your blood pulses inside your ears. 

The shuffling becomes louder, and you're sure you can hear someone breathing. It's strained, laboured.

You press your shoulder against the barrier between the living room and the kitchen, hands clenching around the pistol grip. Peering around the corner, you breath locks inside your throat.

Shoulders as wide as the doorway are illuminated by the moon's pale light, and you catch the glint of a bolt cutter languidly thrown across the kitchen island.

That must have been what made the loud clatter earlier, you file away mentally.

You watch with piercing eyes as the giant man leans heavily against the kitchen counter, spine bent inward as harsh breaths leave him, his head dipped.

For a moment, your grip around the rifle slackens. If it weren’t for the moonlight slipping into the kitchen, you would have mistaken the broad frame for Johnny.

Dark hair. Creased leather jacket. Deathly pale skin. 

No, you close your eyes briefly; this isn’t Johnny.

Clenching your fingers around the pistol grip tightly again, you inhale deeply and step through the doorway. The barrel of your gun points directly at the man’s head. Your finger hovers above the trigger. 

It must have been the shaky breath escaping past your lips that alerted him to your presence. The man’s head snaps up; obsidian eyes lock with yours; they glint coolly, as if the dark abyss of them had captured slivers of moonlight.

Your breath stutters. They’re the opposite of the lifeless eyes belonging to the corpse still clinging to the fence outside. 

The fence this man tore apart. 

Tense silence settles heavily between the two of you, and your heartbeat is thudding against your ribcage like a wild bird beating itself to death.

Like two predators silently watching each other with bated breath and flicking tails, you stare at each other with calculating glares.

You break the silence first, doing your best to keep your voice firm and steady.

“Who are you?”

The stranger stares at you, his breathing strained. Johnny’s voice had matched his looks: gravel-laced, rough. You half expect the same from this boar of a man, but instead, you’re surprised when a smooth, deep voice echoes in the kitchen, although it quivers subtly.

“No one.” 

“Cut it, edgelord,” you snap, though your voice remains low. “What is your name?” 

Your feet shift, hips trading weight as you keep the barrel of the M21 level with the man who lets out a long exhale, and you catch the hitch trapped inside of it. 

“My name’s Jason,” he says quietly, eyes sliding languidly along the kitchen island and the bolt cutter, before flicking up to you. 

They seem canine, but not in a domesticated way. His eyes give you a glimpse of a wolf silently studying you, calculating whether or not you are worthy prey. It sends a cold shiver slithering down your spine. 

 “Okay,” you mutter, “Jason. Why are you here, in my house?”

Johnny would have rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, sure. ‘Your’ house.” 

Jason’s brows lift close to his hairline in what you can tell is faux surprise.

“Oh? Your house? Sorry. Didn’t see a sign out front—thought it was abandoned.” 

You bristle at his tone, and skepticism coils inside your chest.

"You thought that a house with a fully functioning electric fence and generator was 'abandoned'?"

Jason's eyes watch you carefully, as if he's surprised that you caught that inconsistency. Does he think you're stupid? Blinded by fear?

He shrugs as if it doesn't matter, though his stance heightens your anxiety; there's a stiffness to his shoulders, and a clear bell rings inside you: something is wrong.

"Look, lady—"

"Why are you here?"

You stare at each other, the tension akin to a pot of water simmering on the stove, slowly beginning to boil.

When he realises that you're not going to let him leave without answering and that you're not lowering the sniper rifle any time soon, he relents with a harsh exhale and a swift nod.

"Alright, fine," he straightens, and you clock the sharp jerk of his hand moving to his side. Instantly, you square your shoulders, knuckles turning white with the iron-tight grip you have on the pistol grip.

Jason lifts his other hand, brows raised in caution. You scrutinize him, and he purposefully keeps his movements slow.

His hand slips to his side, hidden behind the leather jacket, and you brace yourself for the glint of a gun, maybe even the impact of a bullet. Your finger hovers dangerously over the trigger.

"Chill," Jason mutters, and you suck in a sharp breath.

Jason removes his hand from his side, and instead of the metallic sheen of a gun, you're left staring at the gleam of blood dripping from his fingers. It shines black in the moonlight, but if you were to turn on the overhead light, it would drip to the kitchen tiles in droplets of crimson.

"I need—" his voice cuts out before he swallows thickly. "I ran into some trouble...thought I might find medical supplies here."

Your gaze snaps between the blood on his hand and his face. There's a tightness to his jaw, as if he's bracing himself against waves of pain.

Sympathy pulses inside of you, something you thought had died long ago. But you think back to the fence, the hole that you don't know how to fix. It was Johnny that set up the fencing—who speared the poles into the ground and cut the sheets of mesh. Who made sure that the generator worked and brought electricity sparking along the metal wiring.

You only helped where you could, but you don't know where to get supplies to fix the fence in case of something like this happening. It's too late to ask Johnny—something you should have done three years ago.

"You ruined my fence," you say lowly.

Jason's eyes flicker shut for a moment, a puff of air pushed through his nose.

"Yeah, look. I wasn't going to get myself—"

"You could have at least cut the padlock on the gate instead of the actual fence."

"That's—" he stops, realising the truth of your statement.

You scoff, eyes flickering to the side before returning to him again. Two parts of you are warring against each other. There's a desperate, instinctual urge to switch the light on and bring out your medical kit, but another, fainter desire to pull the trigger—rid yourself of the problem in front of you.

So, in true survival mentality: if you help him...what's in it for you?

You opt for another question. "How'd you get hurt?"

Jason hesitates. His gaze flickers over you cautiously, warily. A spark of annoyance heats beneath your skin. After destroying a part of your fence in an irrational move and breaking into your house, bleeding all over your kitchen floor, do you not deserve an answer?

"Buddy," you level, "if you don't answer me, I'm letting you bleed to death or I'm shooting you. Your decision."

After a moment of stiff silence, Jason relents. He glances down at his hand, taking in a sharp breath.

"I ran into some trouble with a couple of gougers."

Your hackles rise. Instinctually, you take a step back, but keep the gun's barrel steady. Panic begins to claw inside your chest again, and Jason notices.

His hands raise again in a placating motion, "the gougers didn't cause this. It's a gash from barbed wire."

It's hard to believe him. In the past, people have lied—said that they got hurt from something else and not the sharp nails or yellowed teeth of the gougers. Once you're marred by a gouger, you run the risk of catching the virus. You risk losing yourself to insanity, to becoming something inhuman.

You've seen people scratch out their eyes, wailing and shrieking. People you knew. People you loved.

But you don't know Jason. He's only a stranger that's jeopardized your safety and broken into your house—Johnny's house.

He could be lying just so you don't shoot him on the spot.

And you're trembling without realising it.

"How do I know—" your swallow thickly, taking another step back, "—that you're not lying to me?"

"You'll know in a day's time."

The words hit you like a ton of bricks, though you don't know why. It's true, though. The virus eats away at the mind in a matter of days—hours even.

There's a bitter taste in your mouth, and your hands feel clammy around the M21. You've put more space between you and Jason, but you feel as if you're suffocating. There's not enough light in the kitchen to give you a good idea of what he's saying with his eyes, and his rough exhalations grate against your ears.

If what he says is true, then you have nothing to worry about. But if he’s lying, you’ll be faced with a gouger inside your home in a day or two, ripping you to shreds. 

Or, you could shoot him when that happens. 

You think it over in your head, your stomach knotted with anxiety. 

You have three options: help him, let him bleed out, or shoot him—either now or later. 

It's Johnny who makes that decision for you.

"You've still got a heart, kid. You don't find that anymore."

You inhale slowly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as you give in to the deeply ingrained part of you that can't not help.

"If I help you," you say slowly, "then you have to help me in return, got it?"

Jason eyes you, and you can see the way he's mulling over your words. There's a sag to his shoulders, a tremor in his breath.

He'd be dumb to not take up your offer.

"Fine," he says gruffly, glancing away from you briefly. "What do you want?"

"Fix my damn fence."

"Done."

You blink, surprised. It was that easy, huh?

"One condition," Jason adds, and your surprise is immediately replaced with suspicion. Who does he think he is?

He points a finger at the M21, brows raised. "You put away the gun."

You open your mouth to argue, but cut yourself off before you can say anything. Glancing at the M21, you wonder if it's a smart decision to conform to that condition.

What if he takes you off guard?

What if he grabs it and shoots you?

Looking back at the bolt cutter on the kitchen island, you sigh heavily before returning your gaze to Jason, who's already watching you.

"If I put away the gun, you can't have those."

Jason glances at the bolt cutters and scoffs. "Really? It's not even a weapon."

"Anything can be a weapon," you say flatly.

Jason tilts his head, brows furrowed. The reality of your words isn't lost on him. There's a short pause before he nods his head softly.

"Alright," he says quietly, "fair enough."

With measured movements, you slowly lower the barrel of the M21, feeling exposed and vulnerable immediately. Holstering it across your back, you move forward to take the bolt cutters. The rubber handles feel warm still, and you wonder if electricity burns inside the material.

Jason observes you the entire time while you move towards the kitchen entrance. You make sure to not turn your back to him.

"I'll put these away, and I'll come back with a med kit. Don't move."

Jason huffs, glancing down at his side before looking back at you with an unimpressed look.

"Trust me, doll. Ain't going nowhere."

Your face pulls into a frown, and your gaze lingers on him for a second before you take a step back into the living room.

Then a thought dawns on you. And you quickly look back at him.

"Jason?"

There's a low hum in response.

"Did you cause that explosion—earlier?"

You watch wordlessly as he shuffles into the kitchen entrance way, and you take another step back into the living room. His hunched shoulders brush against the frame, leather jacket creasing.

The look of genuine confusion on his face says everything, and your blood runs cold.

Something else is out there.

thank you for reading, God bless <3

© harbours-lighthouse 2025

[buneio]

Guarma reunion

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Arthur reunites with F!reader after he was away for so long waaaaaa

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 Word count: 1122 words

Content warning(s): Fluff! (Comfort)

₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

It had been a long and grueling two-and-a-half months since they’d escaped the nightmare of Guarma. Every step back onto American soil carried a mix of relief and anguish for Arthur. His heart felt heavier with every mile traveled — he was close to her now, so close.

As they reached Shady Belle, a new wave of worry gnawed at him. The manor was eerily silent, its once-bustling halls abandoned. Without hesitation, he pushed the front doors open, his boots echoing as he stormed inside, frantically searching for any sign of the gang. His chest tightened with each empty room, every familiar corner void of life — until his eyes landed on a letter resting on a dusty table.

Sadie’s neat handwriting brought him a sense of relief: We’ve settled in a small settlement called Lakay. Keep safe.

“Clever girl,” Arthur muttered under his breath, tucking the letter into his coat. Wasting no time, he mounted his horse and urged it forward, the rhythmic pounding of hooves echoing his restless heart. His shoulders remained tense the entire ride, every second feeling like a century.

As Lakay came into view, the sight of Pearson and a few of the men outside loosened some of the knots in his chest. But it was fleeting. Dismounting his horse in one swift motion, he ignored their greetings and made his way toward the building at the center of camp, his boots crunching against the wet ground.

The familiar faces that greeted him inside offered warm smiles, and the shouts of his name filled the air, but Arthur barely acknowledged them. His sharp gaze scanned the room, searching, hoping. He had only one person on his mind.

Where is she?

Murmuring his apologies to the others, he slipped away, moving through the small hideout until he turned a corner — and stopped dead in his tracks.

There she was.

His breath hitched as his eyes landed on her. She stood just a few feet away, her eyes locking onto his. The weight of exhaustion, confusion, and hurt clouded her gaze, but he could see it — relief, hidden somewhere beneath.

“Darlin’—” he breathed, his voice weak and his throat dry as he stepped closer.

But before he could say another word, her hand struck his face with a sharp, stinging slap.

“You stupid man!” She snapped, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief. “I thought you were dead!”

Arthur stood frozen, stunned not by the slap but by the sheer force of her emotions. Her usual gentleness had been replaced by frustration, though he could still see the happiness in her eyes — buried beneath the tears threatening to fall.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice low and rough.

Her chest heaved as she stared at him, her lips trembling. And then, as though the anger had finally run its course, she took a step closer and wrapped her arms tightly around him, burying her face in his chest.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Arthur rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes as he let out a shuddering sigh. He hadn’t realized how much he needed this moment, how much he needed her.

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice soft but firm. “Not ever again.”

She held onto him tightly, her fingers clutching at his coat as if afraid to let go. Arthur hesitated, unsure for a moment, before wrapping his arms around her. Her frame felt so small in his embrace, and he wondered how someone so delicate had managed to hold herself together in his absence.

“I-I thought you were gone for good,” she whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible over the pounding of his heart. “Everyone said we might never see you again…” She trailed off, her words caught in her throat.

Arthur’s chest tightened. Guilt was a familiar feeling, but hearing the quiet pain in her voice made it hit differently. He rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes. “I’m here now,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I swear, I did everything I could to get back to you.”

She pulled back just slightly, enough to look up at him. Her wide eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her lips parted as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. She shook her head, a soft, shaky laugh escaping her. “I thought—” She stopped, taking a small step back, suddenly shy under his gaze.

Arthur reached for her hand, catching it gently. “It’s okay, darlin’,” he said, his voice as soothing as he could manage. “I know it’s been hard.”

Her fingers curled around his, her grip tentative, as if she were still trying to convince herself he was really standing in front of her. “I tried to… I tried to keep busy,” she murmured. “Help with things, keep everyone fed. But it — it wasn’t the same. Not without you.”

Arthur’s expression softened. He knew she wasn’t one to make grand declarations, and even this much was likely a struggle for her. “I never stopped thinkin’ about you,” he admitted quietly. “You kept me goin’, sweetheart.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head slightly, her free hand brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I… I was scared. That you’d never come back, and that if you did, you’d be…” She hesitated, swallowing hard.

“Gone?” Arthur finished for her, his voice rough.

She nodded, her gaze fixed on the floor. “You look… tired,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur let out a small, humorless chuckle. “Tired don’t even begin to cover it,” he said, though there was no real bitterness in his tone.

She finally looked up at him again, and her timid gaze was full of concern. She reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing against his arm. “Are you… okay?”

Arthur paused, unsure how to answer. He wanted to tell her he was fine, that everything would be all right. But the weight of everything he’d seen and done clung to him like a shadow. Still, her quiet concern made him feel lighter, even if just for a moment.

“I am now,” he said finally, his voice low.

A faint, shy smile tugged at her lips, though her eyes still glistened with unshed tears. “I… I’m glad you’re back, Arthur.”

He squeezed her hand gently, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Me too, darlin’. Me too.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the world outside the hideout fading away. It wasn’t perfect — there was still so much left unspoken, so much pain left to face — but for now, being together was enough.

[moonmeg]

The basket she carried in the crook of her arm dropped to the grass. She stood there. Paralyzed by the sight.

All the soil surrounding a hole in the earth where an empty coffin, marked by its years under the earth, faced her. The glass vase with a candle inside she had put up was nothing but shambles and crumbs. The flowers that had grown over the time destroyed.

The tombstone was tilted. Everything was ruined. And she couldn't do or say anything. Time had frozen.

Her body began to shiver. Every breath became heavier the longer she stared at what once was her husband's grave. Not even Robyn's worried "Mama?" could bring her to move her eyes from the chaos.

It did snap her back to the moment and she knew she couldn't keep Robyn here.

"Go back with Opal, sprout. I'll be right behind you.", she said, her voice just above a whisper.

"Mama-"

"GO. BACK.", Catherine snapped.

Robyn flinched upon the tone his mother used. He was only a child but he was not blind. His father's dug up grave and empty coffin horrified him just as much as he could see it horrified his mother. He stared at her, hoping she'd turn her face to look at him but Catherine was like a lifeless statue. The only sign of movement was her shoulders and hands tensing and the the tears pricking at her eyes.

Opal began pulling at Robyn's loose strand of hair to get him to move away from this view of horror.

He obliged but only hesitantly. He didn't want to leave his mother's side. Not in a moment like this. He hated seeing Mama sad and in pain. Not that Catherine let Robyn see her vulnerable side often. She puts on smiles for him and hopes he will not notice how broken she actually is. But Robyn knew. He knew Mama was just playing a game of pretend but he didn't want her to continue it. He didn't want her to bury her emotions in front of him, yet he couldn't let her know that.

"Opal, wait!", he called out for the dove, "we can't go too far ahead."

Robyn turns to look at his mother, who still stood at the same place in front of the grave.

"We should wait for Mama."

Catherine's legs couldn't hold her any longer at this point. She broke down to the soil and let her emotions flow. She yelped in the agony of having lost Caleb a second time. Tears streamed down her face as her thoughts raced. She had finally learned to live with her beloved gone and she had finally moved on. The stinging pain she used to feel when thinking of Caleb and the imagery of his final moments had been something she healed from. Now that healing progress was crumbled into nothing. The terrible pain and heartache, the pictures.... everything was back.

Catherine clenched the grass beneath her in anger as she realized just who is responsible for her misery.

There was no other person who possibly would have a motive. No other person would ruin and take away a place so sacred to her AND to Robyn...

Robyn...

This place was the only place he felt close to his father. It was the only place where he felt a connection to Caleb.

The fact that it was taken from him, for most probably selfish reasons, only made her angrier.

She wasn't one to curse people...

She gazed up at the tilted tombstone with her husband's name on it...

She wasn't one to curse people but this was the last straw.

Philip would pay for this. Whether he could or not. He will.

[theres-a-body-here]

Scumtober - Day 10 (Neighbors)

Male!Minotaur x Male!reader

Your fingers curl tightly around the shovel handle, knuckles turning white as you try to thrust it into the hard earth again and again. A few stray locks of hair fall onto your forehead as you lean forward, sweat trickling down your brow. You curse under your breath, "Stupid furry rat bastard… Useless little shit… Fuck…"

You liked babysitting for the Ulgan family. Despite how society views Orcs, they treat you well. The kids were mild-mannered, the neighborhood was safe, and the pay was great. So, you came into work today expecting a normal day while the mister and misses went out for a date.

But Dura's old ass hamster decided it was the perfect time to straight up die.

You sigh heavily, leaning on the shovel handle. As you stare down at the chopped dirt beneath you, you realize digging a grave here is nearly impossible right now.  It was winter after all, the ground was frozen solid.

Your gaze shifts towards the window where you spot Dura happily chowing down on a bowl of ice cream. Not exactly a nutritious choice, but she did cry a lot after finding Hammy stiff in his cage earlier today… It wasn't until you promised her a whole gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream from the store that she finally stopped the water works.

You let out a deep growl of frustration and plunge the shovel blade directly into the frozen soil with all your might. Angrily, you rip it free and stab it back into the ground once more.

Frustration bubbles within you as you think about having to explain death to a ten-year-old orcling. Though, you shouldn't have been surprised, considering how fragile hamsters are. To be honest, you kinda expected her to squish the damn thing some day. But here you are now, dealing with this mess.

You grit your teeth, continuing to stab at the ground with the shovel.

A sudden, low laugh draws your attention upward to see a tall figure looming over the wooden fence that separates the Ulgans' yard from the next door neighbors'.

Donovan.

The minotaur leans casually on the top of the fence, watching you curiously with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

"Calm down killer," He says teasingly. "Does the backyard owe you money or something?" His deep laughter echoes through the otherwise silent street.

Wiping the sweat off your brow with your arm, you glare up at him. "Shove it asshole," you sneer.

Of course he would find this funny.

"Alright alright," Donovan replies with another chuckle. He watches you dig for a moment longer before starting to speak again.

"So uh… How's business treating ya? Still likin' your job?"

"Ehh," you say, letting out a loud exhale. "Been better. The little one's pet died."

"Shit," he mutters sympathetically as he watches you struggle to make any dent into the frozen soil.

With a roll of his eyes, he grips the top of the fence and in one swift motion, he vaults over it, landing with a thud onto the ground.

"Here, gimme that," he offers, reaching for the shovel. His hand wraps around its base and easily rips it from your grip.

"H-Hey, dickhead! I could've done it myself!" You snap at him, smacking his muscular back as he starts to dig up some dirt with ease.

"Hey!" he exclaims, spinning around to face you with a raised eyebrow. "What was that for?"

"For being made out of hamburger," you retort sarcastically as you stretch your arm toward the shovel in his hand.

"Made outta hamburger?" He repeats, raising an eyebrow at you as he hoists the shovel high above your head. "And just what kind of burger would that be, huh?" He asks teasingly, his snout curling into a shiteating grin.

"A big stupid one," you retort, jumping upwards slightly in an attempt to grab the damn thing from him.

He chuckles as he watches you jump like an angry honeybadger.

You give him a annoyed expression. "Dude, come on," you complain, gazing up at him as he holds the shovel out of your reach.

"Let me do this for you," he insists as he leans down towards you, all traces of humor gone from his voice. 

He looks serious, like he truly wants to help you bury some orcling's dead hamster.

"Fine," you say with a heavy sigh, stepping back and gesturing towards the hole he started.

"Go ahead then."

He gives you a warm smile before getting to work. His strong arms swing the shovel effortlessly into the ground as his tail wags happily.

As he digs, you finally take note of his fit. White T-shirt and grey sweats. Classic lazy bum style.

It looks good though.

...

Very good.

...

You wouldn't mind taking a bite outta him.

Wait, how far is he digging?

You lean over to get a closer look at the hole.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, that's enough!" You call out, rushing forward to tap his strong shoulder. Your hand comes to rest gently on his firm muscles. 

Looking down at you with wide eyes, he stops digging immediately before glancing at the hole.

