#fic: divine spark

[rosenongrata]

funny haha raccoon

[nhlclover]

HANDS TO MYSELF QUINN HUGHES

pairing: fem!reader x quinn hughes

summary: after weeks of clashing schedules, yours and quinns calendars finally align for a much-desired date night.

warnings: veerrryyy sexually charged (but no smut), quinn and reader are very much in love, quinn being a lil bit horny, makeout

wc: 2.45k

notes: came so close to writing smut for this fic but i didn't think it would be good. also here is the dress i'm describing if you care!

In a serendipitous alignment of your overfilled schedules, the night finally arrives. Weeks of clashing obligations, games, appointments, practices, and disappointments converge to clear a single slot in time, and Quinn, ever the romantic planner, had spent the entire day coordinating for it. He’d spun a few webs to secure a table at Riley’s, a restaurant that you knew had been booked solid for months. The restaurant itself was peak elegance, serving high-end food with the best of service.

You pulled the black, satin dress that hung in its garment bag out from the back of your closet. It was a dress that had been waiting, forgotten but pristine, for an evening like this. You stepped into the dress, pulling the zipper, but realizing that the button at the top would need the aid of Quinn. Your makeup was done, hair pulled up into a messy, but planned bun on the top of your head. You check your reflection, every detail scrutinized until it's perfect. In the low-lit glow of your vanity mirror, you look radiant, a piece of art made alive.

When you’re finally ready, you drift into the living room where Quinn is waiting. He rises at your entrance, and the room seems to shrink around you. His silence feels louder than any compliment. His eyes take you in, from the cut-outs at your waist to the way the fabric hugs and accentuates the curves of your body perfectly.

Then, as if he can no longer contain it, he utters, “You look… I can’t believe how stunning you are.” His voice is reverent as if you were something divine and beautiful he had stumbled upon.

“Thank you, baby,” you say softly. You take him in as well, the chocolate-colored suit tailored to fit him perfectly, the white dress shirt unbuttoned slightly to show off the curves of his chest. “Can you help me do up the button?”

You turn around, exposing the deep, plunging back to Quinn. When he catches sight of your exposed back, you swear you hear him let out a whimper. His calloused fingers brush against your back, attaching the button. The sensation of his lips pressing a light kiss to the back of your neck sends goosebumps all over.

“All done,” he says in a breathy voice.

As you turn to face him, your heart skips a beat, taking in the intensity in his eyes. There’s a simmering hunger in his gaze like he's seeing you in an entirely new light and savoring every inch of the view. For a moment, his fingertips linger on your bare shoulder, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your skin. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, and the subtle scent of his cologne fills the air around you. The magnetism between you is undeniable, making it easy to get lost in the moment.

Quinn’s eyes drift from yours to your plump, gloss-covered lips, then back up to meet your gaze, smoldering and almost pleading. You feel the tension between you both rise, quiet electricity sparking in the space between your bodies, drawing you closer. He leans in, lips barely grazing your ear, his breath hot as he murmurs, “You sure we have to go to dinner?”

The way he says it makes your heart race, a low hum of excitement settling in your stomach. He’s looking at you as though dinner could wait, as though the evening he planned so meticulously is suddenly the furthest thing from his mind. You manage a playful smile, resting your hands on his chest and pressing back ever so slightly to keep a sliver of space between you.

“Quinn,” you whisper, forcing a bit of composure back into your voice. “I don’t even want to know what you had to do to get a reservation at Riley’s. And if we don’t leave now, we’re going to miss our reservation.”

He lets out a soft groan, but a smile tugs at his lips. “Fine, but only because I’ve waited long enough for this night.” His hands slowly fall from your shoulders, lingering a moment longer than they need to. He takes a step back, slipping one hand into yours, as if reluctant to let you out of his grasp even for a second.

Hand in hand, you head to the car, the cool evening air a gentle contrast to the warm intimacy that still lingers from Quinn’s touch. He opens the passenger door for you, his eyes never leaving you as you slide into the seat. He closes the door softly, circling around to the driver's side.

Once he’s settled in and starts the car, his hand immediately finds yours, fingers interlocking as he gives you a quick, admiring glance. You feel his eyes linger, that same look of reverence and wonder as he takes in the sight of you beside him.

“Eyes on the road, Mr. Romantic,” you tease gently, squeezing his hand.

He laughs, but there’s a slight flush on his cheeks. “It’s a little hard to focus when you look like that,” he admits. “That dress was practically designed to distract me.”

You shake your head, though you can’t deny how his words send a thrill through you. He’s still sneaking glances, unable to help himself, his fingers gently tracing circles on the back of your hand as he drives.

As you arrive at Riley’s, you’re greeted with the soft glow of candlelight spilling from the windows, the gentle hum of jazz drifting into the night air. The restaurant is elegant in a timeless way, with dim lighting and warm wooden accents that create an intimate, welcoming atmosphere. Quinn helps you out of the car, his hand finding the small of your back as he guides you through the grand entrance, where the maître d’ greets you with a polite nod.

“Right this way, Mr. Hughes,” she says with a warm smile, as though she too knows how special this night is. You’re led to a private corner booth tucked away from the rest of the tables. A single candle rests in the center, casting a warm glow across the table.

Quinn pulls your chair out for you, his hand grazing your shoulder as you sit. His gaze never leaves yours as he settles across from you, his expression one of barely contained awe. “I wasn’t exaggerating before,” he says softly, leaning in. “You look absolutely breathtaking.”

You feel your cheeks heat under his intense gaze, and you find yourself smiling, eyes twinkling as you return the compliment. “And you look incredible too, Quinn. That suit… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so good.”

A waiter approaches, and Quinn orders a bottle of wine, one you remember J.T. Miller suggesting the two of you try if you’re willing to shell out a bit of money on a bottle. As the bottle arrives and the wine is poured, Quinn raises his glass to you, his eyes catching the candlelight.

“To you,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm.

“To us,” you correct. You clink glasses, each sip bringing a pleasant buzz that only heightens the already electrifying atmosphere.

For a while, your conversation is playful and light. You talk about little things — reminiscing over memories that make you laugh, filling in each other on anecdotes that got lost in your busy lives. Quinn leans in, his attention unwavering, absorbing every word with a soft, amused grin. Every facet of him is distracting to you - the way his fingers play with the stem of his wine glass, how he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth when he listens so intently to you telling a story, and the unmissable gleam in his eye when he looks at you.

You each glance half-heartedly at the menu, but quickly abandon it, unable to tear your focus away from each other. The conversation flows with a surprising ease, touching on topics deep and trivial. He confides how strange it felt to find the perfect suit, mentioning how he asked Jack if it was too much. You smile, knowing how important tonight must be for him to fuss over something like that.

“I can't tell you how good it feels to finally be here with you. It’s been a rough couple of weeks.” His expression shifts, his normally relaxed face showing traces of the stress that he’s been carrying.

“I know,” you say, reaching across the table to place your hand over his. “It feels like every time we tried to plan something, something would get in the way. Between your games, my projects…”

He lets out a long breath and gives a slight nod. “Yeah, it’s just been so much with the season, and all I’ve wanted is a night like this. Just you and me.” His eyes soften, and you feel his hand give yours a soft squeeze, grounding both of you at this moment. “Games have been intense lately. And I love it, but… I miss you,” he confesses, his voice almost whispering.

Your heart swells at his honesty. You can see the weariness in him, but there's also a kind of vulnerable tenderness in the way he’s looking at you now. “I miss you, too. But I’m really proud of you, Quinn. I see how much you put into it.”

He smiles, his gaze dropping to your lips for a moment before flicking back up to your eyes, his expression soft yet intent. “That means a lot to me, more than you know.” He leans in just slightly, a private, mischievous grin slipping onto his face. “But honestly, right now? All I want is to be with you. Just us.”

“Well,” you reply, leaning closer to Quinn. “Here we are. Just the two of us.”

His thumb traces slow, deliberate circles on your wrist, sending sparks up your arm. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and earnest. “Exactly where I want to be.” His eyes drop to the faint glow of the candlelight on your face, and he seems to lose himself in the view.

But the tender moment is interrupted as the waiter returns to take your orders. Reluctantly, Quinn tears his gaze from you, giving his order in a tone that is a bit rushed. You can’t help but smile at his eagerness as you place your own order, stealing glances at him. The waiter leaves, and a comfortable silence settles over you both, the soft jazz music a fitting backdrop to the intimacy between you.

Quinn leans forward, elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced as he studies you again. “I know we’ve been waiting for a night out for forever but…” His voice dips into a quiet murmur, like he’s sharing a secret, “If you told me we could just go home right now, I wouldn’t even blink.”

You laugh, shaking your head slightly, but there’s a warm blush in your cheeks at his words. “Quinn Hughes, you’re telling me you’re willing to give up the table that you pulled some serious strings to get, all because you don’t know if you can keep it in your pants?”

“Yes, exactly that,” he says without missing a beat, his expression growing serious. “Do you know how hard it is to just sit here with you in that dress and keep my hands to myself?”

The boldness in his voice takes you by surprise, and it sends a thrill through you. His words are a reminder of the magnetic pull between you, one that hasn’t faded since the beginning of your relationship. A playful smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. “You know,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “I’d almost believe you didn’t want this night as much as I did.”

Quinn reaches across the table, capturing your hand in his as his thumb glides over your skin, the touch featherlight yet stirring. “Trust me,” he murmurs, voice thick with sincerity, “I want tonight. Every part of it. But right now, it’s taking everything I have not to pull you out of here and make you mine before our food gets here.”

Your breath catches at the intensity in his voice, the raw honesty in his words unraveling you. The ambiance of the restaurant fades into the background; it’s as if the two of you are in a world of your own, insulated by shared desire and the gravity of this long-awaited moment.

You lean forward, your eyes locked onto his with equal fervor. “I guess we could always… take the food to go,” you whisper, testing the waters.

A glimmer of excitement flashes in his gaze. “Are you serious?” he asks, barely able to keep his voice steady, as though the thought alone is almost too good to believe.

Your fingers trace slow patterns over the top of his hand. “Quinn, this night is already perfect… you went above and beyond to make it perfect. But, truth be told, we could’ve just ordered Chinese food and I would have been just as happy. I just want to be with you”

Quinn signals for the waitress, quickly requesting the check and your ordered meals in boxes with a smoothness that belies the fire simmering beneath his calm exterior. He leans over and gives her a charming but hurried excuse about needing to leave for a family matter, handing over his card before she can even respond. The minutes it takes to process feel like an eternity, but Quinn’s hand rests over yours, grounding you in the electric silence shared between you.

Finally, the waitress returns, and he leaves a generous tip before helping you to your feet. You weave through the restaurant together, stealing glances and half-hidden smiles, every step charged with anticipation.

Outside, the city air hits cool and refreshing, but the chill is quickly forgotten as Quinn’s hand finds its familiar place on your thigh once you’re seated in the car. His fingers trail subtle, teasing patterns that have your pulse racing, yet he maintains a sense of composure, his gaze focused forward as he drives the short distance back to your place. You both sense the unspoken thrill of getting back as quickly as possible, yet his hand remains on you, tethering you to the rising tension.

When he finally pulls into the driveway, neither of you wastes a moment. The world outside becomes a blur as you make your way up the steps to the front door, his lips already brushing against your neck as you struggle with the key. By the time you stumble through the door, his mouth finds yours, and the soft click of the door closing behind you is drowned out by the rush of your heartbeat.

[stvrchaser]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬

( pairing ) : clarisse la rue x fem!reader

( words ) : 2000

( note ) : noticed that clarisse has her nails painted in the show and… well this came out of that. reader is heavily aphrodite coded but i don’t think it’s explicitly mentioned anywhere what cabin she’s actually from? only that she’s not from apollo’s and she’s on clarisse’s side for capture the flag

also don’t we just love that every fic i’ve ever published is literally 80% pining? honestly can’t tell you the last time one of my fics didn’t have a scene that goes on for like three paragraphs about how much admiration reader has for their love interest

oh and happy new year!!

Summer days can last for a lifetime and a fulfilling one at that. There’s so much to be done when the world wakes, engulfed in light and warmth, nurturing possibility. There’s so much to look forward to. But today, that anticipation has chosen to work against you.

The sun is setting now, approaching dinnertime, and Clarisse is nowhere to be found. For all of her spontaneity and occasional recklessness, it’s unlike her to abandon routines. That is, routines she shares with you. And walking to dinner together happens to be one of your longest-running practices.

You tried to ask around, careful not to sound too concerned so as not to spark rumors. See, Clarisse La Rue has never been publicly caught in a state that warrants concern. Clarisse La Rue is untouched by the fears that plague the rest of them. But you know better.

It isn’t until you come across a few Ares kids, very obviously overworked and looking nearly faint with exhaustion, that you come to your senses. It isn’t infrequent that Cabin 5 becomes victim to one of Clarisse’s drills, training until fatigue overpowers their fear of her authority. As predicted, you find her in a clear patch of the forest overlooking the strawberry fields. Some days she likes to train here, away from watchful eyes.

The setting sun casts her in golden light, bronze armor glistening alongside golden skin. Clarisse liked to train in full gear — a fruitful habit to get herself accustomed to the added weight of leather and metal. It allows her to move with ease, swinging her spear with grace despite the strength of her whole body being evident in every step. With her head held high, spear raised, and the incredible speed at which she moves, she doesn’t look even the slightest bit mortal, but rather a god amongst men. A warrior and hunter. She is the perfect picture of divinity if you’ve ever seen it.

You let your feet drag against the dirt, a fallen branch snapping beneath your weight. It informs Clarisse of your presence from a safe distance, although the remnants of her focused state aren’t any less intimidating. Her eyes burn bright like the electricity that charges the tip of her spear.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Clarisse realizes her error with a glance at the horizon where the sun is setting and you smile warmly, dismissing any indication of displeasure. You watch her demeanor change, the rigidity in her posture fading with an apologetic tip of her head. 

“I’ve been training. Those idiots would know that if they’d stuck around to join me.” Something tells you that that isn’t entirely true. Anyone could assume that she’d been training, but the matter of where was an entirely different question. As far as you know, this particular spot is something only the two of you are familiar with — a small refuge away from everyone else.  

“Well, we don’t all have your… passion for these things.”

“You think I’m ridiculous,” she says with a sigh. 

“Babe, you’re training for capture the flag. Not war.” Clarisse only shakes her head, knowing there’s no point in arguing. She thinks this is something the two of you might never see eye-to-eye on. While you like your fair bit of competition, Clarisse takes every victory with great significance. As she does with every loss.

“Here, I’ll help you,” you say, approaching to tuck a stray curl behind her ears. Your touch lingers at her cheeks, flushed from physical exertion and maybe something more by the way her gaze settles on your lips. Every intake of breath is louder now that you stand toe to toe and the adrenaline has started to wear off. She’s too worked up to have done this all for a game of capture the flag. “I hope you’re not doing all this to get back at Percy.” Her eyes still linger on your mouth and you think she might’ve not heard you until her brows furrow in confusion.

“Since when are you on a first-name basis?”

“Oh, come on,” you say with a disapproving shake of your head. “He’s just a kid.” You reach for the leather chord at the edge of her breastplate, undoing the knot with ease.

“He’s full of it.” She refuses to look at you now, her head turned upward as if she’d developed a sudden interest in trees. You can’t tell if she’s trying to maintain her composure to keep herself from saying something she’ll regret or if your gaze and proximity was distracting her from the discussion. Maybe a bit of both.

“He’s a baby. You could body-slam him into next Friday. It’s hardly a fair fight.” You untie the last knot keeping her breastplate in place, tugging upward to slip it over her head. Clarisse doesn’t even seem to realize that you’d freed her of her armor until the weight vanished from her body.

She looks at you then with an expression you can’t quite read. Something warm, like gratitude, but reluctant. When she speaks, it’s unexpectedly solemn.

“Do you really believe he killed The Minotaur? Him? Gods, everyone here trains themselves to death for that kind of stuff and he gets all the glory? He doesn’t even know how to shoot.” Now that you’ve been made aware of the gravity of the situation, it’s suddenly harder to find your words. This isn’t the petty rivalry you’d assumed it was, and you had to handle it as such.

“Well, I’m sure a few things have been exaggerated here and there, but that’s not his fault. People love to talk about him, but nobody’s really talking to him. I don’t think he’s had a say in anything that’s been said about him. You know how rumors spread around here.”

“But he’s—”

“Look,” you start, taking her hands into yours. “I’m not asking you to make him friendship bracelets. Just… try not to drown him in the lake, okay?”

You know the exact moment an idea hits her by the mischievous glimmer in her eye. It takes a lot of strength not to bury your face in your hands, afraid that you’ve now planted an idea that would get the poor boy killed. Or worse.

“Clarisse, please.” She surrenders, albeit reluctantly. 

“Fine,” she says. Still, you’re not entirely convinced.

“Good. Now say it.”

“What?”

“Say you won’t drown him in the lake.” Clarisse laughs, but it dies down when she realizes you don’t plan to join her.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m really not.”

“I swear not to drown Percy Jackson in the lake,” she agrees through gritted teeth. You don’t say anything about the way her hands tighten around yours as if it physically pained her to say the words.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” you tell her, ignoring that it did, in fact, seem hard. “Now, what are we gonna do with those nails?” Clarisse stares blankly at your joined hands. Chipped black nail polish alongside your perfectly pristine, perfectly preserved set of nails.

“Why do we need to do anything about my nails?”

“Honey, I painted these like two days ago. What do you even do to get them chipped like this? I mean, are you fighting with the back of your hand? I don’t understand.”

“I have to train, you know?” she says, like it’s meant to explain anything. You know better than to ask her to elaborate.

“Shame. You have very pretty nail beds. You should spend less time fighting puppy dog-eyed middle schoolers so you can actually keep them pretty.”

“You think I have pretty nail beds?” You shrug.

“Among other things.”

“Well, tell me about these other things.”

“Hm, and people think I’m vain.”

“Come on. What other things?”

You take a moment to look at her — to really look at her. To dissect every inch of her face and the features that create the picture of beauty you know and love. There are far too many pretty things to point out, but you find yourself drawn to one in particular.

“You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Shut up. I’m not finished.”

“Of course. Don’t let me stop you.”

“And you have the most gorgeous smile.” Clarisse beams with pride. “Yeah, that one. And it doesn’t even matter if it looks like you’re just about ready to tear someone’s throat out with your teeth. I just like to see you happy. I like hearing you laugh even better.”

And laugh she does. Low but sweet, like honey. She looks like the teenage girl she is, deeply infatuated and with a capacity for love she has only ever shared with you. 

You indulge in the temporary amusement it brings you to think of how horrified Clarisse might be if anyone else were around to hear her giggle. Clarisse La Rue, Daughter of Ares, infamous for waging war on whichever unfortunate soul so much as breathes in her direction — producing a laugh so gentle and beautiful it could give Orpheus and his songs a run for his money. And you might be the happiest girl alive to have been the cause of it.

“You’re sure you’re not Apollo’s kid?”

“Are you calling me a talented poet?”

“I’m calling you a sap,” Clarisse insists with a sour expression, but her voice is saturated with mirth, eyes too bright, and you know she isn’t entirely opposed to your antics. 

“I think the term you’re looking for is romantic.”

“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes.

“I know I’m right, but thank you for the confirmation.”

“I know the nail polish fumes are getting to your head,” she mocks. You feign defeat, retreating with an exaggerated sigh.

“Maybe.” Two steps to your left and you’re concealed by a tree, its trunk twice as wide as either of you. You peak your head, locking eyes with Clarisse. “Or all that training is slowing you down. Honestly! If you’re gonna try to insult me, at least try to come up with something original.”

“Oh, you think I’m slow?” Clarisse asks, every word a thinly veiled threat — a challenge, and one you’re willing to accept.

“Unless you want to prove me wrong.” Clarisse lunges at you without warning, almost too fast, but you’re able to gather your senses. The tree had bought you just enough time to keep her whole body from slamming into yours, the force of it undoubtedly capable of launching you both to the ground. 

You dash through the woods as fast as your legs can carry you, your only advantage being that Clarisse must have tired herself out from training. But you know she’s hot on your trail.

From here, you can see the bonfire, flames burning high. You turn, prepared to declare that your victory is just seconds away. You’re tackled to the floor before a word can leave your mouth. 

“Oh, come on! That’s not fair, I was distracted!”

“Distracted by what?” Clarisse laughs hysterically although taking a much more graceful tumble to the floor than you had. She’s covered in fallen leaves and her jeans are brown at the knees where the denim fades.

“The pretty girl chasing me.” Clarisse is beside herself with joy, clutching at her stomach and close to tears, and it takes her a minute to calm herself. When the two of you have settled, she speaks again. Or tries to, that is.

“Oh, you are so—“ You place a kiss on her lips, short and sweet, but enough to leave her speechless. Clarisse turns a violent shade of red and you think she might need another minute to calm herself. You take that time to revel in your victory.

You stand, offering your hand to help her up. 

“Come on, let’s get dinner and you can rest for the game tomorrow. If you’re gonna lead us to victory, you’re gonna need your strength, captain.” She smiles, intertwining her hand with yours.

“You’re gonna be there? Right beside me?”

“La Rue, you’re crazy if you think there’s even a chance I’d ever leave your side.”

•°. *࿐

reader: pls don’t drown percy in the lake

clarisse: ok fine

clarisse: *tries to drown percy*

reader: what did i say about drowning people??

clarisse: …

clarisse: you never said the toilets were off-limits 

also i'm like brand new to the pjo fandom but i’ve been kindly informed of clarisse x silena (and their tragic ending but i turn a blind eye to that so i can preserve my sanity) but when i get there you WILL need to physically restrain me from writing fics about them

[dobbie-doo]

˗ˏˋ ꒰JUST A LITTLE BIT OLDER꒱ ˎˊ˗ ballader

You know it's wrong. You know it, and yet you melt in his cold hands.

✧ warnings — MDNI + smut ! fem ! reader, loss of virginity, vaginal sex, scara has a dick, finger stimulation,, pet names : "Persephone" + "my dear", some fanon ! Scara, long foreplay, !! cringe !! sex with feelings and a quote at the end.. Sсara is 500 years older than the reader, so so… ✧ minors do not interact. !! ✧ a/n —I love this song (Isabel LaRosa - older) , so I'm writing a fic,, drawing inspiration from a pathetic fragment of the song. Originally, another work was supposed to come out, it's already started, but I decided that it doesn't fit the atmosphere, so… I'll finish it later.. 💋

With cold palms he goes down to your sunken belly, outlining the silhouette with his long, aesthetically thin fingers, and presses on your belly under the navel, forcing you to let out a loud sigh that fills the coastal silence in the bedroom.

Scaramouche is now a puppet master, and you are just a fool..

The divine puppet covers your thin neck with tangible, cold kisses that contrast brightly with your skin, heated with arousal. His kisses should cause you fear, disgust.. But you are silent, you enjoy. Scaramouche stops his deceptively gentle caresses, only to meet your eyes, his gaze is sly, but at the same time gentle..

You can't lie here..You admit to yourself that this puppet is incredibly beautiful, with eyes of a flawless shade - His eyes are like lightning, sparkling in the dark sky, a rich indigo shade that fascinates and attracts the gaze. Sparks of blue slip through them, as if in the depths of the ocean, where light breaks through the thickness of the water.. When he looks at you, it seems that time stops, and the whole world around loses its significance.

Scaramouche, chuckling, slowly intertwined your hand with his, bringing it up, above your head. You seem to get lost in the vastness when his other hand presses on your cheeks to force you to open your mouth, and you, of course, obey. In another kiss, you are caressing each other with your lips excitedly, colliding with your tongues, which migrate from one mouth to another, until the oxygen in your lungs runs out, Balladeer, as if feeling how you are suffocating, slowly moves away from you, smiling, What weak people are.. And even sweet in spite of, he thought.

"Every moment next to you is like a sweet sin that I want to repeat."

"You are my personal hell, into which I dive with pleasure."

You swallow nervously from these phrases, at first glance, these phrases should evoke tenderness and affection, and so it would be, if you did not know Scaramouche well enough.

You want to rise up, to bestow tenderness on his body above you, but the puppet does not give permission, whispers warm words in your ear, convincing that there is no need for that, of course, he is much older, more skilled, the puppet has lived a long life to know all the dark and pleasant corners of human lust. His hand, in the usual black glove on the wrists, with a purple puppet joint that shines so much in the dark bedroom - slides to your thigh, gently stroking. You are in love with his hands.. beautiful, strong, which you can’t tell at first glance.

"In your breath I feel the wind of change.. You are trembling so.. Is it from fear? Or from desire?"

And you are silent.. You do not answer, only moan uncontrollably, writhing under him, the Marionette makes a mocking hum, shaking his head, slightly waving his beautifully ironed blue hair.

"Hmm.. I thought so"

Your knees are shaking when Scaramouche spreads them apart, settling himself more comfortably between them, Scaramouche playfully clings to your right nipple with the pads of his fingers, in response he receives your moan, presses lightly on your pearl, caresses it with a circular motion, and enjoys your first full-fledged moans, playing a melody in his ears. He squeezes your second nipple between his thumb and middle finger, pulls it out experimentally - making sure that it does not hurt you, so that only pleasure splashes in your eyes. And you, not knowing where to place your limbs, so carefully hug Scaramouche's back with your legs. - He smiles. How charming you are.

Your left bud is in his mouth: Scaramouche licks, sucks carefully, forcing your hands to touch his shoulders. He torments your young body sweetly, with his skillful tongue and graceful lips. He wants a deep kiss - but he does not allow himself to raise his head, he retreats back to caresses, because it is too pleasant, it is impossible to tear yourself away, he wants to please you more and more.

Scaramouche is surprisingly incredible in his tenderness, bordering on frantic rudeness; all his actions are neat, thoughtful at first, but as soon as you react somehow, he begins to bite your lips playfully, squinting his fox-like eyes - he presses harder, strokes more noticeably.

You can't breathe when Scaramouche covers your lips, you respond to his kiss invariably, and you delightedly catch the fuse opposite, realizing that soon both of you will burn to ashes, both will turn to ashes. Only ashes.

"I love you," you blurted out as if in delirium, and again you reach for a new kiss, into which Scaramouche smiles with fangs.

"You are now mine, dear, until your very end," and this is much better than the insipid "me too"

The inside of your thigh is attacked by his lips, he kisses you with a loud smacking sound, and you are embarrassed by this, because in your thin underwear the excitement is clearly visible, which smears the fabric of your panties with natural lubrication. Scaramouche, finally settling between your legs, leaving the last kiss on the inside of your thigh, notices your "wet" excitement and praises you for it lovingly, looks piercingly, accompanying his gaze with a frivolous bite, and then the puppet unexpectedly presses his lips to your clitoris organ behind the thin, wet fabric, to which the reaction follows immediately: You shudder, groaning loudly, and your legs at the knees bend in convulsions. Your whole body is a solid erogenous zone; wherever Scaramouche touches, wherever he kisses, your body's responsiveness to every movement is colossal.

Prelude, prelude… stretched out for hours, pushing you to the edge time after time, and then returning to the starting point, returning, Scaramouche teases, mocks, does not let you finish. And you can no longer stand it - you whine shamelessly, you reach for the elastic on your underwear, but they squeeze your wrist, Scaramouche looks at you sternly, and you recognize this look.. Usually he looks at his subordinates like this, or some ordinary stupid people, and when you catch this same look on yourself, you involuntarily want to shrink back.. Scaramouche throws your hand back roughly, does not allow you to take control.

"Let me…" Scaramouche whispers, his gaze softening and he grins cruelly when he sees your obedience.

And you are still lying on the bed, your legs spread apart with force, you surrender to the excitement that is covering you. Scaramouche circles your virgin entrance with his middle finger, and presses very tenderly, you tremble feverishly, frown slightly, but you ask him to continue, because you want more.

Scaramouche touches your cheek with his free hand, stroking it with his thumb, kisses it softly, Scaramouche again makes his way into your tender entrance with two fingers, moving them rhythmically, smiling from the squelching sounds below, and your feminine moans.

"That's it, my Persephone, make those silly sounds for me, show me how you like it.. Show me how good my movements make you feel!

With your moans, and the feeling of wetness and tenderness of your flesh, which is squeezed around his fingers, Scaramouche feels how something begins to harden in his pants.. Hah, and he even forgot about his satisfaction, although, he does not even need it.. But he can not leave his woman in such a position, when she is already ready to give him her purity.. innocence. And he grins, how stupid you had to be to decide to give such a precious thing - your virginity, to a man like him.

You gasp when his fingers are replaced by a member, gracefully curved, and with a purple tip shining, half immersed in your pulsating heat. You scream loudly, letting the tears fall, and Scaramouche almost even vulnerablely presses himself against you, licks the tracks of your salty tears, and whispers in your ear tirelessly about how beautiful you are, how wonderful you are and how incredible. You promise him eternity, swear fidelity with all your being, and firmly say that you will never betray him.. And Scaramouche admits to himself that he wants to believe it.

His thrusts are slow, excruciatingly slow and rough, you can't breathe. At one point you even start to move your hips in response to his thrusts, and Scaramouche throws your leg over his shoulder, crashing into you at a new angle.

The slapping of skin on skin seems loud and vulgar, your loud moans and his quiet growl are lost in the depths of your apartment, and you involuntarily think that you are happy at this very moment. The man you love, exalted by you, looks like a work of art from above you, carved from marble as if by the archons themselves: his body, slender, beautiful, is hidden under the thinnest black turtleneck without sleeves with the golden emblem of the Shogunate on his chest; your man's face is unrealistically beautiful, it is incomparable to anything previously seen, it shines against the background of any celebrity in Teyvat and, in general, it cannot even be compared with the stars in the sky, because it is many times more beautiful. A lot can be said about your beloved, but is it worth it while his dick is pounding into you, tearing more and more moans from your lips?

"Ah..Kabukimono.."

Hearing his first name, pronounced from your lips, Scaramouche seemed to break loose - he began to move his hips into you harder, more passionately, more roughly, wanting to give you pleasure that you had never experienced before, you moaned in his ear so unbridled, loudly, that Scaramouche involuntarily shrank and even hissed, but did not stop pressing himself so close to you and did not slow down your thrusts.

"A-ahhhh..Kabu..Please.."

"Hmm? What are you mumbling about? Didn't you want to be mine completely? Now take me properly my Persephone"

Balladeer looked insanely pleased, fanatical in his desire to destroy and break your body, so that it could only twitch and tremble in endless orgasms, while the room was again filled with his beloved silence.

Real madness.. From the pain you have only an unpleasant memory, and the convulsions in your body are no longer from suffering - you feel too good, the feelings are too bright. It's as if you're burning before his eyes, your consciousness is losing you, already slipping away with every new wave of pleasure and with every cry that escapes your lips.

You seem to catch falling stars with your eyes when you bring your knees together and lose yourself uncontrollably and in orgasm.

And finally, he stops his thrusts and carefully pulls out of you, you're lying on the wet bed, you're all flushed, sweaty, and the balladeer doesn't give a damn! - not even a drop of sweat on him.. Scaramouche breaks away from you and slowly rises above you, his eyes gazing into every hollow of your body, every breath, every movement.

"Hmh..hmm? Hah.."

His gaze stops on a barely noticeable red spot between your legs, further testifying to the fact that you are now his. He lovingly strokes your ribs with his cold hands. Your bitten lips twisted into a satisfied smile, your head was spinning from a mixture of defamine and adrenaline.. So good..

"Are you cold, my dear?" Scaramouche softly pressed his lips to your temple when you nodded shyly, bringing your legs together. Scaramouche carefully put the sheet on you, ruffling your hair. Feeling how your consciousness slowly falls asleep, you calmly fall into the kingdom of Morpheus. Scaramouche, watching you, thought "what a wonderful creature", And even, not afraid of his thoughts, Scaramouche lay down next to you, looking at your relaxed face with awe and obsession, quietly saying;

"In a room full of art, I would still look at you.."

✧ Even the most terrible person, on the most beautiful night, says the most beautiful words..

@himasgod @shyentsfoundherink

[phyrestartr]

Divine Favour | Sukuna x Kitsune!Reader (Pt.2) NSFW

W/C: 3.2k #NSFW, THEY FUCKIN', bottom!reader, top!sukuna, mild yuuji/reader, yuuji and gang are v early 20s, heian sukuna, male reader, typical kitsune shapeshifting, canon typical violence, morally grey reader, sukuna ignores feelings through the force of sheer willpower, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, dubcon elements, blood as lube (SORRY), Sukuna unhinged horknee, ABO elements

A/N: I wanted to make this include more parts, but I am so flabbergasted and in awe of the response to this fic that I feel the need to feed y'all feral creatures LMAO. JKJK but 👀 Thank you for all the feedback and support! It really gives me the motivation to continue writing and to interact with the JJK community. I'm having a lot of fun!

tags: @kamote-kuneho @kamote-kuneho @nyanwko @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @3zae-zae3 @chibiduck @kiiyoooo @lukaijah

“What the fuck is this?” Sukuna drawled, an intense fury simmering through his being. His gaze couldn't tear free from you, not even to size up the blindfolded weirdo watching him intently. 

He shattered the coffin, freeing you from the makeshift cursed bath some freak had forced you into. He smoothed damp hair from your sickly face and searched for sparks of life somewhere in the cold stillness that'd overtaken you. And there was something. He found it, a little glimmer of vitality in the smallest, shakiest inhale. 

“Good,” he praised, brushing your hair back more and more to get a better look at your face. You looked like the frail little thing he saved all those decades ago.

“You know,” Gojo interrupted, but Sukuna paid him no mind, “If I didn't know any better, I'd think you actually cared about that kitsune.” 

“Then you don't know what this is,” Sukuna decided blandly. “Figures.” Kenjaku kept him off the record, huh? Guess that's a bonus.

“Oh? Do you wanna enlighten me before Yuuji comes back?” Gojo smiled, as if he really expected Sukuna to play nice and be honest with him. “Come on, come on, it's your chance to be vulnerable~” 

“Tch. Pretty damn sure the fox'll be the one to tell you.” His hand smoothed over your stomach and rubbed slow, gentle circles against your skin as reverse technique sought to bring you all back to him. “He yaps about as much as your insufferable ass does. Granted, he talks a lot nicer.” 

