#but like the face shape and everything.....

[abedmajeed]

Holding Onto Memories 🎞️

There’s a strange thing about memories—sometimes, they feel like the only thing we have left. I close my eyes, and I can still see my family sitting around the dinner table, laughing at a joke my uncle made. I can still hear my mother calling me to come inside before it gets too late. I can still feel the warm sun on my face as I walked home from school, thinking about my next big dream.

Now, those moments feel like they belong to another life. The streets aren’t the same. The people aren’t the same. And I—I don’t know if I’m the same either. But I hold onto those memories so tightly because they remind me of who I am, of the love I’ve known, of the warmth that still exists somewhere in this world.

If you’re reading this, take a moment to appreciate the little things. Hug your family. Send a message to an old friend. Step outside and take a deep breath of fresh air. 🌿 These are the moments that matter. These are the things that make life beautiful.

No matter where life takes me, I’ll never stop cherishing the love that shaped me. And I hope, wherever you are, you never stop appreciating the love around you too. 💙

And I'm now waiting to be Vetted by @gazavetters 🙏

[whosashan]

Hiii! I’m sorry I couldn’t find if you were open for requests or not so if you don’t take any at this moment please ignore this.

I really love your style of writing and I was wondering about how lads boys would react if MC asked them if they are in love with her or who she was in the past life. I know with Caleb and Zayne it can be tricky but I was thinking that maybe Zayne remembered his past or like MC suddenly remembered everything? That’s just an idea I had in my mind.

Anyways like I said please ignore this request if you don’t take any at this moment or you don’t like that idea!

Have a nice day❤️

Who do you love?

A/N:Hi there! Thank you for your request. You didn't specify if you want it to be more angsty or strictly fluffy, so I did a bit of both ;p I tried to base it off of their myth's, but since I don't have Sylus' and Rafayel's memory cards, I eyeballed it. I hope you'll like it, any feedback is greatly appreciated :] Have a nice day!

For a while now, an insidious question has gnawed at the recesses of your mind. Perhaps it stems from deep-seated insecurities, a relentless curiosity, or something more profound and unsettling.

Since uncovering the intricate tapestry of your past with your lover, a disquieting thought has taken root: are you merely a stand-in for someone who no longer exists? The paradox is maddening—you find yourself envious of a former self. The notion pierces your heart with a sharp, unyielding pain, knowing that there was once another—ironically, another version of you—who preceded you. That person was, undeniably, their one true love.

You grapple with the tormenting thought: are you genuinely the one he loves now, or are you simply a surrogate, a shadow of the past?

Xavier

The room was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, shadows flickering against the walls, casting elongated shapes that danced with every shift of the flames. The air was warm, thick with the scent of wax and faint traces of Xavier’s smell - something so uniquely him.

He laid across the couch, head resting on your thighs, his platinum hair spilling like silk over your lap. Your fingers moved through the strands absentmindedly, tracing over his scalp in slow, rhythmic motions, just the way you knew he liked. His breathing was steady, his body relaxed, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt peaceful. Intimate. Safe.

But your thoughts refused to be still.

You wondered—had he been like this with her too? Had she tangled her fingers in his hair just as you did now? Had she peppered his cheeks with soft kisses, stolen those rare, beautiful laughs that you cherished so much?

The thought shouldn’t sting. It was you, after all. The past version of you, the one whose fate had already been entwined with his long before you even remembered him. And yet, there was a weight in your chest, something heavy, something bitter—regret? Uncertainty? You should have been grateful. It was you. It had always been you. But still, the question gnawed at you.

How different was she?

Did her smile tilt the same way? Did she struggle to keep her hair neat, no matter how much effort she put into it? When she laughed, did her cheeks lift high enough to crinkle the corners of her eyes?

The flickering candlelight traced soft golden hues over Xavier’s face, his lashes casting delicate shadows against his cheekbones. His beauty was almost inhuman, sculpted and refined, made even softer by the haze of drowsiness settling over him. He was close to sleep, lulled by your touch. Maybe it was cruel to ask now, to shatter this moment of quiet serenity.

But you couldn’t stop yourself.

You inhaled sharply, trying to gather the courage that had been slipping through your fingers. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper—

"What was she like?"

The silence stretched.

You thought, for a moment, that he had already fallen asleep, that your question would go unanswered. Relief and disappointment tangled together in your chest, neither strong enough to win over the other.

Then, his voice, soft yet weighted.

"Who are you asking about?"

His head shifted slightly, his dark lashes fluttering open just enough for blue eyes to meet yours. There was exhaustion in them, slight confusion, as if you had pulled him from the edge of sleep. Your fingers stilled in his hair, and he let out a quiet, displeased groan at the loss of comfort.

"Her. I mean… me. The past me." The words felt clumsy, uncertain. How were you even supposed to ask something like this?

Xavier’s brows knit together for a second, a flicker of thought crossing his face before his expression settled back into something unreadable.

"You were the same person you are now." His reply was immediate, almost dismissive, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

But that wasn’t enough.

"I want you to be more specific." Your voice was barely above a breath, but there was something desperate beneath it.

He exhaled, fingers idly drawing slow, deliberate circles on your thigh, as if the motion would somehow ease whatever storm was brewing inside you.

"She was… eccentric," he finally said, his voice quiet, thoughtful. A pause. A hesitation. "Always stubborn. Always insistent. Never knowing when to give up." A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Not that much different from you now."

You scoffed, more out of reflex than humor. "Should I feel insulted?" you muttered, though your voice lacked any real bite.

But then, as quickly as the moment of levity had come, it was gone again. The question that had been clawing at your ribs threatened to spill from your lips.

And then—

"Did you love her more?"

It barely came out, the words fragile, splintering even as they left you. Your entire body tensed.

Xavier’s hand stilled against your thigh. For the first time, something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe even hurt. Slowly, he lifted his head, pushing himself up until he was finally at eye level with you. His gaze studied you intently, tracing every furrow of your brow, every small tension in your lips.

And then, gently—so, so gently—he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with a tenderness that sent warmth curling through your chest. He was close now, so close you could feel his breath ghosting over your lips, his warmth wrapping around you like a quiet promise.

"I would love every form of you the same." His voice was steady, unwavering. "For me, you will always be the one. Whether it’s the you from before, the you now, or the you in another lifetime. It doesn’t matter if you were human, a fairy, or even a worm."

A small, teasing smirk curled his lips at the end, a deliberate attempt to ease the tension, to coax a reaction from you. And it worked—heat crept up your neck, settling in your cheeks, and despite everything, you felt the ghost of a flustered pout forming on your lips.

Xavier leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to the tip of your nose, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze once more.

"Never doubt yourself again, hm?"

And then, without waiting for an answer, he pulled you into his arms, tucking you against his chest, your face fitting perfectly into the crook of his neck. His embrace was warm, steady, grounding. The kind of touch that made all your doubts seem small, insignificant.

Because even if your question hadn’t been answered completely, even if some part of you still ached for something more—there was one thing you were certain of.

He never made you feel like she was better. He never made you feel like you had to compete with your own past.

For Xavier, it was always you.

Zayne

The only sound in the dimly lit room was the rhythmic clicking of keyboard keys, an almost hypnotic cadence breaking through the thick silence. The golden glow of Zayne’s desk lamp illuminated the contours of his sharp features, casting long shadows over his workspace. He sat with his usual meticulous posture, his frame effortlessly composed, exuding an air of quiet authority even in something as mundane as working. The reflection of his laptop screen glimmered faintly against his glasses, obscuring the rich hazel depths of his eyes.

Across the room, you lounged on the couch, your body half-sunk into the plush cushions, a book resting open in your lap. Despite the separate worlds you were both immersed in, there was a comfort in just existing beside him—his presence was grounding, a constant anchor in a sea of uncertainties.

Your gaze trailed over the words printed on the page. A romance novel—one that struck too close to home. It told the story of a man who spent lifetimes searching for his lover, chasing fragments of them across time, waiting for fate to intertwine them once more.

“Is it really me you love? Or the person—the people—I used to be?”

The line cut through you like glass, burrowing itself deep into the pit of your stomach.

Your fingers hesitated over the page as your eyes flickered toward Zayne. He remained at his desk, seemingly lost in his work, his expression unreadable. His dark hair fell slightly over his face, a few strands brushing against the thin frames of his glasses. Even when exhausted, he looked composed—controlled.

It was foolish, perhaps, to ask. You knew how he hated to be interrupted when he was deep in thought, yet you also knew yourself. If you didn’t speak now, the words would fester, gnawing at you like a wound left untreated.

"Zayne."

His name left your lips barely above a murmur, but he heard you. He always did.

His fingers stilled over the keyboard, his posture shifting as he leaned back into his chair slightly. He turned to you, the dim light catching the sharp angles of his jawline.

"Yes, love?" His voice was deep, slightly hoarse from disuse, carrying with it a subtle weight of exhaustion.

You hesitated. Just for a moment.

Sensing it, Zayne pushed his laptop aside and stood, his movements slow, deliberate. Without a word, he made his way toward you, his presence a steady force as he settled beside you on the couch. Lifting your legs with ease, he draped them over his lap, his fingers resting absentmindedly against your ankle. His warmth bled into you, solid and grounding.

Encouraged by the gesture, you swallowed and forced yourself to ask the question that had been lingering in your mind for far too long.

"What was my past self like?"

His brows lifted slightly, his fingers pausing their absentminded movements. "That’s a rather unexpected question," he murmured, adjusting his glasses—a telltale sign of nervousness, though he would never admit it. "What’s brought this on?"

You frowned. "Don’t change the subject."

A subtle exhale left him, barely audible, but you caught it. You knew him well enough to recognize when he was trying to sidestep something.

"I don't remember everything." His voice was measured, but there was a slight tightness to it. "Fragments, maybe. Fleeting pieces that don’t quite form a complete picture. But from what I do recall…" He trailed off, adjusting his glasses again before continuing.

"She wasn’t so different from you now." His tone was contemplative, as if choosing his words carefully. "Determined. Unyielding. Always knew what she wanted and wouldn’t rest until she got it." A small pause. "Much like you."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. That answer—it wasn’t enough.

"Did you love her more?" The words came out before you could stop them.

This time, his reaction was immediate. His entire body tensed, his fingers tightening just slightly against your leg—not enough to hurt, but enough for you to notice.

His eyes met yours, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across his expression before it smoothed into something composed once more.

"As far as I’m concerned, she is you. Every version of you—past, present, future—exists within the same soul, deeply ingrained in me. To compare them would be a fruitless endeavor. There has never been a question of more or less—there is only you."

His voice was even, unwavering, but there was a weight to his words, something deeper lying beneath them. A certainty so absolute that you almost felt ridiculous for asking.

Still, a part of you felt… silly. Jealous over yourself. How insecure could you be?

But it wasn’t insecurity, was it? It was the cruel weight of uncertainty, the knowledge that there were pieces of yourself you might never truly remember. And that truth would always linger, like a ghost in the back of your mind.

Zayne, ever perceptive, seemed to sense the turmoil playing behind your eyes. He lifted his hand, his fingers trailing up your arm before settling against your own, giving it a light squeeze. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a grounding gesture.

A smirk—barely there, but unmistakable—tugged at the corner of your lips as you met his gaze. "Is that so? Then tell me more."

Zayne let out a soft, resigned sigh, shaking his head just slightly. But even as he feigned reluctance, there was the unmistakable ghost of a smile playing at the edges of his lips.

And somehow, even if your question wasn’t entirely answered, even if you knew the uncertainty would return again someday—right now, his presence was enough.

Rafayel

Laughter filled the dimly lit bedroom, loud and breathless, bouncing off the walls as you squirmed beneath Rafayel’s relentless assault. His fingers moved with precision, ghosting over your sides, tracing over sensitive spots he had long since memorized. Your body arched in protest, hands weakly attempting to shove him away, but he was stronger, faster—his lips curled in amusement as he watched you crumble beneath his touch.

"Alright, it's enough!" You gasped between helpless giggles, trying—failing—to inject authority into your voice. The demand might have carried weight if not for the way laughter cracked through it, rendering it powerless.

Still, Rafayel, ever the merciful tormentor, finally relented. With a low chuckle, he slowed his movements, his hands instead settling on your waist, fingers splayed lazily over your hips as if he had all the time in the world. Then, in a gesture as disarming as it was tender, he leaned in, pressing playful kisses across your cheeks, your nose, the corners of your lips—each one stealing the remnants of your breath.

Your smile only widened, cheeks flushed a warm pink.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was already watching you, his usual mischief softened by something more dangerous—something deeper. His dark hair framed his face in perfect disarray, stray strands falling over his forehead, and his striking blue-pink eyes shimmered with something unreadable.

"You're killing me, cutie." His voice was honeyed, teasing, yet laced with a quiet reverence. "From all that laughing, I figured you loved my fingers on you. Should I take that as a request?"

A flick to his forehead wiped the smirk off his lips.

He gasped dramatically, cradling the spot as if you had mortally wounded him. "Now, you need to kiss it better!" His pout was exaggerated, his dramatic flair in full effect, yet beneath the playful act was a calculated charm—one that had always made him so dangerously captivating.

Rolling your eyes, you indulged him, leaning in to place a soft kiss on his forehead. The faint imprint of your lipstick lingered, and you smirked to yourself, deciding to keep that detail to yourself. It suited him, after all.

Rafayel hummed in satisfaction, but then his expression shifted. "That’s slightlyyy better." A pause. "Now, how about we order some seafood?" His lips curved into a small, knowing smile, his tone lighthearted.

And yet—your stomach dropped.

Your expression faltered, barely perceptible, but Rafayel caught it instantly. His head tilted slightly, amusement fading into mild confusion. "What is it? Wasn't it your favorite?"

Your blood ran cold.

"I told you—multiple times—I hate seafood." Your voice was steady, but the weight behind it was anything but. It wasn’t the mistake itself that stung—it was the realization that followed.

It was her favorite.

The realization came like a blade, cutting through you mercilessly. The past you—the before you—the version of yourself that had lived and loved Rafayel long before your memories had been wiped away.

You weren’t her. You weren’t the one he had fallen for first.

The air in the room felt heavier now, thick with unspoken words.

Rafayel’s face fell. His usual mask of arrogance slipped, replaced by something fleeting—regret, guilt, self-reproach. He cursed himself under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "Ah—sorry… we'll get Chinese, yeah?" His voice, usually so smooth, so effortless, now carried an edge of uncertainty. He was scrambling. He knew he had messed up.

But the damage had already been done.

Because you finally saw it—the cracks in his reassurances. The way his stories about her had painted a picture you could never quite step into. She had been different. More confident. More cunning. More effortlessly herself.

More like the version of you that you always wished to be.

Your chest tightened, and before you could stop yourself, you turned away from him. You couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. Not now.

"Cutie…" His voice dropped to a murmur, gentle, coaxing. You felt his fingers ghost toward your cheek, but you recoiled before he could touch you.

That reaction made something shift in him.

The softness vanished, replaced by something colder. His jaw tensed, his lips parting slightly in what could have been a plea—but he hesitated.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat.

"Did you love her more, Rafayel?"

The words cut through the silence like a blade. There was no teasing lilt in your voice, no room for him to twist the moment into something playful. No. This time, you weren’t giving him an escape.

His body went rigid, his lips parting slightly as if the sheer audacity of the question had momentarily stolen his breath. Then, panic flickered in his eyes—just for a second.

"What?—Of course not!" The words left him too quickly, too forcefully. "I mean, god, you're the same person." His voice was rough, desperate, but the way he said it—like he was trying to convince himself just as much as you—made your stomach churn.

"Liar."

A whisper. Sharp. Accusing.

You pushed yourself up, slipping from his grasp, but Rafayel moved fast, his fingers catching your wrist before you could step away. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was enough to make you halt.

"Where are you going?"

"Home." Your voice wavered, but your resolve did not. "I can't—I don't want to talk to you right now."

He tensed. "Y/N, don’t do this—"

"I need time." You exhaled, voice gentler now, but firm. "We’ll talk when I’m ready."

You didn’t wait for his reply.

The moment you slipped from his grasp, the warmth of his touch faded, replaced by the chilling weight of distance. And as you walked toward the door, you felt his gaze burning into your back.

But he didn’t chase you.

Not this time.

And as the door shut behind you, leaving Rafayel alone on his vast, king-sized bed, you both knew—

This wasn’t the end of the conversation.

Not even close.

Sylus

The silk sheets pooled beneath you as you sat on Sylus' bed, the fabric smooth against your skin. The soft glow of the bedside lamp bathed the room in golden hues, casting long shadows as you rummaged through the bags at your feet—your most recent indulgence. Or rather, his indulgence.

"You didn’t have to buy all this for me, you know," you murmured without looking up, fingers brushing over the expensive fabrics, the scent of luxury still clinging to them.

Across from you, Sylus leaned against the grand headboard, his arms lazily crossed, an amused smirk playing at his lips. His crimson eyes glimmered under the dim light, ever watchful, ever knowing.

"And yet, somehow, I still managed to," he mused, his voice a smooth melody laced with amusement. "Truly tragic, how I remain cursed with wealth and the urge to spoil you."

You rolled your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

"Why don’t you give me a fashion show, sweetie?" he suggested, tilting his head slightly.

Your excitement sparked instantly. You barely spared him a glance before gathering the bags and rushing into the bathroom, the sound of his low chuckle following you as you disappeared behind the door.

As you sifted through the clothes, something caught your eye—a dress you didn’t remember picking out. The color was… odd. Not bad, necessarily, but definitely not something you would have chosen for yourself. It washed you out in a way that felt unnatural, like a version of you that wasn’t quite right.

Sylus.

You sighed, shaking your head with a fond smile. He had excellent taste; he’d picked out dresses for you before—ones that flattered your figure, ones that made you feel effortlessly beautiful. But this? This felt like it belonged to someone else.

Still, you slipped it on. It’s always nice to try something new, you reasoned. And besides, you could always return it.

Stepping out of the bathroom, you straightened your posture, putting on your best model walk as you sauntered toward him with a small, playful smile.

Sylus’ gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate.

"You look ravishing," he murmured, his deep voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place. He pushed off the headboard and closed the space between you in an instant, his hands slipping to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The scent of his cologne wrapped around you, warm and intoxicating.

"You think?" you asked, though your gaze drifted downward again, fingers idly smoothing over the fabric.

"That’s a rather interesting choice, boss." The nickname was teasing, but there was a layer of curiosity beneath it. "I don’t think I like this color on me, but if you do… I suppose I’ll wear it anyway."

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest.

"Nonsense," he dismissed easily. "You’ve always looked stunning in this color. Or any color, for that matter, kitten."

Something in your chest twisted.

Your brows knitted together slightly as you peered up at him. Maybe you were overthinking it. Maybe he meant nothing by it. And yet—

"I’ve never worn this color before, though." You chuckled, keeping your tone light, masking the unease settling at the edges of your mind.

Sylus said nothing at first. A beat of silence stretched between you, but his grip didn’t falter. His expression remained unreadable, except for the slight glint of something in his crimson eyes—something calculated.

You knew this game. You knew how he played.

He was refined, meticulous with his words, carefully measured in everything he did. Sylus didn’t make mistakes.

And yet, you had caught one.

He loved you. That, you never doubted. His devotion was absolute, unwavering. But there was always this—this lingering ghost of someone else. A woman you had once been. A woman you no longer remembered. A woman you weren’t even sure you were.

And yet, she still lived here. In his mind. In his stories. In his memories of you.

"I can practically hear your mind working." His voice was smooth, but there was a quiet edge to it. "Speak."

You hesitated. You didn’t want to ruin the moment. Didn’t want to pick at something that might unravel everything.

"You seem to like reminiscing about the past," you finally said, keeping your voice even, careful.

His eyes darkened slightly.

"Of course," he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Why wouldn’t I? The moments I’ve spent with the one I love should not be forgotten."

Your chest tightened.

He didn’t see it the way you did. To him, the past and the present were intertwined, threads of the same existence. But to you? The past felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

"Is that so?" Your lips curved into a wry smile, though the bitterness in your voice was barely concealed. "Then tell me, Sylus—who do you love more? Her or me?"

It was meant to sound like a joke. A playful jab. But the moment the words left your lips, the room shifted. His grip on your waist tightened, his body going still. His expression didn’t change, but you knew him well enough to see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"What kind of question is that, kitten?" His voice remained steady, but there was something underneath it now—something more careful.

"It doesn’t matter if it’s the past or the present I’m thinking about—it’s always you on my mind."

But it didn’t feel like it.

Not in the way that mattered.

You swallowed, the months of quiet insecurities bubbling up, spilling over before you could stop them. "I don’t want you to think about her," you admitted, voice quieter now but no less firm. "It’s in the past—the past I don’t even remember."

A beat of silence.

For the first time that night, Sylus looked genuinely caught off guard. His expression wavered for the briefest moment before something else took its place—something softer.

"…I apologize." His voice, always so effortlessly poised, now carried an unfamiliar weight. "I never meant to make you feel that way, sweetheart. I won’t mention it again."

And yet—right now, it wasn’t enough.

"I need a moment for myself." The words left you before you could think them through.

You turned, ready to step away, but his fingers curled around your wrist—not tight, not forceful, just there.

"I won’t stop you," he murmured. "Take all the time you need." His hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, his touch warm, careful. You refused to meet his gaze, afraid of the emotions that might spill over if you did.

"But know that —when you’re ready, I’ll be right here."

A pause. Then, softer—so tender it nearly broke you—

"I love you."

And then, he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head before letting you go.

And just like that, you slipped away from him.

Out of the room, out of his reach, out into the night, letting the wind carry you as you tried to untangle the storm of emotions inside you.

You weren’t sure how long it would take. An hour, a day, a month.

But Sylus—he would wait.

He always did.

Caleb

A/N:For Caleb, I decided to twist it a little and instead make it about your future self. Hope that's alright!

It was always easy to be carefree with Caleb nearby.

He made the world feel manageable—as if no matter what went wrong, he would be there, steady as ever, grounding you with nothing more than a glance. You hated how much you depended on him, how much you needed him, but he made it feel so natural, so right.

And even now, as you perched on the kitchen counter, watching the way his muscled back flexed with each movement, the rhythmic sound of his knife against the cutting board filling the space between you, you thought—maybe this is it. Maybe this is all I need.

Your gaze lingered. It was the only sight you ever wanted to see.

Caleb, as if sensing your attention, let out a low chuckle. "I can feel you staring, pipsqueak." He turned his head slightly, a boyish grin tugging at his lips. "Should I be flattered or concerned?"

Your heart stuttered. No matter how much he changed over the years, that grin—that teasing, infuriating grin—never did.

"You're a terrible chef," you huffed, crossing your arms. "I’ve been waiting for my dish for, what? An hour now?"

He snorted. "Fifteen minutes, actually."

"Felt longer."

"Impatient as ever." He shook his head, flipping something onto a plate with practiced ease.

You chuckled softly, but the warmth in your chest flickered, cooling as a shadow of uncertainty crept into your mind. You hated thinking about the future. The unpredictability of it, the way it loomed, stretching out like an abyss, no matter how tightly you tried to hold onto the present.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice Caleb moving until his presence was right there. His hand shot out, pinching your cheek.

"Finally got your attention, pips." His voice was teasing, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

You groaned, swatting his hand away as he set your plate aside. His violet eyes—always so sharp, so unnervingly aware—locked onto yours.

"What's going on in that little head of yours, hmm?" He leaned in slightly, voice still playful, but now edged with something serious.

You hesitated.

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid to ask. But the words clawed at your throat, relentless.

"I was just thinking..." you mumbled, staring down at your dangling feet.

"Rare sight." He smirked.

You shot him a glare and shoved at his chest, earning a low chuckle.

"Shut up." You exhaled, fingers tightening around the hem of your shirt. Then, before you could lose your nerve— "Caleb, do you see me in your future?"

The teasing glint in his eyes faded instantly.

For the first time in the conversation, his smirk disappeared, replaced by something unreadable. He stared at you, brow furrowing slightly, as if trying to figure out why the hell you’d ask something so ridiculous.

Then—without hesitation— "You’re the only thing I’m certain about in my future."

Your breath hitched.

"It’s you, by my side, exploiting me as your personal slave." His lips quirked up, but you knew him too well. The humor was a shield, a flimsy attempt to soften the truth beneath it.

And the truth was—Caleb didn’t make promises easily. He was a liar, through and through. You knew that. Hell, he was probably the biggest liar you’d ever met.

But right now?

There was no lie in his voice. No hesitation in his certainty.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the future didn’t feel so terrifying.

But doubt was a cruel thing. It never let go easily.

"But what if I’m not the same?" you murmured, fingers idly toying with the fabric of your shirt.

Caleb scoffed, ruffling your hair with a tenderness that contradicted the smug grin on his face.

"Then I’ll adapt to whatever version of you I get." His voice was soft, but his grip—his presence—was solid.

Your throat tightened as warmth bloomed in your chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, breathing him in.

"Even if I become the worst version of myself?" you teased, tilting your head slightly.

Caleb hummed, amused. "If that’s the case, I’ll just make sure I become the best version of myself." He leaned in, voice dropping to something lower, something that sent a shiver down your spine. "And if your worst self turns out to be particularly sadistic, well..." His lips barely brushed against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I’ll make sure to satisfy your cravings, baby"

Heat coiled in your stomach. You barely had a second to react before he pulled back, pressing a finger to your lips just as you tried to close the distance.

"Ah-ah. Eat first, pips."

You groaned. "You’re impossible."

He chuckled, eyes glinting with something dark, something possessive. Something that promised—no matter what version of yourself you became, he would always be there.

With Caleb, there was only one certainty in life—

You would always have someone who loved you unconditionally.

[keferon]

I'm curious about what exactly is the state of human-mer relations in the au. Like, are humans just somehow unaware of how intelligent mer are? Are the powers that be aware of how sapient they are but the average person just thinks they're like regular fish? Actually thinking back to the simpatico au maybe some scientists (like perceptor) realize how intelligent they are and try to get reform in place but they face, like, a lot of pushback?

Alright hear me out on that one.

You know how humans and some monkeys have basically similar body shape and features. You wouldn't mistake one from another but if you show a human and a monkey to...uh..let's say an alien? They would likely think that those two are pretty close to each other and human is just bald for some climate reason?

So with that in mind. I think in order for the plot to happen we need some wild-wild mers that would look similar to the civilized ones but wouldn't be smarter than a parrot. Like they would be completely different species but they would look close enough ANnnd they would live in easily accessible to humans areas.

So humans would see them, capture them, study them and then confidently assume they know everything about all merfolks.

(Which certainly wouldn't be the first time they study something only on the surface and decide they know everything tbh.)

While the civilized Mers would live somewhere far far and deep deep. And also purposely hide from humans because humans "are stupid and trash and destroy everything".

Also. A bit of cartoon logic of course👌

[deadsetobsessions]

“Did you know that shrimps…”

Tim leaned in, poorly hidden eagerness splayed across his face. A clue that Danny and Phantom were dating?

“Are super delicious?” Danny mumbled, ducking his head to hide his impish grin. Tim exhaled, disappointed, and leaned back to observe. Danny currently had his arm elbow deep in Jason’s chest, the older man grimacing at the weird feeling of being phased through.

“You done?”

“Almost. This is a multiple session kind of thing though, since the corrupted ectoplasm's not only in your body, it's actively trying to fuse with your DNA. Like, a really fucked up virus with virtually no cure."

"No cure?!" Dick's panic was only barely suppressed. "But I thought you said you could help with that?"

"Yeah, I mean, how do you cure death? Everything has to end eventually." Danny said practically, before drawing a bit more tainted ectoplasm out. He stealthily replaced it with a cleaner source, a shot of ecto-dejecto he had absorbed as Phantom but didn't assimilate. "But don't worry, you're not dying again yet. You'll just become even more liminal."

"More?"

