#forbidden writings

[midnightshade]

GojoHime: Evidence and Discussion

Jujutsu Kaisen isn't a romance series. It's a horror action series that focuses more on platonic bonds and camaraderie between its characters. That being said, just as any shounen series, it has its fair share of ships, each with its own assortment of crumbs and small details.

GojoHime is a particularly interesting ship to look at. Being a massive fan of it myself,  it's fun to pick through the evidence that supports it. I'd like to share the evidence that I and many other GojoHime fans have found. I'll be starting with the smaller, weaker evidence first and working my way up to the strongest evidence.

Before I start in earnest, I want to clarify that this isn't made to attack any other ship. People can ship whatever they want, and no ship in the series is canon (aside from exceptions like Hakari and Kirara). I like GojoHime so I want to talk about it. That's really it.

With that out of the way, let's begin.

First, let's start with the evidence outside of the manga itself. This one isn't very compelling, but it is cute. In Japan, there is a chip brand called Bakauke. Bakauke has two mascots known as Borin and Barin, who are girlfriend and boyfriend. When Bakauke collabed with Jujutsu Kaisen, Utahime and Gojo were chosen to represent the Borin and Barin respectively, thus being depicted as girlfriend and boyfriend.

Moving on to evidence found within the actual manga, we see that on the splash page for Gojo and Utahime, the print behind them depicts arrows known as a Yagasuri pattern. In Japan, this is a symbol often used for weddings. It's meant for good luck because "a shot arrow does not return," and therefore, a married woman does not (or should not) return to her parents.

We also see depictions of them under an umbrella often used at weddings. Sharing an umbrella is also a common romantic trope in Japan.

Other smaller evidence exists in the form of their phone call. This consists a beeper code, where the number of their call spells out "I like you" in code, and another interesting detail is that Satoru calls Utahime from his recent contacts, implying that he calls her often.

Gojo and Utahime were made to be opposites. Aside from the obvious "opposites attract" trope, it creates a compelling visual story between them. Man and woman, strong and weak, modern and traditional, blue and red. Satoru hates alcohol and loves sweets while Utahime loves alcohol but hates sweets.

Gege said Gojo only puts down his Technique with people he trusts, which we see him do with Utahime. He trusts her enough to have to actively put his Technique back in place after she throws a teacup at him.

Moving on to some of the strongest and most convincing evidence, we have Waka Inoue, Utahime's very own technique, and Gege's past works.

Gojo had a picture of Waka Inoue as his background as a teenager. He clearly finds her attractive, as is common, considering she's a popular model, but the reason why this is important is that Inoue shares a lot of similarities with Utahime.

Both women have noticeable bangs, they're the same height (166cm), and they share a love for alcohol, karaoke, and sports, specifically baseball. Waka is described once as a "competitive crybaby who hates to lose," and as we see in the Anime, Gojo has a way of firing Utahime up and she is also prone to being a bit of a scaredy-cat and a crybaby. We also see her more competitive side come out during the baseball tournament between Kyoto and Tokyo.

Moving on to Utahime's Cursed Technique, as some Japanese fans have pointed out, Utahime's Soro Soro Kinku (Solo Forbidden Area) is based on a real love song about forbidden love with lyrics about a masked lover. The records from the singer, Akina Nakamori, are called Utahime records, and the singer even does Gojo's unlimited void hand sign during her live performances of her song, "Fin."

The most compelling bit of evidence for me is Gege's past works. Two of his three one-shot manga have characters who are very similar to Gojo and Utahime. The male protagonist is usually cocky and teases the female protagonist, while the female protagonist gets annoyed at his antics but is otherwise down to earth and kind.

In Nikai Bongai Barabarujura, the protagonist, Noroma, reminds me of teen Gojo in appearance and behavior. He is "the strongest" who teases Nodoka, the female protagonist, for being weak but has an obvious respect for her drive and inner strength.

In Kamishiro Sosa, we have a similar set-up as before. The male protagonist, Ganji, is very energetic and careless with the female protagonist, Rekko's, feelings, and is seen to have a very similar type of banter as Gojo and Utahime have.

Gege clearly likes that type of pairing, which isn't surprising given the bickering couple and rivals to lovers is a popular trope in romance. It's not unusual for Mangaka to reuse old ideas, and that seems to be what happened with Gojo and Utahime. Even their appearances share similarities.

As you can see, GojoHime has a lot of thought put into it, and it's very interesting to see the little details Gege has put into their dynamic. There's definitely a reason why so many adore this pairing, and I'm glad Gege has paid attention to that.

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ actions and dialogue for forbidden kisses 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ “… that shouldn’t have happened.”

²⁾ holding onto their shoulders/waist for the duration of the kiss, and making no move to separate even after it’s ended

³⁾ “stop telling me that we can’t be together and then pulling shit like this!”

⁴⁾ “[name], i’m sorry.”

⁵⁾ pressing the pads of their fingers into their lips in the aftermath, like they’re either trying to capture the feeling or banish it from memory

⁶⁾ foreheads pressed together as the kiss breaks, eyes guilty but so so full of want

⁷⁾ “this can’t be all there is. a half-dozen kisses every year that we pretend don’t happen and pretentious conversations about ourselves, is that what we’re clinging so hard to? what i’m clinging so hard to?!”

⁸⁾ having begun to trail impassioned kisses down their jaw and neck before the harsh reality kicks back in

⁹⁾ “i shouldn’t have let this happen. it’s not fair on either of us.”

¹⁰⁾ “we sh- “ “no, please. just- just let me have this. just for a minute.”

¹¹⁾ breathing in their scent because they know that this is as close as they’ll get to it for a long, long time

¹²⁾ “why are we doing this to ourselves?”

¹³⁾ using every ounce of strength they have to not lean into the hand cupping their cheek or cradling their head

¹⁴⁾ “that was an accident.” “yeah, you always seem to say that.”

¹⁵⁾ “no matter how cruel it is that you keep giving me hope like this, it’s still never enough to stop me from loving you as much as i do.”

¹⁶⁾ “i don’t want to let go of you.” “and i don’t want to let you.”

¹⁷⁾ feeling tears welling up in their eyes as the hurt and longing burns in their chest

¹⁸⁾ holding the face of their would-be lover tenderly in the palm of their hand, silently apologising for putting them both through this again

¹⁹⁾ “i love y- “ “no, no. please, i can’t. i can’t hear this, not again.”

²⁰⁾ breaking the kiss but still holding them close, hiding their face in the other’s neck to try and recover the moment

²¹⁾ “would now be a bad time to tell you you’re a really good kisser?”

²²⁾ calling them a petname to try and comfort them, but only succeeding in upsetting them more at the reminder of what they can’t have

²³⁾ pushing them away, knowing exactly how cruel it is but favouring it over hurting them both by letting things go further

²⁴⁾ “how do we keep letting this happen?”

²⁵⁾ “this is killing me, [name].”

[youneedsomeprompts]

~ FORBIDDEN LOVE ~ PROMPTS about showing love without confessing

requested by: anonymous request: forbidden love prompts? where you can never say explicitly what you want for fear of being rejected or caught

Feel free to use and reblog!

always making sure the other is safe

being happy when someone else is doing something nice for the other because it would be suspicious if they were the only one constantly showering the other with affection

making an effort to tease them regularly because in no way could that be suspicious

"You look very... alright, I guess."

trying to keep their distance because they can't trust themselves not to confess their feelings

"Really? You thought about me? I... I thought about you, too."

"Nooo, I would never date a friend/enemy. Of course, there are no exceptions." *blushes heavily*

trying to tell themselves that there are no romantic feelings involved

A: "Would you like to hang out on Sunday?" B: "Sure! It's a date!" A: "What? Like a 'date' date?" B: "What?" A: "What?"

A: "Don't be upset! Don't listen to them! You're the most special person!" B: "You really think that? You think I'm special?" A: *blushes heavily*

A: "I love spending time with you. That doesn't mean I have a crush on you." B: "Good. I never thought that."

testing the waters by casually dropping how romantic some of the things are the other does

A: "My dream partner would have to have [this trait] and [that trait]." B: "Haha. This sounds just like me! I would be your perfect partner. Isn't that funny?"

being torn between wanting to get rid of their feelings for the other and wanting to nurture the feelings in a hopeless, masochistic way

"I think we met for a reason."