It was at least ten feet deep.

After a brief pause, Donovan returns your gaze with a sheepish smile before shrugging. 

With a huff, you glance over at the house again to check for any sign of Dura. She doesn't seem to be in the kitchen anymore. The small orcling probably left to watch TV in the living room.

With the coast clear, you nonchalantly nudge the small corpse into the gaping hole with your foot and watch as it tumbles down into darkness below.

"Alright," you say with a nod. "Fill it."

He flashes you a quick salute before refilling the freshly dug hole. In minutes, there's nothing left but a patch of disturbed dirt to show that anything ever happened here at all.

You clap your hands and close your eyes.

"Here lies Hammy, who lived a wonderful..."

You peek at your fingers to count.

"Two years."

After your mini eulogy, you open your eyes and peer over at Donovan.

"Okay, you can leave now," you command, jabbing a finger towards the fence line. 

He claps his hands together and presses them under his maw, batting his eyelashes dramatically. 

"Don't I get a reward for helping?" He asks coyly, giving you a smile that makes you wanna bite him.

You can't afford to argue with him when Mom and Pop can come back at any moment.

Rolling your eyes, you slowly walk over to him, stopping to stand on your tiptoes directly beside him. Leaning in close, you press your lips firmly against his furry cheek.

Donovan stands there dazed for a moment before scratching his chin

"I was actually thinking you could make me some mac and cheese or someth-"

Before he can finish his sentence, you get a tight hold of his horns before shaking his head back and forth.

Scumtober 2024 Masterlist

[infamous-light]

You Belong to Me Ch. 9

Alcina Dimitrescu x F! Reader

Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6 Ch. 7 Ch. 8

AO3: You Belong to Me

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu's obsession knows no bounds as she becomes increasingly possessive over you. Will you succumb to her dark embrace, or find a way to break free before it's too late?

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Yandere, possessive/obsessive behavior

You pushed through the thick underbrush, heart pounding in your chest.

The forest around you was eerily still. No birds chirped, no insects buzzed – only the sound of your labored breathing and the squelch of slush beneath your feet filled the silence. It was unnatural, this quietness, and it pressed down on you, making the weight of your fear heavier with each step.

The trees seemed to close in on you, their twisted branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, as if to ensnare you and keep you trapped here. A cold, dampness clung to the air, seeping into your skin, and with it came an overwhelming sense of dread. Goosebumps prickled across your flesh despite the adrenaline surging through your veins. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching you, lurking just beyond the veil of trees, waiting for the moment you would falter. But you pressed on, driven by the need to escape. To get far away from that wretched castle.

Then, through the dense weave of trunks and branches, you glimpsed a clearing up ahead.

Relief flooded through you as the forest began to thin and you could finally see the open sky beyond the tree line. The cool, crisp air felt less suffocating now, and the oppressive silence began to lift.

In the clearing sat a small, weathered house on the outskirts of your home village, its stone chimney puffing out light wisps of smoke that curled lazily into the blue afternoon sky. At the front of the house stood an older man, his worn face partially obscured by the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, sinewy forearms as he swung his axe in a steady, rhythmic arc. Each strike landed with a deep, satisfying thud, splitting the logs on the chopping block cleanly in two. Nearby, a woman stood beside a clothesline, pinning up a white bedsheet.

As you came into view, their eyes snapped onto you.

Confusion flickered across their faces before swiftly morphing into alarm. The man’s swing faltered, his grip loosening on the handle as if it suddenly weighed too much. The heavy axe slipped from his fingers and thudded into the dirt, forgotten. The woman froze mid-motion, her hands hovering over the clothesline, the pins dangling uselessly in her grip. Both stared at you, their mouths slightly parted, wide-eyed and silent. The color drained from their faces, as though seeing you was something beyond unexpected – something wrong.

You tore your gaze away, the weight of their stares pressing heavily against your back as you bolted past them.

You soon caught the scent of smoke – thick and sharp, laced with the earthy richness of soil and burning wood. You were close now. The village chimneys had to be just beyond the next hill. The ache in your legs barely registered anymore as the familiar rooftops of your home village finally came into view.

You slowed to a normal pace as you entered the village center.

The cobblestone path beneath your feet was just as you remembered it, worn smooth from years of footfall, with tufts of grass sprouting between the cracks like stubborn survivors. The familiar cottages lined the road, their thatched roofs and weathered wooden walls still standing strong against the passage of time. Despite everything you had been through, this place was untouched, like it’s been frozen in time since the day you were taken three months ago.

Your eyes flickered from house to house, catching glimpses of villagers going about their daily lives. Everything appeared normal: a young woman scrubbed clothes in a wooden basin, her hands working rigorously, though they paused mid-scrub as she caught sight of you. Her mouth parted in silent surprise, eyes widening as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. Further down, an elderly man who had been tending to his small garden straightened, his wrinkled face going slack with shock as his eyes met yours. Children playing and chasing one another in the center stopped their game once they saw you as well, their laughter dying as they stood frozen, wide-eyed, and confused.

One by one, they all turned to stare at you.

The rhythm of the village came to a standstill. The clatter of daily life – the scrape of tools, the splash of water, the murmur of voices – faded into an eerie silence. Whispered conversations replaced them, soft and hushed.

You could feel their disbelief, their fear – how could you be here?

You, who had been dragged away in the dead of night, taken to Castle Dimitrescu, a place no one returned from. And yet here you were, standing in front of them, unmistakably alive.

Their eyes burned through you. It wasn’t just your face they studied, but the clothes you wore. The servant’s uniform clung to your skin like a foreign presence, its fine, embroidered fabric so out of place in your home village. It would be the most luxurious thing these people had ever seen. It only heightened the gap between you and them. You were one of them once, but now? Now you were something else, something apart.

The whispers grew louder, more frantic, the air thick with suspicion and curiosity.

You had to get a move on.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you pushed through the narrow roads, heading toward your parents' home. You kept your head down, the uniform pulling tighter with each movement.

Your footsteps echoed dully on the cobblestones as the sight of your home grew closer. It was just as you remembered it: the sturdy wooden walls, worn with age, still bore the same cracks from long-forgotten storms. Even the shutters hung slightly askew, paint peeling just like they had years ago.

You stopped for a moment, swallowing hard as you gazed at your home.

How will your parents react to seeing you?

You had been gone for so long, they must have feared the worst. The thought gnawed at you, twisting your stomach with worry, but you needed to see them again. You needed them to know that you were still alive; the guilt of missing this chance would haunt you if you didn't take it.

With a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and approached the front door. You raised a trembling hand, feeling the cold metal of the door handle underneath your fingertips. You pushed the door open. The familiar creak of the hinges sent a wave of bittersweet nostalgia through you. You paused for a moment just inside, listening to the quiet rustle of movement in the next room.

Then you heard it – a voice. Your mother’s voice, soft and soothing, humming one of the many lullabies she used to sing to you as a child. The sound was so achingly familiar that it almost brought tears to your eyes. You let out a heavy exhale and closed the door behind you. Slowly, you made your way to the back of the house. As you reached the kitchen, you saw her. Your mother, standing at the table, her hands covered in flour as she kneaded dough. Her hair was streaked greyer than you remember, but her face was the same – kind and full of warmth.

When she looked up and her eyes met yours, a look of shock and disbelief crossed her face. The dough slipped from her fingers, falling forgotten onto the table as she took in the sight of you standing there. For a long, breathless moment, the world seemed to stop spinning.

Then, without a word, she stumbled forward, her arms reaching out in an urgent, desperate motion. When she finally closed the distance between you, she enveloped you in a fierce embrace. Her arms wrapped around you with such intensity that it was almost painful, but you didn’t care. You clung to her as if she was the only thing anchoring you to this world.

“I thought I’d lost you forever.” Your mother whispered, her voice cracking with emotion.

You couldn’t find the words to reply. All you could do was hold your mother close.

You buried your face into her shoulder, inhaling her comforting scent, a blend of lavender and vanilla. Her hands shook as she stroked your hair, still murmuring words you could barely make out. You’re not even sure what she’s saying – just that it was full of relief.

Suddenly, a creak echoed from down the hallway. You both turned toward the sound. Your father stepped into view, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“What’s going on? I thought I heard-”

His voice trailed off as he took in the sight of the two of you huddled together. For a moment, he simply stared, as if he couldn’t trust what he was seeing. His brows knit together in confusion, his mouth parting slightly as he struggled to grasp the reality before him. Your mother quickly wiped away the tears that glistened on her cheeks, trying to regain her composure.

“It’s alright,” she said, her voice steadier now but still thick with emotion. “She’s here. She’s really here.”

Your father’s gaze remained locked on you, but his voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Is it…?” He took a tentative step closer, his hand gripping the doorframe for support, as if he might collapse if he let go. “It can’t be.”

“It’s me, papa,” you managed to say, your voice wavering despite your best efforts to stay strong. “I’m here.”

Your father’s resolve crumbled at your words. He immediately closed the distance and before you knew it, he wrapped you in his arms. The hug was tight, more desperate than your mother’s, as if he feared that if he let go, you might vanish again. His chest shook against yours, and you could feel the warmth of his tears seeping into your shoulder.

“I missed you so much.” He choked on the words.

Your mother, still hovering close, reached out to take your hand. “We never stopped thinking about you, not for a single day. We always hoped that you would come back to us.”

You couldn’t hold back anymore. All the fear, the pain, the darkness that’s haunted you since you were brought to the castle, it all welled up and spilled over in a flood of tears. You leaned into them both, letting the weight of everything you’ve carried finally lift, even if just for a moment. It’s not gone – not by a long shot – but standing here between your parents, you felt something you haven’t felt since the day you were forcibly taken; love.

Your father pulled back slightly, his hands gripping your shoulders. His brows furrowed deeply, concern and confusion etched into every line of his face.

“How did you even manage to escape?”

You took a shaky breath, your heart still racing from the memory.

“I had some help,” you murmured, swallowing the lump in your throat. The faces of Catalina and the maid who gave you the note flashed in your mind briefly. “One of the staff slipped me a note... told me where the main house key was hidden. I just had to wait for the right moment when I didn't have the Lady's or her daughter’s attention on me.”

Your father leaned forward, his voice low and edged with worry. “Will they come looking for you?”

A cold shiver slithered down your spine as you knew the answer to that question all too well. You nodded slowly.

“They will.” You admitted, swallowing against the tightness in your throat.

Your father's face darkened as he clenched his jaw with determination. “We’ll protect you. Whatever it takes, we’ll keep you safe here. We could hide you.”

You knew he meant it – he would stand between you and any threat – but you also knew what Lady Dimitrescu and her daughters were capable of. The lengths the lady would go to in order to retrieve what she considered “hers” were beyond their understanding. The thought of her daughters descending on your village, tearing through homes and lives, made your stomach churn.

Your fists clenched, nails digging into your palms as you stared at the worn floorboards beneath your feet. Every ounce of your being longed to stay with your parents, to hold onto the comfort and safety of home, but you knew, deep down, that staying here would only invite more danger. You finally shook your head.

“No, I can’t let you do that.” You said, your voice firmer than you expected.

Your father’s stern expression softened, though his resolve remained unshaken. “We’re not giving up on you. You just came back to us.” His voice wavered slightly near the end.

Your mother's hand tightened around your own. “We can’t stand by and watch you face this alone.”

“I know,” you said solemnly. “But if I stay here, you’ll all be in danger, including the others, and I can’t risk that. It’s the only way to keep you safe.” You could feel the burn of tears welling up behind your eyes, but you blinked them back. “I just needed to see you two again.”

Your parents exchanged worried glances with each other, a silent conversation passing between them. For a moment, you thought your father might try to stop you, pull you into an embrace, and refuse to let you go. But instead, his hand slowly dropped, defeated. “Okay,” he sighed, his voice heavy with resignation. “You know we’ll always be here for you.”

You offered a tight smile, one that barely masked the knot tightening in your chest. You hugged them both again, lingering a bit longer, memorizing their warmth as if it might be the last time you’d feel it. As you stepped back, you noticed the fear in your mother’s eyes.

“Please stay safe.” Your mother pleaded.

“I’ll be careful.” You promised, squeezing her hand tightly in yours.

She gave a small nod, her eyes still clouded with worry. “Let me at least pack you some extra layers and food before you go.” She insisted.

Without waiting for a response, she was already walking down the hallway. You turned your attention back to your father. His gaze was heavy with all the unsaid things hanging between you: warnings, well-meaning advice, and unspoken fears. He then turned and moved to a drawer near the living room. He pulled out a worn, steel revolver, its cold metal reflecting the soft light. The gun had seen better days, its surface scarred by time and use.

With a solemn expression, he walked back over to you.

“Take this,” he said, holding the revolver out to you. “Just… make sure you don’t take unnecessary risks. And remember, no matter what happens, we’re here for you.”

You could see the pain in his eyes, the fear of losing you that he struggled to hide.

“I promise, papa.” You replied as you accepted the revolver, tucking it under your waistband. You wished you could offer your father more comfort.

Your mother returned a minute later, carrying a large duffel bag and your thick jacket. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glistening. The sight made your heart ache even more.

“Everything you might need is in here,” she said softly, her voice trembling despite her efforts to stay strong. “Clothes, some food, and a few personal items. I put in that quilt too. I know it’s bulky, but-” Her voice broke slightly, and she bit her lip so hard that it turned a stark, painful white.

You reached for the thick jacket, feeling its comforting weight as you pulled it on. You then took the duffel bag from her and slung it over your shoulder.

“Thank you, mama.” You said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the lump forming in your throat.

She reached out with trembling fingers, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. You stepped forward and hugged them one last time, your arms wrapping around them as tightly as you could. When you finally pulled away, the heaviness in your chest felt like a leaden anchor, dragging you down even as you turned to leave.

“I love you.” Your voice cracked.

“We love you too.” Your father said softly.

He wrapped an arm around your mother’s shoulder and drew her in close. His eyes shone with unshed tears, mirroring the anguish in your mother’s gaze.

You finally stepped out of the house, the cool evening air brushing against your skin. The sky above was a deepening shade of indigo, with the first stars starting to pierce through the twilight.

With one final, lingering glance back, you saw your parents standing by the doorway, watching you wander off. The sight was almost too much to bear. You fought to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. You took a deep breath and began to make your way toward the tree line.

Most villagers had retreated indoors by now. Only a few remained outside, giving you odd stares as you passed them. You quickened your pace, feeling the weight of their gazes on the back of your head.

The trees ahead loomed larger with every step. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of pine and frost, each breath forming fleeting clouds that dissipated almost immediately.

As you trudged through the forest, the idea of leaving the village altogether flickered in your mind. You imagined escaping to somewhere far from the horrors of Castle Dimitrescu. Yet, that thought was immediately squashed down. You knew that was too risky due to the Lycans that prowled around the outskirts of the forest.

No one had ever made it past them. Stories told of those who had tried over the past few decades had vanished without a trace. Never to be seen again. Their fates were as much a part of the forest’s lore as the whispering wind through the trees.

A deep sigh escaped your lips, mingling with the cold air. The darkness was creeping in, casting an ominous veil over the forest. Finding shelter had to be your foremost concern now.

***

You wandered on in a daze, your sense of time slipping away like sand through your fingers.

As the trees seemed to blur together, you spotted an old, gnarled tree standing apart from the others.

In the shadow of the tree, you noticed something strange – a faint outline, a hollow space nestled within the roots and vines. The entrance was partially obscured, concealed by the overgrowth that clung to the ancient bark, yet it was wide enough for you to slip through. With a cautious glance around, you crouched low and carefully maneuvered your way inside. The air within was musty but cool. You found a relatively clean patch of earth amidst the clutter of roots and twigs and settled yourself down.

With a sigh of relief, you placed your bag on the ground and leaned back against the rough bark of the tree. Its coarse texture against your back was oddly grounding. You tilted your head backward and exhaled slowly, allowing your eyes to flutter closed.

A sense of peace settled over you as you allowed yourself to rest, even if just for a little while.

[earthlybeam]

Hi there! :) I was so absorbed in your most recent work about the magical healing powers, it was so soothing to the soul! Is there any way you can create one with Legolas?

How would Legolas react to a reader who possesses magical healing powers similar to Rapunzel in Tangled?

The you the reader’s long as (your own hair colour) but turns golden and glows when you sing a special song, releasing healing magic that can heal wounds, cure sickness, and even restore life. Their magic, known as “Healing Magic” or “Sun Magic,” is connected to the power of the sun and can even reverse aging.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

The battle had raged for what felt like an eternity, the air thick with the acrid stench of smoke and the iron tang of blood. Legolas, a figure of grace and deadly precision, had fought with unmatched skill, each arrow loosed finding its mark with a quiet, deadly whisper. His movements were fluid, a blur of elven finesse as he wove through the chaos, his bow singing with the rhythm of the battlefield. But even the most seasoned warrior could be caught off guard. Amidst the frenzy of clashing steel and snarling beasts, Legolas’s sharp senses betrayed him for a brief moment. A massive orc, its eyes filled with primal fury, surged toward him from the smoke. With a brutal growl, it swung a jagged blade in a wide arc, aiming for Legolas’s side. The strike was swift, too fast for him to fully evade. The blade tore through his leather armor, biting deep into his flesh. The pain was immediate and excruciating, the sharpness of the wound sinking through him like a searing hot brand.

Legolas gasped, his breath hitching as the blood surged from the deep gash in his side. His legs, once sure and strong beneath him, buckled under the weight of the pain. His vision blurred in a haze of red, the edges of his world fading with the pounding of his heart. His knees gave way, and he collapsed to the ground, unable to stay upright any longer. His hand clutched at the wound, but the blood continued to flow, staining his tunic and soaking the earth beneath him. He could still hear the battle raging around him, the clash of swords and the cries of warriors, but it all seemed so distant now, as if the world had grown quieter, more distant. He tried to summon the strength to rise, to fight on, but the weight of the injury was too great, and his vision dimmed as he slumped against the cold earth.

You had seen him fall—his form a flash of silver and gold amidst the chaos and rubble of the battlefield. For a brief, frozen moment, time seemed to stretch, and your heart lurched painfully in your chest. Every instinct screamed in panic, and before you could process what had happened, your legs were already carrying you toward him, driven by a singular, unyielding purpose: Legolas. The destruction around you seemed to blur, the cries of war fading into the background as you sprinted through the smoke and carnage, your only thought on the fallen elf. As you reached him, the sight of him nearly shattered you. There, in the bloodied soil, he lay crumpled and broken, the once graceful and proud warrior now a shadow of himself. His skin was pale, and the usual radiance of his features was clouded with the deep lines of agony. His golden hair, usually so immaculate, was matted with sweat and dirt, and his armor was streaked with blood—his blood. His side was stained with crimson, the wound a cruel gash that had robbed him of his strength. His breathing came in ragged gasps, each one shaking him with tremors of pain. His eyes, once sharp and full of life, were dull now, glazed with exhaustion, the fierce spark of his spirit dimming.

“Legolas,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you knelt beside him. Trembling, you reached out and gently cupped his face in your hands, the coldness of his skin seeping into your fingertips, sending a chill through your very soul. His pale lips parted, and his breath came in a shuddering sigh, barely more than a whisper. “You should not have come,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and weak, like a dying wind. The words were full of pain, but there was a faint undertone of resignation, a weariness that reached deep into your heart. “It is too late for me.”

“No,” you said, your voice thick with emotion, trembling as you fought to hold back the torrent of fear and sorrow that threatened to overwhelm you. Your eyes, already glistening with unshed tears, locked with his—desperate, pleading. “You are not beyond saving.” Your hands shook as you moved them to his wound, desperate to do something, anything, to staunch the flow of blood that stained the earth beneath him. With trembling fingers, you gathered a lock of your own hair, long and (your hair colour), and carefully wrapped it around the gaping wound on his side, trying to bind it with all the gentleness you could muster, despite the urgency gnawing at your every movement. The sight of him—so frail, so vulnerable—stirred a protective fire deep within you, a fierce resolve that you would not lose him, not like this. Not without a fight.

Once you had carefully wrapped your hair— (your hair colour), like the night sky—around his wound, you felt a surge of determination rise within you. With trembling hands, you took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. The weight of the moment pressed heavily upon you, but as always, you found solace in the one thing you knew could help. Your eyes fluttered closed, and with a steadying exhale, you began to sing. The melody flowed from your lips as naturally as breathing, soft and haunting, carrying with it an ancient power—an echo of long-forgotten magic. The words rose gently, like a prayer whispered into the wind, filling the air with their quiet strength. “Flower, gleam and glow, Let your powers shine,” your voice was a delicate thread of sound, weaving through the tumultuous silence around you, rising like a beacon of hope.

As you sang, the very fabric of reality seemed to shift. A golden warmth began to stir, a light that flickered softly at first, then grew, washing over you both in a radiant glow. Your dark hair, once so deep and shadowed, shimmered and turned, strand by strand, into a golden hue. It was as though the sun itself had chosen to bless you, each lock now glowing like threads of light, as if the very magic of your song had imbued your hair with its ancient power. “Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine,” you sang, your voice rising, carrying the weight of your desire for his healing. The words seemed to vibrate through the very air around you, reaching deep into the earth, into the bones of the world itself, calling forth the strength of the past to repair the present.