"Yeah. You were, by definition, a liminal. Now you'll just have more access to the traits- more in tune with your emotions, night vision, and a minor ability to manipulate ecto."

"I'm sorry, can we circle back on the fact that pit water is trying to fuse with my DNA?" Jason stressed. Danny took his hand out, treatment complete, and dusted them off.

"You don't have to worry about that either, since you've got a magic immune system in the form of... swords?" Danny’s brows furrowed, his senses making sense of the shape of magic.

"The All-Blades are cutting off pit water access." Jason sounded done. Exasperated at where he was in life... but really not all too surprised.

"...Sure?" Danny shrugged. The halfa has seen weirder shit than magic swords.

"Wait, you have magic?!" Dick reached over to grasp Jason's shoulder to shake him. Jason knocked his hands off, scowl becoming more prominent.

"Yeah, picked it up a while ago."

"And you didn't tell us?!"

In lieu of an answer, Jason summoned the All Blades and stabbed Dick, who yelped before realizing they just phased through him.

"Oh, you should use those more. They're purifying the ecto at a smaller quantity, but some is still better than none, right?" Danny said, pleasantly surprised. He ignored Dick’s outraged spluttering. “How interesting.”

Tim gathered his open jaw just to cheekily ask, "So, Jason's a magical girl? Usagi?"

Jason raised the one of the blades threateningly at Tim, who remained unfazed after watching them slide through Dick’s shoulder without leaving a trace of damage.

Danny laughed, "Hah! Nah, more like Madoka? If those are All-Blades, he’s supposed to kill evil with them…”

"Fuck off." Jason grumbled. Dick poked at the sword going through his shoulder in fascination. "Stop that."

"My baby brother is magical and he didn't tell meeeeeee!" Wailed Dick, flopping over Jason’s back like dead weight, hand clutched to his imaginary pearls as he swooned. Jason groaned, dismissing the blades to shove Dick off of him.

"Oh my god, this is why."

“Wait, have you tried stabbing Joker with them? If anyone’s pure evil, it’ll be that guy, right? No, but you’re a civilian… so you might get hurt,” Danny mumbled, huffing a grin as Jason gained a thoughtful look. Guess Danny knows what Red Hood’s gonna try next.

Tim ignored his dumbass brothers, finally done with the subtle tactics. Plus, he has to cut Danny off before he gives Jason any more bright ideas.

“You know, there’s been a rumor going around,” he started, only to get cut off by team Phantom’s impeccable timing. Danny’s open laptop rang with the blaring tones of a group call. The two idiots in the back stopped squabbling with each other, quieting down with interest.

“Oops, gimme a second.” Danny hurried to click the join call button, connecting to the video call. “Hello?”

“Hey, babe!” Tucker said brightly. In the background, Tucker could see Jason mouthing “babe?” to Tim, who shrugged. Dick’s face flashed into something intense before slipping back to its normal harmless facade.

“Sup, loverboy?” Sam chimed in, looking smug. “How’s my favorite boyfriend doing?”

Danny, leader of the gaslight gatekeep girlboss brainwave, naturally slipped into the banter. “Are you saying that ‘cause Tucker ate beef jerky in front of you?”

“Worse. He snuck a tourist t-shirt into my closet. My parents had a fit when they came to visit.”

“I said I was sorry, babe!” Tucker continued, looking actually regretful. Ah, this was something he actually did, as a prank.

“Whatever. Who’s the peanut gallery behind you, loverboy?” Sam buffed her nails, clearly in the middle of reapplying her signature nail polish.

Danny grinned. “Aweeee, is that the color shifting polish I got you? So you do love me!”

“We’re dating.”

If they hadn’t gotten the hint now, Danny would have to rescind their whole world’s best detectives titles.

“That’s our Sam, Danny. Prickly like a hedgehog but allll squishy on the inside.” Tucker snickered. “Seriously though, introduce us.”

Danny backed away from the camera. “This is Jason, Tim, and Dick. Guys, meet my wonderful boyfriend and girlfriend, Tucker and Sam.”

“Hi,” the three vigilantes chorused, looking awkward. Dick broke out of the atmosphere pretty quickly, used to controlling the mood.

“I’m Dick!”

“I’m sure,” drawled Sam. “Nice to meet you, even if we’ve met before.”

“You have?” Tucker and Danny asked.

“Yeah, at the galas. I doubt you’ll remember me.” Sam grimaced. “I was the miserable one in the pink frills.”

“Sam Mason?” Tim asked.

“Yep.”

The boys winced. “Rough.” Jason sympathized.

“Oh, yeah. Danny, how goes wooing Phantom?” Sam asked loudly, looking like she'd rather be discussing anything but the frilled monstrosity that haunted her nightmares.

“Oh, good! I think he’s warming up to me!”

“Ugh, babe, you fabulous fuck, why are you so charming? Why Phantom?” Tucker complained. Danny grinned.

“Come on, nerd, even you have to admit he’s hot.” Sam drawled, looking entertained.

“And majorly cool,” Danny chimed in, with a grin. Wow, Sam must really want Dr. Isley’s number. That, or she’s having a blast fucking with the peanut gallery. Their eyes were bouncing back and forth between Danny and the screen like they were at a tennis match. Or both. It's probably both.

“It’s so not cool to date one of my exes.” Tucker whined. “Plus, you know what he’s like.”

“What’s he like?” Dick asked, leaning in.

“Yeah, Danny won’t tell us anything,” Tim followed up seamlessly.

“Phantom? Hot. So. Hot. Super romantic too.”

"And an emotional mess. You'd never believe what-"

"Okay, seriously, it was one time!" He broke Tucker's system once, and he never let it go. Danny never got a break around here.

"Wait, if you liked him so much, why'd you break up with him?" Jason asked Sam. In Danny's peripherals, he could see Dick updating a group chat. It was going, as they say, swimmingly.

"Obviously I liked Danny more. But having all of them isn't too bad of an idea." Sam leaned back, looking as powerful as she normally does.

"But did it have to be Phantom?" Tucker sulked impressively. Then his eyes finally wandered to Tim. "Oh my god, Tim Drake. Danny, why don't you woo him?! Hey, Mr. Drake, are you interested in dating Danny? He brings terrible puns, smoking looks, and makes killer dinners. All you have to do in exchange is let me pick your brains."

Damn it, Danny knew Tucker was going to pull something like this.

"Uh-huh?" Tim flushed as his brothers cackled at his expense. "Sure..? Wait, what- I mean-"

"Sorry, Timsy. You're gonna have to fight Phantom for my hand. Considering you have no combat experience and Phantom's undead... rough, man."

"Danny, if you don't date him, I will," Tucker solemnly swore.

"Hey, get your grubby paws away from my little brother!" Dick tried to sternly warn them, effect broken by his own intermittent giggles.

"Yeah, you want to date him, you gotta go through the gauntlet." Jason said, muffling Tim's flustered protests with an arm.

"Challenge accepted." Danny paused. "Wait, did I just sign up to be Tim's boyfriend? Shit, Phantom's gonna kill me."

——

Danny texted a series of numbers to Sam. She left him on read.

Ah, maybe he shouldn't have introduced a budding ecoterrorist to a veteran one, but too late now!

——

If you notice any inconsistencies, no u don’t.

It’s been a while since I’ve written for this series though so… yk. Danny, verbally sealing himself into the trap while being chaotic. In character, me thinks.

[lovekawaas]

mdni; nsfw content

college boyfr! nanami is a man of great knowledge.

he loves learning in every sense of the word. some would describe him as the epitome of intellectual.

he loves learning about all of the different authors he reads about in class. about the philosophers and what they believed in. about the different themes of novels and the impacts they had on society. but more than anything else: kento loved learning about you.

about all of your interests and favorite things. about your likes and dislikes. about what makes you tick. and most importantly, learning about what helps you get off.

he starts off slow with you of course. he's a gentleman and he wouldn't ever want you to feel uncomfortable. when the two of you have sex, he watches for all of your little expressions and sounds. the way your eyes crinkle when he hits that spot when he pounds your insides. how your mouth drops into an open little "O" shape when you let your orgasm build up right before you release. finding all of your erogenous zones that make you shiver with the brush of his lips and fingers. and once you guys have really settled into your relationship, kento is a huge fan of mutual masturbation.

it makes sense really.

he loves learning. and what better way to do so than watch you touch yourself. he's a little mean about it sometimes. making you hold a vibrator to your clit, legs spread open so he has full view of your pussy not letting you move it until he can see how long it takes for you to come. he wants to watch you plunge your little fingers inside your pussy so he can see how deep you go before your face scrunches in pleasure. watch you rub your little clit so he can see the motion to move that makes your toes curl and back arch in just the right way. kento wants to learn anything and everything about you and your body. just to make you feel good.

[deathofacupid]

how do the jujutsu-kaisen men help you through a burnout?

gojo transforms into a sugar-fueled, chaos-wielding distraction machine. he views your stress as a personal affront to the universe's inherent fun-ness. his motto, delivered with a wink and a truly unsettling amount of sincerity, is, "stressed backwards is dessert!"

which explains the everest-sized piles of candy, chocolate, and enough novelty-shaped gummies to give a dentist a heart attack, now dominating your shared bed. you're pretty sure you saw a gummy bear wearing a tiny fedora. he's also trying to teach you a "stress-relieving" dance involving interpretive flossing and a kazoo. it's… a lot.

geto goes full-on spa day commando. he marches you directly into the bathroom, where a battalion of face masks, scented candles that smell suspiciously like expensive incense, and fluffy towels await. "darling," he'll purr, "the first step to looking like a celestial being is feeling like one."

he then proceeds to give you a facial that involves more cucumber slices than a salad bar, and a scalp massage that makes you question if you've ever truly felt anything before. it's so luxurious, you almost forget you're stressed — until you realize he's also trying to convince you to try a "snake venom" face cream.

nanami approaches the situation with the precision of a swiss watchmaker. he calmly assesses the situation, asking pointed questions like, "is this a systemic issue, or a temporary lapse in productivity?"

he'll help you dissect the problem, dismantling it with the clinical efficiency of a surgeon removing a particularly stubborn splinter. once the root cause is identified and neutralized (usually with a spreadsheet and a sternly worded email), he'll produce a tray of freshly baked pastries, each one a masterpiece of buttery perfection, and pull you into a hug that feels like coming home.

if the problem is unsolvable, he'll simply hold you, his quiet strength a comforting anchor in the storm. the weight of his arms around you feels like a promise that even in the face of the impossible, you're not alone. it's so tender, you might just cry.

choso, bless his heart, is utterly bewildered by the concept of burnout. he stares at you with the concerned expression of a puppy watching a magic trick gone wrong. he remembers his brothers, how they found joy in… well, mostly brutal combat and shared blood rituals. realizing that's probably not your thing, he embarks on a frantic google search, his brow furrowed in concentration. the search history is a bizarre mix of "how to make human happy" and "best blood-based stress relief."

eventually, he sits you down, and with a voice full of gentle sincerity, asks you to just… talk. and as you pour out your worries, he listens with an intensity that makes you feel like your words are the most important thing in the universe. by the end, you feel lighter, as if a weight has been lifted.

toji decides the only solution is a culinary apocalypse. he doesn't ask questions; he simply orders enough takeout to feed a small army, and then some. we're talking mountains of sushi, enough noodles to fill a swimming pool, and a pizza that could double as a coffee table.

"food makes everything better," he grunts, shoving a fistful of dumplings into his mouth. he's not wrong, exactly. the sheer volume of food is so overwhelming, you can't help but laugh, and for a moment, the stress fades away. it's a chaotic, greasy, glorious mess.

sukuna initially assumes someone has dared to offend you. his first instinct is to unleash a torrent of threats so creatively violent, even demons would shudder. after fifteen minutes of apocalyptic pronouncements, he finally notices the exhaustion etched on your face. he's as clueless as choso, but instead of google, he tries to mimic your own comfort rituals. he drags you under the covers, surprisingly gentle, and even lets you be the big spoon—a concession so monumental, it's practically a declaration of war on his own ego.

he runs his fingers through your hair, a surprisingly soothing gesture, and rambles about his day, his voice a low, rumbling murmur. he traces patterns on your leg, the one draped over him, and as your breathing evens out, a rare, almost tender expression softens his features. he feels a strange sense of peace as you drift off, and the rhythm of your sleep lulls him into a surprisingly restful slumber. you’re the only thing that can make him feel like he isn’t constantly at war, and he treasures that, even if he’d never admit it.

[ghostlyshellofapuppet]

Jason Todd wouldn't care if you have blemishes or pimples, he'd still kiss your cheek and forehead. He wouldn't care if your body or face was asymmetrical, he'd still stare at you lovingly. Or if your boobs were saggy or different sizes, he'd still want a peek. He wouldn't care how big your shoe size is or if you've shaved/waxed at all. He wouldn't care if your hands were boney or chubby, he'd just like to hold them. Whether your stomach was flat or pudgy he'd still wrap his arm around your waist with a squeeze and kiss your hair all the same. Double chin, rolls, stretch marks, scars, anything, he loves it all the same. If you have smile lines Jason would make you laugh just to see them, or he'd make a silly face just to see you do one back so he can see those little lines between your eyebrows appear. He wants to hear you giggle, he wants to see you be yourself, and he wants to be there to experience you in all your moments. You're human, he's human, being human comes with wrinkles and lines and blemishes and perceived flaws in yourself but also love and acceptance from those who love you, and Jason Todd loves you endlessly.

(sometimes we all need to be reminded this but love doesn't only happen to one specific shape or image, and anyone who really loves you loves everything about you)

[shushmal]

Eddie pauses, his fingers stilling against his guitar strings. Steve makes a questioning noise, but doesn't move from where he's sitting on the ground, back against the log and his head still resting against Eddie's knee. And for a long moment, Eddie does nothing, so caught up in it all this—this life they've managed to scrap together.

They're thirty-eight, and they own a house, one with a big back yard perfect for a fire pit, a fence and a dog. Last spring a storm had blown down their oak tree, and Steve had rolled the trunk of it over to make seating, the rest firewood. On clear nights, they light a fire and sit next to the flames, and Eddie will play his guitar. And they're far enough out of town that the stars stretch endless, beautiful in the night sky above them.

That's the kind of night they're having now. And it's not what Eddie used to dream of—bars and stages and stadiums of fans. It's not his uncle's trailer and dealing drugs that Eddie thought he'd have to resign himself to. It's not even orange jumpsuits and prison bars, like he was scared of.

Eddie sets his guitar down, resting it against his seat. Steve finally looks up, brown eyes a little sleepy, and a lot content.

It's the kind of night that Eddie never even thought to want.

"Dance with me?" Eddie asks. He watches a slow smile stretch Steve's face. He's gorgeous, painted in campfire light.

"Getting sappy in your old age, Munson?" Steve says, even as he takes Eddie's hand and lets him haul him to his feet.

They fall into each other easily, because they do it every day—arms around waists, shoulders. Cold noses against an ear. Lips kissing lips. They know exactly how to fit themselves together, where their pieces meet and the edges line up perfectly. They sway there in the darkness behind their home, fire-warmed and holding each other. There is nothing but the crackle of the burning logs, the wind in the trees, the crickets and the night birds calling.

"Perfect," Eddie murmurs.

"Hm?" Steve hums, his fingers playing with the ends of Eddie's hair. He presses a kiss to Eddie's neck as they turn a little circle, dancing. "What is?"

"You," Eddie says. "This. Everything. I love this."

He can feel Steve's smile against his skin, knows with out seeing all happy shine of Steve's eyes, his scrunch of his nose, the dimples and the shape of his teeth. He's perfect, and he'll always be perfect to Eddie.

"You, too," Steve whispers. "I love this, too."

[pukefactory]

⫘⫘⫘⟢ SUPPRESSING FIRE ⟢⫘⫘⫘

！ Summary: Caregiver Burning Spice Cookie X Little Reader Headcannons

！ Character(s): Burning Spice Cookie (Cookie Run Kingdom)

！ Genre: Headcannons, SFW, Agere

！ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

！ Image Credits: @theleverethiding

⚡︎ His hands, capable of razing kingdoms, cradle you with an impossible tenderness—firm yet reassuring in their strength. Despite his destructive nature, Burning Spice Cookie is fiercely protective of you. His grip is steady when you cling to him, his warmth enveloping, his voice low and gruff as he murmurs, “In the end, everything turns to dust, but not us. I’ll keep you safe.”

⚡︎ You whimper in the dark, small and afraid. The embers of his flames cast flickering shadows along the walls, restless and alive. “There is no need to fear,” he rumbles, shifting so his warmth surrounds you. A low hum escapes him—ancient, steady, a melody lost to time. It resonates in his chest, reverberating gently off the walls as he murmurs words you do not recognize yet find strangely soothing. Wrapped in the arms of destruction itself, you drift into sleep, safe and warm.

⚡︎ He wields his colossal axe with ease, his devastation swift and absolute. Yet, when he adjusts your clothes with massive, careful fingers, his touch is as light as a whisper. “There,” he grunts, satisfied. You beam up at him. The Great Destroyer scoffs, though his fire burns a shade warmer before a large hand ruffles your hair.

⚡︎ A warrior’s den should be adorned with the spoils of war, but his is strewn with plushies, rattles, and soft blankets. The first time one of his generals entered and saw you nestled in a pile of stuffed animals, they braced for his fury. Instead, he merely ignored their presence, picked up a large, fluffy tiger plush, and placed it beside you, a ghost of a smile tugging at his wicked grin. “Hah! Now he will guard you when I’m busy turning up the heat!” That tiger plush quickly became your favorite.

⚡︎ His people tremble when he storms through the halls, fire licking at his heels. Yet, when he sees you standing there, arms outstretched, the flames quell. He grumbles but lifts you effortlessly, holding you close. “You are bold to make such demands of me, little one.” And yet, he carries you in his arms for the rest of the day, that single remark the only complaint he utters.

⚡︎ A passing Cookie sneers at your childish garb—the sippy cup, the pacifier. “Pathetic.” Before they can blink, Burning Spice Cookie looms over them, flames curling up his arms. “Say that again,” he growls, voice low and dangerous. The Cookie flees. Later, he kneels beside you, placing your fallen flame-shaped pacifier back in your hands. He seems more upset than you, but his tension eases when you lean your head against his side.

⚡︎ Tantrums mean nothing to him. You kick, wail, pound tiny fists against his chest—he does not budge. “Haha! Is that all you’ve got?” he teases, amused. But when you sniffle, rubbing at your tear-streaked face, he sighs. Lifting you onto his shoulders, he rumbles, “Come. We will find something for you to truly destroy.” He does not say he means himself, but his excitement at teaching you destruction is unmistakable.

⚡︎ His body radiates an ever-present heat. On cold nights, you burrow against him, seeking warmth. “Clingy thing…” he huffs, yet he shifts closer, his massive frame blocking out the chill and surrounding you in gentle heat. In the morning, you wake to find your favorite tiger plush nestled beside you, a red fluffy blanket draped over you. He does not mention it, and neither do you, simply holding the plush close.

⚡︎ Before battle, he marks his body with crimson streaks, sigils of war and violence. Yet, as he grips his parashu, ready to leave, he abruptly pauses. Your small hands reach for him, and he kneels, allowing you to press a sticker—a simple tiger, much like your plush—onto his spiked shoulder armor. “He wants to watch over you!” you say excitedly. He snorts. “Then he and I shall have many tales of destruction to share when I return.” He does not remove it. When he comes back, the sticker remains, untouched by battle.

⚡︎ He has burned civilizations, crushed empires beneath his heel. Yet here he kneels, letting your tiny hands press against his cheeks. “Be gentle,” you murmur, worried about the rage in his eyes. He closes them, exhales slowly, faint wisps of smoke curling from his nostrils like a sleeping dragon. “For you,” he rumbles, “I will try.”

[hero-of-the-wolf]

Hey uhhh I hope you don't mind OP, but I couldn't get this out of my head so I shoved all of my other WIPs aside and wrote a lil thing—

Link didn’t remember hitting the ground.

He still felt like he was falling, if he was being honest. His head swam, the world around him spun, his face throbbed. Everything hurt; until gradually, bit by bit, the pain gave way to a numbness that dulled the overwhelming agony into more of an ache too distant to care about.

He drew in a breath. It was harder than it should have been to do such a simple action. He felt like maybe he should have been more concerned about that.

“Link!”

Something buzzed about his head. His eye fluttered open, staring blearily up to where something bright was moving around frantically, making the spinning sensation worse. He squeezed his eye closed against it.

“Wake up!! Hey!”

Why couldn’t Navi let him sleep in? He was so tired… hadn’t he done enough?

Footsteps padded up to him then, almost too soft to hear. He forced his eye open again to see a darker shape standing above him.

“Link….”

Something was set on the ground at his side with a soft thunk. Then someone— a child?— was kneeling next to him, making such distressed noises that Link found himself pushing up against the ground, trying to reach whoever it was and offer some semblance of comfort. But his body was too stiff, too heavy, and he only managed to shift enough to sit up against something cold and solid behind him before all his strength deserted him.

You’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you?

His tongue felt leaden in his mouth. He forced it to move anyways. “I c’n teach you… a–a song.”

“Okay,” the child whispered.

Link’s fingers twitched towards his belt, but the ocarina wasn’t there. He swallowed, took an unsteady breath, and hummed it instead.

◀️ ▶️ 🔽 ◀️ ▶️ 🔽

The child pulled back to stand up. Link’s hand moved towards them without conscious thought, missing the simple comfort of someone being nearby, only to still when he heard the notes of an ocarina playing the melody back to him.

◀️ ▶️ 🔽 ◀️ ▶️ 🔽

His eye fluttered closed. He breathed out a sigh, slipping into the awaiting darkness before he could manage to tell them “thank you.”

The Spirit of the Hero’s purpose….

You gave us hope.

The sun will rise again.

... only slow it down… next in line….

Who would be the one to continue the fight? To pick up where he’d left off?

Would they despise him for being unable to do more?

What a heavy… burden….

"Can it be your favorite song?" A song that means a lot to you: > Song of Time > Song of Healing

A callback to the scene from episode 1, when Link chose to teach him Song of Time over Song of Healing.

Very much looking forward to seeing what MajorLink and his team actually do for this scene. ❤️

[abedmajeed]

Holding Onto Memories 🎞️

There’s a strange thing about memories—sometimes, they feel like the only thing we have left. I close my eyes, and I can still see my family sitting around the dinner table, laughing at a joke my uncle made. I can still hear my mother calling me to come inside before it gets too late. I can still feel the warm sun on my face as I walked home from school, thinking about my next big dream.

Now, those moments feel like they belong to another life. The streets aren’t the same. The people aren’t the same. And I—I don’t know if I’m the same either. But I hold onto those memories so tightly because they remind me of who I am, of the love I’ve known, of the warmth that still exists somewhere in this world.

If you’re reading this, take a moment to appreciate the little things. Hug your family. Send a message to an old friend. Step outside and take a deep breath of fresh air. 🌿 These are the moments that matter. These are the things that make life beautiful.

No matter where life takes me, I’ll never stop cherishing the love that shaped me. And I hope, wherever you are, you never stop appreciating the love around you too. 💙

And I'm now waiting to be Vetted by @gazavetters 🙏

[sturniololuvz]

i love the "more important" story im not the one who asked for it but can u do a chris version and his 2 year old daughter was always sitting in the living room Playing with her Barbies and whatever she can find until she randomly started crying one day from how lonely and bored she got and he spent the whole day spoiling her??

okayyy!

“Daddy’s Got You”

Chris Sturniolo x daughter

Chris had always known being a single dad wouldn’t be easy. But no one ever told him about the little things—the way guilt would creep up on him when he was busy, or how his daughter’s tiny, happy giggles could make any bad day disappear.

His two-year-old daughter was everything to him. And though she was usually content playing by herself while he worked or filmed, he started noticing a pattern—she was always sitting alone in the living room, surrounded by her Barbies, stuffed animals, and whatever random toys she could find.

Chris would glance over between takes, watching as she babbled to herself, occasionally looking around like she was waiting for someone to join her. It tugged at his heart, but she never complained.

Until one day, she did.

Chris had been editing a video at the kitchen counter, music playing softly in the background, when a small sniffle caught his attention. He turned around, confused, and his heart broke at what he saw.

She was sitting in the middle of the living room, her little hands gripping a Barbie, but tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her bottom lip trembled as she let out a quiet sob.

Chris was at her side in seconds.

“Hey, hey, baby, what’s wrong?” he asked, scooping her into his arms.

She buried her face in his hoodie, her tiny fingers gripping onto him like he might disappear. “I-I don’ wanna play ‘lone no more,” she hiccupped.

Chris felt his chest tighten. He had been so busy lately—editing, filming, working—that he hadn’t realized just how lonely she’d been feeling.

Guilt hit him like a truck.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head. “I’m so sorry. Daddy’s got you now, okay? No more being alone.”

She sniffled against his chest. “Pwomise?”

Chris pulled back just enough to wipe her tiny tears away. “I promise, my love. We’re having a Daddy-Daughter Day starting right now.”

And he meant it.

For the rest of the day, Chris spoiled her completely.

They had a tea party on the living room floor, where he wore a pink tiara and pretended to be a princess. Then, he let her do his makeup with her little playset, even though she kept poking him in the eye with her tiny brush.

When she got hungry, he made her dinosaur-shaped pancakes for lunch because why not? And after eating, he took her to the store and let her pick out any toy she wanted—she, of course, chose another Barbie, plus a stuffed unicorn that was almost as big as she was.

By the time they got home, she was beyond happy.

Chris carried her to the couch, letting her snuggle into his chest as they watched her favorite movie. He ran his fingers through her soft curls, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“You know Daddy loves you more than anything, right?” he murmured.

She nodded sleepily, gripping his hoodie. “Love you, Daddy…”

Chris smiled, holding her close. “I love you more, baby.”

And from that day on, he made damn sure she never felt lonely again.

[seospicybin]

WORSHIP.

CHAPTER II

I.N x reader. (s,a)

Chapters: Chapter I

Synopsis: In the quiet halls of the church and the secrecy of the night, boundaries are tested, faith is questioned, and desires threaten to consume both you and Jeongin. Some sins are easy to resist—others, once tasted, become impossible to forget. (17,4k words)

Author's note: Hot priest Jeongin returns! Please enjoy this one too and leave a feedback ♡

WORSHIP Playlist 🎧

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of my imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Be aware that there are mentions of alcohol addiction and self-harm implicitly.

The church is quiet, save for the distant murmur of prayers and the soft creak of old wooden pews. Outside, the scent of burning incense lingering in the air, wrapping around the sacred space like a whisper of devotion. Candles flicker along the altar, their golden light casting shifting shadows against stained glass, illuminating stories of faith, sacrifice, and redemption.

But in the privacy of his office, Jeongin feels none of that.

The sanctity of the church should be enough to steady him, to remind him of his place, of his duty. And yet, as he stands before you, his pulse thrums unsteadily beneath his skin, loud enough that he wonders if you can hear it too.

You’re still close—so close that he can feel the warmth of your body in the dimly lit space. The air between you is thick, heavy with something unspoken, something dangerous. It coils around him, testing the limits of his restraint, daring him to step over a line he swore never to cross again.

He should say something. He should tell you to leave, that this—whatever this is—has to stop. But his voice betrays him, staying lodged in his throat as his gaze drifts to your lips, remembering the way they felt against his only moments ago.

His mind is a mess, tangled between restraint and desire, faith and something that feels just as powerful. But when he looks at you—at your glassy eyes, at the way your lips part as if searching for something to say—his resolve fractures.

And then, before he can stop himself, he kisses you.

The moment his lips meet yours, Jeongin feels his world shift. It's soft, tentative at first, but the second he feels you respond—your fingers tightening around his, the slight tilt of your head, the way you sigh against his mouth—something deep within him crumbles.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this is dangerous, that crossing this line again will only complicate everything further. But with you pressed close, his hands finding their way to your waist, he feels everything else slip away—the church, his vows, the weight of his title. Right now, none of it exists. There is only you.