C: "You never shut up about B." A: "That's because they annoy me so much."

being extremely happy when the other seeks their company

trying to act cool and casual but getting more awkward and nervous in the course

B: "You don't need to pretend that you like me. I know you hate me." A: "I'm sorry, what? I don't hate you. Quite contrary!"

making up endless scenarios about how they would confess their love, knowing they'll never do it anyway

[moldyfairyguts]

toxic doomed old man yaoi

shakespeare if he was woke

Iago: God forsake that doltish, doltish man! That he believeth each word to drop from mine own lips as though ‘twere holy writ, blindeth himself in his conceit... God save us all if that moor hadst remain’d powerful as he once was. Was! ‘Tis ever so sweet to speak of him in the past. My hatred for the man doth outlast his brief, fool’s life. Ay, good riddance I say, good riddance. It gives me somewhat to dwell upon, rather than mine own blood seepeth o’er my clothes – and yet, whilst I am so bruised and beaten, the thought dost creep o’er my mind, that I am glad Othello saw me not in such estate... good riddance, I say! And good riddance to his whore of a wife, loyal or nay! I stand triumphant, as I ever was, whilst they both do rot in the ground, many a pace betwixt them. Never have I known a fate more satisfying. If he were to cast me aside, then let him have naught by his side. Yet the question I can but ask myself still, is why doth mine heart ache so? The moor is dead by none but his own doing. Blind was he to mine own worth, casting me off like so. Say not mine hand was unforced. So why doth I ache so?

Were he alive, would he rue it? The fool, to end his own life... could he not be a man? Othello, thou art a fool if thou hear’st me now! By what reason or wit didst thou wed that woman? Did she know thee better than I? Did she know thee more deeply? Doth her devotion put mine years of loyalty to shame? I-

Ay, see me now! Pacing and railing against the walls of this accurs’d cell like a craz’d wretch. Nay, Othello, thou art not here. Good riddance to thee. Thou art dead, I am alive; thus I am the victor.

Yet it doth feel less noble than I had dreamt. There is no crowd to applaud me within these walls. In mine heart there smoulders a fire, yet beneath it lies an emptiness naught can fill. My hunger should have been sated the moment that blade pierc’d his belly, yet instead tis growing more keen as each day doth pass. And without him. Yet pass they do.

Nay, good riddance, The days pass as e’er they did, yet the man who wronged me doth not see their passage – that alone is reason for celebration. Were I free this moment, mayhap I’d travel to the nearest tavern and there proclaim my triumph to all ‘til my voice grew hoarse.

Yet, even as I say it, I dread that the instant I entered, the name “Othello” would lie presuppos’d on my tongue. Oh, heavens, whom do I seek to deceive? There is none but myself here. His name, which stirr’d naught but anger in my heart, used to do the opposite. Speak on, I shall not, for if there aught left to grip save mine hand upon mine wind, it is my dignity. These walls, they crack and whisper – I should know, for I have stood long upon the other side of them. For Othello’s sake, no less.

The fate he met, ‘twas by his own hand wrought. Cassio, his choice? That lecherous, fawning knave? Were I in Othello’s stead, I’d have cast off this mortal coil the moment such a decision was made. And yet, as he hearken’d to mine own supposed crimes, ere he did end his life in such selfish haste, I find myself longing that his reddened face and rueful eye had been set alight for another cause. Mayhaps a more selfish one. That red, perchance warm’d by mine lips upon his.

God, save me! Let some gaoler enter this cell and thrash me senseless for thinking thus, and let mine head be dash’d upon the cold stone floor for that I would not repent.

--

translated version for stupid harlots

Iago:

God forsake that stupid, stupid man! Believing every word to come out my mouth like it is the scripture itself, blinding himself with his own ego... god save us all if he was to remain as powerful as he was. Was – it’s ever so satisfying to speak of him in past tense now. My hate  for the man lives longer than he ever did. Good riddance, I say, good riddance. It gives me something to occupy myself with, rather than the way my own blood drips onto my clothes – while I’m beaten, the thought can’t help but enter my mind that I’m glad Othello never saw me like this... good riddance! And good riddance to his whore of a wife, faithful or not! I remain triumphant as always while they both rot in the ground, metres apart forever. I’ve never heard of a more satisfying fate. If he was to choose to not have me by his side, then he will have no one. The question, however, that I can’t help but ask myself, is why do I still ache? That idiot is dead because of no one’s fault but his own. He failed to recognise my worthiness, pushed me to the side like some sort of wingman, you cannot say my hand was not forced. So why do I ache like so?

If he was alive still, would he regret it? The fool, ending his own life like that... be a man! Othello, you moron, if you by any chance of the heavens can hear me now, you are a fool! Why in any sense of sanity you still held onto would you marry that woman? Did she know you better than I? Did she understand you more deeply than I? Did she stay by your side for god knows how long that put my years of loyalty to shame? I-

Look at me now. Pacing and yelling to the walls of this damned grey cell like some sort of deluded psychotic. No, Othello, you are not here. Good riddance. You are dead and I am alive, and  therefore I am the victor.

It feels less admirable than I had imagined it to feel.

There is no applause in this cell for me. There is a fire burning in my heart but just below it, my stomach is empty as it’ll ever be. My appetite should’ve been quenched the second that knife entered his belly but for some reason it’s getting worse as the days pass. Without him, they pass.

No, good riddance. The days pass as they always did and this time a man who has wronged me is not here to see it – that, in my books, is a cause for celebration. Why, if I was freed right now maybe I’d even go for a trip to the nearest tavern, and brag about my winnings to everyone I can see until my throat is raw.

However, and I truly may hate myself for this, I fear the second I storm in there and open my mouth to speak, the name “Othello” would already be presumed to be on my tongue. Oh, who am I to fool. There is no one here but me. Where his name, when spoken to me, now provokes ire and anger, it did so used to do the opposite. Speak on, I will not, for if there is one thing that I wish to hold on to other than my hand to my bleeding wound it is my dignity. These cracking cell walls, they speak. I should know; I’ve been on the other side of them for the majority of my time here. For Othello’s sake, nonetheless.

The fate he had he brought it on himself. Cassio was his choice? That good for nothing womanizer? If I were Othello I’d have killed myself the second that god-awful decision was made.

And yet, as he was told of my crimes, before he did end his own life so selfishly, I can’t help but wish the red in his face and the regret in his eyes could’ve been for a different reason. The flush of his face, maybe accompanied with my lips on his.

God, spare me! Let someone back into my cell to beat my wounds raw for thinking such a thing, and let my skull be cracked open on the cold, concrete floor for not wanting to take it back.

[cuubism]

i went to physical therapy for my stupid broken arm so as is my legal obligation i HAD to make ship content about it. everything is ship content that's how it is

cw injury, referenced abusive relationships

--

Hob's had plenty of clients come to physical therapy who clearly don't want to be there. Plenty of others who are reasonably frustrated by the work and time involved in regaining functioning after an injury. But this is the first time he's just had someone be... quiet. Resigned.

Dream sits with his hand cradled to his chest, barely speaking, only answering when Hob asks a direct question. He's reluctant to give Hob his hand when Hob asks if he can look at it, like he thinks Hob's grip is a bear trap that will snap down and crush the bones like whatever had done so the first time. Hob still doesn't know what that was. All he knows is the bones have been realigned and healed over but the dexterity in his hand still isn't right. That was what Dream had said, in the first spark of passion Hob had heard from him. It's not right.

But he does eventually give his hand over. His bones are so fine and delicate, and each movement hesitant. Cautious. Hob tests the flexibility. The strength. Dream is right, it's not where it should be. He still doesn't know what happened.

"I won't make you tell me if you really don't want to," Hob says gently. "But it is important to know how it happened to make sure we rehab it the right way. Did you get it caught in something? I've seen guys come in with machine injuries like that."

Nothing about Dream suggests "person who works with heavy machinery." But who knows. Hob will try not to stereotype.

"No," Dream says quietly, looking down and away from his hand like he can't bear to see it. "I. I am an artist. My ex... he felt that I cared more about my art than about him. Perhaps I did. And he was... frustrated. I suppose."

Hob can put the rest of the pieces together in his mind. "Jesus," he breathes, and Dream flinches.

"I have an unfortunate ability to involve myself with such people," he says.

"No, it's not your fault," Hob says automatically.

Dream narrows his eyes. "You presume to know that?"

Hob raises his hands in surrender. "Never mind. I won't pry." He's not Dream's therapist. His job is to help him with his hand, not... whatever else is going on in his life.

He takes Dream's hand carefully between both of his own again. Presses down lightly on his knuckles. "So. Crushed. Like that?"

Dream nods. Hob still doesn't know all the details, but he's imagining a boot going down hard on the top of Dream's hand. The thought is sickening.

"Can you fix it?" Dream asks, like he doesn't dare to hope.

"Well, you already had it repaired surgically, yeah?" Hob says. This strikes him as a bit of good luck--hand fractures are not simple--but he doesn't want to undercut Dream's confidence even further by saying so. He's usually pretty good at reading his clients, and he's already sensing that Dream is holding onto his determination to be here at all by the barest thread. Best to build him up as much as possible. "So it's just a matter of strengthening the muscles again."

