#i think i got stains loving gaze right

[tekitothemagpie]

@bread-is-my-life @loadingbnha I had to draw something out of yalls beautiful idea, I couldn't resist. Matching skull face bfs 💀

[nighttimealone]

Cw: Nsfw

Taking one of Simon’s balaclava from the closet, inhaling the lingering musk snd cologne scent while rubbing your pussy needily on the bedsheet. He went on a short mission for a few days, and you missed him, miss how he call you sweetheart with that gruff voice, miss how he sit you on his lap, murmuring sweet nothings while his hand

sneaks pass the waistband of your panties, pinching and flicking your clit to warm you up for his big cock, miss how his veiny and sturdy arms wrap around you while you fall asleep while basking in each other’s presence.

You kiss the balaclava on where his lips should be, but that’s not enough, the ache in your chest leads you to scramble to the closet again, taking out a pair of his skeleton gloves, putting those far-too-large gloves on as you slump down on the bed you two shared again, mimicking how he kneaded and rolled the sweet spot hidden between your slick folds, until you finally reach your high, dampening his gloves with your juices.

You tuck the used balaclava and gloves deep inside a discreet drawer, welcoming Simon back home the next day. He got a crazy amount of gloves and balaclava, sure he wouldn’t notice missing a pair or two, right? You try to convince yourself, till the day you think you finally get a chance to wash those fabric stained with the evidence of your guilty pleasure, that he appears behind you silently and catch you scrubbing them.

You have no one to blame other than yourself when getting put over his knees moments later, pajamas shorts pulled down, ass in the air and whining every time he lands a light slap on your reddened buttocks.

“Think I wouldn’t notice, hmm?” He rubs the spot he just hit gently, soothing that delicious tingle briefly “How many times did you come with my balaclava and my gloves?”

You look back at him, trying to respond with the vibrating dildo deep inside your squelching cunt messing your mind. “One ti-One- ngh…” your incoherentness brings yourself another slap, this time land carefully just above your stretched cunt and on the clit.

“Say it clearly, princess, can’t understand when you’re talking in moans.” Simon rubs your skin after the soft smack again, just like what he did whenever he gives you a teasing slap, but him rolling your over-sensitive bud that just got a sweet slap, only flares up your desire and makes you unable to think straight, his fingers and the dildo occupied your thoughts as you manage to answer more comprehensibly.

“One…only one time…” Your staccato reply receives a feign pity glance from him.

“Only one time? poor girl.” He grabs the base of the vibrating dildo and thrust in and out “Look how you lube this dildo with your juices so well, love. Finally satisfied?”

“No! No…please…” You paw at the bedsheets desperately, happy that he might end his ‘punishment’ soon, yet afraid that you won’t get the thing you truly craved. “Need you, Simon, please…! need you inside”

He grins imperceptibly, though the arrogance in his heart is satiated. That’s what he wants to hear, hear you say out loud about how much you need him, how only him can fuck you in the way others can’t.

Pulling the dildo out, seeing how your cunt grabbing onto it like you try to swallow it back in, he fish out his cock, standing straight and leaking profusely from enjoying the show “No need to feel empty for the lost, sweetheart, you’ll get what you deserve now.”

Simon press the tip of his length at your entrance, looking at you with smugness within those brown eyes, and he knows it’s going to be a long night when you gaze back with droopy eyes, still coming down from the edge, with a bliss-out smile spread across your glossy lips.

[runa-falls]

what a mess~

pairing: miguel o'hara x reader cw: smut, established relationship, superhuman stamina, overstimulation, cum EVERYWHERE, 'use a condom, it's too messy X(', 'bitch stfu i'll show you messy'..., so many sheets, reader is a pushover (bc I WOULD BE TOO) wc: 1k + a/n: i um... just take this and I'll go to a corner of a room and think ab what I've done.

---

Having a superhero boyfriend is great – he gets you discounts at your favorite restaurant, he easily carries you home after a long night out at the bar, he saves you from getting kidnapped by his arch-nemesis for the fourth time this month (though isn’t that his fault in the first place?....) – but there are aspects of the relationship that you didn’t consider before. 

Apparently, with great power comes great… stamina. 

To put it plainly, Miguel’s (sex) drive is unheard of. You better clear out your schedule for the whole day because he can go for hours. And most nights, you can barely sit up after he fucks you.

You like that – or you did when you could afford to be sore every other day. You like how enthusiastic he is – how much he wants you. It makes you feel desired and beautiful. But it’s not just the intense workout you risk every time you steal a kiss that turns into more – it’s the number of times he can…finish. 

Every time you think he’s finished, he’s still hard and thrusting into you, overstimulating you until black stars start to fill your vision. 

It’s a mess in the end. 

You lay on top of him, filled to the brim, dripping all over his lower stomach and onto the sheets under you, breathing so hard you’re sure you’d rupture a lung. You feel like you’re barely conscious on the bed as your heart beats harshly against your chest from how hard you came. Hair sticks graciously against your forehead as your eyes struggle to stay open to see Miguel, who gently pulls out and watches his mess spill out of you. 

He whispers sweetly of how well you took him, how pretty you look all fucked out, how much he loves that he can turn you into a blabbering – mindless whore. Being the possessive man he is, he attempts to shove it back in, using two of his thick fingers to gather and push his essence back into you, hoping that, against all odds, it’ll take, despite the fact you take your birth control religiously. 

Of course, when he sees how your thighs shake and squeeze around his hand from the overstimulation of him fucking his fingers into you after you just came, he immediately gets hard again. 

He gazes down at you with apologetic red eyes as he bites his lip under a sharp fang, “I can’t help it when I see how wrecked your pussy is for me…”

It’s nice – it’s hot – but you end up having to change the sheets 5 times a week. He’s insatiable… well ok, you’re just as thirsty as your boyfriend, but the amount of maintenance you need for each session is ridiculous. You basically gave up washing your sheets after every fuck, and instead ordered several identical sets of bedding to make the process easier. 