A part of him waits for guilt to settle in, for the crushing weight of his conscience to pull him back. But it doesn’t come. Instead, all he feels is warmth—the kind he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in so long.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the quiet space between you. His hands linger at your sides, hesitant, as if unsure whether to let go or pull you closer.

“This… isn’t right,” he murmurs, but even as he says it, he doesn’t move away.

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you search his face, as if trying to understand what’s going on inside his head. When you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper.

“Then why does it feel like it is?”

Jeongin closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. He doesn’t have an answer. Maybe because part of him agrees. Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want to fight it.

But wanting something doesn’t make it right.

And yet, as you stand there in the quiet of his office, as he traces the shape of you with his fingertips, Jeongin wonders if maybe—just maybe—this is the one sin he’s willing to commit.

-

Jeongin moves before he can think.

One second, he’s battling the storm inside him, and the next, his hands are on you—grasping, pulling, pressing. Your back meets the bookshelves with a soft thud, the scent of aged paper and ink mixing with the warmth of his breath as his lips crash against yours. It’s desperate, consuming, a kiss that speaks of everything he’s tried to bury.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, and he groans against your mouth, his grip tightening on your waist as he presses you further against the shelves. Books shift, a few tumbling to the floor, but neither of you notice. The weight of restraint, of months spent apart, shatters between you.

Then, suddenly, he lifts you—strong hands curling under your thighs as he carries you across the room. The edge of his desk meets your stomach as he turns you, his fingers splaying over your spine, guiding you down. Your breath hitches as he leans over you, his lips trailing along the curve of your shoulder, his hands exploring, worshiping.

As for his hands, they're busy pulling, yanking your underwear down and once it's pooling around your ankle, ha palms your sex, feeling your clit pulsating with every gentle rub of his fingers on it.

The room is silent save for the ragged breaths you share, the faint creak of wood beneath you, and the whispered remnants of his resolve unraveling with every movement.

Here, in the dim glow of his office, Jeongin surrenders. Not to temptation, not to sin—but to the undeniable truth that when he’s with you, he feels whole.

The moment he fully sinks into you, he pauses, giving you a moment to adjust to his size. He hears you breathe in and out, and then suck in a sharp, needy inhale as his hand land on your clit again and begin circling on it. He doesn’t move for several long moments, simply letting you feel his whole length inside you.

His hands grip your hips, fingers pressing into your skin as if to remind himself that you're real—that this moment isn't some fleeting dream. He moves with urgency, with hunger, each motion a confession of everything he's tried to suppress. The need, the longing, the ache of your absence—it all unravels in the way he takes you.

Your body molds against him, meeting every touch, every thrust with the same desperate need. A sharp gasp escapes you, followed by another, and another, until your voice grows louder, echoing through the quiet of the office.

Panic flickers in Jeongin’s eyes. The church is vast, but sound carries, and the thought of anyone hearing you—of anyone knowing—sends a jolt through him. Without thinking, he presses a hand over your mouth, his breath hot against the back of your neck as he whispers, “Shh…”

But even as he says it, he knows he's lost. Knows he can't stop, can't pull away, can't pretend he doesn’t want this, doesn’t need this. And the way you tremble beneath him, the way you don’t resist—only sink further into his touch—tells him that you don’t want him to stop either.

The desk creaks beneath you, your bodies moving in sync, tangled between want and something deeper, something unspoken. His hand remains over your mouth, but your muffled moans still break through, each one unraveling him further.

He’s never wanted anything more than this—than you. And right now, nothing else exists.

Jeongin's grip tightens on your waist, his pace unrelenting, his body pressed firmly against yours. His breath is hot against your ear as he leans in, voice low, teasing, sinful.

"Do you want the whole church to hear you?" he murmurs, his tone laced with something dark, something wicked. "Want someone to walk in and see you like this? See you bent over my desk, moaning like a sinner?"

A shiver runs down your spine at his words, a rush of heat pooling in your core. He feels it—the way your body clenches around him, the way you react to his taunts—and it only spurs him on.

"You like that idea, don’t you?" he breathes, his fingers trailing up your back, your skin burning under his touch. "Filthy."

Your muffled whimper against his palm betrays you, and Jeongin chuckles, the sound deep, knowing. His other hand slides down, gripping your hip tighter as he pushes into you with more force, more purpose.

"Maybe I should take my hand away," he muses, teasing. "Let them hear exactly how much you love this."

But he doesn’t. He keeps his hand firmly over your mouth, swallowing every desperate sound you make, as if he knows you’d be too loud—too lost in the pleasure he’s giving you. And that thought alone—knowing how much he affects you—undoes him completely.

"You like this, don’t you?" he murmurs, his voice a deep whisper against your ear. "The thought of someone hearing, of someone knowing what I’m doing to you right now."

Your body tenses at his words, a shudder rolling through you as your fingers curl against the polished wood. You shouldn’t like it—shouldn’t crave it the way you do—but the way his voice drips with something almost sinful makes your breath hitch.

Jeongin chuckles softly, pressing a kiss against the back of your shoulder, his lips warm against your skin. "You're so eager for me," he muses, his grip tightening, his pace unrelenting. "Maybe it’s a good thing I covered your mouth. Otherwise, the whole church would know just how filthy you sound when I touch you like this."

Your muffled whimper is his only answer, and it only fuels him further. His restraint is fraying, unraveling with every desperate sound you make beneath his palm. The weight of his presence, the heat of his body against yours—it’s overwhelming. Consuming.

Jeongin pulls out just to push it back in, hard enough that he launches you forward, he continues thrusting and slides a hand around your hips to play with your clit. Three or four strokes later, and you come around him.

He follows you over the edge, chanting your name like a prayer andAnd in this moment, with nothing but the heavy scent of old books and candle wax in the air, Jeongin lets himself forget. Forget the weight of his collar. Forget the vows he’s breaking. Forget the world beyond these four walls.

Right now, there is only you.

-

The weight of the moment still lingers in the air, thick and heady, as Jeongin slowly exhales. His hands move on their own accord, instinctively smoothing down your dress as he kneels before you. His breath is warm against your skin as he leans in, his lips brushing over the inside of your thigh, a soft kiss before his tongue flicks out to taste the remnants of himself on you.

A quiet gasp leaves your lips as your fingers weave into his hair, but Jeongin doesn’t linger—not this time. He’s gentle, thorough, his hands gripping your legs steady as he cleans up the mess he made with his slick, hot tongue, the intimacy of it making something tighten in his chest.

Once he’s finished, he reaches for your discarded underwear, sliding it back up your legs with careful hands. His fingers graze your skin as he adjusts the hem of your dress, his touch lingering a second too long before he finally stands.

Neither of you speak as he helps you straighten your clothes, his hands smoothing out the wrinkles on your sleeves, then reaching down to pick up your purse from where it had fallen. When he hands it to you, your fingers brush, and you look up at him, searching his face.

“Can I see you again?” you ask softly.

Jeongin hesitates for only a second, but he already knows the answer. He’s too far gone to turn back now. His fingers find their way to your hair, gently tucking a stray strand behind your ear as he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips.

"Tomorrow," he murmurs, his voice low, steady. "I'll see you again tomorrow."

A small smile plays at your lips, and something inside Jeongin eases at the sight. But the moment is fleeting, the reality of where you are settling back in as he glances toward the door. Without another word, he kisses you again, quick and rushed, as if afraid someone might walk in and shatter this fragile moment.

Then, with one last glance, you turn toward the door. As you step out of his office, you flash him a smile—soft, knowing—and then you’re gone.

Jeongin stands there for a moment, staring at the closed door, his heart pounding against his ribs.

Tomorrow.

It should scare him. It should make him second-guess everything. But instead, all he can think about is how he already can’t wait to see you again.

-

The café is tucked away on a quiet street, far enough from Jeongin’s neighborhood that he doesn’t have to worry about running into anyone familiar. Still, as he steps inside, a flicker of unease settles in his chest. His eyes scan the room, searching—until they land on you.

You're sitting by the window, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, absentmindedly stirring the liquid with your spoon. Sunlight filters through the glass, casting a soft glow on your skin, and when you finally notice him standing by the entrance, your face lights up.

Jeongin’s breath catches.

It’s ridiculous, really. He’s been with you before—held you, kissed you, memorized the way your body fits against his. And yet, standing here now, watching the way your lips curve into a smile just for him, he feels his heart stutter like a nervous teenager on his first date.

His first date.

A strange thought, but an accurate one. He hasn’t done this—met someone in a café, taken the time to sit across from them and just exist together—for over three years. The realization unsettles him, but before he can dwell on it, you wave him over.

“Hey,” you greet, your voice warm, inviting. “You made it.”

He exhales, pushing away his hesitation, and moves toward you. “Of course,” he says, pulling out the chair across from you. “Sorry, I—” He clears his throat. “Didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?”

You shake your head. “Not at all.”

For a moment, there’s a beat of quiet between you, but it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable. Jeongin watches as you take a sip of your drink, your eyes flickering toward him with something unreadable in them—something soft, something patient. It grounds him.

The conversation starts naturally, flowing like it always does between you two. You talk about little things—the café, the pastries, the books stacked neatly on a nearby shelf. At one point, Jeongin admits he hasn’t been to a place like this in years, and you smile at him knowingly.

“I guess it does feel a little… date-like,” you tease, your eyes glinting with amusement.

Jeongin scoffs lightly, though his ears burn at the comment. “It’s just coffee.”

“Mm.” You hum, stirring your drink again. “And what if I told you I liked the idea of it being a date?”

He swallows hard, fingers tightening around his cup. “Then…” He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Then I’d be in trouble, wouldn’t I?”

You grin at that, tilting your head slightly as if studying him. Before he can overthink whatever it is you’re searching for in his face, you reach into your bag and pull something out, sliding it across the table toward him.

Jeongin blinks.

It’s his book—his latest one, the one he spent months agonizing over, the one he thought you’d never read.

“I was going to ask you last time,” you say, tapping the cover. “But… we were kind of preoccupied.”

Heat rises to his face as flashes of last night fill his mind. He coughs, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. Preoccupied.”

You laugh softly before sliding a pen toward him. “Would you please sign it for me?”

Jeongin hesitates, his fingers brushing against the book’s worn edges. He should’ve expected this—he’s signed copies for other readers before. But something about this feels different. More intimate.

Carefully, he flips open the cover, pen poised above the blank page. “What do you want me to write?”

You shrug. “Whatever you want.”

That’s almost worse.

Jeongin takes a moment, staring at the empty space in front of him. He could just sign his name and be done with it. But instead, his hand moves on its own, words flowing before he can second-guess them.

To the one who sees me, in ways no one else ever has.

He pauses, pressing his lips together before adding his signature beneath it.

When he finally pushes the book back to you, you glance down at the page, eyes skimming over his handwriting. Jeongin watches closely, nervous for some reason, but when you look up at him again, there’s something softer in your expression. Something that tugs at the deepest part of him.

“Thank you,” you murmur, tracing the edge of the book.

He nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”

And just like that, the café, the people, the outside world—it all fades into the background. For this moment, it’s just the two of you. Just coffee, a book, and something unspoken lingering between you.

-

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting streaks of gold and orange across the horizon as Jeongin walks beside you. The air is crisp, filled with the quiet hum of the city winding down, the occasional laughter of children playing in the distance, the rustle of leaves beneath your feet.

For a while, neither of you say anything. It’s a comfortable silence, one that Jeongin has grown to cherish. But then, you sigh, gaze flickering toward the sky as if searching for something.

“A lot happened in the last four months,” you murmur.

Jeongin turns his head slightly, giving you his full attention. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I graduated.”

His lips curl into a smile. “I knew you would. Congratulations on that!”

You let out a quiet laugh, but there’s something tired in the way you do it. “Thank you. I also got an internship at a magazine.”

“That’s great,” Jeongin says, genuine. “You always wanted that, right?”

“I did,” you admit. “It’s been… busy, but I’m learning a lot.”

There’s something unspoken in the way you say it, and Jeongin waits, knowing there’s more.

You take a deep breath before continuing, “I moved out of my parents’ house.”

That catches him off guard. He blinks, processing your words. “You did?”

You nod again, but this time, your expression shifts—like you’re remembering something heavy, something that weighs on you. “My mother refused the idea. We fought about it. She said I was being selfish, that I didn’t think about the family.” You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “It got bad. And now… we’re not really on good terms.”

Jeongin listens intently as you speak, taking in every word, every hesitation, every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. But what truly catches his attention is your hand—the way it drifts to your thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt, pressing down, gripping tighter with every mention of your mother. He knows that kind of pain, the kind that doesn’t just exist in your heart but demands to be felt in your body, as if hurting yourself physically could somehow lessen the ache inside.

“I don’t really have anyone now,” you say softly.

And maybe you don’t even realize you’re doing it, but he sees the way your nails press into your skin, the way you try to keep your voice even when it trembles at the edges.

Before he can think twice, he reaches out, gently prying your fingers away and taking your hand in his. His grip is firm but warm, grounding. Your breath hitches slightly, eyes darting to where his fingers intertwine with yours.

"You’re not alone," Jeongin says softly, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

You look up at him, startled, as if hearing those words out loud shakes something loose inside you.

"Sometimes we have to leave things behind, even people we love, to become who we’re meant to be," he continues. "And it hurts. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry it all by yourself."

Your fingers twitch in his grasp, but you don’t pull away. Instead, after a moment, you squeeze his hand back, just barely—but enough for Jeongin to feel it.

He exhales, a quiet relief settling over him.

It’s such a simple thing. Just holding hands. And yet, standing here, feeling your warmth, feeling the way your fingers fit so perfectly between his—he knows this isn’t simple at all.

Holding your hand isn’t just about stopping you from hurting yourself. It’s a silent promise, a reassurance that even in the spaces where the past still lingers, where the pain still throbs—you’re not alone.

And he likes it. He likes the way it feels, how easy it is, how right it seems. He likes that everyone around can see that you’re with him and he’s with you, like any other couple walking through the park. Just two people enjoying the sunset together.

Forgetting, just for a moment, that there’s anything complicated about this at all.

-

As Jeongin walks you home, the city hums around you—the occasional car passing by, the distant chatter of pedestrians, the soft glow of streetlights casting elongated shadows against the pavement. But none of it registers, not really. Not when you're right beside him, your fingers occasionally brushing against his as you walk.

When you finally reach your apartment building, you stop at the entrance and turn to face him. The warm glow of the lights above the door softens your features, making you look even more beautiful, and Jeongin grips the edge of his sleeve to stop himself from reaching for you outright.

"Thank you for today," you say softly, your voice carrying a sincerity that makes something in his chest tighten. "I had a nice time."

He holds your gaze, his fingers twitching at his sides. His first instinct is to say something, anything, but the words don't come. Instead, his hand finds yours again, holding it between both of his, as if reluctant to let go.

A moment passes in silence.

Then, you ask, "Do you… want to come upstairs?"

Jeongin knows what will happen if he says yes. If he follows you up, if he steps into your apartment, if you’re alone together behind a locked door. His body wants to say yes. His heart wants to say yes. But his mind tells him to stop.

Not yet.

He swallows the urge and offers you a small, apologetic smile. "Maybe some other time."

You nod in understanding, though there's the smallest flicker of disappointment in your eyes. But it disappears as quickly as it came when you gather the courage to ask, "Is it too soon to ask when I can see you again?"

Jeongin exhales a soft laugh, warmth blooming in his chest at your shyness. "The church is giving out free ice cream this Sunday," he tells you. "You should come."

You smile. "I will."

He wants to hold you, to pull you against his chest and feel your warmth, not even in a way that would lead to something more—just to embrace you, to exist in this moment together. But it's too public, too risky.

So instead, he swallows the urge and nods toward the entrance. "You should head in."

You hesitate, as if reluctant to leave him. But then you nod, whisper a soft, "Goodnight," and turn toward the door.

He watches you take a few steps away, pausing at the entrance, glancing over your shoulder at him one last time before finally stepping inside.

As the door closes behind you, Jeongin lets out a deep breath, a realization settling heavily in his chest.

He just let you go. And he doesn’t want to.

Before he can stop himself, he moves. His feet carry him forward, past the entrance and up the stairs, two at a time.

When you hear his hurried footsteps, you stop on the landing and turn around, eyes widening slightly when you see him coming up to meet you. He slows as he reaches you, stopping one step lower so that, for once, you're at the same height.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then, Jeongin reaches out, his hand cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek. He kisses you. Softly, gently—so different from the way he kissed you last night. There’s no urgency, no desperation, just a quiet reverence, a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he’s terrified he’ll never get to do this again.

And then he pulls away, though not entirely. His lips linger close, his breath still warm against yours, as if he isn’t quite ready to break the moment.

Finally, he steps back, his lips curving into a small smile. "Goodnight," he whispers.

And then, before he can change his mind, he turns and makes his way back down the stairs.

As he steps onto the street, he exhales slowly, his fingers brushing over his lips, still tingling from your kiss.

-

The church is filled with soft murmurs, the rustle of pages turning in hymnbooks, the occasional cough echoing against the high ceilings. Stained glass windows filter the morning light into fractured colors, casting hues of red, blue, and gold onto the congregation. It should feel like any other Sunday, another routine sermon, another familiar rhythm of prayers and scripture.

But Jeongin knows this Sunday is different.

Because you’re here.

He suppresses the smile threatening to curl at his lips, instead lowering his gaze to the pages of his Bible, feigning concentration. But no matter how hard he tries to focus, his mind keeps drifting—to the soft lilt of your voice, the way you looked at him two nights ago on the stairs, the feeling of your lips against his.

The knowledge that you’re sitting among the parishioners, listening to his sermon, sends a strange warmth coursing through his veins. It’s an awareness that settles deep within him, a silent anticipation that he tries desperately to suppress. He shouldn’t be this excited to see you.

And yet, as he stands at the pulpit, addressing the congregation, his eyes instinctively scan the pews until they land on you.

You’re near the middle, sitting quietly among the others, your hands folded neatly in your lap. Your head is bowed slightly, your eyes fixed on him with an attentiveness that makes his pulse stutter.

For a fleeting moment, the rest of the church fades away.

It’s just you. Just him.

Then, realizing he’s lingering too long, Jeongin quickly looks away, clearing his throat before continuing his sermon.

He reminds himself to keep his voice steady, to not let the words tremble with the weight of knowing you’re watching him. But even as he speaks about faith and devotion, about God’s plan and the strength to follow it, he wonders—if he were to step down from the pulpit, if he were to walk through the pews and take your hand in his… would that be straying from God’s path?

Or was it possible… that you were part of it?

The thought lingers, even as he bows his head in prayer, even as the choir sings its final hymn.

And when the mass ends and people begin to file out, Jeongin finds himself searching for you again, anticipation thrumming beneath his skin.

Because this Sunday, for the first time in a long time, he’s not just waiting for the service to be over.

He’s waiting for you.

-

The late morning sun casts a warm glow over the churchyard, the air filled with the laughter of children as they eagerly crowd around the ice cream booth. Their voices blend together, bright and full of excitement, their small hands reaching out for the free treats.

Jeongin spots you standing a few feet away from the scene, watching with a faint smile, your hands tucked into the sleeves of your cardigan. He approaches, keeping a safe distance between you, aware of the parishioners mingling nearby.

“You’re not joining them?” he asks, tilting his head toward the booth.

You shake your head, amusement flickering in your eyes. “I don’t want to get hurt.”

He laughs at that, the sound coming naturally, effortlessly. “You’re lucky you’re with me, then. I can get you one without queuing.”

Before you can protest, he turns on his heel and heads toward the booth. The kids part easily for him, greeting him with bright smiles and playful chatter, and within moments, he returns with a small cup of ice cream in hand.

“Here.” He hands it to you, and for the briefest moment, your fingers brush against his as you take it from him.

It’s nothing—just a fleeting touch, a second of contact. And yet, the sensation lingers, a jolt of electricity shooting through him. He quickly looks away, willing himself to act normal, but it’s difficult when you look so beautiful today. When all he wants to do is hold you, pull you closer, press a kiss to the corner of your mouth just to see you smile like that again.

Instead, the two of you stand there in silence, side by side, neither of you quite knowing how to act.

Then, you clear your throat, breaking the quiet. “I, um… I won’t be able to see you for a couple of days.”

Jeongin blinks, glancing at you. “Oh?”

You nod, stirring your ice cream with the small plastic spoon. “I have a work trip—just two days. I’ll be back soon.”

A teasing smirk tugs at his lips. “I thought you were going to ask when you can see me again.”

You laugh softly, a little shy, a little flustered. “Well… maybe I was.”

He’s about to respond, to say something he shouldn’t, when a voice calls his name.

“Father Yang!”

He turns to see a parishioner approaching, one that he recognizes has been a generous donor to the church, smiling warmly as he makes his way over.

And just like that, the moment is gone.

You step back almost instantly, gripping your cup of ice cream a little tighter. “I should go,” you say quickly, nodding toward Jeongin before offering the other man a polite smile. “Thank you for the ice cream.”

Before he can say anything, before he can even think, you turn and walk away, disappearing into the crowd.

Jeongin exhales slowly, watching you go, his fingers curling into his palm as he swallows the urge to follow.

-

Jeongin tries to focus. He really does.

The late afternoon sun filters through the church windows, casting golden light across the wooden pews, the air thick with the lingering scent of incense. The afternoon mass had gone smoothly, the hymns sung beautifully, the prayers spoken with quiet devotion. But even as he stood at the altar, delivering his sermon, his mind wandered elsewhere—to you.

You, with your soft voice and bright eyes.

You, with your laughter that still echoed in his ears.

You, walking away from him after mass, leaving him with nothing but the ghost of your touch and the lingering scent of your perfume.

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face as he steps outside, hoping that the cool air will clear his mind. He has some free time before the Bible studies, and a part of him hopes that the distraction will be enough to keep his thoughts at bay.

As if you sense that he's drifting away from you, his phone buzzes inside hus pocket. He pulls it out and sure enough, your name lights up his screen, a simple message waiting for him:

Can I call you?

Jeongin's breath catches, his thumb hovering over the screen. He looks around the church, empty except for a few parishioners coming into the church to pray in the peaceful silence.

With that, he turns on his heel, making his way toward his office. His pace quickens with every step, anticipation buzzing beneath his skin.

Jeongin shuts the door behind him, leaning against the solid wood as he exhales. His phone is still buzzing in his palm, your name glowing on the screen. He hesitates only for a second before accepting the call, bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

There’s silence for a brief moment, just the soft sound of your breath filtering through the line. Then—

“I’m so wet.”

Jeongin stiffens. His grip on the phone tightens. “What?”

A quiet laugh escapes you, breathy and teasing, but there’s a slight tremble beneath it. “I started thinking about you… and I just—” You sigh, the sound dragging against his nerves like a slow burn. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Jeongin swallows, his throat suddenly dry. His free hand flexes at his side before gripping the edge of his desk. “Where are you?” His voice is lower than he expected.

“My hotel room,” you murmur. “Lying on my bed… naked, touching myself.”

A sharp breath leaves him, and he clenches his jaw. His mind floods with images he shouldn’t entertain, things he shouldn’t want, yet his body betrays him, heat pooling low in his stomach. He exhales through his nose, tilting his head back slightly.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice comes out rough, unsteady.

“You,” you admit without hesitation. “Your hands, your lips… how you feel against me. I want you, Jeongin.”

His breath shudders as his restraint frays. His fingers move almost unconsciously, yanking open the front of his dark slacks. The pressure has been building since the moment you spoke, his body responding before he could stop it.

He shifts against the desk, eyes fluttering shut. “Tell me more.”

You do.

“My legs are spreading open and it makes me think of you kneeling between them.”

Jeongin exhales sharply, his fingers tightening around the phone as your voice filters through the speaker. The sound of your breath, the quiet rustle of fabric—he can picture it too vividly.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough around the edges. His free hand moves to palm over himself, feeling the ache growing unbearable. “What are you doing now?”

A shaky sigh comes from your end. “I’m spreading my legs wider,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m running my fingers down—” You cut off with a soft, unsteady breath. “It’s so wet, Jeongin. I need you inside me.”

His name leaving your lips like that sends a sharp pulse of heat through him. He groans under his breath, finally giving in as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly.

“Keep going,” he tells you, his voice strained.

“I’m making a mess on my bed and I wish... wish it was your cock instead of my fingers.”

You describe everything in vivid detail, every touch, every movement, every filthy thought that runs through your mind. And Jeongin—he can’t help it. His fingers tighten, his strokes becoming more deliberate, matching the rhythm of your breathless moans.

“I want you in my hand, in my mouth, inside me... I want you all over me.”

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this is wrong. But right now, with the way you sound, the way you’re whispering his name like a prayer—he’s too far gone to care.

Jeongin’s grip on the phone tightens when his screen lights up with a notification—your name, followed by a video attachment. His breath catches in his throat.

He knows he shouldn’t open it. He knows this is crossing another line. But with your breathless voice still in his ear, whispering filthy things, he doesn’t even hesitate.

The video loads, and then he sees you—naked, spread out on the bed, fingers disappearing between your legs, your lips parted in a soft moan as you arch slightly against the mattress.

Jeongin exhales sharply, his jaw clenching.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his hand tightening around himself.

On the other end of the line, you let out a breathy giggle. “Do you like it?”

His eyes stay glued to the screen, his chest rising and falling heavily. “You’re a dirty girl,” he rasps. “Filthy.”

You hum at that, clearly pleased by his reaction. “Only for you.”

His fingers flex against the phone. “If you were here right now,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “I’d have you bent over this desk.”

You let out a soft, needy whimper.

“I’d have spanked you,” he continues, his tone dark with promise. “For being so shameless. For teasing me like this.”

Your breath stutters, and Jeongin feels a twisted sense of satisfaction knowing how much his words affect you.

“Would you like that?” he taunts. “Would you take it, like a good girl?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge.

His movements grow erratic, his head tilting back as pleasure crashes through him. He groans lowly, your name slipping past his lips as he comes undone.

Silence stretches between you after, filled only by the sound of your quiet breaths.

Jeongin swallows hard, still gripping his phone like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment. He shouldn’t have done that. He knows it. But right now, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

Finally, he exhales a small chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re dangerous.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “And yet, you can’t resist me.”

He rubs a hand over his face, a helpless smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he admits. “I can’t.”

The tension coils tighter inside him, his breathing uneven as he leans heavily against the desk. His grip on the phone trembles slightly, his fingers flexing against the smooth surface.

“Jeongin,” you whimper, and he swears he can feel it—feel you—even though you’re miles away.

His jaw clenches, his movements turning almost desperate. “I wish I was there,” he admits, his voice thick with need. “I wish I could touch you myself.”

“Me too,” you whisper. “I need you.”

That’s all it takes.

His restraint snaps like a thread pulled too tight, and with a low, guttural sound, he comes undone—his mind drowning in thoughts of you, his body giving in to the pleasure you so easily draw from him.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your unsteady breaths and his own. Then, silence.

Jeongin swallows, forcing his breathing to steady. He runs a hand through his hair, his heart still hammering against his ribs. He shouldn’t have done that. He knows it. But he doesn’t regret a single second of it.

Finally, he clears his throat, bringing the phone back to his ear. “Are you okay?”

You let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Yeah. Are you?”

He exhales a small chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

You hum, a warm, content sound. “I miss you.”

Jeongin closes his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips despite everything.

“I miss you too.”

The moment the high fades, reality crashes back in like a tidal wave.

Jeongin blinks, chest still rising and falling, as his eyes dart to his desk—where he’s just made an absolute mess. His stomach twists in a mix of guilt and disbelief.

Here. In his office.

His hands move on instinct, grabbing tissues from the drawer, hurriedly wiping away any evidence of what just happened. His mind races as he works, as if cleaning the desk can somehow cleanse him of the sin lingering in his veins.