“Wow, rude.” Gojo sighed and clapped twice as if clapping on a light. “Okay! I've had enough bullying. Yuuji–” 

“Brat, don't you fucking dare–” 

Yuuji inhaled sharply. He blinked owlishly at your calmed expression, your eyes now closed and breathing now steadied thanks to Sukuna's aid. 

Aid. That wasn't something the king did. 

“Sensei,” Yuuji managed, voice quivering under the weight of memories’ emotion. “Can you fix this?”

Somehow, you were stuck in the throes of flirtation with the malevolent king of curses. 

“It may be courtship,” Uraume guessed, soft smile brightening their cold exterior. 

(They'd been smiling more recently, actually, ever since you completed that overcoat and presented it to them. Nary a day went by when they did not don the sentimental garb.)

But you weren't so sure; the event of courtship was serious business across all lucid creatures. Animals and creatures of primal existence sought out partners with favorable genes and strong constitution, whereas humans and the like yearned for merit or love in their coupling. You didn't quite grasp the way humans thought. Not yet. 

Well, save for flirting. You decided it was a sort of pre-courtship where nothing became serious and nothing was on the line, but frivolous touches and haughty words of praise ran rampant when those concerned crossed paths. 

Much like today.

(Much like the days before and after.)

You walked along the stone-paved path most mornings, lost in thoughts and mumbling to yourself bits and pieces of poems. Most were unfinished, but in their own time, verses would find one another and complete the incomplete. 

A groggy yawn hummed from the palace entrance. And moments later, Ryoumen Sukuna fell into step with you, grumbling and mumbling complaints about the nippy Spring morning while he tucked his arms away into his sleeves. 

He followed you, idly looking around the expansive space you'd helped curate and maintain when you weren't busying yourself with the girls or decorating clothing. The gardens weren't a mess before, not at all, but now they had a certain taste–trees and flowers were planted with specificity, stones were moved, paths reworked. You took the outside over completely. The king didn't mind. 

“Sukuna-sama,” you said, voice melting in kind with the morning frost. “I'll need to leave for a short while.” 

Sukuna quirked a brow and looked at you. You gazed upon the large, thick koi flashing their beautiful scales and ornate patterns of orange and white as they swam and followed you. Tch. How come even the fish were drawn to you? 

“And how do you think you'll accomplish that?” Sukuna tossed a rock into the koi pond, making the fish scatter. “Getting away from me isn't something you can do.”

You huffed and looked at him. “I understand. I simply seek your permission.” 

“Denied.”

“Ah.” You deadpanned. “Why?”

“You're mine; I decide where you go, how you breathe, if you eat. Or are you forgetting that?” 

You sighed and let your ears droop sadly with your tails. “Surely you jest.” 

“Are you laughing?”

You whined like a sad, sad street pup before cozying up to him, slipping your hands up his stomach and chest like you were supposed to. “Please?” 

“No.” 

You chittered and pressed your face against him, but didn't protest and complain much more. 

Sukuna’s thoughts whirled. The show was amusing, sure, but you didn't do anything without reason, especially when it had to do with breaking character and acting out like this out of–

Oh? 

Sukuna leaned down and sniffed you, searching for the intriguing coil of flowery citrus he nearly missed on the warming breeze. It was so, so faint, but decadent and alluring in a way that made the master of toxins cautious–most poisons tasted sweet, after all. 

You pulled your head back, shrinking down the slightest bit with your ears flattened against your skull. Your eyes, wide as a full moon, stared up at him, expectant. The touch of your hands on him never left, though.

“Brassavola nadosa.” Sukuna tilted his head. “You smell like it.” 

You blinked curiously, relaxing. “Is that so?” 

We don't have that orchid in the garden. Sukuna hummed and lifted a lock of your hair, catching another weak waft of the flower's faint scent. 

It's coming from him, then. Hm. 

“Tell me again why you want to leave the palace?” Sukuna asked on a hunch.

And that hunch doubled down when you fidgeted with the cloth of his haori and looked aside. 

“I wish to bear children," you admitted, shy and quiet. "To try, at the very least. Perhaps find a mate, too.” 

Children. You wanted children. After everything those sorcerers put you through for who knows how many years, you still wanted to mother a runt of your own. And you were willing to run off into the wild to, what, let some random man knock you up? Fill you with seed of unknown origin, unknown value, unknown potential?

Sukuna's ego flared. He leaned down to you, tilting your chin up to make you look him in the eyes regardless how small you felt in that moment. He deserved to witness you. You deserved to witness him. 

“You're not leaving,” he breathed, and he swore he could hear your heart break. “If you want a brat, you'll get a brat–only if you stay here 'n give up on those shitty thoughts of finding a sire out there.”

Your eyes scanned his face, tracing over serious lines and honest creases. Clearly, you searched for an answer–

“How?” 

–one that Sukuna didn’t have. Or maybe he did. Perhaps he just couldn't find the words for it. 

He scoffed and ruffled up your hair, unable to answer you. “You're not leaving. Not unless I say so.” 

The first time he let you go, he left scars. 

He found you in your chambers come early evening. Your tails swished and flicked as you sat amidst a nest of his robes and the missing linens from his chambers while you futzed over the embroidery of another haori, this time adorning the plain thing with the darkest scarlet one could find. Sukuna could already guess why. 

Your being burns as wildfires do. Lively. Emphatically. Devouring more and more so long as the earth lets you. Yet where you do not lay ruin, you grant warmth and light in a divine way. Wildfires are not such horrible things if one stays a respectable ways away. 

Your poetic nonsense irritated him to no end, but he fell enamored all the same; you spoke to honor him with every utterance of his name. You didn't try to kiss his feet nor did you bask him in compliments–you only spoke into existence that which hummed through your mind, unprovoked. It just so happened to be everything Sukuna liked to hear. 

So when he found you secluded away, beckoning so sweetly with intoxicating scents of citrus and gardenia, what choice did he have but to lay claim, to give you the brat you so sorely yearned for?  

You sensed him. Your gaze flicked to him, stoic and unmoved as ever, as the energy in the room built into suffocating silence, something like tectonic plates caught in deadlock, holding their disastrous energy, waiting for the right moment to devastate the world with a single, cataclysmic shift.

And of course, it was the impatient predator that moved first, setting a catastrophe into motion. 

The hours blurred together. 

Every minute of the chase was thrilling, invigorating, surprising–you were filled with tricks and traps, never slowing down for a second to think or doubt as the beast of a sorcerer pursued you through his palace, through the city below, and now into the looming forest in the mountains. 

Admittedly, he'd gotten carried away. He lost himself in the rush of it all, the adrenaline and pure, destructive desire pushed his self-control into unraveling just the slightest bit; honest attacks tore through space and time, hoping to maim and cripple you if they were to hit. And, honestly, the way you avoided his attempts to strike you down enthralled him as much as it enraged him–he was seconds away from unleashing his domain until a less-than-satisfying ripple of cursed energy tore across your thigh and put you down.

It was then, walking up to you, to his prey, that Sukuna remembered you weren't a sorcerer. Most would be able to stand and walk it off, maybe even heal with reverse technique, but you could only grasp at your weeping wound and grimace. Because you were not a sorcerer, you were a kitsune: a trickster, a creature full of mischief and void of cursed energy. 

Yokai. Not a human. Not a curse. Not like the rest of the boring souls wandering his earth. 

Sukuna pinned you the second you tried to make a break for it. Fangs and claws gnashed and tore into him while his hands strained to keep you down and rip those damn clothes free from your burning skin. 

Mating's never a pretty thing when it comes to nature. Humans like you made it something more.

Sukuna clasped a hand over your mouth and forced his weight onto you, ripping reedy yowls from your core as you twisted and turned, primal mind urging you to run, run, run, don't make this easy, make him prove his worth–

Rip.

Ribbons of what were once your robes fluttered to the ground, useless and unsalvageable. They were plain black, so unlike what you usually wore. You wouldn't miss them. 

“Make this as difficult as you want, pet,” Sukuna whispered as he loomed over you. His hand slid from your mouth to your throat when you stilled.  

“You know how this ends.” 

His pants were pulled down while another hand wiped slippery blood against your pliant entrance–and that was the only warning you got before he pushed into you. 

Where you should have screamed, you instead sighed. Your back arched off the ground like a work of art. Two hands gave up on holding you down in favour of gripping your waist and hips, pulling you closer to him, forcing you flush against his body. 

He noticed it then: a litany of old scars and discoloured marks shining against your skin. Marks left by those who did not deserve to taste such a delicacy. 

Unsightly.

Blood painted the grass. Cleaves and slashes ate away at those tainted scars, painting over the ugliness left hidden for too long–now, his marks would decorate you. Now, those hidden scars would mean something. They’d mean everything. 

Yet Sukuna's selfish maiming wasn't fitting the bill, and your antsy-ness was proof of it. You tried for the last time to pull from him, but his grip tightened around your throat. You gazed at him, then, eyes so wide and hungry, eager to fight or fuck–whichever came first. 

He braced over you and nearly winced as he dragged out of your suffocating heat. A sharp snap back inside loosened you, the glide of blood and slick aiding him. 

“I'll take you the way you need it,” he drawled as he built the pace quickly, already feeling his own obsession and excitement reverberating through his body, filling every fibre of muscle with electricity.

“Then,” he growled, leaning closer to your face. “I'll fuck you the way you want it.”

“More,” you sighed, digging your nails into the pillow you had your face buried in while the beast fucked you from behind. Sukuna groaned in compliance and lanced into your guts deeper, harder, faster than before–you were the only one that could handle the brutal way he let loose, and he was more than willing to indulge in that privilege. 

The hands all over you rose to the occasion, too; one had your tails fisted in his ruthless grasp, rudely holding you still and pulling you back against his hips; another rested on the curve of your ass, only moving to give a sharp slap or to knead your soft, perfect skin; the last two held your hips in a crushing force, his calloused fingers digging into your plush sides and sharp hip bones like you might disappear at any second. 

A sharp, sweet whine signaled the beginning of the end, as did the restless fidgeting and shifting in the king's grasp. Seeing you, a poised, powerful, mischievous being, come undone beneath him came to be one of Sukuna’s favourite sights, especially knowing it could only be because of him--only him. 

He leaned over you, his heavy chest pressing into your back as one hand released your waist in favour of fisting in your hair and tugging your head back and out of the futon you so desperately clung to. 

“Ah-ah,” he scolded breathily. “No hiding.” It was a familiar sentiment, one he had no problem reminding you of now and again. You had a horrible habit of trying to vanish when overwhelmed, after all. 

“Terrible beast,” you snapped back, scoffing indignantly when the deep bassy laugh of the man rolled through your body. “Horrible.” 

“You love it,” Sukuna growled back, grinning through every word. 

Something about it clearly struck a chord with you, judging by how fast you choked on your voice and came undone, legs trembling and body tightening around the too-big intrusion. The king groaned and bit at your neck, licking whatever blood beaded at the surface in between rushed, hushed words of praise for you and your efforts–most, if they heard the things he said, would call it out of character for the beast. Most didn't get to see beyond his raw power and crippling cruelty, however. 

Sukuna grunted and spilled inside you, pulling you back by your hair, hips and tail to ensure he forced every bit of his offerings deep into your core. Your body rocked and twitched against his, accepting all he had to offer you at the end of yet another coupling, before he let go of your locks and let you collapse face-first into the futon. 

He pulled out slowly, watching as every inch slipped from your abused hole before popping free and uncorking a dribble of whiteness from inside. He tutted and scooped it up with two fingers before stuffing it back in. 

“Oi, oi, are you even trying to keep it in?” He teased, smirking as you huffed. 

“You've exhausted me. I have no energy to attempt the impossible,” you lamented, nuzzling your nose further into the soft sheets smelling of cedar and fresh blooms–something so uniquely Sukuna. 

Your king sighed and gave your ass a firm few pats. “Guess I'll have to spoil you even more.” He settled onto his back and easily pulled you onto him, yanking you up to straddle his waist right where that second mouth laid open and eager to taste you. 

“This is uncouth,” you sighed. But you rocked back against the thick, heavy tongue pressing into your pliant heat, licking deep into you with a mind and hunger of its own. 

“Seems couth enough for you,” he commented, watching you ride his centre with rapt attention. “Little harlot's getting off on this, hey? Such a needy little brat.” 

His hands smoothed up and down your legs and sides as you shamelessly chased a second high. Your hands clasped over his as he took you into his hand and stroked you back to ample stiffness, the soreness of too many rounds of fucking making you far too sensitive to touch. 

“S-Sukuna-sama,” you stammered. “I can't–”

Sukuna's head tilted with a pleased smirk. “Ho? I thought you wanted to bear children? Are my offerings not enough for you?” 

You scrunched your face up into something of a prissy glare, but the shine clinging to your lashes and the shuddering of your body against his betrayed your crumbling demeanor. Of course, he was impressed with how his fox was fairing considering everything he put you through. 

He maneuvered you onto your back, grinning as you growled and weakly struggled against him. You looked perfect–stomach swollen, hair fanned out behind you, eyes teary but unable to tear away from the creature that’d tormented you for hours upon hours with no desire to give you a break. 

“Greedy god,” Sukuna lamented. One hand came to rest on your bruised neck again, fitting around so perfectly. “Nothing’s ever fucking good enough for you.” 

“You are.” 

That gave Sukuna pause. He stared down at you, all eyes looking over you with rapt attention as he tried to think. Tried to understand. Tried to parse those words and uncover what exactly you tried to convey. 

But it didn't click. 

“Tch. You're lucky I'm a generous god,” he scolded, releasing you from your torment in favour of collapsing down beside you for some much-needed rest. Not only did your beautiful body wear him out (not that he'd admit it), but your whimsical words wore his sanity thin. The worst part was you didn't even intend to damage him so. 

“I am truly honoured to merely be in your presence,” Your voice, light and dreamy as petals fluttering, laughed, and Sukuna's soul did something odd. 

He stared at the ceiling as you shuffled beside him, quickly returning to his side, donned in one of his haori and determined to make a comfortable nest of blankets and clothes around you both for the rest of the night–ah, morning? Huh. What an ordeal. 

You curled up next to him, shoving your back firmly against his side the way you often did when resting as a fox, and Sukuna huffed. 

“Turn to me,” he commanded, and you obeyed. 

He, too, turned to face you to envelope your lithe form with invincible arms and divine protection. Your soft purrs rolled through him, settling his wild spirit into a lazy tempo of an early morning stroll through a garden filled with one sort of white orchid: 

Brassavola nadosa. “Lady of the Night.” Your calling card. Your divine essence.

"Brassavola nodosa (Lady of the Night) is a medium-sized epiphytic or lithophytic orchid species boasting extremely fragrant flowers throughout the year. The blossoms, 4 in. across (10 cm), emit a citrus fragrance at night. Each flower features long, slender, pale green or creamy-white sepals and petals and a large, heart-shaped lip sometimes adorned with purple or dark red spotting." - gardenia.net

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME (PLEASE DON'T FALL) ❞

Gojo Satoru x male!reader | Nanami Kento x male!reader | arranged marriage, angst no comfort (serious) | sub. bttm. reader (AMAB) | wc: 23K | not proofread

warnings: hint/implied SH through passive means (no descriptions), loss of virginity, blowjobs, handjobs, anal fingering, anal sex, major character death, graphic descriptions of violence, yn's low-key going insane masterlist; part 1; part 2; part 3; alternate ending; playlist; au's and what if's

authors note: this is going to have an open-ended ending so you can let your imaginations run wild. also, I'm sorry it took so long to publish this but I hope it satisfies you! also also - i truly apologize for how frantic the shibuya arc is as I'm an anime watcher so (T T) they'll be no continuation of this fic but there'll be a one-shot fic of nanami kento x reader having some sweet moments just for the heck of it along with a short fic of gojo and yn's wedding day...maybe.

“This is nice,” he murmurs. Uncaring of the water trickling into the shape of his leather shoes or how it makes his clothes cling onto him like a heavier second skin. It’s cooling, feeling like relief that was manifested into a palpable form. Pulsing, moving, pushing, and pulling as the shadows undulated. Sunlight dances on the ocean, piercing through the waters to reach as far down as it can.

Your arms around him make him grin. He reaches to hold you, the rarest of treasures appearing on his face as he feels your lips press onto his left cheek. 

He holds your flesh with a gentle squeeze. The weight of you on his back is like a comforting blanket draped over him; he kisses the delicate muscles and marks you have. You burrow your face into his neck, he closes his eyes and chuckles. "I'm sorry, my love."

“You’re going to make me late.”

It grins wide and proud at the sight of your disgruntled face. The cursed spirit was as ugly as a piece of dogshit on the street. Smelled like it too. It was a semi-special grade that had popped up in an abandoned hospital. It was the subject of a bountiful amount of paranormal fans, which meant a handful of people and teenagers had disappeared after entering its premises.

Ah, didn’t I go on a mission like this once? You thought to yourself.

“Or was it Utahime’s mission?” you muttered.

She — the curse — opens her split mouth to screech. Her white hair flies behind her as she furiously charges towards you. The corners of your mouth twist in disgust. What a wretched being. Her hands were bound behind her back as she was in a straight jacket. So far, her attacks had been long-distance but the ones that truly hurt were when she got close enough to sink her teeth in.

The chunk of missing flesh on your hand was proof of that. It was covered by your tie but those blackened veins were a clear sign of trouble if you didn’t exorcise her.

“Yeah, yeah. Come and get it, bitch.” Tucking in your chin while taking a quick breath as her horrendous form gets closer, you feel the familiar rush of energy flowing through you. She was running like a bat out of hell. Her chin probably would’ve been shaved off if she bent any lower — her disgusting mouth was slobbering all over as she unhinged her jaw. She lunges and you release a breath. With your outstretched hand, palm facing up, you press the sides of your pointer and middle finger together. The curse screams, her teeth now a hair away from biting the tips of your finger off.

“Divine Flame.”

The birds seem to freeze midflight and the ants appear static; even the clouds above the building had been glued in place. She sees your lips split into a grin, a puff of air that mocks hers as she struggles to breathe. The curse drags her ruby-red eyes to the spark of black that ignites on your fingertips. "Gods Blade."

A second ago, she was so close to taking your wretched hand off and leaving it a bloody stump. Her stomach wants nothing more than to savour the flesh of a sorcerer and hear him scream in agony as she triumphs in the fight. The memory of it, the bright flash of white that burned her skin off her flesh. She can still taste it in her mouth, she can feel the phantom pain of it slicing the back of her throat. Everything tasted like smoke and blood. As you kick her head, she tumbles until she is gazing up at the sky.

The sky?

What happened to the roof?

The sight of her shaking pupils made you scoff. The building was torn down. Sliced cleanly in half according to the angle of your fingers; everything your technique made contact with was bright orange, smoking, and singing. Cement crumbles into ash, and metal turns to oozing and bubbling liquid.

“Shit. I haven’t used that move in a while. I’m sorry, I’m in a rush, okay? I think I went overboard.” Thankfully, Kiyotaka had raised a veil or else you’d never hear the end of it. The building shudders with each step you take. She watches as you crouch next to her, grabbing a fistful of her white hair and bringing her eyes level with yours.

“Not that you don’t deserve it. You glutton. 14 people in three weeks? You brought this on yourself.”

Her eyes fill with tears as she feels your palm warm and warm and then it burns. Her screams were like nails on a chalkboard but you bore through it. Staring into the black flames that consume her you ponder about your agenda; those spikes of fury remind you of Megumi’s gravity-defying hair.

“You’re really shitty, you know that right?” she’s down to her bones now and it’s slowly piling up into a mountain of ash. Still, she finds it in herself to scream. “Your crappy domain was creepy. It’s been a while since I’ve been back in Japan. I’m just settling in. You were supposed to be a simple mission. Now you fucked up my hand and I’m covered in soot.”

Suguru would surely laugh at you. He often did when you were muttering to dying curses. It was a habit you formed, wanting to annoy them to the very end about your minuscule grievances. They weren’t to you but the curse spirits probably felt like tearing your head off as they died.

“(Y/N), you’re really unique, huh?” Suguru leaned against the red-bricked wall with his arms stuffed in his pockets. Shoko watched impassively by his side, holding a plastic bag filled with burn relief gel. It’s not as though your flames burn you. The heat they produce stung your skin. You suppose you’ve built endurance to it but you appreciate your friends pampering you; your clan was ruthless in fine-tuning your abilities, and there was no such thing as pain-relief creams or gels.

The (L/N) weren’t like the Major 3 of Japan. They were considered to be imitations. Mocked for their gaudy technique names and overzealous attack styles but weak bodies. In order to chase after the huge power gap, your clan brought the children to their knees. Grinding them forcefully on whetstones; until they either become sharp-edged or they break.

As the son of the head of your clan, breaking was not an option.

Luckily for them, you were blessed with a powerful curse technique. Unluckily for you, you were blessed with a powerful curse technique.

Your pout makes him smile. “Calling me unique feels like an insult, Su-Su,” you turn your attention toward the husk of a curse. He was pinned to the wall with one of Suguru’s spear-wielding curses as he was being toasted by your curse technique.

“I’m just trying to make them pass on easily.”

The curse warbles its disapproval as he shakes his head, its skin flaking and smoking. Shoko crouches beside you, unboxing the gel after you spread your fingers and exorcise it.

“I think it might’ve cursed you instead,” Satoru appears with canned drinks. He presses it tenderly to your warm cheeks as Shoko tends to your hands. “Here, you did most of the work today,” he thinks nothing of how flushed you seem and simply shrugs it off when you avert your gaze. Satoru ruffles your head, which erases the blush into nothing but annoyance,

“Man, can you believe we’ll be second-years soon? We’ll have juniors to bully,” Satoru says with too much glee. Suguru knocks the back of his knees with his own and Shoko and you barely muffle your laughter.

Kiyotaka smiles warmly as he spots you. It falls as his veil disappears to reveal the ruined building.

“Mr. Gojo…” Kiyotaka gasps with his hands curled to his chest. He must be pissed, Kiyotaka thinks as he glances your way. “Mr. Gojo!” you lift a hand to stop him from fretting over your bleeding hand, unknowingly showing him your fingertips.

“You used — “

“Principal Yaga won’t appreciate my tardiness, Kiyotaka.” The tie around your gaping wound unravels and he rushes to open the car door for you. “Ms. Ieiri will tend to me just fine, I’m not going to die. Oh, and please just call me (Y/N), Kiyotaka. Honestly, we’ve known each other for so long, I feel bad if you kept calling me using honorifics.”

How can he be married to Satoru? He thought as he nodded at your words. Half the time he’s expecting to be beaten up by Satoru, the way he speaks sometimes is as if he is deaf to how crass it is. As he rushes to get into the driver's seat, you try your best to tend to the soot and ash on your fingertips.

Kiyotaka watches you from the mirror. What worries him is the missing chunk from your left hand. The irritated edges and bulging veins weren’t easing his worries either. “Mr. Gojo,” you lift your head with a polite grin. Kiyotaka unconsciously returns it.

“Your husband left some burn relief gel at the back of the driver's seat,” he says. It leaves you stunned. He says nothing as your cool expression turns bashful. He was glad to see you find relief despite your twitching wound.

“I’ll drive you there as fast as I can, Mr — “

“Kiyotaka,” you huff.

“M-Mr — Mr. (Y/N).”

It’s strange what a familiar sight can do. Seeing the peeks of the sloped rooftops made your palms clammy. This was a form of torture and of that you are certain.

With every step taken to climb towards your destination, the wind carries forgotten voices and laughter. This school was a picture you kept in a box under your bed; meant to collect dust and only seep out through the cracks in the forms of nostalgia. Seeing it materialize the closer you get makes your throat tighten. The tree branches dance in the wind and sunlight falls into step. This would be scenic in any other circumstance.

You had no one to blame but yourself. Satoru may have pestered you to agree but he didn’t force your hand; you caved in all by yourself.

‘ Get a grip, ‘ you scolded yourself. This was doable. The anxiety that’s coursing through your veins does not compare to everything you’ve already been through. First-day jitters are all it is. Megumi will be there with his friends, Yuuji and Nobara.

Along with them, Satoru’s other students would meet you again!

They were all great kids (and an amazing panda). You’ve only ever seen them in passing, sometimes Satoru would’ve asked for you to meet him whilst his students were already there. They were a memorable bunch. Meeting with a cast-aside Ze’nin daughter had shocked you. It was no surprise she narrowed her eyes at you.

It was fair. The elitist nature of the major clans of the sorcery world was hard to escape and unlearn. Satoru could escape unscathed due to his curse techniques, spoiled by everyone and entrusted as head of the Gojo clan the second he was deemed worthy enough. But for Maki? She had to steel herself when your eyes landed on her. Especially because you were dressed in traditional attire, the silk of your clothes decorated with the sigil of your clan and Gojo's (your half-sibling had just been born, so you wore it to celebrate her first birthday).

You simply offered a downward gaze and nodded as a greeting. Flashing her a quick show of teeth that you showed to Toge and Panda as well.

“Mr (Y/N), are you okay?” Kiyotaka’s hands hover over your shoulder. You’ve half a mind to swat them away. He means well but at the moment you need someone whose heart isn’t racing louder than yours. It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. You weren’t going to die, Kiyotaka just needed to get that memo.

“I’m well. Let’s just hurry before — “

“(Y/N)?” Satoru's presence causes Kiyotaka to stiffen up like a board. His footsteps approach you from behind. You prepare for the questions he's bound to ask. He doesn't say much, simply does a once-over on you, then focuses on the bloody bandages around your hand. An attempt to hide it behind you was made though he’s already reaching to pull it into the light.

“Satoru, it’s fine. Shoko can fix it up, I’m already late. Principal Yaga is going to have my head.” Satoru reluctantly lets your wrists fall. “You’ve got 25 minutes before the meeting actually starts. I built a reputation for being 7 minutes late for a reason. Why doesn’t anyone else abuse it?”

The twitch of your brow makes him grin. Satoru greets Kiyotaka with a nod and he promptly greets the couple a goodbye.

Satoru stays. It seemed as though Satoru was following along on your impromptu trip to Shoko’s.

“He’s excited to see you, even though he won’t say it,” he turns his head in your direction. “He sure is attached to you. All he ever does is be snarky to me. How come I’m getting all the teen angst?” he makes you guffaw.

“Can you blame him, Satoru?” you snort. “Megumi is pretty guarded after what his step-mom and his father did. I don’t blame you for taking on so many missions either but I did end up staying home more often compared to you. Besides, you’re love language of gift-giving looks more like buying love sometimes.” Satoru’s jaw goes slack and his brows pinch into that annoying expression.

“You’re saying I’m like a rich benefactor rather than a parent?”

“More like a gay uncle who likes giving expensive gifts,” you grunt as he tugs on the lobes of your ears. He’s not that offended by your words, it’s not as though you’re denying that he cares for Tsumiki and Megumi. Simply stating that they still hadn’t bridged the gap. Partly due to his frequent goings and partly due to Megumi’s abandonment issues.

It must sting to know your father sold you to a family who only cared about your abilities. It’s no wonder he keeps his walls high. You’re excited to see his friends climbing it, hoping his fortune is as bountiful as his name.

“Must you be so blunt, husband?” Satoru opens the door for you, eyeing the stains on your shirt. "I heard it was a semi-special grade," you shudder at the reminder, "did she cause you so much trouble? It's been a while since you've used God's Blade."

The fluorescent lights of Shoko's don't help your nerves. The theme of today seems to be revisiting memories. The chill in the building does not ease you in the slightest. It reminds you of the same eerie hallway you'd be escorted to, the sickening green-blue lines of light that light the path would make your palms clammy every time. Those five men were akin to statues as they held onto the thickly bound rope plastered with talismans.

"She couldn't talk just yet but managed to create a weak domain. I don't know why. I wasn't expecting it. It was so unsettling."

Satoru wraps an arm around your shoulders, stroking your shoulder as he steers you through the hallway. He knows you don't like long hallways with cold lights. Satoru doesn't ask the why's or what's. Those rigid lunches and dinners with your father and stepmother are all he needed.

Shoko's eyebrows jump at the sight of the both of you walking in.

"Hello, lovebirds," she stands from her chair, "d'you guys need some condoms or something?" The joke earns her an unamused expression while Satoru just chuckles.

"My dearest husband was injured in battle."

Your exclamations of protest fall on deaf ears as Satoru forces you to sit at Shoko’s check-up station. She idles over, pushing Satoru away with a gloved hand. Her touches are careful and light as she takes a close look at the wound.

Then, she grasps your other hand and you can’t help the gentle smile that graces your face as she tuts at the sensitive skin. “You’re here to meet the Principal, right? This won’t take long. You owe me dinner.”

“Yes, Ms Ieiri,” you coo. It was an odd sensation, to feel your flesh regrow, veins stitching together as muscles intertwine. Meanwhile, Satoru is moving around in her office, sticking his head in cabinets and drawers while you wash your hands. Shoko does nothing to stop your meddling husband.

“Found it!” Just as you turn, Satoru’s face looms over yours. Your gasp is choked on the lollipop he puts in your mouth. Shoko’s stethoscope is looped around his neck and her spare doctor's coat makes him look absolutely ridiculous.

"A treat for being such a good boy at the doctor's office today!"

“Those might be expired, by the way,” Shoko says. “‘Toru!” he giggles unabashedly, avoiding your wrath with glee.

“Mr. Gojo is married!?”

Megumi regrets ever saying it in the first place. Nobara and Yuji are staring at him with wide eyes, practically sparkling with curiosity.

“Did you guys not see the ring on his finger?” The chair creaks as he leans back, crossing his arms as they place their elbows on his desk. “Now that you mentioned it, I have noticed it. I didn’t think he was married,” Nobara tilts her head. “I mean, I guess he is pretty good husband material,” Yuji says. “He’s strong, handsome, and he’s generous too!”

“The lip balm he wears is expensive too,” Nobara nods as she speaks. “It’s not that expensive,” Megumi mumbled though the two simply ignored him. He was on another financial level. His standard of ‘expensive’ had been skewered.

“He just doesn’t seem like he has a wife. How does she put up with his childish attitude?”

Footsteps come from the hallway. Megumi says nothing as Nobara and Yuji press their faces to the indoor windows, trying to steal glances. His heart picks up its pace as he clasps his hands together. He kept his guard up for a reason. He expects disappointment so he can never feel that fear of abandonment — a childish wish. Your trips overseas were something he didn’t think would make him fearful again, so he iced them out the best he could. But now that you were back, he felt entirely too excited.

“Shh! Itadori, shut up! Let me sit here!”

They wrestle for the chair closest to the door. The ridiculousness of it has Megumi hiding his smile behind his palm, rolling his eyes fondly. Nobara wins and Megumi buries the feeling of excitement that Yuji is sitting close.

The doors rattle open to reveal Satoru. The silence that greets him disturbs him enough to hesitate to take a step inside. Instead, he stretches his neck and lets his head jump from one student's face to the other.

“Is this some sort of ambush? Why are your faces so intense?”

“Mr Gojo!” Yuji exclaims (he doesn’t need to). Raising from his seat, Yuji plants his palms on his desk and speaks: “Is it true that you’re married and that your spouse is going to be teaching us?”

Satoru beams, one long leg crossing over the threshold. Megumi spots a flash of (H/C) coloured hair and no matter what he does he can’t stop his heart from squeezing in anticipation.

“A guy like me? Of course, I’m married!” Satoru wiggles his fingers in the air. The ring is a simple silver band with a beautiful gem held preciously by silver roots. It was personal, something that would twinkle under the light but remain bashful in any other setting; it didn’t make it any less beautiful or inexpensive.

Nobara stands next. “What is she like? How does she put up with you? Is she cool?”

Soft laughter floats inside. Megumi’s shoulders hug his neck as you walk into the room. You were dressed in a nearly identical faculty uniform to Satoru’s though there were little adjustments and accessories here and there that made it more your own.

“They’ve been your student for less than a week, and they already wonder how your spouse puts up with you, husband,” your eyes meet Megumi’s and turn warmer. Nobara and Yuji gasp, eyes going comically wide as they stare at you.

“They’re overexaggerating. I’m an amazing teacher.” Electing to ignore your pouting husband, you address the first-year students with your hands politely folded in front of you.

‘ Ah, always so proper, ‘ Satoru thinks. It’s probably where Megumi’s manners got reinforced because it sure as hell wasn’t from Satoru. You really were a marvel. How lucky would anyone be to be yours? An idea popped into his marvellous brain. Satoru suppresses his urge to rub his hands together schemingly though hopes Nanami won't mind that he meddles a bit with his mission.

“My name is Gojo (Y/N), it’s nice to finally meet all of you. Mr Gojo has told me what promise all of you show.”

Yuji doesn’t pretend not to notice the way your eyes linger on him. He stiffens up, jaw locking as he feels his tongue spasm. Your eyes — the colour of it seemed to sway, like a flame dancing in the dark. It was spine-chilling.

To stand next to Gojo Satoru, to be his husband — to be his equal. Yuji imagines you must be strong. He wonders what your curse technique is. He is not the only one wondering. Deep in the recesses of his soul, four eyes split open and illuminate the darkness.

“We were thinking of taking all three of you on a field trip around Tokyo!” Satoru says with glee.

“It better not be like yesterday’s trip to Roppongi,” Nobara mutters. You glance towards Satoru, brow raised in question while he laughs innocently at Nobara’s accusing glare.

Megumi takes note of the smell of ash, and cobalt gaze immediately dropping to your folded hands and narrowing as he notices how irritated your fingertips look.

“You’ll enjoy this trip, trust me. Everyone can show off their skills to Mr Gojo, even Megumi,” Satoru said. Megumi's cheeks burned at the callout despite that, he was excited. He learned a lot in those 4-months and he has much to show you. Nobara snickers at his annoyed expression but catches Yuji’s lack of response. Satoru did as well though since there were no marks or mouths sprouting on his face he elected to wave it off as him being stunned by you.

For being a man? Surely, not. Perhaps for your handsomeness? That seems very likely.

It wasn’t as though he was sullen, just tight-lipped as he smiled and guffawed at the ongoing conversation.

“You may call me Mr (Y/N). It might be confusing for everyone if you both refer to us with our surnames." Satoru pretends not to grimace at the lame excuse. It was not for their sake. It was for yours and his. In 8 months, you would no longer bear the heavy weight of his name, placing it on a mantle of your victories and regrets.