Many sheets have been destroyed beyond recognition. Okay, maybe you’re being a bit overdramatic, but the amount of cum-stained sheets in your linen closet is insane. How are you supposed to hide this if you were to have guests over?!

After staring at the layers of folded-up and stained sheets that you’ve accumulated over the past few months, you decided you were going to do something about it. 

You can still have fun without the mess.

…right?

—

Miguel has you on your back at the end of the bed with your legs resting on the crook of his arms. You have on a cute little nightgown – white to symbolize purity (though what you were about to do was far from pure) – with nothing underneath. It was one you bought just to get a reaction out of him – and now you got it. 

He holds you open for him, regarding you like he would a special gift – though there’s nothing to really celebrate (unless you count his raging erection). He breathes harshly against your neck as he paints your skin with kisses and nips. You’re nearly folded in half with how closely he’s pushed against you, but you can barely recognize the mere tinge of soreness in your legs with how fluidly pleasure seems to travel from his lips down to the apex of your thighs. 

Miguel O’Hara, the strong, independent Spider-Man, is truly a mess in front of you. His once neatly ironed tie now hangs loosely around his neck, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned halfway down, and his hair a tangle of unruly curls. His fingers, now caressing your body, are already dripping in your slick from when he forced a couple of orgasms out of you right when he got home. 

You find a sense of satisfaction in the disheveled state of his appearance, relishing how his once meticulously groomed demeanor has been disrupted – how his eyes transition from their usual chocolatey brown to a striking blood red, how his lips swell sweetly with lust. 

Miguel groans deeply as he grinds his clothed hardness against your wet center, “Mm…I want you so bad.” He unbuttons and unzips his pants, sighing as he releases himself from the tight fabric. No underwear? 

“Wait, Mig." he pauses his movements, waiting patiently – prepared to do whatever you want. “Get a condom.” …Except maybe…that. 

“Condom?” He could barely hold back his sneer, but you could faintly hear the growl vibrate from his chest. 

“Mhm, we’ve been too messy lately. We can’t just keep buying new sheets every week!”

“...We could…”

“Miguel!”

“I don’t see what the problem is… this is just how it is.”

“But it’s too messy.”

“I thought my baby likes to be filled up…”

“...I-I mean, I do sometimes, but –”

“Don’t you like it when I get you all messy?” He leans in close, distracting you from denying him. “Have you dripping with me for days?” He presses closer, and you can feel his hard cock slip against your wetness, dragging against your sensitive clit. 

“Miguel.” You whine.

It’s so hard to deny this man.

“How about we just try to be more careful, hm?” He presses against you gently, nearly entering you, but not quite. It feels so good, the tip of him barely stretching past your entrance. 

“Okay…j-just this once though…” You surrender with a whisper.

[madaqueue]

EPISODE 3: A TASTE OF HONEY IN DEFEAT

satoru thought he would have no problem winning a bet he proposed, but a month is too long to go without a taste of anything this sweet.

themes/content: smut. edging, handjobs, mean-ish dom!reader, satoru being whiney lmao, premature ejaculation + he cums inside, light bondage (satoru receiving). (wk: 2.1k)

a/n: this is part of @luv-lies no-nut-november collab!!! so excited to have been a part of this, hope you all enjoy >:3

“You know I trust you, but don’t you think the ropes are a bit much?” Satoru giggles as you tighten the final knot around his wrists, shoulders bulging and arms stretched overhead.

“I know you trust me - it’s you I’m worried about, ‘Toru.”

“What, worried I won’t be able to keep my hands off you?” The smirk painting his features veers into a grimace as he winces, straining against the tightening rope.

“No. I’m worried you won’t be able to keep your hands off yourself.”

Pink lips draw into a pout. “Aw c’mon, you know I’ll be good! I’m the one who made this bet in the first place, remember?”

You hum as you tug his hands down, testing the strength of the woven cerulean adorning his skin. The headboard shakes with the movement.

“And yet, you were so willing to break the rules.”

It had been quite a sight, truly - your dear Satoru, splayed across the bed, whimpers and moans falling from his lips like honeyed rain. They landed heavy in your ears, sticky and sweet. When the door creaked open, he made no effort to stop the fervent motions of his fist up and down his cock. He was flushed from head to toe, too lost in his own pleasure to recognize the sound of your footsteps approaching. It was only when your hand rested atop his that he jerked up, clouded eyes turning apologetic.

“I know I wasn’t supposed to, I know, I just couldn’t wait-” he had babbled.

“It’s okay,” you purred, rubbing soothing circles into his skin. “But you knew the deal, remember? I’m the only one allowed to touch you this month, right, Satoru?”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry-”

“And how close you were to cumming, too.”

“I wasn’t going to, I swear-”

You hummed and squeezed his base, earning a gasp. “You know it’s not good to lie, either. Remember, you made this bet, sweetheart. Were you really so willing to throw it all away? To lose?”

“I wasn’t going to lose, I promise, I just needed something-”

He was getting worked up, panicked thoughts racing through his mind. He braced on his forearms to sit up, but with a purposeful push you guided him back onto the sheets.

“It’s okay, my love. If my poor baby is so needy, I’ll take care of you. I’ll give you something.”

His eyes widened when you pulled the ropes from under the bed, eyeing him like your next meal, a starving predator ready to pounce. And here was your prey, so ready for the taking, offering himself to you as a good piece of meat should.

And now, he’s tied up like one, too.

“I wasn’t even going to break the rules,” he whines impatiently.

Sitting back, you admire your work: your strong, determined Satoru spread and waiting. Trailing a finger down his stomach, his skin burns hot in its wake.

“That’s certainly not what it looked like to me.”

“I-”

“Because to me, it looked like you couldn’t handle going even a month without touching this needy little cock of yours.”

He pouts. “I’m not little,” he huffs.

A giggle bubbles from the back of your throat, bouncing past your lips.

“And besides, I can handle it, I swear! I made it almost the whole month, I did, I just-”

Tilting your head, you gaze down at him. “What, got too desperate? Poor Satoru, ‘The Strongest,’ couldn’t even follow the rules of a bet he made?”