But it’s not just about the act itself—it’s the way he felt during it. The way he surrendered so easily, the way he let your voice, your breathy moans, your whispered confessions unravel him entirely.

And worst of all? The way he still wants more.

His phone buzzes again.

Did you make a mess?

Jeongin swallows, discarding the last of the tissues before picking up his phone again. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he types back:

Yes and you're in big trouble.

Your reply comes almost instantly.

If I were there, I'd lick every drop off you.

A breath of laughter escapes him—soft, barely there. He leans back against the desk, running a hand through his hair, and sighs.

If you were here, it all would have gone into your tight little cunt.

A second later, his phone buzzes with your response.

Yes, please.

-

Jeongin tells himself it’s just a matter of hours now. Less than a day until he sees you again. He only has to wait.

And yet, someone interrupting his focus as he helps set up the hall for tonight’s lecture, one hand carrying a stack of hymn books he’s arranging.

"Jeongin!"

He looks up and immediately recognizes the familiar figure approaching him—Father Hwang. A smile tugs at his lips as he steps forward. "Sam," he greets, using the name he's always called him by. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm the guest lecturer for tonight," Sam says with a grin, adjusting the strap of his satchel over his shoulder. "Figured I’d get here early and catch up with you."

Jeongin nods, welcoming the distraction as they fall into step together.

“How have you been?” Sam asks, glancing at him curiously. “Still writing?”

Jeongin lets out a small chuckle. “Yeah. My latest book came out a few months ago.”

“I heard.” Sam smirks. “A detective novel, right?”

Jeongin nods. “It’s doing well, I think. I haven’t really been keeping track.”

“Well, my sister’s a fan. She told me I should ask you for an autograph while I’m here.”

Jeongin laughs at that. “I didn’t know she read my books.”

“Oh, she does. She even said she has a theory about your next one,” Sam says, nudging him playfully. “She thinks the main detective and the love interest are finally going to get together.”

Jeongin swallows, his smile faltering for a split second. Love interest. The word alone makes something in his chest tighten.

Sam notices the change in his expression. “You okay?”

Jeongin forces a small smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Sam hums, clearly unconvinced but doesn’t push further. Instead, he changes the subject. “How’s life here? The church? Everything going well?”

Jeongin nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Everything’s… normal.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at his choice of words. “Normal?”

Jeongin hesitates. “I guess.”

Sam studies him for a moment before shaking his head with a knowing smile. “You know, I always admired how devoted you are to this life. Even when we were in seminary, you were so sure about your path. It was never a question for you.”

Jeongin opens his mouth to respond, but the words catch in his throat. Because for the first time in years, he isn’t sure if that’s still true.

Before he can dwell on the thought, his phone buzzes in his pocket. At first, he ignores it, keeping his attention on Sam. But then it vibrates again.

He hesitates, already knowing who it is before he even pulls out his phone.

A part of him feels guilty—he hasn’t seen Sam in months, and cutting their conversation short would be rude. But at the same time… he wants to hear your voice. To talk to you, even if just for a few minutes.

Sam, perceptive as ever, glances at Jeongin’s phone and chuckles. “You should get that.”

Jeongin looks up, startled. “I—”

Sam waves him off with an easy smile. “Go on. I need go get ready anyway.”

Jeongin hesitates for only a moment before nodding. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll catch up with you later.”

He pulls out his phone, unlocking the screen with an ease that speaks to how often he checks his messages these days.

I'm here.

Two words. That’s all it takes to send his pulse into a frenzy.

Here?

Panic grips him before he can stop it. The church is busy tonight—people are arriving early, chatting, gathering in the halls. What if someone sees you? What if someone knows?

He presses the call button before his thoughts can spiral further. The moment you pick up, he’s already walking, leaving behind his task without a second thought.

“Where are you?” His voice is hushed, urgent.

“In the hallway,” you answer.

Jeongin doesn’t hesitate. His feet move faster, shifting from a brisk walk to an outright run as he pushes past the heavy wooden doors and into the dimly lit hall. His breath catches the second he sees you.

Standing beneath the glow of flickering candles, you look almost unreal—soft, waiting, your expression easing into a smile the moment your eyes meet his. Relief crosses your face, as if you had been holding your breath this whole time.

He doesn’t stop to think. He reaches for you, his hands finding yours, gripping them tightly. “Why are you here?” His voice is barely above a whisper, but the question carries weight.

You squeeze his hands, your fingers curling around his and a grin painted your face. “I just couldn’t wait to see you again.”

His heart stumbles in his chest. He shouldn’t feel this way—shouldn’t feel this kind of elation just from your words, just from the way you look at him like he’s someone you’ve longed for.

But he does.

He shifts closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, ready—so ready—to taste you again. But just as he tilts his head, footsteps echo down the hall, followed by murmured voices.

His stomach lurches.

Without thinking, he grabs your wrist and pulls you toward the church doors. You don’t resist, letting him lead you past the altar and toward the confessionals at the back. He tugs open the wooden door of one of the booths, glancing around quickly before whispering, “Get inside.”

You don’t ask why. You just obey, slipping into the tight space, the scent of aged wood and candle wax surrounding you.

Jeongin follows a second later, shutting the door behind him. The moment the latch clicks into place, his restraint crumbles. His hands cup your face. His lips find yours.

The kiss is urgent, reckless—nothing like the gentle press he gave you last night on the stairs. This is raw, a collision of breath and need, the kind of kiss that speaks of stolen moments and unspoken desires.

You sigh against him, melting into his touch, and Jeongin thinks—God forgive me, I don’t want to stop.

-

The confessional is small, barely enough space for two people, but in this moment, Jeongin uses that to his advantage. Your back is pressed against the wooden wall, breath uneven, lips swollen from his kiss. His hands tremble where they rest on your waist, the weight of what he’s about to do pressing down on him, but it’s nothing compared to the fire burning in his veins.

"You really couldn’t wait, could you?" His voice is low, just above a whisper, yet it carries the sharp edge of control. "Had to come find me here, of all places?"

You shake your head, but your body betrays you, pressing closer as if drawn by something stronger than logic.

Jeongin exhales, his hand trailing lower, fingertips teasing the hem of your skirt. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows where you are, knows the kind of sin he’s inviting.

And yet—

His fingers slip beneath the fabric, his hand easily finds the heat pooling between your legs and the sharp breath you take in nearly makes him curse. You’re warm, soft, and so wet, so... ready for him. The realization sends a shudder through him.

"Bad girl," he breathes against your ear. "So desperate you made me do this here."

You whimper, a sound too loud for a place like this. He doesn’t even think—his free hand is on you instantly, fingers slipping between your lips, pressing down against your tongue to stifle your noises.

"Shh," he warns, dark amusement lacing his voice. "Or do you want someone to hear how filthy you are right now?"

Your breath hitches. He smirks.

His fingers move deeper, slow and deliberate, feeling the way your body reacts to him, the way you tense and then soften, surrendering to his touch. He leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"You’d like that, wouldn’t you?" His voice is barely audible, a ghost of a sound against your skin. "Want someone to walk in and see what I’m doing to you? See how you let me ruin you in the house of God?"

Jeongin works on your clit in earnest now, circling it hard and fast, loving the way you’re thrusting against his hand.

You whimper around his fingers, your body trembling as you struggle to keep quiet. The thought alone makes heat coil low in his stomach, his own restraint hanging by a thread.

"I could do this all day."

But Jeongin isn't ready to let go just yet.

Not when you’re this vulnerable beneath him. Not when you’re this beautiful in your surrender.

The tension inside you snaps, waves of pleasure rolling through you under his relentless touch. He feels it—the way you shudder, the way your fingers clutch desperately at his wrist as if to anchor yourself. He doesn’t stop, not yet, not until he’s sure he’s wrung every last bit of pleasure from you.

When you finally go limp against him, he exhales a shaky breath, wrapping an arm around you to hold you up. His lips find your temple, then your cheek, soft kisses pressing into your skin as you come down from your high.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his voice thick with something unspoken. His fingers—now wet with your release—trail up to your hip, lingering there before he finally pulls away.

You sigh, eyes fluttering open to meet his. There’s warmth there, something tender despite everything that just transpired between these walls.

Jeongin swallows, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells you, voice softer now. “Until then…” He smirks faintly, tilting your chin up. “Be a good girl and go home.”

You nod, though your fingers curl slightly in the fabric of his sleeve, reluctant to step away. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before he’s kissing you again—slow, deep, as if he’s memorizing the shape of your lips against his. He lingers, drinking you in, letting himself have this moment before he has to let you go.

Eventually, he does.

With one last look, you slip out of the confessional, smoothing down your skirt, composing yourself. Jeongin stays behind, leaning against the wooden wall as he listens to the soft echo of your footsteps fading into the church hall.

As Jeongin takes his seat at the front of the lecture hall, he clasps his hands together, willing himself to focus. But then—he smells it. The faint, intoxicating scent of you lingers on his fingers, a ghost of what just happened in the confessional booth. He flexes his hand, bringing it closer to his lap, but it’s no use. The memory of you is branded onto his skin.

And then, there’s the smudge of color on his other fingers—a trace of your lipstick. It’s subtle, just a faint stain, but it’s enough to make his stomach tighten.

He should feel guilty. He should be ashamed. Instead, all he can think about is tomorrow.

-

Jeongin shifts the plastic bag in his grip, glancing at the number on your apartment door. His heart pounds in his chest, a steady, nervous rhythm that refuses to slow down. This shouldn’t be a big deal. He’s just bringing dinner. Just spending time with you. But something about standing here, outside of a place that is yours, away from the church, away from everything that defines him as Father Yang, unsettles him.

He raises a hand and knocks. The sound is firm but betrays the slight tremble in his fingers.

It only takes a moment before the door swings open, and then—there you are.

You’re smiling, bright and warm, like you’ve been waiting for him all day. And before he can say anything, you slip into him, wrapping your arms around his waist in a hug so natural, so easy, that his entire body relaxes before his mind can catch up. Your lips brush against his cheek, soft and fleeting, but it leaves warmth spreading across his skin.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you say softly, looking up at him.

And just like that, the tension in his chest vanishes. He forgets about the nerves, forgets about the careful restraint he had tried to build on his way here. It's just you. Just him. Just this moment.

His hand comes up to your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he tilts his head down. He doesn’t think—he just moves, closing the space between you and pressing his lips against yours in a soft, unhurried kiss.

And somehow, this feels right. Natural. Like he’s done this before—coming home to you, being welcomed into your warmth.

You stay like that for a moment, lips barely apart, breathing in each other’s air, until you pull away with a gentle tug on his wrist.

“Come in,” you say, still smiling.

The food is simple but warm, filling the space between you with something comforting. Jeongin hadn’t realized how much he needed this—an ordinary meal, shared with someone who looks at him like he’s more than just Father Yang, more than just a priest trying to keep himself together.

After dinner, you stand and pick up the wine bottle, pouring him a glass with a teasing smile. “It’s not communion wine, but I hope you like it.”

Jeongin huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he takes the glass. He follows you to the sofa, sitting beside you, still holding the wine as if unsure what to do with it.

“You look like you need it,” you add, tilting your head. “You’re so tense.”

Jeongin exhales through his nose, amused. He lifts the glass and takes a small sip, the rich taste spreading over his tongue. When he lowers the glass, he catches you watching him, your gaze steady and warm.

You reach out, your fingers brushing against his arm as you speak softly, “We don’t have to do anything. I just want to be with you. Get to know you better.”

Something in Jeongin eases at that. The tight coil of uncertainty unwinds, and he nods, taking another sip of his wine before glancing at you. “What do you want to know?”

At that, your eyes light up, and you shift closer, resting your elbow on the back of the sofa as you begin.

“What’s your coffee order?”

He blinks at the unexpected question, then chuckles. “Ice Americano. Extra shot.”

You hum thoughtfully, nodding. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“Uh…” Jeongin tilts his head, pretending to think. “Do I lose points if I say I don’t watch many movies?”

You gasp dramatically. “Unbelievable. We have to fix that.”

Jeongin laughs, fully relaxing into the cushions. The questions continue—his favorite color, his favorite season, if he has any siblings. With each answer, he feels more like himself—Jeongin, not just Father Yang. The more you learn about him, the more real he becomes, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel trapped in his own skin.

And then, he notices the way your eyelids grow heavy, the way your fingers curl loosely around the fabric of his sleeve as you fight off sleep. He watches you for a moment, the way your breathing slows, and then he brushes the hair away from your face as he murmurs, “It’s time for you to go to bed.”

You blink up at him sleepily, then reach for his hand, holding it gently between your fingers. “Will you stay?” Your voice is soft, hesitant. “Just until I fall asleep?”

Jeongin swallows, his heart skipping. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But the way you look at him, the quiet plea in your voice—it weakens him.

He nods. “Okay.”

You smile at that, tugging him toward the bed. Soon, he’s lying beside you, the two of you facing each other in the dim glow of your bedside lamp. The warmth of your body seeps into his, and he’s surrounded by the scent of you—clinging to the sheets, to the pillow, to the very air he breathes. It’s intoxicating, and yet, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

His arm is wrapped around you, holding you close as your head rests against his chest. He feels the steady rise and fall of your breaths. So quiet, peaceful, serene.

Then, in the quiet, you speak.

"You might think I don’t have to worry about anything because I have money," you whisper, voice barely above a breath. "But that’s not true. I’m scared. I feel so alone."

Jeongin’s heart clenches at your words. He tightens his hold on you, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles against your back. He understands. God, does he understand.

"I know what that’s like," he murmurs, his voice raw with something he rarely speaks of. "When I was struggling with my drinking… people turned their backs on me too. I had to deal with it alone, with no one to help me climb out of it."

You shift slightly, looking up at him with soft, searching eyes. "How did you do it?"

Jeongin exhales, his grip on you tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. "I just kept going. I clung to the belief that I could be better. That I could be more than my mistakes." He pauses. "But it was lonely. So lonely."

You reach up, your fingers grazing his cheek, grounding him in the present. "You’re not alone anymore."

His chest aches at your words, at the quiet sincerity in your voice.

"And neither are you," he whispers.

He tilts your chin up gently and presses a soft kiss to your lips—not out of desire, but out of understanding, of shared pain and quiet comfort. Then, he pulls you even closer, pressing his lips to the top of your head.

And in the dark, as he whispers quiet prayers against your skin, Jeongin feels it—this thing between you, slowly consuming him, pulling him under. Love.

And for once, he isn’t afraid of it.

-

The church is silent except for the flickering of candles and the distant creak of old wooden pews. Jeongin kneels before the altar, hands clasped together, eyes closed. The scent of burning wax fills his lungs as he exhales a breath that feels heavier than usual.

"Is this what You want from me?"

His whispered prayer disappears into the vast, hollow space of the church. He has never questioned his path before—not once since he took his vows. But now, every moment with you tugs at the very fabric of his being, unraveling convictions he once thought were unshakable.

You are not a temptation; you are warmth. Peace. Love. And yet, desire coils inside him like something he’s afraid to name.

"If I love her, does that mean I am failing You?"

Silence answers him, as it always does. He wishes for clarity, a sign, something to confirm whether this love is a blessing or a mistake. But all he has is the weight of it, pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.

The vibration of his phone in his pocket jolts him out of his thoughts. He blinks, the golden glow of the altar candles sharpening into focus as he pulls out his phone.

It’s a text from you.

What should I do? My mother wants to meet me tomorrow.

He can feel the nerves in that short message, the anxiety woven between each letter. He knows how much this weighs on you, how every interaction with your parents leaves unseen bruises on your heart.

His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before he types out his response.

Come to the church tonight.

He presses send. He will see you soon. And maybe, just maybe, being with you will quiet the storm inside him—if only for a little while.

The church is empty when Jeongin steps inside, the quiet humming around him like a sacred lullaby. But before he gets to you, he stops by his office, reaching into his desk drawer to retrieve something—his fingers brushing over cool beads before he carefully slips them into his pocket.

When he pushes through the wooden doors, his breath catches at the sight before him.

You’re not sitting in the pews, nor waiting by the entrance. You’re standing in front of the altar, bathed in the soft glow of flickering candlelight. Your head is tilted upward, eyes fixed on the crucifix, and in this moment, Jeongin swears you are in a state of divinity—here, now, standing in the presence of God.

He doesn’t feel like an intruder as he steps closer. If anything, it feels like he belongs in this moment too.

Slowly, he walks up behind you, his movements careful, reverent. And when he reaches you, he doesn’t stop. He lets his chest meet your back, his arms slip around your waist, his head rest beside yours.

You don’t flinch, don’t pull away. Instead, you lean into him. And then, in a hushed voice, you ask, “Do you feel it?”

Jeongin’s eyes flick to the crucifix before closing for a brief second. “Yes.”

Your voice is a whisper now. “Is this how you always feel when you pray?”

His lips curve into a small smile. “Not always but sometimes.”

And then, silence. Not the kind that feels empty, but the kind that feels full—of something holy, something sacred. The two of you just stay like that, breathing in the stillness, existing in the same presence. As if God Himself is here, witnessing this moment, embracing both of you as His children.

After a while, Jeongin turns his head slightly, and you do the same. Your gazes lock, an unspoken understanding passing between you. And then, as if guided by something beyond himself, Jeongin leans in.

The kiss is soft, slow—gentle in a way that doesn’t feel like it violates the sanctity of this place, but instead, becomes a part of it. Like this, too, is a prayer.

When he pulls away, he lingers, his forehead nearly touching yours. A breath, a heartbeat. Then, he slowly steps back, standing in front of you.

“I have something for you,” he says.

Curiosity sparks in your eyes. You watch as he reaches into his pocket, fingers closing around something before he carefully pulls it out. A rosary.

Taking your hand, he wraps the beads around your fingers, binding them there before enclosing your hand in both of his.

You stare at it, wonder and awe flickering in your expression. “It’s beautiful.”

Jeongin smiles softly. “This was the first rosary I received when I decided to become a priest.” His voice lowers, turning earnest. “And I want you to have it.”

Your smile falters slightly, hesitation flickering in your eyes. “Are you sure? Is it really okay for me to take it?”

Jeongin doesn’t waver. He nods, his grip on your hand firm, warm. “I want you to have it.” A pause. “Whenever you get the urge to hurt yourself, I hope you’ll hold this rosary instead.”

Your breath hitches. And then, something shifts in your expression—a different kind of smile forming on your lips. Sad, yet thankful. A quiet acceptance.

Jeongin gently squeezes your hand. “Promise me you’ll always keep it with you.”

You nod, voice barely above a whisper. “I will. I’ll keep it close at all times.”

Relief washes over him. A sense of peace settles in his chest. With his hand still wrapped around yours, the rosary binding you together, he leans in once more—this time, pressing a chaste kiss against your lips.

A kiss that seals this sacred moment.

-

The next night, Jeongin finds himself standing in front of your door once again.

Unlike the previous night, there's no hesitation when he lifts his hand to knock. Maybe it's because he spent the entire day thinking about you, picturing the way you smiled when he gave you the rosary, the way your fingers curled around it like something precious. Maybe it's because the moment he finished evening mass, he felt a pull—one that led him straight to you.

The door opens, and there you are, standing before him.

Your eyes light up the second you see him, and without hesitation, you step forward, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing yourself against him in a hug that feels warm, familiar.

"You came," you murmur against his shoulder.

Jeongin exhales, his arms coming up to hold you just as tightly. "Of course."

For a while, neither of you moves. You stay there, wrapped up in each other, as if this is the only place either of you is supposed to be. And maybe, in some way, it is.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to look at him. Your smile is soft, full of something unspoken. "Come in."

Jeongin follows you inside, shutting the door behind him. The air in your apartment is warm, scented faintly with something floral—something distinctly you. He catches sight of the rosary on your coffee table, neatly placed as if it’s waiting for you to pick it up at any moment.

Something settles in him at the sight.

You glance over your shoulder. "I made tea," you say, leading him toward the living room. "I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry, but I have some food too."

Jeongin shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Tea sounds perfect."

You pour him a cup before settling onto the couch beside him, close enough that your knee brushes against his. For a while, you both sit in comfortable silence, sipping tea, letting the presence of each other be enough.

Then, quietly, you say, "Thank you for last night."

Jeongin looks at you. "You don’t have to thank me."

You smile, but there’s something deeper in your expression—something vulnerable. You lift your wrist, letting the rosary dangle between your fingers. "I’ve been holding it. Just like you told me to."

Warmth spreads through Jeongin’s chest.

He reaches over, gently brushing his fingers against yours, against the beads. "I’m glad," he murmurs.

Not that he doesn’t trust you but Jeongin feels the need to check on it himself. He leans back against the couch, his gaze steady as he studies you. Then, softly, he says, "Come here."

You blink at him, uncertain. "Here?"

He nods, patting his lap. "I want to make sure you held in like you said."

A flicker of hesitation crosses your face, but eventually, you move, shifting carefully until you're perched sideways on his lap. His arm wraps around your waist, keeping you steady, his other hand resting gently on your thigh.

He looks at you for a long moment before his fingers move, reaching for the hem of your dress. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts it just enough to reveal your thigh, his eyes scanning for any fresh marks. When he finds none, he exhales, something softening in his expression.

"You really didn't," he murmurs, as if he can't quite believe it.

You meet his gaze, nodding. "I promised, didn't I?"

A slow smile spreads across his lips—pride, warmth, something deeper flickering in his eyes. His hand moves up, brushing your hair back, his touch lingering at the nape of your neck. "You did so well," he says, his voice low, affectionate. "I'm proud of you."

Before you can respond, he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. His mouth is warm, gentle but firm, like he's savoring the taste of you. When he pulls away, his lips graze your cheek, his breath fanning against your skin.

"Good girl," he whispers.

Heat pools in your stomach at the way he says it, his voice filled with quiet reverence, with something possessive and sweet all at once.

Then he dips his head, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. His voice is barely more than a murmur, but it sends a shiver down your spine.

His fingers trace slow, idle circles on your thigh, featherlight and teasing, his touch both soothing and electrifying. Then, he asks, "And do you know what happens to good girls?"

A bashful smile tugs at your lips as you glance at him. "What?"

Jeongin smirks, his fingers tracing slow, teasing circles against your thigh. "Good girls get rewarded."

His eyes glint with something mischievous as he watches your reaction, and you feel your breath hitch, anticipation curling in your stomach.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. “Keeping your promise… being such a good girl for me.”

His praise makes you melt, makes you pliant in his arms, and he feels it—the way your body leans into him, the way your breathing hitches ever so slightly.

His hand drifts higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, fingertips skimming over your skin, testing. He hums when he feels the heat of you, the way your thighs press together instinctively.

“You don’t even realize, do you?” he muses, his voice like velvet against your ear. “How easy it is for me to tell when you need me.”

His fingers tease at the edge of your underwear, a featherlight touch that makes you shiver. Your breath stutters, and he smiles against your skin.

“Say it,” he coaxes, his voice both gentle and commanding. “Tell me what you need.”

Your answer comes out in a whisper, barely there, but it’s enough. “Please. I want to come,”

It’s all he needs before his fingers push aside the last barrier, dipping into warmth, finding you already soft and wet, ready for him.

A pleased hum rumbles in his chest. “Of course,” he murmurs. “Always so good for me.”

He doesn't need to look to know how to please you. His fingers part your folds, allowing him to touch your bundle of nerves, applying gentle pressures on it as he rubs on it.

His touch is slow, deliberate, savoring the way you react—how your fingers clutch at his shirt, how your body trembles in his hold. He keeps you close, his other hand firm on your waist, steadying you as he works you open, coaxing pleasure from you with careful precision.

His mouth on your neck, placing hot, wet kisses on the sensitive spot on your neck, teeth faintly scraping the skin just to edge you. He watches you, drinking in every little sound, every flutter of your lashes, every way you shift against him. His lips graze your ear again, his voice thick with something indulgent, something dangerous.

“Just like that,” he praises. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good.”

And he does. With how drenched you are, he can easily slips his two fingers inside you, pumping them in and out of you. He moves with patience, with reverence, as if he’s unraveling something sacred, something only meant for him. As if this moment—just the two of you tangled together, bodies pressed close, his name slipping past your lips in a breathless whisper—is all that has ever mattered.

You make a tiny cry that is muffled by his kiss, squirming under his touch for a long minute before finally come down, sagging against him. He keeps his hand there, tenderly palming you for a minute or two longer, loving the way it

look drenched in your essence, loving the way it feels, and then reluctantly withdraw.

Jeongin watches you, eyes dark with something unreadable yet intoxicating. His fingers, still coated in the evidence of your pleasure, hover just before your lips. He doesn’t have to say a word—your lips part instinctively, your tongue flicking out, tasting yourself as you take him in.

His breath catches. His free hand tightens on your waist.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Always so eager for me.”

You swirl your tongue around his fingers, sucking lightly, and Jeongin groans low in his throat. His thumb brushes over your cheek, a tender contrast to the heat pooling between the two of you. When he finally pulls his fingers away, he presses a sweet, lingering kiss to your forehead, grounding you, letting you settle in the aftermath.

But then, softly, he asks, “What else do you want, mmh?”

You don’t answer right away, just blink up at him, lips still slightly parted, your breath uneven. “More.”

There’s a pause—a moment suspended in the space between you. Then, without a word, your hand drifts downward, slow and deliberate, until your fingers press against the growing strain in his jeans.

Jeongin’s breath stutters. His grip on your waist tightens.

“More what?” he asks, teasing, his voice huskier now, laced with something heady.

You still don’t answer, just press your palm a little firmer, feeling him twitch beneath the fabric.

Jeongin exhales sharply through his nose, tilting his head slightly, watching you with something dangerously close to reverence. He hums, almost amused, almost resigned.

“Greedy,” he murmurs, the word dripping with fondness. Then, his lips ghost over your jaw, just barely touching. “But I suppose my good girl deserves it, doesn’t she?”

Jeongin shifts beneath you, his strong arms guiding you gently as he lays you down against the cushions. The leather is cool against your heated skin, but all you can focus on is him—the weight of his body as he hovers over you, the warmth of his breath fanning across your lips before he captures you in another slow, intoxicating kiss.

His hands roam your sides, mapping every curve, every dip, before he pulls away just enough to tug his sweater over his head. The dim lighting casts shadows over his toned torso, the sharp ridges of his muscles shifting as he moves. Instead of pulling you back into a kiss, he takes your hands in his and presses them against his bare skin.

“Go on,” he murmurs, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “Touch me.”

You do—fingertips tracing the firm lines of his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. Your breath catches, and when you meet his gaze, he smirks, clearly pleased by your reaction.

“Do you like that?” he asks, his voice dipping lower.

You nod, swallowing hard.

He rewards you with another kiss, deeper this time, before he begins a slow descent down your body. His lips brush over your collarbone, then lower, each kiss leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. His hands slip beneath your dress, pushing the fabric up inch by inch, exposing more of your skin to him. The anticipation coils in your stomach as he moves lower, closer. He gently bites your inner thigh and earned him a sharp gasp from you, then he stops.

You whimper in protest, earning a quiet chuckle from him. He tilts his head, teasing. “Wouldn’t this feel better in bed?”

Before you can argue, he presses a firm hand to your waist, keeping you in place as he effortlessly scoops you up in his arms. Your legs instinctively wrap around him as he carries you, the strength in his hold undeniable. He walks with purpose, each step deliberate, and when he reaches your bedroom, he gently sets you down on the mattress, hovering over you once again.

He smirks, brushing his thumb over your swollen lips. “Now,” he murmurs, eyes dark with intent. “Where were we?”

-

The air between you crackles with tension, thick and charged, as Jeongin hovers behind you. Both of you are naked, he's standing at the end of the bed while you're on the bed, on all fours.

His big hand glides over the curve of your ass before squeezes on the flesh, his thumb hovers over your entrance, slippery wet, ready to take him.

“Be a good girl and hold still,” he instructs, his voice is heavy with want.