As you sang the familiar refrain, “Heal what has been hurt, Change the fates’ design, Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine,” a warmth spread from your hands, wrapping around Legolas’s wounded side. The golden glow of your hair bathed him in light, casting long shadows in the smoke-filled night, yet it was as if all the darkness around you couldn’t touch the warmth of that glow. For a moment, everything seemed to still. Legolas’s eyes, which had been clouded with pain, fluttered open. The dazed, pained expression on his face softened as he gazed at you, wide with awe and wonder. His breath caught, steadying as he took in the sight of you, bathed in light, singing with such grace and power. There was a quiet reverence in his gaze, as if he, too, could feel the ancient magic swirling around you both.

As the last notes of your song faded into the air, you could feel the change. The pain that had clenched Legolas’s body, the cruel wound that had threatened to claim him, began to ebb. The glow of your hair intensified, weaving into his wound, healing it. The flesh began to mend, slowly at first, and then more rapidly, knitting together as though the wound had never existed. The jagged edges smoothed, the bleeding stopped, and the gash was sealed, leaving nothing but faint, healed skin behind. The golden light around you both softened, leaving only the gentle warmth of your presence. His breathing steadied, and you felt his body relax beneath your touch. It was a moment of quiet relief, the ancient magic doing its work, and in the stillness, you knew that, for now, he was safe.

“By the stars…” Legolas murmured, his voice trembling, hoarse with awe. His hand, though weak from the toll of battle, reached up toward you, his fingers trembling as they hovered near the glowing strands of your hair. It was as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was witnessing, as though the very sight of you—glowing with a power so pure and radiant—was beyond comprehension. “Your power… it is… unlike anything I have ever seen.” His voice, filled with awe and reverence, sent a ripple through you, a shiver of warmth and comfort. The magic you had woven continued to grow, pulsing in rhythm with the deep resonance of the song you sang. Each note seemed to deepen the connection between you, the golden light radiating more intensely, not just healing his body, but seeming to bind itself to his very essence. It wrapped around him like a cocoon, gentle but strong, a delicate shield of light.

The light around you both was warm and soft, enveloping you in a protective embrace, soothing the ragged breath he had taken in moments ago. As you continued to sing, your voice now carrying the weight of both healing and love, Legolas’s body relaxed completely. His tense muscles softened under the magic’s touch, and the bleeding wound that had once poured freely, now slowed, then stopped entirely, as if the magic had mended time itself. The gash—once a deep, threatening tear in his flesh—faded before your eyes, closing seamlessly, leaving behind only the faintest memory of what had once been. The skin, once torn and broken, now appeared smooth, whole, as if untouched by any weapon.

When the last note left your lips, you fell into a profound silence. The battle raged on around you, but in this moment, there was nothing but stillness between you and Legolas. Your body, drained from the exertion, trembled with the weight of the magic’s toll, but the exhaustion was tempered by a deep sense of relief and peace. The light around you flickered softly before fading, leaving only a soft glow, like the dying embers of a fire.

Legolas’s chest rose and fell steadily now, his breath no longer shallow or ragged with pain. His eyes opened slowly, his gaze finding yours, locking with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place in the midst of the destruction around you. There was no longer fear in his eyes—only gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken, yet clear. His gaze lingered on you, as though seeing you for the first time, truly seeing the depth of your power and the strength of your heart. “You saved me,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, as though the weight of his words alone could not carry the depth of his gratitude. His hand, still resting gently on the strands of your glowing hair, traced them with the reverence of someone who had seen the divine. His fingers brushed softly against your skin, as though afraid to touch you too roughly, yet unable to resist. “I… I do not know how to thank you.”

The warmth in his touch, the sincerity in his voice, stirred something deep within you. You smiled softly, your lips trembling with the aftermath of emotion, and shook your head gently. “You do not need to,” you whispered, your hand moving to cover his, grounding him in the moment. “You need only stay with me.” His gaze softened at your words, and in that instant, the weight of the battle seemed to lift from him. The tension in his shoulders, the burden of war that had weighed him down for so long, seemed to melt away. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing gently against yours. The warmth of his touch, the steady rhythm of his breath, grounded you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. In the midst of the chaos, it was just the two of you—two souls, bound not by the forces of war, but by the strength of a connection that had been forged in light.

“You have my heart, my life,” he murmured, his voice raw, thick with emotion, his breath warm against your skin. “You are my light in the darkness.” The words, spoken with such raw sincerity, brought tears to your eyes. It was as if, in this moment, everything had led to this—this bond between you, stronger than any wound, any battle, any enemy. For a fleeting moment, the noise of the war faded away, leaving only the two of you standing amidst the ruins of a battlefield, your hearts intertwined, your spirits unbroken. In that silence, you both knew that, no matter what happened next, you had already found something far more powerful than victory.

[dark-corner-cunning]

The Legend of Old Mother Red-Cap and the Serpent’s Fire: A Mountain Witch’s Spring Equinox Folktale

In honor of the return of spring, I’ve chosen to take a more creative path, weaving together folktales inspired by my journey of cunning and the land of the Appalachian Mountains I call home. This tale draws from the spirit of Old Mother Red Cap, who summons the red serpent to awaken the land and bring forth spring's renewal. Every day, new traditions and stories are born—so why not create your own? Dare to craft your own folklore and rituals, for who knows? Your creations may be the ones that echo through generations to come.

-------------

In the mountains, where the winds weave through the trees and the stones hold memories of the past, there’s an ancient tale passed down in whispers, told in the quiet hours before the Spring Equinox. It speaks of Old Mother Red-Cap, the keeper of the first spark, and the Red Serpent who coils deep beneath the earth, the very fire that stirs the world into life.

Long ago, when winter had wrapped its cold fingers too tightly around the land, the rivers slowed to a crawl, and the trees slumbered so deep they forgot how to wake. The people felt the heaviness of the stillness, and they knew the sun’s warmth would not return unless they called for help. Old Mother Black-Cap had clutched the land too fiercely, her frost-bound grip lingering beyond its time, and the people suffered in the endless chill. Their fields lay barren, their animals weak, and their spirits dimmed like smothered embers.

So, they gathered in the first light of dawn, before the sun had fully risen on the day of the Equinox. They walked the land, their voices rising in unison, calling to Old Mother Red-Cap, the fiery spirit of Spring, to awaken and renew the earth.

"Red-Cap, Red-Cap, light the way, Bring the flame to stir the day."

They chanted, their words carried on the cold wind, winding through the valleys and over the ridges, reaching the heart of the mountain where fire sleeps.

From the depths of the earth, she came—Old Mother Red-Cap, wrapped in her cloak of crimson flame, with a lantern glowing bright like the first light of dawn. Her boots struck sparks upon the frozen ground as she walked, and with every step, the earth beneath her feet began to stir. She raised her lantern high, and from the flame, she summoned the Red Serpent, its glowing body uncoiling from the depths, ancient and wise.

"Wake up, old thing," she called to the Serpent, her voice crackling like the fire itself. "There’s work to do."

With a great hiss, the Red Serpent stretched and yawned, its fiery breath sending warmth through the frozen soil. As the serpent rose, the earth shuddered, and the ice cracked wide open, the land waking with the heat of transformation. Old Mother Black-Cap shrieked as the fire crept into the hollows where she hid, her frost retreating, her icy veil lifting from the mountains. She fled, her dark cape trailing winter’s last breath, slipping into the shadows where cold must rest until its time returns.

Old Mother Red-Cap plucked an ember from her lantern and pressed it to the Serpent’s forehead. The flame sank into its flesh, and the Serpent’s eyes blazed with new life. With each beat of its fiery heart, the land came back to life. Roots stretched and drank of the warmth, buds burst open in a fever of green, and the rivers, once sluggish and still, roared with the power of renewal. The people felt it too—the fire waking in their bones, the hunger to move, to grow, to become.

Old Mother Red-Cap looked upon the people of the land, her eyes gleaming with pride. "You have called forth the fire, not with fear, but with the strength of your own spirit. You stood firm in your power, your voices rising like embers in the wind, unyielding in the face of the cold. It is your own inner flame that has driven back the darkness, for true power lies in those who dare to wield it with purpose. Stand strong in your fire, let it burn bright, and know that you have the strength to shape the world around you. You are the keepers of the flame, the bearers of transformation, and in your hands, the land will always wake anew."

When Old Mother Red-Cap felt her work was done, she climbed to the mountain’s peak, standing tall against the dawn. She faced the Eastern Road, where the first light of the rising sun painted the sky in hues of fire, and she knew—Spring was born.

To this day, when the Spring Equinox arrives, the wise ones walk the land, calling upon the fire in the earth and in themselves. They gather the power of the stones, the streams, and the rising sun, lighting their candles and whispering their spells. And when they do, they know that Old Mother Red-Cap still walks among them, stirring the fire of transformation in all who dare to claim it.

[lulublack90]

Prompt 8 - Arrow

@wolfstarmicrofic February 8, word count 688

“I told you not to open your stupid mouth!” Remus yelled at him as they tore through the forest. 

“How was I supposed to know they’d take it the wrong way?!” Sirius squawked as he narrowly avoided the arrow aimed directly at the back of his head. 

“Arrogant pureblood,” Remus darted sharply to the left and away from Sirius. 

“Oi, Moony, don’t leave me!” Sirius chased after him and almost slipped down the steep bank. A hand shot out from below him and dragged him down and into the safety of a huge sycamore's unearthed roots. 

He crouched close to Remus as Remus cast undetectable charms around them as the centaurs thundered overhead. 

“They must have doubled back,” one said. 

“Leave them, Feanor, they are not worth our time,” another answered. 

“And do you believe such insolence should go unpunished, Lorin?” Feanor rebutted, stomping his hooves impatiently against the hard ground. Sirius pressed back into Remus as grains of soil trickled between the roots above him. 

“They are young and foolish, Feanor; besides, I heard the wolf chastising his mate as they ran,” Lorin chuckled. “I feel nothing we can do to that young wizard will even be comparable to what the wolf has planned.”

“You may be correct,” Feanor conceded. “Let us return to the others and seek insight from the stars, they may let you know what path we should take.” The sound of hoofbeats faded away, and Sirius let out a shaky breath. He knew better than to rile up the centaurs, but that Feanor had rubbed him up the wrong way, and he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. 

“Remus,” He said quietly. “Next time there are centaurs, cast a silencing charm on me, please.”

“With pleasure.” Remus let his head flop back against roots and earth. 

They waited a while to make sure it was safe to move about the forest again. They headed back up to the castle and back up to their dormitory for hot showers and mugs of hot chocolate. 

“What do you think he meant by ‘mate’?” Sirius asked. He’d found it an odd way to refer to him. They’d called Remus a wolf, which meant they knew what he was, so why had they referred to Sirius as his mate? Remus had turned bright red and was trying to hide it from Sirius. 

“No idea,” Remus choked out, looking very uncomfortable. “Some weird centaur terminology. Head in the clouds, y’know.” Remus hurried ahead of him, leaving Sirius to ponder. Remus’s reaction had been just as odd as the centaur's words. 

It was as he passed a couple who thought they were being sneaky, making out in an alcove that he was hit with understanding. The centaurs thought he and Remus were together, and Remus’s red face and sudden departure was because the centaurs had picked up on how Remus felt. Sirius broke into a run. He needed to find Remus now and ask him point-blank if that’s what it all meant, as he couldn’t let the spark of hope deep inside him reignite if the centaurs had got it wrong. Please don’t let them be wrong. 

He caught up with Remus, and instead of asking him anything, he spun him around by his robes, stood on his tiptoes and kissed him. Remus’s lips were frozen beneath his, and he panicked, only for Remus to reach out and pull him into his body, kissing him back. The spark inside Sirius flared into life, filling his entire body with heat. 

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” Professor McGonagall barked behind them, and they pulled apart, smiling shyly at each other. The second she was gone, Remus pulled him into a nearby broom cupboard and, using the spells he’d used in the forest, kept anyone from interrupting them before Sirius was pushed into the back of the cupboard. Remus kissed him again, more fervently this time. The centaurs were right. He vowed never to piss them off again. Well, apart from Feanor, perhaps. He stopped thinking about the centaurs when Remus’s knee pushed his legs apart and moved his own leg into the space. 

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Stars That Shine

So it was supposed to be normal angst. And then I don't know what happened. But back to school assignments I go.

Summary: Bucky visits a grave for the last time.

The skies are grey today. Rain falls to the ground, turning the soil beneath his feet a dark brown. Still he trudges on, ignoring the way his dark brown locks plaster to his face until he reaches his destination.

He stares at the simple grey slate that is before him, inscribed with words you had chosen and traces over the grooves with a finger. His heart clenches, the words ringing in his ears, your voice whispering softly in the wind. Shakily placing the flower he had brought along on the ground, he sits in the pouring rain, hugging his knees to his chest. Silent salty tears mingle with the rainwater, streaming down his cheeks and dripping onto the dirt that swallows it all up. His throat feels raw, itchy even and he swallows a cough.

All words escape him, now that he's here. Everything he had planned to say, lost to the howling winds so he sits there, mind blank with grief. The chill bites his flesh now that you're no longer here to keep him warm, the cold seeps in and he shivers. He wants to go back to cryofreeze, to forget any of this happened but he knows you won't forgive him if he does that. You'd fought so hard to keep Hydra's tentacles from him, willingly going back would only sully your memory.

"I don't understand. You should hate me, I killed your brother."

"I don't hate you. I hate what the Winter Soldier did, but you're not him anymore. You're a different person now, for what that's worth."

He doesn't know why that memory surfaces now. It clogs his throat, causes him to tremble, causes more tears to flow unbidden and he feels himself unravel.

You were everything to him, even if he never outrightly told you that. You were his world, the single unwavering light in the darkness, the anchor that kept him grounded to the present. He'd fallen for you the moment he saw the fire in your eyes, the way you protected those you loved. Your loyalty and devotion had stolen his breath away, your kindness and gentleness had put the stars in his eyes. He'd melted every time your gazes met, frozen in time until you turned away.

Despite it all, he'd convinced himself that you hated him. He'd taken everything away from you, ripped your last living family from you. You had every reason to despise him, but even so you'd stood up for him. Sure your words were always had an edge to them, your wits as sharp as your blade but it had never truly been hurtful. You still treated him like a teammate, albeit reluctantly, and he had caught glimpses of concern sent his way before on missions that you always vehemently denied.

He never could stop his heart from yearning for you, Sam said as much. Sam enjoyed teasing him about his crush on you, intricately describing the stars in his eyes that appeared whenever he laid eyes on you until Bucky's cheeks were hot with embarrassment and the tips of his ears burned red. That always ended in Bucky threatening to give Redwing a free makeover and Steve intervening before things got out of hand.

He had never been safe from Steve's teasing either, although Steve's was more bearable. His best friend had pointed out that he was always grumpy until you showed up and suddenly he would light up. Steve had loved the way you made Bucky feel, the hope you gave him of a brighter future, although Bucky swore Steve kept talking about you like he was a matchmaker.

Bucky exhales shakily, grasping the pendant hanging around his neck tightly. You'd given it to him, saying that you wanted it back once you finished the mission. He was only to help you keep it safe until you returned, and the only reason you had chosen him for that task was because he was the only one with a brain cell who wasn't going on the mission with you.

He'd lorded that fact over Tony for the next week.

But you never came back to reclaim it. You were only supposed to be gone for a week, but one week turned to two, and then to a month and there was still no sign of you. The others had returned without you and search parties were sent out but to no avail. Anxiety gnawed away at him with each passing day, tearing him apart from the inside until he could stand it no more. He'd slipped away in the dead of night, stealing a jet to go to where you were last seen, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, to find you, return the pendant and bring you back home.

He'd gotten his wish, only not in the way he'd envisioned. He'd found you, but instead of sharp witty one liners he'd gotten the cruel howling of the snowy wind over a lifeless husk. Instead of a warm punch to the chest he'd gotten a freezing stab to the heart. Instead of hope he'd found despair.

He'd screamed his anger and grief to the heavens amidst the snow storm, tears freezing on his face the moment they were shed. He'd punched the snow so hard it left a deep indent the size of his fist, kicked the nearest tree and left his boot mark on its trunk but the agony still remained, threatening to overwhelm him. He'd cursed until he had no more curses to give, begged until his throat went hoarse but your body still lay there, as cold and unmoving as the moment he found you. He'd clawed at his own skin, drawing blood as he desperately attempted to alleviate the pain he was feeling but it only bit back harder.

He'd collapsed right next to you after that, passing out and the only reason the two of you were found in that blizzard was because Natasha had tracked the jet. He'd wished the Avengers had never found him just so that he could escape from the pain that was eating him alive but here he was — alive while you were dead. He'd have given everything to switch places with you, he deserved it after what he'd done but fate laughed cruelly at him with each passing moment, watching as a shell of a man took breath after breath even though he had nothing to live for anymore.

He didn't show up for your funeral. He'd disappeared for the days leading up to it and the week after, vanishing somewhere even Steve and Sam didn't know. He hadn't known what words were to be engraved on your tombstone but apparently you'd written them in your will.

"Not a party type?" His footsteps sound way too loud in the quiet stillness of the night.

"I love parties, that's why I'm here on the balcony instead of down there on the dance floor." Sarcasm drips from your words, making him chuckle.

"Unfortunate. Mind if I join you?" He moves to stand next to you, holding out a glass of champagne.

"You've bought however long I take to drain this glass." You start drinking, not even giving him a chance to prepare.

"Do you only ever wear black?" He blurts out, unable to formulate a proper conversation topic with the pressure nipping at his heels. It work, however, because you pause, lowering the glass from your lips to stare at him incredulously.

"Amazing conversation starter, Barnes. And no, I do not. Black is however the easiest colour to work with so it's the main colour in my wardrobe." With that you resume your drinking, draining the glass of every single drop.

"Gold would look nice on you. Or a brighter colour, at the very least." He watches you turn to leave, empty glass in hand.

"I'd look like gaudy star," you snort in reply.

"Even gaudy stars shine brilliantly in the night sky." You'd stopped in your tracks at his words, turning to look over your shoulder. That was the first time he'd gotten you to smile at something he said.

"That's cheesy, Barnes. Try again next time. Until we meet again."

He couldn't bring himself to try again. The words always got stuck in his throat and something or someone always interrupted him whenever he thought about it. So he'd watched from afar, suppressing the feeling whenever it threatened to boil over. You'd danced around him, showing hints of softness but never quite committing and he'd followed your lead, teetering on the edge until he fell.

You were the only one who saw him as James Buchanan Barnes, not the Winter Soldier, not Sergeant Barnes, not Bucky. Just plain old James, and it made him feel something he couldn't quite explain. You'd seen through the cracks in his armour, seen the real him, not the facade he put up to try and fit in with the world. He never knew what you thought of the real him, and would never know. It's too late to ask now, but somehow, he's sure he already knows the answer. After all, the answer always laid in the looks you shot him during those moments of vulnerability.

Even gaudy stars shine brilliantly in the night sky.

He traces those words carved into your tombstone once more, feeling the grooves in the otherwise smooth grey slab and coughs, bloodstained petals floating onto the damp ground.

Until we meet again.

[ryomensgf]

𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗠𝗦 !

RYOMEN SUKUNA X READER !!

CHAPTER : TWO

ᯓsypnosis. in a secluded shrine deep within the forest, you have spent all your life untouched by the outside world, a living paradox—blessed with blood that heals yet cursed with a presence that brings death. Your days are quiet, isolation absolute, until one stormy night when a presence unlike any other darkens her doorstep.

.𖥔 ݁ tags+warn. ryomen sukuna x fem reader, true form ryomen sukuna, concubine!reader, mentions of blood, violence and misogyny, heavy language, reader is powerful, eventual smut, possessive!sukuna, sukuna loves control, toxic jealousy, degradation, angst/fluff, light choking, size difference, time period heian era, goddess!demon, soft reader, more tags will be added later lmao. 2k

ch. 1

ch. 2

Kill. Kill. Kill.

It echoes in every hushed whisper, woven into the murmur of their words. They scrutinize, deliberate, weigh your worth against the fleeting measure of existence. 

Do you belong in this world? 

Are you a being worthy of humanity, or merely a mistake to be erased?

The chant is relentless. These words coil around you like an unseen noose, tightening with every beat of silence. The air thickens, suffocating in its familiarity. This judgment, this suffocating dread—it's all you've ever known.

You sit at the center of it all, draped in an immaculate white gown. It spills around you like untouched snow, your long hair cascading behind you, adorned with the delicate pattern of flowers. A stark contrast to the monks seated around you.

Or rather, the bodies of the monks.

Their robes, once grey, now drip with a deeper shade of crimson. Blood soaks their garments, clings to their skin, spills onto the tatami mats beneath them. Their faces are frozen in twisted expressions—terror, agony, and the fleeting resignation of death.

The sight of it consumes your vision. The smell of iron fills your nose. The only sound is the soft drip of blood, a rhythm as steady as your breath—or lack thereof.

You are the only one left breathing.

You blink.

Your gaze meets the man in front of you. The air around him feels poisoned, thick with the stench of decay. He reeks of death, not of one or two, but of thousands.

And yet, what he wants from you remains unknown.

You open your lips to speak, but the words falter, trapped beneath the tremor of your confusion. Even so, you force them forth. "What is it you seek?"

Is it your blood he seeks—the sacred ichor that flows through you, whispered to hold divinity's essence? Or does he seek to end you, to erase from this world the death that has dared to crawl upon its soil, embodied in your existence?

His expression remains unreadable as silence stretches between you, taut and fragile. Then, without warning, he moves. His hand clasps your wrist in a firm, almost possessive grip, and your eyes widen at his audacity.

Before you can protest, he pulls, forcing you to stumble forward. Instinctively, you clutch at your wrist—and his hand—trying to make sense of the man before you.

So, it is blood?