“Gojo?” Kento’s voice causes you to jump. He felt bad for disturbing you from your reading, you looked so peaceful. It's been a while since he's found time to sit down and digest the words of a book. The mountain of unread literature in his home begs for a crumb of his attention — they remain untouched until he's sure he won't die without reading the final chapter. That would truly be a nuisance. The cafe had the smell of fresh paint quickly being overshadowed by freshly baked pastries and brewed coffee.

Kento apologizes for startling you. An apology you wave off, setting your book down after slipping the bookmark between the yellowing pages. The spine of it was cracked and the front of it slightly warped despite the plastic cover it was wrapped in. "A good read?"

“It was my mother’s favourite book,” you trace the title on the cover, sheepishly grinning. “She left some of her books in my possession after her passing. It got banged up after a mission with a curse in America, some alligator curse.” “What is it about?” His voice was so deep. Had it always been that deep? Admittedly, you’d only had the pleasure to see Kento again during Suguru’s proclamation of war. At that moment, you weren’t ogling him or relishing in the baritones of his voice. He’d grown up to be a handsome man. Those high cheekbones and strong eyes finally settled on his face. Despite the coat he wore, you could tell his body was chiseled and firm. Muscles stacked on muscles. He’d always been studios — his technique did require a more hand-to-hand approach. It didn’t surprise you. Most active sorcerers tend to train their bodies in order to survive strenuous missions.

As students, you recalled having sparred with him a few times. It didn't surprise you he became a Grade 1 sorcerer. With his flexible ability and his sharp wit, Kento was a force to be reckoned with then, you cannot imagine what he's capable of now. “It’s a bit dark,” you turned the cover to him, “it’s about a woman whose sister and old friend from school died. They were murdered. We follow her through her memories of them and her emotions. It’s quite interesting if you have the stomach for it,” he takes the book as you slip it into his hands.

Your fingers brushed and your ears warmed up.

‘ Ah, stop it. Stop it! You are (Y/N), a powerful sorcerer. Stop acting like a schoolgirl! ‘ “It was inspired by a murder in 1997.” Kento reads the synopsis on the back, his eyes drinking in every syllable. You wonder if his gaze is always so intense. Do they soften when he leans in to kiss? Thankfully, the book distracts him from your aggressive sipping of your drink. "Is the protagonist compelling?" After all, what's more horrid than a boring storyteller. Kento has consumed his fair share of bland-tasting media. It was just how life is, he supposes. Still. It didn't mean he was any less disappointed.

He flips through the first few pages. His touch was featherlight as he traced the edge of the pages. "She's angry," you reply after a moment of contemplation. "She is...unapologetically resentful, overly judgemental. But, for some reason. It's almost relieving to read," he watches you scratch the back of your neck as if admitting it out loud made you a bad person. “I’ll have to keep an eye out for it in bookstores. This looks intriguing.” Kento hands the novel back to you. You’re only a little disappointed that your fingers don’t brush again. He reaches into his coat as you put the book back in your bag. The file he pulls out makes you sober up from the butterflies in your stomach.

Right, this wasn’t a date — despite Satoru's jests — this was a mission. It must be a pretty daunting one if two Grade 1 sorcerers were needed. “Gojo — “ Your huff makes Kento pause. “Honestly, Ken, just call me (Y/N).” Your eyes widen. Stumbling over your words, you try to apologize for your bluntness, your hair practically lifting and puffing like a panicked cat. It has been so long since you’ve been classmates. A whole decade had breezed past. Calling him by an old nickname after so long was so rude!

To your surprise, Kento smiles. It’s unlike Satoru's, free and sharp, the corners curled like a sly fox as he set his sights on adventure. Kento’s smile was reliable, assuring you without words. Like a prince, though one that was gentler in his ways of living compared to the gallivanting knight that is Satoru.

“Only if I can call you, (nickname).”

Yū’s face floats to the surface. You had given Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, and Kento their nicknames.

Satoru, ‘Toru. Suguru, Su-Su. Shoko, Ko-Ko. Kento, Ken.

Yū, well, you had trouble giving him one considering how short his name already was. So he gave you a nickname instead. It stuck more than the others, every time you saw him he’d immediately call you that and you’d struggle to find a nickname that’d stick for him.

After his death, nobody called you that anymore.

If spirits were kept alive through memory, you’re certain Yū’s was thriving thanks to Kento. His classmate, his best friend. What an honoured spirit he must be. Kento was a quiet man, your mother often said those stoic ones were filled with such blinding love it left them tight-lipped so as to not overwhelm others. You wonder if your feelings have tainted Suguru in any way. The very thought makes your knuckles whiten. How awful. You hope he does not resent you.

You remember visiting Kento after Yū’s funeral, leaving food for him at his front door for weeks until you found out he had moved out.

That was a dark summer.

“Of course you can, Ken.” He stands as you do, falling into step next to you as you make your way towards your destination.

This was an interesting mission. It was located in an alleyway that once harboured a noodle shop. Something chased away the people. The building on the right was an abandoned temple, and the building on the left was a nightclub that was torn down after a murder happened.

An unlikely set of locations sprinkled with fear and isolation. The perfect breeding ground for curses. The mix of religious trauma and debauchery formed a mass that seemed forcefully threaded together by a thick rope in the center that looked oddly like noodles.

What peeved you about it was that it took less than two hours for Kento and you to investigate and exorcise it.

He swung his weapon in the air, the dissipating gore of the curse splattering on the walls in a spray. You’re waving away some dust and debris, coughing as you crush a minor curse’s head under your boot. This mission was dangerous, a perfect mission for a Grade 1 sorcerer.

A Grade 1 sorcerer.

It hardly required a duo.

‘ Satoru, ‘ you’re choking him in your mind. This must be his doing. He'd joke about setting you up with Kento but you thought it was that, a joke.

A heavy hand places itself on your shoulder, turning to face him you’re caught by how close your faces are. “Are you alright?” your body twists and you can't remember when he got so tall.

“I’ll be sore, but it’s nothing new.”

You were his favourite out of his upperclassmen. Kento never said that out loud, he wasn’t sure why; you weren’t the quietest or most polite. You were any other teenage boy. Except that was a lie.

(L/N) (Y/N). You were a product of your clan’s race to stand out. The destiny many searches for was laid out ahead of you the second you were conceived.

But you were kind. Not that the rest of the upperclassmen weren’t. You were different, a shining light that Kento finds himself gravitating towards like a moth to a flame. You were the night sky, twinkling and watching those around him. Kento was a mere mortal. All he could do was admire from the ground as he helplessly reached up to embrace deities.

He slides his hand down to your arm, and the reaction is immediate. Pain shoots up your arm, blood hidden by the dark uniform. Kento undoes his tie and wraps it above the bleeding cut. It’s crazy what adrenaline can do to you.

“Kento, you didn’t have to,” you wince as he tightens it. He offers no apologies though his jaw still clenches.

You were strong, your ranking was proof of that. But you were a (L/N). Kento heard of the rumours they tell about your clan's weak bodies but overeager abilities. It was a nice way to say that your clan was in over your head. As history notes, your clan was more devious than forthcoming. Hailing from ninjas or assassins or whatever it is that seemed more malicious.

“I’ll bring you to the school,” his tone was resolute. “It’s just a cut,” he frowns as he takes another look at it. It was deep, not bone-deep, but deep.

He’s terrified that there’s truth in them. The rumours. As you stand here with your heated cheeks and too-warm touch, he’s worried that your brain is overheating. Or maybe your blood is boiling and killing you. You could drop dead right in front of him right now, despite the amount of times you get up each and every time.

He’s terrified, (Y/N). He cannot lose another person he cares about. Kento absolutely refuses to do that all over again.

“Kento,” that stubborn purse of your lips never did go away. He can see the fight you have in you, that fire that fuels you.

As you smile, Yū’s face eclipses yours. For a split second. Just a second. It makes Kento loosen his grip. “I’m fine, Ken. Swear it,” he reluctantly lets you go.

“I apo — “

Your fingers thread through his. They’re intertwined and your grip is firm.

‘ I’m here, ‘ each squeeze relays, ‘ I’m safe, Kento. ‘

The coolness of your ring on his skin earns you a firm press.

He’s content watching you from afar, Kento had long decided that would be his fate. There was no honour in it. He sure as hell didn’t expect a heavenly reward for it. Perhaps he’s a fool for living the way he does. Kento knows he's lying to himself. Deep down he wants nothing more than to kiss you, hold you, make you his, and let him be yours.

But Kento’s fear of losing you outweighs his love for you. Staying by Gojo Satoru's side ensures your safety, wealth, status and prosperity.

Kento will be content with that. Tripping through these messy tangles of heartstrings would just be how his life went. Even if Gojo Satoru did not deserve you, he provided you with more.

He would come home without fail. He was the strongest.

“After we patch up, let me buy you dinner tonight, (nickname). We can catch up.” The offer brightens your expression. You’d always been so divine when you smile, (Y/N).

“(Y/N)?” Satoru always smells so sweet before bed. It’s the lotion he puts on his skin, specifically everywhere else Fushiguro Toji had stabbed him.

It was expensive and meant to heal and moisturize damaged skin. They’re barely there anymore. The only proof of that day was nothing more than stark lines, and barely blushed skin that hides beneath his bangs. It was just routine now, a habit he couldn’t break. Or perhaps, a reminder for him; to know what it felt like to bleed out, to die, to let others die. The day he ascended to the heavens and became the honoured one. The day everything shifted.

“Oi, (Y/N).” You’re burying your face into his neck and Satoru stiffens. He’s ticklish there, he’s told you that before.

“Are ya’ drunk? Did Nanami get you drunk?” His voice lifts in amusement at the end. He'd heard that Nanami was quite a heavy drinker from what Shoko had told him. He hadn’t expected you to come here after a date. He was nearly asleep when you stumbled into the bedroom. Did you forget your new address? Satoru feels your hands tighten around his waist. A blanket of sadness shrouds you.

“Oi. Did something happen?”

You shake your head. Never in a million years would you fathom hating grain or bread. It wasn't her fault for holding Kento's heart but what sort of cruel joke was this? The gods were mocking you. Satoru swallows thickly as your lips brush the junction of his shoulder and neck.

“Did Nanami do something?” His anger was immediate, you could taste it from how close you were. Had he always been so responsive to your emotions? All it took to make him lose his coolheadedness was a suspicion that someone had hurt you.

“Why are you here, (Y/N)?”

“Ken, he dropped me off here.” Your legs stumble as you sway so Satoru holds your hips. He can smell the grilled meat from your hair, the alcohol from your breath, and the antiseptic wound dressing under your clothes.

“You didn’t bring him home?” Satoru teases.

“He brought me home.” Satoru can feel your lashes tickle his neck. Your breath is fanning that barely-there-scar and it makes gooseflesh ripple across his skin. Right, in the public’s eye, this was still your home. Kento was a gentleman, of course, he’d send (Y/N) back to his husband.

“This is my home, S'Toru,” he agrees with you with a nod, “Of course, beloved. We should get you ready for bed, yeah?”

His breath gets caught in his throat as he takes you in. The moonlight makes your skin look absolutely ethereal. Those tales of forest spirits with decadent forms and whispering eyes that lure men to their deaths pale in comparison to you. The drunken flush that looks silly on others makes you look like you’re a teenager all over again. Your gaze was unfocused, jumping or lingering from one thing to the next.

But your eyes meet him and they're so dark. He’s taken aback. It happens when someone’s in a dim room like you are currently. Your pupils dilate to let more light in. Satoru knows that’s not the case. You’re 17 again and the windows to your soul betray you by letting Satoru in. It’s silly what humans do when they’re in love. How our eyes insist on seeing more of them. Take in every microscopic detail despite not having the ability to do so. Fluttering those eyelashes as if curling a coy finger.

' Come, ' your eyes are saying. ' Let me show you where I ache the most, this void in my chest. Come. Inhabit me. Bare your soul to me. '

The act of kissing is perhaps the silliest. Moulding your lips with another person, feeling them against you as your soul breathes into their body. It’s Satoru’s favourite sensation. The intimate act of it all, of breathing life into someone you love. It was almost cannibalistic in a way. As you stand in front of him, hiccuping from all the drinks you took and only being supported by his hands Satoru can’t stop the way his gaze lingers on your lips. Satoru wants to kiss his husband. He wants to feel your soul burn him from the inside and he wants you to harbour his own in yours.

“Why can’t I just sleep now?” You mumble. Satoru’s palm cools your flushed cheeks, his thumb ghosting the edge of your lips.

“You smell like grilled meat and beer,” he traces your jawline and cups the back of your head to pull you into his embrace. Too drunk to care about how fast your heart is beating, you simply let it happen. Satoru’s big hands travel down and he shushes you when you squirm.

Down to the sides of the waist, then to your hips, further down and down until he catches the back of your knees. He lifts you so you wrap your arms around him, going all but limp.

“Grilled meat and beer smell great! I’m so sleepy, please,” he chuckles as you kick your feet. “I prefer if the bedsheets smell the way they do now. Man, how much did you have to drink?”

The hiccup you make when he sets you on the counter makes him shake his head. Satoru tells you to lean back so he can undress you. It’s amusing to see the emotions on his face as he does.

The metallic scent still lingers judging from how Satoru’s nose is twitching. Suppose the new jacket you got did little to mask it. He unbuttons your undershirt and his eyes widen. At that, you turn to breathe in the mirror, entranced by the way your breath leaves traces of itself on the smooth surface.

Satoru ignores the way your chest stutters as he traces the outlines of the fucked up star-shaped scar on your chest. It was a sick imitation of your skin colour. So close to your heart, too close. Your hand rests on top of his as you trace his knuckles.

“There aren’t a lot of doctors like Shoko overseas,” Satoru slips his hand away from you. It rests on the big scar on your side now. He can feel the marred skin beginning from your back all the way to the front, like a sickle. He can imagine it, see the way a claw or a tooth had nearly split you in half if you hadn't gotten out of the way.

It must've ached. He would know. Muscles being torn apart viciously, bone thudding so harshly on the ground that sometimes he's convinced it's broken. You must've been in pain — muscles and nerves screaming at every movement despite whatever sorcery was used to heal it.

Scars are a part of the sorcerer society. It’s a rite of passage just as much as dying is. He’s not surprised you have them. He’s seen your bare torso before. When it’s an unbearable hot summer or on a beach, you’ve chosen to shed a few layers. Sometimes, you’d even sleep topless if it was too humid.

Each time, Satoru would find himself looking at your scars. Counting them, wondering where some came from and what mission caused it. Or was it an accident? A childhood scar that never went away. Was it your training?

Was it your father?

He never asked. Satoru didn’t want to say anything for fear that you’d no longer be comfortable around him. The ones he remembered, he'd let his gaze linger on but the others? No. It felt shameful to ask. So he never knew. Simply wondered.

In those four months, why had your scars increased? The severity of it looked more and more painful.

“You’re usually not so careless,” fear grips him and his expression is so morbid you laugh. Satoru finds no amusement in it and his firm gaze makes your chuckle fade away.

“Maybe my family’s curse is catching up to me.”

“That isn’t a laughing matter.” Satoru knows you’re not completely immune to the flames you cast. You’ve certainly grown a tolerance for it (and other flames), once or twice he recalls you casually patting away at the inky flames that catch on your clothes. But it’s a great technique.

Too great some would say.

Divine Flame. A technique that enabled the user to control cursed wildfires. To manipulate it to burn through nearly everything it came into contact with. A searing black that makes you sweat even from a distance. That is so bright when cast, it blinds those who dare gaze upon it.

The whispers of your clan making a deal with a cursed spirit followed you everywhere you went. People claim that your ancestors made a Binding Vow to become great sorcerers. To rival the other houses and to fill the void of power that Sukuna Ryomen left your society in after he massacred great clans.

But your ancestor got greedy and the vow was broken, which left canyons of karma engraved in the bones of their children. It was why your clan could never flourish. It was why the children die out, why the women grow barren and the men weak.

It was ridiculous but Satoru himself wonders if there’s truth in it.

Why would the Gods give you a body you couldn’t sustain? Were you truly cursed? This mighty curse technique engraved into your skeleton burns you from the inside out; is it hurting you?

If it was, Satoru would demand the Gods to come down and face him. Why should you pay for the mistakes of your ancestors?

Why would they dare take more from you?

From Satoru?

Had they not have their fill?

Just rumours, he tells himself. If they — the Gods — dared taking you from him he'd raze heaven and hell.

“...You would tell me if it was, right?”

Has Satoru’s eyes ever looked as dark as they did now? There’s a ring of blue surrounding that endless void. As he peers up at you, all you can focus on is that sliver of heaven. That cerulean that reminds you of the sky and the sea, that you swear shines in mischief or glows like a good omen.

What is this darkness you're peering into? An abyss that whispers for you;

' Come. Let me show you, come, teeter over the edge and fall with me.'

“Would you stop it, Satoru?” your hands on his cheek make his skin burn. “This so-called ' great family curse, ' could you stop it?”

“I’d do anything to protect you, beloved.” He'd make the Gods ever regret making him fall in love with you.

You grin as your thumb swipes over his cheekbones and all thoughts of killing unreachable Gods dissipate. Satoru lets you come down from the counter, ready to catch you if you fall as you attempt to take your pants off.

Satoru is squirming like a worm under the sun. He’s sat on the toilet lid, refusing to let you tend to him. “Gojo,” your sigh makes him chew on his inner cheeks. Finally, you manage to get his shirt off and without that second skin, he feels far too cold.

You’re in nothing but a towel. Your funeral garbs are being tended to by servants. They were probably steaming out the wrinkles while you attempted to wring Satoru back into shape.

“I can do it by myself.”

He hasn’t eaten. What little he does eat is barely sustaining him. Satoru could barely stand after his adrenaline wore off, you truly hope he will not be stubborn. You reach for his boxers and he exclaims, once again;

“I can do it by myself!”

The blood that rushes to his head humbles him. Satoru stands and Satoru falls. You catch him, gasping out his name as your arm wraps themselves around him.

His face is on your chest, resting on your clavicles while your chin is on his shoulder.

Look away, he wants to tell you. Look away from me.

Suguru’s love letters are still dark on his pale skin. Like flowers blooming under sunlight, they decorate him from behind his ears to the nape of his neck. Satoru can recall pushing Suguru away as he did, his skin remembering unfeeling metal but Suguru kisses him and Satoru forgets it all.

He thought Suguru could forget it too. He tries not to cry but he does anyway. Satoru sobs into your chest and a part of you feels anger. It was your mother’s funeral.

Why the fuck is he crying?

But your grief is hanging outside the bathroom, neat and crisp and proper. It will weigh like boulders when you slip it on and you’ll feel your stomach twist into knots as you hold back the urge to vomit. In this bathroom, Satoru’s guilt is his and you’ll be there to wash it away.

He hates himself for it. He hates how you rub his back and shush him, gathering him in your arms as you stand so you can brush away all these feelings.

He couldn’t imagine going to his mother's funeral.

He also couldn't imagine Suguru not being by his side but that was now reality.

Your mother was a kind woman. Not naively trusting, barely had any faith in others his mother once told him. But she was warm despite it. Cunning underneath the pleasantries she shared.

His mother enjoyed her company. He can’t recall if she ever enjoyed anyone’s company other than his father and his own.

‘ She’s a wonderful woman. Shame she’s married to such a horrible man, ‘ she once told him.

“Let me wash your hair, Gojo.” The water hides his tears but you wipe them away regardless. You offer him a smile and Gojo can feel that tree of guilt sprout.

He catches you as you trip on your discarded pants and perhaps you should feel bashful or shy as your naked body is pressed against his clothed one. But you’re too drunk and too sleepy to care.

Your face rests on his chest and his chin is over your shoulder.

“Why do you call me that?”

Satoru turns the shower on, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist as he tests the temperature.

“Beloved?” You nod against him and the hair that tickles his throat doesn’t make his insides shudder in memory of that day.

“Do you want me to stop calling you that?”

He pushed you into the shower and the warm water has you groaning. He’s gentle as he manoeuvres your bandaged arm up, telling you to brace it on the wall to not get it damp.

His eyes are still so dark.

“Your shirt is getting wet,” you point your finger at it. Neither of you addresses your blatant brush-off. He tells you to turn around and you do. From the corner of your eyes, you see his clothes getting tossed onto the floor and the sound of his hand's lathering soap has you fluttering your eyes closed.

He envies the careless way the water hugs you. How it slithers from your shoulders down to the curves of your legs. Rivulets of ambrosia ease your sore muscles in ways that he wished he could.

“People...people usually use baby or babe,” Satoru’s hands lather soap on your back and you lean forward to press your forehead on the wall.

“Hey,” it twists beneath your arm, brushing over your chest and tilts your head up. You can feel his chest hovering over your back and you wonder if there are raised lines where Fushiguro Toji stabbed him.

“Do you want me to call you baby or babe?”

You shrug, wanting to hang your head again but somehow keeping it exactly the way Satoru had positioned it even as his hand moves to your back again. “It’s because you’re dear to me. Calling you my dear sounds way too archaic though.” He smiles as you scoff, “As opposed to my beloved?”

You’re sobering up from the water. He can feel your muscles tensing under his touch.

“What did you call Suguru?”

You prayed that you didn’t ruin this moment. The sick curiosity of it all has rotted in you for too long. You need to know how great his love was, from his mouth alone.

If you’ve spent a decade of your life resenting yourself for being in love with a man who was never yours, you’d like to know if he was truly unreachable.

“I called him my one and only.”

He sees no point in hiding it from you. Satoru didn’t want to hurt you, he hoped if anything this would make you run into Kento’s arms. A restart, a good man who had more than enough money to make sure you wouldn't have to give up too many comforts (Satoru's money and Kento's were no laughing matter but his was as infinite as his abilities due to generational wealth). From what he gathered on Nanami, from previous partners to his parents and health, he was clean. You deserve that. His beloved, you deserve to be with a man who would never hurt you.

“Your one and only.” Your face is hidden from him. He wants nothing more than to turn you around so he can see what you’re thinking.

“But I am dear to you, Satoru?”

“You are. You’re,” he struggles to find the words. As he does, he struggles to say it.

Cutting him off, you tell him; “You are my first love, Satoru."

He inhales sharply. Crimson seeps from the gauze of your bandages. Staining the white with red. The pinpricks of pain barely register.

“Suguru was yours. I don’t hate you for it. I don’t blame you. You alone hold the sorcerer society’s expectations on your shoulders. Its happiness and misery are all on you. The strongest. I am vindictive. I am selfish.”

“Beloved, you’re not.”

You turn to face him. Here you are, standing in front of each other. Bare and vulnerable. You might as well say what you need to.

“I am, Satoru. I wanted you to hurt, I wanted you to be in pain, for 10 years all I ever wished for was for you to feel what I felt. My love for you was tainted by my own feelings by my own hate. He was your one and only. How could I hate you for that? How could I hate him for that?”

Satoru looks to the side, clenching his jaw as his hands ball up into fists. He shouldn't say anything more but there's this voice pleading for him to say it. Say that he forgives you despite the fact that you didn't need to apologize in the first place. Isn't this what couples do? They kiss and make up. After a decade of this, of wearing rings and honouring vows, you would think it was something the both of you got used to doing.

That's not what you are, in a few months, the only remains of this marriage will be harboured in memories alone. So why does this voice grip him so tightly? This hope that the both of you can actually be together...he needs to extinguish it.

“I’m glad we had each other throughout these years, I'm glad you stayed even if it was out of pity. Even if we were unhappy, even if I could not...please you. We’re friends, and I could never hate Suguru for being your great love.”

“Stop, please.” Your blood is trailing down your arm. Turning the water into a pale red as it swirls down the drain. “I married you so I could marry Suguru.” He releases a shuddering breath. Satoru’s words sobered you up like a slap to the face.

“I was 16. There were marriage proposals from everywhere, even from overseas. I didn’t want to marry them. Not because they were strangers but because my duties would pull me away from his side. But I was forced to. By higher-ups, by clan members, by my mother, the world was looking at me. You said it yourself. The misery and happiness of the world we live in depended on me. But I wanted Suguru more than anything."

He’s looking at you with tears in his eyes. It's your heart that's being shattered.

So why the fuck was he crying?

“I told him if I married you, we would divorce and you would understand the reason. Because you were our friend. Suguru said it was cruel. He knew you loved me.”

These words were like striking a match and holding it to the leaves of that beautiful willow tree you made him.

“Stop, Satoru.”

“I knew too.”

“Please, stop!”

“I — I didn’t...I would take it back if I could. But I can’t.” That voice within him withers to nothing. He pretends he doesn't feel his chest ache as he stares at your betrayal. Your arm pulses in pain but you can barely find it in you to care.

“My beloved — "

“You knew I loved you? All that time, you knew I loved you?”

Was this better? For all these years, you thought he chose you because he held some sort of fondness for you. Perhaps the comfort of familiarity wasn't too far off. But the fact that he chose you due to your proximity? The reason he was so insistent on binding your hands together in matrimony was due to distance?

In another life, Suguru is where you stand now. Except there’d be no distance. They’d be pressed together, lips locked with a passion even your flames couldn’t rival. Would you be happy in that life? Knowing that your marriage was all a facade until the honor was fulfilled and Satoru would whisk his true husband to the altar.

“You used me.” He tries to grab you but you flinch away, stumbling over your own feet as your back meets the wall.

“I’m so sorry.” "You keep saying that, Satoru!"

You needed to get away from him. There was no way this could work. Not as friends, not as husbands, not as anything more. It was foolish to think otherwise. You attempt to squeeze past him and out from the glass doors but he holds you by your shoulders.

Satoru holds you to his chest as you try to slip out of his grasp. You'd think it'd be easy since you were practically covered in soap suds. If your tears were gold, you'd be the richest man alive. He's glad you go limp, gathering you so close you can feel the raised skin of the scar he had.

Blood is seeping through the fine hairs on his arm, staining it as you hang your head in defeat. He turns you around and the foggy glass doors of the shower make your back arch.

He should stop. This absolutely won't end well. He's broken your heart, cremated it into dust. Was this his punishment from a past life? Had he scorned a lover? Was it you? Were the both of you destined to love each other this way?

Why must he love this way? You can't tell what's running through your veins right now. Adrenaline? Anger? Beer? You don't know what it is, but it makes you stay as he stares at you.

"Hate me if you need to. I can take it, (Y/N). I promise you I can."

That's the problem. You can't. The definition of hate had been skewered for you centuries ago. Maybe this is how you love Satoru; with bitter longing and resentment. They had four letters, practically indistinguishable from each other in your mind because that's what Satoru has done to you.

From the second you saw for the first time, he'd burned his very soul on your heart. Branded you like cattle with his smile, left cuts with every exhale and inhale as he laughed; this is what loving Satoru feels like.

How did Suguru manage? Was he a stronger man than you? You wish you could ask him. Would his cold corpse cushion your back with his chest, praising you for taking Satoru's sadistic love so well?

The tip of his nose brushes against your ear as he embraces you. This is what Satoru feels like slotted against you.

So many questions are running through your mind. None were answered. They kept buzzing and it's making your eyes water. The steam, the familiar scent of your favourite soap, and Satoru's fading sweetness as the lotion is washed off.

"I hate you," Satoru's breath does not hitch. He turns his head and your lips quiver as he brushes along your jaw. He can feel you trembling as his face hovers across yours. You should put distance between him. Scream and tell him to get away.

Still, there is this terrible desire to be loved by him.

Just.

Just once.

' Come. '

His eyes are still so dark.

' Inhabit me. '

So are yours.

' Let me show you. '

They flicker to your lips, pure white lashes do little to hide heaven away.

' Bare your soul to me. '

His cheek twitches when you place a hand on it. No barrier between your palm and his face. Being naked isn't the reason why you feel so exposed. It's the way he's looking at you. As if your very skin was peeled away, muscles torn apart, bones bashed to smithereens; as if he used Hallowed Purple and eviscerated you into nothing but the very essence of your soul. He drinks it in with that unlimited darkness.

' I have. Now fall with me. '

He kisses you.

It's not the other times when he tries to initiate intimacy. No. It isn't methodical, hesitant, awkward. On the other hand, it isn't passionate either. It's wet. It's pathetic. Both pairs of lips bumbling fools that try to make jagged pieces to fit. Tears sting in your eyes, and Satoru can't understand why he does this to you.

' Look at what I do to you, ' he thinks, ' all I do is hurt you. '

You gasp when his hand pulls you in closer.

Just once.

He needs to hold you like this just once.

To show you how he loves the only way he knows how — to devour you with his sin so you know how much he meant. He knows he shouldn't. This would only muddy the dark waters you tread through. But fuck it.

Fuck it.

Fuck the world. Fuck the higher-ups. Fuck the clans, fuck expectations, fuck Suguru, fuck Shoko, fuck Kento —

"Satoru," you're breathing into his mouth, lips still pushed against the other as you try to catch your breath. Praying at the altar of the body that holds your soul; Satoru is weakest before you.

His godhood is forgotten.

The strongest kneels.

The taste of him is making your head fuzzy. The pain feels insignificant and for a moment the heartbreak is forgotten.

"(Y/N)," there, where you ache for him, he's there.

His tongue feels like velvet. With one leg tossed over his shoulder, you're at his mercy. Those plush lips paint your skin, ushering your blood just under the skin's surface. The tugs on his hair make him groan as he leaves apologetic licks on your inner thighs.

"Satoru," your whisper could make a mountain bow. A brush of his teeth has you gasping. It's soon replaced with a moan as he takes your cock into his hands.

It's obscene. Sex was never meant to be anything but — however, the sight makes you feel dizzy.

This ethereal man is on his knees, cerulean eyes staring up at you as he kisses the tip of your cock. A hand squeezes the underside of the thigh on his shoulder, slithering up to your hip and reaching for your chest and neck. The whisper of his touch on your chin has you whimpering.

"Don't look away," he says, "keep your eyes on me, my beloved."

Your hands attempt to grab the purchase of the glass doors, but all you manage is a handful of steam. They cover the marks you leave as your palms press on the glass. Satoru's mouth and tongue feel like velvet — so warm and wet. When you nearly slip his nose is pressed to your pubic hair so he simply lifts your other leg. The only thing you can do is thrust into his mouth.

He strokes your hips, nails lightly scratching the surface as he encourages you to do as you please. The noises he makes go straight to your dick and you feel like you're losing your mind.

As you curl over, gripping his head, you can only see white. Satoru's throat is gulping all of your cum down, and the sensation of your cockhead being squeezed has your heels digging into his back.

Those 10 years of denying him felt ridiculous now.

There's a distinctly (Y/N)-shaped stain on the bed. There's still soap on your skin. The coldness in the air makes being wet and naked uncomfortable. But Satoru is there.

He's kissing you like he wants to eat you alive and you're weak to his whims. Your cock is in his hands, painfully hard as he strokes it and swallows every pitiful mewl you let out.

Here he is again, ruining you, branding you.

He's not entirely at fault. You let him.

It was not his fault he loved another and it was not your fault you loved him. He was a teenager, so were you. What did he know of consequences, of choice, of pain? He was 16, in love.

Were you truly vindictive? Why were you so devout in your worship?

What were you worshipping?

The tragedy of this marriage? The humour of it all is a great soap drama that the Gods peer down at to coo at.

"(Y/N)," he says your name like it was a prayer. Such reverence in his worship. His lips are trailing down to your neck and the scriptures of adoration he places on your skin make your back arch into him.

"Satoru," he answers his name with a whisper of yours. He takes a nipple in his mouth, teeth catching to feel your chest try to escape it. He doesn't let it. He tongues at the scar you have, pressing kisses there and to the scar on your side, the scar on your hip, the one on your thigh, the one near your belly button...

"(Y/N)," he'd whisper every time he does.

Satoru is in between your legs but you don't want him there. He grunts as you pull on his forearm, a breath away from showing you his dedication to you but he doesn't complain because you're kissing him.

He likes kissing you.

Satoru moves his jaw up and down, you can barely catch up but that isn't without trying. The feeling of his undercut makes your hand move to grab his hair so you can breathe. His forehead is on yours and water drips from his bangs as he pants.

That endless void; it reflects only you.

"(Y/N)".

It's your name that leaves his lips.

"(Y/N)."

He's pleading for you.

"My beloved."

You're dear to him.

Your grip loosens and he relishes the way your soul burns as it goes down his throat.

When he's inside of you, you were certain you were going to die. Life has taught you plenty of lessons and one of them was that nothing good came without a price.

His cock split you open as gently as he could make it. It was tight. You were grateful for his fingers that stretched you despite how uncomfortable it had been at first. Tears still fall as you try your best to breathe, Satoru kisses them away. He's braced on his arms with you underneath him.

It takes all his strength not to pound into you. He's barely halfway in and all he wants is to stay inside you forever. You're squeezing and he inhales sharply, a breathless chuckle escaping him.

"Easy, you're gonna cut my dick off, baby," you sniffle in response. Satoru reaches to pump your cock and shushes you as you moan out his name.

"I'm right here, beloved."

"Satoru," he meets you halfway when you lean up. His heart clenches as he tastes your tears, saying nothing as you laugh in between the lip-locking. His hips move and you clutch onto him tighter.

"Oh fuck, 'Toru." He's there. Nestled in the space he had molded inside of you. Satoru is sheathed fully. You're convinced you're about to die as your chest grows heavier. He cradles your face in his hand, wiping that steady flow of tears as he thrusts in and out. You simply let him, gasping for air and mercy as your body hangs onto him.

"(Y/N), fuck, (Y/N)," his nose curls as his lust-lidded eyes drink you in.

"'To - Toru, Satoru." He can feel your nails digging into his back. It stings but fuck does it feel good.

"More. Nuh - Need more, 'Toru. Need — "He nods. You don't have to say it. You need him.

"Me too, (Y/N). You feel s'good, s'fuckin' good."

When his hips rattle yours, it's enough to have you sobbing.

"Love you so fucking much," he says. You don't have to say it back. Because your eyes betray you. They only reflect him and you're sure this is how you die.

"Satoru."

With his name on your lips.

"Please."

Begging for his mercy.

"Satoru."

You ____ him.

The clouds are strangely dark today. Earlier this morning, the reporter had babbled on and on about the clear blue skies and bright sunny day. Weather predictions weren't an exact science, Satoru knew that, but the sky was not cheery much less sunny.

It was baleful.