His hands ghost over your hips, firm yet patient, waiting for you to obey him. But you don’t. Instead, you push back just slightly, teasing, challenging—just enough to test his patience.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he murmurs, voice dark with amusement.

You hum in response, feigning innocence, but he sees right through it. A slow smirk tugs at his lips as his fingers tighten on your hips, holding you still as he aims his cock toward your entrance. Then, without warning, he drags you back toward him, your breath catching as his warmth presses flush against you.

“You really want to be difficult tonight?” he muses, leaning in until his lips are right by your ear. “Fine. Let’s see how long you can last.”

The next moment, he begins thrusting, slow and deliberate, driving you to the edge with every controlled motion. You bite your lip, refusing to give in so easily, but he notices—of course he does. He always does.

“You’re holding back,” he taunts, his hand sliding up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until your chest meets the mattress. “That’s cute.”

Then he pulls away and you mewl at the suddenloss of contact. Then he slips it into you again, all at once and proceeds to thrust into you, hard. A choked sound escapes you before you can stop it, and he chuckles, low and pleased.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

You try to push up again, just to regain some control, but his hand presses firmly against your lower back, keeping you in place.

“Not so fast,” he says. “You wanted to be a brat, didn’t you?” His fingers trail down, teasing, punishing in the slowest way possible. “Now take it like one.”

The fight within you starts to crumble, your body betraying you, giving in to him. He feels it—the way you’re starting to submit, your stubborn defiance slipping away with every passing second.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Now, let’s see if you can behave.”

And with that, he makes sure you do.

Jeongin doesn't ease up—not yet. He keeps you exactly where he wants you, every slow, controlled movement drawing out the pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him. His hand slides up your arm, over your shoulder, then tangles into your hair, giving a gentle but firm tug that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You still with me?” he asks, his voice teasing, laced with dominance.

You nod breathlessly, but that’s not enough for him. His fingers tighten just slightly in your hair, tilting your head back so your cheek is almost against his lips.

“Use your words,” he commands softly.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice shaky but obedient.

A pleased hum rumbles in his chest as he presses an open-mouthed kiss against the side of your neck. “That’s my girl.”

Your hands grip the sheets beneath you, knuckles going pale as he keeps pushing you further, his pace calculated, his touch relentless. Every time you try to regain control, he meets your rebellion with something stronger—something that pulls you right back under him.

“You thought you could win, huh?” His voice is a slow drag, intoxicating. “But look at you now…” His hand slides over your hip, his fingers curling, gripping—owning. “Completely at my mercy.”

You let out a broken sound, and Jeongin chuckles, low and satisfied.

“Are you done fighting me now?” he asks.

You hesitate for half a second, the last trace of defiance flickering in your eyes as you look over your shoulder at him. And then he moves just right, tipping you over that fine line between resistance and surrender, and the fight in you shatters.

Your answer comes in the form of a whimper, your body melting under his touch. That’s all he needs. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Good girl.”

And this time, you don’t push back. You let him have you, completely.

Three more of his hard, deep thrusts into you and you come undone before him, your body collapsing onto the bed. He can feel his release is close as well, he leans down, his mouth hovering close to your ear as he asks, “Where do you want it, mmh?”

You're clearly too disoriented to respond so he buries his head in your neck and places a slobbering kisses there. “Should I come all over your back and claiming you as mine, mmh?”

You turn your head slightly to the side and nod. He smirks at that, his hips keeping the pace going as he grips yours, taking himself to his high almost immediately.

Jeongin pulls out just in time, his seed spurting out and painting pearly white streaks on your back. He slips it back in, wanting to feel you pulsating, quivering around him as you both come down from your highs.

He looks down at his claim on you and smiles in pride. “You're all mine now,” he sighs, before lowering himself on you and roughly kisses your open mouth, “All mine.”

-

Jeongin hums as he wipes a warm cloth across your back, his touch now gentle, a stark contrast to the way he’d handled you earlier. His other hand strokes soothing circles on your arm as he takes care of the mess he left on your skin. Once satisfied, he sets the cloth aside and climbs back into bed beside you, immediately wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close.

His lips find your forehead first, then your temple, then your cheek—sweet, lingering kisses that make your heart swell. His fingers brush your hair away from your face, tucking the strands behind your ear before his lips meet yours in a slow, affectionate kiss.

You sigh into him, utterly content, and then, out of nowhere, you ask, “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”

Jeongin pulls back slightly, blinking in amusement. A small chuckle escapes him. “That’s the first thing you want to ask me right now?”

You nod, watching him expectantly.

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head before answering. “Vanilla.”

“Vanilla?” You raise an eyebrow, as if unimpressed.

He grins. “It’s a classic. You can never go wrong with it.”

You hum in thought before moving on to your next question. “Okay, favorite book?”

“That’s tough,” Jeongin admits, running his fingers absentmindedly over the curve of your shoulder. “But I think it would have to be The Little Prince.”

Your expression softens. “That’s a good one.”

He nods, smiling. “It is.”

Your next question makes him pause. “How many languages can you speak?”

Jeongin tilts his head, thinking for a moment. “Korean, English, a little bit of French... and Latin.”

That catches your interest. “Latin?”

He smirks at your intrigue. “Yeah.”

“Say something in Latin,” you request, eyes glimmering with curiosity.

He chuckles and takes a second to think. Instead of a single word, he decides to share one of his favorite proverbs. “Ubi amor, ibi fides.”

You blink, waiting for him to translate. “And that means…?”

“Where there’s love, there’s faith,” he explains softly.

You let the words settle between you, their weight sinking in.

Jeongin continues, his voice calm, thoughtful. “Love originates from God, which means when we love, we reflect God himself. Love and faith go hand in hand.”

You watch him, admiration clear in your eyes, and Jeongin can’t help but smile. He brushes his lips against your forehead, murmuring, “You’re proof of that for me.”

A warm silence fills the room, and Jeongin just holds you, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Jeongin keeps his gaze on you, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns along your arm as he lets the weight of his own words settle between you.

"Ubi amor, ibi fides," he repeats, this time softer, like he's tasting the meaning all over again. “Faith isn’t just about believing in something unseen—it’s about trust. About surrendering to something bigger than yourself. And love… love is the same.”

You stay quiet, listening, the warmth in your eyes urging him to continue.

“When you love someone, you place your trust in them. You put faith in them—faith that they won’t hurt you, that they’ll cherish you, that they’ll choose you just as you choose them. Love and faith, they aren’t separate. They exist together.”

A beat of silence passes, and then, you smile. It’s small, gentle, but it holds so much—understanding, appreciation, something deeper that makes Jeongin’s chest ache in the best way.

“That’s beautiful,” you whisper, voice barely above a breath.

Jeongin’s lips quirk up, his heart warming at the way you look at him. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally, to your lips—slow and tender, like a silent prayer.

Ubi amor, ibi fides. That’s why, to him, loving you doesn’t feel like he's turning away from God. It feels like he's turning toward Him.

-

Jeongin hadn’t expected to see Sam so early in the morning, much less kneeling at the altar, his hands clasped together in deep prayer. The solemnity of the scene makes Jeongin hesitate for a moment before he quietly takes a seat in the pew behind him, deciding to wait. The church is silent aside from the occasional flicker of candlelight and the distant creak of wood as the old building settles.

When Sam finally finishes, he makes the sign of the cross and pushes himself up, turning toward Jeongin with a calm but knowing expression. He slides into the pew beside him, settling in with a sigh before speaking.

"Do you have something to confess to me, Jeongin?"

Jeongin blinks, caught off guard. "Confess?"

Sam tilts his head slightly, studying him. "I saw you."

Jeongin’s breath catches. His heartbeat stumbles before picking up pace, his mind racing to decipher Sam’s meaning.

"Saw me…?" he echoes, feigning ignorance.

But Sam only offers him a small, almost amused smile. "That night. Inside the church." He turns his head slightly, watching Jeongin's reaction. "I saw you kissing her."

Jeongin’s stomach drops. The memory of that night floods back—the hush of the church, the warmth of your body pressed against his, the way your lips felt against his in the dim candlelight. He had been careful, or so he thought. But Sam had seen.

Jeongin swallows, his fingers curling slightly against his knees. "...How much did you see?"

"Enough." Sam exhales, leaning back against the pew. "Enough to know that it wasn’t just some passing moment of weakness." He turns his gaze forward, eyes fixed on the altar as if waiting for some divine intervention. "It’s more than that, isn’t it?"

Jeongin doesn’t answer immediately. He looks down, staring at his hands as if the answer could be found in the lines of his palms. He could deny it. He could try to brush it off as a mistake, a lapse in judgment.

But he knows that would be a lie.

So instead, he closes his eyes briefly, exhales, and admits the truth. “Yes.”

Jeongin keeps his gaze lowered as he exhales slowly. "Yes," he repeats, quieter this time. "It’s more than that."

Sam doesn’t react immediately. He simply hums, nodding slightly as if he already knew the answer. Then, after a pause, he says, "Are you here to confess, then?"

Jeongin finally looks up at him, his brow furrowed. "Would it matter?"

Sam tilts his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Not really."

That catches Jeongin off guard. "What do you mean?"

Sam leans forward, resting his arms on the back of the pew in front of them. "I mean, there’s no use in confessing if you don’t intend to stop."

Jeongin’s mouth parts slightly, but no words come out. He suddenly feels exposed, as if Sam has reached straight into his soul and pulled out the conflict that he’s been trying so hard to ignore.

"Are you going to stop seeing her?" Sam asks, voice even.

Jeongin opens his mouth, but hesitation clings to his tongue. He should say yes. That would be the right thing to do. The expected thing. But the words won’t come.

Sam watches him carefully, his silence speaking louder than any confession. With a small sigh, he shakes his head. "Then there’s no use in absolving you."

Jeongin tenses. "Sam—"

"You’re not sorry, Jeongin. At least, not in the way confession requires you to be." Sam turns to look at him directly. "You’re not asking for forgiveness. You’re asking for permission."

Jeongin’s throat tightens. He wants to deny it. He wants to argue. But deep down, he knows Sam is right. He’s not looking to be absolved. He’s looking for reassurance. Validation. Someone to tell him that this—you—isn’t a mistake.

Sam lets out a sigh, leaning back against the pew. “Jeongin, I’ve known you for years. You’re not the type to act on impulse. So tell me, is it something more?”

Jeongin lowers his gaze, his fingers curling together. “It’s more,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I tried to fight it, but I can’t. Being with her… it doesn’t feel like a sin. It feels right.”

Sam hums in thought before turning to look at Jeongin fully. “Then you have to ask yourself, what do you want?”

Jeongin remains silent, his mind tangled in conflicting emotions.

Sam sighs again but offers a reassuring smile. “I won’t tell anyone. Not yet. You need to figure this out on your own, without the weight of judgment hanging over you.”

Jeongin lifts his eyes, gratitude flickering in them. “Thank you, Sam.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Sam replies. “But know this—there’s no shame in choosing love. The only shame is in living a life of regret.”

Jeongin feels the weight of those words settle deep in his chest. He nods, even though his decision isn’t fully made yet. But one thing is certain—he doesn’t think any amount of penance could make him stop wanting you.

-

The church is quiet, save for the faint crackling of candles and Jeongin’s own restless breathing. He sits in the pew, his hands clasped together, fingers digging into each other as if grounding himself. Sam’s words replay in his mind—The only shame is in living a life of regret.

But what if choosing you meant turning his back on everything he had built? What if staying meant turning his back on you?

His chest tightens.

Jeongin exhales shakily and reaches for his phone. His fingers hover over your name before he finally presses the call button.

It barely rings twice before you pick up. “Jeongin?” Your voice is soft, warm, familiar.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, hating what he’s about to say. “I… I can’t see you for a while.”

There’s silence on your end. Then, “Why?”

Jeongin clenches his jaw, his grip on the phone tightening. “I just—” His voice falters. He takes a breath, steadies himself. “I need time to think.”

Another pause. Then you ask, quieter this time, “Think about what?”

His heart aches at the way your voice trembles, but he forces himself to stay firm. “About us.”

The word hangs in the air, suffocating.

When you finally speak, there’s hurt in your voice, but no anger. Just quiet understanding. “Okay.”

It makes his chest ache even more. He almost wishes you would be upset, would demand answers—but instead, you accept it. Just like that.

“I’ll wait,” you add after a moment.

Jeongin swallows the lump in his throat. He nods, even though you can’t see him. “Thank you.”

Then he hangs up, staring at the screen as if it holds the answers he’s looking for.

But it doesn’t.

And for the first time in a long time, Jeongin feels completely lost.

He has always believed in God's plan. In His guidance, His timing. But for the first time, Jeongin feels completely lost.

His heart aches with the weight of his own decision—to put space between you and him. To think. To figure out if he's making the right choice or if he's simply running away from the inevitable. The words he said to you over the phone—"I can't see you for a while."—echo in his head, and he wonders if they hurt you as much as they hurt him to say.

Jeongin exhales sharply, his fingers pressing into his forehead.

He misses you already.

Misses the way you look at him, the way your touch grounds him, the way you make him feel like more than just Father Yang. Like he’s Jeongin, a man with desires, fears, and a heart that longs for something more than a life bound by vows he’s no longer sure he can keep.

But what does that say about him?

What does that say about his faith?

His grip tightens. He feels selfish. Faith is supposed to be about surrender, about putting God above all else. But if love, true love, comes from God—then why does it feel like he’s betraying both?

A sharp breath leaves him as he forces himself to sit back against the pew.

Maybe space will give him clarity. Maybe distance will tell him if what he feels for you is temptation or something deeper, something worth changing his entire life for.

Or maybe...

Maybe he’s already made his choice, and he’s just too afraid to admit it.

-

The scent of burning wax and aged wood lingers in the air as Jeongin listens to the soft-spoken confessions of the parishioners before him. One by one, they enter the booth, voices hushed, burdened with sins that they seek to be absolved from.

A woman confesses to speaking harshly to her husband. A man admits to faltering in his faith. Another prays for forgiveness for the resentment he holds in his heart. Jeongin listens, guiding them with gentle words, offering penance and solace in the name of God.

Then silence.

He waits for the next person, expecting another familiar voice, another routine confession. But when the door creaks open and the last parishioner steps inside, his breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t need to see your face to know it’s you.

The moment you settle in, the moment your quiet, trembling breath slips through the lattice screen, he feels it. A shift in the air, a tightening in his chest—something unspoken, yet undeniably there.

And then your voice comes, barely above a whisper.

The wooden divider separates you from him, but the air between you is thick—heavy with unspoken words, raw emotions, and the weight of everything left unresolved.

Jeongin sits on the other side, his fingers curled tightly around his rosary, knuckles white. He hadn’t expected to hear your voice through the lattice screen tonight.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Your voice is quiet, trembling, but laced with something deeper—pain, desperation. “It’s been… some time since my last confession.”

Jeongin swallows, his heart hammering in his chest. “What is it that burdens your heart?” His voice is steady, but his hands shake.

You exhale shakily. “I don’t know if this is a sin, Father, but… I love someone.”

His breath catches.

“And I miss him,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly. “I’ve been praying every night, asking God to bring him back to me. I kneel beside my bed, clasp my hands, and beg Him to let me have him again.” A bitter laugh escapes you. “But nothing changes. He’s still gone. And I don’t know if that means God is telling me to move on… or if that means he never wanted to come back.”

Jeongin shuts his eyes, his grip on the rosary tightening as a deep ache spreads through his chest.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper. “How long am I supposed to wait? How long until the emptiness goes away?” You inhale shakily. “Because the truth is… I feel more alone than before.”

Silence stretches between you.

Jeongin’s throat tightens, words clawing at him, begging to be spoken—but he can’t. He can only press his fingers to his lips, as if to hold back the confession that wants to spill out of him.

That he misses you too. That every night, he fights the urge to pick up his phone, to hear your voice, to run to you and never look back. That he doesn’t know how to be whole without you anymore.

But he stays silent. Because if he speaks, if he admits what his heart already knows… he’s afraid he’ll never be able to let you go.

You wait, but no answer comes.

And that’s your answer.

You let out a small, broken sigh before whispering, “Thank you for listening, Father.”

Then you rise, footsteps retreating, the door creaking as you step out of the booth.

Jeongin doesn’t move. He just sits there, staring blankly at the wooden divider, feeling more lost than ever.

-

The next day, Jeongin commute for almost an hour to get to St. Augustine church, where Sam is assigned in. The church is quieter than he expected. Even as he steps inside, the echo of his own footsteps feels almost intrusive.

He makes his way toward the pews, taking a seat in the dim light of the sanctuary. The flickering candles cast long shadows, their glow barely reaching the vaulted ceilings. Jeongin folds his hands in his lap, staring ahead at the crucifix mounted above the altar.

He waits.

Through the silence, he hears faint murmurs from the other end of the church. Sam must still be finishing his Bible study. Jeongin doesn't mind. If anything, the stillness gives him a moment to steady himself—to gather what little resolve he has left.

It isn’t long before he hears footsteps approaching.

Sam doesn’t say anything at first, only making his way to the pew beside Jeongin and settling in next to him. They sit there in silence, the weight of unspoken words thick in the air.

Then, finally, Sam exhales.

“You didn’t come here for confession,” he says, his voice calm yet knowing. “That must mean you’ve already made up your mind.”

Jeongin keeps his eyes ahead, staring at the altar, his fingers loosely intertwined in his lap. He hears the certainty in Sam’s voice, the quiet understanding behind his words.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. Because Sam is right. He didn’t come here to confess. He came because he already knows what he wants—what he has to do.

Jeongin inhales slowly. “I thought it would be harder,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Making the choice.”

Sam hums, tilting his head slightly as he studies him. “And yet, you look like it’s tearing you apart.”

Jeongin’s lips press together. Sam has always been able to see through him.

He exhales, his hands tightening slightly. “I love her,” he says at last, the words raw, unfiltered. The moment they leave his lips, a wave of something crashes over him. Relief, maybe. Or certainty. “And if love is supposed to reflect God, then why does it feel like I’m betraying Him?”

Sam is quiet for a moment before he speaks again. “Because you were taught to believe that loving someone this way is a betrayal.”

Jeongin swallows.

“Did you ever want to be a priest?” Sam asks, not unkindly. “Or did you just think you had to be one?”

Jeongin turns his head, meeting Sam’s gaze for the first time. The older man’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes are steady, patient, waiting.

Jeongin wets his lips. “I wanted to serve God,” he says, and it’s the truth. “I still do.”

Sam nods. “Then serve Him.”

Jeongin blinks. “What?”

“You said it yourself,” Sam says. “Love originates from God. Serving Him doesn’t have to mean shutting yourself away from the world.” He pauses. “And it certainly doesn’t mean shutting your heart away from someone He led you to.”

Jeongin breathes in sharply. His mind reels, but somewhere deep in his chest, something settles.

Sam clasps his hands together, leaning back slightly. “You’ve made your decision, Jeongin. You came here to say it out loud.” He tilts his head. “So say it.”

Jeongin looks at him, then exhales.

“I’m leaving the priesthood.”

The words linger in the quiet air of the church, heavier than anything Jeongin has ever spoken before. But this time, for the first time, they don’t feel like a loss. They feel like freedom.

-

Jeongin stands outside your apartment door, his heart pounding, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. This is it. The moment he’s been working toward, the choice he’s finally made. There’s no turning back now—not that he would ever want to. He raises his hand and knocks.

It’s barely a few seconds before the door swings open, as if you had been waiting for him all along.

And then he sees it. The rosary. Wrapped tightly around your fingers, clutched to your chest like a lifeline.

His breath catches.

Your eyes meet his, wide and shimmering, disbelief and relief crashing together in one overwhelming wave of emotion. Your lips part, but no words come out. Instead, tears spill over your cheeks, and before Jeongin can even think, you launch yourself forward, arms wrapping around him in a desperate, shaking embrace.

A choked sound leaves you, something between a sob and a breath of his name, muffled against his shoulder.

Jeongin closes his eyes and holds you tighter. “I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice steady, unwavering. “I’m here now.”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his coat, like you’re afraid he’ll slip away, like you need proof that he’s real.

He presses his lips to your hair, his grip firm, grounding. “You’re not alone anymore,” he whispers. “You have me.” He swallows, voice thick with emotion. “Always.”

You sob again, but this time, it’s lighter, almost a breath of relief. You nod against his chest, your whole body trembling in his arms.

As Jeongin stands there, holding you in his arms, he realizes that this moment—this fragile, breathtaking moment—is the answer he’s been searching for all along. The weight of uncertainty, of fear and hesitation, slowly unravels, replaced by something steadier, something undeniable.

Love.

Not just the kind he’s always known, the kind that’s bound by duty and sacrifice, but the kind that feels like warmth after the cold, like light breaking through stained glass. The kind that isn’t separate from faith but a part of it, interwoven in every whispered prayer, every unspoken longing.

He cups your jaws with both hands and tilts your head toward him, as he looks into your eyes, he knows—this is where he’s meant to be. Right here. Holding you. Loving you.

Then he kisses you, with every fiber of his being, committing himself into this love but at the same time, breaking away from the doubts and fears that shackles him.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your face streaked with tears, but your lips curve into a small, wobbly smile. He lifts a hand, gently brushing away the dampness on your cheeks with his thumb, his touch lingering, reverent.

“Come inside,” you whisper.

And Jeongin follows, stepping over the threshold not just into your home, but into a future he’s finally ready to embrace.

-

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[arylleth]

There is a quiet, luminous courage in remaining kind despite the world’s cruelty—a defiant tenderness that transforms pain into something noble rather than corrosive. This sentiment echoes throughout literature, psychology, and philosophy, reminding us that gentleness in the face of adversity is not weakness, but the highest form of strength. Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables immortalizes this principle in the character of Jean Valjean, whose life is shaped by suffering and injustice, yet he chooses to extend mercy instead of vengeance. In Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, Prince Myshkin’s unwavering kindness in a cynical world renders him both tragic and transcendent, suggesting that true goodness is often misunderstood and even punished. These characters stand as literary testaments to the resilience of the human spirit when anchored in compassion. Psychologist Carl Rogers, known for his humanistic approach, argued that empathy and unconditional positive regard are the foundations of psychological healing. To remain kind after experiencing cruelty is, in his view, an act of self-actualization—it means refusing to be defined by one’s wounds. Similarly, Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and the author of Man’s Search for Meaning, believed that choosing kindness in the face of suffering is an assertion of one’s ultimate freedom: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.” Philosophically, this idea finds resonance in Stoicism, where Marcus Aurelius advised, “Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.” To remain kind is to embody virtue despite the world’s harshness. Meanwhile, the existentialist Simone de Beauvoir reminds us that kindness is not passive but a conscious act of resistance—an assertion of one’s humanity in a world that often seeks to strip it away. Sociologists like Brené Brown have explored vulnerability as a form of strength. In a world that rewards detachment, to remain soft is to embrace radical authenticity. Sociologist Zygmunt Bauman, in his reflections on modernity, suggests that in an age of increasing alienation, kindness and emotional openness are acts of rebellion against the forces of dehumanization. To stay kind in the face of cruelty is to wield an invisible but profound power. It is to say: I will not become the thing that wounded me. It is to sculpt beauty from sorrow, to illuminate darkness with the light of one’s own soul. It is, perhaps, the bravest thing a human being can do.

“The bravest thing you can ever do, is to stay kind and soft even when the world has been cruel to you.”

— Nikita Gill

[on-wine-dark-seas]

The Invitation

Dedicated to the little Black girl who wanted to be all things when the world told her she was nothing. You are everything. 🍯

🪧 Summary: Heian Era. One full moon, Sukuna meets a dancing storyteller at the Hida Harvest Festival. But after a tragically violent evening robs her of everything, she winds up in a strange alliance with the King of Curses as his guest. 📚 Series: Sonder ⛩️ AO3: The Invitation 🔞 Rating: Explicit ⚠️️ Warning[s]: Rape/Non-Con [not from Sukuna don't worry], blood, gore, description of wounds and dead bodies, cannibalism, recreational drug use [ganja, psilocybin, opium], slow-ish burn, hurt/comfort, PTSD, revenge, catharsis, eventual romance, eventual smut, Ryōmen Sukuna is his own warning. 💋 Pairing[s]: Sukuna x The Writer [⛩️🍯] 🎧 Playlist: [ the invitation ] ⛩️ AO3 𑁍 Parallax OCs 𑁍 Sonder OCs ⛩️

🖋️Author's Note: Well, we've arrived at the moment of truth[s]. Enjoy. This entire chapter is just 16.5k words of self-indulgent smut courtesy of Sukuna's absolutely batshit stamina, my untutored sexual ardor [giving way to a nigh insatiable sexual appetite], and a lot of fucking feelings we've been tap dancing around the whole story.

Y'all are about to learn some shit about me. Mainly, how I like to get down when my pleasure is wholly my own. See you on the other side. —Muse

⚠️️Warning[s] for this chapter⚠️️ EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. References to sexual trauma [remember, this shapes how Sukuna and I get down], Sukuna's two glorious cocks finally make their debut, Sukuna uses multiple mouths, ALL FOUR HANDS ON DECK [and DICKS], masturbation, spit-as-lube, cum as lube, vaginal AND anal fingering, cunnilingus, squirting, analingus, blowjobs, cock and ball worship, double penetration, double creampie, rough sex, mirror sex [REAL THIS TIME], choking, possessive biting [it's Sukuna], talking-while-fucking, trauma-informed body exploration and worship, praise kink, the hot pleasures of jealousy real and imagined [again, it's Sukuna], rounds on rounds oh my god. Recreational cannabis use. LOTS OF AFTERCARE. COMFORT. FLUFF.

🍯 IX. 金契 Bonded by Gold

Everyone is mesmerized by the fireworks.

     Sukuna does not care, save that they illuminate Asiri’s face in bursts of radiance, the dying sparks fading to nothingness in her dark eyes. She’s looking at him as if the world around them means nothing and he is everything. He is used to reverence, but that is reverence born from the seed of fear.

     This is something else. Something so much more fragile, so much rarer. He won’t name it; he can’t name it, for fear that if he does, the world will take this from him too. So he basks in it, allows himself to enjoy this oasis of humanity before his curse finds its fangs at her throat and destroys her.

     Sukuna takes a deep breath.

     “Do you know what you’re asking?” He growls out. His lower eyes flick to her lips, full and stained the deep, bluish red of spilled blood in the cold.

     “No,” she breathes as the fireworks burst above them, the crowd’s awed murmuring rising to an excited cheer. “But I know I want this. I know I want you.”

     Why, he wants to ask her. Why him? He is the last thing she should want. But here she is, telling him and fucking meaning it. His lower eyes drag their gaze down from her lips to her throat, sees the fluttering of her pulse beneath that tender skin. He wants to sink his teeth into her, taste the coppery sweetness of her misplaced devotion. He can break her; he knows he can, and part of him wants to for the sheer pleasure of it all. But he can do something else too: he can make her his. Inextricably. He can ruin her tonight, and every day after. Undo all the damage Takeshi has done and imprint himself upon her again and again until her thoughts are as consumed by him as his have been by her for months. Her and that alluring storm inside of her that he wants to hold in all four of his hands so very badly.

     He reaches for her, and she does not pull away, does not recoil in disgust, and does not look upon him with abject fear. All the things he has come to expect are absent in her lambent gaze. When his knuckles brush the soft contour of her cheek, her eyelids flutter, the corners of her mouth lift, and he watches as she leans into his touch slightly, unthinking.

     Sukuna inhales, watches her tense before he leans down, bringing his face close to hers. His lips trace her ear in a teasing caress with feathery weight.

     “I am going to take you,” he says to her, and delights in her quiet intake of breath, and the resulting shiver that makes the earrings dangling from her lobes sway prettily. “Again, and again. And then I’m going to bind you to me. Is this acceptable?”

     It is as close to a marriage proposal as Sukuna himself understands it, and as close as he dares. He half-expects her to decline, to have some good sense and run screaming in the other direction before willingly offering her throat to the tiger she mistakenly thinks is tame. But she is not a wilting flower with bruised petals any longer, nor is she prey.