His nail grazes your skin, a deliberate touch that sends a ripple of unease through you. Slowly, it trails downward, pressing just enough to draw crimson beads to the surface. The sight is unnervingly familiar, yet no less disquieting.

He leans closer, the movement slow, predatory. His tongue flicks out, catching the droplets as they run along your arm. You feel the warmth of it against your skin, and your brows draw together in discomfort.

Then his nail digs deeper, his force so great it nearly bends your hand. The sharp pain isn't new to you, but the weight behind it—his intent—makes you part your lips in a stifled gasp.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low.

"This is the blood humans so desperately cling to," he murmurs, his eyes lifting to lock with yours. A flicker of amusement, or perhaps disdain, dances in his gaze. "Do you envy them? Those who revel in their fleeting comforts, while you sit here—a pitiful fool—waiting for something that will never come?"His gaze doesn't waver, and neither does the grip on your wrist.

You swallow. "Envy is beyond my understanding. This is my purpose, my destiny."

He chuckles, low and sharp, the sound rippling through the tense air. "Purpose? Destiny?" he echoes mockingly, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to make you aware of his strength. "Such noble words for a life spent bleeding for others. Does clinging to that illusion ease the ache of your insignificance?"

His eyes narrow slightly, studying you as though your answer might amuse him further. You feel the sting of his nail press deeper, another droplet of blood tracing down your arm.

"And yet," he continues, leaning closer until his breath brushes against your skin, "perhaps it isn't insignificance you fear. It's the weight of the power you're too afraid to claim."

You flinch inwardly but force your expression to remain steady. "If you've come here to mock me, you've wasted your time," you say coldly. "You speak of power as if it belongs to someone like you—a scavenger feeding on others to sustain yourself. I'll die before I let someone like you define my worth."

His smirk deepens, a shadow of something dark and predatory crossing his features. "Oh, you'll die, goddess of death."

Finally, he releases his grip, stepping back, though the air between you remains thick with unspoken menace. "But that is after you've outlived your usefulness to me."

You sit back, hands folded neatly in your lap, your chin held high. You may not know all the ways of outsiders, but you can sense their intentions.

"If it's my blood you desire, I suggest you seek the monk." You turn your head away from him.

A flicker of something almost imperceptible crosses your mind—does this fool not realize that by standing so close to you, he is already withering? Your presence, a slow poison, is already beginning to close in on his fragile existence. And yet, he lingers. Not out of fear, but rather amusement.

"Hm, blood such as yours holds no value to me," he continues, with a sigh. "It is only humans who cling to that wretched life, living it like parasites—weak, fragile, insignificant."

He begins to circle you, his footsteps slow and deliberate, as though measuring you with each stride.

"What I seek though, is your power." He pauses, his gaze lingering on your hands. "It's insulting to see you waste such a gift on those feeble, pathetic humans who sees no real worth in you."

You meet his gaze. "And you do?"

Sukuna's smirk widens, dark and malicious, as he steps closer. "Of course," he breathes, his words dripping with something darker, deeper. "You think you control this power, but you're nothing more than a fool clinging to a flame that will burn you alive."

He stops circling as he watches you. "You don't know what it means to truly wield power. But I'll show you. I'll tear you apart, piece by piece, until nothing is left but your broken, useless shell. The blood you protect so dearly will be nothing but a stain at my feet."

His gaze darkens. "The moment you stop being useful to me, I'll make you regret the day you ever drew breath. The world will burn, and so will you, right alongside it."

A chill runs down your spine at the dark direction his words have taken. He's not here for your blood, not to erase you from this world—he's here to test you. It's no longer a mere threat; it's a twisted promise, one that chills you to the core.

But if he understands the true essence of your power, why does he linger so close? He knows well enough that if you placed even a finger on him, he would wither away, consumed by the very force of your existence. So why does he risk it?

Your eyes dart when the sickening sound of blood splattering filling your ears—too far, too close.

Your servant. 

The one who had been there, standing, waiting for you. Now she chokes, grasping at her throat in desperate, futile attempts to breathe. Her eyes lock onto yours with a desperate plea for help, but it is a plea you can't answer. She reaches out to you, but then she crumples, falling to the ground, her body convulsing, the light in her eyes dimming. Death claims her, swift and unforgiving.

This is something you've never seen before. Something your sheltered world had kept from you—until now.

You still for a moment, before your gaze shifts back to the man before you. But before you can utter a single word, the world vanishes into darkness. Pitch black.

Pitch black.

Wait.

Pitch darkness. 

It's happened before, hasn't it? 

If your entire life had been defined by silence and peace, this was the stark opposite. The dull ache in your body was what finally forced your eyes open. Above you stretched a dark, cracked ceiling. Dust swirled in the dim light spilling faintly from some unseen crack in the outside world.

You coughed, the sound rasping in your throat as you shifted to sit up. The movement brought with it a metallic clink.

Chains.

Your gaze dropped, heart sinking as you registered the source. A single chain binding your wrist to the wall behind you. Only then did the rest of the scene come into focus. You were in a dim, underground chamber, the air thick with dampness and the scent of earth. 

Your gown, once pristine, was smeared with dirt, dust, and the faint stain of blood.

Where were you? Why were you here?

Your back ached from the cold, unyielding ground where you'd clearly been left for hours. Just as unease began clawing its way to panic, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted your thoughts.

The door creaked open, its protest loud and jarring in the silence.

"Call for Uraume," a deep voice commanded.

Your gaze snapped toward the speaker—a man dressed in a sleek black kimono. He stood tall and composed, his broad frame at odds with the softness of his youthful face. Handsome, even.

For a moment, you forgot the weight of the chain on your wrist. In your quiet, cloistered life, you'd only ever known the company of aging monks. Seeing someone so young and striking was almost disorienting.

The man steps into the room. His sharp eyes scan you briefly before they settle, studying your chained form with a mix of curiosity and indifference.

“Awake, are we?” he murmurs, his voice smooth but laced with authority. He crouches slightly to your level, the hem of his black kimono brushing the dusty ground.

You can feel your throat tighten as you try to speak, but no words come out. His gaze flickers over the bloodstains on your gown, the disheveled state you’re in. Something in his expression shifts—a faint smirk, barely noticeable, like he knows something you don’t.

“I wouldn’t bother struggling,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “The chains aren’t coming off unless I say so.”

“W-who are you?” you finally manage, your voice hoarse, either from lack of use or fear.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he rises to his feet, his movements deliberate, and turns toward the still-open door. “Wouldn’t bother to ask. You won’t see me again after this.”

Strange.

His words linger, unsettling, as he steps into the hallway and disappears. Minutes stretch by, heavy and oppressive, before another figure emerges.

“Uraume.”

The name settles in your mind like a jagged shard, bringing memories rushing back. You recognize them now—the monk from that day. Everything snaps into place like a cruel puzzle. 

You remember.

The man. The beast. The monster. Whatever it was—it took you!

“Let it begin,” Uraume says, their voice calm.

The man from before nods and walks away without another glance. Uraume steps fully into the room, their gaze flickering over you like a cold breeze. There’s no recognition, no warmth, only detachment. They approach the chains.

“Why am I here?” you ask, your voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady.

No response.

You ask again, louder this time. The silence remains unbroken.

Uraume works at the chains, and with a sharp pull, they yank them free from the wall. The force drags you forward, making you stumble, your knees scraping against the hard ground.

“You will see,” is all they say, their tone void of emotion.

You frown at that. What you’ve pieced together so far is grim: you’re being kept captive, though the reasons remain unclear. Still, you’ve read enough scriptures to know one thing—those taken must fight for their freedom.

As Uraume drags you forward, your mind races, searching for an opportunity. Slowly, you raise your free hand, reaching toward them. But before you can make contact, the chain around your wrist jerks violently, pulling you off balance.

“Do not try something you’ll regret,” Uraume warns. They don’t even look back, as if they’d anticipated your defiance before you’d even thought of it.

You’re startled, though a small part of you—traitorous, perhaps—feels a flicker of admiration. You suppress it quickly. This isn’t the time to be impressed.

Perhaps you should’ve known this day would come. A day when those far stronger than you would come for you, dragging you away like prey.

Everyone seeks you—whether for your blood, your lineage, or, as the beast had claimed, your power. And once again, you’re reminded of your place. A doll to be dragged around, fragile and obedient.

As you’re dragged into the hallway, your surroundings steal your attention. The space is nothing like the small, cloistered world you’ve always known. The corridors stretch endlessly, their walls adorned with intricate red and gold patterns, gleaming faintly in the evening light. Servants move quietly through the halls, bowing slightly as Uraume passes. Their curious glances flicker toward you, though none linger long.

Despite your situation, you can’t help but marvel. Perhaps being “captive” isn’t so bad. After all, this is a glimpse into a world you were never allowed to see—an ornate, vibrant life beyond your previous understanding.

You notice the warm hues of the setting sun spilling through the open shoji doors, painting the halls in shades of amber and gold. Yet the stillness of the place feels unsettling. It’s too quiet, as if the air itself is waiting for something to happen.

When Uraume finally stops in front of two massive doors, you halt beside them. The doors loom high, carved with intricate designs you don’t have the time to study.

Uraume turns to you, their gaze colder than ever. “You’d better fight if you want to live.”

Before you can fully process their words, the doors are pushed open, creaking loudly.

“Hm-” You barely have time to react as you’re dragged forward.

Your breath catches in your throat. The room beyond is immense—far larger than anything you’ve ever seen. The walls seem to stretch forever, adorned with banners and torches casting flickering light. At the very back, a throne dominates the space.

And seated there, in all his terrifying glory, is a man you recognize instantly.

Him.

The monster.

He lounges lazily, legs sprawled out, his elbow propped up on the throne’s armrest. His chin rests against his fist, his crimson eyes watching you with a cruel amusement.

The room is filled with people—advisors, nobles, perhaps governors from their ornate attire. Their eyes are all on you.

Curiosity. Disgust. Contempt. Their stares pierce you in a hundred different ways, stripping away whatever dignity you have left.

You suddenly feel small, as though the room itself is pressing down on you. When was the last time you were observed like this? The memory lingers just out of reach, scratching at the edges of your mind, refusing to be fully acknowledged.

Uraume’s grip on the chains tightens, their movements deliberate and unyielding as they lead you to the center of the room. Every step feels heavier than the last, the weight of countless stares bearing down on you. When they finally stop, Uraume releases the grip on the chains and bows low before stepping aside with graceful precision.

A hush falls over the room.

Ah, so this is what it’s about. 

You’re here to be discussed—again. Your destiny, your worth, your purpose. It’s becoming increasingly, infuriatingly predictable.

You’ve given humans everything they’ve asked for, time and time again. Yet, a single lingering doubt is enough to pull you right back to where you started. Captive. Judged.

The man on the throne moves, a subtle nod directed at one of the others in the room. Another figure is dragged forward.

Your gaze shifts to him, and your breath catches momentarily. He’s enormous, towering over you by at least four heads, his frame broad and imposing. Chains bind him as well, rattling with each forced step.

His expression is carved from stone, a stoic mask marred by a jagged scar running down one side of his face. His head is shaven, his features set in a permanent scowl.

You can’t help but wonder: is he in the same predicament as you? Another pawn in whatever game these people are playing? Will he, too, be subjected to their scrutiny and judgment? What’s his story?

The room remains deathly silent until his voice cuts through, low and dripping with malice.

“Very well,” The man on the throne drawls, leaning forward on the throne, his crimson eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Two pitiful humans dragged before me. One trembling like a frightened deer, the other begging to be unleashed."

His gaze slides over you first, piercing and unrelenting, before shifting to the massive man at your side. He chuckles, the sound dark and predatory, as though already savoring something.

“You’ve both been granted a rare privilege,” he continues, his voice laced with mockery. “To entertain me.”

You tilt your head slightly, confusion flickering in your gaze. Entertainment? You’ve read plenty about it in the scripts—stories of extravagant performances, comedies, and dramas, but it always served one simple purpose: to entertain. However this must be something else entirely. You wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he wants you two to dance, to put on some absurd display of skill. But then again, each creature has its own twisted idea of entertainment.

“Fight.” he says, drawing out the word like a blade, “Let’s see which of you is worthy of taking another breath.”

Your eyes widen, the realization sinking in with a sharp, icy clarity. Not what you expected. No, this isn’t the playful kind of entertainment you imagined—it’s cruel, twisted, and merciless. Fighting to the death. 

You’re suddenly reminded of the tales you’ve read about kings who took sick pleasure in the suffering of others. One story, in particular, about a poor man who had to fight for his life against thousands of hunters, simply because the king found it amusing.

The king was a monster, a cruel, twisted thing. Just like the one standing before you now.

With a flick of his hand, the chains binding you and the other man clatter to the ground. 

“And don’t disappoint me. I despise boredom.”

The man beside you shifts, his muscles tensing as he sizes you up. His scarred face remains emotionless, but the way his fists clench tells you he’s already made his decision.

You’re not sure if you can fight. But you’re even less sure if you can survive not fighting.

You take a cautious step back, your heart pounding in your chest. Fight? You’ve never fought before. The very idea feels foreign, alien. 

Sure, there have been times when desperate humans have broken into your sanctuary, pleading with you to save their loved ones, but those were not battles. Those were cries for help.

There were moments when they went so far as to threaten you with knives, brandishing their desperation like a weapon, but even then, you never fought back. You simply stood, calm and still, offering your blood like a saint. 

The monks however had been more concerned with the outside world after that—tightening their watch over your sanctuary, preventing any more “incidents” from disturbing your peace.

Will you be able to fight? To hurt another person? You’ve never known what that feels like. And yet, the cruel twist of fate forces you into a corner, where your survival may depend on it.

Then It all happens in the blink of an eye.

You don’t have time to react, don’t have time to brace yourself, before a heavy punch crashes into your face. The force sends you reeling, your body hitting the ground with a raw scream, pain exploding through your skull like fire. Blood trickles down your face, warm and thick, pooling in your mouth as you stare at it in shock.

Pain. It’s foreign to you—something you’ve only heard about in stories, never truly experienced. But now, it crawls through you like a stinging parasite, relentless and suffocating, urging you to beg for it to stop.

It hurts.

Before you can even process the agony, your hair is wrenched from behind. The large man’s grip tightens painfully, dragging your head up to meet his wicked grin. His eyes are full of sadistic amusement, enjoying your suffering.

He raises his fist again.

You tremble, every muscle in your body tightening in fear. You know what’s coming. You can feel it, the pain that will follow. You shake your head, a desperate plea for mercy, though you know it will fall on deaf ears.

And then it hits you again.

The unbearable pain. It smashes into your jaw with brutal force, and you hear—no, you feel—the sickening crack reverberate through your skull. Your mind rings with a sharp, endless noise, a disorienting blur of agony and confusion. 

It’s something you’ve never known before, a pain so intense it threatens to tear you apart, to swallow you whole. It makes you want to shrink away, to disappear, to escape from the nightmare you’ve suddenly found yourself in.

Tears well up in your eyes, the sting of them barely noticeable beneath the overwhelming ache.

The punches don’t stop. They rain down on you, merciless and unrelenting. Again and again, until you lose count. You don’t even remember the last punch that landed, each one a blur of violence and suffering. Everything around you begins to slow, the world hazy and distant, as if you’re watching it from far away.

That unbearable pain.

You can barely breathe. The air is thick, suffocating. Your vision blurs, and for a moment, you can’t process anything at all.

Are you going to die?

Is this it? Is the embodiment of death finally going to vanish from existence? Would it be better to disappear now? Would it be a release from this torment? 

You don't notice when the blows cease. All you are left with is the searing, relentless pain that wraps around you like an unshakable fog. Tears, unbidden, stream down your face, yet you can't even feel them. 

The large man steps away, his knuckles bruised and stained with crimson, but the sight of him is nothing compared to the ruin he has wrought. Blood stains the floor beneath you, pooling around your body. Your face is a mask of crimson, soaked in the evidence of your torment, and your hair—your once-pristine hair—drips with it, as though the very blood has bled from your scalp itself.

A long, drawn-out sigh escapes from above you. The man on the throne, his voice cold and full of disdain.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs, his words heavy in the stillness. His gaze lingers on you, not with pity, but with something far worse—disgust, as though you are nothing more than an object meant for his amusement.

"Is this the so-called goddess of death?" Sukuna sneers, his voice thick with mockery. "I expected a far more impressive spectacle. How boring."

You cough, the taste of blood bitter in your throat, and with a great effort, you manage to raise yourself slightly, bracing on your elbows. Every movement feels like a battle against your own body, trembling, fragile. It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long. But then again, your blood... it’s different. 

Perhaps that’s the only reason you're still breathing.

Despite the fog in your mind, you lift your gaze. Through the strands of matted hair clinging to your face, you meet Sukuna’s eyes. Once amusement, now lies a cruel sick pleasure. His gaze is empty, calculating, as though you’re already a thing of no importance, just another broken plaything to be discarded once your purpose has been served.

Your blood runs cold at the thought. Once you exceed your usefulness, you are nothing.

Slowly, you turn your head, though the motion sends a sharp wave of pain through you. Your vision blurs, but you manage to focus on the man who stands tall, his posture proud as if he’s achieved something monumental. The crowd, once murmuring in anticipation, now falls into hushed whispers, their disappointed eyes trained on you. 

They, too, share Sukuna’s sentiment. They, too, are bored.

"Looks like the little bitch still got a fight in her." The large man sneers, cracking his knuckles as he steps forward, ready to strike again. His fists are tight, his stance filled with anticipation. You groan, your body aching as you sit up. There’s no way out of this. No escape.

You close your eyes, drawing a ragged breath, trying to steady yourself in the face of the pain, the terror.

But when you open them again, you’re no longer on the ground.

You’re standing, at the center of the room. Your hands, trembling, are covered in blood—dark, fresh, crimson streaks marring your skin. And the man who had been about to strike you? He lies motionless on the floor, his body mutilated beyond recognition. His organs, torn from his body, spill onto the ground, a gruesome sight of death.

What...just happened?

A shaky gasp escapes you, your mind unable to process what your eyes are seeing. You take a step back, your legs unsteady beneath you.

Your gaze snaps to the man sitting on the throne. A wicked grin twists across his face, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, as if whatever you’ve just done—or whatever has just happened—was exactly what he wanted. 

But... you remember none of it. You were just on the floor, bleeding, and now... now, you stand here, covered in blood, with a body before you that was once alive.

Gasps echo from the crowd, their faces filled with horror and disbelief. The murmurs spread like a wave, rippling through the room. You can sense their shock, their fear, but you still have no idea what they’ve seen. What they’ve witnessed.

"There you are," Sukuna muses, his voice dripping with dark amusement as his eyes glint with cruel satisfaction. "Right there, my little pawn."

A twisted laugh spills from his lips, cruel and cold, reverberating through the room. His gaze is sharp, predatory, as if he’s savoring every moment of your confusion and the carnage you’ve just unleashed. 

This—this moment of unholy power—is exactly what he had hoped for.

tag list : @moonchhu @paradisestarfishh if you want to be tagged, make sure to comment!

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 59

part 1 | part 58 | ao3

cw: canon-typical horror/gore (like for real this time), emetophobia, reference to minor character death. ty to @thisapplepielife for indulging my weirdly specific research about headstones

Steve tries to follow her — gets shot down before he even gets within speaking range, Max shouting at him to give her a minute the second she spots him coming over the hill. He backs off, hands raised in surrender, and then…

Well, then he’s already out of the car.

Well then his feet know where to take him.

His dad’s grave isn’t far. Maybe a football field away, close enough that he’ll be able to hear it if Max calls for help. He moves toward it without thought, his legs carrying him past simple overgrown markers in the oldest part of the park — crumbling remnants of civil war soldiers, farmers and shopkeepers and factory workers, people who worked the mines, people who died before his grandfather was born. People who might have been loved once, before time and moss and water stripped their names off of the stones.

Up the next slope, the markers get more elaborate, shift from bronze to granite to marble, to monuments and mausoleums and a fucking obelisk; ostentatious displays of the town’s oldest money. The coal barons, the oil tycoons. Rotten bastards, Wayne might say.

The Harringtons aren't that rich. They're further down the hill in a neatly manicured row of Indiana limestone; fresh flowers on each grave, the weeds plucked, the grass trimmed.

Dad's buried right next to Grandpa Otis.

It almost looks nice.

Crisp, clean, dry. Nothing to suggest the messy wet red of his father's demise. Steve shoves his hands in his front pockets and steps up to his dad's plot, toes the edge of it, the rounded lump of earth, sparse grass and loose soil where his father's bones are laid. The ground gives a little under his weight, the dirt compacting. Could he dig this up with just his hands? Could he claw through until he reached the bottom, pry open the box and peer inside? Unbidden, the image forms in his mind: worm food and rot, half a man left inside, somehow still frowning in disappointment with his jaw bone shining clean.

Steve's stomach turns. A sick shiver runs through him, saliva flooding his mouth, sweat beading at his hair line.

This isn't right.

Something's not right.

There's a sudden chill in the air, frigid wind carrying a smell like roadkill in the summer — heat wafting from the pavement, death clogging up his throat. Steve covers his nose and wills his shoulders down from his ears; tries to mutter words of comfort to himself under his breath. “Just a graveyard, Steve. Just a totally… normal…”

Ice on the back of his neck. Steve tenses every muscle, turns his good ear toward the sound of whatever's creeping up on him; something taller than him, something slithering and wet, its rasping rattles of frozen breath sending goosebumps down Steve's arms. His hands twitch inside his pockets.