He's fairly confident he can get him back to a usual level of functioning with it. The question is whether he can return him to the specific level of dexterity he needs for his art. He doesn't say that. Not yet.

Finally, he gets the tiniest of smiles out of Dream. He's really lovely when he smiles.

(He's pretty when he doesn't smile, too. Hob would have to be blind not to notice it.)

"So," Hob says. "Let's look at the current range of motion, yeah?"

Dream tilts his head. "Did you not already do so?"

"For regular motion, yeah. But I want to see where it's impacting your drawing."

Dream draws his hand back, looking uncertain.

"Come on." Hob hands him a pen and paper. "Show me. I promise I know nothing about art. If it's not up to your usual standards, I'm not going to be able to tell."

Finally, Dream takes the pen, and starts sketching.

Hob watches, noting the way his hand trembles, his uneven grip on the pen. Notes how quickly he gets demoralized when it doesn't turn out the way he wants. Hob can make out what he's written and drawn, but it's clear from Dream's expression that it's far from how it's supposed to be.

"This is just a starting point," Hob reminds him. He has a feeling he's going to be doing a lot of those sorts of reminders with Dream; he does not seem to find optimism easy.

Then again, if someone who supposedly loved him had hurt him like that, Hob would probably find optimism a bit difficult, too.

Finally, Dream drops the pen, clearly frustrated. "I have tried to paint at home, too. It has not turned out any better. You should throw those away." He gestures to the sketches. "They are terrible."

"Nah, I'm gonna keep them," Hob says, and puts them in his folder. "For comparison later." It could also partially be because he finds Dream's drawings of cats, imperfect as they are, charming. Sue him.

"As you insist," Dream says.

Hob gives him documentation on some other exercises he can do at home. Tries to think through what might make him feel better with his art. It feels, somehow, so important to make him feel better.

"At home, go easy on trying to use a pen, or paintbrush or whatever, it's hard on your hand," he finally says. "But you probably want to get back to your art, so-- okay, don't make fun of me if this is stupid."

Dream just raises an eyebrow, waiting.

Maybe Hob should try to learn more about art before he gives advice. Nevertheless, he forges on. "Holding a pen is tough, but if you wanted to like, finger paint or something? That would probably be fine. Might be good for flexibility, even."

"Finger paint," Dream repeats, enunciating each word.

"I told you not to make fun of me if it was stupid."

Dream smiles, just a small thing, like he finds Hob ridiculous but in a charming way. Good enough, Hob figures.

"Very well," Dream says at last. "I will take your advice."

Dream simply walking out had felt like a distinct possibility, so Hob will take this as a win.

"Hey," he says later, catching Dream for a moment as he's checking him out. "It's going to get better, yeah? Trust me. Don't worry too hard, just give it time."

He really shouldn't make promises like that. But he can't seem to help it, with Dream.

Dream considers, then says. "I do trust you."

Hob finds that it means a lot. Now he's just going to have to earn it.

[dumplingsjinson]

List of “a forbidden romance between the good and the bad” prompts

Requested by: Anonymous Request: “Hello!! I absolutely ADORE your blog and what you do!! It's helped so much with writing and helped me get back into it :D I was hoping, if it wasn't much trouble- if i could request some prompts based around forbidden romance? One from a world of good and the other from a world of bad- forbidden to be together type vibe.”

“We just can’t—” “But why can’t we?!” “You know exactly why we can’t. You and I… We’re different. We don’t… We’re not meant to be together.”

“As much as it pains me to say this, I don’t think I can ever... I can’t be with you.”

“You kill people for a living. And I’m someone who heals people for a living. Do you really think we can convince the public we’re not fucking lunatics for thinking this is going to work out between us?

“This line was never meant to be crossed.” “Well, we’ve crossed it. Now what?” “We don’t let anyone know we’ve crossed it, if we don’t want to lose each other.” 

“But how long do we have to keep this a secret for?”

“I don’t know if I can act like I don’t know who the fuck you are in public when you do all of these things to me when we’re behind closed doors.” 

“Our families would disown us—“ “Then so be it.”

“You know I’m all in if you are.” 

“The world would go into chaos if we don’t keep this on the down low.”

“…This is going to get tiring for you one day, and you’re going to leave me. No one wants to be kept a secret.” “I wish you had more faith in me… In us.”

[kaynineacademy]

”why are you looking at me like that” clearly you are not aware that every time you speak my heart tries to crawl straight out of my chest

[spacedlexi]

i had the pleasure of working on the talanah path for focus on the heart 💗 youll have to give it a play if youd like to see the full res image for yourself :)

[ryoalouette]

Machi's Idea #4

The JL can't understand what's wrong. They did their best effort to honor the king of dead and celebrate accordingly with the most strict protocol. Yet the king seems equally dull and annoyed. The JLD knows what's going on but they decided to say nothing in the hopes that this would teach the JL a lesson. Jason tried to explain the situation but none of the "adults" (aka Batman) listened to him so he decided to get his point across by getting into a fist fight with the king. One hour later they are kissing and Jason is explaining to the JL that ghost bond through fighting.

[midnightshade]

On Shoko's Feelings

CW: JJK Spoilers

My excitement aside, I actually do read this differently than how others seem to be reading it.

To me, I read that as if she had said something like that back then when they were in school, that it was impossible for her to look at them romantically. I don't know if denial is the right word, but it's so out of nowhere for her to suddenly comment on potential romantic feelings that it feels to me that she's reflecting on what she once said.

It feels to me she's realizing that, despite her own words and assertions, she's come to realize she did/still does love them. Whether it's just Satoru or Suguru or both is besides the point.

Either way, I'm glad we're getting some SuguShoko/SatoShoko/SaShiSu content, and, shipping aside, I'm very pleased at some new Shoko developments.

[scealaiscoite]

*ೃ༄ secret relationship prompts ˚◞♡ ⃗

— “just one more hug before you leave? please?”

— “do you ever think about what life would be like for us if things were different?”

— “i think if i was able to touch you in public, i’d never let go.”

— “you know you’re the only one i want to be with.”

— “we shouldn’t be doing this. not now, not here.”

— “i couldn’t kiss you all day! let me make up for it now.”

— “wait- what if someone sees?!”

— “i don’t love you any less just because no one else can see it.”

— “i think about it a lot. what our first date would look like.”

— “i was so worried. it was killing me, not being able to reach out and touch you.

— “i don’t know how much longer i can keep doing this.”

— “but nobody knows us here! can we please go out?”

— “i can’t believe we’re finally doing this.”

— “just one kiss, please!”

— “don’t forget how much i love you.”

[thepenultimateword]

Prompt #289

Villain crumpled the magazine in their hands, digging their fingernails into the shiny cover, or more particularly, into Other Hero's face.

They hated that goody-goody, prince charming-masquerading loser. Since they'd entered the scene the media ate up their every move. And since Hero was the city's next sweetheart, it hadn't taken long for everyone to begin speculating their relationship out of nothing.

Now it seemed that Other Hero was starting to like the idea as much their fans.

Villain knew Hero didn't reciprocate. They knew it was all just gossip. So why did their chest ache so much? Why was their belly lit with rage?

The magazine was too thick to more than rumple, so Villain settled for ripping the cover down the middle, tearing Other Hero's arm off Hero's shoulders.

Villain tossed both pieces in the trash as hard as they could, then stood over the trashcan, fists clenched and trembling. They wished Hero could make a more solid statement than a denial of interest. They wished Hero's job and reputation didn't rely on hiding the truth. They wished they could show up to one of these stupid press conferences and declare haughtily that Hero was already taken. They wished they could tell everyone the one who had taken Hero's heart was them.

But that would only hurt Hero...so Villain would hurt instead.

They sighed heavily as if they could exhale all the hurt and frustration into the air.

Jealousy wasn't a mortal wound. But it sure did sting.

[theorphicangel]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 | 𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

wc: 1.8k

tags: heian era!sukuna, true form! sukuna, reader is a villager and wears a kimono, gn!reader, mentions of cannibalism (brief), eventual fluff, strangers to lovers??, threat of death, reader has a sense of humor, reader risks life for a peach (real),

synopsis: stumbling in a random field, the gods have granted you the luxury of discovering a rare peach tree and it's all yours for the takings. at least that's what you're mistaken to think before you're confronted by the king of curses himself. coming close to death, you're forbidden to ever return.

it's just a shame you're incapable of listening to rules.

part 2 | part 3 | bonus scene coming soon!

Part one: A commandment.

The sweltering heat was getting to you.