Blue flashes against white as he rolls his eyes. One hand ruffles his hair, cooing down at him.

“It’s okay, baby, I’ll make you beg to break this silly little bet of yours.”

“Whatever,” he scoffs, hiding the way pink creeps up his neck and decorates his cheeks, stained like flower petals. He’s soft like them, too.

A light chuckle lands in the air when your palm grazes up his length. He twitches in your hold, warm skin on warm skin.

“H-hah, see?” His mouth hangs open between the words. “Told you I could handle it.”

It’s gentle touches at first, to ease him into it: slow strokes, light fingers. And yet, he’s still wrapping his throat around whimpers.

“Aw baby, I haven’t even done anything yet.”

Your lips curl into a smile, breath hot behind them. The words come out syrupy, dripping in sugar (and Satoru has always had a sweet tooth). His stomach aches in hunger - hunger for your hands, your body, your control. Whatever you plan to do to him, he’ll swallow it whole, bigger and bigger bites until his cheeks swell and all he can taste is you.

The grip around his base tightens, running up and down. Something about your skin is so much softer than his, untainted by the cruelty he lives through, only dirtied by desire. It spreads over his skin, glistening white and sticky.

When whines begin to twist through the silence, his eyelashes fluttering to bat away the impending tears, he doesn’t have to say it - he’s close.

Just as his muscles begin to tense, you rip your hand away.

There’s a choked little cry he lets out, hurt like an animal you spared from death. One that was ready for it, for the warmth and comfort it provided.

“Why’d you stop?” His voice is strained already, a high-pitched draw across his vocal cords. His eyes are sparkling and wet.

A peck to his cheek sends shivers down his spine. “Because you’re not supposed to finish, remember, silly? I’m just helping you hold up your end of the bet, after all.”

A sound like untuned violins, haunting and beautiful all the same, plays from his throat. You giggle at the music.

“C’mon, Toru - you wanted this, remember?”

“I know,” he grumbles, scrunching his nose. “Fine, fine, do whatever you want.”

You smile.

(You would have anyways)

Your gaze falls upon the aquamarine rope, the matching eyes, before trailing back down his steadying chest.

It stutters when your fingers trace up the veins of his cock.

It heaves when you cup a palm around his balls.

You squeeze.

“F-fuck,” he groans, hips lifting off the bed.

There’s a word living at the tip of his tongue, its shape burning into his mouth.

Harder.

Luckily, you know your Satoru - you know what he thinks, feels, wants. And as a lover should, you happily oblige.

The sound he makes is garbled and choked, utter nonsense. It came straight from the depths of his body, a pure animalistic response, one he couldn’t have controlled if he tried.

Already, he’s beginning to tremble in your palm - it’s getting easier to do this, make him shake like a lost leaf floating through the autumn air, held captive by the gusts of your wind. Up and down, he travels with you, because of you.

Again, you pull your hand away.

Again, he whines.

“Noooo,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything. It was automatic, the expression of displeasure, ripped from him with the loss of your warmth on his.

“What’s wrong baby? You want me to stop?” It’s more fun when he has an out, when he could say no and chooses not to. When he wants this just as badly as you. “You know you-”

“No.” It's more breath than sound. “No, please. Keep going.”

And as a lover should, you happily oblige.

Precum drips down his length, covering him in remnants of desire. They cling to his skin like silky webs, woven from devotion and need. Each slick pump of your hand up and down creates more and more and more, a beautiful pearl at his slit forming one moment only to be spread by your circling thumb in the next.

Each time you reach his base, you squeeze. Each time you reach his tip, you twist. In this dance you both twirl and breathe and feel in beat, holding on to one another with sweaty hands and tired muscles.

“Remember, you can give up whenever you want,” you coo, the sweet glue of a trap.

But Satoru doesn’t dare taste, doesn’t dare step inside - he knows better.

(Right?)

“I’m not - fuck - giving up.” He tries to throw you a smile, but it lands at your feet.

Fists clench into each other, nails digging into his palms. You almost feel bad, the way he’s beginning to writhe within the ropes. It must hurt, you think, the texture soft but never soft enough - it’s nothing compared to you. In spite of his anguish, he knows better than to give up this easily. You haven’t even really begun, not yet.

When his eyelashes flutter closed, you know to pull your hand away.

He’s getting more subtle, the only sign of his impending pleasure a soft flicker of white and blue. But you recognize it, of course - his pleasure lives everywhere in him. In the way his breath catches, in the way his skin burns hot, in the way he gets all too loud or all too quiet.

There’s barely a sound this time. Instead, he just frowns, displeasure spreading across his sweet features. His lower lip sticks out, and he stares at you with cloudy eyes.

“I know, baby, I know. But this is what it takes if you want to win.”

The words don’t ease the growing ache in his core, but your voice does. Every vowel blurs the pain, every consonant gives him something to cling to. He’ll climb himself out of insanity on your breath.

Again, you wrap around him and drag him closer to the edge. Unable to pull his gaze away, he stares down it, looming, waiting. The free fall must feel nice, the wind against his skin, for a moment before he hits the ground. But with a firm hand on the back of his head, you just hold him there. It’ll be his choice whether he decides to jump. Or rather, when he decides to jump.

Another choked groan leaks from his lips when you pause. There are no words left for him to say, nothing but the agony of desire. He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut as if it’ll make the leap any less tempting.

Hushed whispers, not quite praise, tingle his mind. Little hums of “I know,” or “there, there,” dance from your throat, and he writhes.

Distress always looked so pretty on him. Pretty tears, pretty red cheeks, pretty pouts and pretty cries. Perhaps it’s a curse that he looks like a fallen angel when he weeps - if he looked more grotesque, you wouldn’t feel the urge to bring him back into the jaws of pain.

But he lets you comfort him nonetheless, preen his wings and kiss his tears.

This time, when you stop, he thrashes. His skin burns, crisp like it had been warmed by the sun for too long. Everything is too tight, his hands, his arms, his shoulders, his stomach. They need to be loosened; they need to be released.