     She’s something more. Something divine. Something he wants with a yearning that kindles to the furnace in his soul.

     “Yes,” comes her whisper, so delicate the roar of the crowd nearly steals the thrill from him, and Sukuna feels something thrumming in his blood that he can almost call delight. It’s heady and wicked, and he thinks of all the ways he is going to bind her, until he tames the storm inside her for himself. Until she is his and no other’s.

     “Good,” he murmurs, malevolent pleasure making his voice a deep, ominous purr. “Very good.”

     He lingers there for a moment, and then she turns her head. He sees the shadowy luster of her eyes beneath her lashes, and then he feels her lips brush against his cheek. Soft, tentative, exploratory and curious. He moves his head, feels her gasp as his lips meet hers. A soft kiss, he decides. Let her enjoy this last bit of sweetness before he shows her what she has so boldly asked him to give her.

     “Come,” he murmurs against her mouth. “Let’s go home.”

     She doesn’t correct him, she simply nods, wordless and heavy-lidded as he draws her away from the crowd, away from the bursts of fireworks, away from the world neither one of them have ever had a chance of belonging in. The crowd yields open to allow the King of Curses to pass. Rippling murmurs and whispers follow when it’s seen that his hand grasps hers. Sukuna does not care. He’s sure the Zenin brat has run home to report to his father that the King of Curses has taken a foreign sorceress as his wife. Never mind that it’s a lie, the bait will do as it is meant to do and lend legitimacy to her challenge for a duel.

     And then, when the Zenin brat is dead, Sukuna will see just where his lost flower intends to go. He does not dwell on that eventuality too long, focusing instead on the searing present. Her hand is so small in his, delicate bones malleable in his grip, but he holds her with the gentleness of a breeze cupping a stray feather. He retrieves Akechi, mounting and pulling her up in a fluid moment that sees her settled once more in front of him, sharing the saddle. He secures an arm around her waist, but unlike before, his hand splays across her ribcage, the warmth of his palms seeping through the silk. He can feel her heart fluttering in her chest, beating against it like a trapped hummingbird. He can feel the expansion of her inhales and exhales, the change in her breath as they lurch forward, following the lantern-lined path toward the forest.

     They pass beneath the first torii gate, the one that is more recent. Erected to mark the border of his territory. The hills may belong to the people, but the thick, velvety darkness of the forest belongs to the God of Hida, naught else.

     Asiri shifts in the saddle, leather creaking in the quiet as they slip through the tree line, the festival forgotten, leaving only the two of them and the moonlight to guide them back to the shrine. Sukuna knows this path by rote, and easily guides Akechi over treacherous ground, picking the familiar path.

     They pass the clearing, though it is completely different. The entire place is blackened as if burnt, trees splintered to kindling, and cratered depression in the center where the remnant of a burned-out wagon still stands.

     “I did this,” Asiri whispers, her voice tinged with fearful awe. Sukuna resists the urge to draw her closer, as if to keep her safe from the memory of her own brutality, but he knows that’s the last thing she needs in this moment.

     “Yes,” he says, his voice pitched low. “And I will teach you to do it until you can stay conscious. And even do it multiple times in a day if you wish.”

     Asiri lets out a wry laugh, and he feels her heart flutter against his possessive palm.

     “When would I ever be in a situation where I’d need to do that kind of damage multiple times a day?” She asks him. Sukuna doesn’t answer. He wants to tell her that if she intends to continue to practice jujutsu, there will be plenty of situations, but he knows she still believes that Takeshi Zenin is the only life she will take with her strength. She doesn’t know that she has initiated herself into a world that will demand she wash her hands in blood or be slain herself.

     He will teach her this lesson, or her duel with Takeshi will.

     Tonight, however, he has his mind on more pleasurable pursuits.

     The rest of the ride slips by quickly, and still Asiri’s heart hammers against his hand. When they pass the ghostly glow of the hitodama of the massive torii marking the entrance to the shrine grounds, he feels her pulse race, hears her try to stifle a soft sound that sounds almost like anticipation. He shares a smirk with the preternatural dark, Akechi’s hooves marking the return of the shrine’s lord and master, clipping on the smooth stones of the courtyard.

     The shrine doors open, and Oboro, Okoi, and Uraume come out to meet him. Ren is already waiting, and he tosses the boy the reins without thinking. Oboro, Okoi, and Uraume bows respectfully as he dismounts, and helps Asiri down to stand. He does not greet them except to give a curt order that he and Lady Asiri are not to be disturbed for the remainder of the evening.

     Asiri catches a glimpse of Oboro’s surprised and questioning glance over her shoulder as Sukuna leads her inside. The shrine doors shut behind them, and they pass through the brazier-lit halls toward his bedchamber, stopping at the closed shoji door leading to his inner sanctum. Asiri stares at it, trying to calm her breathing and steady her mind and pulse.

     “Before we cross this threshold, Asiri,” Sukuna’s voice cuts through her daze and she looks up at him. “I would have your consent that this is what you truly want. Nothing will change if you choose to refuse: you are the one who requested this, after all. And if it is what you truly want, I would have you tell me now.”

     Asiri swallows hard.

     “It is, my lord,” she whispers. One of Sukuna’s hands lifts, caresses her cheek.

     “Then so be it. Understand this: out here, you are wholly your own, free to avail yourself to the shrine as you wish and explore as you wish. But when we cross this threshold, within the sanctity of my bedchamber, you belong to me alone. Is this acceptable?”

     Asiri stares up at him, willing herself to bear the weight of his gaze, how his face looks so stern, so much like a god and yet she has seen the humanity that softens the harsh lines no matter how he hides it.

     “Yes,” she says softly. “But only on the condition that you belong to me too, my lord.”

     There it is: that slow, predatory grin, the hooded look in his eyes, hiding a secret she longs to be the keeper of since she’s trusting him with the handling of her broken body. His eyes gleam like droplets of blood in the firelight, cupping her face in his hand, running an unhurried thumb over her cheek.

     “Thou, and no other,” he affirms. “Is this acceptable?”

     “Yes,” she whispers. “Lord Sukuna?”

     His name brings him up short and he looks at her with deadly expectancy.

     “Is this something you truly want too?” She asks him. Sukuna smiles in that easy, arrogant way and slides open the door.

     “Let me show you,” he says, and guides her inside, the door shutting behind them.

     The bedchamber is lit by a single hanging lantern, which throws a beautiful lattice shadow over the center of the room and warmed by a large brazier. Outside, the trees rustle and whisper with the wind and thunder rumbles in the distance. Sukuna glances down at Asiri, brushes his fingertips along the back of her neck.

     “Remember to breathe,” he tells her and there’s a teasing edge bleeding into his voice, a little derisive, but those crimson eyes bleed warmth as she looks up at him. Asiri nods and focuses her beathing. Thunder rumbles again. Sukuna frowns. Not her, then?

     “I am breathing, Sukuna,” she tells him, and he smirks. So his lost flower has some control at last. Good.

     He pulls her close, delighting her gasp as he lifts her feet from the floor, crushing her against him.

     Their lips meet, and Asiri feels something steal the very breath from her lungs as his kiss turns hungry. It is nothing like the petal-soft gentleness he accorded her earlier in the evening, amidst fireworks and a crowd.

     This is ravenous, and Asiri, heaven help her, she wants him to devour her. She wants to be the tender prey between his sharp teeth, wants him to bite into her and taste her until there’s no trace of her left.

     She kisses him back. She has been kissed before, and has kissed, but never anything like this. Sukuna does not yield to her, holding her against him as she makes a moaning sound when his tongue traces her lower lip, tugging it gently between his teeth.

     She’s panting, now. Dizzy with the heat swimming the rich currents of her blood, dripping down between her thighs. She squirms in his arms, rubbing her thighs together with an almost pained whine. Aching.

     Sukuna chuckles darkly, and then sets her down.

     Slowly, he guides her to the mirror, sees her gaze flinch away from her reflection. The last time she was here, only the light of the Divine Flame had illuminated them. Now, the soft light of the lantern shows them in full.

     “Look,” Sukuna tells her, and she does. She is his, after all.

     In the mirror, she stands clad in the soft white and blue of his kimono, her lips love-swollen from kissing, a few braids escaping her hairpin. Looming behind her is Sukuna, still clad in the deepest black. One of his hand spans over her belly, crawling upward as he begins to loosen and untie her obi with another. Deft and swift—these are his garments, after all—the obi slips free as his front hand grasps her kimono to pull it open. The lush weight of her breasts strains against the silk, then bounces free. Asiri watches his reflection, sees the flare of excitement in his eyes at the sight. Her nipples pebble as the cool air pricks against them. Sukuna watches their reflection, feels her ribcage expand as she inhales, feels her shiver as she exhales.

     The kimono whispers over her skin as it slides from her shoulders, pooling around her bare feet. Sukuna sucks in a breath at the sight of her as she steps from the fabric and turns away from the mirror to face him. He looks down but keeps his eyes on her reflection. He can take her all in at once.

     And take her in he does.

     Asiri tilts her head, smiling slightly.

     “I want to see you too,” she tells him. For a moment, Sukuna simply stares at her as if she’s the first naked woman he’s seen. She’s clad in naught but her dusky skin, that collar of shells and coins, waist beads, and her anklets. He finds it erotic, reaching to run a hand over her skin, finding it feverish and sensitive. He traces her collar bones, the curve of her shoulders, the band of scar tissue over her bicep that matches the band of black ink on his own.

     He cups her breast, feels her heart leap, sees that old fear surface in her eyes. He stops.

     “Šetû,” his voice isn’t sharp, but there’s an edge of command in it. “Stay with me.”

     For a moment, she is trapped, but then she breathes again, and meets his gaze.

     “There is no shame here,” he reminds her. “Only simple desire. Inhale, then let it go.”

     She shuts her eyes briefly and nods, allowing him to continue as she regains ahold of herself. Sukuna strokes her skin tenderly like one would a nervous animal brought into the home. She shivers, calms, and meets his gaze. The fear is gone, quieted by the weight of the decision they’ve made together. Her skin is so soft. Sukuna passes his thumbs over her nipples.

     She cries out in surprise, back arching into his touch automatically.

     Sukuna smirks. His hands grasp her waist, giving it a generous squeeze before guiding her to the bed, down until she obediently lays back. Here, on his bed, Sukuna takes her in once more.

     Asiri reaches up and grasps the hairpin, taking it out. Her braids tumble over the pillows and over her shoulders. Gold, bistre, burnished umber, contrasted against the white linen bedding. His lower eyes study every curve and slalom, every bend, fold, and stretch mark. He commits her to memory because they will never be lovelier than they are in this moment. He notes more tattoos. A symbol on her right arm: a hand with an open eye in its palm. Asiri shifts on the sheets, and he sees another tattoo. A peacock limned along the length of her right thigh, all the way up to the hip. So, not a criminal, then.

     Sukuna begins to undo his own sash, and Asiri watches him, her breathing even, but her pulse is telling a wilder story. He never breaks her gaze as he slides his kimono off, revealing his bared torso first, followed by everything else. He knows she hasn’t seen all of him, and he expects her reaction to be as it has been with others before her.

     Asiri’s eyes widen as she takes in Sukuna—all of him—for the first time since she caught a fleeting glimpse in the hot spring.

     She starts with his face. His gaze, as always, is inscrutable. She lingers on his lips, watching them part in a breath. She notes the dusting of color in his cheeks, his even breaths. She studies the bold limning of ink on his form, following the lines until her gaze comes to the maw on his belly. She tilts her head, but then her gaze slips lower and—

     “Oh!”

     The cry shocks her, and makes his jaw tense. Asiri’s eyes are wider now as she sees both of Sukuna’s cocks, fully erect to the point of straining. She studies them with scarce-concealed awe. They too bear black markings, sharp and bold, following the curves. She sits up, crawling to the edge of the futon. Her gaze flicks up at him and there is a strained intensity in his eyes, his jaw tight.

     “May I…?” She whispers. Sukuna gives her a nod. Asiri reached for him, but it’s not his cocks she grabs, which surprises him. Of the few that have shared his bed, that’s always what they want to touch first. Instead, Asiri stands on the futon, and reaches for his face.

     She cups his face with her palms, stroking the bone-like plating. Sukuna’s brow pinches slightly and a look of concern crosses her features, a question forming. She begins to take her hands away, but he quickly grabs her wrists, making her gasp. A wordless look, and she continues her exploration.

     “Sukuna, lay down for me,” she says. “I want to do this properly.”

     Sukuna smirks at her, even with his face cupped between her hands and him grasping her wrists.

     “Is that a command I hear?” He asks, menacing in his expression, but there’s a teasing edge to it all that makes her give him an arch look.

     “You are very tall,” she huffs. “Lay down.”

     Sukuna chuckles and Asiri yelps as he takes her into his arms and lays back on the futon, settling her on top of him. Her thighs spread over his torso automatically, and she’s dizzy from the sudden contact as she realizes how close they are.

     How naked they both are.

     Heat burns across her face before she swallows hard.

     Sukuna props his top arms behind his head, his lower hands settling on her hips.

     “Go on, mayoi-hana,” he purrs. Asiri purses her lips at his smirk but reaches for his face again and resumes her exploration of his body, tracing the markings on his face with her fingertips, before settling on his lips. Without breaking her gaze, Sukuna presses a kiss to the pads of her fingers as if in private worship. She bites her lip, tracing her fingertips along his throat, settling on the pulse. It’s as steady as a heartbeat. He’s not the least bit anxious. It makes her even more nervous. His lower hands are still on her hips, warm palms seeping that unusual heat into her.

     She traces the markings over his shoulders, biting her lip on a little grin. Sukuna smirks. He knows the source of her private excitement. So he has been on her mind all this time, then. Good. This will make this moment all the more savory on his tongue. She rounds her touch over the strong muscles of his top shoulders, and biceps. Frowning, she makes a gesture.

     “Hands?” She asks. Sukuna grins. One of his lower hands leave her hips and he presents it to her. She shoots him a look and he makes a shrugging motion. He has plenty of hands to spare.

     She traces his palm, his fingers, the thick band of ink around his wrist. She’s about to continue when that hand suddenly seizes her wrist, making her gasp. He smirks again. She tugs once and Sukuna relents before her hands settle on his chest, gliding over every muscle and curve. When she goes lower, she shifts backward. The maw on his belly is closed and Sukuna looks at her with an almost innocent expression. Her brows knit.

     “Open for me?”

     Sukuna doesn’t know why but the way she says those words makes both his cocks twitch. The maw parts its lips and she traces it with her fingertips. It smiles at her, all fangs and tattooed tongue, which slithers out to lick her hand. She yelps and Sukuna lets out a pleased chuckle. In her annoyance, Asiri shifts again, and sits directly on top of it. Sukuna’s eyes flare brightly, his grin turning sinister.

     “What do you hope to accomplish, little flower?” He asks, and watches as Asiri shivers when the tongue slithers out of his belly to trace a wet path along her inner thigh. His lower hands clamp down on her hips, holding her in place.

     “Sukuna…” She whispers, and Sukuna holds her gaze, his expression suddenly deadly.

     “Mine,” he murmurs, and the tongue slips above, the tip taking a slow, agonizing path through her folds.

     A low, desperate moan slips from her and spirals into the air as she braces herself on his chest, digging her little nails into his skin. Sukuna does not move from that easy recline, watching as her body folds over, bringing her closer to him. His hands slide reverently over the curves of her rear, cupping and then grasping and then spreading her wide, exposing her to the tender onslaught of his massive tongue.

     Asiri trembles, and a whimper ekes out of her as her hands scrabble for purchase, torn between wanting to escape the mounting pleasure of his tongue with each idle pass over her clit, and wanting to push back against it. She has never done anything like this before, has never had anything like this done to her, and she sits up slightly, shooting Sukuna a pitiful, plaintive look, lip quivering.

     Sukuna meets her gaze with the impassive amusement of a god in his domain.

     “Something the matter, mayoi-hana?” He coos to her. “Regretting your decision to give yourself to a monster?”

     Asiri shakes her head, mouth dropping open in a soundless cry as Sukuna’s tongue circles her clit. Maddening, desperate, and utterly irresistible. She keens, rocking her body in his arms, giving herself unto the sensations unfurling in her body like a supplicant. Sukuna chuckles as she pushes against his grasping hands, seeking more.

     “Oh fuck…” Her voice drags out of her roughly, trails toward the ceiling, her nails digging into his skin again. One of Sukuna’s upper hands comes from behind his head, pushing a stray braid from her face. He studies her, his tongue still slipping through her folds, circling her clit, holding her steady as she trembles.

     He watches as her face melts into an expression of agonized ecstasy.

     “Oh fuck,” she whines, as she listens to the tongue slipping back and forth, back and forth, so wet and slippery and sticky. “Right there, oh…kar a tsaya…pleasepleaseplease…” The words shiver out of her in a husky, throaty moan. Sukuna strokes her back tenderly, holding her gaze, lambent with tears of insurmountable pleasure.

     “And there you are,” Sukuna groans, pressing the flat of his tongue against the whole, swollen, slippery mess of her cunt as she spills and spills against his tongue, shivering as he squeezes her rear. He strokes the tongue back and forth, adding pressure. She keens weakly, burying her face in the firm muscle of his chest.

     “You’re fucking soaking, little flower,” he coos, relishing her taste on his tongue. He wants to drink her down, and he does. He chuckles when she rocks her hips, whimpering at the friction.

     For a moment she simply lays still on his chest, listening.

     Badump.

     Badump.

So steady, and strong, and loud. His breathing is like a cavernous wind to her, his chest expanding. He has expended no effort and already her skin shimmers with a thin sheen of sweat. The room looks hazy in her vision, and her lids are heavy, a small smile on her face.

     Is this what it was supposed to be like?

     “Hey,” Sukuna growls. “Don’t tell me you’re done already?” He laughs, and Asiri grins at the vibration of it under her.

     “No,” comes her quiet, slurred response. “But this is nice, Sukuna. Thank you.”

     “We aren’t done,” he growls. Asiri laughs, sitting up, biting her lip when Sukuna slides his tongue back into the maw of his belly, grinding against her swollen sex every step of the way. He grins when she swats his chest.

     “I know,” she breathes. “Give me a moment…”

     Sukuna heaves a sigh, rolling his eyes.

     Asiri feels wonderful. There’s something about the world that feels new, and she feels charged with energy. Thunder rumbles outside, and lightning flashes through the shoji leading to the engawa. Sukuna takes her in as she looks down at him, smoothing his lower hands over her thighs, then back up. Her expression softens, dark eyes soft and blurred, those kiss-swollen lips parted, giving her a look of soft reverent wonder. His hands smooth up her waist, delicate and knowing. He has butchered humans aplenty and is intimately familiar with their form. But that had always been meat for consumption, for nourishment.

     Šetû Asiri is for worship.

     His hands continue their journey, cupping her breasts. She doesn’t freeze; the old fear does not rear its head in her beautiful eyes. She’s here with him. Her hands come up, settling on his forearms, smoothing up to touch his wrists. She lets him continue, biting her lip on a small sound as he drags his palms over her nipples.

     “The first night I saw you,” Sukuna says, “I thought you were a dream spirit. A trick of the fire.”

     Asiri laughs as one of his hands settles on her throat, large enough to circle it and hold her fast by that delicate column alone.

     His other hand smoothes over her shoulder, behind her head to dig his fingers into her hair.

     “It was your smile,” Sukuna says. “There was something sharp about it, like a blade unsheathed. And then it was your eyes. You know more than you let on, and all your secrets are kept there.”

     His lower hands lift her hips, and she obliges. She feels the blunt tip of his cock nudging her lips apart. Her eyes widen briefly. So big, but she’s dripping all over him already. She understands now what his aim had been with his tongue.

     “And now?” She whispers, her voice tremulous. Sukuna tenderly strokes her hip and begins to slowly ease her onto him.

     “Now it’s the rest of you,” he murmurs.

     Asiri’s head tips back as she feels him begin to stretch her. She remembers that night, feels herself clench. Sukuna freezes.

     “Šetû.”

     She comes back to herself as she feels his hands roving her tenderly, grounding her.

     “Eyes on me,” he tells her, and she nods. “Breathe for me, mayoi-hana, just like I taught you.”

     She breathes, and he relishes the feel of her ribcage expanding in his grip, and as she exhales, she relaxes, and he pushes her down.

     The sound that comes from her likely wakes the entire shrine.

     “There you go,” Sukuna coos and she’s sobbing, holding onto his forearms to anchor herself. “You’re doing so well. Let me in…”

     He groans deeply when she is fully seated on him, and she lets out a high-pitched wail. She pants, leans her head back and lets out a sound.

     “Sukuna…” She calls out, dragging his name through her throat like a desperate beseeching prayer to her gods, and without thinking—

     Crack!

     She yelps, and Sukuna hisses when the slick, wet velvet of her cunt grips him so thoroughly he thinks he may not get his cock back. His hand immediately palms her ass, warm from his strike.

     Asiri rubs her backside.

     “Mscheww!” She hisses through her teeth, annoyed, and swats his chest. “What was that, eh?!”

     Sukuna laughs.

     “I wasn’t sure if…” He laughs at her expression. “Ah, the way you moaned my name was like music…”

     Asiri stares at him, eyes narrowed.

     Sukuna tries to quiet his laughter. “It won’t happen again, mayoi-hana, I promise.”

     Asiri swats his arm lightly.

     “We can consider it retaliation for your little flower stunt,” he says. Asiri’s mouth opens and before she can retort he lifts her hips. She moans, making him grin harder, gripping his forearms so tight her knuckles drain of color.

     Up. Down. Slow, so achingly slow.

     His name spills from her mouth, dripping with a pleasure that frightens and exhilarates her all in the same scintillating turn. Up and then down until she realizes why this feels so familiar. She forces herself into a semblance of clarity, looking down at him. He grins at her, sees recognition flit across her features like a glint of light. His lower eyes slide down her body, watching as her waist begins to undulate of its own accord, and soon she is lifting herself up and down. He relaxes his hold on her, watches her find the rhythm and the pleasure it brings.

     Asiri has never felt anything like it. Sukuna is big…so big she doesn’t understand how he’s able to fit even as slick as she is, but her body accommodates him as the pleasure begins to build.

     Faster.

     Sweat beads on her skin, and Sukuna’s eyes chase the path before one of his palms splits into a mouth, tattooed tongue chasing the droplets between her bouncing breasts before he captures one, sealing his mouth over her nipple to lash at it with his tongue.

     “Gnh…!” The sound is choked out of her as the additional sensation pricks at her nerves like electricity along her skin. She moves faster; up and down, a bouncing rhythm she’s familiar with, but not with a man inside of her.

     Not with the God of Hida inside of her.

     His name becomes a mantra she flings heavenward, and Sukuna relishes the sight of his cock vanishing inside of her only to come out gleaming and slick, the black markings stark against the engorged flesh.

     “Don’t give up on me, now, mayoi-hana!” He growls at her, moves to strike her again, but stops himself, and instead grips both curves of her ass, digging his fingers into the ample flesh hard enough that it will bruise. Spurs.

     “Gambare,” he purrs. Asiri doesn’t stop, but now she screams his name, begging, pleading. A hand slips between them, a tongue lashing at her clit with every movement. It’s enough. Her cunt seizes around him in a series of quivering flutters, and there’s a wash of slick that soaks the dark, blush-colored hair around his cock. Sukuna holds her steady as she shivers, mewling, her vision unfocused.

     Sukuna keeps her on his cock, burying himself deep as she spends her energy trying to cram her soul back into her body. He sits upright, and she moans as his hips shift, his cock dragging against her sensitive walls. Her legs tremble as she tries to wrap them around him. His hands roam her sweat slick body tenderly, as if he is indulging himself. He clucks his tongue as her head lolls, and she struggles to meet his gaze.

     “Don’t tell me you’re finished already?” He coos in that nettling tease that always goads her pride, and he grins as her gaze sharpens and she glares at him. He pulls her closer.

     “No,” she whispers, trembling hands coming up to cup his face. Sukuna allows her to touch him, and she’s careful of his lower eyes. Again, that soft look in her eyes, the tender parting of her lips. The reverent wonder as she threads her fingers through his hair as if he is something precious.

     As if he matters to her.

     It blooms in his blood like magma, the answering twinge in his chest when she drags her touch to his ears. She rubs the lobes, and he tries to keep his eyes from fluttering. Her hands travel down his throat, slick with sweat. She lingers there, feeling his pulse.

     “Masoyí…” She whispers and Sukuna’s brow furrows in confusion. It is not a word he knows.

     She draws his head down, pushing up slightly to kiss him. He obliges her, tasting the salt of sweat on her lips, tugging the tender flesh between his teeth. Alive, she is as tender and delicious as he imagined. Had he decided to eat her in the beginning, he has no doubt she would have been delicious.

     But now, he does not want to devour her flesh and bone. He wants to possess them.

     “I want more,” she says to him as he presses his forehead to hers, their noses rubbing against one another’s.

     “Think you can take it, mayoi-hana?” He asks her. She smiles, giggling when he swipes his tongue over her lower lip.

     “Gambare.” She says to him. Her accent is different, but he chuckles nonetheless hearing his own words thrown back at him in this instance. With a lissome speed he lifts her off of him, mindful of her gasp. She makes a small sound of protest at the loss, but he lays her on her back, spreading her legs wide, exposing her slick and swollen cunt to his full sight.

     He licks his lips as she adjusts, sitting up on the pillows to watch him.

     His lower hands grasp both his cocks, and he begins to stroke himself. Asiri’s hand reaches down, her eyes watching in carnal fascination as his hands pump both his cocks. She tentatively spreads her soaking folds with two fingers, revealing her clenching hole and noting with delight that he grips himself harder, pumps faster.

     “Come back?” She asks. Sukuna freezes in place, all four eyes focusing on her, then flicking down to her cunt, spread open so prettily for him, dripping and melting all over the sheets, her inner thighs shining with it.

     He wants nothing more than to folds her legs back and slide both his cocks into her, but his tongue craves another taste of her, and she watches as he shifts and adjusts, bringing his face level with her cunt. His mouth hovers above her as he watches her. His lower eyes keep watch on the sheen of slick all over her lips and fingers. His jaw works, and then he spits on her cunt. She gasps.

     He leans in, meets her pussy in an open-mouthed kiss. She moves her hand, and his mouth keeps her spread for his pleasure. He looks up at her as he devours her cunt, and she’s unable to look away, her breath coming in fits and starts.

     He pulls away with a wet pop, flicking the tip of his tongue over her swollen clit before he adjusts, pressing her thighs against his shoulders to push them back. He’s delighted at how easy she folds in half for him. A flexible dancer, he’d almost forgotten. He drinks in the sight of her cunt and the puckered bud of her asshole winking at him.

     “Exquisite,” he breathes, watching her sex quiver before him, lowering his head.

     Asiri lets out a shrill squeal when she feels the firm, slick muscle of his tongue swirling around that puckered rosebud. She shudders, the sensation new and confusing, but then…

     “Oh…” She breathes. Sukuna’s tongue pushes past that tight ring of muscle, loosening and relaxing her. “Oh…” A longer moan, and Sukuna feels her entire body seemingly melt into the futon, her head falling back against the pillows as her eyes roll back and then shut.

     “Fuck…” The word comes from her gut as Sukuna’s slides two fingers into her pussy, and one into her asshole, slow and deliberate, working her open in stages.

     “Sukunaaaa…” She moans, feeling delirious from the sensation. It aches, but in the best way an ache can feel. She squirms in his grip, but he’s holding her still, her entire nether-region at the mercy of his mouth and hands. His fingers pump slowly, and she can hear the soft, sticky noise of her pussy growing wetter, can feel her entire body vibrating as the heat begins to coil and coil and coil, white-hot in her belly.

     He pulls his mouth away from her cunt long enough to chuckle, his breath making her pussy lips quiver.