Your kimono sticks to your skin causing nothing but discomfort as you continue to aimlessly wander in the field. At your ankles, tall blades of grass tickle at your skin with every step. You were wasting time as per usual; slacking off from your work with the excuse that you needed some fresh air. 

Originally, you planned to disappear for five minutes. But five minutes soon turned into ten and then twenty and before you knew it two hours had passed when you found yourself standing in a random field on the outer edge of your village. 

What you wanted to derive from your walk was discovering a new species of flowers. Specifically for Miko, a little girl in your village. She wasn’t much older than five years but you’ve recently been taking her under your wing whilst her parents carry out work within the village. 

Taking a wrong turn on your path you ended up wandering onto an open field where an array of flowers greeted you. Unfortunately, the sea of dandelions, daisies and bluebells were not new to your eyes. Letting out a sigh of disappointment you made to turn back, returning empty handed before your eyes landed on something in the distance.

A peach tree.

Small and lone, it was almost easy to miss to the naked eye – merely mistaking it to be a regular tree as  the shades of  greenery seamlessly blend in together. But shades of scarlet orange seemed to catch your attention and with curiosity filling you up by the second, an impulse drew you closer towards your target. 

The rays of the sun beamed happily at you as you make your way, the material of your attire once again proving unfit for the current summer weather. Fortunately, by the time you reached the tree the heavy leaves and cool grass provided respite from the severe wave of heat.

Observing the tree, it leans over you with a slight slant where a plethora of ripe peaches hang from the branches. They vary in sizes and colors: some a little more scarlet than others, some greater in size and some naturally misshapen but nonetheless it has your mouth watering at the mere sight.

Peaches were considered to be a luxury within your village where only those who were wealthy could afford them through trading from other nearby villages and towns. No one in your hometown had the time nor the money to consider growing peaches naturally, the seeds often hard to obtain.

But now this luxury was a mere arm stretch away. They hang loosely above your head, cruelly taunting you. 

It wouldn’t hurt to take one, would it? Looking around, you see no one around for miles. Just a vast space of greenery and mother nature as your witness. Based on your observation you conclude that the tree doesn’t necessarily belong to anyone, it stands alone and unattended. The peaches seemed to be more than ready for harvest. If someone did own the tree then surely the peaches would have been picked by now. 

A plump peach sits perfectly in your eyesight – ripe and juicy and scarlet orange. It practically tempts you to reach out and take it. After walking for over an hour, it’s no surprise that your hunger has taken the best of you and a mere rumble from your stomach confirms it all. 

Still hesitant, your fingertips reach out. Your movements are slow and cautious in fear that someone would catch you in the act. In a blink, the peach is plucked from the branch with a small green leaf attached to the stem. 

With the ripe fruit finally in your palm, all fear and hesitation leaves your body as swift as a breeze. As soon as your lips wrap around the succulent a sweet yet tangy flavor hits your tongue, addictive from the very first bite.

 It’s rare to find peaches within the village. A true luxury for those who can afford it when it’s in season. The last time you recall indulging in this treat was during your childhood yet it was harvested too early, made clear by the  bitter sour taste which  eventually threw you off the summer fruit ever since.

But this was pure nectar. Sweet and tender, you can’t help but let the juices run down the sides of your mouth. With sudden hunger,  you devour the fruit in mere minutes leaving nothing but the stone behind. You wipe your mouth diligently, getting rid of all traces of evidence. 

But you weren’t satisfied.

A few branches upwards, you spot a peach of a similar size. The perfect shade of orange and red combined. Just a mere glance was enough to get your mouth watering again, your thirst unquenched. 

Reaching, you resort to standing on your tippy toes to pull the peach away from its native home. With confidence, you bite down as soon as you obtain your treasure where the identical taste of pure nectar makes its home on your tastebuds once again.

Almost half finished, you make a mental note to return to this very tree and bring a basket, perhaps you could take some for the whole—

“Are you aware that you are currently trespassing on my grounds?”

A voice came out of nowhere. Rough and low and obtaining a certain sharpness in tone that  your entire body freezes. Like a crashing wave, your blood turns cold. The grip on your peach now loosened causing the summer fruit to fall to the grass with a light thud.

Following, you drop to your knees and bow your head.

You don’t have to see the figure to know who exactly the voice belongs to. His aura is enough.

Menacing and murderous it makes your heart stop momentarily, your lungs stop providing you oxygen and all heat leaves your body, leaving your blood to run cold. Your heartbeat thumps so loudly in your ear that you don’t even hear the words which leave your lips.

“My Lord.”

You had never personally come across the king of curses in your lifetime but the rumors and stories spread within the village were enough to keep you away from the estate. Stories of murder, violence and even cannibalism had reached your ears. No one in the village dared to step foot near the estate unless absolutely necessary. For example, trade or to make an offering.

“I asked you a question. I advise you to not make me repeat myself.”

“Y-yes my Lord.” You cringed heavily at your stutter, unable to get your throat to clear up from the sudden fright of his presence. “I made a mistake, my Lord, I was not aware I was trespassing.”

“Well, you are aware now.”

“Yes.” your voice shook. “And you have my deepest and most sincere apologies. It won’t happen again.” You swallow thickly, letting a pause carry through the sweltering summer heat. “Please spare me my life, your Lord.”

“What was that?”

“Spare me my life, your Lord, I beg of you.”

He was exactly what the rumors described. A tall, massive figure towering over you. Tinted pink hair sticks to his forehead, a cause of the summer heat. There’s nothing but pure muscle gazing at you through the black drape loosely thrown over his shoulders. Black tattoos decorate his body, designed to perfect symmetry. It would be impossible to ignore the four arms which crossed over his broad chest or the four eyes which peer down at you in pure disgust.  He was on a different level to you, completely different. 

He was a monster.

“I didn’t give you permission to look at me.”

You duck your head with inexplicable speed.

Sweat drips down your nose, trailing to the top of your lips. Your hands are glued to the soil and blades of grass tickle at your nostrils. Your fingertips dig into the soil searching for some sort of security. Traces of brown mud enter your fingernails as you tense, waiting for the first moment of pain. 

He was going to kill you. 

He was going to kill you all because you took the wrong path. 

You were going to die because of your mindless wandering and lack of awareness that you were heading in the direction of Lord Sukuna’s estate. You were going to die because you decided to slack off from your work and not return when needed.  You were going to die all because you were curious about a peach tree and grew greedy. You should’ve been satisfied after eating your first yet instead you stayed long enough to be sentenced to death.

You were going to die and it was all your fault. Bile rises up your throat at the thought, goosebumps running across your arms. You squeeze your eyes shut as silence passes often interrupted by the rustle of greenery surrounding you.

A minute soon passes and then another before you gulp heavily. 

Was he going to kill you or not?  

You beg for him to get it over and done with, hoping for your death to be quick and painless. You offer up a silent prayer for your family. Thankfully he didn’t ask you to state your family meaning that they would be safe. 

As long as the king of curses  didn’t hurt them or anyone in the village, you’d be glad to die.

Still crouched over, you await the moment. 

But it never comes. 

Instead, what happens yet seems completely out of the ordinary.

“You may rise.”

What?

Did you hear correctly? No, no, no– you must have misheard. You must have.

“I won’t repeat myself.” Sukuna announces gruffly. 

Holy shit.

Shaking, you manage to make it to your feet maintaining your balance. The front of your kimono is stained with brown dirt but that worry is barely at the forefront of your mind. Instead, you wonder why on earth you weren’t killed.

 No words are able to leave your lips, your throat clogged up. Sukuna merely glances at you with disinterest, his stance unchanged. 

Finally, after a minute, your lips seem able to work and you get your words out.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?”

He glances at you as if he had forgotten you were standing right there in front of him. That’s how insignificant you were.

“I don’t waste my energy on pathetic little nuisances like you.” His voice is loud and thick with dislike for you. His voice drops a few octaves before announcing a threat. 

“If I find you on my estate once again without my permission I won’t hesitate to take the life you so rightfully begged to keep, understood?”

A breath hitches in your throat. 

“I understand, my Lord, thank you.” You bow your head once more to show the utmost respect.

A silence creeps in and suddenly all of nature disappears. A witness to your trial with near death, the leaves on the peach tree fail to rustle and the once chirping birds submit to an eerie silence. Goosebumps rise over your skin once more, your body still cold from Sukuna’s deadly aura. The heat you were once complaining of is now a distant memory.

“I’ll give you ten seconds to disperse off my property. Ten–”

You’ve never taken off faster in your entire life.

reblogs and comments are much appreciated. thank you for reading!!

lmk if you would like to be tagged for part 2!!

[unboundprompts]

Hi! I really love your account and I'm obsessed! Could you please do some dialogue prompts for the forbidden love trope with the sunshine x grumpy dynamic? 👉👈

Forbidden Love Dialogue

(ft. Sunshine x Grumpy)

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

"We're just not meant to be together." "That's because you're not trying hard enough."