“Please.”

It’s so quiet, it’s almost not a word, just little sounds from his tongue.

“What was that, baby? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

Tears stream from glossy eyes when he looks at you. His lips quiver as he speaks.

“Please, I wanna cum. Please.”

The smile spreading across your face is cold and knowing; he looks beautiful as he falls.

“I know you want to, but-”

“I lose.” He’s panting, gasping through the plea. “I lose, I give up, I don’t care, just, please.”

Hot tears melt beneath your thumb as you swipe them away. His mouth hangs open, as though he could swallow the air, hold it inside him and let that ease the aching. But the only thing that can help him now is you, the only thing he can stomach.

“Okay, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

A loose smile flows across his face, easy like gentle waves lapping at the corners of his thoughts. The sentence itself barely makes sense to him at this point, garbled in his lust-clouded mind. But he knows you’ll help him now; he welcomes the push over the edge.

Straddling his lap, you guide him to your entrance. Sticky and hot, he presses into you. Just as his tip enters your warmth, he hurls himself into the wind.

Everything in his body trembles, muscles tightening and contracting out of time. Eyelashes flutter, whimpers dance like petals as he comes undone.

The only thing he can do is twitch inside of you, pearly strings pulsing with each erratic breath.

Finally, he opens his eyes to find you smiling. Warm lips press along his cheeks, dried tears salty on your tongue.

“Well, you certainly lost this time,” you hum, resting your forehead against his; he looks at you like you created the earth itself, your breath in the wind and your heartbeat in the sun. “But there’s always next year, right?”

[moonstruckme]

hey sooooo I have a fic request for u babe! What about reader with Remus and it's like the first time she's sleeping over and she unexpectedly gets her period and she's like sorry I ruined our night I can go home and Remus is just like what?? No stay and just him soothing her through the cramps

Thank you for your request ml!

cw: period pains, mention of blood, brief allusion to mdni activities (though they truly could just have been making out if you want)

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 960 words

It’s rare, this early in your relationship, that you and Remus can sit down to watch a film and actually watch it. But it seems you’re both thoroughly spent from partaking in those other activities so frequently during the day, and now you’re both just winding down for the night, waiting to see who will admit to wanting to go to bed first. 

Remus is just as content with this, your arm pressed against his and your head heavy on his shoulder, feeling your ribs expand and contract with relaxed breaths. He could get used to having you here. It’s taking more restraint than he could have imagined to keep himself from just offering you his spare key and begging you to come and go as you please. 

“Oh, shit.” 

It’s a whisper, not particularly alarmed, but the way your muscles go stiff tells Remus it’s not nothing. You sit up, taking your weight off of him. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

You don’t answer him at first, squeezing your eyes shut. Your expression is one of unmistakable mortification. You look agonized. Remus tries to let you have the time you need to think, but a worm of unease eats further into his gut with every second of your silence. 

You push out an exhale that sounds laborious. When you open your eyes, there’s enough apology in them for a capital crime. Remus thinks that he’d probably forgive you if you told him you’d committed murder (and maybe that should scare him more than it does). 

“I think I’ve just stained your couch,” you admit. 

“Okay,” he says slowly. He doesn’t see the cause for such distress, but he also isn’t sure what you’re talking about. You’re not holding a drink, so how could you…oh. “Oh, is that all?” 

His nonplussed reaction doesn’t seem to affect your unease. “I’m so sorry,” you say, wincing. 

Remus tuts. “Don’t be, you can’t help it. Do you have anything with you, or do I need to nip to the store?” 

“I’ve got stuff.” You stand to get your bag, turning to grimace at where you’d been sitting on the couch. 

Remus’ reaction skews in the opposite direction. It’s only a splotch; by your response he’d been half convinced you were sitting in a veritable puddle of blood. 

“I’m so sorry,” you say again. “I’ll be right back.” 

“You’re alright, love,” Remus promises you. “Take whatever time you need.” 

While you’re in the bathroom, he addresses the stain. Truly, it’s no great hassle. With friends like his it’s hardly the first trial his couch has faced, and besides that Remus has an unusual amount of experience with getting blood out of things. 

It’s soaking when you come back, a small rag covering the spot from your view. You’ve changed into your pajamas, presumably because you’d stained your pants as well, but this is far from an unwelcome development. You look terribly cuddly. 

“You alright?” Remus asks as you come back to stand by the couch. 

“Yeah,” you say, somewhat quietly. You seem suddenly timid, like a guest in his home. He wants to hug you. 

“Does it hurt?” he presses. 

Your mouth pulls to the side, which is answer enough. “A little. It’s been hurting for a while, I just didn’t recognize it for what it was. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting it this early.” 

“Oh, sweetheart.” He reaches for you, hiding his disappointment when you only put your hand in his. “That’s not a very nice surprise, is it?” 

“No,” you agree with a halfhearted smile. When Remus squeezes your fingers, you squeeze back, and you at least seem up to holding his gaze even if you still look sheepish. “I’m sorry to ruin our night. I can go home.” 

“What?” A bit of hurt bullies its way into Remus’ tone. Your expression changes like you’re surprised to hear it. “No, I think you should stay.” 

You look hesitant, so he tries again, gentler this time. 

“I mean, if you’re hurting and you want to be in your own home, I understand,” Remus says, “but I hope you’re not leaving on my account. I’d like for you to be here.” 

You watch his face as though looking for discrepancies. “Really?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says earnestly. “Of course I’d love to keep you. Getting your period doesn’t change anything, except that now you’re in pain and I’d like even more for you to stay so I can be with you.” 

The muscles around your eyes relax, your expression softening into something so tender Remus feels his own heart turn to mush. 

He gives your hand a little tug, and you take the cue, sitting back down on the couch between his open legs. 

“Can I put my hand here?” he asks you, touching your stomach. 

“Sure,” you say, still somewhat timidly. You take his hand in yours, moving it down a couple inches until his fingers are skimming the soft fabric of your pajama bottoms. “But it’s more like here.” 