The Gojo clan's grounds were meticulously opulent. Preserved history in every shimmering roof tile and old ghosts whispering tales from the creaking wooden frames. The servants are dressed to the nines as well. They lower their gaze with such grace, Satoru wonders if they're robots.

"Satoru, you've come home."

His mother does not meet him at the entrance, nor anywhere else other than her office. It's a traditional room with an open floor plan, despite her aging body she prefers sitting cross-legged as she works or writes or draws or whatever it is she likes to do.

If the sharpness of ice could be personified, it was his mother. It was spine-shivering every time someone told him that he resembled her. Her hair was colder than his own, having an almost silver tone to it compared to his lilac. Her eyes were almond-shaped with delicate double eyelids that lifted up at the end, which resembled a cunning fox. Satoru knows his nose was from hers, his chin as well although his lips were passed from his fathers instead.

"Yes, I have."

Before her, on the short-legged table (which she had commissioned from a talented craftsman), were the signed divorce papers.

It'd only been a day. There was no surprise, if anyone was going to find out it would not be the head of the (L/N) clan.

It'd be his mother.

"Was he not good to you, Satoru?" The shadows swallow his visage as a cloud covers the sun. "It was a mutual decision," he says, "we both thought it'd be best."

"Because of Itadori Yuji's death?" his brows pinched together. A sigh escapes her. "If you feel so much for children, I wonder why you never had some of your own. Men like yourself can have bloodlines now through extraordinary science." "It wasn't because of young Itadori."

"Well, it'd better have been for a good reason then. This divorce will not reflect badly on you. I know why you settled for (L/N) (Y/N) despite his clan's reputation. However cruel it was, you told me yourself you'd take responsibility. I recall you using your power as head of the clan to strong-arm the decision despite much more powerful families offering their sons for you. This ' mutual ' decision will only have a consequence on (Y/N)."

She sniffles prudently.

"I quite like him as my in-law. His late mother was an honorable lady. I do not wish for her to haunt you for hurting her son."

"I cannot keep him against his will. He wishes to be free."

She scoffs at him. He does not need to lift his eyes to know how sharp her scrutiny is. The clan may have spoiled him with care and affection, but his mother had not. A hand was never raised and she never yelled, however, she ensured that her son was able to lead studiously.

"Free? Of you?" she places her temple against the knuckles of her fist. "Do you beat him? Are your words harsh and cruel? Do you rule your house with an iron fist like his impudent father?" Satoru shakes his head, frowning at the very suggestion.

"Mother, of course, I wouldn't — "

"Do you take him despite his protests? Force him to labor heedlessly to your whims? Is there a lustier boy waiting for you in a seedy hotel?"

"Gods, no! What do you take me for!?"

Her brows cover her double eyelids as she glares at him. "Then what is it that he wishes to be free from? If you are not mistreating him, if you treat him kindly, what is the freedom he seeks?"

"My informants tell me he had signed it before you did. They tell me that he had moved to a penthouse 4 months ago, mere days after Geto Suguru's death."

The light filters through that grey cloud. It highlights the upturned tip of her nose, her pink-dusted cheeks, and her lilac eyes. She was such a refined beauty, it was no wonder her son was too. But this made her look especially cruel as she stared him down.

"I took responsibility, I told him what my initial intentions of marrying him were," he says. "You idiot," she seethed. "He was a respectable man. A good man. A strong sorcerer with a cunningness his late mother had passed down to him and you chose a dead man?"

"You humiliate him, Satoru. The poor boy will be eaten alive by the gossip. Will you take responsibility for that too?"

"How are you doing, my love?"

Megumi raises from below the covers. The distinct sound of the windows rattling open makes him rub the sleep from his. He takes a breath, then says; "I'll be training with the second-year students today with Kugisaki." He hears you exhale and he can see the gentle grin you have on your face even with your back turned to him.

“Is she going easier on you?”

“No point in training if they’re going easier on you,” he mumbles. It makes you laugh while you settle next to him on the edge of the bed.

“Fair. You still haven’t answered my question, Megumi.”

The silence drones for a minute. Despite this, you can tell what races through his mind. Memories bursting with every blink and laughter echoing in his ears. All the things he should not have to know, all those precious moments ripped away from him.

“Does it ever get easier?” His cobalt gaze is especially heavy as they dance around the room.

“Losing someone?”

You stared at the wisps of steam that escaped the spout of the kettle on the kitchenette. Losing a comrade was a rite of passage for sorcerers. Through death, through betrayal, through this or that. For you, you supposed, it was a gentle albeit tedious loss.

The morning after that night had left you nauseous. Satoru was awake just as you woke, and both of you silently, rigidly, stayed in the embrace. His toned arms wrapped around your torso, nose pressed to the top of your head whilst your lips were mere inches away from his neck. His grip tightens as you squirm but ultimately he lets you go.

You couldn't bear it. That night of bittersweetness, of passion you've been craving for, of weepy love confessions and apologies. Not anymore. So you signed the papers despite the 8 months left and sent them to him.

It's Megumi who witnessed the death — according to the reports he'd been fighting with Sukuna Ryomen all by himself. That trait you know he got from Satoru, not the cockiness, but the self-sacrificing resolve. You hate Satoru for tainting Megumi with it, even if most would call it valor.

There is no honour in a child dying.

“Yeah,” Megumi inhales through his nose. It stings. Every inhale is a reminder of Yuji’s last.

“No, it doesn’t. It stays, shrinking or stretching sometimes but it remains.” He had hoped you’d say something else. Tell him that one day he’ll forget about it all. That this sinking feeling will fade away.

But you know he wouldn’t want that. He’d want to remember. No matter how painful. To keep Yuji’s spirit alive, he’d remember.

“It’ll get easier to carry it though, that much I can promise you.” Your arm slips over his shoulders and cradles his head. He is pliant as you pull him in, closing his eyes as your lips press on his temple.

“I loved him, dad."

Megumi stares stoically, eyes rimmed with red. Those words strain to escape his chewed lips. It quivers and as much as he tries to stiffen it, a cry escapes him.

Megumi knew his time with Yuji was limited, he told himself he was content with what they had. He was a lamb sent for slaughter and the butchers were the higher-ups whose orders he fulfilled. Megumi felt like a butcher. He feels Yuuji's blood drying on his hands, he can still feel the weight of his body on his back when he carried it.

He remembers how tightly he held him when Satoru tried to pull Yuuji away from him. How unwilling he was to part with the boy who didn't deserve any of this to happen to him. Megumi starts gasping, bowing his head as he presses the heel of his hand to his teary eyes.

"Oh, Megumi." He turns into you and weeps. Body racking with sobs as you comb through his hair, curling over him as he clutches at your torso.

"I'm here, Megumi."

Tokyo is dark by the time you reach your home.

The beeping of your intercom makes you pause.

Ice-cold water travels down your spine at the overwhelming aura that comes from the front door. Although you hope for it to be Kento, or even Satoru — hell, even his mother would be great — you know who waits for you beyond that door.

To deny him what he wants will just make this more painful. What greets you as you open your door is your father’s hulking frame. Steeling your expression, you widen the door. No entourage waits in the hallway. It was just him. He always dishes out his punishments that way. He says nothing about it. Closing the door felt strangely final; the soft click and thud blanketed the penthouse in silence.

As you turn, a fist connects to your jaw. The force has your skull bouncing off the wall, crumpling to the floor.

There was a monster in your house. Trapped with you as it grabs fistfuls of your hair. It drags you to the living room, lifting and then slamming you down on the glass coffee table. The wood breaks and the glass shatters but at least it lets you go. Taking a desperate lungful of air you lift your arms to protect your head but it lifts a mighty foot placing it right on your chest.

Your ribcage screams its protests. When your hands fly out to desperately push its weight off, it merely places its knee on your chest instead. The pressure has you gasping, and blood blurs the vision in your left eye which doesn't help the disorientation. He grabs at your neck and you swear you feel your ribcage concave as you desperately try to breathe.

"You worthless child!" The beast roars. Finding a purchase of broken wood, you imbue it with cursed energy and strike it above its knee. It yells, shifting its weight enough for you to push it back and away.

Your back presses against the balcony doors and your hands tremble as you bring it to your chest and face.

The monster snarls, baring its teeth at you as it stands.

It's funny how much bigger he looks right now. It's as if you've shrunk back to being a child when you stopped being one a decade ago. It was frightening how much fear your father put in you.

When Tsumiki and Megumi first met you, you were apprehensive about adopting them. You were a teenager, barely fit to take care of yourself, much less keep two children alive. You were certain that kids were never in your cards either.

The night Tsumiki and Megumi found themselves nodding off as you were huddled up together on the couch watching some stupid TV show was when you were struck with a moment of realization.

You could never imagine laying a hand on them. The very thought made you feel sick. You wanted to protect them, cherish them, love them. Loving them felt like the most natural thing in the world.

How could your father not feel the same for you?

"I gave you everything!" He growls, veins bulging across the back of his hands.

"You breathed your first breath because of me! I gave you life!"

"Get out of my house," the words are strangled and garbled. His eyes darken as he takes steps towards you. Not like Satoru's that night. No. His eyes are dark like the walls of that hellish room. They only reflect you but not because he cares for you; because he wants to kill you.

There's a sharp whistling sound that comes from over his shoulder. The glass door behind you shatters as shards of red crystals fly towards you. His innate ability was to control broken shards of glass, changing their shapes and imbuing them with cursed energy. Blood flows from your cheek and torso. The wound from your mission with Kento spills open with fury. Cold wind rushes in as your hips bump into the railings of your balcony. He looks warbled in your vision, painted crimson.

"You're nothing without me! I made our clan rise from the ashes. I saved it from shame as I gave you that tyrant of a husband! I prevailed. I sacrificed everything for it! What do I get in return for giving you this auspicious life?"

You bring your hands up and yell as the shards intently aim for your scars, intent on ripping them open.

"Humiliation! They denied me entry to high society. Me! Denied of my destiny because of my weak-willed son!" The neighbors are rushing to their balconies and out onto the hallways. They yell if you're alright, trying to catch a peek of the scene by holding out their phones and aiming it at you. They yelp as his crystals fly into the air, clearly shocked at the unusual phenomenon.

This beast. He had 10 years to make himself worthy enough to stand between those of "high society."

Is it your fault that high society never — and would never — accept him in the first place?

He reaps what you sow. That's the kind of man he is. His pride comes before all, your mother once said to you.

She knew sacrifice. You knew sacrifice.

He knows nothing, yet he spouts his ideologies so loudly, so defiantly, it is as though it is gospel.

What a foolish man.

"Where is your respect!? Your gratitude!? I gave you life, I'll take it just as easily, boy."

He was close enough to reach out and grab you. When he did, he quickly regretted it. Fire engulfed his fist, the flame dark as ink as it roared. He yells in pain but you don't let him pull away. Instead, you bring your hands to wrap around his wrist and keep it there. His flesh smells rotten as the fire melts the skin away, charred almost. It sizzles on your skin, leaving its mark as more and more fat renders and pulsates. Bubbling like a foul soup.

Pull as he might, you keep him there, glaring with blood in your eyes.

The hand that holds his wrist lets go as he falls to his knees, summoning his weak ability again. They cut and slice furiously, emboldened by his pain, but yours was greater. With him on his knees, your hands thrust through the fire and grab his face.

It hurts. Your skin screeches in pain as the flames eat away. It feels insignificant. Before you, kneeling, was the beast that played the role of your father.

He feels as though your grip would completely crush his jaw.

The hand on yours is beginning to show bone. You feel nothing. His vomit slips down your hand, lumps of tears as well, and he looks so pathetic, so utterly inhuman. The grinding of your teeth makes your temples feel as though it's about to burst.

"Here it is! Do you feel it!? " his nerves burn to nothing, the crisping sound of his eyelashes distracting him from your voice. "I asked you a question, boy!" The flame lashes out, crawling to his elbows, and he strains out a scream.

"Here is my sacrifice!"

The fingers gripping his cheek warm and the fear in his eyes sends shivers up your spine.

There. In your eyes. That cursed candle. Its flames roar. The heat causes the windows to burst into a million pieces, sharp shards flying around. He tries to summon his ability, windows bursting as he forms a large spear. It flies to pierce through your back but your flame is too hot.

Your eyes are dark. He sees himself in them.

Had he always looked so weak?

His glass spear melts and bursts. The sound causes the building to shake and the screams that follow make your grin widen. Flecks of orange embers swirl around the both of you.

"Savour every drop of it, father."

It's always too sterile. The walls, ceilings, floors. He threatens to slip on the wooden floorboards with every step. Satoru watches the black car drive away, jaw clenched as it grows smaller and smaller into the distance.

The (L/N)'s clan manor lacked warmth. Despite the open courtyards and shoji doors, the meticulously cared for trees and shrubbery. It felt plastic. A show put on for the sake of being presentable.

The servant bows, telling him you are awake and he follows her.

The room is bright, facing the inner courtyard with a windchime swaying calmly from the threshold. You're sitting up on a futon, staring out at the small bamboo spout water feature.

Satoru can't believe his eyes. Every inch of skin below your face was covered in white bandages.

"Master (L/N), presenting Gojo Satoru."

The title brings a smile to your face.

He wasn't dead, your father, he was elsewhere. Getting his wounds treated by the best of the best but most importantly, far away from you. If Satoru thought you looked like a walking gauze, he hasn't laid eyes on your father yet. According to your stepmother, he was wrapped from head to toe, resembling a mummy from Egpyt.

It serves him right. The bastard.

You inclined your head and she bows, that same swirl pattern greets you goodbye. Master (L/N). Head of your clan. The position was temporary seeing as your father was still alive but the very title made him uneasy. Satoru settles near the wall, observing the sight before him.

The night of your 'scuffle' with your father had been the same night he fought that one-eyed curse. He had sensed a chill in his bones but with the opponent (and teaching opportunity) before him, he elected to brush it off.

"Satoru, did you see my stepmother on your way out?" He squeezes his biceps, shifting his knees as he adjusts his crossed legs. It wasn't his fault he was born with elegant legs, it felt uncomfortable to sit this way but to point his feet at you was a disrespect he wouldn't toe.

"Yeah. She seemed like she was in a rush, your brother and sisters have grown."

Of course, she would run. Make a scene of it to show her fear. To say she was displeased at the news of your fight with your father was the understatement of the century. She had wasted no time in calling for a trial, pointing a hysterical finger your way, and screaming that you did this to be called the head of the clan.

A quick mention of how your siblings lacked any resemblance to your father but an uncanny one with his trusted servant made her very tight-lipped.

"The higher-ups aren't pleased with the fiasco?" you inquire.

"What d'you think?" Satoru says dryly.

The entire population of the building had to have their phones wiped, memories too, and paid a huge sum in repairs due to your powers.

Apparently, people had thought there was a fire-breathing dragon that appeared in Tokyo.

Facing the garden, you pull the covers away. Crimson seeps through the white, like blood-tainting snow. Satoru is dressed in black pants and a white shirt, his bomber jacket was the same one you'd picked out for him some time ago.

This familiarity is not lost on him. The look in your eyes, that faraway gaze and twitching of your lips. When your mother had passed, you seemed lost but at this very moment it was as though the answer was right before you, that mishappen vision of your destiny a hair away from you.

Suguru had that same look.

"They whisper about you now," you giggle out as he takes his glasses, folding them in his lap. "They always do," he tries not to sound cocky but it's interwoven with every word.

"No. Satoru. They whisper about your curse," you wiggle your toes and stifle a grimace as the cut on your foot stings in protest. "Geto Suguru who killed his parents and (L/N) (Y/N) who nearly burned his father alive."

"They think you made us insane."

"I need reassurance." A laugh spills from your lips. He watches you curl your knees and place your elbows on them with your forehead braced on your knuckles as you give him your full attention. The sun glowed from behind you. The light does not reach your face.

"I'm not crazy, Satoru." His eyes meet yours and your smile slips away.

"I need reassurance that you won't go the same path Geto Suguru did."

"I don't resent non-sorcerers," you say curtly. "Don't play dumb." Satoru's neck is littered with traces of you. Akin to a collar. "Did the higher-ups ask you to execute me, Satoru? Do they wish to incite war on the (Y/N) clan?"

' My, you took to your role quickly, ' Satoru thinks.

"They worry that the new head of the (L/N) clan took his title with force."

"Not all of us were born with such legendary curse techniques. Is that a crime?"

Satoru's grip causes spiderwebs to appear on his glasses. "Do not be obtuse, (Y/N). You know what is implied. You've played this polite game of veiled threats and boasting for years. You know what they ask and you know what I ask."

"I don't." Shades of red bloom underneath your bandages. If Satoru concentrates enough, he could hear how the gauze seeps it and how your stitches strain as you straighten your back.

"Speak plainly."

"(Y/N)," your glare silences him.

"Speak plainly, Gojo Satoru."

Red-veined roots wrap around his throat. That precious willow tree was smoking, sparks of embers bursting from the center as it creaked and moaned. Its branches gnarled, its flowers leaving nothing but ashes.

"If the Grade 1 sorcerers weren't called to stop the fight, would you have killed him?"

The windchimes sing gently. Water gently flows from one end of the bamboo spout to the other. The birds chirp, the clouds move, and the world continues its song and dance.

Satoru's ears feel like someone has stuffed cotton in them. He makes sense of the words you speak by reading your lips, he hopes you're jesting so he looks into your eyes.

The windchimes still.

The shoji doors slide open and the same servant greets you.

"You have visitors, Master (L/N). A man named Nanami Kento and a woman named Shoko Ieiri. They've come with Fushiguro Megumi and Kugisaki Nobara as well."

"Please, send them in and escort Gojo Satoru to his car."

She stands, waiting for Satoru to do the same as his glasses threaten to shatter in his hand.

"Do not do this to me, my beloved."

"Have you ever loved me? Truly?"

His indignation fuels you with sick fascination. The corpse of Suguru grins, his cracked lips pressed to the junction of your neck as he praises you.

"I love you, (Y/N)."

"Then give me the same grace you gave our beloved Suguru. Leave me and cast your gaze aside. If you truly love me, husband. Grant me this final wish."

He whips his head to the side, reaching forward and grabbing the back of your head. It aches. Every shredded muscle and rattled bones, bruised organs and cut skin.

But he holds you against him. His lips taint yours.

Suguru chuckles coyly.

"Please." His forehead is pressed against yours, and you can feel it, that raised scar.

"I love you, I love you, I love you. Please, don't do this."

"Satoru," Suguru whispers it along with you. His tears almost taste sweet as they slip down his cheeks and land on your lips. That ghost, the one that drapes itself on your back with his bony ribs and dirt-covered gojogesa, his smile graces your face as Satoru's heart dies once again.

"Fuck off."

"Is it strange?" Megumi quirks a brow at you from across the table. You set down a plate of cut-up fruits, stealing an apple for yourself before you sit.

"Finding out he's alive 2 months later."

The expression on his face makes you struggle to hold in your laughter. You've never said it out loud but Megumi looked like a prickly sea urchin every time he was pissed off and now he was pricklier than ever.

"I wanted to pummel Gojo to the ground. Yuji too." He stabs into an apple and the loud, angry, chewing makes you giggle. His brows pinch as you grimace but you tell him not to worry.

The dining room is unmistakably grand. Feeling far too empty. Megumi much preferred your old penthouse. This manor was far too big, far too pretentious. Which wasn't a slight on your clan, just their tastes in design.

"Did he really never tell you?" he narrows his eyes.

"We haven't talked much," you reply. Megumi finds that hard to believe. You were both teachers at Jujutsu High, so interactions were unavoidable. Everyone has seen you and Satoru side by side, talking to each other about this or that. No matter how short or icy the interaction was...it was still something.

Formalities were still shared, and Satoru's crass behavior softened just as his voice does when he talks to you.

There must be some lingering awkwardness, Megumi is not naive to think that there wouldn't be. But, it was clear that there was still some affection Satoru held for you. It was almost jarring to see how blatantly you ignored it when once upon a time, you’d been silently blushing at his efforts. Megumi wondered if the two of you had yelled at each other again. He hoped that was not the case. Your relationship was far from perfect but...it wasn't as though Gojo did not deserve your bitterness.

"Is it because you're seeing Mr Nanami?" Sweetness slips down the fork and you hand him a tissue. “Is this like those shitty TV shows?”

The idea of this being a revenge arc against your ex-husband was humorous. Kento was far from the plotting type. He may be annoyed by Satoru but he wasn’t a man who would intertwine his hands with another for the sake of hurting someone.

“Haha,” you said dryly. “Finish up your homework, I’ll drive you back to school.”

Megumi doesn’t pout. At least he think he doesn’t.

He does.

He pouts as you walk out from the room.

Megumi continues to pout even in the car ride back to the dorms. You’re watching from the corner of your eyes, lips curled in endearment.

“Do you like Mr Nanami?” He blinks at the question, turning his head to look at you. Megumi crosses his arms, pout dissipating into a thin line.

“I don’t know him, but from what Yuji tells me, he is a very reliable man.”

“He is,” you continue to gaze out the window, ignoring the itchiness of the healing wounds. The only solace in this pain is that your father’s was greater. Still comatose, skin still peeling as the heat lingers in his bones.

Saying this out loud would make the crows that follow your every movement very rich though.

“In some ways, he reminds me of you. Both of you have a stoic expression, so mature-looking. Mr Nanamin is 27, so it suits him. But you, my beautiful son, — “

Megumi grunts as you poke his forehead.

“ — you are only 15. Stop frowning!” He yells in protest as you stretch his cheeks, frowns only deepening as he tries to escape your grasp.

Yuji waits in the hallways. Megumi and you pause in your steps and Yuji’s eyes widen as he opens his mouth.

“Mr (Y/N)!”

Mirth swims in your eyes. “Itadori, did you need something?” He scratches the back of his neck as his cheeks blush. How cute. Young love was such a sight to behold.

“Isn’t it?” Suguru sighs. “In the same halls, we used to walk through too, (Y/N).”

“No! Ah, just, I heard footsteps so I thought I could hang out with Fushiguro for a little.” You push Megumi not to subtly towards his room/Yuji.

“He’s all yours,” your cooing tints Megumi’s ears pink. He mumbles he wants to wash up first and Yuji just seems excited he didn’t turn down his offer. “Don’t stay up too late, Itadori. Classes are bright and early tomorrow,” he salutes you and the bright smile he has is so contagious you grin as well.

The eye on his cheek split open to take a glimpse.

As you turn, it slips close.

Kento waits for you at the house. He smells like petrichor and as you get closer there’s the distinctly sharp taste of lightning-struck earth. You burrow your face in the crisp white shirt he wears, and he smiles. You can tell even without looking. He always huffs in amusement before he smiles.

“Did you have a good day?” You shrug your shoulders and he slips his hands around you. Those strong arms squeeze you, molding you to his frame. “Did you?” He makes a noise, something between a hum and a grunt and you peek up at him.

Kento visited you frequently during your recovery. He sent you to school during your first days back, then he sent your favourite foods during your lunch and they turned into flowers.

His shy courting was anything but. Kento pursued you with a hunter's grace but a priest's devotion.

Could anyone blame you for accepting his attempts? He made your heart flutter, swoon and race. For the first time in your life, someone was sending you flowers in hopes of you paying attention to them. Kento fed you while you healed and the same day you find out that his eyes do soften when he kissed.

People whisper about how quickly you brought Kento home. Infidelity, they say. Hah! What a load of bullshit. A servant must’ve opened her mouth, one whose loyalties still laid with your stepmother.

How unlucky was it that her home had been burnt down the very day she was fired?

You wrote her your condolences. She begged for your forgiveness.

Kento doesn’t know this. You’re determined for it to remain that way.

“Today was nothing special. Tonight is a different story,” your brows raise at his flustered gaze. “I made reservations for us.”

There it goes again, your heart swoons. Kento tilts his head into your palm and you wonder what your life would have been like if you had noticed his gaze back then.

After that kiss, after knowing that he returned your feelings and only spoke of his interest in a baker because of your marriage, he confessed how he’d been smitten with you the longer that school year passed.

“You were training hand-to-hand with Geto,” he whispers to you, as if shy to confess this. You’re sat with the covers a mess at your legs and the food on the tray forgotten. He’s flustered? He kissed you silly mere seconds ago while you were wrapped up with bandages. The scent of healing ointments practically radiated from you. He was so put together and you’d been going through your clan's financial statements since 3 am.

Kento remembers it like it was yesterday. The way you lifted yourself up into the air, your leg was a blur as you spun. Tendrils of your hair caught the gleam of the sun and it glowed like vinyl. The ringing laughter that followed as Suguru dodged made his heart squeeze.

“We’re supposed to be working on your close combat skills, Su-Su!”

“Quit aiming for my head, (nickname)!” Suguru dashes towards you and you yelp as he catches your middle but the shock wears off. Suguru grunts when you press your palms down on his shoulders and dig your heels into the ground before kicking off, pushing Suguru down.

“Go, (nickname)!” Yū cheers beside Kento. He rolls on top of you, smiling victoriously until your legs wrap around his waist and twist.

“Oi, S’guru! I bet money on you!” Satoru waved his fist around while Shoko curled her fingers expectantly his way.

Kento can’t believe you’re real. Your smile is so wide he can see your gums, the sweat that beads down your skin makes you glimmer like a gem and despite the dirt on your skin Kento can’t fathom it to be a smudge or mistake.

Because everything about you seemed deliberately made. The blood and flesh of those before you must have loved each other so greatly to bless you with such a face. He wonders if, in the future, they’ll find traces of him in your bloodline.

Fire in the wind. Wild and free and untameable.

“You win, you win!” Suguru goes limp and you giggle. Rolling off of him, you lay down on the grass as he spreads his arms out like a starfish. You cushion your head on it and spot the bruise on his neck that peaks out from his unzipped jacket.

“Su-Su, you’re not holding back, are you?” you turn your gaze to the sky. He’d be a Special-grade sorcerer with no problem. His ability was insanely useful, and flexible - a trump deck of a technique. If he exceeded in close combat, that grade would be his with no ifs or buts.

The strongest.

Suguru blinks once, and twice, then offers a warm smile.

“Give yourself more credit, (nickname). You totally beat my ass.”

“You‘re amazing,” Kento tells you as the memory fades away. “I just didn’t know how to tell you. I was content with watching from the sidelines,” your finger presses to his lips and Kento’s eyes widen. It slides across his bottom lip before it travels below his jaw and ear and you’re leaning in.

“A reservation?” Your eyes twinkle. It would explain why he was dressed so nicely. It must not be the fanciest place since he wasn’t dressed in a suit and tie but the watch he wears hints at luxury nonetheless.

“Go, get ready,” he tells you in that gentle tone that makes his voice go so deep. Everything about Kento’s actions felt so intimate. You would think he’d be reserved, wanting to go slow as to be proper. In your world, death is a guillotine blade that’s dug into your neck over and over again.

Kento can be courteous but to assume he would go slow was not likely. He knows you, (Y/N). From those times in high school to the fleeting glances of you during meetings and the mission you went on; he sees you.

Perhaps it’s just the way sorcerers will always love each other.

The way Suguru loved Satoru. The way Megumi loves Yuuji. The way you loved Satoru. The way Satoru loves you.

None of you were made for casual affection. Everything and everyone that falls for wicked beings like you find themselves with deep marks embedded in their shoulders, arms, and neck; desperate hounds begging for their man to not leave them but unable to pull their teeth out.

So Kento grips you and kisses you with a heavy weight of relief and you return it.

The Gods have taken too much from you. Kento will not be one of those things they rip away from your fingers - no, not him.

“‘Atta boy,” Suguru’s decaying arms circle your waist as you walk the halls of the house. When you shed your clothes to clean yourself, Suguru sits on the edge of the bathtub. The humidity makes him look paler and his eyes more bloodshot.

“You deserve someone like him. A good man to fill that cavernous void. Kento’s always been hiding his flustered face every time you walk past him,” Suguru moves his hands around as he talks. You don’t remember him being so chatty but as of late, this apparition keeps the voices in your head quiet. He makes sure you’re not alone.

Your father must’ve knocked your head hard enough for some screws to come loose but you find it hard to care.

“Cavernous?” you mumble. Suguru pauses then leans back a bit. His hair swaying as he does so.

“Do you think it’s enough? Being loved after everything you’ve been through, is that enough for you?”

“...Was it enough for you? In your final moments, was it enough?”

What would this Suguru know about his final moments? He wasn’t real, he never had been. He’s just a manifestation of your hurt, a coping mechanism your brain conjured for some hellish reason.

“I died by Satoru’s hand and then, died in his embrace. What could be more poetic than that?”

You died in Satoru’s arms too. That night he took you as his husband. The weeping, the love confessions, the moaning. Your heart was racing in your chest as he thrust into you, his face nearly scarlet as he kissed you.

The heat that pools between your legs makes Suguru guffaw.

He dips his hand in and traces your thighs.

“Kento’s hands are rougher than ‘Toru’s. Fingers thick and finger pads sanded with hard work. Everything you taught him as his upperclassman he still uses today.”

Shuddering, you slip your knees apart. Suguru takes a hold of your cock.

“You’ve always had the best legs, ya’ know. So strong, even your punches hurt like hell."

You lean back, eyes lidded with pleasure as Suguru pumps his fist. The water spills over the side as he slips in with you, his hair acting like curtains as he peers down at you. His slanted eyes and those onyx eyes make you feel powerless against his desires.

"He'd be so sincere with you. Every thrust," a gasp makes him chuckle darkly. "Every stroke," you moan and grip the sleeves of his robe. "Every kiss," his lips trace the bridge of your nose.

"S'guru..."

"A testament to his adoration for you. He'd worship you, (nickname). But will that be enough? His skin on yours? Is his heart in your hands instead of the other way around exciting? Will that finally fill this void?"

Your spine arches and your knees bump into the edge of the bathtub. Suguru's breath feels like a hurricane as he kisses the side of your jaw, his fist damn near merciless.

"Will you accept his sacrifice, (nickname)?"

When you come, you squeeze your eyes shut. The floor is slick with water and steam makes everything fuzzier than it needs to be. As you lift your hand from beneath the water, you grimace at the sight.

How shameful.

You settle the bath by yourself, the servants didn't need to see more than they've already heard.

Kento is waiting by his car when you step out. He drinks in the sight of you, unable to stop himself from kissing you as you come close. As usual, he opens the door for you, and you stroke the cream-coloured leather seats of his Mercedes Benz.

"Ready, (Y/N)?" He reaches over to hold your hand and you bring it to your lips before he can. He can feel the softness of your lips, the slight gloss that sticks to his skin that makes his crotch tighter than his pants liked.

"Ready, Mr Nanami." Kento chuckles, squeezing your shameful hand and bringing it to his lips next.

Suguru sits in the backseat, his dark eyes keeping themselves glued on you. You see him in reflections, in puddles, in every monotone face that walks past.

As Kento settles you on his lap, his thick cock making you feel stars and heaven itself, Suguru is still watching.

"Ken, I - "

Kento sinks his teeth into your neck and you groan. His hands are big and rough, just like Suguru said they'd be. They grope and squeeze and bruise. He grabs a handful of each cheek and your thighs are thankful for it. Kento lifts you so effortlessly it makes your desire feel unquenchable.

His strength doesn't surprise you. The gym in his apartment complex was one he frequented. If he didn't want to mingle, he had a dedicated room for working out in his home. You've seen the weights he has, how interesting was it that they were the same weight as you, (Y/N).

"(Y/N), does that feel good?" You squeeze the tip of his cockhead in reply and sink down on him to cement it. His cock keeps kissing your prostate, the drag of his dick makes you want to be keen and whine.

His hair looked good when it was dishevelled, which makes his jaw sharper and his nose makes you want to grind on it. Kento shifts and moves to lay you down on his pillows. Your legs wrap around his waist and twist.

The aching muscles hiss in protest but the lust that flows through you overcomes it.

"(Y/N)..."

Kento tries to sit up but your hands on his chest keep him down.

"(Y/N)".

"Kento."

Suguru traces his jaw and it's no surprise Kento does not react. He grips at your waist, whispering your name again. You pin his arms next to his head and Kento's eyes widen.

There it is. That darkness that takes over that molten brown. It only reflects you. Suguru is peering over your shoulder, his hands circling your neck as his dark tongue licks your cheek.

"You want what I want, Ken," you murmur against his lips. "To come undone by each other's hands, to devour each other, to be one."

"Yes," he breathes out. "Then let me feel you like this," you brought his hands to your waist once again, and he planted his heels into his mattress.

"I want to see you unravel under me, Kento. I want to see you, all of you, just as you do."

He nods and you grant him a kiss, allowing your tongues to dance.

"Do you intend to keep following me forever?"

Kento's balcony is unexpectedly warm. You can smell the breakfast he's making as you nurse your cup of tea. For your throat, he tells you.

How pervertedly kind.

The crow tilts its head and you narrow your eyes at it. "They must've paid a heavy sum. Or was it my stepmother?" It flaps its wings, preening the under feathers. Lifting your hand, you press your pointer and middle finger together. It squawks, hopping as it flaps its wings again.

"I'll pay you more to leave me alone. My ex-husband has left a hefty fortune for me. If this persists, I won't hesitate to wipe the floor with you, Mei-Mei."

The crow squawks again but turns its head to leave.

A crisping feather floats gently down onto the floor of the balcony. By the time Kento walks over to place the tray of food down on the table, it turns to nothing but ash in the wind.

"You spoil me," your legs are over his lap and he brings those hands to massage them. "You spoiled me," he answers. "Just showing my appreciation."

A group of crows flies past but Kento is cutting up your food and moving to feed you. Your cheeks burn, you open your mouth and Kento's gentle grin makes your heart race.

"I don't recall him having a temper, are the rumours true?"

Mei-Mei had better things to do. Her time was worth more than stalking someone's ex-lover. However, the head of the Gojo clan was a generous man. How could she refuse?

"Do you truly make them go insane?" He can hear her smile from over the phone. "He attacked you?" Satoru rolls his ring over his knuckles and between his fingers. The classroom was empty as the students trained on the field.

"He's committed arson against a servant who was trading secrets with Lady (L/N) and now he's burned a crow into nothing but dust. He even offered to pay more than you have. What a lucky man he is to have divorced from an endless fountain of wealth."

"Yeah? Maybe you should try that instead of chasing after green."

"Careful, Gojo. I still have my pride."

He places the ring on his palm, curling his fingers over it.