"They'll kill us if they find out." "Then let them."

"It's not meant to be." "Why not? Because that's what they told us?"

"Our love is forbidden." "So, we shouldn't even try?"

"There's no one in this world I'd rather be with."

"They say our love is doomed, but I'd walk with you even if the world was going up in flames."

"They'll kill us." "A life without you in it is not a life worth living."

"I feel like I love you more now that the world is against us."

"You should just choose someone else. It will never work between us." "I would choose you every time."

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[rubycruzin4abruzin]

Forbidden Crown - VII

Summary: You and Kit prepare for your escape, everything seems to fall apart at your engagement party, and your mother reveals a shocking truth…

Pairing: kit tanthalos x princess!reader

Contains: kissing, angst, reader prepares a murder, some boob touching, non-explicit mention of vomiting, medieval partying, drinking, drunk behavior

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: hope this one knocks your socks off

“Strike once. Through the heart.” Kit instructed, handing you a sword before stepping back.

You stood over the training dummy lying on the stone floor of the armory, the tip of your sword hesitating over its straw chest. The dummy was made to mimic a human form, and while its thatched figure was less than realistic, the very idea that it could one day be Kit filled you with a deep sense of dread. “I… I c-cannot…”

She frowned, crossing her arms. “You promised me…”

“Suppose I don’t intend to keep my promise?”

“Then we can’t go.”

Your face crumpled in defeat as your shoulders slumped, the sword dropping to your side. Kit softened her stance, placing a hand on your shaking shoulder. “Don’t… don’t think of it as me, alright? Because it won’t be. It’ll be… a walking infection, with an ashen face and lifeless eyes. Nothing but an ensorcelled servant to the Wyrm.”

She repositioned the sword in your hands, helping you hold it properly before stepping back again. “Protect yourself, Princess.”

You took a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut before plunging the sword straight through the dummy’s heart. Straw flew up at the impact, drifting around you and making you sneeze. You dropped the sword with a loud clatter, body trembling as you stumbled back into the armory wall. Tears began to spill down your cheeks, and Kit was quick to comfort you.

“It’s alright,” she wrapped her arms around your shoulders and kissed the top of your head. “You did perfectly.”

You spoke between ragged breaths. “I don’t… ever… want to have… to do that… again…”

Kit’s thumb wiped your tear-stained face. “Perhaps you won’t have to,” she said, though her words rang hollow, and deep down you sensed she didn’t believe them either.

The fortnight that followed was filled with planning, mapping, and gathering for your escape. Kit regularly pilfered smaller weapons from the armory, stashing them at the bottom of storage chests, beneath her bed, or anywhere she knew a chambermaid would overlook. You were tasked with securing food—a much more difficult endeavor, as stealing from the kitchen without arousing suspicion from the staff proved quite challenging.

It was Kit who had the brilliant idea to procure the help of the kitchen maid. However, the one she called ‘Muffin Girl’ held you both in little favor—Kit due to her relentless teasing, and you for more… obvious reasons. The only one she did seem to favor was her paramour, Airk, so it wasn’t long before he was enlisted as an oblivious pawn in your scheme.

“Remind me why I’m sneaking you extra provisions?” Airk inquired one evening, delivering a basket of bread and fruit preserves to your chamber.

You accepted graciously. “I’d simply like to… fill out my bridal gown a bit more,” you lied.

Airk’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “You mean to say you eat all of this? Each night? By yourself?”

You shrugged innocently. “Kit intends to fill hers out as well.”

He remained puzzled, but a quick mutter about ‘a secret matter of womanhood’ had him bidding you goodnight and taking his leave. It wasn’t a lie, per se—you and Kit were both women with a secret, after all.

As the days passed, your diligent efforts began to bear fruit and your journey was well underway. Of course, your meticulous scheming was not without consequence. Sex became nonexistent, as you both were so preoccupied with getting your affairs in order that it was the furthest thing from your mind. That's not to say either of you wouldn’t benefit from some physical release—coordinating an escape could be vexing—but there was a time and place for everything, and you two would have ample opportunity for such matters once you reached Nockmaar.

Eventually, all packing, planning, and preparations were complete, and right in the hour of necessity, as your parents had arranged an engagement party just two nights before the weddings.

You stood in your chamber, gazing at your reflection in the mirror, clad in the golden ball gown your mother insisted upon. It was a fine dress—you would surely be the envy of every maiden at the party—but it had been awhile since you’d worn a gown of such opulence, and truthfully, it was not to your taste. Your everyday dresses were simpler—looser, allowing a wider range of movement—and never so ostentatious.

“Gold,” your mother had emphasized when she presented the gown earlier that day. “It signifies wealth, luxury, nobility.”

It was difficult to fathom why your mother had been so insistent upon a color denoting status. Azarenth might have been a smaller realm than Tir Asleen, or even Galladoorn, but it was a kingdom nonetheless, and you a princess. Perhaps your mother was overcompensating, simply seeking to appear at equal stature with the other kingdoms.

Suddenly, the sound of a doorknob turning jolted you from your reverie. You smoothed your dress one last time before leaving the mirror to find your mother in the doorway, donning a rust-red gown.

You should have known; your mother wouldn’t knock, nor have any regard for your privacy.

“The guests will be arriving shortly, you’re needed in the ballroom,” she proclaimed.

String music from the consort echoed through the lofty ceilings of Tir Asleen’s grand ballroom. Long tables encircled the dancing area, with place markers clearly labeled for each guest. You were stationed at the front of the hall, joining your parents, the Tanthalos’, and the Hastur’s in greeting the guests as they arrived.

“Thank you for coming. “A pleasure to meet you.” “It’s an honor,” each phrase rolled from your lips, spoken with the practiced formality of routine. Despite your efforts, your wooden smile couldn’t reach your eyes, and a glance at Kit showed she wore a similar mask of indifference.

Kit had worn a dress. You shouldn’t have been surprised; it wasn’t as if Sorsha would have allowed her daughter to wear breeches to one of the most important events of the year. But you had never seen Kit in a dress before, at least not that you could remember, and it certainly was a sight to behold. The fabric hugged her figure in a manner foreign to her usual tunics, and its v-shaped neckline dipped low enough to reveal a bit of cleavage—a stark reminder of the recent lack of intimacy. A metal asymmetrical corset enveloped her waist, complementing the silver motif that adorned the rich green fabric.

Green. The color associated with Galldoorn, and also known to symbolize fertility. You could vomit.

Once the concourse was seated, the feast began. At the high table, you watched as servants poured wine and served roasted meats to the guests. Among them was the one Kit had dubbed ‘Muffin Girl,’ her long blonde hair secured with a linen coif. She kept her head bowed among the other cupbearers—ashamed to be working at her forbidden lover’s engagement party—but occasionally cast furtive glances at the high table, her gaze lingering on Airk.

“Muffin Girl has her sights set upon your betrothed,” Kit whispered from beside you. “Are you prepared to duel for his hand?”

You snorted, quickly concealing your amusement behind your goblet. “Have you spoken to your intended yet?”

“I have,” she replied, her lips curling in amusement. “I even curtsied. Like a real lady. And he sort of… grunted… and shuffled his feet. Like a real… winner.”

“So he’s a mouse,” you said, turning to look at Graydon, who sat with his father at the other end of the table. The way he choked on his wine, sputtering it down the front of his doublet, spoke volumes; much like your father, he was a royal only by blood. Otherwise, he was a meek, reticent man—undoubtedly lacking the ability to keep up with a headstrong woman such as Kit.

As you and Kit exchanged giggles and gossip throughout the meal, Sorsha rose, tapping her silverware against her goblet and commanding the room's attention. “For many moons,” she began. “Tir Asleen has maintained civility with both Azarenth and Galladoorn. Three kingdoms, joined together, but ruling separately… until now.”

Kit slipped her hand under the table and rested it upon your upper thigh. You shivered at the unexpected contact, quickly ensuring no one saw before returning your attention to Sorsha.

“In two days time,” she continued. “My son and daughter shall wed the Princess of Azarenth and the Prince of Galladoorn, respectively. At last, our three kingdoms shall be united—strengthening us and ensuring a harmonious future.” She raised her goblet. “To the brides and grooms; may they rule wisely, and justly, and foster unity and strength within our kingdoms!”

The crowd raised their glasses, clinking them together amongst cries of “To the realm” and “Hear, hear!” You turned towards Kit, studying her expression for any sign of guilt at forsaking her kingdom, but her lips were curled in a celebratory smile as she tapped her glass against yours.