Then, a voice — a voice that isn’t his, that can’t be anyone’s, because the man it belonged to is dead. “That Munson boy was right about you."

Steve can't fucking breathe. Dark clouds roll in around him, violent as a blooming bruise, and that voice behind him echoes — distorted, vicious; hungry.

"You are a black hole."

Steve grabs two fistfuls of his own hair and tugs; wills the pain to dispel the nightmare, his eyes swimming from the sting.

The thing behind him laughs. "Look how you ruined your mother," it snarls. "Look how you tore her apart.”

"Shut up!" Steve barks with his hands over his ears.

“Steve…” The voice deepens, beckons, thick with malice and rot. Steve slowly turns to face it, trembling all over, pulse thudding in his ears, and his shoes squelch in the dirt, and when he looks down he sees that the dirt has turned to mud that now turns to oozing red, a viscous river beneath his feet, flowing up over his ankles, pouring from his father's grave. And there, in front of him, a mangled remnant stands. The ruined corpse of Richard Harrington, his skin shriveled and gray, the torn parts of him held together by his clothes. There’s a hole in his torso where the exposed ribs glint like knives.

Steve throws up on himself.

The ground gives way beneath him, goes spongy like rotting meat, and the thing wearing his dad's face cackles as Steve sinks into the earth, the grave swallowing him whole, up to his calves, his knees, his thighs. "Join me," it offers, lipless smile full of teeth.

The glamor peels back to reveal a monster underneath, its scarred skin crawling in mucus-coated vines; naked, long-limbed, stitched together with burnt flesh.

Steve screams as he scrambles for purchase, up to his hips now in the muck, his feet on the lid of his dad's casket. He claws blindly at the loose ground but it’s all thick and wet with red, and the air itself is red; blood in the sky, in his eyes, in his lungs. He's going to die here. The voice tells him so. It's in his head now, a bellowing echo as the monster draws near, one hideous hand outstretched, an all-consuming join me, join me, JOIN ME—

“HEY!!!”

Max shouts directly in his face, shaking him hard by both shoulders where they're crouched on the cool ground, Kate Bush leaking from the headphones slung around her neck. Steve gives a startled shout and jerks back out of her grip, falling hard on his ass, landing harder on his elbows.

The world shifts back to blue. To dry, clean grass. To breathable air.

Steve pants up at the sky. His shirt clings to him where he's soaked it through with sweat. When Max offers him a hand, he stands on shaky legs, looks at the ground beneath his feet and screams again, scurrying back until his ass hits a stranger's headstone.

There’s a dent in the earth where he was standing. A smudge of packed dirt where he really did sink in. Steve stares at it; feels it reaching out for him, the dark patch thudding like a heart beat, spreading out like snaking vines.

He clutches at his heaving chest. Max’s eyes are huge on him.

"Okay, what the fuck?" she begs.

"What the fuck yourself!"

No heat behind the words, but they burn him, anyway, pushed out on a weak gasp. Is this what she was talking about? Is this what she calls nothing?

This doesn't feel like fucking nothing.

“Shit," she says, and her eyes go even wider. Steve can see the veins in them. "Shit, Steve, your nose…”

He swipes his arm across his face.

It comes back red.

—

part 60

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[shintin]

Forbidden Flames

↳ Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

One-shot

Summary: Satoru Gojo receives a letter, inviting him to a secluded cottage in the forest. Is it a trap by curse users or a haunting memory trying to scratch his wounds?

Or a story about how You and Satoru Gojo fucked after years.

Word count: +11 k.

Genre: explicit smut, romance, angst (Jujutsu Kaisen au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, reader-insert, no Y/N, post-breakup, soft Satoru Gojo, curse user reader, no death, too much fluff and kissing, cunnilingus, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex (c’mon! we all want this), multiple orgasms, hair pulling, tear licking, emotional trauma, emotional sex, no manga spoilers.

Notes: Hey there! I wrote this because Gege Akutami left an emotional mark on me. So, you know...

You can read the "Disclaimers" at the end.

Song Recommendation: Forbidden Flames Playlist

You can read my fics on AO3. If you have any questions, don’t be shy and ASK.

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As the afternoon sun cast long shadows through the dense foliage, a mysterious man with stark white hair and a black blindfold stepped into the heart of the desolate wilderness. Satoru Gojo. The air hung heavy with the earthy scent of wet soil mingling with the musty aroma of decaying leaves, a reminder of the rainstorm that had visited the night before.

Every step he took got lost between the giggles and hisses of harmless curses hiding behind the trees with fear. The ground beneath his feet was carpeted with a mosaic of fallen leaves, their vibrant red, orange, and gold colors now muted and lifeless, as if drained of all vitality. Some of them, with still a breath to take, crunched beneath his weight, the sound of a heartrending dirge that reverberated through the desolation.

Tall, gnarled trees stood sentinel on either side, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers as if yearning to trap the unwary. Their towering forms were shrouded in darkness, their essence reduced to withered remnants. They whispered mournful laments in the wind, their voices carrying tales of forgotten sorrows.

The forest, once flourishing and thriving, now seemed like a tragic tableau frozen in time. The canopy above formed a suffocating barrier that only got disturbed by the man's ethereal presence. Wild ferns brushed against his legs, leaving behind a trace of dew upon his black trousers. The moist ground yielded beneath his every step as if reluctant to release its grip from his boots' footprints.

As he pressed further into the jungle, the darkness deepened, the path twisting and turning like a labyrinth of despair. The shadows grew longer, stretching out like grasping tendrils as if eager to ensnare his soul. The silence became oppressive, broken only by the occasional painful cry of a distant creature.

The cottage he had received its address stood as a solitary figure amidst the gloomy jungle, a crumbling monument to forgotten dreams. Its dilapidated walls whispered of lost hopes and shattered promises, its windows veiled with white curtains.

With his hands casually tucked into his pockets, he watched the scene before him, a twisted smile playing upon his lips. He thought it was a perfect place, a trap waiting to spring him. But who would be foolhardy enough to challenge the strongest of all times?

But wait!

He couldn't feel any cursed energy! His six eyes were dumb. There was only one who could blind their watchful gaze.

So, when Satoru Gojo approached the house, his heart quickened after a long time, anticipation and anxiety coursing through his veins. The stage was set, the elements conspiring to test his resolve. Would he emerge from this shadowed encounter unscathed, or would the jungle claim yet another victim, lost to the depths of its sorrow-laden clutches?

Satoru's focus fixated on the doorknob, a slight gulp revealing his hesitation. Taking a deep breath, he turned and pushed open the door. The scent of something sweet enveloped his nostrils, a reminiscent embrace that momentarily distracted his senses. However, as his eyes met the sight that awaited him, an unexpected revelation struck him with a force that resurfaced long-forgotten memories.

The inside resembled an aged hideout, with wooden walls and colorful chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, casting warm, dappled patterns on the worn tatami floor. In the center of the room, a round table took its place, adorned with a vase of delicate forget-me-not flowers. Flanking the table were two chairs. And then, in the small kitchen stood the person who had left a void in his heart.

"You're late," your voice rang out in a cheerful tone, beckoning him forward. "Come inside. It's chilly out." With your back facing the door, you stood at the counter, appearing preoccupied with unwrapping something.

Caught in a maelstrom of emotions, Satoru's thoughts fragmented like scattered puzzle pieces, their intended purpose obscured by the inner turmoil. His hand held the doorknob tightly, trapped in a state of ambiguity, unable to release its grip.

Was this a mirage? How could it be that when you seemed precisely the way he had traced the outline of your body in the air while lying in bed, unable to sleep?

Yes, of course, there were nights when the desire to run his fingers through your hair filled his dreams. It was inevitable; your scent permeated everything, even riding on the breeze. There were days fatigue misled him, mistaking weariness for the embrace, he craved, only to discover the hollowness within his very bones. Your body was no longer curled around him, no comfort, and in your absence, each day left him icy, with lips turning blue and hands yearning for the warmth of your touch. He felt adrift in a blizzard, seeking the faint flicker of a fire you had extinguished.

What the fuck is wrong with you, Satoru? Think! Is this a manipulation technique?

And then, as if compelled by an unseen power, you turned your head, causing his heart to skip a beat—countless beats. You were undeniably real.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

Seeing you was akin to being hit in the knee with a bullet. Satoru's legs nearly gave way, his heart raced, and his hands turned clammy, almost causing him to collapse. He had never felt this urge to tear off his blindfold before, as your departure had happened so abruptly that he didn't have a chance to see you. Although he had committed every detail of you to memory, but this…this… witnessing it in person was an entirely different experience.

He stepped back, feeling the heaviness of the past, necessitating some distance. The harsh truths loomed, threatening to engulf him as he wrestled with the profound effect of your presence. Yet, he couldn't tear his gaze away from you, his mind struggling to comprehend the unfolding situation. The reality was so surreal, making it difficult for him to grasp that it was really occurring.

"Why are you just standing there?" you asked, holding a pack of his beloved Kikufuku mochis in your hands. A radiant smile graced your face, illuminating the damp room with its brightness.

He couldn't give two fucks about mochis when your face had that effect on him, always causing him to lose track of where he was, who he was, and what he might say or do. And that familiar smile, it killed him a little. His gaze remained there, lingering for too long, his concealed eyes giving away his thoughts. "Why do you have that look on your face?" you asked, tilting your head with curiosity and stepping closer to him.

As you stood before him, the closeness amplified the wave of emotions within him. Joy and disbelief raced through his veins. The fragrance that surrounded you, so hauntingly acquainted, sparked a rush of nostalgia.

Satoru Gojo was born with a specific purpose, a set of perfect eyes, and the weight of his lineage on his shoulders. He was reserved and calculated. When he mastered the Limitless technique, he concluded that infinite solitude was the only way to survive. Because how he could describe the experience of seeing everything, for when you see everything, you see nothing. An excess of color turns into pure black, an infinite void.

Yes, he was born with those six eyes. People never let him forget. But to you, his eyes were simply eyes. He recalled the first time you teased him about them and how his heart caught in his chest because he had never seen someone as vibrant and colorful as you.

It wasn't exactly love at first sight, but it was something like that. The first time he saw you, he felt it. An ache. Like a little electric burn. He felt his life changed.

Gradually, his loneliness began to dissipate. He found a place for himself in this chaotic world. With you, he could laugh, cry, joke around, and even be a brat. It was something no one could genuinely grasp—the feeling of finally being alive as a person. Before you, he felt he hadn't truly existed, merely scattered atoms in an indifferent universe following a predetermined path. But you changed everything. You dismantled and rebuilt him anew. You molded him, nurtured him, and despite him being the strongest, you kept him safe.

Without a noble title or material wealth, you were everything that went against the expectations of the Clan Elders. Yet, you stood faithfully by his side, precisely where he believed you belonged. Or at least, that's what he presumed.

Then, on that fateful day, the day he desperately wished was nothing more than a dreadful nightmare, reality unfolded before him. How could it be real? He stood there, confronted by the lifeless bodies of two Higher Ups and their protectors, with you covered in their blood. It was inconceivable. He couldn't accept that you were responsible for such a gruesome scene. Yet, you showed no remorse. You firmly believed it was the only solution, fed up with their destructive actions that brought ruin upon sorcerers deemed insignificant. You had accepted the notion that a problem without a remedy should be eradicated like an unwelcome weed.

On that day, he considered shaking your shoulders and demanding that you deny it all. He even contemplated going against everyone because what was the fucking point of wielding such power if he couldn't safeguard the woman he loved? The thought of quitting and escaping with you crossed his mind, too. He was willing to sacrifice everything: power, wealth, status, even his own life. However, you didn't desire any of those things.

His friend, Suguru Geto, once posed a question: Was he Satoru Gojo because he was the strongest, or was he the strongest because he was Satoru Gojo? At that time, he had no answer. A 17-year-old couldn't possibly find a response to such a profound question. However, when you entered his life, everything changed. Being the strongest lost its significance. He was just Satoru Gojo, and he was who he was because you loved him. His existence held meaning because you touched his life. He saw because he needed to gaze upon you. He spoke because he longed to hear your voice.

And then, similar to his best friend, after causing a bloodbath, you also walked out of his life. Yet, this time, it wasn't solely loneliness that engulfed him. It felt like one of his lungs had been taken away, and he heavied without you by his side through each passing moment. He became nothing once more. There was a hole in his life where you used to fit perfectly, and no matter what he did to try and fill it, nothing worked.

It was a strange anguish, a pain he never anticipated or conceived of. It consumed him from within, setting him ablaze with a profound emptiness. Then, defying the assumption that someone as formidable as him could experience sorrow, he was burdened with the task of erasing you. It was as if you were deemed nothing more than a blemish, a dishonor.

"What... what look?" he struggled to say, his voice tinged with a desperate yearning. Regret lingered in his tone as his words fell short. With a touch of vulnerability, he shut his eyes beneath the comforting confines of his blindfold, seeking refuge in the veil of darkness. Taking a deep breath, he consciously filled his lungs, using them as an anchor amidst the swirling storm of sensations enveloping him.

"That look," you remarked, your voice carrying a mischievous tone that floated in the atmosphere. "It's as if you don't trust me," you added teasingly. A few playful strands of hair escaped their intended position and delicately framed your face, casting a bewitching allure. An irresistible urge welled within him, compelling him to extend his hand and tuck those strands behind your ear—stupid muscle memory. However, he restrained himself, his hand suspended mid-air, resolute in resisting the magnetic pull of his desires.

"Why did you invite me here?" Satoru voiced, his grip on the doorknob loosening as the impact of reality settled upon him. The initial shock transformed into a lucid understanding. He wasn't oblivious. He knew that you were aware of his assignment to eliminate you. So, why? Was it because you recognized your unstoppable nature? Was it because you had realized that the blackhole existed within you, devouring everything you once held dear unless someone intervened?

"You could have refused to come, yet here you are," you whimsically remarked, a devilish glint in your eyes as you punctuated your words with a wink. You strolled over to the weathered table and set the pocket upon its aged surface.

"Cut it out!" Satoru snapped, his frustration mounting. "You know, I had no idea it was you!" His heart thumped in his chest, urging his feet to move forward, even as his mind screamed at him to flee. A sense of unease gripped him, acknowledging the futility of engaging in a battle he felt ill-prepared to win.

You turned towards him, a hint of a smile gracing your lips as your hands stayed concealed behind your back. Leaning against the chair, you arched an eyebrow, your eyes locked on him. "I have a feeling you knew it was me as soon as you arrived at the house," you declared, a jovial tone lacing your words. "After all, I'm the only one capable of concealing my cursed energy from you."

"We both know that I shouldn't be here. I—" Satoru's sentence dissolved, left unfinished, as your hand reached out, bridging the gap between you with a gentle touch. Infinity never worked with you. Even the very essence of the cursed energy recognized that you posed no threat to him. Furthermore, he would gladly provide you with any justification to touch him.

Lost in his reverie, Satoru suddenly became acutely aware of your presence. The magnitude of his longing and the depth of his yearning surged within him. In that instant, he recognized the immense emptiness you had left and how much he had missed you. Emotions swirled together, blending past and present, uncertainty and desire, in a delicate dance that would shape your fates.

"Why are you here, then?" you inquired, and his eyes met yours, reflecting the same yearning that dwelled in his heart. "Tell me, did you come in to kill me?" With a deliberate movement, you folded his fingers, molding them into the shape he would use to unleash his hollow purple. Bringing his hand close to your heart, you held it there. Despite the gravity of the situation, a soft smile adorned your lips.

He couldn't do this.

Taken aback by your unexpected gesture, Satoru swiftly withdrew his hand from your grasp. Anger and heartbreak swirled within him, entwining in a tumultuous storm. The realization hit him like a relentless wave, crashing against the shores of his consciousness. How had you drifted so far apart? When had the divergence between your paths become so profound that he failed to notice? The weight of your choice, to embrace the life of a curse user, to tread a road stained with blood, bore down upon him with a heavy burden. The pain on his face mirrored the fracture within his heart, a sense of loss mingling with a flicker of betrayal.

He wished he could say something. He wished he could start yelling, expressing all the thoughts and desires he had harbored since then—whether shouting, pouring out his heart, or expressing frustration. However, he adhered to the predetermined script you anticipated because he loved you unconditionally, unable to deny you anything.

"I didn't think so," you murmured, closing the gap between you, pressing your lips against his in a way that effortlessly eroded his resistance.

You tilted his face down, your hand caught somewhere behind his neck and the base of his jaw, and you kissed him softly and slowly, heat filling his blood with dangerous speed.

One of his hands naturally found its way to the back of your waist, holding you with a gentle yet possessive grasp, while the other securely clasped your arm, pulling you closer.

He felt incredible against you, your bodies fitting perfectly. Nothing ever came easier than kissing you. Every thought and worry wicked away, replaced by the feel of his mouth against your skin, his hand claiming your body.

In that moment, his eyes, his legacy, his clan's name, and the orders given about you faded away. This was his true purpose.

As your tongues entwined, a surge of electricity coursed through his veins, his body responding to the intoxicating enchantment of your touch. Your fingers traced the outline of his blindfold while others clung to his uniform as if he were your sole fulcrum in a world spinning out of control. Your back arched, and he embraced you tighter, his grip firm yet tender, his long fingers leaving an indelible mark upon your skin.

Breathless, as if you had just completed a marathon, you reluctantly pulled back from the heated exchange. Drawing him nearer, he yielded willingly, allowing you to guide him wherever you desired because wherever you led was where he believed to be his destination.

"Take this off," you beseeched, desperation and sorrow permeating your words as your forefinger lifted his blindfold and let it fall to the floor. His tousled hair cascaded softly over his forehead, unable to hide the azure eyes that had once captivated your heart.

In his eyes, tragedy and beauty could be seen, a stoicism that wouldn't be shaken, and childlike joy that couldn't help but flow.

He swallowed, and you shifted your hand to his ear, lightly grazing his earlobe with your pinkie before tracing down his jawline. There was no rejection, yet no clear confirmation either. Your hand brushed against his undercut as you continued.

"There you are," you whispered, your voice laden with kindness. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes, a solitary droplet making its way down your cheek as you gently cradled his face in your hands. He looked down at you, counting each tear on your lovely cheeks.

He clasped your hand, kissing your palm before guiding it to rest upon his heart. It was the same foolish heart, steadfastly beating for you, never having faltered. Through teary eyes, you looked at him, and he remained struck by the sheer beauty that not even your tears could diminish.

As your bottom lip quivered beneath his touch, quickly, with a light sweep of his hand, he wiped away the tears that stained your stunning eyes. You missed him too, didn't you? Was it painful for you, too? Silly girl! You couldn't maintain your carefully constructed facades for more than ten minutes when it came to him.

The realization washed over him, dispelling any remaining doubts.

Without a second thought, he effortlessly lifted you, your legs encircling his waist while your hands secured around his neck. Engrossed in a fervent kiss, both of you surrendered to the moment as he clasped your back firmly, pulling you closer to himself, relishing the flavor of your lips.

Letting go wasn't an option when every fiber of his being had missed you.

Determined and resolute, he carried you out to a room he presumed to be the bedroom, even though it didn't matter whether there was a bed or a simple mattress; what mattered was the way your touch kindled a blazing fire within him, and he had no intention of bearing that flame alone.

Keeping you securely nestled in his arms, he forcefully kicked open the door and lowered you onto the welcoming comfort of the bed. The urgency to discard his black jacket left no room for delay. At the same time, your nimble hands deftly undid the buckle of your pants, but before you could remove them entirely, his hands moved with an instinctual hunger, swiftly stripping you of the garment and casting it aside as if propelled by an untamed fervor. The passion between you burned fiercely, filling the room with an all-encompassing energy that eclipsed any other thoughts or worries.

With a quick movement, he discarded his black t-shirt, revealing the well-defined curves of his chest that shimmered with a touch of sweat. His desire was tangible, his lust unmistakable as he straddled between your parted legs, his hands grasping your nape.

The taste of his lips met yours, initiating a sequence of fervent kisses that persisted without pause, each delving deeper than the last. The world around you lost its significance as your breaths synchronized in rhythm, the heat between your bodies escalating.

In the meantime, your hands moved swiftly, deftly unbuttoning your shirt.

As his lips briefly separated from yours, he uttered a whispered confession. "I hate how bad I want you," he admitted, his voice carrying a raw sincerity. However, before you could reply, his attention shifted to your neck, where his teeth gently grazed your sensitive flesh, leaving behind tracks of tantalizing nibbles and passionate kisses.

You couldn't help but release a gasp as pleasure and a twinge of pain electrified your senses, sending delightful shivers coursing down your spine. In the throes of passion, your hand curled into a fistful of his hair, a silent request for more. Call it masochist, but he loved it when you did this. He tenderly pulled at your hair in response, tilting your head back ever so slightly, baring more of your vulnerable neck to his hungry mouth.

Then, you did what came naturally to you. With a voice brimming with longing and ecstasy, you spoke his name, "Satoru," the sound slipping from your lips like a hushed prayer.

His actions came to an abrupt pause. His lips separated from your skin, and his grasp on your hair loosened as if a sudden realization had hit him like a splash of icy water. It was ironic how you still possessed this power over him, a power that could both thrill and unsettle him.

The sound of his name on your lips had become something he treasured, and damn it, he had missed hearing it again. Just like every fucking tiny thing he had missed about you.

With a sudden movement, he withdrew his head from the crook of your neck and brought his forehead close to yours. His hands found solace in brushing back strands of your hair with comforting strokes.

He shut his eyes, and in a whisper, his voice carried a hint of fragility, a rawness that tugged at your heartstrings. "Say it again," he pleaded, his voice breaking under the pressure of unexpressed sentiments. It was as if that simple word held immense significance, a lifeline to his heart that he desperately craved.