"Kento and him make a handsome couple. I almost feel jealous." Satoru would be stupid to believe Mei-Mei trusted that this stalking was him feeling possessive. She wasn't an idiot. He was concerned about you. Your grandiose act of nearly burning your father alive was the talk of the town.

The evidence of it being self-defense was backed up by the cameras in your home (the ones that hadn't melted anyway).

But it was too convenient.

Satoru is a man who is filled with memories. As careless and crass as he portrays himself as, he's sentimental. He slips a hand into his pocket and your ring is accompanied by Suguru's button.

The cameras were damaged enough to make it out as if it was just saved by fate. But Satoru knows your flames better than most. It burns everything. Devours with a hunger that no beast could compete with. It's indiscriminate. Which is why your aim is immaculate.

If it hadn't melted, you wouldn't be as free as you are now. Even in your rage and fear, you were careful to ensure your longevity.

"I'm sure you do."

"The divorce barely made a dent?"

"You already know the answer to that. Make sure he doesn't suspect me, I'll pay double."

"And if he faces me?"

Satoru grits his teeth together.

"Run."

Kiyotaka waits for him at the front of the school, that usual sour-puckered face and obscene politeness manages to elicit a grin from Satoru. The drive to the house on the hill is filled with silence, which is for the best seeing as how tightly wound he was.

Kiyotaka knew divorce could put people on edge but seeing Satoru’s fists tremble on his lap, knuckles nearly turning bone white and all, terrified him.

The gates are opened after Satoru rolls down his windows. He should ask why they were here but his instincts knew better.

“I’ll be out in an hour or so. You don’t mind waiting, do ya’?”

“Of course not, Mr Gojo.”

He smiles, giving Kiyotaka a firm squeeze on his shoulder before walking inside the modern home. Its grey colours looked atrocious against the vibrant greens of nature. Ah, Satoru was glad you had better tastes compared to the rest of your family.

Your stepmother waits for him in the living room. The carpet before her is littered with toys of all sorts. The youngest of the family takes a liking to smash some toy cars together while the others were most likely tended to by their governess.

“Mr Gojo,” she stands with a certain air of grace that prickles his skin. He nods politely her way.

"Is he doing better today?" The machines that they've hooked him to made him resemble a sick science experiment. Perhaps it's poetic justice from his late wife. The curtains were drawn and the only light was dim to ensure his skin wasn't exposed to any more unnecessary heat. There were talisman papers pasted on the walls and ceilings which Satoru thinks is entirely too much.

"Have you..."

The exposed split of bandages reveals nothing more than charred flesh and peeling skin. A hint of bone and muscle too that help him speak. Satoru ignores the hazmat suits, stepping through the heavy plastic curtains. His infinity wouldn't bring any harmful germs into this room, never had so far too.

"Leave." His wife commands in that shrill voice.

The doctors and attendants bow deeply and the door closes behind her. She sits close to the wall, outside the curtain.

"Have I?" There's writing on the bandages. Sutras are written in some sort of special ink that emits curse energy.

"killed (Y/N)." He sighs, crossing his arms as he spreads his legs.

"My son-in-law — " It might be cruel to tune out the words of a man who's half-dead, but Satoru cannot believe he's spouting this again. A part of him wished you had burnt through his throat. Satoru sighs loudly, tossing his head back and scrunching his face.

"Old man, the divorce papers have been signed. I haven't been your son-in-law in a whole month."

Between this and your increasingly violent tendencies that Mei-Mei keeps reporting back, those curses spirits working together popping up, Itadori Yuji's attempted assassination (and the mysterious way he rose from the dead...) — Satoru was in no mood.

He does not agree with your decision to commit attempted murder. But make no mistake, he fully believed the bastard deserved it.

"You keep telling me to kill him. I shouldn't have to say this, but you do know in the decade Geto Suguru was gallivanting around, I did nothing because he was dear to me. (Y/N) is dear to me. I'll wait 50 fucking decades before I lay a hand on him."

"You dare curse at my lord husband?" Satoru glances at her from over his shoulder. That distorted reflection makes her look more attractive than she actually is. "Lord of what? Gauze and morphine? If we're doing a dick-measuring contest, I win. Sit down. Your voice is annoying."

She sputters, mouth opening again. So Satoru tilts his head, flexing his fingers as he clicks his tongue.

"Woman." The ' lord ' croaks out. She watches him raise a hand, shaky fingers flicking outwards and Satoru swears steam nearly shoots out from her ears. The door has a soft-close feature which makes her attempt at slamming it void but it brings a smile to Satoru's face.

"The rumours, of my clan."

Now that was far more interesting for Satoru. His silence is a prompt for the man to continue. A sharp intake of breath comes in quick twos and threes as his bandaged hands squeeze the trigger for the drip of morphine.

Then his shoulders sink into the mattress and he speaks.

"The Binding Vow we've broken. The karma we faced since then...I think, I fear, I..."

Satoru feels his ring heat up against his sternum, so he leans forward and it's cradled by the button of his shirt.

"I fear he's paid the price, wholly, his self-righteous pain...he's balanced the scales..."

"I messed up."

The chattering of the skulls at least fills silence. Satoru can see why it'll quickly become a nuisance that will make his ears shrivel in disdain but for now, he finds it better than nothing. Whatever it is underneath him pokes him and shifts against his clothes.

Slipping a digit under the rim of his blindfold, Satoru tugs on it and exhales through his nose.

"Things are not looking good."

"Yo, Satoru."

The weight of the blindfold rests over his eyelids and Satoru sinks into the mass below him.

"I'd kill him a thousand times if I could, Satoru."

' Would you really, my beloved? ' Satoru's lips twitch into a grin. No, you wouldn't. Maybe in the moment, that night fuelled by fear and anger. The morning after when your pain still pulsed under ripped-open skin; but he knew you, his beloved, his darling friend; his (Y/N). Your father was nothing but a frail man who knew nothing of what he spoke of.

You'd be safe, protected, and cared for regardless of who you lay with or whose heart you hold. Kento be damned. You were his first and his always. Suguru's corpse was a jarring sight. A painful one too. He'd bury him properly, his love for him will join him in that new grave. His love for you will haunt him for as long as you walk this earth.

He unbuttons his outerwear, tugging on the silver chain until he unclasps it. The blue gem twinkles sweetly his way and he slips it on his finger where his skin all but sighs in comfort.

"Well, there'll always be a way. I'm counting on you, everyone." "Sealed...?"

Kento moves forward and you stare at his frame as he does. Megumi's head swivels to follow him and Ino's as well, they walk in step with him but you stand there in shock.

"Move," Suguru whispers to you. The joints of his fingers dig into your back as his hair curtains your peripheral field of vision. "(Y/N). Move."

"(Y/N)?" Ino's voice causes the group to pause. Their eyes are expectant. Megumi wonders why he cannot pinpoint the flickering emotions on your face while Kento's gaze takes note of your trembling hands.

"NA-NA-MIN!"

His touch shocks cause your pupils to jitter into focus. Kento says nothing, simply squeezing your forearm as he whispers your name.

"If they sealed him, our top priority will be undoing that."

"You know this, (nickname)," Suguru bites, the click of his teeth sending shivers down your spine. "(Y/N) — " You move past Kento, curling your fingers into fists and feeling Suguru thread him through yours.

"Let's be quick about it then."

This feeling...

"It's like that day," Suguru croaks, "the day he died. Your heart is beating so fast. Do you still ____ him, (Y/N)? Do you truly?"

"Why is he off limits?" Geto does that serene smile that makes Jogo simmer in annoyance. "Jogo, you can't kill everyone you see in battle. There's some grace in keeping a certain few alive."

"Will he be used as a hostage to make Gojo Satoru fall in despair?" his words humour Geto, truly amuses him. Mahito lifts his head from the ground, leaning on the heels of his hand as he peers at the two of them.

"Man, Jogo. You really are wicked," Geto peers at the shimmering scales of the curses that lurk within the waters.

"He's not for Gojo Satoru's imprisonment."

"Don't keep us in the dark, Geto," Mahito voices out Jogo's thoughts, his mismatched eyes impatient.

"Gojo (Y/N) is for..."

You yell as the eel tightens its body around you, digging your heels into the sand as Dagon summons it to themselves. The force of it makes your back bow and no amount of strength could stop it. Dagon holds the back of your skull and you hear Megumi yell out for you.

"(Y/N)!" Kento takes several steps forward and Maki grits her teeth.

Naobito focuses his gaze on their escape, knowing that they would be able to help the poor fool if they were outside of the domain.

But then.

"That man — " Dagon pulls you to its chest and your eyes widen as Fushiguro Toji appears before you. His eyes, it must be some sort of sorcery cast, a trick, a body double. Your fear recognizes you. He shifts his gaze to meet yours and there's a smirk on his face.

"Still alive, are you, freak?" The cursed weapon in his hand rattles in the air and then straightens. He aims it right at you and you brace yourself for the pain.

Dagon blocks it at the cost of its hand.

' It's protecting me!? ' You grunt at the blood that sprays onto your face and into your mouth, coughing as Dagon tries to fight Toji.

"Hah? Did you leave your husband for this thing?" The eel that held you disappeared into nothing after the barrage of hits he had laid out. Dagon tries to grab you but you engulf your fists into flames and spin to punch its face. Dagon does not let you escape but Toji is running toward you again so you plant your heel into its head, kicking off from its chest to fall right into the waters.

Kento catches you in his arms, and the tension of the surface breaks with monstrous sea beasts that try to land a hit on Toji. With his arms occupied, he relies on you to deter them as he makes his way back to Megumi's simple domain.

Megumi —

You stare at him as he asks you if you're alright.

Megumi, you should tell him who this man was. You should —

Dagon is exorcised.

The ground beneath you disappears. It takes a second too long for you to catch your bearings. Brain rattled and breathe knocked out of you as peel yourself off the ground. Kento, Maki, Naobito —

"Megumi!?" Kento helps you up and you take a step forward to follow the sounds of destruction but the air grows thick.

Satoru was never an artist. The horrendous rendition of the curses that attacked him the same night your father had looked as though it'd been drawn by kindergartners. But it was unmistakably him.

The disaster curse. Bald and one-eyed.

His fire makes the water on your skin steam into the air. He removes Naobito, and you move to protect Maki by getting between them. Barely in time, she still crumples to the floor but she would live if taken to Shoko quick enough. His eye widens as you stand unscathed, your clothes flaking off like snow as your skin reddens and steams.

"Gojo (Y/N)."

"Divine Flame."

He lifts his hand just as you do.

"Do not let him use his curse technique, Jogo. He's not as strong as Satoru, but you'll thank me," Geto's voice coos.

"God's Bl — "

"Kuantan?" he sets down the rest of the breakfast he made. His home is as neat and crisp as he is — though there are still traces of himself. His hopes especially. The mountain of books, the pamphlets about Malaysia here and there. If you peered into his room, Kento had even laid out a few notes of plans he hoped to fulfill. It was as if he was waiting for the perfect moment, lying in wait.

"The beaches are nice. The food as well," he sits across from you and pauses as you pat the spot next to you. Endeared, Kento settles where you ask. "Perhaps after Megumi graduates to a second year," he stays silent for a moment and watches you eat.

"...Would you resent me for not marrying you until I retire?"

You pause mid-chew, blinking at him for a moment. Then you turn your gaze on the plate, eyes trailing after the dew drop of water on the lettuce.

"I won't if you do not regret marrying someone from a sorcerer clan."

He pinches the lobe of your ear gently, tracing the shell with so much fondness he chuckles as it warms under his touch. It was damn near perverted how he did it — your heart races as he turns your face his way.

"I could never regret being yours, (Y/N)."

That memory burst into flames. His house, his books, his hopes, and his dreams. Jogo stands there in the ashes and he smiles at you with those blackened teeth.

"(nickname)," Suguru whispers. Your trembling hands stiffen as he strokes the insides of your wrists, his empty gaze reflecting you as he stands in front of you. "Balance the scales."

"Gojo (Y/N)!" Jogo exclaims proudly. "Y — !"

Jogo barely had time to react to your kick. Bursting through windows and walls. He digs his fingers into the floor and just as he lifts his head he sees your shadowed face. Your pupils were nothing but a speck of (E/C) on white as smoke slithers between your lips.

"Divine Flame — "

A spear pierces through your stomach. Jogo covers his eye just in time before your blood splatters on it. Breathing through your nose, you grasp at the crimson-soaked spear, eyes widening as you take in the details of it.

"Impossible," you turn to look and it's there. Satoru had let you name it this time, among the Fredericks and other silly names he dubbed Suguru's curses as this one was the one you named.

"Togatta?" It does not give any sign of recognition but there was no mistake.

Jogo's fist makes contact with your chest and you choke, coughing up spit and blood before he lands a final blow on the back of your neck.

The puddle of blood grows next to him. Those stupid girls, demanding things of Ryomen Sukuna, threatened to fight him with no plan nor strength. Humans were really something else.

Jogo waits for Ryomen to ask and then and only then he tells him he didn't want anything but Ryomen's freedom. Sukuna's crimson eyes take interest in the cursed object Jogo has slung around his neck; a dark shard of glass that pulses a steadily beating blue within it.

"Ten fingers and what's mine?" He looked beyond pleased.

"You've outdone yourselves." Jogo gulps, unbinding the rope around his neck and using both hands to present it to Sukuna. He takes it after a particularly gentle stroke of the sharp edges, then places it in his pockets.

"Ryomen Sukuna?" Geto nods assuredly. The rolling waves melting into the sand give leeway for Jogo and Mahito to process his words. What could Ryomen Sukuna find useful in Gojo (Y/N)? He was a Grade 1 sorcerer but he was not like his husband.

"His family line, the (L/N) clan, is a disgraced one. All the men are weak, all the women dimwitted and the children cursed. Sorcerer society looks at them in disdain, calling them desperate and thieving. It was the child from the (L/N) clan that made it possible for Ryomen Sukuna to be sealed. A son with a curse technique so strong and a face so beautiful, Ryomen Sukuna took him as his property. He had forced the boy into a Binding Vow — one the boy broke to defeat Ryomen Sukuna."

"It left the clan with nothing but shame. The Gods inflict karma on generations to come even if the Vow was wicked beyond belief. Sorcerer society rejected them and curled their noses at the clan that saved them from extinction. I still remember that boy's face."

Geto chuckles, leaning back in his seat as he closes his eyes.

"Mahito, do you think a soul ever comes back in a new body?"

Reincarnation or divine coincidence.

Jogo does not ponder on the question. All he knows is that giving Sukuna an ancestor of the boy whom he favoured, whom he made into a treasured concubine, pleased him.

"This is your reward for the fingers. Come at me. If you manage to land even a single blow on me, I'll work under you all."

Megumi is still leaning against the shutter doors. The shinigami he released, it's a beast that Sukuna had never had the pleasure of seeing before he was locked away. Placing his hand over Megumi's chest, he heals the wounds to ensure Megumi is no longer on the precipice of death and darts his eyes toward the rope that sticks out from his pockets.

He slips the shard into Megumi's hand, recalling how fond you were of the boy. How perfect. This world — this era, truly was made for him. Everything would be his. Men, women, and children — all for him to devour indiscriminately.

With Uraume and (Y/N) with him, this age of haughty sorcerers with abilities he'd never seen, ah. His mouth waters from the very thought. Once he obtains Fushiguro Megumi's body. Once you submit to him. Once he kills Gojo Satoru. Once he destroys Itadori Yuji into nothing.

"Na..."

The sight before him, it made his stomach twist into knots again and again and again...

Kento sees himself in Yū's eyes, he points to Yuji and Kento can't bring himself to say anything to the boy.

"Nanamin..."

The nickname makes his heart squeeze in relief. That youth that he wants to protect, is still there in his final moments and that alone would have made Kento die without regrets — but he's lying to himself.

He made a promise to you to return to your side. You did not ask him to say "alive" because just having a body to bury is a miracle in your world. (Y/N), he saw that stubborn strife in your eyes even as you nodded.

Too little time spent with you. Those 2 months of pure love with you, it would never be enough but he cherishes them all the same. He hopes you can tolerate this pain — he never wished for you to go through this before him, (Y/N).

He should have introduced you to his family.

He should have kissed you deeply before tonight began.

He should have given you everything you deserved.

Ah, regret truly is the worst feeling in the world.

He wants to take care of you like he promised to, (Y/N).

What could he say to Yuji to make him understand what this means?

Mahito's curse energy was enveloping his soul and Kento used the bit of strength he had left to ensure Yuji would not be the one to kill his transfigured corpse. The least he could do, this cruel kindness... "I'll leave the rest to you."

"My husband."

Shoko pauses. Satoru is not looking her way, instead, staring at the ceiling with a bored expression.

"He did not greet me," she's glad that he does not see the way she clenches the box of cigarettes in her pocket. Or maybe he does because he straightens his composure and asks;

"Is he still pissed at me or is he dead?"

"....We don't know, Satoru." His nose curls in distaste. Still, he waits for her to continue.

"Nobody has seen him and there's no time nor resources to sift through the rubble of Shibuya to find him. The last person to have seen him alive was Maki, she says that he was against the onne-eyed disaster curse."

"He'd have no trouble exorcising that baldy." Satoru is being too kind, you would struggle but you'd still win. He was sure of it. Then again, your abilities were too similar — a tie maybe? You had more wit, you'd win.

Or is that denial talking?

"Nanami died by Mahito's hand," Shoko pulls the box out and tosses it aside as he takes out the final cigarette. "Does he know that?"

"Maybe he's already with Nanami."

"Shoko."

"All of you are dropping like flies around me. Was there an invite I was never given?" She doesn't cry but Satoru stands to walk towards her anyway.

"Yū, Suguru, Kento, (Y/N)," she allows him to hold her shoulder and pull her in but does not return the affection. Should she? Would this be the final memory of Gojo Satoru she had?

"He isn't dead." Satoru pulls away after a long minute. The smile on his face makes her hopes soar and Shoko doesn't understand why she can't force it down.

"I can feel it. He's still here. Don't host a funeral just yet, yeah?"

"You're way too cocky, do you know that?"

"I have every right to be."

"Mr Gojo." Satoru wonders what Yuji would say to him. He wonders where the scars come from, when his eyes had ever been so dull or hardened, he wonders if Yuji will bounce back from everything; if he'll regret being so selfless in the first place.

"Itadori," he braces his arm on his hips, and Yuji's shoulder droops.

"Mr (Y/N), Nanamin...he said he'd leave it to me. You told Ms Ieiri that you had a feeling he was alive."

"Eavesdropping, Itadori?" Yuji's laughs as Satoru slings an arm around his shoulder, attempting to escape his hand that is ruffling his hair.

"Aah, Mr Gojo, quit it!" Satoru settles with a few more chuckles so Yuji continues. "When everything settles, could you help me fulfill Nanamin's wish?"

"Yuji."

Satoru smiles brightly, squeezing Yuji close as he ruffles the back of his head.

"You leave (Y/N) to me."

"Does this form please you more?"

Your eyes can't take themselves off the sight before you. Satoru — no, his corpse. What a strange string of words.

Satoru's corpse.

It's too unreal. Those words do not belong to one another. He grasps the back of your head and forces it to face him. You can't decide what is worse; when you wake to Megumi's face twisted in a cruel expression, finding out Tsumiki was being used as a vessel, being shown Kento's death on replay through Sukuna's/Yuji's memory of the moment, or this monstrous being before you with Satoru's corpse behind you.

"My, my, my, don't tempt me," Sukuna does not let you squirm. His four hands held you firmly within his grasp as you wept.

"I truly am delighted your bloodline prevailed. The betrayal should be punished with death but, seeing you again, I'll not make the same mistake twice."

The binding vow that was made with your ancestor, one that made Sukuna keep the flame technique within his grasp and your ancestor in the other. Breaking it left your bloodline with a technique meant to be used only after mastering the innate technique — to put it simply, it was akin to making someone tame a pack of rabid wolves before they even potty-trained a puppy. It was no wonder you were all so weak.

"Keeping such a trump card of a technique hidden from me, how shrewd."

Yuji cannot believe it. Everything was moving too fast. Gojo Satoru was dead, and the era of sorcerers was coming to an end as reality settled in the bones of curses and sorcerers alike. But then, you're there.

Apparated out of thin air — no. The necklace around Sukuna's neck. You were kept there, did you spectate everything? The entire fight? Every person Sukuna had killed —

They had tried their best to look for you and you'd just been there, hidden in plain fucking sight.

Suguru is in your peripheral, you blink and you swear you feel your mind break as he loops his arms around Satoru's corpse. Another blink and Kento and Yū appear, pale and rotten and burnt and dead.

"I'm going to fucking kill you!" His eyes are filled with nothing but amusement as you will yourself out of his grasp, your foot making contact with his face as you kick yourself off from it.

The rubble stings your bare feet as you dig your heels into the ground, your dark flames eating away at the sleeves of the silken garments his loyal servant, Uruame, had dressed you in. Feeling its weight disappear fuels you with more ire than you ever thought you'd ever feel.

This man, this monster, had taken everything from you. Even if it kills you, even if you end up burning the entire world into ash and cinder — nothing matters anymore.

Your mother, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento, Fushiguro Megumi —

Heaven and Hell will rue the day they took them. The Gods have created a new monster in the form of you and Yuji shudders at the empty look in your eyes.

What had you gone through in the months you were gone? The garments you wore were that of highly respected concubines, heavy and silken and patterned.

What had Sukuna done to you? Had he taken the very essence of your soul and ripped it to pieces just like he had done with him?

Kento's words echo in his mind, and Satoru's face appears with a blink. He needed to step in and save you — from yourself and from Sukuna's grasp. His two mentors, he can't let them down, he can't. You were precious to Megumi, to Tsumiki from what Megumi had once told him. Satoru looks at you with such a warm aura, that Kento always threatens to smile when he even mentions you.

Desperation pumps through Yuji's body and he feels his nails elongate, giving it a quick glance before spotting Kashimo descending from the sky.

Sukuna's laughter booms throughout the empty planes and echoes around the destroyed buildings. The very earth shakes with each inhale.

"You truly haven't changed, my concubine! Come! Let's go insane together!"

[temptaetions]

spellbound secrets ✩ stray kids (m.list)

welcome to the spellbound institute of magic! have a look around, but don't peer too much — you could end up in a sticky web of secrets, lies, and love.

general content warnings: fluff, smut, angst, possible darker/heavy themes. warnings for individual fics vary, please read them accordingly before proceeding.

˖⁺‧₊ angel eyes - bang chan ₊‧⁺˖

✩ sorceress: @temptaetions

✩ pairing: bcc x reader

✩ specialty: healing | memory inducement

✩ genre: teacher x student | strangers/idiots to lovers

✩ synopsis: you’ll think you’re in paradise, and one day you’ll find out he wears a disguise, don’t look too deep…

✩ read here!

˖⁺‧₊ one's elixir - lee minho ₊‧⁺˖

✩ sorceress: @felixitate

✩ pairing: lmh x reader

✩ specialty: alchemy | potions

✩ genre: acquaintances to lovers | academic mentor

✩ synopsis: you’re a walking disaster. not just in minho’s eyes but for anyone in the academy so when he was asked to supervise you, he had to agree to ensure everyone’s safety. but is it worth the risk to involve himself in something that even you can't control?

✩ read here!

˖⁺‧₊ sweet escape - seo changbin ₊‧⁺˖

✩ sorceress: @temptaetions

✩ pairing: scb x reader

✩ specialty: interdimentionalism (pocket dimension creation) | empathic transference

✩ genre: friends to lovers | secret admirer

✩ synopsis: forever, perfectly together…and tell me, boy, now wouldn’t that be sweet?

✩ read here!

˖⁺‧₊ fleeting mirage - hwang hyunjin ₊‧⁺˖

✩ sorceress: @felixitate

✩ pairing: hhj x reader

✩ specialty: illusionism | phantasmagoria

✩ genre: rivals to lovers | childhood sweethearts?

✩ synopsis: as both the top students in your program, getting along should always have been maintained between you. however, something always sparks any feud, hindering your cooperation by whatever means necessary. would you be able to put it aside when your positions start to get threatened?

✩ read here!

˖⁺‧₊ cherry bomb - han jisung ₊‧⁺˖

✩ sorceress: @temptaetions

✩ pairing: hjs x reader

✩ specialty: fusionism | sentimental awakening

✩ genre: coworkers to lovers | mutual pining

✩ synopsis: lips on my lips, hearts beating as one…but you slip out of my fingertips, every time you run.

✩ read here!

˖⁺‧₊ in bloom - felix lee ₊‧⁺˖

✩ sorceress: @felixitate

✩ pairing: lyb x reader

✩ specialty: floramancy | herbalism

✩ genre: classmates to lovers | forbidden love

✩ synopsis: watching him from afar while he tends to those flowers never fails to make your heart flutter. but for the sake of your secret, you’ve kept your distance. until when can you avoid him before he notices the signs of your waning abilities that only he can maybe help with?

✩ read here!

˖⁺‧₊ silver springs - kim seungmin ₊‧⁺˖

✩ sorceress: @temptaetions

✩ pairing: ksm x reader

✩ specialty: catoptromancy | empathic transference

✩ genre: exes to lovers | semi-first loves au

✩ synopsis: i know i could've loved you, but you would not let me, i'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you.

✩ read here!

˖⁺‧₊ shifting feelings - yang jeongin ₊‧⁺˖

✩ sorceress: @felixitate

✩ pairing: yji x reader

✩ specialty: polymorphy | divination

✩ genre: enemies to lovers | soulmates

✩ synopsis: he’s an enigma. with enchanting eyes that became everyone’s whispers each time he passed by but you’re not shaken. who’s to say you can’t unravel the truth when he slowly reveals this part of himself that he’s been persistently guarding the more you pry?

✩ read here!

host notes: hey! thank you for reading our collab, we planned this so quickly it makes my head spin. just for reference, all specialties in italics are secondary to their primary specialty, or an extension of it. everyone is a wizard. if you’d like to know more about each story then please head to our respective mail boxes! feel free to comment or send an ask our way to be added to a taglist. please have your age and/or year of birth in your description, otherwise you will not be added to the taglist. we hope you enjoy!

temptaetions © 2024 || felixitate © 2024. no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[bamfkeeper]

Faded Restraint. | K.W

warnings: Smut 18+ MDNI | GN!reader | Unprotected sex | Teasing | Slight dirty talk | Light choking

a/n: Hi, I'm not dead. Sorry it's taken me a while to get back here. I have been distracted with other blogs and a bunch of stuff going on at home. The poll was half smut half fluff so I went with smut. I hope you enjoy, it's a little drabble, I have a long fic I've been working on for Kurt coming out soon. I'm trying to push to keep writing more often, it's just been hard rn. Sorry no pics or anything, I didn't feel like searching for any today. Unedited. ; wc: ~860

"Bitte...do not tease," Kurt muttered, looking up with lidded eyes as he watched you straddle him, the head of his cock barely poking at your entrance. He could feel the heat oozing out of you, your body fluttering against his cockhead as he struggled to keep his composure.

"You're so impatient Kurt, maybe I won't sink down...~" You teased him further as you spoke in a sultry tone, your hips gently rolling in a circular motion and allowing his head to feel how damp and tight you'd be, IF you sunk down. "Your cock would feel so, so good inside, but if you wanna talk, I suggest you really beg for it."

His eyes were dimly lit with desire in the dusky room, nearly rolling back as you continued to push him to his limits. It had been ages since you'd been such a temptation, the change was both thrilling and maddening for someone with a usually calm resolve. You had been so attentive to him lately, fulfilling his every request and leaving him breathless. He'd made sure to express his gratitude, always the perfect gentleman.

But now, oh now, you were testing his restraint.

Kurt's hands found purchase on your hips, his fingers pressing into your soft flesh. He possessed the strength to take control of the situation, but he resisted the urge. His voice came out as a husky whisper, "Bitte, bitte, you naughty minx...I ache to feel you." His words were a desperate plea, laced with need and want. As he spoke, his tail twitched and coiled, slowly wrapping itself around one of your ankles in a sensual caress.

He lifted himself just enough to press his lips against your sternum, the contact sending shivers down both your spines. With such a tender display, you finally relented, allowing your hips to sink down onto him. A sharp hiss escaped his lips, the sound muffled against your chest as you enveloped him completely. His arms instinctively tightened around your frame, pulling you flush against him as he reveled in the exquisite sensation of being fully sheathed within you.

Kurt held on tight as his hips gently bucked up against you, your slick walls tightening around him and squeezing every bit of arousal out of his cock. "Ach - you feel...so divine, Liebe" he whispered against your skin, drooling onto your chest as his body practically curled around you. He held you in his lap, feeling your weak, lazy movements to meet his shallow thrusts.

"You feel good too, baby," you breathed, your voice a soft, sensual whisper. Your hips undulated in a mesmerizing rhythm, each movement encouraging him to delve even deeper within you. As your bodies moved in perfect synchronization, his cock explored new depths, igniting sparks of pleasure in places you didn't even know existed.

Each increased thrust struck more sensitive spots inside you, causing your movements to grow increasingly urgent and desperate. A slow-burning fire of ecstasy began to build, its tendrils of electric bliss radiating through your body, shooting from your core to the very tips of your fingers and toes. It felt like pleasurable static, in a weird way, your digits flexing as you held onto him, trying to process the near-overwhelming sensations.

Kurt's tail slithered up the curve of your spine, dancing across your skin in a teasing manner. It coiled gently around your throat while his strong hands guided your hips with increased fervor. The air in the dark room was filled with wet, primal slapping of skin on skin, punctuated by the hot, heavy pants and groans escaping Kurt's lips. His warm breath caressed your chest, contrasting the otherwise chilly air of the room. This interplay of hot and cold sensations only served to heighten your awareness, making every touch, every movement, every breath feel hypersensitive against your skin.

"I'm going to come," Kurt warned between labored breaths, his body still pressed firmly against yours. He clung to you with a desperate intensity, as if he were a man deprived of affection for an eternity. The urgency of his desire drove him to shift his position. He moved from laying back on his ass to kneeling, all the while keeping you in his grasp and leveraging this new angle to increase the depth and force of his thrusts.

A sudden jolt of pleasure coursed through your body, causing you to gasp and tremble. Your eyes widened in surprise and ecstasy as Kurt's cock head finally found that sweet spot deep within you. His cock caressed and teased that elusive area, that tender bit of flesh that caused orgasms to shake through you.

The world behind your eyelids seemed to explode in a dazzling display of white-hot fireworks, your vision blurring as the overwhelming sensations threatened to consume you entirely. You found yourself crying out Kurt's name, desperation and bliss mingling in your voice.

You pleaded with him not to stop, your words tumbling out in a breathless litany of need. Your unrestrained reactions amused Kurt and a knowing smirk played across his lips as he leaned in close, his warm breath ghosting over the shell of your ear and his goatee tickled the skin of your cheek.

Playful triumph dominating his voice, he whispered lowly to you as he buried himself inside, "Now who's the one begging?"

Thanks for reading <3

*BAMF*

Dividers by @/adornedwithlight

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 1

NEXT >

pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desire—feelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, he’s drawn back not to the kingdom’s praises, but to the chance of one last glimpse of you to move on with his life.

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 14K (i am so sorry)

warnings: descriptions of war, suggestive themes, slow burn so it's only sensual for now, religious shame and guilt

disclaimer: this work contains Catholic imagery that is a part of rofan manhwa worldbuilding tropes. "the saintess" trope itself isn't a saint in accordance with Catholic traditions, it's just a character archetype that developed over time in the isekai genre and means more of a "holy maiden chosen by god" and "healer" with "divine powers" protected by the "church" of that specific fictional world. however, i did my best to do my research. this work has nothing to do with Christianity or any other religions and is totally fictional. please keep that in mind as you proceed!

author's note: mandalhoerian goes back to her reader era! please say thank you to @chesue00 for allowing me to use her artwork in this fic, I wrote a whole scene that depicts the art piece which was the whole inspiration for this 3-day frothing at the mouth frenzy!!!!

now, Sacrosanct is a blend of tropes i love in rofan manhwa/webtoon/mangas that are my favorite, so prepare for misunderstandings galore in the future 😭 but leon specifically is inspired by malthus from hilda furacao. which just means yearning and sexual repression. re2!leon to re4!leon pipeline is just the sweet commoner knight to cold duke of the north pipeline in manhwa, and if you understand what that means, im personally sending you a virtual kiss LMAO Happy reading, I hope yall like it!

don't forget this is the first part only.... heh. the template credit

🌀READ ON AO3 !

The first blush of dawn trickles through the gaps in heavy drapes, bathing your chambers in apricot hues. Crisp echoes of rustling silk resonate as you delicately lift the mask from its velvet perch. Bathed in daybreak's golden light, coloured glass chips embedded into the mask shimmer in lost constellations. The caress of velvety smooth fabric against your skin sends shivers dancing down your spine as you tie on, freshly laundered linen smell intertwining with lingering scent of last night’s incense used in nightly prayers, hints of lavender meet smoky frankincense.

Your gaze shifts to the mirror, the mask now concealing your mortal features, intricate filigree swirling across your face in an ethereal web and tiny crystals dotted along the lines sparking like stars. Taking a deep breath to stand a little taller and square your shoulders, you reach up to adjust your veil, ensuring no errant strands of hair are visible. The gauzy fabric falls in diaphanous folds around you, the whispers arising with your every movement the only sounds in the stillness of dawn.

Though the sacred mask and veil hide your earthly form, they cannot conceal the weakness of the human soul in your eyes.

The gateway to your wishes is wide open, one closer look is all one needs to see how you yearn to walk unencumbered through the gardens, to feel the caress of sunlight on your bare skin.

But the edicts are clear - when you leave these chambers, the Saintess must be fully shrouded, an exalted vessel and naught else.

You amble down to the sacred chapel for morning prayers before breaking your fast - a custom enacted in hushed reverence. As you descend stone steps weathered by time, you're swaddled in the scent of smoldering incense permeating from open timber doors, trailing invisible veins into the invigorating morning air. Inside, familiar faces of fellow sisters and brothers offer gentle nods of greeting as you find solace before the altar, sinking onto the cushioned bench tailored specifically for you, in the name of quiet contemplation and prayerful kneeling.

In honor of Ethelion, your one true Lord, silence descends—a pause amplified by its gravitas. Then with an authority that makes everything else seem trivial in comparison, there's the priest: his directing is ripples on still water reaching out towards infinity—sound molded into sacred words known only too well to heart.