You stood to the side like a hawk perched in the rafters, watching as Graydon awkwardly led Kit around the dance floor. He was a dreadful dancer, unable to meet Kit’s eye as he watched his own feet stumble over here. As humorous as the display was, your gaze focused solely on the hand he rested at Kit’s waist. You shouldn’t have been jealous, you had no reason to be; Kit barely tolerated this poor-excuse for a prince. Yet, the way he was able to hold her close, to take her hand in public without hesitation, ignited a burning envy within you.

The goblet in your hand was nearly empty, and the song had just begun. Visiting the wine table for a refill sounded tempting, but your gaze refused to stray from Kit. You told yourself you were protecting her, simply ensuring Graydon’s fingers refrained from wandering, though you knew it was senseless; Kit could take care of herself, and she would if she deemed it necessary.

Brief visions of Kit drawing her sword at the mere twitch of Graydon’s thumb crossed your mind, and you couldn’t suppress the snort that escaped.

Your amusement caught Kit’s attention, and she turned from Graydon momentarily to face you. Her eyes softened with pity; Kit had been your companion for fifteen years, and as much as you tried to hide it, she could recognize how bothered you were watching her dance with Graydon.

“I’m sorry,” she mouthed. Her face shone with concern before crumpling into another wince as her partner stepped on her toes once again.

“In need of company, Princess?”

You spun around to find Airk facing you, his lips curled in a sympathetic smile. Airk had always been handsome—a trait perhaps the reason he was so popular with the ladies—and tonight was no exception. His usually loose brown curls had been slicked back, highlighting his sharp features and piercing green eyes. A doublet the color of coffee beans decorated his torso—understated, much less ornate than Graydon’s grandiose gettup, but Airk didn’t need magnificence. Unlike Graydon, who would likely disappear into the walls of the castle if it weren’t for his crown and jewels, Airk stood forth without assistance. He was simply… Airk, prince of Tir Asleen—all the young women pined for his affections, and you were the one to marry him.

Perhaps if things were different, if you were different, you would be the happiest maiden in all the land.

”You appear lonesome,” Airk spoke again. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were completely disinterested in this entire ordeal.”

You smirked, taking the last sip from your goblet. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re referring to, there's nowhere I’d rather be.”

He chuckled, offering his hand. “Care to dance?”

You accepted his invitation, grateful for the distraction, and let him lead you to the floor. Kit caught your eye as you made your way, her face scanning yours for any sign of trivial revenge, but your warm smile reassured her and she turned back to her partner.

Airk kept his hand in yours, but moved his other to sit at your waist, while yours rested on his shoulder. Neither of you were very interested in dancing properly, so you simply swayed to the tune of the consort’s playing. As you enjoyed the silent comfort of Airk’s company, you caught sight of your mother across the room, standing with your father and Queen Sorsha. You began to realize why she had insisted you wear such a fanciful gown; the brick-red of her own garment seemed dull in comparison to Sorsha’s deep crimson one. If it wasn’t for the splendor of your golden attire, Azarenth would appear poor in comparison.

While you pondered the monotony of your mother’s attire, Airk suddenly moved closer, mere inches from your face. Your breath hitched, shoulders tensed. He wasn’t, no, he wouldn’t…

He smirked. “Surely you didn’t think I was going to kiss you, did you?” He whispered in your ear with a chuckle. “I know where I stand.”

You sighed, relieved. He wouldn’t. “Of course.”

“I was simply going to ask if our parents were watching,” he whispered again.

You peered over his shoulder, locking eyes with your mother. She wore a beam of approval you hadn’t seen since you inadvertently agreed to marry Airk as a child. It pained you, somewhat, that smile. From her viewpoint, her daughter was dancing intimately with her betrothed while he whispered sweet nothings in her ear. It was all she’d ever wanted. And it was a lie.

“At last, I’m the daughter she’s always wanted.” You muttered solemnly. Airk’s mouth formed a straight line of sympathy, squeezing your hand in an attempt at comfort. “You should see their faces.”

Airk spun you around so he could see for himself, and as he did you met eyes with the blond servant tagged as ‘Muffin Girl,’ clearing tables with the rest of the staff. Her glare wasn’t as cold or threatening as it usually was towards you; instead she just appeared… sad, defeated even. You couldn’t help but feel pity towards her; you knew how it felt to watch your lover dance with another, to be promised to another.

”They do seem quite pleased,” he commented.

“Unlike your mistress,” you spun him back around, shrinking under the weight of her unbearable stares.

He glanced over at her, a momentarily flickering of longing in his eyes before turning back to you. “Is your paramour present this evening?” He asked, scanning the hall. “Wherever he may be?”

You forced a smile, fighting back the urge to correct his pronoun misuse. “Closer than you might think.”

Before Airk had the chance for further inquiries, the music ceased, signaling the end of the dance. You broke away from each other, joining in polite applause with the rest of the partygoers. He bowed, bidding you adieu before exiting the floor—perhaps in search of closure from his forbidden lover.

The dancing area was nearly empty when the consort began to play a new song—still slow, but far less somber than before. Sounds of a vielle’s plucked strings filled your ears, giving the emerging melody an almost romantic air. Your eyes met Kit’s—who had also been abandoned by her partner on the far side of the room—and you exchanged glances full of unattainable longing.

In the center of the floor stood two women, close companions from a nearby village, caressing each other with cheeks rosy from the flush of wine, their laughter louder than the music as they swayed. They drew little notice, these ladies, dancing together in their tipsy states; they appeared as merely two friends, carousing as their husbands were elsewhere.

Husbands. Surely they had arrived with their respective spouses. No one would question a married woman dancing chaste with her female companion.

Your gaze returned to Kit, and an unspoken understanding passed between you. Slowly, you moved towards each other, each step forward echoing within you like a heartbeat. Your breath caught as you finally stood face to face, skin mere inches apart, the closest you had been, had been allowed to be, all night. She didn’t speak. She had no need. Her hands moved to sit at your waist, while your arms floated up and draped around her neck.

In every story, all the romance novels you’ve read, this was the moment when the world around you was meant to melt away, only leaving you and Kit together in its sanctum. But as hard as you tried, as much as you longed to lose yourself in the arms of your beloved, you were acutely aware of your surroundings. Whispers from the concourse seemed to drown out the music, filling you with a pertinent dread. It was one thing for the two commoners to dance together at a party, but you and Kit were royals—yet to be wed—and your closeness perhaps breached propriety more than the women you sought to emulate.

“Are you well?” Kit whispered, sensing your trepidation.

All you could do was nod, mind still absent. The arms you had wrapped around her neck trembled as you buried your face in her shoulder, desperate to block out the world.

Kit chuckled. “I’m not complaining, but you needn’t hold me so tightly, Princess. You have no reason to be so envious of Prince Graydon.”

You pulled back, mouth agape, but giggled upon catching the glint of mischief in Kit’s eye. “I most certainly am not.”

“You most certainly were,” she countered. “Enough so you engaged in dancing with my brother to enact your revenge.”

“I was simply dancing with my betrothed,” you retorted with a grin. “Just as you were.”

“Please,” she scoffed. “I saw you, watching me from afar. Envy practically radiated off your body, green as my array this evening.”

“You forget yourself, Tanthalos,” you laughed, smacking her shoulder.

And in that moment—the moment where Kit held you close, her nose scrunching and eyes sparkling as she laughed with you, where you had momentarily forgotten your environs and allowed yourself to be silly with the person you loved, the one who loved you—that was the moment the world around you finally seemed to melt away, leaving only you and Kit together in this melodic bubble. Even so, you could feel your mother’s eyes boring into you from across the room, but for once, you could cast all cares and worries of her judgment aside. She had gotten what she wanted; you had danced with Airk. It was your turn to indulge.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Kit said, drawing you from your thoughts.

You gave her a small smile. “You have nothing to make up for.”

“I do,” she argued. “And I will.” Her thumb stroked the plush of your sides as she leaned in closer to whisper. “And if it weren’t obvious, you are a much better dance partner than Graydon could ever be. I haven’t checked yet, but I’m sure my poor toes are as bruised as they feel.”

You winced in sympathy, but then chuckled along with her until the song came to an end. Applause filled the hall once more, you and Kit joining in after breaking away from each other. With an exchange of curtsy’s, and a final squeeze of your hand, Kit turned and exited the dance floor, vanishing within the crowd like the last note of the consort’s melody.

As the night wore on, bottles of wine seemed to disappear from the tables, replaced only by the staggering and raucous laughter from the party guests. Servants bustled about, clearing empty bottles and mopping spills, while the retinue danced to lively music.

You were no exception to the tipsy merrymakers, the apples of your cheeks tinted pink from the mixture of claret and revelry. Strands of hair had strayed from your once-neat pinup, clinging to your forehead and the sides of your face through beads of sweat. You took another sip from your goblet as you swayed out of sync, comforted by your boozy blur and the warmth in your belly.