Without hesitation, you took a steadying breath, the name forming on your lips.

"Satoru."

"S-Say it kinder."

"Satoru."

"Say it slower."

"Satoru."

"Say it gentler."

"Satoru."

"Say it louder."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you wanna tell me you miss me."

"Satoru…"

"Say it as if you're annoyed that I eat so many sweets."

"Satoru!"

"Is this why you made the trip to Sendai just to get me those mochis?"

…

"Say it."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you ever cared, spared a single thought for me."

"SATORU."

"Say it as if when you lied in bed, you remembered something I once said."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if it hurt you too when someone said my name with yours."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if every time a door opened, you too expected me to walk out of it, that every time you cooked, you hummed my favorite songs."

"S-Satoru…"

"Say it as if you need me."

"Satoru."

"Say it again."

"Satoru."

"Again."

"…Satoru."

"Say it as if you want to tell me something important."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you want me to know you won't stay."

"Toru."

"No. Not like this."

"Satoru?"

"Please."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you want me to know you're gonna run away again."

"Satoru…"

"Huh. Better. Now say it as if you wanna tell that you slept badly without me, that you only dreamed of me, and in the morning, you woke up exhausted without having any desire to live."

"Satoru."

"You don't have a line, do you? No remorse. No regret. Not even a single thought for the man you left behind like a walking ghost. And you won't ever stop."

"Satoru."

"Once you were gone, they gathered all your belongings as evidence. See this hair tie on my wrist?" He lifted his hand. "This and your sweatshirt, which no longer carries your scent, are the only things I have left. Say it as if you still have that shirt of mine."

…

"Say it!"

"Sa-to-ru."

"Did you know that I actually thought if I messed myself up, went all self-destructive, and threw a massive tantrum, you'd come back? I mean, why should I bother taking care of myself? That was supposed to be your job, right?"

"Sa…toru."

"Oh, by the way, I completely wrecked that bench on the hill where you used to sit. And then I went ahead and destroyed the whole damn place, then just sat right there amidst the wreckage. I mean, why should I even give a damn when you stopped caring about me? Say it as if you get where I'm coming from."

"Satoru…"

"Yet you know what's funny? Ask me if I still love you like the first day?"

"Satoru?"

"It can't be just me, right? You can't be done with me. Tell me you love me."

…

…

…

"Okay. It's—"

"Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru…"

Everything he thought he knew flew right out the window. He had noticed the tremor in your breath and the shake in your voice, but the desperate murmurs of his name caused his eyes to flutter open. Your face was marked with the faint traces of tears, glistening in the light.

You blinked, revealing a spectrum of sadness and beauty unlike anything he'd seen before. The ability to convey so much with just a glance caught him entirely off guard.

Without hesitation, he leaned in and pressed his lips against the curve of your cheeks, softly caressing them. Nuzzling his nose against your skin, he lovingly kissed away the salty tears, his tongue delicately brushing your face with a soothing touch. Each tender movement provided a comforting solace during your emotional moment.

As he lovingly attended to your tears, you reached behind your back and unclasped your bra. He paused, eyes widening in surprise. However, before any words could escape, you leaned in and kissed him. In that single gesture, you conveyed your desires, and he, in turn, found his answer within the depths of that passionate kiss.

As soon as his palms glided over your smooth skin, delicately capturing your erect nipple between his fingers, the bra was tossed somewhere amidst the bedding.

"Lie back," Satoru instructed. He then crawled onto you, your bare chests meeting. He supported himself with his arms on either side of your head to ensure he didn't crush you under his weight.

He positioned himself atop you, overwhelmed by the yearning that had built up in your absence. The thirst to have you beneath him had grown insurmountable. He had craved the sight of your body begging him to take you, the undeniable desire radiating from you.

He locked eyes with you, keeping you in his gaze as he absorbed every aspect of your beauty. The polished planes of your face shimmered with fresh tears, adding a new layer to the bliss. Your eyes were rimmed with redness, solely for him, and this sight rendered him speechless.

Because what if he accidentally stumbled upon the wrong words, and the magic vanished, snatching you away once more, leaving him with nothing but a pumpkin carriage and a single pair of shoes?

He didn't want his arms to be deprived of your warmth. Your touch. Your lips. God, your lips. Your mouth on his neck. Your body wrapped around his. He couldn't bear losing you again, and the realization was like a pendulum the size of the moon. It wouldn't stop slamming into him.

Blinking his white lashes, he swallowed back the fear building in his throat.

What an irony!

The strongest wasn't fearless.

With his knee between your thighs and his body pressing closer, he realized he was paying attention to nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in his lungs.

"When we were together, I became you," he stated. "You became the reflection I saw in the mirror, and I liked it more. So, I stopped being myself. It was fine because I had you. But when you left, I lost myself along with you."

"Satoru," you called, your voice soft, so soft. He wasn't unfamiliar with the touch of women, but yours were gentler, yet deadlier than them all. "I'm sorry for bringing us to this point." You drew his form closer. The resonating beats of your heart were audible, pulsing deeply within your chest. "Will you ever forgive me?"

Your words unleashed a tumult of feelings within him. Goddammit. He wasn't lost before he met you, but he found himself after having you, only to get lost more after losing you.

Satoru's tears stung as they fell backward down his throat, burning as they went. "Kiss me, and I'll forget everything," he uttered.

And you complied. You kissed him as if swimming through rivers of honey, as if being dipped in pure gold, like diving into an ocean of bliss, and he didn't realize you two were drowning because he was too caught up in the current to notice. Nothing held significance anymore—neither rules, nor the room, nor even the entire fucking Jujutsu society.

All that mattered was this.

This.

This very moment. These lips. This delicate body pressed against his, and these warm hands always discovering new ways to hold his heart.

Oh, My!

He wanted so much more of you. He wanted every part of you. And he kissed you back. Like a mild breeze. Like cherry blossoms. Like a blue spring.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Satoru drew away. It remained a secret, but piecing himself back together hurt just as much as falling apart. It felt like an ache that needed to be soothed.

You were the cure, so his finger lightly grazed the corner of your mouth, tracing its shape, curves, and subtle crevices. As he kissed the corner of your eyebrow, he whispered your name. His lips brushed over the shell of your ear, causing a slight squirm in your body. He planted a kiss on your neck, just beneath your earlobe, and you tilted your head, inviting him in. Perhaps you resisted the urge to plead for more, for a faster pace.

You used to love this, remember?

His lips moved down the expanse of your neck, delicately tracing the sensitive skin of your collarbones. Not content to be passive, your hands ran down his back, roaming over his broad shoulders, pressing into his back dimples, and clutching his hips. With a handful of his hair, you pulled him closer, leaving small kisses on his neck, arms, and chest.

It was incredible. Being with you, touching you, having you like this. The adrenaline rush was so powerful and euphoric that it made everything feel within reach.

He muttered your name, his lips mouthing the letters, barely speaking.

He pressed his lips against your upper lip.

He ran his tongue along your lower lip.

He planted kisses beneath your chin, on the tip of your nose, along your forehead, temples, and cheeks across your jawline. Then he moved to your neck, behind your ears, and the space between your breasts. Delicately, he nibbled on your sensitive nipples, leaving a trail of kisses all the way down to your belly button until his entire form moved down your figure, disappearing as he shifted downward, and suddenly, his chest was hovering above your hips.

As his lips descended towards the hem of your underwear, he lifted his head right before crossing that boundary, locking eyes with you. His gaze carried a mix of intense reverence and a silent question.

You met his gaze, the unspoken understanding passing between you. Your nod conveyed an affirmation, a wordless permission to continue. With your approval, he lowered his head once again. Before you knew it, he skillfully used his teeth to remove that small piece of fabric while the captivating scent drove him wild with desire.

Having removed your panties, his lips continued exploring, leaving heated kisses and lingering caresses from your toes to your thighs. Firmly holding your calves, he parted your legs, creating just enough space for his head to fit between them.

Your thighs were lifted, obscuring him from your sight. All you could see was the top of his head, the curve of his shoulders, and the unsteady rise and fall of his back as he breathed. Eventually, even that view vanished as his lips closed around your clit, causing your head to fall back and muffled moans to escape your lips.

Satoru's large hands trailed down and up your exposed upper thighs and ribs, tightly gripping your hips to keep you in place. He delighted in how you squirmed each time his hair brushed against your groin, until his tongue slipped into your hole, and the taste of you made fireworks explode in the back of his head.

With his right hand pressed against your stomach, his tongue danced and teased, evoking ecstatic cries from your lips. His mouth explored the known territories you had never witnessed, yet he remembered them intimately.

While fully engrossed in eating you, he suddenly and intentionally slipped his middle finger inside, and his mouth fervently sought to suck the soul out of your essence as if seeking retribution for all the times he had jerked off thinking about you creaming around his shaft. That's why he left you on the precipice of climax, working his way up your body. Satoru was never cruel enough to deny you the release you craved, so his fingers remained ready.

With an eagerness to witness the pleasure etched across your face, he slowly ascended your body, his touch kindling a burning anticipation within you. Continuing his exploration, his adept fingers navigated their way to your most intimate region, gently pressing against the delicate entrance.

"Let me know if it hurts, alright?" he whispered, his nose caressing the skin of your stomach, placing sporadic kisses around your breasts and collarbones to alleviate any tension. His disheveled hair and moist lips were evidence of the indulgence in your sweet taste.

"Take it easy— ahhh!"

He wore a satisfied smile as two of his large fingers effortlessly slid into your slit. Your nails dug into the sheets, whimpers escaping your lips as his hand rhythmically moved up and down within your tight walls.

Your mouth opened in a soundless moan, and he peppered you with kisses all around. Tears glistened in your eyes, and tiny strands of hair clung to your sweaty forehead. When his thumb rubbed, and the fingers hit all the right spots, your throat wailed in frustration.

You firmly grasped his free arm and tugged him towards you, bringing him closer until he was on top of you. You might have turned into a cold-blooded curse user, left dead bodies behind, or broken his heart apart, but you were still the same girl beneath him. The girl who would laugh with joy and steal his treats. The girl who would fiercely fight by his side and protect him. The girl who would easily surrender and moan in his ear.

He pressed his lips against yours, a reminder of the residual sweetness on his tongue. Just like in the old days, a soft moan escaped your lips as soon as you felt your own taste. If this gesture could convince you to stay with him, why not revel in it? He willingly opened his lips, inviting you to delve deeper, your tongues intertwining and brushing against his teeth.

The stinging bitterness of the past was long gone. He had forgotten everything. Although there was something he knew he shouldn't forget, he couldn't recall why or what it was. With his hard length suffering in his boxers and his digits thrusting backward and forward, paying attention to anything else was hard.

Seeing your desperation for his touch proved to be his downfall. He could die from this, he decided. From wanting you, from the pleasure of being with you.

He wore a smile as you locked eyes and reciprocated with your smile. He pressed his forehead against yours, his skin flushed with heat. With his other hand, he held your head steady while your hands clutched his neck, your palms gliding over the area just above his neckline, and your fingertips tenaciously pressing against his undercut.

"Sato..." you managed to utter, your voice quivering with pleasure as the orgasm washed over you, consuming your senses. Waves of euphoria rippled across your body, inducing uncontrollable tremors. Amidst your release, a single tear broke free, tracing a glistening path down your cheek, much like the cascade of emotions that flowed within you.

While he remained atop you, his voice reached your ears, his lips near your earlobe. "Can you sit up?" he whispered, burying his face in the curve of your neck, allowing your ragged breaths to brush against his shoulder.

Still struggling to catch your breath, you managed to mumble, "Yeah, but..." However, before you could complete your sentence, the bedding beneath you shifted as Satoru pulled you into his arms, clutching you tight.

He exhaled and looked at you, but this time, there were stories in his eyes, thoughts, whispers, and feelings of things he had never told you. He looked like he was hanging on his sanity by a fraying thread—you.

He touched your flushed cheeks as if uncertain of your tangible presence. His four fingers caressed the side of your face with tenderness before sliding behind your neck, caught in that in-between spot below your ear, and his thumb brushed the apple of your cheek, then grazing your bottom lip.

He pondered the countless things your lips had done. They had touched, kissed, and pressed against sensitive areas of his skin. They had spoken lies and made promises, and the words they had formed, the shapes and sounds they had shaped, he yearned for them all.

Satoru inched closer, cradling you like you were made of precious crystals. Holding you and looking at his own hands as if he couldn't believe you were real and truly there.

"I'm right here, baby. Look at me," you whispered, grasping his hands and kissing them.

All six of his eyes obeyed and stared at you. Gone was the curse user targeting Higher Ups. This woman before him had never done anything wrong. You were perfect and kind, untouched by the horrors of death.

He took hold of your hands and pressed your palms against his face, reclaiming the tears you had bestowed upon him. With an eternity of love, he whispered your name in the softest of whispers.

What if this was a dream?

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

He shook, shuddered, splintered into teardrops, and you embraced him like no one had before. Overwhelmed by the intensity, he struggled to contain himself, but seeing you cling to him as you might never let go stirred something within him. It was a heady sensation, knowing that you were there, caring for him, desiring him, needing him in this way. It made him believe that this was indeed real.

Gently, you stroked his silvery locks of hair and placed a kiss on his forehead. Gradually, your arms became the arms around his neck; your lips became the lips pressed against his, your body the warmth he felt. Funny how the moment he felt your touch, it burned a hole right through his head and pulled all his thoughts out.

He wasn't even breathing, but he was alive, and he was kissing you. Deeply, desperately. His hands fervently caressed the small of your back as he lifted you onto his lap, and instinctively, your legs wrapped around his hips.

Then, it was your turn to reciprocate. You planted kisses all over him—his cheeks, eyelids, chin, the tip of his nose, and the space between his eyebrows. You trailed along his forehead and traced his jawline, covering every inch of his face. These kisses conveyed more than words ever could.

And you took your time.

As your mouth moved down his neck, he let out a gasp. It was a moment to relish. Your tongue continued to worship the hills and valleys of his well-defined arms, tracing the graceful curves of his collarbones. Inhaling the intoxicating scent of his skin, you savored his taste. Your hands explored his abs, tracing along his navel and the delicate trails of hair beneath.

He broke apart with your small licks here and there, breathing hard, and stared at you dumbfounded. His mind remained hazy, unable to fully comprehend how your fingers toyed with the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Tilting your head to a side, you pressed your lips against his again, seeking him with a burning need, a new kind of desperation. Your other hand threaded in his hair, your lips so soft, so urgent against his, like fire and cinnamon exploding in his mouth.

Satoru nibbled your bottom lip in a flash before pulling back slightly. You were flooding his body with so much heat and desire. You parted your lips to sigh in his mouth, and that slight sound of pleasure drove him to the edge of madness.

Just as he was about to bring his mouth to your nipples, your hand suddenly slipped into his underwear and encircled his erectness pressing against your groin.

Oh.

Well.

He clenched his teeth, suppressing a groan. Oh God! He had fucking missed you holding his member in your palm. But you didn't stop at that. He gasped as you began to rub the tip with your thumb. His body ached everywhere as he tasted the colors and sounds that existed nowhere else. Your forehead rested against his chin as you continued to stroke his hardness up and down beneath his boxers. You were untamed, cruel, yet remarkably gentle.

"Take it off, Satoru," you whispered in his ear, your breath ragged. "I want you in me. Deep. Right. Now. Please."

He was beyond the reach of rational thoughts. Beyond words, beyond comprehension. The world was beyond understanding because nothing could ever compare with this. Nothing could ever capture the way he was feeling right now. He was left with only this very moment: You on his lap, your warmth against his hands, and your lustful eyes fixed upon him, making him absolutely insane.

Satoru held onto your waist with a firm grip, lifting you slightly, and in the blink of an eye, his briefs glided down his long legs until their whereabouts became irrelevant in the heat of the moment.

The wetness between your thighs was no longer a hidden secret, just as his hardness was revealed when you surrounded each other everywhere.

He watched as you reached down and guided his erection against your slippery entrance, making a few strokes to ensure the perfect alignment. His racing pulse could probably be felt in your palm and soon inside you.

Using both hands, he gripped your hips and pulled you downward, drawing you closer to him. A gasp escaped your lips as he entered you, always surprised about his size. He intended to allow you time to adjust, but you fervently clung to his neck, hitching your legs around his waist, urging him to penetrate you completely. A scream escaped your lips as you bit into his shoulder blade, but he remained composed, relishing the sensation of stretching you. He cherished the feeling of your inner walls squeezing him and the weight of your body against his balls. To be honest, he would stay like this forever.

Feeling your readiness, his hold tightened, and he started moving your body up and down. You cried out as you nestled your cheek into the curve of his neck, and he felt like dying and somehow being brought back to life in the exact moment, in the same breath.

Fuck! You were full of him.

He raised your thighs, stifling a groan that threatened to rip his throat as your lips met his. It left him bewildered, pondering why he hadn't perished, burst into flames, or snapped in half.

The room was consumed by silence, punctuated only by the sound of your heavy breaths. Your chests pressed against each other, colliding with the rhythm of your pulses.

As he sensed your arms tightening around him, he reciprocated with heightened strength, lifting and thrusting you with an intensity that transcended the bounds of restraint. Each movement struck the place he knew too well.

His teeth captured your bottom lip, eliciting a momentary jolt of pleasure. Your nails pressed into his shoulder as his fingers ran through your hair, pulling you nearer, immersing you in the fervent abyss of his mouth. The taste of you was a captivating fusion of sweetness and passion, an intoxicating blend that left both of you craving for more.

He kept trying to say your name, but he found himself unable even to catch his breath, let alone speak a single word.

The pace increased slightly; each thrust was hard, deliberate, wringing gasps, whimpers, and long, rolling moans from you.

Your eyes tingled with tears, falling fast down and traveling quietly down your cheeks. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs two parentheses in your mouth, touching your tongue and the saliva within. It was as if he had discovered an oasis in the vast expanse of a desert, gazing at you with eyes ablaze like fire reflected in water.

"I love you," he whispered over and over, his voice fragile and uneven. His lips covered yours in a tender kiss. He kissed you and tasted your tears, the lasting essence of pleasure in your mouth. He kissed you and kissed you until time toppled over, and your heads spun into a blissful oblivion.

Your head rested against his, and as you delicately nipped at his earlobe, he felt stripped down to his very core, just as he had unraveled you from within. Your sweet little tongue was frantic when you whispered, "I'm yours to love."

Something inside him melted. Hearing your words, he held still for moments, sucking in the air because he felt almost dizzy with satisfaction, running his hands over your thighs.

You. You belonged to him. You didn't erase the pain you had caused. You didn't fix everything you'd broken, but that wasn't what he needed anyway. All he needed was you, and with you, everything would be alright.

He firmly grasped your buttocks, burying his face against your shoulder as he sped up. He was shattered to pieces, but with you, he got put back together differently, better, and more himself than he ever could have been. Gritting his teeth, he succumbed to the impending climax. His hands glided along your back as you shuddered, your inner walls pulsating around him so hard that he couldn't hold back his release. With a growl, he thrust wildly, once, twice, until everything around you both turned to a world of vibrant colors and radiant light, where the sun shone, oceans sparkled, and Sakura trees bloomed.

*

Both of you were lying on a pillow, breathless and sweaty. Satoru's face was buried in the crook of your neck.

Your hand had delicately weaved its way into his hair, fingers stroking the silky strands as you both sought to ground yourself in the aftermath of your orgasms.

You rested your cheek against his head, your voice carrying a hint of breathlessness as you began to speak. "How is Shoko doing?

"She's probably smoking even more now," he murmured, his lips grazing against your shoulder as he pulled you closer. Despite the physical closeness, a deep ache echoed within him, yearning for an even deeper connection that felt just beyond his grasp. The desire to merge both body and soul, to be completely intertwined with you, was tangible in his touch.

His arms tightened around you as if attempting to bridge an unseen gap that couldn't be seen, but he could feel it. Each hug and touch was an attempt to mend the distance that pained him. The depth of his need reverberated through his being. It was visible in the depths of his eyes. It sucked to be this close yet feel so far from someone. But he didn't want to worry. As long as you were together, he believed nothing terrible could happen.

"Why probably so?" you asked, your curiosity piqued as you turned your head towards him. Your lips touched his soft, silky white hair. "Is it because of the numerous missions you're taking?"

"You seem to know every detail of my life," he remarked, turning his head towards you, the closeness so intimate that your noses nearly touched. His hand found its way to your arm, his finger tracing a path down its length, lost in contemplation.

"I've always kept tabs on you. I'm not even ashamed of it," you declared, your attention fixed on his ocean-blue eyes.

He let out a shaky sigh. "There's no longer a reason for me to stay in Tokyo like I used to," he whispered, his voice hinting at wistfulness. The words floated in the air, pregnant with unspoken meanings. As he locked eyes with you, his gaze transformed into a sea of emotions, reflecting a profound depth of feelings that transcended mere words.

"What about your students?"

"They're doing well even without me," Satoru said, his voice filled with fondness and melancholy. As his hand gracefully slid into your hair, he tucked back the strands that obscured your face, revealing the beauty of your features.

His thumb stroked your cheek in a soothing gesture. "Megumi came close to expanding his domain," Satoru continued, his voice filled with a hint of excitement. "Yuji would be thrilled to—"

"No, Satoru!" you interjected, your voice resolute. Your firm interruption halted his sentence as your face displayed a frown, your eyebrows furrowing with determination. "The answer is no!"