The humming drone of faith-soaked chants serves as a welcome breather from the constant ponderings on war and sacrifice that’s been plaguing you for weeks. Those gnawing realities always sneak up and nibble away at your moments of peace, but here in this church, Ethelion’s mercy reigns supreme—the refuge is heard in the choruses belted out emphatically, slicing through any weighty thoughts, their lyrics loftier than any worldly worry.

As the sun stands at its zenith above and sends shards of golden light filtering through the stained glass canvases, the ceremony unwinds. It feels like saying goodbye too soon amidst vibrant echoes of hymns that grip onto ancient brick walls built upon stories spanning centuries, currents of history carrying their inevitable fade. Here, they stand still—if only for a while—pinned by lingering notes lost in air rich with incense burn and oakwood musk coupled with memories tasting of sacramental wine still clinging to tongues.

Stepping into the courtyard, you're swathed in a prism of pastel hues—blossoms unveiling their sugared whispers to the inviting warmth of a lingering breeze. You catch wind of their fragrance; it hooks you, a blend of sweet floral undertones and spring's renewed vigor carrying history within its essence, and you cannot wait to check on your lily garden.

Children dart amongst looming pews, mischief gleaming in their eyes as they engage in hushed games, shards of laughter echoing softly around the otherwise hallowed space. The sight tugs at a wisp of nostalgia, memories when life was simpler, less layered with expectations and daunting futures.

The youngest ones eyeing your departure don't miss a beat. Like mini warriors possessed by unruly spirits, they break rank from the congregation to run after you—a whirlwind of giggles and shouts lacing the air. Their excitement thrums against your skin, buzzing like electricity—an unexpected surge that leaves behind a ghostly imprint.

Yet before they can reach you or even conflict with stone-faced paladins on guard duty, an adult hand restrains them. Respectful bows font towards you as if to acknowledge an unspoken understanding—a solemn line between what is allowed and what isn't negotiated under sacred roofs and watchful gazes.

The breaking of your fast happens solely in the intimacy of your chambers, where you can abandon the weariness of your mask.

Fresh fruits and bread baked by the monks in the kitchens await you on a simple wooden table, their colors vibrant against the muted tones of your chamber. The apples gleam like polished rubies, their skins taut and inviting, while clusters of plump grapes spill over from the plate. The bread, golden and crusty, emits a warm aroma that fills the air with comfort; its texture promises a satisfying chew that will sustain you through the day’s trials.

You pour yourself a glass of tea, steam curling up like ethereal wisps as you set it beside the fruits, its sweetness rendered by generous dollops of honey that transform each sip into liquid amber. As you bite into a slice of bread, the crust crackles under your teeth, giving way to a soft and airy interior that melts on your tongue. It’s simple fare—yet it nourishes not just your body but also stirs echoes of childhood memories spent in the kitchens, where laughter mingled with the scent of baked goods.

The weight of your impending sacred duty hangs over you like storm clouds heavy with rain.

It's not just a responsibility; it's an anchor dragging you into the depths of despair, each step forward to navigate it is like wading through molten lead.

You peer through the frost-kissed window, and the courtyard below unfolds like a battlefield before a decisive clash. Figures clad in armor move with the grace of dancers and the determination of warriors bound for glory or doom. The pieces of gleaming plate mail reflects the pale light, casting fractured rainbows on the cobbled ground.

The gleam of virgin armor, polished to a high sheen, is nothing more than a facade.

It's an ornament, untouched by the brutality of combat—it’s their holy calling that these paladins embrace, not the bloody stain of war. And yet, you sit there on your throne and hesitate to send even one amongst them into the fray for your crown's sake.

How easy would it be to fool yourself into believing that time has frozen, and these young knights in training are simply rehearsing under the guise of some distant uncertainty. But your eyes have skimmed those sealed parchment letters, their inky truths seeping more dread into an already strained air; you're not as naive as all that. The chilling certainty of the Holy War lurks just on the other side of these weathered stone walls—it's only a matter of moments before a gasping messenger dispatches reality like storm clouds breaking open.

Regardless of how fervently you pray or how deep your self-sacrifice runs, it won’t alter this predetermined destiny.

Even as you grip your blessed rosary so tightly it leaves hardened impressions in your palm's soft flesh. Even when unshed tears blur your vision, scalding hot yet stubbornly refusing to fall free, and a knot of shame twists low within your stomach like vile poison—an uncomfortable squirming inside that is almost visceral. Your journey forward leaves much to be desired–mired with dark ambiguities, where faith resembles something more akin to a clumsy blind groping in the vast unknown.

Your heart twinges—a raw ache—at the sight of blond hair all too familiar.

"Leon," escapes in a murmur from between your chapped lips against the icy window pane—the cold seeping into your skin; tiny tendrils numbing any sensation away.

The young paladin has blossomed into a towering figure since his personal guard duty by your side the last month, his frame enveloped in the armor that’s bigger than his still-growing form. The sight of him clad in battle gear is a poignant one, for the metal plates seem to engulf him rather than adorn him. He looks anything but menacing, sweet consideration towards those he’s sparring with, despite clad head-to-toe in battle gear, with such carefree confidence that threatens to split your aching chest.

In a split second, on the other side of that cold glass wall; Leon’s focus latches onto your unveiled and unmasked presence like a sunflower bending towards light.

It's as if you've breathed some forbidden word into the wind - an inaudible gasp tingles the silence and ripples off his lips. He stammers mid-battle stance, frozen under some unseen celestial hammer, scorched into oblivion.

You step back hurriedly, yanking your veil down over your face once more; it's rough underneath your fingertips, but nothing compared to the turmoil swirling inside you. His own stunned gaze falters, tugs itself away as if burned - damn those beautiful eyes! But that moment costs him dearly as his rival lunges and he crumbles under the assault, and your heart won’t stop racing, undeniable fondness with a foreign heat creeping up your neck.

Leon bounces back from the blow almost instantly, staggering back to his feet like it's second nature; like he hasn't just had the wind knocked out of him and seems more rattled than before.

His opponent’s moves are unforgiving, one after another until Leon's guard slips. With a resounding thud that sends shudders up your spine, Leon gets slammed into the dirt floor.

His helmet soars through the air with an eerie ring that echoes around the courtyard, tumbling to rest at the boots of a nearby Paladin whose gaze is stuck on Leon’s prone form - filled with something close to pity but still masked by pride. A comrade extends a roughened hand, helping Leon upright, his comforting pat lingering just a moment too long on his shoulder blade as if unsure whether to leave or stay for strength. Jovially yet sternly, the older knight cuffs Leon on his arm, gauntlet striking armor with a dull clang.

As you retreat from your voyeuristic post at the window when reverberating tolls from the grand temple's bells signal practice time has run its course, there's an adrenaline rush buzzing under your skin even though you were merely watching. The upcoming blessing ceremony casts its shadow over you – all consuming and much larger than life; leaves no space for silly fancies.

Sunset paints the temple grounds in a bronzed hue as Leon treks alone back to the barracks, his mind adrift. Training bruises throb under his armor, though it's the sting of his fractured pride that truly wounds him.

None of it matters in the face of the glimpse of divinity he accidentally caught.

He nearly bends with the weight of it, an abyss of greed that he fears his brothers-in-arms can sense infecting his spirit. It maligns his growth as a paladin; he's sure Ethelion sees the invasive avarice lurking beneath skin and bone, an illicit truth residing within him nipping at him from the inside like a woodworm.

The seed of which had been planted over a decade ago, in these lily gardens, in the healing hands of a young Saintess whose presence and unmasked face lingered in his heart and grew into an infatuation with her holy touch.

He was but a boy back then, brittle and broken in body, his fragile skin stretched thin over bony limbs, rife with illness that stole the color from his cheeks and the air from his lungs. His very life seemed held together by prayers of his parents alone, fluttering like leaves in the wind. He'd stumbled into the garden by accident, chasing a stray cat with his siblings, not realizing he was lost.

Yet fate cast her sanguine smile and Ethelion himself turned an eye on him, sending the Saintess his way.

A warm glow drew him further through the bushes, and there you stood, cloaked in a robe that made your radiance seem as if it were born from moonlight. His eyes should have burned upon landing on you unmasked, youthful face that unmistakably belonged to a human girl of his age and not that of Ethelion in the flesh, but instead, his lungs expanded with an unknowable strength because of the divine power around you, an easiness that made it feel like he was breathing for the first time.

Not met with punishment for such audacity—he was instead gifted healing through your sacred touch–and got left laced with a perpetual yearning, sickness eradicated from his being and infused life onto starved limbs.

A lesson was disclosed to him later on when he’d become aware of himself, about why the Saintess had to be veiled.

His desires knew no end. It was for her spiritual purity that the Saintess could not be seen unmasked or reveal herself to mortals. Could one imagine the consequences of men akin to him lying eyes upon such magnificence, gracing skin intended only for Ethelion's touch? The impressionable child that he was had bloomed into an adult consumed by her divinity, hell-bent on basking in it all life long. Surely kingdoms would fold, as mortals were bound to disrupt natural balance attempting to seize the maiden of god.

So, when you appeared in the tower window today, he was overcome with a sensation so powerful it felt like angelic apparitions traced their wings down his back.

Divine grace embodied, shining forth in ways he couldn't articulate.

An inexplicable need arose from his bones for him to go to you, throw himself down in worship, confess sins one by one and receive penance:

In the hush of many nights when the temple halls were empty, he would wander like a ghost and always come back to kneel at the feet of Ethelion, daring to touch the cushions before the altar where you prayed, his fingers lingering where only your robes should caress. The audacity of his gaze tracing the delicate embroidery of your veil when he stood guard by your side, seeking to unveil something meant solely for Ethelion’s eyes, was but one of his many transgressions against the sanctity that cloaked you…

His form of worship seemed askew, borne more out of desire than devoutness; staining the starkly white fabric of his duty with its off-colour ardour.

He could never allow you, the revered Saintess, to know about this sinful sentiment dwelling within him; tarnishing every sweet memory associated with you.

The fantasy he harbored diminished his image, trendlessly etched as an obedient paladin's plight – but for him, you represented something significantly more profound. To even admit how dreams featuring you bewitchingly bathed in grace tainted his oath of celibacy would risk jeopardizing the hope invested in recognizing his service towards Ethelion.

The desire to earn the highest recognition, a Paladin's title and acceptance of his fealty to protect you as such – got increasingly tangled in a visceral wanting lost somewhere between sacrilege and worship that left a devout hunger echoing within him for your sake.

To satisfy this, he threw himself fiercely into arduous training channels to strengthen both his body and mind with every challenging day that went by - striving ceaselessly with dreams of deserving a place by your side.

Now, he stands precipitously on the verge; holding on desperately to this undisclosed confession – harboring a stolen glance of you from earlier as a secret talisman.

How could he go into the Holy War with his brothers now, knowing he'd seen beneath your veil and… Felt.

“You seem troubled, Sir Leon.”

Leon doesn’t dare turn; a jagged lick of dread splinters down his spine. He recognizes that voice—how could he not when it haunts his dreams night after night? Instead, he stares into nothingness, rooted to the ground, his mind unable to process that you're speaking to him.

But he does turn, finding you standing serenely beneath an archway covered with tangled fragrant vines in the Temple's back garden.

Your presence fills Leon with equal parts awe and unease, as if Ethelion himself is shaming him from above for desiring what should be beyond mortal reach.

Yet your countenance remains unchanged, unmarred by his inner turmoil. The mask stays in place, an extension of your divinity—only now, Leon swears that beneath it, your eyes are smiling at him.

Leon stands within the cool shadow of the ancient temple, its weathered stones holding an age-old embrace that wraps around him like a cloak. The air is thin with the delicate scent of lilies that’s wafting towards him from the garden—from you, and outside, where sunlight filters through the leafy canopy, you stand amidst color. Your garments catch the sunset, casting a shimmer that mirrors the beauty of your surroundings.

The difference between his shadowed presence and your radiant figure is a shaming from above, showing Leon your place in His divine light while he remains shrouded in sin.

The clinking of Leon's loose armor rings as he lowers himself to one knee before you, “Forgive me, Saintess. I did not mean to disturb your meditations.”

The rustle of silk heralded your approach, brushing against the cool stone floor like a gentle breeze stirring a field of wildflowers. He inhales sharply, his breath hitching in his throat as the fragrance of lilies envelops him.

You stop before him, your robes cascading around you like a mirage of opal waves, he is captivated by an urge so primal that it sends a flush of heat to his cheeks and makes his palms sticky; he longs to press his lips to the delicate fabric that seems to breathe with divine grace.

“Please rise, Sir Leon. I saw you training today. Your skills are formidable.”

His pride swelled silent and strong within his chest – a sudden weight that could unbalance him more than any physical blow ever could.

"Your words honor me greatly," he manages to speak to the stones at his feet, even after he is back up at his feet.

"Yet you seem to have much on your mind."

He cannot meet your eyes; it feels overwhelming to face such beauty and concern directed solely at him.

"Pardon me, that was a silly question, wasn't it? Of course you have much on your mind. You're about to ride into battle. Such thoughts are not easy to bear. Do you wish to talk about it?"

"It's not my place to trouble you with such things, Saintess. They will soon be far from here, and you will be safe in the Temple.”

He glances at you, and the look in your eyes is enough to make him forget how to breathe. It’s a blend of curiosity and tenderness; an innocence that nearly pierces through his mask and grazes the wicked depths of his heart.

You tilt your head, much like a bird contemplating a worm, and gently ask, "Would you indulge my curiosity and share one worry with me?"

It's an impossibly generous gesture, for you to extend this small piece of yourself to him in the middle of your meditations. Leon's teeth ache at the sweetness of it, at your kindness that extends even to him.

“I’m doubting my worthiness to serve,” he confesses unceremoniously. “I train relentlessly, but I lack the innate spark my brothers were born with. It's as if... as if I'm play-acting at being a Paladin.”

Those aren't the only doubts that torment him—but the ones he can actually say out loud without burning at the stake for.

"Do you remember the day we met, Sir Leon?" you begin, clasping your hands and turning around to face the gardens, the gentle breeze is making your veil flutter.

Leon nods, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. Even so many years later, the memory still has the power to stir his soul, churning something in his chest that makes it hard to think straight.

"It seems like it was yesterday that a young boy came stumbling into the garden, barely able to stand up, and looked me dead in the face. What do you think I saw in him?"

He always assumed the Saintess would have forgotten such a brief encounter, yet it was etched firmly into his memory and to hear it spoken aloud has his pulse miss a couple beats.

"Do you think I saw weakness as he lay gasping in the dirt? Or did I perhaps see an innocent curiosity that was easily swept up by the cruelty of this world and tamed into obedience? Or maybe I saw something else entirely.”

He shakes his head, trying to make sense of your words. It sounds like you're making a statement, but it's not clear which part you agree with.

"Tell me, Sir Leon. What is a spark? Does it come to life, or can it be nurtured from the smallest ember of resolve?" you whisper, fingers trembling as they ascend, tracing a path as delicate as a petal's fall, nearing his cheek with hesitant affection.

He’s paralyzed when your touch indeed lands instead of drifting away.

Your fingers linger, tracing the curve of his jawline with such gentleness, demure and awkward; and the pressure of it makes his skin sing, sparks dancing along every inch.

It's barely a caress, but he feels it in his bones—this ache—that swells and burns, a fire set alight inside his chest that’s on the precipice of consuming him whole.

A whole-body shiver breaks free, but you remain unfazed—your hand is still there, stroking his flesh with such tenderness; soft against the corner of his jaw.

"One is not born to greatness, one achieves it." You're calm, yet firm, a voice that commands respect. He's reminded of the many times he heard you deliver blessings on high ceremonies. There's something about the cadence of your words that pulls at the strings of his soul, drawing him in closer—deeper. "What truly matters is the conviction behind your actions. And, Sir Leon, you may not see it yet. But there's a spark inside your chest that burns brighter than any candle. Don't let anyone dampen it, for it shall shine a path forward unto others and bring glory to our land."

You pull away, leaving a void in your wake. Leon finds himself wanting to reach after you, wanting nothing more than for your skin to keep pressing against his, for your warmth to bleed through his own and ease the burden that's crushing him.

He wants to kiss those fingers that have—

Red hot shame enough to set firewoods aflame shoots straight to settle on his cheeks, flushing them as a wicked feeling sinks in his stomach, a heavy sinking pit. The meaning of your words resounds in his heart like a thunderclap after the lightning that was your touch, your holy words washing over him like a balm—or a warning.

He's brought back to reality abruptly with the harsh cackle of metal against stone as a group of paladins walk by and salute him and bow for the Saintess, pulling him out of a daze as he greets them. Their voices seem distant, faces a blur. It's a miracle Leon manages a nod at them in acknowledgment.

He finds his tongue eventually, his face still aflame with embarrassment at the realization of being in front of the Saintess, an idol of the Church, a woman he thinks of during his late-night ruminations, and still feels guilty for.

"T-thank you, Saintess,” his voice wavers, trembling even with those two simple words that leave him shaking, stirred to the core as if a sudden storm just swept him away to sea, and you are the shore he longs to return to. He fears he might drown in the depths of those beautiful eyes, pulled under by the current.

"It is I who should be thanking you, Sir Leon. You're risking everything to ensure peace for our realm."

Your words wrap around him like a hug, holding him in place while also offering a moment of comfort, like coming home from a long trip away. He treasures those precious few seconds, committing them to memory. But you are a Saintess, not a fellow knight, and there are no hugs or handshakes in his world.

"I'll see you in the ceremony," you continue, before leaving Leon with his heaving chest and a pressure knotting deep in his stomach, walking back to the serenity of the Temple, robes fluttering around your feet like snow settling over frozen earth.

Once you have disappeared into the confines of the temple, he lets out a deep breath. His heart is still beating wildly; the memory of your fingertips brushing his skin is seared into his flesh, an indelible mark that cannot be scrubbed away. He is unable to shake the feeling that he has committed some unspeakable sin; his body a living, breathing violation of his vows.

Leon washes himself in the barracks' bathing chambers, and as he stares at the naked flesh beneath steaming water, his thoughts turn to the ritual that awaits him. In the heat and sweat of it, he wonders if you can wash him clean, baptize his tainted heart.

His sweat trickles down his back, leaving shimmering beads of perspiration in its wake, he can feel each droplet sliding down like a ghostly caress overheated skin glistening under the light of flickering candles; his head is thrown back, and wet hair is slicked away from his face as he reclines in the wooden bathtub. He reaches up to trace the lines of his jaw with trembling fingers that hover just above his skin, remembering what it felt like to have your touch there. He closes his eyes and lets the steam envelop him; he feels the heaviness in his groin, thick and full between his thighs.

In this moment, he is alone with his guilt and shame; but underneath all that self-recrimination there lies a deeper emotion he dares not acknowledge: hope.

The blessing ceremony unfolds with the break of dawn the next day.

Rows of paladins stand at attention, forming a formidable barrier outside the towering chapel. You make your way up the marble steps, flanked by your retinue, and lift your veiled face to behold the regimented paladins before you. Their armor catches the sunlight in a dazzling display, swords resting peacefully in their scabbards. Every single one of them is an anonymous guardian, faces obscured by identical helmets and billowing white capes adorned with a shimmering blue starburst emblem emblazoned on their chest plates.

Upon reaching the summit of the staircase, the massive oak doors swing wide open, revealing an expanse filled with devout worshippers immersed in fervent prayer. Bathed in hues of multicolored light filtering through intricate stained-glass windows, their worshiping forms kneel upon the cool marble floor. Sunbeams caress their bowed heads like a halo, creating a mosaic of ethereal radiance that plays upon their serene features.

The hush that descends as you cross the threshold is whispered benedictions through the hall, enshrouding all present in a solemn embrace as you draw nearer to the altar at its heart.

At the altar stands the head priest, garbed in ceremonial robes—the deep hues of white and gold intertwining with ancient symbols. His palms are raised towards the statue of Ethelion, supplication etched into every line of his face. Before him sits an empty altar table covered in rich crimson velvet trimmed with gold brocade, and at its center rests a silver bowl filled with holy water, reflecting shards of light like fragments of a broken mirror.

Beside the basin stands a golden chalice and a sharp blade gleaming ominously.

You sink into a curtsy before the priest—your knees grazing the cool stone floor—as he intones your full title: "I salute the Beloved of Ethelion, Avatar of Eternity and Renewal,” before he gently beckons you to rise.

Taking your place before the altar, you feel the weight of an entire kingdom resting upon your shoulders. This ritual isn't mere superstition; it's a tangible link between mortal and divine—a celestial promise that Ethelia is indeed favored by the gods.

Yet beneath this grandeur lies urgency cloaked in ceremony: you're chosen by Ethelion to channel his blessing—a gift that comes with strings attached. It promises good health and protection from injury but depletes as quickly as candles flicker out in gusty winds.

You've done this countless times, yet it never becomes easier. You can only hope that the god residing within you answers earnestly today—gracing the paladins with divine strength and healing their wounds as you pour every ounce of yourself into them.

A hushed silence envelops the chamber as the priest lifts up the basin and blesses its water. He then raises it above your head, pouring its contents slowly over your body. The liquid cascades down your shoulders like molten gold—cool initially but warming as it mingles with your skin—and pools at your feet like melted sunlight. It seeps into the hem of your flowing robe which now shimmers like saffron touched by daylight's first rays.

The priest murmurs prayers of consecration while taking up the gleaming blade from beside chalice's stem. Gesturing for everyone gathered to join hands, he swiftly cuts into your wrist without warning—precise and unyielding. Blood oozes forth; dark as ink with whiffs reminiscent faint iron scent permeating air around tendrils curling upward almost ethereal fashion dripping fingers’ tips.

"May Ethelion guide thy swords on this path forward!" you invoke in a solemn tone. The words carry an authority that rings throughout the entire Temple, sending vibrations through the gathered crowd as they repeat your verse.

With a sharp exhale, you approach the priest and rest your open wound over the golden goblet, watching your blood drip into the vessel, drop by painstaking drop. All the while, the attendees recite their blessings in a swelling crescendo, their voices echoing back from the domed roof like an urgent prayer caught between earth and sky.

Your arm throbs incessantly—a dull ache blossoming into searing pain, but you press on, undeterred. Despite how difficult it becomes, there's solace in sharing this burden with others, knowing that they too have a part to play.

Finally, when enough blood has been collected, the priest holds the chalice high and exclaims, "For the kingdom! For Ethelion!"

On command, the paladins march forward with military precision, lining up in single file before the altar, the line extending out of the doors. With measured steps, they kneel in succession, resting their forearms atop the surface in a gesture of humility. You are handed the holy sword, its blade shimmering beneath the lights, its hilt ornately decorated with rubies and diamonds.

Placing your bleeding wrist atop the hilt's cool metal surface, you hold it above the first kneeling paladin's helmeted head. Slowly and carefully, you dip your finger into the cup of crimson liquid and anoint him with your blood by marking his crested forehead—a tangible sign of his sworn loyalty. Whispering a blessing so only he can hear it feels almost intimate—the sword becoming a conduit for divine power. The tip of the blade descends upon his crown; his shoulders instantly stiffen under this sacred touch—they tremble when it grazes one shoulder then moves to deliver an ethereal blow to the other.

The process repeats itself, endless and exhausting, as you move down the line.

Each anointment saps more of your energy reserves until you're left weak and nearly hollowed out from within. Yet pouring every bit of life force into each paladin so they may be shielded on battlefields ahead brings bittersweet satisfaction mixed with aching relief—you find strength anew just enough to persevere.

By the time you reach the end of the rows, your skin feels as paper-thin as the gauzy fabric covering your body. The edges of your vision have started to blur, and it takes considerable effort to stay upright, gripping the edge of the altar to steady yourself. Your heart is fluttering beneath your ribs like a frantic bird, wanting to burst free from its cage of bone and muscle and escape this agony. Your palms are clammy; you're sweating profusely beneath your robes, but despite this, you must see this rite through till its completion.

The ancient wooden door of the chapel creaks open, its mournful groan deafening in the silent night. A thin beam of moonlight slices through the gap, illuminating the dusty air. Inside, flickering candle flames cast warm, trembling light on Ethelion’s marble statue, which gazes down at you with unblinking, expressionless eyes.

You place your mask at the base of His effigy; unveiling yourself like this is a crucial part of the ritual—a moment of communion with the deity. You stand exposed before Him in every way—physically, spiritually, and emotionally. He serves as a mirror reflecting your deepest essence—a piece of you laid bare without fear or shame. Hiding from Him would be like refusing to acknowledge your own existence.

Summoning all your bravery, you remove the fragile veil that acts as your last shield against the world’s curious eyes, letting it rest gently next to your discarded mask. With both face and hair now revealed, you kneel before His statue. Your head bows low in penance, hands squeezed together in a gesture of deep devotion.

"Blessed Ethelion, forgive your servant," you plead with a tremor. "I have doubt in my heart. I'm afraid."

The statue remains silent; only overpowering stillness fills the air as seconds stretch into eternity. Then warmth radiates through you—starting from your chest and unfurling into your limbs—like sunshine poured into your veins, igniting every fiber with radiant energy.

"I don’t want any of them to die," you confess quietly, tears spilling free to splash against the cold flagstone floor. "They’re innocents caught in a war not their own."

There are no words in response, yet you feel an undeniable answer; Ethelion’s reassuring presence envelops you like a warm embrace. He is there to listen to you in silence.

This ritual is a moment of weakness—where fear manifests openly for release. These men are about to step into hell itself beyond the walls. Though they fight for honor and glory, deep down you know it will become a bloodbath—a massacre that will rend this kingdom apart.

"There's nothing sacred about this; yet here I stand sentencing Your children to death," you lament as tears trickle down your cheeks, mingling salty bitterness against trembling lips. No further sign comes; Ethelion appears content merely to observe from His heavenly perch—perhaps reminding you gently of your divine duty—the role He has ordained for you. "I beg forgiveness, O Lord. I could not change the minds blinded by ignorance. My heart bleeds for those suffering because of this conflict. Please protect them so they may come back to bask once more in Your radiant light."

You bow deeply before Him; rising again is a struggle as your knees quake beneath you.

"Saintess."

You jump at the familiar voice that slices through the sanctity of silence, eyes widening in recognition and trepidation.

This is the third time Leon has witnessed you this vulnerable without the holy artifacts shielding the flesh beneath, yet he remains unassuming and gentle; shock absent from his spirit this time. He stands close behind you in this hallowed space belonging solely to Ethelion's infinite wisdom, and you dare not breathe—afraid of shattering this ethereal moment.

"Avert your eyes, Sir Leon.”

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, standing erect. You remain there unmoving, save for the tiny droplets of sweat gathering on your hairline as he moves with the grace of a shadow, his steps measured and deliberate, until he stands by your side, his eyes unwaveringly fixed upon the towering statue of Ethelion that looms before you both, as if seeking solace in the stone divinity rather against the evil of your human form.

He drops down onto both knees, bowing so low that his forehead nearly kisses the cold stone floor.

A subtle movement draws your attention, and you steal a glance from beneath your lashes. The moonlight caresses strands of golden hair and spins them into threads of silver. His attire deviates from the usual paladin's armor; instead, he wears a simple cotton shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, veiny forearms sculpted by hard practice. The fabric clings to his form, hinting at the sinewy strength that lies beneath. Riding breeches embrace his legs snugly, tucked into worn boots that have weathered countless journeys.

The collar of his shirt is notched open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the base of his throat and the expanse of his upper chest. Your gaze traces the contours of muscle defined beneath the sheer material, and traitorously ventures lower, lingering on the curve of his bent knees before daring to explore further down to where his knuckles rest—taut and unyielding atop thighs etched with power. It leaves your mouth dry.

The intensity with which he shuts his eyes mirrors that boy from years past—the one who clenched his fists tightly against pain, refusing to cry as he battled an illness that should have claimed his life but didn't.

You yield to an impulse, enveloping him in the ethereal embrace of your veil, a shield against the world's gaze and your own. His body tenses beneath the delicate fabric as you glide it over his features, a soft gasp escaping from deep within him. With a trembling exhale, he quivers imperceptibly, fingers pressing into the cloth with a fervor that leaves faint dents on his skin, hands strained from the intensity.

"Open your eyes," you murmur tenderly, reluctant to disrupt the fragile moment.

Gleaming blue flickers into view through the white, translucent shroud, their clarity distorted by the gossamer material. You observe his swallow, the rhythmic rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he tentatively reaches to draw it down over his face.

Through the veil's prism, you must appear as a kaleidoscope of hues and forms to him; a phantom of your true essence, an elusive apparition hovering at the edge of reality.

"The… The blessing went well today," Leon sputters, cracking at the end like glass under pressure.

"Why did you come here, Sir Leon?" you ask gently, sensing that beneath his stiff formality lies a multitude of untold emotions.

"Are you alright?" The genuine concern for your person sends shivers cascading over your skin; fine hairs on your arms lift as he touches his wrist—mirroring right where your blood had been drawn. "Does it hurt every time the blessing is performed? I've never watched it before. It's..."

He falters, mouth opening and closing, and you notice how the fractured light from the windows bathes the swell of his cheeks in a tender luminescence. His words hang between you both, delicate strands of silk trying to knit themselves into coherence.

"It's awful, Saintess. To see your suffering laid bare before everyone."

"I would drain my whole body if it meant those brave men will go out knowing they are protected," you say with resolute calmness, though deep down, you're curious about how he truly perceives you now.

A barely audible "I know," escapes him. It feels like a confession—an unpleasant truth he doesn’t like being faced with. Whatever it holds makes warmth surge through you, igniting your skin and causing another involuntary shiver as he moistens his lower lip with a slow sweep of his tongue. "I know."

"Don't worry about me, Sir Leon. Your job is out there defending these lands, while mine is to ease your burdens. Think only of protecting those who need your shield.”

“Is it wrong to care for those I serve?” His wholehearted question tightens something within you—stirs an undefined yet potent emotion ready to bloom.

"Not at all," you reply almost breathlessly as he gazes intently at the curve of your jawline—your face blurred but memorized by him with stunning accuracy. "Remember whom your sword serves; we live only to honor Ethelion."

"I wish the world were different," his words seem hollowed out, lacking meaning, and yet there's an unmistakable conviction there, a resolve that drives him.

"As do I."

You glide your fingertips over the altar's slick surface, taking in a deep breath that fills your lungs fully with the sanctity of this space.

Then he straightens up suddenly; determination shines in his posture. He doesn’t rise from his kneeling position, yet it frightens you in the same way it would if he had shot up to stand.

"If you'll allow it, Saintess," he says, venerating, and the delicate fabric of his veil brushes against the embroidered sleeve of your robe. That fleeting contact sends a jolt through you, reverberating like a soft, whispered promise. His simple gesture, his proximity—it shouldn’t mean anything. But you feel he might as well have taken your hand in his. "I would pledge an oath to you as well."

There’s a deliberate slowness in how he pulls back, the motion of a man lingering at a threshold he has no right to cross.

Your chest tightens, your breath coming slower as you try to compose yourself. “Of course, Sir Leon,” you manage, though the stillness between you is filled with your uncertainty. What if you're not worthy of his devotion? Of his sacrifice? If he saw what lay beneath the veil, beyond the role of saintess, would he still look at you this way? Or would he recoil, realizing the truth of what you are: flesh and blood, no more divine than the earth beneath your feet?

You feel his stare. It’s as though they’re tracing the length of your body, reaching you through the barrier of the veil, and somehow, that makes the sensation more intimate than if he were standing before you fully revealed.

His breath catches, just slightly. You hear it, feel it, even though the veil between you muffles the sound. "It’s not about whether you’ll accept it," he continues, and there’s a shift in his stance. You can’t see his face, but the way he holds himself, the slight movement of his shoulders beneath the fabric, tells you that he’s grounding himself. "I give this vow because it is mine to give. For you, not for recognition or reward. It’s my choice, my will. No one needs to know."

His spine is ramrod straight now, but there’s a softness in his words, a slight tilt of his head as his eyes search yours. “My loyalty belongs to you alone.”

You swallow hard, the meaning of his words sinking deep into your soul. A lowly servant of Ethelion, that’s all you are. A vessel. No name, no family, no identity beyond the veil. His words... they speak of individual loyalty, devotion to you, not to Ethelion, not to the divine purpose you embody. You are no one. You have no right to such things. How could you take from him what rightly belongs to the god you serve? Wouldn’t you be struck down for such hubris? For leading a paladin astray, pulling him from the only true master he should follow? You tremble at the thought.

"Sir Leon, I cannot accept this." Your fingers curl around the skirt of your robe, the fabric twisting beneath your grip. “It’s—”

His chin lifts, eyes steady on you. "—wrong?"

You start at his interruption. Your voice sounds so feeble as you finish the sentence with a meek, "Yes."

He stays rooted, motionless, but something in the atmosphere shifts again. His breathing, though controlled, seems deeper, and you sense the quiet resolve in the silence that stretches between you.

"Then let me be the one who wrongs Ethelion." His tone carries a weight that presses against you, not through sound but through the way his body holds firm, unwavering. His movements are subtle, restrained, yet the soft brush of his hand grazing his side signals something deeper, a release of tension. "I pledge myself to you, Saintess. To your will, your desires. You are my strength."

The air feels dense, thick with the weight of what he’s offering.

These words flow from him like water spilling over stones, filling up spaces where it couldn't previously reach. The warmth in your chest expands, spreading outward until it seeps into every fiber of your being. Your fingers twitch, the edge of your sleeve twisting between them as you try to ground yourself.

"Please grant me a token of your favor."

Your hands tremble at your sides, your pulse quickening as you fidget with the fabric between your fingers.

What can you possibly offer him?

You glance down, but everything feels out of reach, the world reduced to this one moment.

"But I..." you begin, unsure, your fingers tugging nervously at your sleeve, "I am not a Lady."

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches, and though you can’t see his expression, it feels charged. He shifts ever so slightly, enough that you catch the faint rustle of fabric as he moves.

"All the more reason," he says, a shy smile in his words. "An unworthy paladin asking for a favor from the Saintess—what could be more fitting?"

"Then you may pick whichever object from the temple you desire—"

"I want something of yours, not an icon, nor some relic," he replies immediately, cutting you short, the butteriness sending shivers running down your back. "What do I lack that you have plenty of, that you won't miss, even if it's just a small trinket?"