“Oh, okay. Can I put my hand there?” 

With your nod, Remus slips his hand beneath your waistband, to that plush stretch of skin between your belly button and your panty line. He presses down gently. 

“Oh.” Your body goes lax. 

Remus chuckles, dropping his head to kiss your shoulder. “That helps?” 

“Yeah,” you sigh contentedly. “A lot, actually. Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” He pushes on a tense spot experimentally, rewarded when you sink further into his front. “Just don’t try to run out on me the next time something like this comes up, yeah?” 

You agree readily. “Mhm. I wouldn’t have, if I’d known this was going to happen.” 

Remus smudges another kiss onto your shoulder, smug. “Just remember this then, I suppose.” 

[fluffylino]

serpent hybrid hyunjin 🌱🐍🌱

hyunjin never acted like this. you had never seen him behave so much like a serpent. was he experiencing an unusual kind of heat? did snakes do that...well u just gotta find out

i love this concept so much ill scream-

reblogging > liking

-contains mature themes (two dicks and a split tongue ahhh)

snake hybrids weren't exactly judged well in society. stereotypical beliefs calling them mean slithery liars who manipulate people.

they were just misjudged. misunderstood hybrids who needed affection too. maybe the energy exhuded made them look tough and deadly but deep down they were sweeter than even bunny hybrids.

thats why your boyfriend, hyunjin is always by your side.

theres nothing quite different about snake hybrids. except for the patches of scales on different parts of their body.

however some had no scales, instead just forked tongues. hyunjin was no exception. patient and mind numbingly soft at all times. snuggling into you every now and then.

thats why when you step into the house,you aren't expecting the strong whiff of a certain peculiar smell. its musky and fills the whole apartment.

you don't even know what you're smelling until you're embraced by him. his body warm, reeking of musk. intoxicating your senses.

"hyun-" you let out hurriedly, dropping your bag on the ground in shock. his face buried in your neck. hands running all over your body.

practically pushing you against the door, slipping his left hand between your legs while his right hand grabbed your backside. gasping at the way you seem to float off the ground. he's picking you up quicker than you can even process.

"what's going on? baby?" you say, trying to wriggle out of his firm hold. he's stronger than before and he continues holding you off the ground.

hyunjin hisses.

he fucking hisses.

and your eyes widen. thats only the second time he's ever hissed at you. once during an argument and right now. did that mean he was angry?

"heat." is all he says, huffing as he slams the bedroom door open. throwing you on the bed. not caring at the funny way, you bounced on the soft mattress.

"what do you mean? I thought snakes..don't get heats..."

you questioned. watching as he paced around the room, trying to control himself.

taking off his hoodie. arms out on display. shining with a thin layer of sweat. his hair soaked.

"fuck i don't know...i was washing our clothes and i got the smell of your shirt..."

he mumbles, and your eyes go down to where theres a prominent bulge in his pants. a wet patch staining the material.

"and its like my senses went wild. all I was thinking of was you. fucking you over and over again..." hyunjin slurs, his forked tongue peeking out.

"jinnie...your tongue"

you whisper. intrigued at how his tongue slipped past his lips every few seconds. he had never done that before.

"i can't control it-" he covers his mouth, gazing at you with needy eyes.

were his eyes always so sharp, you wondered.

"its okay baby, breathe" you reassure, opening your arms for him to come to you. and he does. resting his head on your shoulder, his weight pressing you down into the bed.

leaning into kiss him innocently when all of a sudden, his hands are on either side of your face, pulling you in for a needy kiss.

brain shutting off at the feeling of his forked tongue licking into your mouth. forcing you to be submissive because you knew you wouldn't win this battle.

.

🌱

.

"j-jinnie" squirming under him.

his hands pinning your lower half down. head buried between your legs. your toes curling everytime he maneuvered his tongue to simultaneously flick at your sensitive clit and slip between your swollen lips.

"shhh"

u don't know if he's shushing you or hissing at you.

because the next thing you feel is his fork like tongue pushing all over your folds. fingers digging into your hips with strength that had your cunt throbbing.

whining at the loss as he lifts his head up. teasingly using the tips of his wet muscle to prod at your bundle of nerves. face contorting in pleasure at your taste. breath heavy on your warmth.

"breed." he blurts out, surprising himself. your mouth opening in shock when his nails dig into your waist.

his nails had grown longer, into claws and the once hardly noticeable scales on his forearms became visible. gradient shade of black and grey.

"hyun! h-hyunjin, baby b-bab-"

writhing higher into the mattress as he pushed your legs further apart.

nestling his split tongue over your swollen pussy. teasingly managing to place your clit in the Y of his wet muscle.

had his tongue grown longer because you could feel him so deep...

.

.

"h-hyun?" you whisper, gripping his arm to relax your body for him. scales textured and rough under your calloused palm.

"m'right here, baby" hyunjin cooes. placing a hand flat on your lower stomach. eyes fixed on where he was prepping you.

with both his dicks. rubbing the tip over your folds while the other pressed into your entrance. leaking more and more slick that mixed with your own arousal.

"almost in, my love" nudging the first one in with extreme care. your fingers grasping at him. his jaw hanging open as he pushed in, groaning when he slid halfway in.

spreading your thighs so he could start to push his second dick in. the sensation and stretch making you cry in a mix of pain and pleasure.

snake hybrids had two features that only a person who they were close to, would find out about. a forked long tongue means their dicks are the same as well.

hyunjin was not particularly big. actually he was slightly above average considering snake hybrids had longer lengths and lesser girths.

hyunjin had thicker girths and the length of both his dicks were just perfect. neither too big nor too small.

but right now, he felt bigger.

he felt longer. he felt hot.

thats why when he pushes both of them past your entrance, you let out a muffled scream. eyes rolling back at the fullness. quite literally stuffed like this, for the first time.

"f-fuck gonna take me all in"

lowering himself to look down at you. his arms on either side of your head. placing his larger hands on your face. lips brushing against your open mouth.