Satoru's hand dropped weakly onto the sheets, his fingers losing their previous touch. When his gaze met yours, a deep sadness flooded his eyes, turning the serene ocean within them into a turbulent storm.

He struggled to find the right words to make his case but couldn't resist trying to reason with you. "Come back with me. I have enough power and privilege to protect you—"

"I don't want your protection!" you exclaimed, your voice carrying a sharp edge that cut through his being. The words resounded with a harshness reminiscent of the day you decided to leave, which had left an indelible mark on both of you. It was a day that Satoru had always blamed himself for, haunted by the belief that he had failed to notice you drifting away.

His eyes, filled with sorrow, locked onto yours, silently begging for understanding as he summoned the bravery to express his deepest desires. "Don't you want a life with me?" he questioned, his voice brimming with the dreams and aspirations he had envisioned for both of you. "What about living in a house with blue shutters, windows overlooking the ocean, and—"

"How are you still such a wide-eyed, dreamy little boy, Satoru?" you remarked, your voice tinged with tenderness and sadness. As you spoke, your hand extended, interlocking your fingers with his. "Stop living in a fantasy world," you urged. The words pleaded for him to accept reality and let go of dreams no longer aligned with his chosen path. "Even if I had the chance to go back, I wouldn't want to," you continued. "The Jujutsu society is a broken bone that won't set right, and no matter how much you try to mend it, it won't work. I started hunting Higher Ups because I have a purpose. I can't be by your side."

As you raised your head, a glimmer of compassion and understanding shimmered in your eyes. The pain etched on Satoru's face was evident to you. In a gentle tone, you encouraged him, saying, "We've made different choices. Don't judge me because I never questioned why you didn't follow me. Our approaches may differ, but we share the same dream of creating a better world. So, I don't regret leaving, but if there's anything I regret, it's not cherishing every moment I had with you. But I'm doing it right this time. I'm memorizing every detail, so I have something to hold onto."

Your words bounced around in the fog of his head, blurring his senses, misting his eyes, and muddling his logic. In his bones, there was just ice. His entire being wanted to vomit. Reality slapped him in the face, punched him in the jaw, and dumped him into the ocean.

Until today, he thought he had fully come to terms with everything. He believed he had adapted to living with your absence, like a disabled person learning to avoid putting weight on his injured leg. However, deep down, he knew he was living on eggshells, always wondering when something would break, when everything would crumble.

But with your answer, stacks of sorrow grew inside him, settling on his bones as if a cable had twisted around his neck, a worm crawling across his stomach. It was the night, midnight, and the twilight of indecision. Too many pains to bear.

He realized how foolish he had been to believe he could simply blend in and lead an ordinary life.

Satoru.

Satoru Gojo.

Satoru Gojo, The Strongest.

The mere thought of it filled him with mortification.

He shook his head, coughing as his lungs were tormented, heaving strange, horrible gasps until his whole body spasmed into submission. His head was spinning, thoughts knocking into one another. With clenched fists, he fought against the misery, forcing it back down. Not again. Not again. Not again.

"Satoru?" you called out to him, and a thousand pieces of feeling stabbed you in the heart. Realizing how deeply he loved you kept hitting him in the face, the skull, and the spine. He ran a hand across his face and through his hair, displaying signs of wanting to scream, to break something, as if he was on the verge of losing his sanity.

You hugged him, bridging the gap between your bodies and leaning your cheek against his rock-hard chest. Your hands caressed his stomach as your lips left random pecks here and there.

"It's not just your shirt that I have," you expressed. "I also have our shared blanket from our room and a collection of photographs I'm too afraid to look at. I fear that if I see them, I'll go right back to you and beg your forgiveness."

You dropped a kiss on his chin. Then, on the curve of his shoulder and his shoulder blades. Five kisses down his throat, each softer than the last. You kissed his cheeks, hands, and eyelids for every moment of loneliness he had ever endured.

You continued, "My body hasn't realized we are no longer together. It calls out for you at night, unaccustomed to not having you tightly enveloping me like a second layer of skin."

He closed his eyes and breathed heavily, trying to gain control of himself. "Why are you putting me through this?" he asked, his hand caught in his hair. "Why are you scratching my wounds?"

"Because I want to remake you again, Satoru. You should get broken apart and rebuild in a way that won't cause you pain anymore." You kissed the hand covering his mouth, not holding back. Keeping your head there, you leaned against his heart.

"It's not as straightforward as a simple yes or no," you said, your voice cracking as you spoke. "Let's just enjoy this moment together..."

A sudden searing heat flashed behind his eyes, and his heart leaped at your response. His hand trembled, and his eyes were willing and wanting but filled with sadness.

He shifted his gaze towards you, his eyes open, jaw clenched tightly, and muscles tense. Breathing heavily, he wasn't sure what to do with himself. The ache in his chest had grown more assertive, more painful.

You lifted your head and reached up to stroke his cheek. "Love is the most twisted curse," you murmured as you tilted his chin toward your mouth. He blinked rapidly. Words were whispered upon his lips that no one had ever spelled out for him. "And we are the most cursed of all, aren't we?" you told him, watching the movement in his throat and his effort to keep it together. It didn't take you long to kiss him again. Tenderly.

Unable to find the right words, he relied on the language of touch, pressing his lips against yours. A sigh escaped into your shared kiss, and you responded by kissing him even more passionately, almost desperately, as if trying to pass over your breaths to him. The taste of salt lingered on your tongues. The wet drops falling on your cheeks made his flesh burn. Unsure of whose tears they were, he continued to cling to you, even if it was almost for the final time.

The saddest world in this whole wide world was "almost." You almost came back to him. He almost had you. You two almost made it.

*

You woke up with a smile, feeling a pleasant warmth enveloping your skin, remnants of the memories from the previous night. The room was filled with a fresh ambiance, hinted at by the open window that welcomed a gentle breeze. The scent of damp earth filled the air, evidence of the rain that had visited during the night.

Letting out a sigh, you brushed your face against the pillow. Your hand instinctively reached out to where Satoru was supposed to be, but a pang of emptiness washed over you. He wasn't there, and your eyes flew open, a sourness clouding their once-serene gaze. Something felt wrong.

Suddenly, sitting up, a sense of panic pulsed through your veins. The realization dawned upon you—Satoru had left the bed, and his absence spoke volumes. Your glance darted around the room, searching for any signs of his presence, but his clothes were nowhere to be seen.

An agonizing grip took hold of your heart. Conflicting emotions wrestled inside you. You had voiced your decision to part ways, to not be by his side, yet the depth of your desire for him remained steadfast. The pain and the desperate desire for his warmth was a stark reminder that not wanting to be with him didn't mean you were prepared to let go of him completely.

The bitter yet undeniable truth surfaced: as much as you and Satoru were meant to be, fate had not deemed you to last.

You could still feel the lasting presence of Satoru's cursed energy, an invisible thread you could identify even blind. Simply by scent, you would recognize it. It was a power that transcends physical senses, one that would recognize it in death, at the end of the world.

You swiftly snatched your robe and hastened out of the room. And there he was, Satoru, fully dressed, his blindfold tightly secured, sitting still in a chair, facing the untouched mochis. The hair tie was also on the table, indicating that he had removed it from his wrist. You couldn't determine whether it hurt you deeply to see him letting go of a part of you or noticing that he had left his beloved treats untouched.

He wasn't looking at you, so you had time to observe things you hadn't noticed yesterday. He had visibly lost weight. His hair showed signs of splitting and thinning, probably due to stress. Nightmares didn't let him sleep. His uniform appeared wrinkled, and his breaths were unsteady. You knew it wasn't your place to worry about him anymore, but you couldn't help it. Taking care of him had become a habit. He appeared weary, displaying the same profound exhaustion you experienced, filling you with fear.

His shoulders quivered up and down, and you could tell he was crying even though he was silent as a corpse. Your heart quickened as you approached him. With trembling hands, you reached for his blindfold, a desperate attempt because, goddammit, you fucking loved his eyes.

"What are you—" you started to inquire, your voice fading as you recognized that your touch couldn't reach him. He had activated his Infinity. Manually. Deliberately. A wave of profound sadness washed over you, tears welling up in your eyes, yet you swallowed them back, resolved to keep your composure. Your hand hung suspended, mere inches away from him, a symbol of the unbridgeable gap that had grown between you.

Then, in a sudden movement, Satoru stood before you, donning a black jacket that draped his figure. His voice emerged raspy, filled with a raw intensity that conveyed the turmoil within his heart.

"I can't handle this anymore. I can't continue being whatever I am to you," he admitted, his words heavy with a sense of resignation. The understanding that the current situation was no longer viable had taken hold of him. "If you want things to remain this way, I can't ignore the fact that we are enemies at the end of the day." He subtly avoided meeting your gaze, averting his eyes from your messy hair and the persistent sadness in your eyes.

"Can you honestly believe that?" you questioned, your voice brimming with incredulity. You took a step forward, narrowing the physical gap between you. It was essential for him to grasp the magnitude of your anguish and directly witness the toll your choice inflicted upon your heart.

Satoru took a step back, his brows furrowing beneath the blindfold that veiled his eyes. "It doesn't matter what I believe," he declared.

Despite the barrier that prevented physical touch, you closed your eyes, driven by the overwhelming desire to bridge the divide. Ignoring the protective shield of his Infinity, you leaned in, your lips seeking his in a desperate act of defiance. Tears streamed down your closed eyes as he relinquished the barrier that kept you apart. You pressed your lush mouth against his. It never took him long to respond, to part his lips. He kissed you back, holding your head steady with his hand while his other embraced you tightly. He had your heart, and you loved him quite horribly, too. This fact always smacked you over the head so hard you felt dizzy.

You held each other tightly, his arms enveloping you as his fingers intertwined with your hair. In that stolen moment, you caught a glimpse of the life you longed for—a life filled with love. Having this every day was within reach, but the harsh reality of the jujutsu world loomed, casting a shadow over your fragile dreams. The awareness that he would be exploited until his final breath burdened you deeply. Unable to witness his suffering, you knew you couldn't change your decisions. You had to reset this Jujutsu World. For him. For his students. For the happiness you owed yourself.

As your lips reluctantly separated, a bittersweet trace of saliva remained between you. Satoru gripped your shoulders, and as you glanced up, you noticed his blindfold was damp, indicating the tears he had shed.

You lowered your head. "I wish you had never crossed paths with me," you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed on the ground until he reached out and lifted your chin.

"I wouldn't take that chance. Not in a million infinities. Because there was love, even if it didn't change anything, even if it made the pain worse, love was there," he said, staring at your mouth. "I'll love you in this life. I'll love you in death and in whatever lies after. And likely even beyond that," he whispered. The words did something to you. They burned something inside of you. You swallowed hard. A fire consumed your mind. "No matter what, I'll always love you," he declared, and pain filled your veins. You could feel it in your blood.

"Satoru," you whispered. Your eyes fogged up, but you blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears away. You couldn't let a second of this be blurry. You couldn't afford to allow any of this to slip away. His absence felt like a missing limb, and his longing for you was a bullet in the head. How could he still love you? How could he find relief in your touch?

"But if we meet again," he said, his thumb brushing against your earlobe. "Just kill me. Because I'll be forced to kill you, and it's the same thing." As if the longer he held you, the more he would want you, he let go of you.

The enormity of his duty and the unyielding constraints of the jujutsu world, forcing him to make an unbearable choice, hit you like a cold gust of wind, leaving you feeling isolated and abandoned. The chill of that moment seeped into your bones, and you couldn't help but wonder if he had felt this same frigid loneliness when you had left him behind.

Satoru walked towards the door, each step carrying the finality of his decision that settled upon the room. Pausing at the threshold, a silent plea lingered in his words. "So, please, I beg you to stay away from me." With those words, he severed the last thread that had linked you, leaving you with a deep sense of loss.

The door closed behind him, leaving you in an empty and heavy space with unspoken regret. You were alone again, bereft without him, half dead without him. You opened your mouth and screamed. You screamed and screamed until your voice cracked beneath the pressure. Until you feared your throat would shred from the force. You wanted to crawl outside of your body so desperately so that you could escape this feeling.

No one ever warned you how men with such pretty eyes, who smelled like vanilla, tasted like rain, and talked like silver, were the reason behind tear-soaked pillows, half-finished poems, and so many sad dreams.

One last shout ripped out of your throat, this one so full of pain that brought you to your knees. You crumbled. The raw sound tapered off, fading into a hoarse, staccato cry. You sucked in a deep breath, filling your lungs with oxygen you didn't want, but you were too lost in your grief to scream like you wanted to.

It seemed like Satoru Gojo's story had peaked, and anything that followed wouldn't hold the same significance to him. Because for him, there was before you, and there was during you. For some reason, he never thought there would be an after you. But there was, and he was in it. He would be in it forever.

Moving forward, he silently implored his bones to remain firm, to support him for the remainder of the day and beyond. He ventured through the forest, his steps disturbing the mud and leaves as his footprints gradually faded away until there was nothing but the empty silence of a long, lonely dusk.

Tag list: @istanuwow @anime-lover1234 @rentaldarling @enchantedforest-network

 Disclaimers:

This creation draws significant inspiration from the incredible artistry of @animaybi (TikTok) and features quotes from the captivating writings of @starlightonthewaves (TikTok). Both of these talented artists deserve immense praise for their remarkable contributions.

Art is created by me.

Are you cursing me for writing this? :D

[crackedpumpkin]

All Too Human (01)

a/n: thought about him a little too much.

series masterlist | 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 | 𝗻𝗲𝘅𝘁

The first thing you see upon opening your eyes is pitch black. The darkness resembles the black holes you’d seen in space documentaries, ready to swallow anything in its path of destruction. 

A sense of unease coils in your stomach as the leaves crunch beneath your body when you sit upright. The gradual haziness from the sleepy fog slowly leaves your mind, revealing the stark reality of your surroundings.

Gone is the warm comfort of your bed where you’d laid to sleep, snuggled under the sheets with the promise of a new day. Instead, all that greets you is an ominous silence, with no trace of sunlight to be found.

Trees surround you, but their appearance is starkly different from the ones you know. Instead of vibrant green leaves and dark brown bark, the ones around you are of a dark grey, their roots curled and twisted above ground as if the soil itself were filled with poison.

It must be a dream.

You smile. Maybe it’s the stress of your gap year almost concluding with practically no results to show other than your travels, but one could attribute the giant spider in front of your eyes as the product of a nightmare.

After all, it could just be your brain rationalising all your anxieties and unresolved emotions into a creature of horrors. The spider approaches with caution, its beady eyes analysing whether or not you need to be bitten and paralyzed.

Not like it’d do anything in the first place, you’d be happy to simply lay there and accept them, knowing that they’re all just in your head. Perhaps being bitten by it would somehow give you a sort of ‘awakening’ in coming to terms with your unacknowledged yet plausible fears.

If therapy were a subject, you’d have aced it with flying colours and extra credit to boot from the amount of psychoanalysing you’ve just done.

But unfortunately, as your fingers fiddle with the silken thread that’s begun to weave around your body that feels a little too realistic to be a product of imagination, an inexplicable sense of dread consumes your senses like a tidal wave that’s arrived too late. 

It’s not a dream.

Glancing from the cocoon that’s already woven up to your thighs to the sharp fangs dripping venom, any cry for help dies in your throat. Your heart hammers against your ribcage, but your body remains frozen.

You try to pull one leg free, but the silk only tightens, binding your movements with every subtle twitch. Your mind races, logic and fear clashing, struggling to convince yourself this can’t be real. But the prickling sensation on your skin as the spider's fangs inch closer to it is unmistakably so.

Panic bubbles up, the urge to scream trapped beneath the weight of paralysis. Your gaze darts around, desperate for anything that could help. A branch, a stone, a break in the webbing; but all you see is endless darkness and twisted shadows.

Just as the spider shifts, a flicker of movement catches your eye. A shadow, swift and silent, slipping through the trees. You want to call out, but your voice is caught, locked behind a wall of terror. The spider's attention wavers, one of its legs pausing mid-air as though sensing something nearby.

Then, a glint. A flash of metal slicing through the darkness. Before you can process what’s happening, the creature rears back, a soundless scream stretching across its mandibles as it stumbles. You feel a force pulling at you, the sharp sound of a blade slicing through the silken webbing just as your vision blurs with panic and relief.

Your body is lifted up by a pair of strong yet thin arms, your hands automatically clinging to their shirt. Only what meets your touch isn’t the cotton material you’re familiar with, but the firmness of leather. 

Your eyes drift upwards up to see the face of your saviour, only for the breath to catch in your throat once you do. His beauty is almost paralysing — a cascade of golden hair frames a face that seems carved from light itself, jaw sharp and eyes piercing. You’re so stunned that the only word you can manage is a breathless, disbelieving, “Legolas?”

His brows knit together, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as he registers your words. But before you can say more, your vision blurs, the world dissolving into darkness as his face; half surprise, half confusion, fades from view.

— — — — — — 

“-in the forest. She knew me, Tauriel. She called me by name.”

You lift your head, blurry vision clouding your focus as you come to your senses. The last thing you remember is seeing the very figment of fiction standing right in front of you. A wave of scepticism washes over you for a fleeting moment, wondering if you’d somehow died in your sleep and gone to hell.

It’s the only way to explain the bizarre nightmare you’d just had, after all.

As your vision clears with a few shakes of your head, you become aware of something soft covering your body, and the rays of sunlight beaming through the open windows. It’s a stark contrast to your nightmare from earlier. Your hand reaches to your throat, gently feeling it as if ensuring you’re still alive. 

“You’re awake.” 

The sudden voice startles you, instantly sitting upright as your hands curl into fists. How did a stranger get into your apartment?

But when you see who the intruder is, your jaw drops.

“Legolas.” His name, filled with pure disbelief, falls from your lips, and it suddenly occurs to you to look at your surroundings. Your eyes dart from the vanity mirror next to the door decorated with shining jewels, and sizeable emeralds encrusting the bedframe you’re in.

You part your lips, still processing the room that’s probably worth more than your entire family. “This isn’t my apartment.” You stare at the elf sitting next to you, reaching out a hand in wonder. 

Is he real?

His hand grabs yours, stopping you from pinching or poking his face. He shifts, discomfort crossing his face momentarily though traces of it remain in his gaze. “How do you know me?” He asks, a hint of perplexity lacing his voice as he leans forward, genuinely intrigued by your reaction.

A freakishly tall cosplayer? A D&D player who's really into the role? What if this is a TV show and you're just getting pranked or something? You nod at the last possibility. It had to be something like that, it's the only thing that would explain all this so far.

“Okay, this is all very funny, but if this really is a TV show, I’m expecting a huge reward for my reactions.” You watch as Legolas’s brow furrows, the corners of his mouth twitching in a mix of confusion and amusement. It’s almost as if he’s trying to comprehend the absurdity of your words while remaining serious.

“What are you talking about?”

Ignoring his question, you scrutinise him, adjusting yourself so that your hands rest under your chin, elbows propped up by your bent knees. “How’d you get his hair colour so accurate? The bleaching process must’ve been absolutely insane.” You comment, watching him flinch away from your touch, making you grin.

“I hope you know that kidnapping is illegal though,” you continue, your tone light yet pointed. “And I’d really appreciate the appearance fee on whatever show this is. Is it YouTube? I can subscribe to support it. I gotta show this to Mom for sure. This set is incredible!” You marvel at the lavish set around you, gesturing to the bed. “I mean, these diamonds? They look so real!”

Patting your body to find your phone, you realise that the old, oversized shirt and shorts you use as pyjamas have been replaced with a tunic with the pattern of vines embroidered across your abdomen, and a pair of pants that fit you almost perfectly. 

What the-

Narrowing your eyes, you snatch up the blanket and scooch back. “Okay, who changed me? That’s crossing a line, buddy. Me being passed out does not equal consent.” Your voice wavers slightly as doubt creeps into the cracks of your confidence.

Am I really awake right now?

Instinctively, you start patting down the bed and your new clothes, continuing the search for the comforting weight of your phone, but it’s nowhere to be found. A small spike of panic rises before you quickly brush it off. They probably confiscated it for filming, you reason, trying to steady your nerves. Wouldn’t want me leaking the ultimate Lord of the Rings production before the big reveal, right?

“His Majesty has called for you to bring the human to him.” Another beautiful elf cosplayer appears in the open doorway. You stare at her pointed ears in momentary fascination, only to be pulled out of the bed by the wannabe Legolas.

“Hey, what the fuck? I can get out of bed by myself, thank you very much.” You pull your arm back in annoyance, the elven girl from earlier casting you an odd look. Her hand reaches for the sheath attached to the belt on her waist, only to falter when Legolas holds up a hand. 

You follow them both in a daze, speechless from the wonders you pass by on the way to wherever they’re taking you. The air is filled with the scent of flowers and vibrant greenery in every corner of the place.

They must’ve spent close to a million dollars on the set alone.

Finally, you enter a pair of huge doors that open silently. You’re almost hidden behind Legolas’s towering build, the grandeur of the throne room washing over you in a wave of disbelief. 

“Yup, I’m dead.” You confirm with a lighthearted air, practically feeling your soul leave your body at the sight. “I’m dead and this is heaven. Or hell. Or in between, I don’t know.”

You spot the slightest twitch in the corner of Legolas’s grim expression, doing his best to hide his amusement from your words. Seeing a figure clothed in white that sits on the throne in the middle of the room, you blink a couple times, your brain registering his appearance.

“My Lord,” Legolas begins, stepping forward and gesturing toward you. “This is the human I found lost in the dark forest.”