Your heart stumbles in your chest, the weight of his request crashing into you like a wave. Real? What could you give him? What is yours to offer?

"A lock of hair?" you whisper, feeling your pulse quicken as you say it. The words feel small, vulnerable, but they tumble out before you can stop them. "Would that… suffice?"

Silence follows, his breathing seems to stop.

A lock of hair would belong to you, not the Saintess. A proof of your worldliness, beyond the connection to Ethelion's divine essence. Something that is of the girl and not the holy maiden. Is that what he seeks?

"Your hair," he breathes out in an exhale, as if tasting the words. He appears completely entranced and you become conscious of yourself, the inappropriate nature of just what you brought up.

You draw a slow, shaky breath, the idea settling uneasily in your chest. There’s something intensely personal, too intimate about the exchange. "No, you misunderstand—"

"Your hair, Saintess," he repeats it again, this time more forceful than you've ever seen him; you'd never dare refuse this request and it steals your breath, silencing every protest rising in your throat. "I will accept no less."

Leon rises to his feet, dwarfing you with his broad frame. For the very first time, in Ethelion's presence, you feel small and helpless, like a child who's wandered into his garden. There's something overwhelmingly disarming about sharing this space with him. A foreign sensation blooms within you— a spark that threatens to ignite your world into flames—but you dare not give it voice.

Leon had once worn his armor with pride, each plate fastened like a second skin, the weight of his sword as natural as the rhythm of his heartbeat. Every step forward felt as if he marched hand in hand with something divine, a force greater than himself guiding his every move. The blessing of the saintess had lingered on his skin, a quiet touch that had etched itself into his soul, fortifying his resolve. He had believed, back then, that he was a vessel of the god’s will.

That was years ago.

Now, standing at the edge of the battlefield, the familiar weight of his armor feels heavier, pressing down like an unbearable burden. The bitter taste of dried sweat clings to his lips, and a dull ache pulses beneath his ribs where his armor had done little to stop the last blow. The sun glares down on the blood-soaked earth, the cries of the wounded melding with the clash of steel and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground.

This was not what he envisioned. There was nothing divine here.

A shout rises above the noise, sharp and commanding, drawing his gaze toward the horizon. The enemy soldiers draped in black, surge over the hill like a wave of shadow. His grip tightens around his sword, the hilt slick with a mixture of blood and sweat, fingers straining against the leather-bound grip.

“Leon!” A voice, rough and worn from years of battle, cuts through the din. Leon turns, his eyes locking onto Captain Krauser, a veteran whose gaze is as sharp as a hawk’s. His expression is hard, impatient. “Orders from the Temple: we flank their left side!”

Leon’s heart clenches at the mention of the Temple.

It had been a long time since the orders felt pure, righteous. The Church’s demands had grown more questionable with each passing day. What had once been a campaign to protect the kingdom and its people now reeked of ambition—land grabs disguised as divine conquest. Territories seized, villages razed under the pretense of holy duty.

But Leon doesn’t question. He never has. He is a soldier, a paladin. A servant of Ethelion.

The memory of you—serene, always hidden beneath the mask you wore as the Saintess—surfaces in his mind, unbidden, his anchor to the divine, the blessing you placed on him sacred. You believed in him, blessed him with your blood, and for that, he would fight. For that, he would fulfill his duty.

He moves after Krauser, silent as a ghost, maneuvering through the throng of soldiers until they reach the flank. The enemy’s forces are spread thin, their attempt to push the kingdom’s army back leaving them exposed. It should be an easy victory. A victory that would tighten their grip on the region, crush the enemy’s morale.

The order comes swiftly, brutal and final: Leave no one alive.

Leon hesitates, his sword held in a grip that tightens until his knuckles ache. Leave no one alive. The same command they’d been given in the last village. And the one before that. What once felt justifiable—crushing the enemy for the kingdom’s safety—now sits like lead in his bones.

Those they slaughtered hadn’t been soldiers. They were farmers, villagers. Innocents. Women and children.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and the memory of the last village rises unbidden, a flash behind his eyelids. He can still smell the smoke, hear the anguished cries of mothers shielding their children. His punishment for hesitating, for not cutting through them as he did the soldiers, feels lighter than the weight of that memory.

“Are you deaf, shiny?” Krauser says with a low growl, dragging him back to the present. “I said move.”

Leon’s jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck pulling taut. His body moves automatically, his sword rising as he steps forward, following the rest of the paladins into the fray. Steel clashes with steel, bodies crash against one another, but the noise fades, swallowed by the gnawing doubt lodged deep in his chest. He strikes down another soldier, their blood splattering across his already stained armor, but the pit in his stomach only deepens.

He had been blessed to protect the kingdom, to serve the saintess. How did it come to this? When did righteousness turn into this—bloodlust veiled by holy orders?

Each swing of his sword feels heavier, as though the weight of every soul he cuts down drags him closer to the earth. He fells another enemy, watching as the light drains from their eyes, but it’s not just the life that drains from them—it’s something in him too.

This war, it’s nothing like he’d imagined. In the temple, they had spoken of glory, of righteousness, of battles fought in the name of Ethelion. His fellow soldiers had whispered about the honor of dying for the Temple, the promise of eternal life in the afterworld. They had made war sound like a divine calling, a sacred rite of passage where every death was sanctified, every act of violence blessed.

Out here, there is no glory.

Only blood.

The blood of his brothers, mingled with the enemy’s, staining the dirt beneath their feet. The screams of dying men linger in his ears long after the fighting stops. He’s seen cities burn, watched women and children scramble through the streets, faces twisted in terror, only to fall under a volley of arrows or be trampled beneath the horses of his comrades.

Leon had thought he could stomach it. He’d steeled himself for the brutal reality of war. But nothing prepared him for the guilt, the crushing weight of it, as each atrocity committed in Ethelion’s name piles higher on his soul.

At first, he’d believed the bloodshed was necessary, part of the divine plan. But with every passing day, that belief crumbles a little more, cracking like fragile glass.

Now, standing over the bodies of men who’d once fought to protect their own, Leon can barely remember why he’s here. He can’t recall the saintess’s face anymore—only a faint echo of your eyes, the memory fading like a forgotten dream.

How did the lines blur so completely?

He tightens his grip on his sword, but the weight of it feels foreign, like a weapon forged for someone else.

Facing the fire, Leon watches the flames dance, their orange glow casting restless light over the camp. The logs hiss and crackle as they blacken, edges curling inward with each passing flicker. Every so often, flares shoot out from the heart of the fire, sending sparks spiraling up into the night before falling back down into the pyre. Heat washes over his face, warm yet uncomfortable, the kind that burns if stared at for too long. Leon turns away, unable to face his own reflection in the fire’s glow.

Around him, shadows shift across the ground as torchlight flickers over tents and hastily constructed barriers. Laughter rises from nearby campfires, men gathered in groups, boasting about their conquests in battle, their stories of women left behind growing hazy with time. The smell of roasting meat mingles with the sharp bite of smoke as soldiers cheerfully drink from their ale rations. Some play cards or dice, animated, full of hope for victories yet to come. Others simply bask in the temporary lull, telling tales of their glory to fill the silence.

Leon keeps his distance, seeking refuge near a cluster of trees where the light barely reaches, and the noise fades to a murmur. His back rests against a sturdy trunk, sword and shield propped beside him, the armor around him a forgotten weight. He has no desire to join in the revelry. Solitude feels more fitting—more honest. He closes his eyes, trying to relish the brief respite, though the chance of true rest feels distant, as elusive as peace itself.

"If you don’t eat, you’ll lose your strength." A gruff scoff breaks the silence, drawing Leon from his thoughts. He glances sideways to find Captain Krauser standing above him, holding out a steaming bowl of stew. The smell of the meat, thick with gravy, rises into the cool night air, but Leon’s stomach churns at the sight of it.

"Captain Krauser," Leon mutters, accepting the bowl out of obligation more than hunger, balancing it on one knee. "Didn’t feel like celebrating with the others."

Krauser doesn’t move. He stands there, arms crossed, his bulk casting a shadow that blocks the faint moonlight. His scarred face is half-illuminated by the fire’s glow, the deep lines etched into his skin more pronounced in the flickering light.

Leon stirs the stew absently, blowing on it before taking a small bite. It’s warm, but tasteless. Each mouthful feels like ash, though he forces himself to swallow.

Krauser lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. He lowers himself to the ground beside Leon with a heavy sigh, the earth shifting beneath his weight. "Is that guilt weighing you down, shiny?" His voice is rough, edged with a mockery that barely conceals his weariness. "Because that’s a damn waste of time."

Shiny. The word used to grate on Leon—an insult for paladins whose armor hasn’t yet been sullied by enough blood and battle. His once-polished metal has long since dulled, but the name lingers. Now, he doesn’t care what anyone calls him. It’s just another word.

"Just a bad feeling," Leon replies with a shrug, forcing another spoonful down. The broth is bland, lukewarm at best, but he eats slowly anyway, chewing as if it will somehow ground him in the present.

Krauser grunts, his large frame shifting uncomfortably as he leans back against the tree. "You’re learning." He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as he glances toward the distant glow of campfires. "New orders came in. We move south at first light to intercept a convoy carrying supplies."

Leon keeps eating, though his grip tightens slightly on the spoon. He waits. There’s always more.

"Intelligence says there may be hostages," Krauser adds, his voice turning grim. Leon notices how the lines around his eyes seem deeper, more etched than before. There’s exhaustion in them, though it’s well hidden behind his hardened exterior. "Our task is to eliminate the threat to the kingdom."

"Kill the hostages?" Leon’s response is flat, more a statement than a question.

A heavy silence falls between them, stretching like a weight neither of them wants to bear. The fire crackles on, sending occasional sparks into the air, while the distant hum of soldiers' voices fades into the background. The smell of burning wood fills the space between them, thick and stifling.

Krauser doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenches, the scar on his face pulling tight as he looks ahead, not meeting Leon’s gaze. "You know the orders," he says finally, the words dropping like stones into the quiet. "We do what we’re told."

Leon lowers the spoon, the taste of the stew forgotten as his stomach twists. He’s not surprised, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. He stares into the fire again, watching as the flames curl around the blackened logs, reducing them to nothing but ash.

The sword feels heavier today.

Leon rides ahead of the troops, the rhythmic clop of horseshoes striking the stone path echoing across the endless stretch of open land before him. The morning sun climbs lazily in the sky, casting pale light that stretches the shadows of soldiers and horses over fields soon to be stained with blood.

His breath puffs in the crisp air, small clouds that vanish as quickly as they form. His fingers tighten around the sword’s hilt, knuckles whitening under the strain, even though there’s no immediate need to wield it. Sweat runs in a thin line down his spine, sticking his shirt to his skin beneath the armor.

Behind him, the sounds of the army in preparation are a constant hum—swords being drawn from scabbards, armor buckled into place, horses snorting in nervous agitation. Soldiers march in disciplined ranks, though their faces carry the tension of men too aware of what’s to come. Some are barely more than boys, fresh to the battlefield, eyes wide with fear they think they can hide. The village lies beyond the next ridge, nestled in the hills. The command had been clear: leave none alive.

Leon shifts uncomfortably in the saddle. His throat tightens with the weight of it, as if each breath is a struggle to swallow the bitter taste of what they’re about to do. He glances to the soldiers beside him, seeing faces too young, too eager to kill or die, all in the name of a god who remains as distant as the stars.

There was a time when Ethelion’s will felt as close as his own heartbeat. When the saintess’s blessings had filled him with purpose, your touch a reminder of the grace he fought to protect. What would you think of him now? Would you still offer him your blessing, knowing the blood that stains his hands? The lives he’s taken, the innocents who died beneath his blade?

As they near the village, Leon pulls back on the reins, slowing his horse. The captain riding beside him narrows his gaze, a sharp glance cast his way, but Leon doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Captain,” Leon’s voice comes out rougher than intended. “What if we’re wrong?”

The captain scoffs, not even turning his head. “Wrong? These people are traitors. They must be dealt with.”

Leon’s grip tightens around the reins, the leather biting into his palms. “But we have no proof. No confirmation that they’ve—”

“There is no what if, shiny,” the captain cuts him off, his tone as cold and unyielding as iron. “Our orders are clear. Or have you forgotten your place?”

Leon swallows hard, his throat dry. His place. To serve, to obey, to carry out the will of Ethelion without question.

But his place has never felt so wrong.

They crest the final hill, the village coming into view below. Smoke rises lazily from chimneys, the scent of cooking fires carried on the wind. From a distance, it looks serene. Peaceful. The villagers go about their day, unaware of the army bearing down on them, unaware that in moments, their world will be torn apart.

Leon’s stomach churns. His horse shifts beneath him, sensing his unease, and he forces a slow breath, trying to calm the storm of doubt swirling inside him. His brothers-in-arms march forward, steady and resolute, their swords ready, their minds set on the task ahead.

But Leon’s horse won’t move. It stands rooted, mirroring the weight in his soul.

The captain urges his own horse forward, barking orders to the soldiers to fan out and surround the village. Leon watches as they obey without hesitation, without question. Their faces remain emotionless, minds focused on the task at hand.

How can they not feel it? How can they not sense the wrongness of what they’re about to do?

As the soldiers advance, the first shouts of alarm rise from the village below. Leon can hear it—the panic in their voices, see the sudden fear on their faces. Mothers pulling children close, men scrambling to gather their families. Chaos erupts as arrows fly and swords are raised, and yet, Leon remains frozen in place, his hand trembling on the reins.

The first bodies fall, the clash of steel and screams blending into a cacophony that drowns everything else. The world tilts beneath him, the ground shifting as the sickening sound of death fills his ears, louder than the wind, louder than anything.

I can’t do this.

The thought slices through the haze like a knife.

I can’t.

His grip tightens further on the reins, every muscle in his body tensing, ready to move, ready to do something. Anything.

A shout from behind jerks him from his paralysis. “Sir!”

Leon turns sharply, his pulse racing. A young messenger rides toward him, his face pale, fear etched into every line as he pulls his horse to a stop, barely managing to speak through gasps for air. “Urgent orders from the capital! Princess Ashley has been taken by the enemy. We must mobilize immediately to retrieve her.”

Leon’s heart slams against his ribs.

The princess. The heir to the throne.

For a brief, blessed moment, the chaos of the battlefield fades away, replaced by the only thing that matters. He can save her. He can stop this madness and do something that truly matters.

But the church has other orders.

The captain rides over, his brow furrowed as he tears the sealed letter from the messenger’s hand, the royal crest glinting in the sunlight. He scans it quickly, his expression hardening with each passing second before crumpling the parchment and tossing it to the ground.

“We proceed as planned,” the captain snaps, his tone cold, final.

Leon’s blood runs cold. “But the princess—”

“The orders stand,” the captain repeats, not even glancing at him. “We were sent here to purge this village of traitors, and that’s what we’ll do.”

The sound fades from Leon’s ears, replaced by a sharp ringing that drowns out the Captain ordering the messenger away and trying to direct him to the nearest base.

His pulse pounds in his temples, each beat like a hammer driving nails into his resolve. This isn’t just another village. This isn’t just another order. It’s the future of the kingdom hanging in the balance, and they’re about to throw it all away for what? For bloodshed masquerading as faith?

The bile rises in Leon’s throat, bitter and burning.

He thought he could stomach war. He thought he could follow orders, no matter how brutal. But this?

The last thread of the leash holding him snaps.

Leon’s hands shake on the reins as the captain’s sharp gaze lands on him. “Leon,” the captain growls, noticing his hesitation, “Remember yourself.”

An oath. To serve, to obey, to protect.

But as he looks out over the village, sees the smoke rising, the screams tearing through the air, Leon knows the truth.

This isn’t the will of Ethelion.

This is the will of men.

Men who’ve twisted the divine into something grotesque, something that demands blood for power. Men who’ve forgotten what they were supposed to protect.

Your face flashes before him—soft, kind, with that quiet strength. The words you once spoke come back to him, clear in the chaos.

One is not born to greatness. One achieves it.

“I can’t do this,” Leon whispers, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His voice is barely a breath, but the weight of the truth in them rings louder in his mind than any shout of command.

The captain’s gaze sharpens. “What did you say?”

Leon meets his eyes, feeling the fire build inside him. “I won’t do this,” he repeats, stronger now. “I won’t sit by and watch us slaughter innocents while the kingdom’s heir is in danger.”

“You swore an oath.”

“I swore an oath to protect,” Leon retorts, his breath catching as conviction tightens his chest. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

For a long, tense moment, silence stretches between them. The captain’s face twists in fury, his hand hovering near his sword. “You defy the Temple, and you defy Ethelion himself. You’ll be branded an oathbreaker. You’ll never be able to return.”

An oathbreaker. Cast out from the temple, from the faith, from you.

But Leon knows, deep down, that this decision was made long before he spoke the words.

“If following the Temple means abandoning the kingdom, then I’ll bear that title gladly.”

The captain’s jaw tightens, fury flashing in his eyes, but Leon doesn’t wait for the response. He turns his horse with a sharp tug, spurring it forward. The wind rushes against his face as he rides, faster and faster, leaving behind the chaos, the orders, the lies.

He knows what this means. He knows what’s waiting for him at the end of this path. There will be no place for him in the temple, no return to the saintess’s grace.

But as the wind cuts through him, sharp and freeing, he knows one thing for certain:

He’s made his choice.

And now, he’ll live with it.

The streets of the capital are thick with people, their cheers rising in waves that echoed off the towering stone walls of the city, the air alive with the sounds of celebration—laughter, music, the rhythmic beat of drums that thrummed through the cobblestone streets like a heartbeat. Banners of blue and gold flutter in the breeze, catching the midday sun and casting fractured patterns of light across the throngs of spectators who lined the streets.

And there, at the center of it all, rides Leon, astride a massive warhorse clad in gleaming black barding, the royal crest of Ethelion emblazoned on its chest. The horse’s hooves clatter against the stones, a steady, rhythmic sound that matches the beat of the drums, though Leon barely hears it. His focus is elsewhere—distant, cold, fixed on a point far beyond the horizon as the cheers of the people wash over him like distant waves.

He sits tall in the saddle, his body encased in full black armor that gleams like polished obsidian despite the streaks of dried blood splattered across the metal. His cape, once a regal white, fluttered in the breeze, its edges torn and frayed from the brutal campaign that had crowned him victor. Though battered, the helmet is tucked under his arm, leaving his face exposed to the cool autumn air.

The cheers from the crowd echo off the stone buildings, filling the air with a roar of excitement and adoration. Cries of “Long live Sir Leon!” and “Hail the hero!” ring out from every direction, the people pushing and jostling to catch sight of him as he rode by.

It all means little to him.

They shout his name, faces alight with joy, hailing him as their hero, their savior. He has returned from the war triumphant, Princess Ashley safe at his side, the enemy defeated and the kingdom secured. To them, he is a figure of legend, a warrior draped in glory and victory.

But to Leon, the glory feels hollow, like fool’s gold.

He fought for close to a decade, driven by a purpose that no longer existed. The blood on his armor, the lives lost in his name—it all seems to blur together in his mind, a swirling mass of faces and screams that he can’t escape. Even here, amidst the fanfare and celebration, the battlefield clings to him, its shadow cast long and dark over his soul.

The people can’t see it. They see only the armor, the crown of laurels resting atop his head, the bloodied sword at his side. They don’t see the burden of it, the way it presses down on him like a sin he could never lay down.

He glances to the side as the parade moved forward, the crowds pressing in closer as they strained to catch a glimpse of the soldiers coming home. Children are perched on their parents’ shoulders, waving small flags, their faces painted in the colors of the kingdom. Women throw flowers from their balconies, petals raining down like confetti, their bright colors almost a mockery to the dark steel of his armor.

And then, through the sea of faces, something catches his eye.

A small blur, darting between the legs of the adults, weaving through the crowd with surprising speed and determination. Leon’s gaze sharpens, his body tensing instinctively as he tracks the movement, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword.

It’s a child.

A little girl, no more than seven or eight years old, her hair tied in messy braids, face flushed with excitement. She breaks free from the crowd, slipping past the guards who stood watch along the edges of the street, and before anyone can stop her, she runs toward Leon, her small hands clutching something tightly to her chest.

The crowd gasps, a murmur rippling through as the girl reaches Leon’s horse. The guards move forward, ready to intervene, but Leon holds up a hand, signaling for them to stop.

He looks down at the child, eyes dark and tired. The little girl stares up at him, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, wide eyes filled with awe and something else—something Leon hasn’t seen in a long time.

Hope.

For a moment, the world slows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as Leon and the girl lock eyes. She is so small, so fragile, standing there in front of him, her little hands trembling as she holds something out to him on her tiptoes.

A flower.

A single white lily, its petals slightly crumpled from her tight grip, but still intact, still whole. She raises it up to him, her hands shaking, lips parting in a shy, nervous smile.

“For you, sir,” she yells, her voice barely audible over the distant roar of the crowd. “Thank you for saving us!”

Leon stares down at the flower, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. The blood on his armor, the dirt caked beneath his fingernails, the weight of the sword at his side—all of it feels wrong in the presence of such innocence. He’s a soldier who threw away his oath, a killer, a man forged in the fires of war, and yet here stands this child, offering him a flower as if he were something more than just the weapon the kingdom had wielded.

His hand, still encased in the cold metal of his gauntlet, moves slowly, hesitantly, as if it doesn’t belong to him. He reaches down, the armor creaking with the motion, and gently takes the flower from the girl’s outstretched hands. The petals brush against the bloodstained metal of his gloves, stark and bright against the darkness of his armor.

“Thank you,” Leon mumbles, rough and strained, the words catching in his throat. His grip tightens around the delicate stem of the flower, careful not to crush it. For a brief moment, the warmth of the child’s gesture pierces through the fog of guilt and weariness that’s permanently settled over him, a glimmer of light in the darkness.

The little girl’s face lights up with a smile, her eyes shining with pure, untainted joy. She stands there and jumps up and down with excitement, beaming up at him as if he were the sun itself, as if his presence alone could banish the shadows that lingered at the edges of her world.

But Leon knows better. He feels the lock of hair curled inside the locket above his heart burn his skin.

The grand doors of the royal palace groan open with an echoing creak, revealing the hall beyond—a glittering display of prosperity and flamboyance that seems to scorn the simple austerity of the life Leon has known. Polished marble floors gleam beneath chandeliers of wrought gold, their light refracting off mirrors that line the walls. The air here is crisp, almost sharp with nose-breaking blends of perfumes, with none of the heavy warmth of the temple's incense.

Leon’s boots click sharply against the marble as he enters, each step ringing out in the cavernous hall, a sound swallowed by the murmurs of the courtiers who line the edges of the room. The steady hum of muted conversations fills his ears, escorted by the occasional clink of glasses. They watch him with calculating eyes, the nobles dressed in silks and velvets of every hue, faces painted with smiles too precise to be genuine, as suffocating as the armor that once bore him through battle.

He feels naked without it now, standing here in formal garb, his sword sheathed and distant at his side, a mere symbol of his victory rather than a tool of survival. The dark fabric of his tunic hangs heavy on his shoulders, trimmed with the royal blue of the kingdom.

Ahead, at the far end of the hall, the king sits on his throne. The high-backed chair is a towering edifice of dark wood, inlaid with gold and precious stones that sparkle under the dazzling chandeliers. The king himself is an imposing figure, draped in royal blues and deep purples, a crown resting atop his graying hair. He watches Leon’s approach with the same detachment as the nobles—his gaze that of a man weighing the worth of a tool rather than acknowledging the triumph of a soldier.

As Leon reaches the dais, he stops, kneeling—an action that should feel natural after years of service, but here, it is different.

The king rises slowly, the robes trailing around his feet like the velvet shadows of dusk, and approaches with the same calculated precision that governs the court. A ceremonial scepter gleams in his hand, more ornament than authority, but its significance is clear.

“Sir Leon,” the king’s words cut through the room like the edge of a blade, each syllable crisp, measured. “You stand before this court as a hero of our realm. For your valor in battle, for your unwavering loyalty to the crown, and for the rescue of Princess Ashley, I bestow upon you the title of Margrave.”

The tap of the scepter on Leon’s shoulder is light, almost delicate, but it might as well have been a hammer.

The king returns to his throne, settling back with a rustle of silk, and gestures for Leon to rise. “Rise, Margrave.”

Leon pushes to his feet, the formality of the moment bearing down upon him as the court claps in practiced politeness. Their applause is soft, a murmur of sound that fades almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving the room in an expectant silence.

It is time.

A low ripple of movement stirs at the far end of the hall as the clergy step forward. Robes of pristine white trail across the floor as the procession approaches, a stark contrast to the vivid blues and purples of the nobility. At the head of the clergy is the Archbishop, his ceremonial staff clicking rhythmically against the floor with each step. And beside him—veiled, serene, and radiant in her holy robes—is the saintess. The mask is a pure white, veil milky and opaque; the contrasts of light and darkness across its fabric give the impression of a reflection on water, of a thousand shifting stars under the sun. On your head rests a delicate crown of silver thorns, interwoven with fine filigree, glimmering like fresh snow, hands folded in your lap are covered by silk gloves, so smooth they almost shine.

Leon’s heart stutters.

This is the moment he has been longing for, the only prayer that’s ever left his lips even after his faith had fallen.

He has endured the war, survived the bloodshed, all for this. For you. For the woman who has been his guiding light, the saintess who had once healed him with her touch, whose presence had filled the void within him during the long, cold nights on the battlefield.

He steps forward, his hands trembling at his sides, his breath catching in his throat as the group approaches the dais.

His knee wants to bend before he even realizes it, the instinct to kneel before you stronger than any other impulse.

But as when you take your place atop the steps of the dais, hands raised in the familiar gesture of blessing, something gnaws at him—an unease that creeps along the edges of his mind. The movement of your hands, the tilt of your head—it is all wrong. Too stiff, too formal.

He hesitates.

The room holds its breath, the nobles watching in silence as the saintess descends down towards him, the veil obscuring your features, body swathed in layers of white that flutter with each step.

Leon’s pulse quickens, and his eyes—despite his every effort not to—search for yours through the veil and the mask. He needs confirmation that it’s him who has changed. He needs to see, even if it is just the glimpse of the eyes he had held in his memory through every moment of agony, through every victory.

But as you draw closer, his stomach drops.

The eyes behind the veil—dark, unfamiliar, and cold—are not yours.

His body freezes, his muscles locking in place as the realization hits him with the force of a blow.

This isn’t you.

This woman—this stranger—isn’t the one he had fought for, the one whose face had kept him alive in the blood-soaked trenches of the war.

The saintess lowers her hands, preparing to lay her blessing upon him, but Leon jerks back, his knees refusing to bend, breath quick and sharp in his chest. The room grows still, the murmurs of the nobles faltering as the tension thickens around him like a noose.

The Archbishop’s head snaps toward him, the ceremonial calm in his expression faltering for just a moment. His fingers tighten around the staff, the knuckles turning white beneath the pressure.

“Margrave,” the Archbishop’s reprimand is sharp, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “You must kneel to receive the Saintess’s blessing.”

Leon’s fists clench at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. His body is trembling, but it isn’t from fear. It is from the fear-soaked anger that is building inside him, slow and burning like a fire stoked too long. His gaze fixes on the false saintess, his heart thundering in his chest, his mind spinning with questions that have no answers.

Where are you?

The walls close in, the air thick with the silent judgment of nobles and clergy. Each breath is a growing struggle, laden with the oppressive load of their expectations. His limbs feel anchored, refusing to bow before this stranger, this imposter.

“Margrave,” the Archbishop’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and commanding. His eyes flash a stern warning. “You will kneel.”

The pressure shatters.

Leon’s body moves before he can stop it, his hands flying out to grab the front of the Archbishop’s robes, yanking him forward with a force that sends the man stumbling, the ornate staff clattering to the floor. A collective gasp sweeps through the room, the nobles recoiling in shock as Leon’s voice, low and ragged, spills out.

“Where is she?” His hiss is a harsh rasp, breaths coming in short, jagged bursts. “Where is the real Saintess?”

The Archbishop’s face twists in fury, his hands flailing against Leon’s iron grip. “Unhand me, you fool! You stand in the presence of Ethelion’s chosen—”

“No.” The word is a snarl, the growl of an animal promising to get violent. Leon’s grip tightens, the anger boiling over, his muscles trembling with the force of it. “What have you done with her?”

The room descends into chaos. Nobles rise from their seats, the sound of their hurried footsteps mingling with the low murmur of alarmed voices. The clergy shift uneasily, their faces pale, but none of them dare to move. The paladins stationed near the walls exchange nervous glances, their hands hovering near their swords, but none step forward.

They have seen what Leon is capable of.

“Release me!” The Archbishop’s voice cracks, his pale face contorted with fear and rage. “You dare attack the church? You will be branded a heretic for this!”

Leon barely hears them, his body trembling with rage as he stares down the terrified clergyman clawing at his arm, nails digging into Leon's skin, leaving behind bloody scratches.

“I don’t care.” Leon’s voice is low, silent, the words spilling from him like venom. “Tell me where she is.”

Before the Archbishop can answer, a hand—small, yet firm—clamps down on Leon’s shoulder.

Princess Ashley doesn’t release his arm as she pulls him toward the side of the throne room, guiding him through the side doors that lead into a quieter, more secluded hallway. The heavy wooden door closes behind them with a dull thud, cutting off the noise of the throne room and leaving them in a sudden, suffocating stillness.

Leon exhales, his breath shuddering as he leans against the wall, one hand coming up to palm at his face, and between his fingers, stares down at the ground with a wild look.

[svndaysaweek]

Niche — {Feat. Hanni}

4.5k words

A/N: Guess who’s back! I’ve returned, from 5 months of hiatus, with a long-waited Hanni fic. This was written when @kaedespicelatte was a total Hanni stan, but idk if he still is doing that… Anyways, please enjoy this spin-off of my Academia series. This time is about a bit about philosophy and love itself. Eternal gratitude to @usedpidemo for editing and polishing this one!

******

"Three, two, one!"

With a cute pout, Hanni, sitting across the table opposite to you, blows the gentle fire off all nine birthday candles. She looks so happy as you can read under the dimly lit dark orange dining room. A proud smile stretches wide across your face.

"Can't believe you're already this big, Hanni. This is for you."

You hand Hanni a small wine-red box, and with a surprised smile she brings it in front of her.

"What's this, oppa?"

"Open it,"

With a silent click the box opens, presenting a thin golden necklace with the letter 'H' in cursive hanging. Touched by your gift, Hanni lets out a long, surprised gasp before she looks up again at you, looking adorable.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it! What does this 'H' mean, oppa?"

"It could mean anything, Hanni. Happiness, hope, heart, and of course your name, Hanni."

Hanni stares at the letter on the necklace for a while with deep deliberation in her eyes. You watch her with a twinkle in your own eyes. She then looks back at you with a certain decision already made up.

"I'll just put all of them in this necklace, oppa. Hope, heart, happiness, and my name… They all are priceless when you say them."

You want to squeeze her in your embrace, only to be denied by the table separating you two. Happiness, hope, heart—and her name, Hanni. They all mean the same to you. She has been your happiness since the day you were adopted to her family. Your opaque, cloudy, uncertain future was given hope by her presence in your life. And heart–

"Heart, oppa. Do you know what the ancient Greeks thought of the heart?"

You shake your head.

"No."

Hearing your response, Hanni softly intertwines your hands together with hers. The cold necklace is handed into your palm.

"Can you put this on my neck?"

You rise from your chair and walk around the table to her, doing what she asked. Hanni rises from her seat too, facing your collarbones due to her height. She lets her hands softly rest on your shoulders, which you freely allow.

"They thought the heart of human beings contained their own souls within it."

You finish clasping her necklace around her neck. Looking down at her, she seems very shy and nervous. One of Hanni's hands trails down to the middle of your chest, where your heart is set alight, beating with an increasing rate because of her sudden but sensitive touch.

"I think your heart does. I can feel it."

For a moment, you lose grip on your consciousness and fall into her, but no.

"What are you doing, Hanni?"

You ask her as calmly and kindly as possible, not wanting to offend her even by the least. You feel so warm and so loved, but still, you are embarrassed and a little shy by the sudden touch on your body from Hanni. Nevertheless, she doesn't back up from where you are right now, as if she completely expected this to happen.

"You know, oppa, when somebody loves someone, the person can feel the soul of someone he or she is in love with."

You feel your heart beating faster and faster, as if responding to every word she says—as if her lips contain the spark that makes your heart burn brighter and hotter with each passing second.

Hanni's other hand finds one of yours and brings it to your chest, drumming fast to the point you’re certain your heart will explode. Your face is no different at all, furiously burning in front of her and throbbing to your crazy heartbeat.

"Which means, I love you."

Oh.

By now, you already knew it was coming, but when you hear it spoken from her divine lips you're struck silent—not that you haven't been speechless so far, and that's because you are not ready for it. Your heart is now merely seconds away from bursting out of your chest, beating wildly against Hanni's palm.

"H-Hanni…"

Not listening to your stuttering, she places your hand on her chest and slightly pushes it into her chest.

"Can you feel it too, oppa? My heart—it has been beating for you since the day I met you. My soul has always been yours, oppa."

You look up from your hand on Hanni's chest to her twinkling eyes; hers have never left contact with yours almost all night long.

"I-I can feel it, Hanni… But this is–"

When you say 'but,' Hanni's eyebrows curl into a frown, and it crushes your heart into pieces. She didn't confess her love sincerely only to hear rejection from you.

This setting—where you are in love with your step sister—might sound a little bit wrong, but now, in front of Hanni, even questioning if it's right or wrong is the most wrong thing possible.

Well, even the strict Nietzsche was in love with his sister.

"Hanni."

You, with your warmest tone, call her name with a solid decision in your voice.

"Yes…?"

Hanni, however, murmurs back, tone disappointed, assuming you are trying to reconfirm your rejection. You have to, given the circumstances, but this time, you break the rules set throughout history—from Epicure to Sartre, reason has to precede instinct. But love—it gives the human mind amazing power and growth. And at this moment you wholeheartedly believe that with love fueling your heart, any rules against it can be buried beside all those “reasonable” thinkers, and that you are the one with the spade. It is okay even if it’s just a blind mistake.

Because it sure will be the most beautiful mistake of the human mind.

"I love you too, Hanni."