"thats my precious girl~" and your pussy spasms around him.

getting him soaked because the way the word 'precious' rolled off his tongue, could make you cum on the spot. rolling his s's and a few other alphabets in a serpent like way. something he'd usually never do.

a firm thrust that has your hands flying up to hold onto him. clawing at his back while he buried himself deeper into your cunt. stretching you out with every rough movement.

the scales on his back were larger and travelled down his spine. groaning as you scratched down his back, hard enough to leave red imprints.

"gonna take my cum like a good mate, yes~" hyunjin hisses, watching you so closely. letting his tongue run over your front teeth, all the way down to your bottom lip.

you nod at his statement. wrapping your legs around his waist. pulling him closer. not caring if his patterns of uneven scales scratched you here and there.

plush lips kissing you with such intensity. his nose pressing into your cheek. pushing you deeper into the pillow. trailing a hand down to where your chest touched his. grabbing a handful of flesh and squeezing hard enough to make you arch your back.

taking the opportunity to thrust in deeper. your bottom half nearly lifted off the bed with his strength.

pads of his fingers pinching and pulling at your sensitive nubs. hooking your leg higher so he could change the angle. filling you up with warmth. it makes your eyes struggle to stay open.

this was nowhere near over...

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

hiss hiss need more snake hyunjin ideas FUVKKKKK

part two

[shotmrmiller]

need simon to be retired and living in the middle of nowhere with a car-fixing hobby, and you're pulling into his 'shop' because you were road-tripping across the country and now some funky noises are happening underneath the hood.

you tentatively walk towards the open garage, only to spot him under some run-down vehicle that has more rust than sun-faded paint, deflated tires, and a license plate that's also got rust gnawing at the edges, the numbers on it barely discernable.

you rap your knuckles gently on the weathered car, and the wheels of the creeper he's on squeak in protest under him as he rolls out to look at you, filthy gloves smearing the dust on his brow instead of wiping it away.

"err, hi. uh, i was pointed this way by some lovely folk that work in that diner down the way, and they said that you could take a look at my car."

he rises smoothly, even though his joints pop as he does, dark eyes squinting against the sun. he towers over you with broad shoulders and thick arms. a tough-as-teak country man.

you start when he speaks, deep voice echoing off of dusty walls. "they said tha', did they?" he lifts the hem of his grease-stained wife beater to wipe at the beads of sweat on his forehead, and your gaze involuntarily wanders to the thick trail of coarse, dark hair under his navel.

"what's wrong with it?"

if you knew that, you wouldn't be here, blatantly ogling him in some decrepit workshop located in a sleepy corner of the countryside. "i don't know. it's making some scary popping noises and figured that it needed to be looked at, asap."

your grimace is involuntary when he extends an oil-streaked gloved hand. you really hope he's not expecting you to-

"keys."

right. you wordlessly hand them over and walk a few steps behind him as he heads toward the front of your car. "did ya get it looked at before your trip?"

you want to snap at him, that obviously you did. you may not be some car wizard, however, you can do the bare minimum for it but he's your only hope for getting the hell out of here, so you press your tongue against the back of your teeth for a moment before answering.

"yes. i did prepare for it. got new tires, an oil change, and anything else it may have needed."

he hums at your answer, a low sound in the back of his throat, and curls his fingers under the hood and begins to feel for the release. your mind is in the gutter as your eyes linger on his sun-kissed skin, watching the tendons on his inked forearm ripple with each movement.

your mind is snapped back to reality when he mutters, "i hope ya don't think i'm doin' this for free."

"wouldn't dream of it. you don't seem the charitable type."

the latch yields under his fingertips, and the hood springs open. "i'd say i'm pretty charitable, considerin' i'm even helpin' ya with this."

your eyebrows furrow, corners of your lips pulling downward. "what, were you closed or something?"

he gives you a small smirk while his hand searches for the prop rod inside the engine bay. "do i look like a business, sweetheart?"

embarrassment burns your cheeks, and your mouth gapes unprettily as you turn around to truly take in the place. past the grease-smeared floors, there's rust blooming on the only workbench in the garage, a single red toolbox resting on the ground. there's a car jack tossed in a corner, a vibrant blue cooler by the door, and a few firearms on pegboard shelves. it looks like a simple garage. a personal one.

"oh my god," you stammer, "i'm so sorry, i just- the townsfolk, they led me to believe that you're a mechanic." how bloody mortifying.

he ducks his head under the hood, bending at the waist to lean over the engine, eyes swiftly scanning the machinery. "it's a hobby. i fix my own vehicles... and now yours, i reckon."

eventually, he turns the car on and listens to the engine roar to life before it begins to pop, standing over the open hood with thinned lips and furrowed brows.

he tells you that he can fix it, it'll just take a bit for the part to get here, obviously, so he recommends staying at a rented cabin in town for a few days— maybe even a week— and he'll give you a ride over.

he gets you there in no time, unsurprising because he drove the motorcycle far too fast— illegal, really. he helps you off the bike, your clammy hand in his much bigger, roughened one.

you rip off his helmet, pushing it into his barrel chest. "please never drive me around that fast again." he gives you a couple of pats to the shoulder, chuckling under his breath.

"unless you're plannin' on walkin' to get your car back, i can't promise tha'."

grrrreat.

(the issue was the serpentine belt, it was slightly frayed but the man kept you around for 2.5 weeks under the excuse of something taking too long, or the car being under worse condition. maybe he charges you a kidney for fixing it, and since you can't obviously pay that ridiculous amt of money, he tells you to go on a date with him. gross. or maybe he's a sane man and he just sends you on your way in 2 days time. idk. installs a gps in your car? keepin' tabs on ya cuz he plans on passing by wherever you live by complete coincidence.)

[mononijikayu]

to you 2,000... or... 20,000 years from now… — ryomen sukuna.