     “Louder, mayoi-hana,” he breathes into her sex, his eyes watching her arch, spreading her thighs wider for him. Longing colors every shade of her undulations.

     “I want Heaven itself to hear who you belong to,” he whispers, nipping playfully at the slick lips of her pussy before his mouth fastens on the bud of her clit, sucking rhythmically in tandem with his pumping fingers.

     Asiri begins to yelp: short, staccato sounds that match his pace, and then she dissolves into begging, tossing her head, reaching down to grip his hair. He grunts from the sudden tug, then growls into her, relishing the bite of her demands that he bring her shuddering to climax.

     But he doesn’t. He prolongs her torment, pushing her toward the edge, then drawing her back.

     “Zagi, Sukuna, please…!” Her voice breaks on a frustrated sob, tugging at his hair but his head won’t budge. He rolls her clit between his lips playfully, slowing his fingers before spitting again, watching it drip down to her asshole.

     He adds another finger.

     Asiri’s back bows from the bed, and her legs come down, heels pressed into the hard muscles of Sukuna’s shoulders as he sucks her clit again and again. Fingers fucking into both of her holes until the coiled heat inside of her snaps outward.

     She screams his name while chanting a refrain of yesyesyes just like that.

     Sukuna relishes the splash of slick that coats his face as he sucks at her cunt greedily, then pulls away with a satisfied groan, licking his lips and wiping his mouth with a smug laugh.

     Asiri lays on the bed, breathing deeply, her body boneless and pliant. Sukuna sees the pillows moist with tears…or drool, he can’t really tell. She turns her head to look up at him, her eyes heavy-lidded, her smile slipping across her face as if it will slide off if she isn’t careful.

     “Still with me?” Sukuna asks with a toothy grin. Asiri sits up, arms trembling. His grin is at once cruel and tender and he leans in, slotting himself between her thighs. Asiri is still as he closes the distance between them. His face is one kiss from her own. She doesn’t break his gaze, seeing the flaring crimson closer than anyone ever has and lived to tell about it.

     “Always,” she whispers, and regrets it. Sukuna blinks, almost as if the word confuses him. As if she confuses him. For a moment she thinks he may pull back, may put a stop to this exploration of their shared pleasure, but instead, he lowers his gaze.

     “Then you’re going to take all of me tonight, mayoi-hana,” he says. “Turn over on your hands and knees.”

     She blinks; eyes wide. Sukuna makes a face.

     “It will be more comfortable in this position, I promise,” he assures her. “After you feel it, I promise I will do other things to you that will make you sick with desire at the most inopportune moments at the mere memory.”

     “Zagi…” She ekes out. Sukuna grins, understanding the meaning.

     “You have no idea, but you will.” He pats her thigh with his lower hand. “Up.”

     Asiri gets up, frowns when he doesn’t back away, resulting in her pressed against him, and he grins at her playfully before easing back to help her maneuver onto her hands and knees.

     “This feels…undignified,” she murmurs, yelping when she looks over her shoulder and Sukuna spreads her thighs wide with his knees. She eyes the black bands of ink around his thighs. Later. She’ll attend to other things later. She’s curious about what it feels like to be taken by him in full.

     “Sex is not about dignity, it’s about desire,” Sukuna says, a set of hands engulfing her hips, smoothing over the tender curves of her rear, spreading her open. He spits into her asshole, and she hisses from the sensation. His thumb massages the saliva while he spits into his hand and strokes his slick, top cock.

     “Do you desire this, Šetû?” He asks as he guides his cocks into her. She arches her back in response, exposing herself fully.

     “Yes,” she shivers out as his cock presses against her asshole, the other nudging itself into her cunt. “I desire little else these days.”

     Sukuna hooks a brow, watching with deep satisfaction as he begins to feed both his cocks into her holes, watching her stretch around him. He grits his teeth, growling as the fit becomes a snug one.

     “Oh? Is that so? So you’ve wanted me to fuck you for a while, then.” Sukuna’s tone is casual even as Asiri makes an anguished noise that dissolves into a helpless moan of wordless pleasure.

     Sukuna grins, then leans his head back and groans as his hips finally sink flush against her rear. He holds her hips but then slides his hands up to grip her waist.

     “I’ll take that as a yes,” he breathes out, pulling his hips back.

     “Sukunaaaa…” Comes her keening moan. Sukuna laughs, stroking his thumbs along her skin in a soothing manner. He drives his hips forward.

     Asiri screams, her head dropping between her shoulders, her hands reaching to grip the headboard, nails digging into the carved wood. Sukuna narrows his eyes. She’s so tight around him, clenching as if she doesn’t want to let him go. If he’s not careful he might indulge her and just stay buried in her until the world crumbles around their ears.

     He takes a moment to stroke her with his hands, tracing the tattoo limned into her nape, the curves of her ass split so prettily around his cock. He growls.

     And then he begins to take her.

     But is it taking when she gives so willingly? He does not know. He only knows that he sets a punishing rhythm, and Asiri throws her braids over one shoulder, gripping the headboard and enduring him. Every strike of his hips against her ass, his balls slapping wetly against her swollen clit, punctuated by her throaty moans…all of it serves to nourish him in ways he never thought he’d want from another living soul.

     Lust is a serpent whose bite had never taken a permanent hold in him. But this is beyond lust. Asiri is reclaiming her body’s pleasure one obscene cry of his name at a time. And he is her personal god, answering those plaintive, beseeching calls to him.

     “Yes!” She cries. “Oh yesyesyesyes, just like thattttt…” One of her hands splay against the headboard, and Sukuna listens as her nails drag against the wood, leaving shallow claw marks. He takes a smug pride in knowing that her pleasure is so great that she must mark the site of its birth. He pulls her back and forth along his cocks, reducing her to high-pitched keening notes, and mindless begging in her mother tongue.

     Sukuna groans at how tight she is. Gods, the grip she has on his cocks should be decidedly unfair. He wants to bury himself inside her depths every minute of the day. Every fucking night. He wants to wring her limp of her sweat, of her tears, of these beautiful songs no one will ever be able to make her sing save for the King of Curses himself.

     One hand encircles her throat, a firm but comfortable grip and she gasps, but then moans.

     His thumb slips into her mouth as he pulls her head back, the arch becoming absolute as he forces her to meet his gaze while he pounds into her. Again and again.

     “Open your mouth,” he growls, eyes flaring. Asiri doesn’t think—there are no thoughts in that pretty head of hers in this moment, he’d wager—and he spits into it. She moans when it hits her tongue, and he leans down to devour her mouth with his own. She kisses him desperately, he kisses her ravenously. Between their hungry mouths, their saliva trails, a wet smacking and devouring to accompany the rhythmic slap of skin against skin as Asiri’s eyes glaze over with that softness that makes the center of Sukuna’s chest twinge, not in discomfort, but exhilaration.

     Briefly—very briefly—he thinks about her smile, about how she must look just opening her eyes in the morning, still clinging to sleep. The smell of her hair when they rode to the festival. Her laughter when he tells a particularly grisly joke. Those dark eyes, glimmering with secrets as she dances. He wants all of her, all of the time, and he’s beginning to think he might be driven mad from it all.

     He fucks her harder, holding her tight to him as she pants and squeals for him.

     “Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop…” She whimpers, begging him as he feels her pussy and ass clench around him. She’s so full—feels more full than she could ever imagine one person possibly being.

     Tears slip from her eyes, and the King of Curses licks them away, growling at her to take it.

     And she does. She takes it deep, she takes it hard, and most of all, she enjoys it.

     So this is what it’s supposed to feel like… Her dazed, fuck-drunk mind thinks, the thought spinning like smoke on the breeze beyond the reach of clarity. Everything about that horrible night feels like another lifetime. Sukuna’s touch, possessive and tender and cruel and all-consuming, burns it away. The rot that has been a festering wound within her, burning under the onslaught of his hands. The self-loathing, torn out at the root with his teeth. All of it, undone, undone, undone.

     “You’re close, aren’t you?” He growls and her eyes are wide. She can’t speak, only sob out a plea that he give her something—anything.

     “Go ahead and come for me, mayoi-hana,” he growls into her skin, sucking marks into her neck, tugging her earlobe with his fangs. “Let me feel how much you want this.”

     Her climax shatters like a star within her, and thunder rattles the temple walls, the wind howling in harmony with her screams.

     Sukuna can’t take it. He shoves her down, hammers her with powerful thrusts, chasing a climax that he wants to bury so deep inside of her that any other after him will feel the splinters of his soul within her like barbs.

     “Oh, Sukuna…” She gasps when all four of his arms come around her, crushing her body to him, burying both his cocks deep as they twitch, filling her; filling her until it leaks between her thighs, slick and sticky.

     The storm unleashes its fury as he holds her tight, and they breathe with it—through it—sweat-slick skin slipping against one another. Asiri is limp and boneless in his arms, eyes heavy-lidded as he slowly begins to untangle their limbs. The process of slipping from her results in a mess, and him having to catch her before she tumbles. He lays her down gently, and she gladly hugs one of the massive pillows, catching her breath. Sukuna smirks down at her, already feeling refreshed, his cocks slick and dripping. Asiri peers up at him before she moves, quickly.

     She leans in as Sukuna watches her with sharp, predatory eyes. Then, in a moment of carnal curiosity, she licks a drop of pearlescent and salty come from the tips of both his cocks, looking up at him. His jaw tenses and a low sound comes from him. She bites her lip and pulls away with an almost secret smile, as if she cannot believe her own boldness.

     “How do you feel, mayoi-hana?” He asks, reaching to cup her chin, tilting her gaze back up to him. Asiri shamelessly leans into his touch, now, still smiling. It is the look of a woman who has realized that she is not a broken thing. Sukuna sees her come to the realization as her gaze meets his.

     “Sated,” she murmurs, still biting her lip with a girlish smile. “For now.”

     Sukuna grins slowly at that, stroking her jaw and carding his fingers through her braids to examine the flushing purple bruises forming on her neck from where his mouth claimed her tender flesh. Then, he moves off of the futon, retreating to the partitioned wash room. He doesn’t bother to dress, and Asiri takes that moment to truly observe him.

     Sukuna is, for lack of adequate description, beautiful.

     Her eyes trail over him from head to toe and she thinks to herself that he is perfectly made. Whatever features she once found grotesque are in fact the keys to his perfection. Every muscle and sinew, every movement…he is everything self-contained in one flesh; an entity wholly unto himself. She looks away briefly, wondering why her heart hurts and feels so full at the same time; why it races and skips and skids as if every movement and gesture he makes yanks it from her chest. The sight of him fills her with something she cannot name. It is not lust, nor is it anything that could be called true admiration. Joy? No, even that fails to do it justice.

     She decides not to think of it, now.

     Sukuna returns with a bowl, an ewer, and a wash rag. Asiri watches as he wipes her down, smiling as she sinks into the pillows.

     “I want more,” she whispers. Sukuna gives her an incredulous look.

     “You have probably scared every cursed spirit in the forest out into the hills with your delicious screaming; are you sure you can handle more of me?” He asks dryly.

     For a moment, Asiri says nothing.

     “Yes,” she breathes. Then Sukuna watches as she breathes, shutting her eyes. Her cursed energy flares, moving around her body, slipping between her thighs. His eyes narrow. There’s no way she’s…

     Her hand follows, and his gaze sharpens: main eyes on her face, his lower eyes tracking the movement of her hand.

     “Clever,” he snorts, lower eyes dropping to her cunt automatically as she adjusts, her thighs spreading wider. He can see the glistening trail of his seed all over her.

     Asiri takes two fingers, spreads her lips open and Sukuna nearly cracks his teeth his jaw is so tight, but he doesn’t move.

     She gathers the commingled juices, slipping her fingers around the lovely shape of her cunt, trapping her swollen clit between her knuckles. Back and forth, spreading his seed all over her, grinding her hips. She whines in pleasure and he watches.

     It doesn’t take long, and Sukuna finds himself breathing with her as she strokes herself to climax, moaning for him and giving him a show; and he watches that lovely hole clench and flutter and spasm and spill her essence and his all over her stroking fingers.

     Her eyes flutter open, and she lets out a pleased little sigh before bringing her fingers to her lips.

     Sukuna’s hand snatches her wrist, startling her, and she stares at him with wide, eager eyes as he brings her slicked fingers to his lips, sucking them down to the knuckle, relishing the taste of both of them on his tongue. It’s almost enough to stir him again, but he wants a break. He’ll not rush any moment of this, and they have the entire night to themselves. No one will disturb them. Still, he will admit that was the sexiest thing he’d seen anyone do in front of him without prompting or commanding.

     He retrieves the rag from her and pulls on his hakama. Walking to slide open the shoji leading to the engawa. Outside, a steady downpour is going, rain dripping in curtains from the upturned edges of the pagoda roofing. The engawa remains relatively dry, and the air is pleasantly mild and cool against his skin. He retrieves a long lacquered case, and takes a seat outside.

     Not to be left behind, Asiri climbs out of the futon, and in lieu of anything else, grabs Sukuna’s black haori, throwing it over herself. She comes to join him out on the engawa and he looks up in the midst of…her brows furrow.

     Sukuna is crushing pungent, green flower buds of ganja into the bowl of his kiseru. He glances up at her as he snaps his fingers over the crumbled flower, igniting it as he inhales. He breathes out a cloud of reaper gray, the air pungent with the burning flower. He gazes at her standing there, naked under his massive haori. With that same preternatural grace, he rearranges himself and she goes to him, settling in his sphere. He passes her the kiseru wordlessly and she takes a draw, holding in a cough before releasing it.

     Almost immediately, she feels sluggish and languorous.

     “Mmm…” Comes her pleased hum as she watches rain pour out in the garden, lightning occasionally illuminating the entire scene. She leans into Sukuna, and one of his arms comes around her as he smokes. Asiri feels something lower in her mind’s defenses along with her eyelids. There’s a light feeling in her limbs and chest and she bites her lip on a mindless giggle. Sukuna’s lower eyes flick down to her, and the corner of his lips lift.

     “Sukuna,” Asiri breathes. Sukuna hums in acknowledgement. “When you found me that night…why did you save me?”

     Sukuna frowns. She wants to do this now? He sighs, exhaling smoke. He supposes there’s nothing to lose at this point.

     “I didn’t save you, Šetû,” he breathes in a reluctantly laconic tone. “You saved yourself, I merely watched. Had you died that night I simply would have eaten you.”

     Asiri’s eyes widen. It’s callous, but it’s honest. It still stings. Sukuna has never been one to mince words not matter how much they hurt. She breathes deep, ignores the stinging prick of tears in her eyes before blinking them away.

     “But I knew you wouldn’t die,” Sukuna continues and Asiri looks up at him. He’s watching the rain, the embers of his kiseru still burning as he passes it to her. “Uraume wanted to know why I refused to heal you, and the truth is Šetû is that I knew you were more than capable of doing it yourself. I knew it from the first moment I tasted your cursed energy the night we met. I knew you had it in you to dig out of the shallow grave that pitiful Zenin brat left you in.”

     “You were testing me,” Asiri breathes. Sukuna dips his head in a nod.

     “In a sense,” Sukuna says nonchalantly. “Once you healed yourself, I brought you here to get answers. I saw the residuals of cursed technique usage around the site of the attack, but I knew if you survived, you could give me a name.”

     Asiri takes another drag.

     “Why was it important to you to know who attacked me?”

     Sukuna growls.

     “I invited you and your family as my honored guests. I had planned to formally hire you to entertain me. Zenin attacking you was a direct insult to me, violating the tenets of my hospitality, such as it is.”

     Asiri leans her head against his shoulder.

     “When he was raping me,” she says. “He said I was your creature. Said you’d hired a foreign sorcerer to aid you. At the time I didn’t know what he meant. I had no idea who you were, not really.”

     Sukuna snorts. “And do you know who I am, now, little flower?”

     Asiri smiles. “You are mine,” she says with a mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes. Sukuna stares down at her with his lower eyes and says nothing.

     “You promised,” she reminds him. He snorts.

     “So I did,” he grumbles. “And what does it mean to belong to Šetû Asiri, I wonder. What glorious sights will I behold while beneath you?”

     Her cheeks burn and she looks away when he grins to see his joke land exactly where he intended. He nudges her gently.

     “You are no one’s creature,” he tells her. “Least of all mine. Too stubborn.”

     She nudges him back, annoyed when he doesn’t budge.

     “But I am yours,” she says. Sukuna turns the full of his gaze upon her.

     “Thou, and no other,” he reminds her. She smiles at him, leaning her head against his shoulder again. The rain sounds like a waterfall, but it’s muted against the lush grass. For a moment they sit in silence, listening to it, breathing with it.

     A question forms in Sukuna’s mind, one he finds himself reluctant to ask. There’s only two answers to his question, and only one he wants to hear.

     He remains silent.

     “Sukuna,” Asiri says quietly. “More.”

     Sukuna’s brows go up. “Insatiable little minx,” he teases. “Tell me what you want.”

     Asiri pulls away from him, watches as he taps out the ash of his kiseru and replaces it in the lacquered box. She sits on her heels.

     “I want to taste you,” she murmurs and that draws the full of his gaze again, hard and sharp and unblinking.

     “What?” He asks quietly. Asiri gulps, taking a deep inhale.

     “Your cocks, I want to taste them…” Her cheeks burn. “Every part of you, really. You are so…”

     Sukuna smirks and leans back on his lower hands, one of his upper hands beckoning her closer. For a moment, Asiri wants to resist him, but he looks too much like some god out of an old myth, reclining in leisure. She closes the distance slowly, once again wondering what she must do. She tries to remember any frame of reference before that horrible night. Sometimes her cousins would visit brothels on their travels, and she tries to remember the glimpses of that life she managed to catch. Women far bolder in sex than she, gossiping about sex.

     Nothing in her memory is helpful.

     “The night won’t last forever, mayoi-hana,” Sukuna growls impatiently.

     Asiri shoots him a look.

     “Mscheww. Jirgin da ya kawo Bilal shi ne jirgin da ya kawo Musa.” She snaps back impatiently and Sukuna’s eyes go wide. Then he tips his head back and laughs. While he laughs, she reaches for the waistband of his hakama, loosening it and freeing one of his cocks, already straining and hard. It bobs, veined and tattooed, and she marvels at how big it is. To think it was inside of her not too long ago. Sukuna watches her as she reaches and wraps her hand around the base of the shaft, but her fingers don’t meet on the other side.

     She strokes him once, gaze sharpening when a strained sound comes from Sukuna’s chest.

     Again, up and down, squeezing tighter, and Sukuna’s lids lower slightly, a lazy smirk curling his sensuous mouth. Asiri watches as a bead of pearlescent seed forms at the tip of his cock and then, as before, she leans in and licks the droplet.

     Sukuna groans from the contact, still somewhat sensitive from earlier. Asiri smiles, gives a circling lick around the head, slow and indulgent. Sukuna lets out a soft, reverent swear at the sight of those dark eyes looking up at him, his cock in her grip, her tongue swirling and eager to taste him.

     She lowers her head, coming down to the heavy sack of his balls. Sukuna’s eyes widen as she brushes her lips against the sensitive skin, tests the weight of them on her tongue, lifting his cock and stroking as she sucks one into her mouth, blinking up at him.

     “Fuck…” Comes his guttural growl. “You are so gods-bedamned beautiful, Šetû. Perfect, just like that.”

     She sucks on one, then the other, relishing and lavishing every part of him that brings her pleasure, tracing the seam between them with her tongue from front to back. He hisses when her tongue tickles close to the back, and the sight of her with them resting on her lips is enough that he wants to spend on her pretty face at least once.

     Asiri explores some more when her lips close around the head of his cock. For a moment, that’s all she does, but her tongue rolls against the head and Sukuna’s hips shift slightly, the small muscles in his thighs twitching from the effort of trying not to lose control as Asiri explores this new avenue of pleasure. Slowly she lowers her head, and inch by inch he enters her mouth.

     “Yes…” Sukuna breathes out in a harsh hiss. “Just like that…”

     Asiri takes as much of the shaft into her mouth as she can, pausing to find out how to work her stroking hand in tandem with her mouth. She pulls up, hollowing her cheeks to hold the head longer while her tongue lashes back and forth across the tip. Sukuna grits his teeth on a groan.

     “Faster…” He hisses reaching to grab her head and force her down. He hears her choke and cough slightly as the thick head of his cock bumps the back of her throat. Then he pulls her up and she looks up at him, eyelashes fluttering.

     Down. Choke. Cough. Wince. Drool.

     Up. His cock glistening with her drool. Eyelids fluttering. Groaning.

     Down. Choke. Drool. Cough.

     Up. Down. Up. Down. Faster.

     In the privacy of his engawa, Sukuna watches as Asiri’s head bobs in a fluid rhythm in his lap, taking to the task of pleasing him with eager relish. She strokes and sucks him, relishing the taste of their commingled fluids. She looks up at him, eyes glimmering with something akin to admiration and pleasure at having pleased him.

     “Fuck, that’s good…” He praises, only slightly winded. “You sure you haven’t done this before?”

     Asiri pauses long enough to shoot a smirk with her eyes alone, tracing the veins of his cock with the tip of her tongue.

     Down. This time, Sukuna forces her further, until he feels her neck relax in an effort to get the head of his cock past the tight entrance of her throat. Once there, he feeds the rest of his cock to her, watching tears run down her face as he sheathes himself in her throat, her nose pressed against the soft, downy blush-colored hair at the base. He holds her there until he feels the small muscles of her throat working in swallowing motions, relaxing her jaw until he hears the wet, sticky sound of her drool dripping down her chin and soaking the heavy sack of his balls.

     “Oh fuck!” Sukuna groans. “Fuck yes. That’s it.” His head tips back and he moans louder, pulling her up as she makes a high-pitched gasp for air and then she’s down again.

     Her head bobs faster, and he leashes her by her hair, guiding her until all he can hear is the lewd, wet sucking noises of her mouth and the deep, guttural sound of her choking as he fucks her beautiful face. And what a beautiful face it is. Sukuna thinks she has never looked better, her full lips stretched around his cock, tears in her eyes, drool dripping down her chin and neck as she struggles to take him deep every single time he pushes her head down.

     Faster.

     Deeper. One hand shifts to feel that bulge in her throat, stroking it tenderly. She gags, but then forces it down.

     The rain pours. There’s a rapid series of wet squelching and sucking noise as Sukuna reduces Asiri to the pleasure of her lips, tongue, and throat, and Asiri relishes being used for his enjoyment. She relishes pleasing him.

     Faster. Deeper. Choke.

     Sukuna’s breaths come heavier, and he feels the telltale tingle at the base of his spine. He’s so close.

     Tears runs down her face as Sukuna forces her down with a primal sound that is right at home in the wild places of the earth,; right at home in the storm raging just steps away from them. His cock fills her mouth, pulsing and twitching, and she holds her breath as copious amounts of his seed paints her throat. Hot enough that it nearly shocks her into coughing, and plentiful enough that what doesn’t make it down her throat fills her mouth and leaks from the corners, dribbling down her chin. A beautiful, messy creature.

     Sukuna waits until the last spurts and twitches subside before he pulls her off of his cock, listening with residual pleasure as she gasps desperately for air, lips swollen and glistening with seed and saliva. She licks her lips, sitting back on her heels and swaying as she regains her composure.

     Sukuna lays where he is, breathing deep.

     “Fuck…” He murmurs quietly, catching his breath. “Ah, you are more than I could have dreamed, Šetû. Where did you learn such obscene skills?”

     Asiri shrugs. “I didn’t. I simply…guessed what to do.”

     Sukuna hooks an incredulous brow.

     She reaches forward, runs a fingertip over his softening cock making him hiss. He glares at her but does nothing to stop her.

     “It’s pretty straightforward in its workings,” she says matter-of-factly. Sukuna snorts. He won’t argue that. It’s rare he meets virginal women who know anything about the body. Though he remembers telling her this was a dance for which the steps would come easy to one such as her.

     He smirks, and with that frightening speed, leans up, reaching to pull her into his lap, freeing his other cock. Divining his desire, Asiri lets him maneuver her, hooking her legs over the elbows of his lower arms, before dropping her unceremoniously on his cock.

     She screams, but she’s already wet and tender for him as he stretches her pussy again. He wraps his arms around her completely, keeping her folded in half and crushed against him. He has complete control and he sees none of the fear in her.

     She trusts him.

     “Sukuna…” She whines. “Sukuna, I can’t…too big…”

     Sukuna laughs and without preamble begins bouncing her helplessly on his cock. Asiri wraps her arms around his neck, fingers gripping his hair. Sukuna murmurs against her mouth.

     “I saw potential in you,” he repeats his earlier words amidst her whimpering as he slows his pace to torment her with deep, languorous strokes. Up and down, a wet, sticky sound as her pussy is parted around his thick cock again and again. So big…so fucking big. She almost feels too full.

     “But not just for sorcery,” he continues. “I wanted to taste you on my tongue, wanted to feel you split on my cock just…like…this…ngh!” He punctuates those last words with a hard, pounding thrust.

     Asiri’s mind is wiped. There’s only the King of Curses there, occupying her every fleeting thought. She babbles mindlessly.

     “Sukuna, don Allah zan yi komai kawai...don Allah…” She sobs. Sukuna doesn’t understand and he grins at her in the dim light, only the glow of his eyes visible.

     “Are you begging?” He mocks. “You think you can just beg me in any tongue that flits into that pretty head of yours and I’ll just concede to your demands?”

     She’s crying, but not out of shame or embarrassment or anger, but the pleasure. God, she feels like she’s coming apart.

     And that’s exactly when Sukuna reaches between them, strumming her clit cruelly with his thumb. He wants her to come apart. Wants to run his hands through the shattered bits of starlight that is her soul, and fuse them to the gold of her own strength.

     There’s a high, keening wail that competes with the thunder and lightning, and then a clamping of lust-slick, velveteen muscles. Sukuna lets out a surprised groan and chuckles.

     “Oh, how magnificent: she’s crying and coming all over my cock again…and she thinks we’re done.”

     The night stretches endlessly it seems. When she comes, it undoes the last of the chains she’s carried since autumn. The guilt, the grief, the fear…all of it melts away as Sukuna gathers her in his arms and carries her inside, sliding the shoji shut behind him. He heads to the partitioned bath chamber, pulling a lever to bring water into the massive, beaten copper tub from the rooftop cistern. He lights the incense and coals beneath the tub.

     Asiri is vaguely aware of his actions, head lolling against his chest as he strips her of the haori and abandons his hakama. She feels him move, and then they sink into the bath. He arranges her between his legs, and the warm water immediately makes her melt.

     Asiri doesn’t question it, she simply leans back against him. Sukuna shifts, spreading his upper arms along the edge of the tub to rest, his lower arms around Asiri, pulling her back against him.

     “Won’t your belly mouth drown?” She asks lamely, her words only slightly slurred. Sukuna blinks, nonplussed. Ah, she’s still inebriated from the ganja. What a stupid question. He doesn’t dignify it with an answer, reaching for a wash rag and an earthenware jar of soaps and oil.

     Asiri leans forward as she piles her braids atop her head. Sukuna looks down, sees the mark on her nape clearly in the lantern light. He reaches, traces it with his fingertips much like she’d done with his own tattoos. And like her, he doesn’t ask her what this mark means. He feels something powerful about it, something resembling protective warding. A barrier seal, perhaps?

     “My mother called it psychic armor,” Asiri says in a lazy tone. She smiles, drawing her knees to her chest to rest her cheek on them. “She and someone designed the mark to protect me from harm by those who harbor ill thoughts about me.”

     Sukuna says nothing, tracing the black limned marking with a reverence one paid to gods.

     Gods…like him.

     Goddesses…like her.

     “And now you command the sky’s wrath,” Sukuna murmurs in an amused tone. Asiri laughs softly.

     “Yes,” she agrees. “I command the sky’s wrath…as my grandfather did.”