Your words land directly through her ears, and they travel straight down to her heart, even before her brain processes them. Love—it's the only language in which the souls can communicate. Straight from your heart and into hers, and they both react wildly, unable to ignore their deepest desires.

Surprised, Hanni swiftly looks up at you, eyes gleaming with tears. Her lips part, but not a syllable comes out, before–

"Oppa–"

You don't have to say a word, Hanni.

Your love has already done more than enough.

And right now, you speak to her soul with your lips.

You kiss her parted lips, sealing the gap perfectly. Your hand remains on her chest, you feel her heart beating even faster as if shaking you off. The same is true on your side.

A few seconds of liplock is enough for your soul to express love to hers, but as soon as you pull back from them, Hanni cups your face with her warm hands to fulfill the paused act of pure love. Your hands slowly climb up to her shoulders, to her soft, pulsing neck, and finally to her blushed, warm cheeks.

Who said following the essence of instincts is not humanly? 

Who thought the instant impulses would never create long lasting happiness?

Your love for Hanni and hers toward you defies that right in the face, as you detach from the kiss and peck her palm on your cheek, never losing eye contact with her.

Happiness is reached when one overcomes resistance. Nietzsche was right about it, and he himself did overcome the obstacles and fell in love with his sister to prove that.

Forget about everything tonight. Let the love lead you. It can't hurt deeper than where your love is springing from.

Hanni pulls your hand to her chest again, but this time you feel something different. Her fingers delicately slide down on your shirt, from your chest to where your belly is. Hanni pushes your hand on her chest deeper to make you feel the softness of her breasts, and her other hand on you stops.

"I want you to feel more than my heart tonight, oppa. And I want to feel more than your soul too."

It's a question and a permission at the same time—a question asking for deeper, thicker love, and a permission to develop the love between to the next level, which you can't—and won’t—say no to.

At this point, you feel like you could happily stop loving her if she tells you to, if that makes her happy. But what stops now is your reason and rationality, which have been vulnerable throughout the night.

"Aah–mmmph,"

You softly squeeze her petite breast, inhaling her cute but deep moan right from her mouth, sealing its exit not to let a single strand escape.

Love makes a person grow.

But the only thing growing because of love is the bulge behind your clothes, aching to be unleashed. Hanni sneaks a hand under your shirt to touch your bare abs, chest, and back. Sensing the physical form of love flowing from her warm fingers through your skin, you briefly leave her lips and quickly get rid of your shirt. You see Hanni's glistening lips needily follow your head pulling back and grin at how adorable your little girl is.

Hanni then tries to get out of her own clothes, but you stop her arms from reaching the hem of her sweater and place her arms around your neck. Looking at your eyes with a piercing glare, Hanni crushes her lips on yours again, and you lift her by her legs and head to the bedroom.

Gently setting Hanni down on the mattress, you undress her. Shirt first, then the pants follow. Afterward, you give yourself a few seconds to admire the beautiful sculpture lying in front of you, showing off her bare, fair skin. Brushing your thumb on her midriff, you dive into her neck, then descend to her collarbone, shoulders and upper chest, to let Hanni relax and react to your sexual actions.

Not letting a second go to waste, she responds, arching her back at your most sensitive and stimulating touches before unclasping her own bra. At the sight of her exposed breasts you can’t waste a moment to dive in and softly peck her creamy skin, making her moan lightly. To prepare Hanni for what you’re about to do tonight, you ramp up the stimuli by touching and sucking on her nipples.

"I-I love it, oppa. Do you–haa, love them too…?"

Hanni's arms reach around your back and smoothly wander across your skin. Having showered enough love and lust on her breasts, you pull back from them.

"I do, Hanni."

You fucking love them, but profanities are the least things you want to say to your–

"Fuck…!"

Your fingers are barely touching her soaked panties, yet she lets out a thin moan. Not having seen someone this sensitive, you worry for her, whether she feels uncomfortable or not.

"Are you okay, Hanni?"

You look at Hanni with utmost concern, but she's blushing, covering her own mouth with a loose fist. Instead of answering your question, she confesses to you for the second time tonight.

"Oppa… Th-this is my first time having sex, so go easy on me please,”

“Oh, of course, baby. Just relax, it won’t hurt.”

In contrast to your comforting words, her body remains tense as your tongue makes its way down from her breasts, belly, to her hot crotch. Every squirm she makes indicates the level of her anticipation for how good you will feel between her legs. Her hands softly land on your busy head, relaxing when you pause for a second, your head resting right above her wet spot.

"Hanni, you're wet."

Your teasing words do work. Hanni above your view blushes and bites her bottom lip.

"Oppa, I-I need you to–hnng…!"

You can tell she's loosening up little by little, so you carefully touch her drenched core past the soaked fabric. Slowly going soft and smooth at her most sensitive point, you look up at her face to check if she's fine, only to be met by the newfound pleasure on her disfigured features: the bitten bottom lip, tightly shut eyes, burning cheeks, and mouth covered by the back of her hand.

All of them saying—I'm enjoying this, oppa. I'm loving it. Please–

"Please. Go on."

You give her an assuring smile and dive right in, tongue first. You peck on her wet underwear, immediately sending Hanni's body into overdrive. She squirms, whether intended or not, pushing her crotch into your diligent mouth.

Hanni's mouth, too, is diligent, letting indistinguishable moans free continuously, even at your slightest touches. Your both hands gently massage her slender thighs, while spreading them apart at the same time. Gradually your hands travel closer to the waistband of her underwear, before tugging your fingers under it and sliding it down her smooth legs.

You toss it on the floor, keeping your eyes fixated on her bare crotch and soaked pussy.

You hate it. You never wanted to use such a filthy word on Hanni. But when you actually say it, it's far from dirty—it's beautiful, it's lovely, it's perfect.

Without saying another word you dive in, pouring all your senses on your tongue. You look up again to see how Hanni reacts, and her shaking eyes firmly close when the first divine contact is made.

“Ahh…!"

She yelps—not too loud, but just enough for you to know that she feels so good. Up and down, left to right and then quickly circling around her sweet spot that has been left untouched, virgin–

"I-It's amazing, oppa. You don't know how many times I touched myself imagining this–oh my-oh my god!"

You interrupt her with your middle finger entering her leaking and contracting hole, because you don't want to hear that. Hanni to you has been a pure little girl, the one to be protected from such a sin—not the one moaning words about it, even when you’re committing such a grave act.

Hanni tightly grabs your other hand on her thigh, bringing it on the mattress next to her shaking body which makes Hanni look like she's humping on your mouth and finger. 

Every slight curl of your finger and flick of your tongue confines you deeper inside Hanni's warmth—her hand desperately strengthens its hold, her thighs trap your head in between her legs, and the vulnerable tightness of her pussy firmly hugs your finger.

You can feel your dick furiously bulging behind your pants and boxers, aching to have a piece of her too, but that's not the top priority. In front of you is a squirming, moaning, helpless little girl whose entire body is depending on you.

Suddenly Hanni brings your hand to her perky breast, softly pushing it against her mound. Surprised, you look up and your eyes are met with hers, which, a few moments ago, were filled with love. Now you see the evolved form of love in her eyes—lust. But it's only for a short moment, because her approaching orgasm spreads all over her body, preparing for the inevitable explosion.

It was certainly a short moment, but Hanni's gleaming eyes were more than enough to tell you what she wants—what she needs. You squeeze her breast, upping the ante on your tongue and finger. Noticing your effort, Hanni changes her grip on your hand to intertwine your fingers with hers together.

Every part of her body contracts and quivers, completely engulfed by pleasure; relentless leakage of her juice, shallow breaths, and ecstatic scream seeping out of her bitten lip successfully substitute for "I'm going to cum." Fueled by her lewd sound, you double the pace and soon enough, she comes undone.

"Fuck, oppa!"

You keep your tongue and finger working deep through her orgasm, devouring her pure high with such a dirty slurping sound.

Love can be viewed as just a survival mechanism for human beings to reproduce, but when you feel the essence of it, share the true taste of it, it will be the only way to define each other. Hanni is your love, and you are Hanni's love.

Right now is the complete extent of love between you two, in its purest physical form—the most basic form, and the very destination of it at the same time.

Hanni slowly winds down from her orgasm, still breathing heavily, with the happiest smile etched on her lips. She sits up, then gently caresses your bare shoulder and chest. Her delicate touches squeeze your heart, and your dick is the furthest from easing down.

Grabbing her hand pressed on your chest, you kiss its palm and the back of it imbued with love. Putting that hand behind your neck, Hanni forces your body atop hers, closing whatever distance left that keeps you apart. Her eyes gaze at your lips, and so do you at hers, which smoothly leads to a deep kiss. With one arm supporting your body above her you try to undo your pants. Hanni's both hands slide down your bare upper body to help you dispose of those annoying pants. Right after then she succeeds in helping you pull them down, to make yourself finally naked.

Hearing the sound of your clothes being tossed on the floor, Hanni detaches from the kiss, to take a look at your newly exposed dick. 

"That's… That's bigger than I thought."

Her face blushes even brighter, which you thought was impossible. An unhidden smile curls her lips, concealed by her digging teeth.

How can a person look so innocent and sly at the same time? The cute, shy version of Hanni is long gone, taken away by the sexual tension and the first orgasm done by someone else. On top of that, your exposed body is making it more profound, resulting in Hanni unconsciously taking her hand to your cock.

"I-It's hard and… and warm, oppa."

You can only moan at her sensitive touch on your cock, wildly throbbing and leaking.

"H-Hanni… It's–"

Hanni again interrupts you, but this time with unholy intent.

"Is it because of me, oppa? Is it for me?"

Stop it.

No, don't you stop. You are enjoying this as confused as you are. 

Hanni, once underneath you, flips you onto the bed next to her and prepares to ride you out. There's no sign of innocence on her face now. She stares you down with an anticipatory, excited grin with those piercing eyes shooting straight into yours.

"Hanni, are you sure about this? We can slow down or–"

"I am, oppa. You've done enough for me tonight. For my whole life, too. Why don't you let me show you how big I've grown up?"

This is it. This is what she has been wanting to show you—to show you that she's not just a little girl anymore, that she has grown big enough to love you.

That you don't have to feel guilty at all for loving her back.

Again, love makes people grow.

Now you see the difference. She is independent, confident, lady-like and mature. Every attribute you're obsessed with is on full display. 

She’s blossoming right before your eyes.

"Hanni–"

You try to sit up and kiss her, but the Hanni atop you is no longer passive and shy about receiving kisses from you. She can express how she feels, and she can lead the way herself.

"I love you, oppa."

Hanni pushes you back down on the mattress, then crushes her lips on yours. You can’t help but reciprocate with your tongue, while your arms hastily wander on the silky skin of her back and descend to the bottom.

"Why don't you put it in? I'm soaking wet for you.”

Those words don't sound sinfully wrong anymore, but still they send novel sensations down your spine.

You rub your hard dick on her wetness to prepare for the penetration. As if emphasizing that this is her first, Hanni, just at the briefest touch on her sensitive entrance, moans vulnerably and hugs your neck tightly.

"You've grown up, Hanni. That's true."

Still dangling from the edge, Hanni manages to reply, but it's merely an orgasmic shout.

"Yes, opp–Ahh, nnngh!"

As you push the head of your cock in, Hanni screams loudly as if she wants the whole universe to know how much she loves it, but the flooding pleasure of the first sex proves to be so overwhelming, so her nails dig into your back skin, and her teeth also make their mark on your shoulder, as if to inject her suppressed erotic moans into your pulsing veins.

"But you're still my little girl, baby."

Hanni quickly nods at your declaration, pleading for more. You don't want to hurt her, so you keep it slow, trying your best to make the experience comfortable for Hanni.

Yes, she has already proven herself right, and you can accept that, but you just can't go wild on such a weak girl. So weak and soft that if you make even a slightly deep, hard thrust, she'd break.

Slowly, slowly. You're halfway inside Hanni and she seems to have adjusted a bit. It's agonizing for you that you only have to explore her inside like this.

Just then, without warning Hanni sinks down swiftly, forcing sharp gasps from your lungs out of unexpected sensation.

"F-Fuck, Hanni that's…!"

"Nnngh…!"

You are now fully inside her, completely hugged tightly by her violently contracting walls. Hanni's entire body also is wildly reacting to her pussy being filled up to the hilt.

"Are you okay, Hanni?"

"Haa, haa, th-that's deep, oppa…"

You tilt your head a little and whisper in her ear.

"I'm going to move, okay? Tell me when it hurts, baby. I'll stop."

"I'm-I'm okay, oppa. I love it."

Her words hit your shoulder with her hot breaths and are shattered at the edge.

You carefully pull back from her pussy, leaving only half of your cock inside. With your both hands firm on her cheeks below, you gently slip back in and press contact with her sensitive cervix again.

"I-I can't wait, oppa, just fuck me. I'm alright, so don't worry about me and make love to me."

Hearing that, you flip your bodies over and put your hands at each side next to her head. Hanni never lets go of her embrace, looking at you nervously and excitedly. You swipe her glistening lips with your thumb before meeting them with yours, tongue first.

As soon as your lips make holy contact, you start pistoning in her cunt, forcing moans out of her mouth and straight into yours. With one hand supporting your body, your other hand trails down her body. You stay at her taut nipple and perfect mound for a while, playing with it before continuing your journey downward.

To her side, her belly, tummy, and lastly arriving at her hot crotch. Your thumb again draws a loud moan out of her when it touches her clit. Pleasure from her clit triples the pleasure of your consistent thrusts in and out of her pussy.

"I-I think I'm close, oppa."

It only means that you have to ramp up the pace, so you do. Sensing the increased tempo, Hanni bites your lower lip, desperate to find an outlet for the tension from the unbearable pleasure coursing through her body.

"You're going to make me cum, oppa. Please make me cum, make me cum hard on you, please…!"

Still biting on your lip she begs, and with passionate love you make your thrusts even harder to fulfill her desire. Hanni's walls convulse, and every deep thrust makes her back rise bit by bit, until her belly meets yours.

"Mmmph! Oppa–Ahh…!"

When Hanni peaks you don't stop, fucking her through her orgasm. With every thrust you make sure Hanni's cumming hard. You make sure she's feeling good and loving every single second.

"I l-love it, oppa! Just like that…!"

There's no slowing down, when your own high is right ahead of you, a stone’s throw away. There's never coming down for Hanni when your fucking only gets harder.

"Hanni, baby, I'm close."

With an orgasmic frown on her brows contradicting her satisfied smile on her lips, she says, "Oppa, it's your turn to feel good. Let me make you cum, so don't you dare slow down."

"Where do you want me to finish, Hanni?"

"I-Inside, oppa. I'm on pills. Give me all your love."

You can't believe this is her first time, but you can certainly believe in love, turning your thrusts that are after your orgasm into motions of love. Hanni looks at you, while you’re struggling to keep your eyes open. Still, you manage to meet her halfway, even at the very moment when you are–

"I'm cumming…!"

Looking right into her eyes, you let the pleasure overpower you. Stuck deep inside her pussy, you release your cum. Your neck gives in, and your foreheads kiss.

"Yes, inside me… I've been wanting this so much…"

This is one of the highest highs you've ever felt, and it never lets you go soon. You really want to say 'I love you’ to Hanni, but the aftershock of sex leaves you devoid of strength, you can't do anything but breathe heavily on her face.

"I loved it, oppa. Thank you for being my first. I love you."

You give her a peck.

"I love you so much, Hanni. I'm so happy that you're here for me. I'm so happy that you're the one that loves me."

Strength regained, you reply. Then you give her another quick peck.

With lust washed away, there's only love left in her eyes. Hanni’s smile never leaves her face, even when you pull out and lie beside her.

"Hanni," Out of curiosity you ask her. "How are you on pills…? Oh, is that–"

Hanni giggles.

"Yes, oppa. I've been planning this for weeks. Thank god you liked it!"

"I loved it, Hanni."

You put your lazy hand on her midriff, and her hand rests atop your hand on her glistening belly.

"You're sweaty, baby. Let's wash ourselves."

You carry her to the bathroom, and Hanni lets out a cute, excited yelp as you lift her up.

******

After the shower, you two are lying on the bed, facing each other and looking at each other, without any words.

"Oppa."

"Mhmm?"

You raise your brows.

"I really really love you."

You giggle at how adorable your little girl is, like always. But the adorableness you sense now resonates even deeper in your heart, and the reason is for all the universe to know—with the big difference you two have made tonight, you won’t view Hanni Pham in a way like never before. But that’s nothing to lament on, of course, rather a perfect example of happiness and love.

"Love you too."

Whether straight through a shortcut or some other way around, Hanni, once your step sister, and now, your lover, has found the perfect place to be. Where she belongs.

Hanni has found herself the niche.

She comes into your arms, buries her face on your chest.

Yes. In your arms, she's perfect here, inside your warm, loving embrace.

"Good night, oppa."

She muffles her words on your shirt. You kiss her head and muffle back sweetly.

"Happy birthday, Hanni."

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

You do insanely awesome work, but I gotta itch that needs recs!

Do you know any Stiles joins the pack AUs? Like, he's a creature that moves into Hale pack territory? Or he's bitten and then has to join the hale pack?

Idk, a different first meeting Itch with pack dynamics?

I love me some longer fics, 10k and above? Pretty pretty please with a cherry on top?

Yeah!

Heart Spark by DaoOfGay

(7/? I 18,545 I Explicit I Sterek)

"He's more than a simple spark, Derek-" Peter smiled softly as he held the sleeping Stiles on his arms, the entire pack either asleep or almost asleep around them: "-He's a Divine Spark of Hestia, a spark directly from the flames of the Heart, he was born to be protective, motherly, born to be a healer and to have a large family... And, of course, with the ability of providing the means of having said family."

A little shocked by his Mate's divine powers, Derek whispered a little confused: "...what?"

"Pregnant, Derek." Peter ignored how half of the entire pack just froze and stared at Stiles with shock: "He can get pregnant- In fact, he already is."

Oh. That's why everybody has been so overprotective of him recently.

"Oh."

X-x-X Or; The one where Stiles gets a pack and Derek gets the love and happiness he deserves.

For Who Does The Caged Bird Sing? by Whispering_Merely

(5/5 I 25,805 I Explicit I Sterek)

"Shit," she growls, dragging herself to him. He doesn't look too bad off, a little roughed up, easy enough to wake with a jostle, and as soon as his eyes snap open, she's hissing, "what the hell are you doing here? How are you here? You shouldn't be- oof!"

He's got her gathered in his arms, laughing with a manic kind of relief, "Oh my god, oh my god, I found you!"

She sighs, but latches onto him, incapable of denying herself the comfort of a gentle touch, not after- not after everything. She closes her eyes, breathes him in, lemon rinds and snowdrops and Pack, lets herself melt into the touch, soft and tender.

"You found me," She says, "but now somebody needs to find you, huh?"

He pulls away a little startled, blinks at her, smiles sheepishly, "Uhh, yeah. I guess so."

She huffs out a breath and cuffs him, "Idiot."

[Or: The one where Stiles finds Derek's missing Betas, gets captured and tortured by the Alphas, all while everyone else looks for him. Add a few creepy dreams, some wings, and a whole lotta magic.]

[rosenongrata]

tboy tuesday

pose by mellon_soup on patreon

[allwaswell16]

A One Direction fic rec of long fics with bottom Harry as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! You can find my other recs here. Happy reading!

- Louis / Harry -

📖 Time Bomb by ThisSentimentalHeart

(M, 291k, famous/famous au) the one where Louis has everything: a lead role in a giant Hollywood franchise, a glittering new house with an entertaining Irish neighbor, and a steady, normal boyfriend who he probably loves.

📖 Light, Spark and Fire (series) by green_feelings / @greenfeelings

(E, 239k, omegaverse) Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down, until he builds his own up.

📖 Pretty Please (With Sugar On Top) by @angelichl

(E, 113k, omegaverse) Harry is a sugar baby omega who cons rich alphas for a living. Louis is a rich alpha with too much self-control.

📖 Give Me Truths by iwillpaintasongforlou / @canonlarry

(E, 110k, punk Louis) the one in which Louis falls in love with a fragile boy and tells him every beautiful truth in the world, as long as it makes him happy.

📖 apple pie baked just right by 28goldensfics / @28goldens

(E, 106k, farm) Louis has to get away. The news of his father’s terminal diagnosis, the loss of his job, and the breakup with his girlfriend leads Louis to leave for a life of slower things in the small town of Cedar Hills.

📖 Say Something by @kingsofeverything

(E, 105k, omegaverse) At fifty years old and recently divorced, Omega Harry Styles isn't interested in dating. When his doctor suggests a heat and rut matching service, he signs up out of necessity.

📖 of the divine (series) by devilinmybrain / @thedevilinmybrain

(E, 104k, guardian angel Harry) "I'm your-" The man shifts his weight, hesitantly bringing his hands together in front of him. It's an endearingly nervous habit. "I'm your guardian angel."

📖 De amore ex tempore by @persephoneflouwers

(M, 101k, historical) the Time Travel AU where alternate versions of themselves live simultaneously in different realities and their paths collide every time, until somehow, they converge into one.

📖 Victorian Boy by audreyhheart

(E, 101k, historical) Victorian AU. Harry the virgin Duke of Somerset knows little of love, while Louis the sly Duke of Warwick knows too much. When the two dukes come together for the Bilsdale fox hunt in York, Harry finds himself drawn into Louis' bed.

📖 Ace of Spades (series) by @allwaswell16

(E, 90k, pirates) Living as a sheltered omega in a farming village has not prepared Harry for life aboard the most notorious pirate ship to sail the Atlantic. Or Louis is a pirate, Harry is his captive, and no one is who they say they are.

📖 The Pros and Cons of Breathing by @hellolovers13

(E, 81k, omegaverse) Omega Harry has always known he'd be married off someday, so when he's betrothed to Prince Louis, he's anxious about having to leave his life behind, but hopeful for a happy marriage. The hope doesn't last long

📖 Truth Be Told (I Never Was Yours) by JustForTommo

(E, 76k, wedding planner) the one where Louis and Harry have a complicated past, Louis is getting married to someone that’s not Harry, and the universe has decided to have a laugh and make Harry the wedding planner

📖 Falling For Me Won't Be A Mistake by Rearviewdreamer / @all-these-larrythings

(M, 74k, mpreg) Harry is married to his job and so overworked that he doesn't know how to stop. All it takes is a forced Hawaiian get-a-away, the warm tropical breeze of the island, and the most beautiful, elusive man he's ever seen to make him remember what living is like outside of work.

📖 And I'll judge the cover by the book by harrystylesandstuff

(M, 73k, uni) a Private University AU where Harry is a queer posh prince, Louis is a closeted troublemaker, and neither expect to understand each other the way they will.

📖 Bikestrike by thinlines / @thinlinez

(E, 68k, omegaverse) What would you do if you saw someone riding your bike, which had been stolen weeks before, across campus? Omega Harry chose to show no mercy. He didn't know it would all lead him to his own demise.

📖 More Than You Know by @brightlyharry

(E, 64k, miscommunication) the one where Louis is a doorman for a luxury apartment building and Harry is the newest resident of the penthouse

📖 Lend Me Your Hand by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird

(M, 63k, historical) Society has long since decided that the soulmarks everyone is born with are entirely unfashionable. They're just another way for people of a lower class to scam their way into marrying above their station.

📖 Bye Bye's Are Not For Legends (I'm Forever Young) by kikikryslee / @flamboyantommo

(M, 51k, superheroes) A Superhero AU where Louis, Liam and Niall are immortal and have superpowers - Liam can clone himself, Niall can inflict pain at the drop of a hat and Louis can kill with the blink of an eye - and want fellow immortal Harry, who puts a twist on the term 'mind control,' to join their group in order to save the world.

📖 you're ripped at every edge, but you're a masterpiece by Valentia

(E, 50k, uni) The one where Harry is soft and pretty but doesn't see it and Louis just wants to love him the way he deserves.

- Rare Pairs -

📖 All I Want by gvitup4zh

(E, 149k, Zayn/Harry) Zayn, music producer and single father, meets Harry, server and aspiring singer-songwriter, by chance one night and before the evening is over, Zayn has offered him a job as a nanny for his two kids. 

[yearningagain]

it's enough (to make a girl blush)

HIIII EVERYONE so you know that fic i was asking for a beta reader for?? well i found one!! and i'd like to present the first chapter of it's enough (to make a girl blush), my first SERIOUS fic that i 100% intend on finishing!!

i'd like to thank the amazing @kayleeofcamelot for being my lovely beta reader <3

also on AO3!

wc: 1.1k | rating: e (18+) | pairing: steddie | cw: none | tags: a/b/o, alpha eddie munson, omega steve harrington, modern au, baker steve, famous eddie, getting together, gay eddie, bi steve, soulmates/true mates/scent mates, side buckingham

part two | part three

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

"God, fuck- alpha, please ..." Steve begs, sat upon a man's toned, yet lean thigh, grinding and rutting against it as he chased his high. The man chuckled darkly, his hands coming to grip Steve's hips, tight enough that Steve knows there will be bruises, guiding him along roughly.

With barely open eyes, he managed to peek at the hands that would surely leave marks come morning. Dark tendrils of tattoos that stretched from the man’s second knuckle and up his arms. Fingertips calloused and dexterous, nails bitten and paint chipped, and almost every finger has more than two silver rings adorning it, save for his right hands ring finger. No, that finger holds only one ring. An aged, loved, golden band with three small red crystals set in a line.

Small gasps left Steve's lips, every roll of the omega’s hips pressed his cocklette deliciously against the fabric of the omega's thin shorts. Both pants had surely been ruined by the amount of slick that poured out of him, but he couldn't make himself feel bad about it, even if he tried. Something inside him, his omega , told him that the alpha was having just as much fun as he was.

"Ah- ‘M close, alpha..." Steve pants, head feeling pleasantly fuzzy. He could smell how his own scent had changed, the spiced apple scent turning into something heady and thick. Suddenly, he got hit with the most divine scent in the world. Campfire smoke and pine, a hint of petrichor and old books. Home- a whispered thought. It almost sent him over the edge.

Almost.

Then, all of a sudden, everything felt wrong . It was as if he was floating away from his body, his mind a balloon escaping a child's loose clutch. He couldn't smell the alpha, just his own scent turning sour and rotten. The cool sensation of the man's rings where they pressed into bare skin suddenly spread all over, no longer comforting, but as if ice water had engulfed him. Something nagged at him, though, in the back of his mind. Something like a spark, settling into the omega and igniting coals to keep him warm and happy.

And Steve opened his eyes.

—

Steve glared at himself in the mirror, bare in preparation for a shower. There were no marks, no evidence of anything happening. One more glance over his entire body confirmed that there was nothing left of the alpha. It was a simple wet dream. The only thing that kept him from dismissing the dream entirely was his strong disappointment when he woke up alone, and the low thrum of energy he could feel stemming from his inner omega. (And the slick-soaked sheets he'd have to deal with later.) If he focused hard enough, he could almost hear the whispering rumble of "Mate. Alpha. Mate. Alpha."

He shook himself from his stupor and hopped in the shower. What did it mean, this newfound warmth over someone he'd apparently made up in his mind? Was he really that lonely? No, of course not. 

(Yes. He was.)

After turning over question after question in his mind only to come up blank, he sighed. He'd have to talk to Robin about this. 

Reluctantly set in his decision, he got out of the shower and patted himself dry, threw his hair up in a towel, and put on a fresh pair of sweats. Throwing a glance at his alarm clock, it read 9:57 AM . Robin should be awake by now, hunched over their dinky coffee machine with her eyes still closed and dried drool on her chin. 

It was Sunday, so Robin didn't have class and the bakery Steve worked at, Claudia's Cakes , was closed for the day. He figured he could take her out to lunch. Maybe the deli two doors down from the bakery? He had been having a craving for their Cubano recently. 

Stepping out of his room and shuffling to the kitchen, Steve found Robin exactly like he thought, arms braced on the counter to pillow her resting head. The coffee machine gurgled away, the strong scent mingling with Robin’s earthy strawberry aroma.

"Morning, Robs."

A small groan is all he got in response. He chuckled softly and fetched the sugar and creamer, setting it on the counter next to his best friend's birds nest of bed head. Taking his place at their table, he opened up his phone to check his messages (mostly from Dustin talking about some band he found online).  Soon, Robin slumped into the chair across from him, a mug of coffee placed in front of him as she sipped on her own. Now that she was actually awake, she looked at him with a curious expression.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" Steve asked her.

She hummed, taking a calculating look. "No, nothing on your face. You just... you smell different. Not bad different! Just different, like instead of cinnamon apple cake, you smell like roasted apples. And honey? What's up with that?" 

Steve is surprised she doesn't spill her coffee all over the place with how she flings her arms around, emphasizing her question with a pointed finger and finally slamming her mug down.

"I don't know, dude.” Another glare from her. "I really don't! Anyways, did you want to grab lunch at the deli today? My treat."

Sighing and giving him one last glare, she shrugged. "Yeah, sure. I’ve been meaning to stop by the record store, could we swing by on the way back?”

Steve threw a pointed glance to their overflowing record crate below their old record player, a housewarming gift from Robin’s mom. She huffed in response, crossing her arms and mumbled “I just want to look.”

Crimson painted her cheeks and she avoided his gaze, which was all Steve needed to know. He knew Robin had made a friend (or crush rather) in her music theory class at UIC, and she and Steve were basically some sort of cosmic twins, and he knew all of her tells. So when he asked if he’s finally going to meet her, she really shouldn’t be that surprised. She still looked up at him with wide eyes, dropping her arms to the table. Another pointed look from Steve and she relented, “She told me to stop in when I could because she wants to show me this really cool limited edition vinyl the store got in recently and she looked so pretty when she asked, Steve. She had these pigtails and she was wearing this eyeshadow that made her eyes pop and she was wearing the skirt I told you about, the one with the hearts? Yeah, that one! And her sweater was, like, four sizes too big and she looked tiny! Anyways, how could I possibly say no when she looks like that?! She batted her eyelashes at me, Steve. Don’t give me that look.”

The omega simply sighed, shook his head fondly, and stood up. 

“Be ready in an hour, Buckley.”

[tunerfoxx]

It's time I fed those who have fed me with the fics on AO3. I've been starved of Moaui content from binge reading, I just had to draw it myself. Hopefully there's more to come, I've been extremely hyped about this ship ever since seeing Moana 2.

~~~~

Just a mini fic down here to describe the scene.

~~~~~~~~~

Moana leans on top of his larger-than-life body, her tattooed hands caressing his face, revealing her intentions.

"Whoa there, princess."

Maui gave her a knowing look, waiting for her to retort.

Sparks ignited between them making their divine tattoos glow, pulsing to both of their thumping heartbeats.

"Still not a princess~"

His fingers played with her hair as his demigoddess closes in for a passionate kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~

Getting their faces right is honestly harder than drawing in the tattoos 🥹 I've also only been drawing mostly scrawny OCs so Maui is really a challenge with that bod of his I had to draw as little of it as possible for now- just the face was hard enough 👀.

Go have fun with this, use it in edits, put in your own captions/bubbles on top(that's what the empty one is for), do whatever you want with it save for claiming the work as yours. Chill with credits tho, I've already signed it so dw. (Shhh, X and IG folks don't need to know I drew this. )

Feel free to tell me what you want to see of them. I'll try to draw what I can.

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! Ive been absolutely obsessed with fics where Crowley is insanely powerful lately, but there’s not really a tag for that since BAMF Crowley is pretty general. Do yall have any recommendations? :)

Hi! We have a #powerful crowley tag, so check that out. Here are some more fics to add...

I Do Not Forgive You by Puerinrotis (M)

The most powerful thing in the world, in the whole cosmos, was love. The second most powerful thing in the cosmos was rage, pure and unadulterated, red and white and blinding, hot and seething rage. Crowley had plenty of both in him to do the impossible. “I’ve had enough of your games, Mother,” Crowley growled, dangerous. “You made the choice to turn one of your most powerful children into a demon and now it’s time that you paid the price for creating a monsssster.” The Supreme Archangel looked up to stare at him in horror as he raised hands drenched in silver blood upwards in a grand gesture and announced with a feverish glow in his golden eyes, “Hello, Aziraphale. It’s time for you to welcome your new God.”

Cast Thou Send Lightnings? by midnightdragons (G)

Cast thou send lightnings, that they may go, and say unto thee, Here we are? — Job 38:35 A brief argument between angel and demon spirals a bit out of control when Crowley's tendency to become struck by lightning when caught up in the throes of his smoking anger makes itself known.

The Art of Creation by Bookwormgal (T)

Once upon a time, long before humans set foot outside of Eden and long before his inelegant landing in a pool of boiling sulfur, Crowley had been an angel. An angel with a very different name and far less cynicism. And that angel was made to build Her creations. He built stars, nebulas, and other beautiful and complicated things far out there in the cosmos. He shaped fundamental elements and materials into new creations. He molded burning fires and sculpted dust into breath-taking patterns. He started bright and powerful reactions, serving as a catalyst to spark the birth of stars. He set various celestial objects spinning. He built. He took raw materials and built wonderous things with them. He built because that was the role that She made him for. In the end, was rebuilding that much different than building? And wasn't rebuilding fairly close to healing? When it was his angel's existence on the line, Crowley was willing to grab at any chance available. He would find a way to fix what had been damaged. He would find a way to save him.

But I would walk 500 miles by Augenblickgotter (T)

There's a conspiring of foes from both sides that forcefully kidnap Aziraphale. Crowley is in hot pursuit and will stop at nothing, finding some unlikely aid along the way, and bringing up his True Form when the time is needed. Some depictions of pain and violence, minor character deaths by Holy Water, and mild gore. Also mild claustrophobic and dingy descriptions of Hell. And the boys relationship can be flat out platonic asexual best of friends or downright dirty lovers. The story is up to you and is more about how far they would go for each other. ;) No, no monster sex in this one either (comb for my last fic if you need it). Just BAMF Crowley ready to walk 500 Miles through Heaven or Hell to save his Angel.

This Is Who You Are by Azeutrecia (M)

Post S2 finale. Canon-friendly. This is a story of two tricksters …who have strong feelings for each other that they’re terrible at expressing …who have a status imbalance …who aren’t who they thought they were …who both are dealing with multiple types of trauma …in a dystopian divine+occult world …that may be entangled in a conspiracy based on the power of names and stories

- Mod D