As they stand to leave, his gaze drifts to one of his portraits—a work that captures a moment from another time, another life. In it, the King of Curses sits beside his beloved concubine, her expression full of light and laughter, radiant in a way that suggests an unbreakable bond. Ryomen Sukuna pauses, his hand still entwined with hers, and a rare, gentle smile crosses his face. Looking at the painting, he lets himself hope, just a little. Perhaps, even in a world he once saw as cold and unyielding, there are threads of something beautiful woven into his story. Perhaps, even for someone like him, there could be a happy ending, one he’d never dared to imagine. He leans down and whispers softly, almost as if confessing a secret. “I like to think they found each other again, you know? That somehow… this time, they got to be happy.”

GENRE: alternate universe - reincarnation;

WARNING/S: post canon, future timeline, fluff, possible romance, getting together, mild angst, reincarnation, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, dreams and nightmares, distress, grief, feelings, physical touch, character death, moving on, flashback, humor, no curse future au, pining, light-hearted, happy ending, depiction of the future, depiction of reincarnation, depiction of letting go, depiction of flashback, depiction of getting together, depiction of depiction of character death, depiction of distress, depiction of grief, mention of character death, mention of the past, mention of letting go, mention of grief, reincarnated! sukuna, reincarnated concubine! reader;

WORDS: 15k words.

NOTE: this concludes the final part of the main story of the other woman. i'm genuinely grateful for you love and attention towards my story. this was never supposed to be a series, it was supposed to be a one off fic. but because of your love for concubine reader, i was inspired to bring more to her life.

as i promised, this is a happy ending. well, the happy end that i think would suit the story. of course, this is not the end of concubine reader's story. there will be drabbles of sukuna and concubine reader's life that i never managed to put out.

if you have any suggestion or questions about the story, you can drop some words down in the inbox!!! i'm very happy when you ask questions about the story or have suggestions of what you wanna see next!!! please do so everyone!!!

i hope you look forward to them!!! thank you for reading, thank you for your support and love. i'll continue to write for you all!!! i love you <3

main masterlist

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if you want to, tip! <3

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HE DOESN’T KNOW HOW HE’LL GET THROUGH THIS. He’d never felt like this before. What do his other artist friends call it? Oh, that’s right. A slump. An artist’s slump. Yeah, that’s what it’s called. He’s never had that before.

But why should he? Ryomen Sukuna was a protege. He was a stellar artist with a golden hand, one who never stops. The one who works as though he’s running out of time. It’s him. 

And yet, at that moment, he wasn’t.

Ryomen Sukuna had a problem.

He was stumped from hell and back.

And he doesn’t understand why.

A loud exhale releases from his mouth as he looks up at all the drying canvas in front of him in the various easels. They’re all beautiful, don’t get him wrong. But they’re all the same.

And that bothers Ryomen Sukuna as he purses his lips in a flat line. His own studio has become a homage to these paintings and sketches as of late. There was nothing else coming out of him. Nothing else was occupying his mind.

In the maze of half-finished canvases and dried paint of his studio, there were only those same eyes staring at him. He could feel it even now under the dim lighting casting long, wavering shadows across each and every tender gaze.

He couldn’t stand up anymore. He’s exhausted. He’s been up since god knows when. Everywhere there was paint. His hands are stained, his shirt splattered with colors that have long since dulled. It’s been weeks.

He doesn't know how to deal with this. How could he, when she finds him in every moment? How easy it was to be that way. He’s stopped keeping track of time, because time means nothing when all he can see, all he can paint, is her.

As of late, it was this that haunted him. It was the same as always. It was this woman with those kind eyes looking back at him. That same tender smile greeting him. That same beauty yearning towards him. Everything about the woman’s face consumes him. Everything that she is continues to follow him like a ghost, over and over. 

He can’t even pinpoint when it started. It just started happening out of nowhere. At one point there were normal dreams and soon enough, there were something else.

And as time passed by, there was nothing else left but her. Her beautiful smiling face looking at him. Every single time, she never fails to be warm towards him. As though she could feel him, as though she could see him.

She’s become more than a fixation; she’s an infection, seeping into every corner of his mind, haunting the hours he’s awake as much as those precious few where he drifts into a broken sleep.

She first appeared in his dreams like a fleeting whisper, but her image has grown, intensifying with each passing night, filling his dreams with a crescendo of color and dread. And over and over, it was repeating.

Like a piano key stuck on the board, playing over and over that same repetitive note. And yet, it was still lovely. It was still tender. And then suddenly, it wasn’t. That was the worst part of it all, he thinks. He captures the beauty of her and then suddenly, it just disappears. It goes. Almost like smoke. 

The dream is always the same every night. At first it was terrifying to him. He’d never seen anything like her before. He’d never seen what happened to her before, not to anyone. Not ever. But with her, it repeats.

That nightmare continues over and over again. And he hated it. He hated how he has memorized it. He has hated how it was all he could see over and over again. He hated how this was the fate that such a beautiful, kind woman had to meet.

That beautiful lady, she would stand there and smile at him. Often, she stands at the edge of a crumbling cliff, the ocean roiling and dark beneath her, waves crashing against jagged rocks far below.

She turns, her eyes fixed on him, lips curling into a smile that might be tender, might be mocking, it shifts each time, eluding any attempt to decipher it.

She extends a hand, beckoning, imploring him to come closer. His heart races, his feet propel him forward, but just as he reaches for her, she slips, and he’s left grasping at nothing but empty air.

Again and again, he tries to save her. Again and again, she falls.

The dream wakes him in a cold sweat, heart pounding, breath shallow. He stumbles to his studio, and without thinking, he begins to paint. Her face materializes with each stroke, her eyes holding secrets he can’t unlock.

Her smile flickering with a mystery that tightens his chest. He paints her until his fingers go numb, until his eyes blur from exhaustion. He paints her even when he’s on the verge of madness. And he hates it—hates her—but he’s powerless to stop.

The people around him have noticed the shift, though they don’t understand it. They speak of his new works with reverence, captivated by the haunting beauty of the unknown woman he’s made famous.

But they don’t see the toll she takes on him. They don’t see the shadow of sleeplessness etched into his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the wild desperation lurking just beneath his cool exterior.