Kit had faded from view long ago—not that you were particularly concerned. The gathering was quite large; she could have easily merged with the throng. Although it was unlikely, given that Kit—much like her brother—was difficult to lose in a crowd, it was still a possibility. Moreover, it seemed Graydon had little taste for festivity, choosing instead to hover in the shadows or remain close to his father, as if he were a lost youth amidst a horde of strangers.

As long as Graydon didn’t wish to be seen, Kit had no need to be seen.

The night was certainly alive with the company in high spirits, but for all the sport it provided, you were beginning to grow weary. Finishing your drink, you sought solace near a window at the far end of the hall, partially concealed by heavy velvet drapes. You leaned back, catching your breath while allowing the cool glass to temper your heated skin.

As you began to relax, your breath evening out, a disembodied hand emerged from behind the curtains, seizing your arm and pulling you out of sight. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, but another hand quickly covered your mouth, stifling your cries of protest. The dense curtains eclipsed any light, and fear coursed through your veins as the shadowy figure loomed over you, overpowering your struggles…

“Shh… shh… My lady, it’s me.”

The familiarity of the whispered voice immediately calmed your nerves. You blinked, allowing your eyes to adjust to the darkness until Kit’s sweet face came into view.

“Kit, what are you…”

“I promised I’d make it up t’ you, didn’t I?”

Even in the dim light, the flush of her cheeks was evident. Her hair, once elegantly arranged, now hung about her head in a tangled mess. Each word she spoke reeked of fruit and spirits, her sentences punctuated by giggles and hiccups. Kit was thoroughly inebriated, perhaps even more so than you.

“Yes, but, I…”

Before you could finish, her mouth was on yours. She kissed you sloppily, her hands lazily gripping at your waist to pull you closer. Her lips, the heat of her breath tasted flammable, almost, yet still so intoxicating. You wanted so badly to give into her, to melt under her burning flame, but you pulled away.

“Kit…” you breathed. “Not here…”

“Why?” She groaned. “S’ been so long.”

Your eyes flickered down to her chest once again, gulping at the sight of her bare décolletage. She had a point—a dangerously tempting point—but her invitation posed too great a risk.

“If someone from the party were to find us…”

She dismissed your concern with a wave of her hand. “They’re all b’scotted. Utterly foxed. ‘S fine.”

“Kit,” you giggled. “You’re quite muddled yourself.”

“You’re one t’ speak,” she snorted. Her hands tangled in your hair, destroying what was left of your pinup as she stumbled. You had to laugh, despite yourself; although your soused stupor was much more relaxed than Kit’s, it was far from negligible.

“Alright,” you held onto her hands. “Perhaps we should retire for bed.”

“Fin’ly…”

“Kit,” you blocked her advance, despite every inch of your body screaming to give in. She groaned again, and you sighed, struggling against thoughts of what those groans might sound like under different circumstances…

No. “Surely they’ll notice our absence.”

“Graydon ‘s busy in the corner,” she slurred. “Airk ‘s gone ‘s well. We won't be missed.”

You frowned, knowing just how right she was; with your suitors missing, no one would be searching for the two of you. Beyond that, every moment spent with her in this pocket of darkness only made you want her more—to feel her on you, her mouth against your skin, her hands roaming your body. It truly had been too long, and the sight of her in that bedeviled dress did nothing to soothe your desires.

Almost as if she could sense your thoughts, as if she had planned on interrupting them, Kit pressed her lips to yours once more. This time, you didn’t resist and allowed yourself to burn under the heat of her body. You could never tire of her taste, her touch, her feeling; you could get drunk off her alone, even without the vine’s blood plaguing her breath.

The world seemed to spin faster with your oxygen now compromised, but Kit remained your anchor. You reached for her shoulders to steady yourself, but your hands inadvertently fell at her breasts. A soft whimper escaped her throat, almost inaudible over the roar of the party, but still resonant in your ears. Your fingers slid down her skin, dipping lower, lower, until they grazed the edge of that plunging neckline that had tortured you all night. She only spurred you forward, seizing your hips and pressing them against hers as your touch ventured beyond the fabric of her dress, fingertips exploring the delicate flesh that lay beneath it.

God, she was soft. How was she always so soft?

Her breath quickened, the hot air tickling the skin around your mouth. You took it as an incentive to lose yourself further and further in the arms of your lover, drowning in her warm embrace and the taste of Falernian wine that still lingered on her tongue. She was all-consuming, and the way she gripped at your sides told you she felt the same way about you.

You were both so absorbed in each other, so immersed in the private world you had created, that neither of you noticed the blinding scourge of light that intruded upon it.

Followed by a shrill scream.

That you did notice.

Pulling back, you ignored Kit’s whines of protest and squinted at the disruptive brightness. There, in front of you, was none other than Muffin Girl, clutching the velvet drapes and wearing a look of terror. Behind her stood an equally-stunned Airk, and you swore, for but a fleeting moment before they separated, their hands were intertwined.

You were frozen in place; her scream had alerted the party’s multitude. All eyes fell unto you as the music ceased, the hall became as still as the private chapel during prayers. Your gaze surveyed the room, taking in the varied facial expressions of your party guests—shocked, horrified, disgusted, perhaps even some lascivious interest from a few less-than-respectable individuals. Sorsha’s visage was different, however—still aghast, but not directed towards you, rather slightly lower, and that’s when you felt Kit tugging at your wrists.

Realization hit you like the strike of a battering ram; you had yet to remove your hold on Kit’s breast. Queen Sorsha of Tir Asleen, your hostess, your future mother-in-law, had just happened upon you with your hand down her daughter’s dress.

Immediately, you stepped back and let your hands fall to your sides, yours and Kit’s faces flushed and fear-stricken as you desperately tried to smooth yourselves out. But when you looked up for the final time, catching sight of your own mother’s face, you knew then and there you had reached far beyond the point of no return. You expected her to yell, to scream as Muffin Girl had, or to react with the fury of a siege engine, but she did not. She merely composed herself, turned on her heel, and walked briskly out of the hall. Your father trailed after her, and you knew you were expected to follow as well.

The rest of the party wasn’t far behind. Never before in Tir Asleen had a gathering disbanded so quickly.

Your mother didn’t bother to escort you to your guest chamber, nor even to her own. The first private place outside the ballroom happened to be the solar, so that’s where you ended up. You hadn’t been in the solar before, but it left much to be desired; tall wooden walls matched the floor, nearly barren save for a lone table in the center with benches on either side.

It was ironic, almost, that they called this room the “solar;” it was practically as frigid as your mothers demeanor.

She paced about, waiting for your father to shut the door behind you before dropping her pretense. “Do you loathe me?” She asked, taking you by surprise. “Do you? I can’t fathom what I’ve done. My own daughter, to hold such malice…”

“Mother…”

“I chose a fine young man for you to wed,” she interrupted. “I even granted you fifteen years to grow accustomed to him. I thought it would be cruel, then, to force my daughter into marriage with a stranger, but I now see that would have been best.”

“Mother…”

“After all I’ve done for you, after everything your father and I have done for you,” she turned towards him, seeking his support, but he merely shrunk under her piercing gaze. “Is this how you repay us? Such grievous betrayal…”

A storm of conflicting emotions roiled within you—anger, guilt, fear—but none of them were for your mother. “It is not about you!” You shouted, catching her off guard. She did nothing but stare back; mouth agape; never before had you raised your voice to her. “It was never about you.”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, as if she was choking on her next words, before her eyes narrowed. “I never held her in good favor, I’ve always been wary of her influence on you.”

“Pardon?”

“That wretched friend of yours, she has corrupted you. Brought you to the ways of this unnatural lifestyle…”

“It was not her doing,” you snapped. “And we are not friends!”

“How are you not ashamed to speak such words?” She exclaimed, her face twisted with a frenzied fury you were unfamiliar with. “How are you not as abashed as I am? My daughter. Princess of Azarenth. Consorting with her betrothed’s sister, and at her own engagement party no less!”

You hung your head, not ashamed of your love for Kit, but at having been discovered. She noticed your change in bearing and sighed, casting her eyes to your father as she wrestled with her thoughts. “Perhaps… perhaps Airk could still agree to marry you. You were quite wine-sodded tonight, yes? As was Kit? If we offered that as an excuse, and an apology, of course…”

“I do not intend to wed Airk, Mother,” you confessed, your gaze still lowered.

That made her freeze. A tense silence hung in the air before your father’s voice broke it, his tone cautious and uncertain. “Princess… do you mean to say… you intend to wed Kit?”