     “So you knew you were a sorcerer,” Sukuna says darkly. Asiri, sensing his displeasure, sits up and shakes her head.

     “No,” she says in her defense. “My grandfather’s gift had always been a paternal one. It had only ever manifested in the men of his line. It had been my parents’ hope that the gift died with my grandfather. Islam has taken root in my homeland and they frown upon such magics in their faith. It had been Amadou’s hope that it passed to him.”

     Sukuna begins to understand, now. It must have galled Amadou to see such a gift passed to one who was not supposed to have it…and Sukuna has learned that it’s precisely that kind of spiritual and secret greed that forces the universe to dispense a lesson in the form of beings like her. And beings like him. Sometimes those lessons were permanent in nature.

     “That was another reason we had to leave,” she says softly. “Had it gotten out that I had his gift, it would have destroyed my family.”

     Sukuna’s lip curls. “Sounds like your family was no better than the Zenins or any of the other sorcerer clans who care more about breeding sorcerers with certain techniques rather than training the sorcerers available to them to be good at jujutsu.”

     Asiri snorts and laughs as well.

     “Yes,” she says softly. “Still, Amadou never held it against me. And for a long while, whatever the shaman had sensed in me, was quiet. For a few years, I was just Šetû. Just a marokiya with…quirks, I suppose.”

     Sukuna’s lower hands cup her breasts beneath the water and she takes comfort in his touch as it roves over her, rubbing her abused muscles into tenderness.

     “Now you are more.” He says in that deadly quiet finality. But it doesn’t scare her anymore. It thrills her.

     “Now I am more.” She agrees, and believes it.

     After their bath, Sukuna helps her dry off, and leers at her shamelessly. She smiles shyly, squeezing out her braids before pushing them over one shoulder. She leans over to adjust her anklet. Sukuna watches her and thinks he can get used to seeing her in this bedchamber.

     Not as his guest, or pupil, or ward. Not even as food.

     Something more.

     Asiri leans back up, her gaze snagging on his.

     “What is it?” She asks, her tone one of hushed expectancy, her expression guileless. Sukuna wants to take all that softness in her and put it inside himself for safekeeping. The world will take it from her otherwise, but within his soul, he can keep her safe.

     He doesn’t answer.

     They return to the futon, and Asiri mounts the empty, rumpled sheets, and he watches her, briefly on her hands and knees as she attempts to smooth the rumpled bedding. He gets a glimpse of her swollen and abused cunt, and feels his cocks getting hard again. She sits back on her heels and looks at him.

     “Sukuna?” She ventures. “You haven’t been a shit to me for a full five minutes, are you sure you’re alright?”

     That brings him back and he frowns.

     “Watch your tongue, brat.” He warns. She hooks a brow at him, tilting her head. She doesn’t respond but she does climb out of bed to stand before his full-length mirror. He joins her as she observes herself. She runs her hands over various planes of her body, squeezing and pinching. He turns her to face him and she looks up.

     “Say something,” she says.

     “I want your throat around my cock again,” he responds without missing a beat.

     Her eyelids flutter and her mouth opens and then closes.

     “That’s funny,” she breathes. “I wanted both your cocks inside me again.”

     That bloodthirsty grin spreads across his face and Asiri wonders if this is the final sight of his enemies before he slaughters them. He places his hands on her shoulders, turns her to face the mirror. She meets his gaze in their shared reflection, watches as all four of his hands caress her reverently, learning every contour that shapes her. The darkling Galatea to this monstrous and possessive Pygmalion.

     For the second time, they sink to the floor together, one of his arms wrapped around her waist as she folds her knees under her and he spreads her thighs. Without breaking her gaze in the mirror, one of his hands slides between her legs, fingers tracing her cunt.

     She shivers, and he feels the first pearls of moisture form. Lightly, he moves his finger forward and back, lightly grazing her clit. She trembles.

     Back and forth.

     Her eyelids flutter.

     Back and forth.

     A small, restrained groan. More wetness.

     Back and forth.

     She falls forward onto her forearms, exposing herself further.

     Sukuna hears the music he has come to love the most: the slick sound of her cunt waking up just for him. He dips a finger in, carefully. One would think after hours of this, the tissues would become numb to overuse, even injured, but he watched her use reverse cursed technique to heal herself earlier while bringing herself to climax. Who knew beneath that soul scar was such a devilish and insatiable little minx?

     She shifts, spreading her thighs wider. Sukuna eyes watch her in the mirror, his lower eyes watching his fingers gather her juices with each thrust.

     Another finger.

     “Oh,” comes her soft moan. A few droplets spill.

     Dripdrip. Against the wooden floor, glittering like obscene dew. Sukuna licks his lips. He wants to devour her, and he wants to fuck her.

     “I love how wet you get for me,” Sukuna groans. “Hotter than a forge and wetter than tears. I’m going to enjoy this.”

     Another hand presses against her back, deepening her arch, and she bows herself for him obediently—eagerly. Sukuna is quietly impressed with her flexibility, though he should not be surprised.

     Asiri focuses her vision and looks up; comes face to face with a captive dream spirit in a position of vulnerable supplication, the God of Hida on his knees behind her, his cocks swollen and straining, pearly drops of seed beading at the tips. With his main eyes on hers in their reflection, his lower eyes flicker down as he spreads the curves of her ass apart and admires her, circling his thumb around the puckered bud and smirking when it clenches from the contact. She’s more pliant now that he’s prepared her and used her.

     The maw on his belly parts in a hungry grin, the tattooed tongue rolling out of from between the fangs like a serpent. Saliva drips from it like acid, splattering onto the small of her back, and she shivers.

     Then, it slides between the spread globes of her ass, teasing the puckered hole.

     “Oh fuck…!” She whines, watching in the mirror as the tongue slides up and down, saliva dripping all over, making a messy of her. The tip of it pushes that puckered bud and he feels it give, stretching slightly, and Asiri’s eyes screw shut as she whines helplessly while the massive tongue pumps in and out of her in shallow thrusts. There is only her voice, and the wet, sticky sound of his tongue.

     “Look how beautiful you are,” Sukuna praises with the mouth on his face, the other preoccupied with her asshole. “On your hands and knees for me, at my mercy, and whining like a whore for me to fuck you. Are you still mine, Šetû?”

     He shapes her name like a leash and collar, and she lets him slip it around her throat. Lets him pull it tight, demanding her submission.

     “Yes,” comes her strained, desperate whimper as he adds another finger to her cunt, fucking both of her holes with rhythmic pumps. She keeps whimpering. It’s unfair that he can do all of this to her, bring her to such unimaginable pleasure that it feels almost criminal to enjoy it. It feels like the sweetest taboo.

     “Keep talking, little flower, I want to hear how much you belong to me.”

     “Ciki…na…masoyí…” She begs, her dark eyes pleading with his in the mirror. Sukuna will never tire of that lambent, plaintive  gaze she gives him, as if he holds the very air she needs to breathe and will do anything for one, desperate inhale.

     “Come for me,” he murmurs. “Come for me and I’ll give you exactly what you crave, mayoi-hana. Drench me as only you can.”

     And she does. That light circling of her clit, his pumping fingers, that fucking massive tongue, and the silken honey of his voice all serve to bring her shuddering to climax and she watches in the mirror as he withdraws his fingers, sucking her juices from them indulgently. The tongue lolls and the mouth on his belly grins in satisfaction.

     Asiri’s body quivers both in anticipation and in the aftermath of her climax.

     Only then does her fill her with his cocks, feeding one and the other into both her holes. This time, there’s more give, the slide slick between them, and he sinks into her much quicker and smoother, hands pulling her hips back until she lifts her head, eyes blurred and unfocused.

     “Stay with me, Šetû,” he grits out, pulling his hips back and driving forward. Long, throaty moans tear from her, more hoarse than before—he’s had her screaming for most of the night—and he holds her head up with one hand, not allowing her to look away from their reflection.

     Asiri is mesmerized by the sight. Sukuna’s face is flushed in the cheeks, sweat gleaming on his brown skin. The muscles of his abdomen work as he pumps himself in and then out of her, again and again, until the sound of skin meeting skin is all there is, as loud as her cries for more. Louder than the storm that is both her doing and not.

     “Oh fuck!” She moans, words trailing as she endures him. “Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop…” She begs and chants, bracing herself even as he holds her by the throat. Tears slip from her eyes again, and another arm bands around her waist, leashing her more securely so that he can pound her more thoroughly.

     In and out. Again and again and again. She hopes he never stops. She hopes he wrings everything out of her, until all she knows is to belong to him.

     Plapplapplapplaplapplaplap—

“You want this,” Sukuna tells her, but it’s a question also, the only sign that he wants her reassurance as much as her surrender. “You need this…”

     “Yes,” she ekes out, the words dragging like a chain through her throat straight from the belly. “Yes…!”

     And she means it. Something moves through both of them as he plows her, like a dark wind.

     Another hand, stroking her clit while he stuffs her full, relishing those tight confines of her body, and the look of absolute bliss in her reflection. For his part, Sukuna looks like some feral beast, all teeth and maw and growling, but he pulls her up to him, holding her suspended against him so he can kiss her, and drink down her cries like rare wine. His lower eyes watch their reflection, wanting to commit this moment to memory.

     His lips travel down, and he sinks his teeth into the tender meat of her shoulder, just enough to bruise. She cries out and shudders in his arms. He tightens his bite, breaking the skin, and the coppery sweetness of her floods his mouth as she mewls in pain. He licks the wound he’s made, the closest thing to an apology, but also a self-indulgent excuse to continue to taste her in every way he can.

     “Mine,” he growls, unthinking. The one thing in the world Asiri is that she is to no one else. He won’t let her be anyone else’s after this.

     “Yours,” she whimpers, her voice warbling with her tears; agreeing, pleading, begging for it to be true. Begging him to make it true; her eyes shining with tears and his heart stinging from that other look in her gaze that makes him feel more naked than he is right now. As if she’s looking at his soul and not him. As if the rot of his own curses within his viscera does not repulse her.

     He presses his fingers against her clit, trapping it and stroking it relentlessly.

     “Give me one more, mayoi-hana,” he pants. “Gambare, gambare.”

     She gives him two. And then one more, breaking in his arms as she dissolves into helpless sobs, the pleasure insurmountable.

     And then he fucks her harder. He wants to undo everything that bastard Zenin did to her, wants to strip it away so completely that she does not remember the pain of that violation, only the pleasure of his touch, only the pleasure of being his.

Just as he is hers. Gods she’s had him since their eyes met that night and he was inevitably drawn into the invitation of those beautiful forest pools in her beautiful face.

     Love.

     That realization is what sends him over the edge, and in their shared reflection, two people who do not find themselves worthy of love, find themselves tangled within it like moth wings in the gossamer of spider silk. Sukuna spends himself inside of her again, his thrusts ragged and staggered as he groans loudly, thoroughly sated as he claims her in full. Though not nearly as copious as the first time, it is still a generous amount and he watches with satisfaction as it drips out of her onto the wooden floor. He groans again, deep and from the belly, tipping his head back and panting, muscles twitching, body gleaming with sweat.

     Their reflection is like erotic art. His limbs tangled with hers, her spread and impaled on him. Heaving together in their shared breath, mouths seeking one another’s like breathing.

     Sukuna slides out of her with a low groan and her soft whimpering mewl.

     He has strength aplenty, but he knows she is at her limit from the dazed look in her eyes. He carries her back to the futon, wiping her down with a clean rag before joining her. He douses the lantern with a swipe of her hand, plunging the room into the softer, dimmer light of the brazier, which burns low, mounted on a plinth.

     Asiri stretches out along the bed on her stomach, eyes already heavy with fatigue, body limp and boneless and replete.

     Sated.

     “Sukuna,” she murmurs, her voice slurred. “Thank you for…”

     Her eyes slip closed as she shivers and he turns to look at her. Has she fallen asleep so quickly?

     “Sorry,” she mumbles, then giggles and shivers again before Sukuna pulls the covers over them both. “Aftershocks.”

     He sucks his teeth but the annoyance has no bite to it. He watches her as she blinks slowly at him, her smile lazy and dreamy. For a moment, he almost says something to her that he has said to no one before, but instead he decides to watch her in silence. She reaches for him, clumsily finding his face before stroking it.

     “You didn’t have to save me,” she tells him. “But you did. I don’t think all of your bad reputation is warranted.”

     Sukuna grins. “Oh, it is,” he tells her. “But I have been known to follow my interests and whims.”

     Asiri adjusts with a soft groan.

     “And am I an interest or a whim?” She asks him. Sukuna reaches over, traces his fingertips down the length of her spine, over the curve of her hip. Asiri watches him with expectant, guileless eyes, her skin glowing in the aftermath of their rigorous fucking.

     “You are…something else,” Sukuna admits. “What that is, I cannot readily say. If you want me to call you my lover, I cannot. That has never been something I could give to anyone.”

     Asiri’s brows furrow. “I do not want you to call me that if that is not what I am. I merely ask…am I interest or whim?”

     Sukuna brushes a braid from her face.

     “Interest,” he replies and Asiri smirks as if he has just told her a delicious secret.

     “Interest is good,” she murmurs. “Interest means you think of me often.”

     Sukuna snorts. “Hardly.”

     “Sukuna, you don’t fuck someone the way you just fucked me if you don’t think of them. You think of me. It’s alright.”

     Sukuna’s nose wrinkles and he frowns. Asiri laughs, rolling onto her back. She laughs like she’s just heard the sweetest joke, or learned the most ridiculous information about someone she hates. She laughs and he sees that sharp smile of hers from the first night they met. Perhaps a night of vigorous fucking was part of what was needed to get that spark back.

     “I think of you often, too,” she admits when her laughter quiets and she lays on her back, staring at the ceiling. She turns her head to look at him.

     “I think of how you looked at the harvest festival, like you wanted to be anywhere else. I think about how you and Uraume came to our camp, and how I felt so honored that you’d even be interested or curious about us. I think of you and your fire, helping me reclaim the map of my body’s pleasure. And I’ll think of you long after all of this is done.”

     Sukuna lays back with a sigh.

     “And what will you do?” He asks. “When all this is done? Where will those dancing feet take you?”

     Asiri rolls closer to him, and Sukuna marvels at how different she is compared to when they first met. Seeing her relaxed and comfortable in this state is…

     “I don’t know,” she says softly. “I hadn’t thought that far…” She stifles a yawn behind her hand.

     “That is a problem for future Asiri to handle,” she mumbles and carves out a space at his side. Sukuna surprises himself when his arms automatically come around her and he folds her into his embrace, hauling her on top of him so she can lay there. His lower hands slide down to cup her rear, his upper arms wrapped around her, hands smoothing up and down her back.

     The rain pours outside, and Asiri’s eyes lower, sleep calling stronger with every breath, Sukuna’s breathing and heartbeat lulling her deeper.

     “Goodnight, masoyí…”

     That name again. He wants to ask her what it means.

     Sukuna feels her breathing even out, and then hears a light snore indicating she’s asleep.

     He watches the rain through the windows a while longer, and soon, shuts his eyes.

     The rain stops at some point in the night, just before dawn. The brazier’s fire has died down to a few embers, leaving the room much cooler. There’s a lingering scent of sandalwood in the air…and sex.

     Sukuna slips from bed just as dawn begins to bring color back into the world. He watches Asiri, who lays unmoving amidst the rumpled bedding, her face relaxed in sleep, her breathing deep and even. Reluctantly, he turns away from her and heads to the engawa. Outside, water drips from the pagoda roofing, and there’s a feeling of freshness in the air as he breathes deep. The hot spring is steaming, and he contemplates waking Asiri to join him for a soak. Instead, he opts to have a contemplative smoke from his kiseru and head back inside.

     She’s still sleeping.

     Sukuna tries to ignore her presence, but all he can think of is everything from the night. Her whimpering, her moaning, her eagerness to please and be pleased. Her taking joy in something that had been tainted for her for so long. He thinks of that name she called him before slipping into sleep. The same name she called him when she held his face in her hands and looked at him as if she were looking upon—

     He cannot even lie to himself and say he’s imagining it, and it irritates him.

     Never has he needed anyone to satisfy him. He has been a solitary creature since his mother abandoned him for death when he was barely old enough to understand what death actually is. He has lost track of the years, and the only thing he knows is the velvet crimson of the blood that stains his soul so dark he fears Asiri will fall prey to his curse.

     He can protect her from anyone. From everyone. Just not himself. So he must make sure she is strong. Otherwise, it will be him stealing the light from her eyes, even when he doesn’t intend to.

     He sits on a low stool, and he watches her. She’s unmoving in her sleep, lips parted as she breathes. She shifts rarely, content to stay curled amidst those sheets, as if the they are the tattered remains of a cocoon that birthed her exquisite form. She lets out a soft moan, brow pinched as she rolls onto her side, her back to him. His eyes follow her movements, lingering on the limned mark on her nape.

     Psychic armor.

     Sukuna has heard tell of a sorcerer, more myth than anything, called the Marquist. They specialize in tattoos for sorcerers. He has heard of sorcerers meeting with this mysterious figure, but no one speaks of it directly. He deduces that most of the truth is locked behind a series of complex and iron-clad binding vows. Still, he lingers on Asiri’s tattoo a moment longer, and wonders.

     His lower eyes snap to the door as it slides open. Uraume is there, a tray laden with a teapot, a small jar of honey, and a cup. Sukuna knows the contents of the tea, and watches as they glide inside and set the tray on the low bedside table.

     “Lord Sukuna,” they greet with a reverent bow. “Shall I prepa—”

     Sukuna holds up a gentle forestalling hand, then puts a finger to his lips indicating silence. Uraume’s lilac gaze drifts like snowfall toward the sleeping Asiri, a small, nigh imperceptible smile curving their mouth. It is a fondness Asiri herself has earned from them, and not just because she has enamored their lord.

     “Understood, my lord,” they say, and excuse themselves from the room. Sukuna doesn’t even hear them leave down the hall. He’s trained them well in stealth.

     His gaze returns to Asiri, who sleeps continuously, and he wonders what her answer will be when her vengeance is done.

     I’m going to take you, and then I’m going to bind you to me.

He hasn’t offered the Pact of the Wheel yet, and he’s reluctant to do so. Not because he does not want to be bound, but he cannot fathom what will become of her being bound to someone like him. Everything he touches corrupts eventually. He does not want her to be one of those.

     Asiri’s eyes flutter open, drawn from sleep by the rapidly cooling sheets that mark Sukuna’s absence. Sunlight floods the room, and she stretches indulgently in the bed, groaning from the ache in all her parts. Her inner thighs are sore with each movement, quivering in protest when she tries to lift her legs. There’s a stinging soreness on her shoulder and she sits up abruptly when she feels the wound of Sukuna’s bite, scabbed over. There’s a few bloodstains in the sheets, dried to the color of rust. She bites her lip on a smile before she turns and lets out a scream when she sees Sukuna seated on a stool, still as statuary, and watching her intently.

     She presses a hand to her chest in a gesture to calm her hammering heart and steady her breathing.

     “How long have you been up?” She asks, her voice coming out split and reedy, hoarse. Her throat aches, and she looks at the teapot, the steam curling from the spout, the jar of honey. It’s been so long since she’s had honey. Without thinking, she pours herself a cup, adding the honey and stirring. Then, she drinks it down, soothing her throat. There’s a bitterness to the concoction but her thirst makes for a sharp contrast. She knows what kind of tea this is.

     “Long enough to know that you snore,” Sukuna says dryly and she makes an affronted sound, but there’s mirth dancing in her eyes as she crawls from the bed, testing her strength as she stands. Then, she comes to him. Sukuna moves like poetry, his thighs spreading, all four arms moving to allow her to step close, before his lower arms close around her, squeezing her thighs and rubbing her tenderly. Her hands come up, cupping his face, stroking the bone plate with a tenderness that aches, her eyes studying his, seeking to know him even more than he’s allowed up until now.

     He tilts his head and she presses her face closer to his, brushing his lips with hers. Sukuna, ever-ravenous, does not allow her to stop there, and his mouth claims hers as they kiss, and this time there is no starvation in it; no desperation. Only the tender aftermath of everything that wasn’t said the previous evening.

     “Thank you for last night,” she whispers against his lips. “I hope I pleased you as much as you pleased me, my lord.”

     Sukuna’s hands are all over her.

     “More than, mayoi-hana,” he murmurs, nipping her lower lip and making her smile. “You’ve an appetite that could rival my own, I think.”

     Asiri laughs. “High praise indeed, from the King of Curses himself,” she says and laughs when a mouth spawns on one of his hands to nip at the curve of her ass. She swats him gently on the shoulder.

     “Come,” he says, and for a moment they both freeze, remembering the activities of the previous night. Asiri’s cheeks flush dark with heat and she looks away, suddenly shy at remembering all the things she willingly did and let be done to her body. Sukuna simply picks her up, carrying her outside.

     To the hot spring.

     They soak for some time, and Asiri admits that she needs this. Her body melts with relief and unlike before, when fear an uncertainty made her shy, she curls against Sukuna’s body, an arm around her waist, a hand on her thigh. She feels her eyes get heavy and she rests her head on his chest. It only takes a second, but Sukuna knows she’s fallen asleep again, her body weary from the hard usage he knows she’ll come to crave in time.

     He lets her sleep while he leans his head back, staring at the rain-washed blue sky. Colors seem brighter, even the birdsong seems hopeful. He looks down at the sleeping girl curled into him and tries to imagine life before her. He can’t seem to recall, but he imagines it was rather dull.

     He strokes her body, listens to her murmuring, and she yawns but does not try to move. Sukuna chuckles.

     “Hopeless,” he mutters, but there’s no heat or bite in his words or tone. Only an amused affection he did not know himself capable of, only the fruits of interest rather than whim.

     Do you dream of me, mayoi-hana?

Sukuna lets himself guiltily hope for once in his life. Hope that she does dream of him, and that all of those dreams are pleasant. Hopes that those dreams lead her to the answer she seeks, the one he needs to hear.

     Stay.

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[shanastoryteller]

SHANA HAVE YOU SEEN ARCANE? IF NOT GO DO THAT AND JOIN ME IN MY INSANITY WITH JAYVIK. Otherwise its dealers choice and some happy valentines chocolates for you 💕💋

Castiel has gone rogue, has torn down the wall keeping the cage at bay, and Dean is going to have to face him alone if Sam can’t figure out how to get out of his own head.

Absorbing the memories of what he’d done when he’d been soulless had hurt. To know that any version of him was capable of that kind of callousness, of the kind of ruthless efficiency he’d always turned up his nose at, was a blow.

But absorbing the memories of the cage may very well kill him. Everyone seems to expect it to, if it doesn’t drive him outright insane. It’s likely the most he can hope for is that it leaves him cationic, that he stays in this safe little place in his mind that Lucifer can’t touch and leave the rest of the world to rot. He already destroyed himself to save it once, why should he have to go through that again?

For the same reason he did it the first time.

The world still has Dean in it. He can’t leave his brother to suffer if there’s anything he can do about it.

When he finds across the version of himself that knows the cage, he has to clamp down on the urge to tremble. He’s standing there, half hidden in shadow, leaning against the wall like he can’t hold up his own weight.

He’s covered head to toe in blood.

“Hey,” he says then swallows. Soulless had been aggressive, had been angry, hadn’t hesitated to engage with him. Cage seems like he can barely keep breathing.

It’ll make him easy to kill, easy to reintegrate, but he doesn’t know what that will leave him as when he’s done.

Just killing the guy after everything he’s been though doesn’t seem right. He licks his lips. “Look, I don’t know how aware you are of everything that’s going on, but I – we – I mean.” He swallows. “Dean’s in trouble and I can’t help him without remembering. Everything. And I know I’m not strong enough to deal with everything you’ve delt with-”

“Why do you say that?”

Sam startled. Cage’s voice is raspy, but not weak. There’s no fear, no tears, just simple curiosity. “I – what?”

“Why do you say that?” Cage repeats.

“I,” he thinks back on Soulless’s memories, of how he’d been on board with getting his soul back up until he’d found out what it would do to him, of how they’d described the tattered remains of who he used to be. “They said it would destroy me. You don’t – you don’t look to be in great shape.”

Cage shrugs. “People have always underestimated us, Sam. You know that. They didn’t think we’d be able to take control of Lucifer and we did that.”

“What?” he laughs incredulously. “It was just a hunky dory time in there with Lucifer? You look like shit.”

“And you think Lucifer did this to us?” Cage smiles, Sam can see the white of his teeth against his blood covered face. It should be disturbing, a sign of a cracked mind, a cracked soul, but it just looks like a normal smile. “You know us. You know us better than I do at this point. When have we ever stopped fighting?”

“We fought the devil,” he says flatly. “In the cage.”

“Do you know what powers angel’s grace? Demon’s abilities?” he asks.

Sam shakes his head.

“Human souls,” he says. “It’s the greatest source of power on any of the three planes. And if you know Enochian, you can harness that same power. It took a while, but eventually we learned.” He tilts his head to the side. “I won’t lie, Sam. Lucifer put us through things that no person should experience, a type of hell that broke us more than once. But we were in that cage a long, long time. Souls heal. Grace disconnected from heaven just runs out. I’m thankful to be out, but given a few more centuries, well. Lucifer wouldn’t just be in the cage. He’d be gone.”

Sam doesn’t understand, doesn’t believe it. “So you used your own soul to fight the devil? With the angel’s language? That’s–”

“What did we have to lose?” Cage interrupts. “Michael and Lucifer distracted each other occasionally, and Michael keeps Adam unaware. All we had was fighting and surviving. If we could kill Lucifer for good, what did it matter what state it left our soul in?”

“Then why hide?” he challenges. “Death and Castiel put you away. Why hide even now? If it’s not that bad, why let yourself be walled away?”

“It is that bad,” Cage says softly. “You’re just that strong.”

Sam swallows.

He used to believe that about himself.

“I’ve spent centuries in the cage,” he says. “Some days I barely remember life on Earth. I’ve changed. I had no reason not to.” He looks away for the first time. “I did it for Dean. I never forgot that. And Dean got me out, he saved me, but,” he meets Sam’s eyes. “I remember what it was like to have Dean look at me like he didn’t recognize me. I didn’t want to go through that again. You, he knew. You, he recognized. I thought it was better. You didn’t need the person you became in the cage once we were out of it and I wanted,” he cuts himself off again.

It's okay.

Sam knows.

“You wanted to be someone Dean would be willing to sell his soul for,” Sam says.

He’d never wanted what Dean did, but he’s always felt crushed under the weight of being worthy of it, of the loss and fear when he felt he wasn’t. It’s such a fucked up metric to measure love against, if someone would be willing to go to hell for you, but Dean’s the one who set it. He’s just following suit.

He’d do anything for Dean.

“Dean needs our help,” Sam says. “Castiel-”

“I know,” Cage says. “Even a juiced up Cas isn’t Lucifer. We’ll be able to take care of him. You need to know what I know and there’s no way to teach you Enochian without everything you had to go through to learn it. I’m sorry.”

“We’ve got a year of fresh memories,” he says. “A year of our life on earth front and center. It’ll help. They won’t feel so far away from us after.”

Dean will still love them after.

“You hope,” Cage scoffs.

Sam smiles and lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “Yeah. It’s all we’ve ever had, right?”

Cage smiles again, pushing off the wall to stumble forward. Sam catches him when his knees buckle, looking into his own face, his own eyes. They are different. But not unfamiliar.

Souls heal. Whatever Lucifer did to him, whatever he did to himself in there, it’s not irreversible. There’s a difference between scarred and bleeding.

“You’re going to be okay,” Cage says, offering him a knife that Sam hadn’t even noticed him carrying. “You can do this.”

Sam swallows, giving a nod before taking the hilt and plunging it into Cage’s chest. He holds him through it, hearing the wet gasp against his hear. “Yes,” he says softly. “We can.”

When he opens his eyes in the panic room, all versions of him settled into one, into just Sam, he doesn’t waste time mourning the people he used to be.

Dean needs him.