Thranduil's sharp gaze narrows at you, and he leans forward slightly, a hint of disapproval etched on his features. ““A human in Mirkwood? They do not stray here without reason, Legolas. You should have left her to the mercy of her own kind.”

Legolas straightens, a hint of defiance in his tone. “But she knows me by name, and her demeanour is unlike that of any human I’ve encountered before.”

You watch the exchange, a mix of confusion and intrigue swirling within you. The way they speak, the elegance of their movements, and the grandeur of the throne room feel all too real to be a TV show. The cogs in your brain creak and groan as they turn, piecing together the fragments of the bizarre situation you’ve found yourself in.

“Wait.” Your brain stutters. The puzzle pieces finally fall into place, staring straight at the elven prince who looks back at you with raised brows. “If you’re actually Legolas, and you’re,” you gesture lamely to the elf on the throne, “Thranduil…”

Oh my god.

Oh. My. God.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” A laugh wrecks itself free from your chest, staggering backwards. “Am I in Lord of The Rings? The Hobbit? Is Sauron still evil?” This must be a dream, you think desperately, pinching your arm to test reality. Pain flares, but the confusion only deepens. 

Maybe I hit my head?

Legolas approaches you with concern in his eyes, but you flinch away, hands curling into fists as you assume a somewhat defensive position. The weight of their gazes almost makes you crumble. They’re real. They’re not just characters in a movie. Or cosplayers.

You’re in the Hobbit world, and this isn’t a prank. The realisation hits you like a punch to the gut. Your mind spins, grappling with the truth that this is no fantasy — it’s your reality now.

It crashes over you like a wave, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of pure disbelief.

This is insane. 

Your breath quickens as you watch Thranduil, regal and imposing, speak in a voice that sends chills down your spine. What if this is really happening? What if I can’t go back? Everything is muffled, unable to process anything that he says.

You blink rapidly, feeling the panic clawing at the edges of your mind. “No, no, no… this can’t be real…” Your voice trails off, and you find yourself staring at Legolas, at the exquisite throne, and at Thranduil’s intrigued yet guarded expression.

“You,” gesturing to the king of elves so casually would’ve probably cost your life, but right now you couldn’t care less. “Has Smaug attacked Lake-Town yet? What about the Ring, or whatever it’s called?”

Thranduil’s expression hardens, eyes narrowing. “You speak of events you should not know, human,” he states coldly, his voice laced with authority. “Your knowledge is… troubling. Why would you possess such insight into our affairs?”

The realisation dawns on you, a creeping dread that what you said could have dire consequences. You’d spoken too fast, too urgently for it to be seen as idiotic ramblings. You take a step back, the room suddenly feeling smaller, the walls closing in as Thranduil’s gaze pinches your chest with an unyielding grip.

Your lips part and close like a goldfish gasping for air, mind racing for ways to undo the fatal mistake made. The room spins slightly, disorienting you further. 

What have I done? 

Based on his reaction, none of what you’ve said has taken place yet, which means that it’s only going to get worse from here now that he’s heard.

Thranduil leans forward, the regal facade slipping away to reveal something darker. “Speak the truth,” he commands, each word measured and heavy. “How do you know these things?”

You swallow hard, panic bubbling in your chest. “I—uh, I just… I read the books. I mean, it’s not like you can keep secrets when you’re famous, right? Everyone knows about you and your kingdom and the dragon!” The frantic pace of your words makes you sound desperate, and you can hear the tremor in your voice.

Legolas’s brows furrow in worry as he steps closer, but is stopped by one of the guards whom his father waves a hand toward. You’re in a throne room with a king who holds the power of life and death in his hands, and you’re just a human who dropped into this world with knowledge that shouldn’t exist.

“What if I’m just a casual reader?” you babble, desperately trying to grasp at straws. “I mean, there are millions of people who love your stories! This has to be some kind of mix-up, right? I can’t be the only one that's read them! Sure, I might've only read the books when I was 16, but that should still count for something, right??”

Thranduil’s piercing gaze only intensifies. “Your flippancy in the face of such gravity is alarming. If you truly are a mere mortal with fanciful tales, you would not speak of such matters so easily.”

“I swear, I didn’t mean to-” you start, but the words get caught in your throat, overcome by a wave of nausea.

“Enough!” Thranduil’s voice reverberates through the chamber, commanding attention. His gaze sharpens, narrowing as he scrutinises you. “Your words bear the weight of knowledge that should not belong to a mere human. You speak of events that could unravel the very fabric of our history.”

A chill creeps down your spine, a mixture of fear and confusion. “But I-”

“Do not interrupt,” he snaps, his tone leaving no room for defiance. “You are a mystery to me, and mysteries are not to be trusted lightly. You may not be a spy, but the truth of your origins and how you came to know such things is troubling.”

“I can explain! I’m not a threat! Please-”

Thranduil raises a hand to silence you, his expression stern. “Your incoherence and wild claims only heighten my concern. Until I can ascertain the truth of your existence and intentions, I cannot allow you to roam freely within my realm.”

He stands, your heart sinking as he parts his lips.

“Seize her!” he commands, his voice resolute. The guards move forward, their expressions grim and unyielding. Legolas can only watch helplessly as you’re dragged away to the dungeons, your limp body and watery eyes staring at the ceiling.

— — — — — —

Maybe if you squint hard enough, the rock-hard floor would eventually become the emerald-encrusted bed you’d woken up on the first day you arrived here. Barely flinching when footsteps walk past your cell, you continue staring blankly at the ceiling.

Your back had grown numb to the stone floor, but you hardly noticed anymore. Days blend together, differentiated only by the creak of the cell door as someone delivers your meals; meals that remain untouched. 

At first, you'd begged anyone who would listen, voice hoarse from calling out for an audience with the king or even just a glimpse of Legolas, desperate for answers or even a small sign that you hadn’t simply vanished into some twisted nightmare.

But they never came.

Over time, your voice grew softer, your pleas weaker, until they faded entirely, swallowed by the plaguing silence of the dungeon. Now, you simply lie there, unmoving, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling, hoping that if you stare long enough, the rough stone might blur into something familiar or even comforting.

A shiver runs through you as a cool draft drifts in from somewhere in the dark. You barely register it, too accustomed to the damp cold that’s seeped into your bones over time. The floor is firm, pressing into your spine, yet you can’t bring yourself to shift or even curl up for warmth. Movement feels meaningless.

Time is a cruel, slippery thing. At first, it dragged, each hour stretching into an eternity, every moment a fresh reminder of how confined you were. But now, it blurs, slipping past in uneven stretches you can’t track. One blink, and days have vanished. Another, and an agonizing moment stretches forever.

It’s almost laughable, really. Just days ago (though it feels like a lifetime) you’d pounded on the cell door until your fists were raw, shouting until your throat burned, desperate for someone, anyone, to hear you. To acknowledge you. To see you. You’d begged, reasoned, demanded, your words spilling out like a broken dam.

But the silence was louder. It swallowed you whole.

The footsteps echo again. Slow and deliberate. You know the sound well by now, the rhythm of someone entering the cell, but you don’t bother looking. They leave a plate, same as always, then retreat without a word. Maybe if you close your eyes, you could almost pretend you’re back home. Almost.

But the ache of hunger remains, the chill lingers, and the weight of your isolation presses heavier with each passing day. You sink deeper into yourself, mind drifting as a desperate form of escape, retreating further and further from the reality of your situation.

It’s nightfall when someone approaches your cell once more. You’d mentally counted the number of times they delivered your food today. This one, however, sounds different. It’s a few seconds of silence that pass by before someone calls out to you in a hushed voice.

“Human, wake up!”

The lilt of his voice is vaguely familiar. You huff. As if Legolas, of all people, would come down here. If he wanted to, he would’ve already done so. But a part of you stirs, buried hope rising to the surface. 

Sitting up is difficult, your self-starvation having resulted in a weakened body. Empty eyes look to the door, only to widen at the sight of golden hair. “Legolas?” His name comes out in a whisper. You refuse to blink, fear gripping your chest at the thought of him disappearing the moment you do.

“What have the guards done?” He murmurs, shock in his eyes as he takes in the gauntness of your cheeks and the prominence of your collarbones that peek out from beneath the now dirty tunic.

“They didn’t do anything,” you mumble, sudden shame flooding your cheeks in a rush of warmth. “I just didn’t eat…”

Legolas’s brow furrows, his gaze softening as he watches you turn away, your voice barely audible. He hesitates before kneeling down. His movements are careful, almost as though he's approaching a wounded animal.

“That is no way to survive here,” he says in a gentle reprimand. “This may not be your world as you claim, but that doesn’t mean you must waste away in it.”

A small, bitter laugh escapes you, though it lacks any real humour. “What else am I supposed to do? No one believes me, and your king thinks I’m a threat just for… knowing things.” Your dry throat makes the words come out hoarse, swallowing down whatever saliva you can muster to lubricate it.

Legolas studies you for a long moment, something akin to compassion flickering in his eyes. “Perhaps my father was… hasty in his judgement,” he murmurs. “If you truly pose no danger, then it would be unjust to keep you here like this.”

He straightens, the resolve in his gaze hardening. “I will speak to him. I cannot promise he’ll be easily swayed, but I will do what I can to ease your burden. No one should be left to suffer like this.”

Your head snaps up, a glimmer of hope fighting its way through your weariness. “You would… do that?”

“Do not misunderstand,” he says, voice firm but kind. “I know not what brought you here, nor do I fully understand your knowledge of our affairs. But you have not acted with malice. You look more like a soul displaced than a threat.”

For a moment, he seems almost conflicted, as though something deeper drives him to help you. He lets out a sigh, his hand hovering above the branches that make up your cell gate, almost touching but not quite. “Eat, regain your strength. I will speak to my father. Perhaps… Perhaps there is another path.”

He leaves as quickly as he arrives, the only trace of him the empathetic advice he’d given you. You glance from the now empty hall to the tray of bread and roasted vegetables that had probably become cold by now.

The first thing you grab, however, is the clay cup filled with crystal-clear water. You never knew water could taste so sweet. It’s gone in seconds, and you place the now empty cup beside you before attacking the coarse bread with an almost primal ferocity. 

At first, you think it’s just the sensation of the food, like a lump that sticks in your throat, or a catch in your breath. But then you notice the tremor in your hands, and a strange wetness slipping down your cheeks.

You freeze, a piece of bread still clutched in your hand, and touch your face cautiously. Your fingertips come away damp, and the reality sinks in: you’re crying. It’s not the sobbing kind, nor the loud, cathartic release you’d seen in movies. Instead, it’s quiet and constant, like a river that refuses to stop flowing.

Somewhere between the exhaustion, the loneliness, and the fear you’ve tried to ignore, the tears found their way out, and now they refuse to stop. So you sit and allow them to fall, quiet sniffles echoing through the lonely cell.

I want to go home.

After your tears subside, you continue eating with a sense of calm. Legolas is right, you reason as you bite into a chunk of carrot. I have to eat to survive, so I can go home again. I’m sure he’ll find a way. He’s Legolas, after all.

The tray is soon cleared of all food, and you stumble to the door, placing it nearby. Laying back down on the floor once more, you gradually succumb to the lull of sleep, hoping that when you open your eyes again, the sight of a familiar window by your bed will greet you like an old friend.

— — — — — —

“You’re kidding me.”

The very elf king guy that had you confined to this cell stares down at you with thinly veiled disgust in his eyes when the words slip from your lips. Before, you would’ve probably collapsed at his feet, trying to beg for your life in a strange and unfamiliar world. 

But now? A spark of anger triggers something in you. With all the energy your body can muster, you slam yourself against the cell door, fingers curled around the sturdy bars that secure you inside. “Let me out,” you grit your teeth, pissed off by the calm expression on his face.

“You spoke of the One Ring.” He ignores your pitiful attempt at intimidation, shifting ever so slightly as he stares at you. “Elaborate.”

You swallow hard, throat suddenly dry as the weight of his gaze pins you in place. “I—I don’t know much,” you stammer, the words tumbling out despite your attempts to stay composed. Right. He has the power to end your life with a flick of his hand.  “Only that… the One Ring is tied to Sauron somehow. I remember that it’s… powerful, dangerous.”

Thranduil’s expression doesn’t shift. His eyes are as cold as ice, studying you with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

“What else do you know?” His voice is low and unyielding, giving no indication of his thoughts. “You spoke of Smaug as well. And mentioned Sauron. Speak clearly, human.”

You let out a shaky breath, mind racing as you try to recall the scattered bits and pieces from books you barely remember. “Smaug… he’s alive, somewhere… in the Lonely Mountain.” 

The details are hazy, like faded ink on an old receipt stored away in your wallet. “But I don’t know much else, only that he’s… a dragon,” you add, voice trembling. “And Sauron… I remember that he’s evil. That he… corrupts things.” You look up, frustrated by the gaps in your own memory. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, but I read about this so long ago, and a lot of it is… gone.”

For a moment, silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy. Thranduil’s gaze sharpens, silently weighing your words, assessing whether to trust your confusion or see through it. Then he leans forward, his face unreadable.

“Why, then, do you speak of these events as if they’ve already happened?” he presses, his tone probing but controlled. “The dragon, the One Ring. You speak of them as if they are matters of history, yet they are our present. I find your lack of knowledge… puzzling.”

The truth of his words only magnifies the anxiety twisting inside you. How can you explain the concept of a book…a story, even, from another world? How can you convince him that you’re not some spy, or a witch wielding forbidden knowledge?

“I know how it sounds,” you say slowly, struggling to keep your voice steady. “I sound… deranged, I get that. But where I’m from, all of this. This whole world…it’s just a story.” The words leave you, barely a whisper. “You, Legolas, even… Sauron. You’re part of a book.”

At that, Thranduil’s expression grows colder, as if his patience is waning. “And what purpose would such a… ‘story’ serve?”

You hesitate, trying to find words that would make sense to him, though you can barely understand it yourself. “It was… a tale of good and evil. Of heroes, villains. I read it when I was younger because it was assigned reading. But this,” you gesture around you, the dungeon walls, the cold stone floor, “none of it felt real. I didn’t even think it could be real.”

Thranduil regards you for a long, unreadable moment, then shifts slightly, his stance regal yet filled with disdain. “You will remain here until I determine whether you are a danger to my realm,” he declares, sharp and final. “Your knowledge, whether madness or truth, must be contained.”

“But I’m not a threat!” you protest, hands gripping the edge of the cold metal. “I don’t know enough to change anything. I’m just… I’m just trying to understand.”

“If you possess knowledge that should not exist in your mind, that alone is reason for caution,” Thranduil replies, unmoved by your desperation. He takes his leave, walking away with that unnerving composure of his.

“Please-” Your plea comes out choked. “At least let me take a bath.” It’s truly absurd, the fact that luxuries like hot showers and soaps you’d once taken for granted are now things you have to beg for.

He stops, turning his head slightly. He nods once to the guard stationed nearby, granting your request. Relief floods your body in waves, barely able to believe he’d agree. The guard steps forward, taking the set of keys from his belt and unlocking the door. Your body is too weak to fight, and Thranduil is most definitely aware of this. 

It’s also probably why he’s letting you have this one thing.

As you’re led down the stone corridor, you catch sight of other elves passing by, each one casting curious, wary glances in your direction. You shrink under their stares, feeling painfully out of place. When you reach a chamber outfitted with a small basin of steaming water and a cloth, your breath catches at the sight.

“Thank you,” you murmur, feeling the words slip out almost unconsciously as the guard averts his gaze, giving you privacy to bathe.

The water is lukewarm, but it might as well be a luxury spa as you scrub away days' worth of dust and weariness. You close your eyes, letting the water drip down your face, imagining for just a moment that you’re back in your world. A place with warm showers, comforting scents, and familiar sounds. But no matter how hard you try, the ache in your chest remains, reminding you of where you truly are.

You take your time, hoping to savour every second of it, every drop of water and gentle brush of the cloth. But too soon, it’s over. The guard’s footsteps echo softly as he approaches, a subtle indication that your time is up.

After dressing in the simple, clean tunic provided, you’re led back through the winding corridors, the fleeting moment of peace slipping away as reality settles in. When the heavy cell door shuts behind you, sealing you once more in cold stone. 

— — — — — —

Another week slipped by. Thranduil continued his irregular visits, each time pressing you for information. You’d combed through (almost) every scrap of detail you could remember, hoping it might eventually lead to freedom. But even with your best efforts, the gaps in your memory remained stubbornly intact.

To hold on to some piece of yourself, you started working out in your cell — pushups, sit-ups, anything to keep moving. At least now, you could understand why gym bros were so committed. Without the endorphins from the exercise, you probably would have unravelled by the fifth or sixth day.

Legolas had visited again a few nights ago. His expression held a quiet regret as he admitted he hadn’t yet persuaded his father to release you. Still, he’d managed to convince Thranduil to transfer you to a more comfortable cell, a small victory in his eyes.

But the surprise on his face when you declined almost made you laugh.

Honestly, you’d given up hope that he or anyone else could get you out. Instead, you’d decided to rely on your own wits, piecing together hazy recollections of events that would eventually bring familiar characters to the dungeons.

When the dwarves arrived, you’d just need to bide your time until Bilbo found the barrels or some other escape opportunity presented itself.

You had no idea how long it would take. But if you’d endured this long, what was a little more waiting? Based on the hints Legolas had dropped about recent events across Middle-earth, you estimated the timeline was closing in on Thorin’s arrival. With any luck, the moment to escape would come soon enough.

The winding passageways had become familiar as well, Thranduil having given you more opportunities to bathe in exchange for the information you provided. (Though, you suspect it has more to do with his senses being compromised by your stench when he’d drop by for questioning)

Roughly two hours (or more, you can’t really tell at this point) after you had returned to your cell, hair damp from the bath and skin scrubbed clean, loud cries echoed through the cold, stone corridors of the dungeon. The sounds were chaotic and jarring. Gruff voices raised in anger, the clanking of metal chains, and the thud of heavy boots against the floor resounded in your ears, cutting through the usual silence.

The unmistakable voices of the dwarves, rough and determined, reached you as they were dragged into the dungeons, each cry echoing with a mix of defiance and dread. Each heartbeat of yours is like a drum until an entire marching band is practically playing in your chest. 

You raise your head from where you sit, staring at the wall opposite with weary eyes as you hear loud protests and bodies being harshly pushed into the neighbouring cells.

Thorin and his dwarves had arrived.

[mysticstronomy]

DID MARS EVER CONTAIN WATER??

Blog#428

Saturday, August 17th, 2024.

Welcome back,

While the icy moons of Jupiter and Saturn contain water, Mars remains dry. Despite dozens of space missions, the Red Planet has yet to provide convincing proof that it conceals significant water reserves beneath its surface.

Yet Earth's little cousin hasn't always been so secretive. Various studies have shown that a little over 4 billion years ago, it experienced a "watery" era when lakes, rivers and perhaps even oceans could maintain themselves on its soil. Branching valleys and ancient terrains rich in hydrated clays are evidence of this blissful period of abundance.

Subsequently, the loss of part of the Martian atmosphere led to a reduction in the greenhouse effect followed by a gradual disappearance of water. The question is how long this process lasted and under what conditions. This is what the American Space Agency's (NASA) Curiosity and Perseverance spacecraft have been trying to establish since their arrival in 2012 and 2021 in the Gale and Jezero craters.

"Lakes occupied these depressions 3.5 or 3.6 billion years ago," explained Nicolas Mangold, a director of research at the French National Center for Scientific Research (CNRS) Laboratory of Planetology and Geosciences in Nantes.

By studying the sedimentary and clay deposits left by the former and exploring the ancient river delta that fed the latter, the aim is to determine whether the climate at the time was wet and cold, or dry and hot. The Perseverance rover is also collecting samples, to be brought back to Earth as part of the MSR mission [Mars Sample Return, NASA-European Space Agency (ESA)]. They should provide precise information."

For the moment, things are hazy. If water has flowed on Mars, where has it gone? Was it sucked up into space with the Martian atmosphere or did some of it remain on site, buried underground? Many teams around the world are working to find answers by searching for clues to its presence other than those offered by polar ice caps and glaciers.

As water cannot remain in a liquid state for long on the surface of Mars, these investigations often consist of spotting recent traces of its passage using instruments placed in orbit. This opens the way to all kinds of controversy about how to interpret observations of this world, whose morphology is radically different from that of Earth. "Some of these controversies, such as those concerning gullies – ravines 1 or 2 kilometers long, discovered by the hundreds along certain landforms in the early 2000s – have finally been settled," said Susan Conway, a CNRS researcher at the Laboratory of Planetology and Geosciences in Nantes.

Her team recently demonstrated in the journal Nature Communications that seasonal deposits of dry ice explain the phenomenon, and not water flows.

Other clues continue to fuel debate and even controversy among scientists. The nature of "equatorial dark flows," the background noise of radar signals suggesting the existence of an underground sea beneath the North Cap, the presence of possible channels in the ejecta of impact craters and the hypothetical formation of "rides" in areas of glacial retreat. If water exists on Mars, it is well camouflaged.

Why not deep underground, frozen in the cryosphere? Or preserved in liquid form in aquifers, or inside the thin film of perchlorate brine that supposedly exists at the base of the permafrost that covers Mars at high latitudes? The Marsis and Sharad radars of the Mars Express (ESA) and MRO (NASA) probes have pinpointed promising regions. And when NASA's Phoenix lander dug a few centimeters into the frozen ground just after it arrived in 2008, it immediately uncovered blocks of water ice – a further reason for hypothesis and speculation.

Originally published on https://www.lemonde.fr

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