“Of course not,” you replied; though the idea was compelling, you knew it wasn’t feasible. “I do not intend to stay here at all. And neither does Kit.”

Your parents' faces twisted in confusion, and your pulse quickened as the weight of your words settled over them. As you stared back at them silently, defiantly, their expressions slowly shifted to terror, despair, and… fear?

“Darling…” your mother hesitated, her eyes wide with panic. She displayed a vulnerability you had never seen before in your usually imperturbable mother, and it filled you with unease. “You must stay and marry Prince Airk. We need our alliance with Tir Asleen!”

“Why?” You demanded. “There are many kingdoms with which we could ally, some where I wouldn’t need to marry at all! What could Tir Asleen provide that is such a necessity?”

As your mother stammered, desperate to find the right words, she turned to your father for help, but alas, he tucked his head like a turtle retreating back into its shell. She sighed. “Princess… Azarenth is penniless.”

“Pardon?” You exclaimed, shocked. “Penniless?”

She nodded. “As a poet without a patron. Fifteen years ago, Queen Sorsha agreed to offer financial aid in return for your engagement to her heir.”

You looked to your father for any sign of jest, but his eyes softened only with pity. “Without your betrothal, our union will be severed, and our people will surely starve.”

The world seemed to crash down upon you as everything suddenly made sense—your parents’ insistence on abiding with Airk, how they always seemed to sycophantize with him and Sorsha, the size of Azarenth and how it lacked resources compared to Tir Asleen, how you always seemed to visit the twins and rarely the other way around, your mother’s dress, and how she was so importunate about your appearance, insisting that you look as wealthy as possible.

Your head swam, feeling as if the floor were slipping from underneath you. You pushed past your parents and collapsed onto one of the wooden benches. “Impoverished…” you whispered to yourself, contemplating where your priorities truly lay—your loyalty to your people, or your loyalty to Kit…

It didn’t take long for the Tir Asleen ballroom to clear, but if inquired, Sorsha would swear she spent years of her life stationed near the doorway, cheeks afire as she bid farewell to each scattering guest. The King of Galladoorn barely paid her any mind as he stormed off to his guest chamber, Graydon in tow, both visages aglow for varying reasons.

While his mother busied herself with mending the falloutl, Airk moved his sister to a nearby table, handing her a goblet of water to dilute the alcohol in her stomach. Kit groaned as she sipped from the goblet. Her head pounded; even while seated the room still seemed to spin. She lazily tugged at her corset, its constriction suddenly becoming too much for her to bear.

Airk sighed, reaching back to relieve his twin of the restricting garment. “I must say, I’m intrigued to see how you plan to explain this,” he whispered as he gently undid the laces. “I haven’t seen Mother so enraged since she caught me reading the lewd literature as a lad.”

Though the corset was loosened, Kit still felt her stomach clench as she glanced at her mother. Sorsha’s calmness, though eerie, was intensified by her flushed face, as crimson as her gown. As soon as the last guest departed and Sorsha closed the ballroom doors, the atmosphere shifted to one of unease. Airk noticed immediately, and busied himself with clearing tables, determined to stay out of his mother’s line of fire. Kit gulped as her mother approached, the dread forcing her mind out of its drunken haze.

“I’m not sure why I’m surprised,” Sorsha began, her expression stoic. “Twenty-one years I’ve endured your antics. I once thought it was mere childish theatrics, that you’d surely mature beyond it, but it seems I was mistaken.”

Kit also remained expressionless as she continued to sip from her goblet. She was used to being scolded, berated by her mother, to the point that it had lost its sting long ago.

Sorsha, however, was far from finished. “I just never imagined my own daughter would go as far as to make a mockery of her own kingdom, and for what? To thwart a betrothal? To evade your royal responsibilities?”

Her voice grew louder with each sentence. Kit groaned, clutching the side of her still-throbbing skull.

Sorsha knelt to her daughter’s level until Kit could feel her breath warming her face. “Goblet’s ache? You should give thanks to the gods above for your intoxication tonight,” she continued. “Without wine’s influence, the inquisition would surely have your head after your misdeed this evening!”

Kit’s earlier dread settled like a pit in her stomach at her mother’s words. Sorsha was right; in her lustful, wine-soaked stupor, she had risked not only a scandal, but possibly your lives as well.

Nausea bubbled inside her; she clutched her stomach, desperately fighting back the bile that threatened to rise. Airk quickly noticed his sister’s disposition, and rushed over after grabbing a maid’s bucket off a nearby table.

Sorsha scoffed at her son’s compassion, watching in disbelief as he held Kit’s head over the bucket. “Honestly Kit, did you ever stop to consider how your brother might feel about all this? If I were him, I’d leave you to wallow in your own excretion.”

Upon being mentioned, Airk’s head lifted to look at his mother. As betrayed as he knew he should have felt, as shocked as he was to learn his intended’s paramour turn out to be his own sister, he couldn’t deny, he had been keeping his own secrets. And if Kit’s was so harshly exposed against her will, perhaps alluding to his own could alleviate her burden. “I care little, mother…”

His words grabbed Sorsha’s attention, drawing it away from Kit momentarily. “How can you not?”

“I don't love the princess,” he admitted. “And she doesn't love me.”

Sorsha merely waved off his confession as if she were flicking away dust. “Marriage isn’t about love, Airk! Few engagements begin with love, you learn to love!”

“I have been in the princess’s company for fifteen years,” he argued, beginning to raise his voice before using her own choices against her. “I have not grown to love her, and you and father’s union was not arranged!”

“I married a reckless man because I was ‘in love’ with him, and look where that got me! I ruled a kingdom alone while raising two children, and he’s dead in a ditch somewhere in Nockmaar!”

“That’s where I shall be, too,” Kit interjected.

The raspy sound of her voice took Airk and Sorsha by surprise. They slowly turned to face her. “Kit…” Sorsha began. “What do you mean, that’s where you shall be?”

Kit glanced up from her bucket, her eyes red and watery. “Nockmaar,” she gurgled. “The princess… we’re not staying…”

Both Airk and Sorsha’s jaws dropped in horror at Kit’s remark. Airk was the first to speak. “Kit, you’re not serious…”

“Nockmaar?!” Sorsha cried. “B-but your father… and the Wyrm…”

“Safer than here…” Kit muttered, dropping her face back towards the bucket.

It was Sorsha’s turn for her head to spin; visions of the dire fates that might befall her daughter danced in her head—nightmarish scenarios her mother had long foreseen. She could practically taste her own heartbeat; she knew her daughter better than most, and recognized her obstinacy derived from her father. When Kit had her mind set on something, there was no stopping her, regardless of the peril; Kit would willingly risk everything—even her own life—if it meant being with her beloved.

Without another word, Sorsha turned on her heel and exited the ballroom, leaving her twins behind as the doors shut behind her.

Tag List: @chloepricesgirl @canmargesimpson @yourelliewillms @valenftcrush @camilleee222 @prettygirlfemme @slaytillieswooo @lovinglynny @joanvisitsrome @athenalive @mih11 @j-pacifica @everybodyhatesari @vii-ofswords @sofi4v13 @detmarmalade @at1nyzen @ikyk-leeknow @ingigisworld @willowthegremlin

[uhhlifeig]

Forbidden Forest - Nov. 3 - word count: 285 - @wolfstarmicrofic

When Remus blinked his eyes open under the canopy of the Forbidden Forest, the first thing he felt was warmth beneath his head- soft, solid, and breathing. 

He looked down to find himself curled against Padfoot, who was stretched out beside him in the clearing. 

The dog’s fur was matted from the night’s run, but he was warm and steady, his large, dark eyes watching the boy as he stirred awake.

Remus couldn’t help but smile, despite the lingering aches from his transformation. The soft rise and fall of Padfoot’s chest, the gentle brush of his warm fur against Remus’s cheek- it reminded him that all was well, that they were alive. 

The dog gave a low, gentle huff, shifting to nose the werewolf’s cheek with warm affection.

“Good morning to you too,” Remus mumbled, voice rough. He reached up, running a hand through Padfoot’s soft, slightly disheveled fur. “You make a very good pillow, you know that?”

Sirius’s animagus form gave a playful, throaty rumble, his tail thumping against the forest floor. He nosed at the dirty blonde’s hand, pushing gently against him as if to say he didn’t mind being there for him in any way. 

Remus shifted, stretching out his legs and giving a groan at the stiffness in his muscles. Padfoot leaned into him, pressing his nose to his cheek and then his forehead, as if making sure he was still there, still safe.

In the blink of an eye, his boyfriend was lying beside him, a sly grin spreading across his face. “You really know how to treat a pillow, Moony. Gotta say, I’ve been thoroughly used.”

The younger boy hid his face in his hands, muttering, “Shut up, Sirius.”