Every time he tries to paint something else. Absolutely anything else, it does not work. Not anymore. He would feel his hands freeze, his mind goes blank, and all he can see is her smile.

She’s everywhere, a ghost in his waking hours, her gaze piercing through every wall he builds to keep her out. The thrill of creation is gone; all that remains is the raw compulsion to recreate her face, an act that feels more like exorcism than art.

Ryomen Sukuna slumps back into his chair, eyes trained on the painting before him, hands limp and smeared with shades of red and soft violet. Her face, the delicate arch of her brows, the smirk teasing at her lips. All of it stares back at him, alive, taunting. 

It’s as though she’s watching him, laughing softly at his obsession, fully aware of the hold she has over him. The painted eyes seem to flicker, and in his exhaustion, Sukuna wonders if he’s the one painting her, or if she’s the one reaching through the canvas, carving her image into his mind with a precision that leaves him helpless.

“Damn it. This is so annoying.” he mutters, his voice echoing hollowly in the quiet room. He reaches for his brush, the movement automatic, but his hand falters, dropping it back onto the table as he releases a frustrated sigh. 

The curse feels weak, a pitiful attempt to regain some control, but he knows it’s useless. She’s an endless riddle, one he’s compelled to solve yet doomed to never fully understand.

No matter how many times he paints her, he can’t capture her—not completely. The harder he tries, the more elusive she becomes, as though she’s slipping through his fingers, mocking his every attempt.

He sits there, shoulders slouched, the steady tick of the clock filling the empty space around him. Hours blur into each other, and yet he can’t bring himself to look away, his gaze locked on her face, that faint smile hinting at secrets she will never share.

And then, just as the clock strikes midnight, he hears it. That tender voice giving him grief. That warm voice turning him cold. That voice echoed that whisper, soft as a breeze, calling his name.

“My lord…..my lord Sukuna.”

He closes his eyes, the sound reverberating through him, familiar and yet so distant. She’s there, in his mind, like an echo carried across lifetimes, the warmth of her voice stirring something deep inside.

He knows it’s a dream, an illusion conjured by his own obsession, but he doesn’t care. For a brief moment, he lets himself lean into it, lets her voice wash over him like a balm.

“My lord, my beloved lord Sukuna…” Her voice is softer this time, coaxing, filled with a strange tenderness that he’s certain only exists in his imagination. He can almost feel her fingers trailing along his cheek, the faintest touch, leaving warmth in their wake.

“What do you want from me?” he murmurs, his voice a weary plea, barely audible, as if afraid to break the fragile spell she’s cast over him. “You’re there every night, haunting me, making me see you even when I close my eyes. But what do you want?”

In his mind, her laughter echoes, soft and familiar, as if she’s toying with him. “You know what I want, my lord Sukuna. You’ve always known.”

He clenches his fists, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Then tell me, damn it. Tell me what I need to do to set you free.”

“Set me free?” she repeats, and there’s a hint of amusement in her voice, as if the very idea amuses her. “Oh, my lord Sukuna… it’s not me who needs freeing.”

His breath hitches, her words cutting through him like a blade. The realization settles over him like a heavy weight, and he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that she’s right.

She isn’t the one trapped here—he is. Bound by his own memories, his own regrets, unable to let go of the past that has woven her image into every part of him.

He opens his eyes, staring at the canvas again, her face seeming to shift. It was almost ever so easy for her to taunt him like that, to tease him. Everything about her gave him that feeling that overwhelms him. Feelings that he's never felt in his entire life.

He could feel her eyes glinting with a knowing look that sends a shiver down his spine. He reaches for the brush, hand trembling as he adds another stroke, trying to bring her into focus, to finally capture the essence of her that has haunted him. But no matter what he does, he can’t reach her, can’t grasp the fleeting vision that seems to dance just beyond his reach.

“I’ll keep painting you. I swear.” he whispers, his voice raw, laced with something close to desperation. “Every night, every dream, until you’re satisfied. Until you let me go.”

But he knows, even as the words leave his lips, that she won’t; she’ll never truly leave. She’ll linger there, a silent muse, a relentless force guiding his hand, embedding herself deeper with every brushstroke.

And he, trapped in this beautiful, maddening cycle, will keep painting her face, night after night, each canvas only revealing a fragment of her and yet never enough.

The clock ticks on, marking the hours that slip away in her wake, but he’s long since stopped noticing. She’s there, in every line, every shadow, every flicker of light on the canvas.

She’s his prison, his muse, his madness—and he knows, even as he tries to break free, that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

══════════════════

BY THIS POINT, HE WOULD HAVE BEEN FINISHED WITH HIS COLLECTION. Usually, Ryomen Sukuna finishes his pieces weeks ahead, leaving everyone else; especially Gojo Satoru—scrambling to catch up. Well, perhaps because he usually doesn’t work until he stops messing about. 

Still, the rivalry is a running joke among their peers. Gojo Satoru  would tease him endlessly, his voice loud and mocking. “The world might as well end if you didn’t finish first, Ryomen Sukuna. I’d have to check if hell froze over.”

Gojo Satoru would say with that infuriating grin, and Sukuna would just roll his scarlet eyes, barely dignifying it with a response. He didn’t need to—he’d simply outdo him, his work claiming the prime spot at the National Gallery, cycle after cycle. That’s just how it works for them.

But now, as the days tick by and his canvas remains trapped in this maddening loop, the weight of that old joke feels heavier. Maybe it would be better if the world did end, he muses grimly, his frustration boiling under the surface. Each day that he fails to paint anything else, fails to break free from this woman’s image—drains him. 

Every line, every shadow, every detail is etched with painstaking care, and yet each piece feels incomplete. He lets out a heavy sigh, his eyes narrowing as he looks once more at the canvas, the same haunting face staring back.

Another artist would leave the piece for a day, perhaps even a week, and come back with fresh eyes. But not Sukuna. He’s stubborn, relentless. Yet this time, it feels as though he’s been bested, and that thought is infuriating.

A soft knock sounds at the studio door, but he doesn’t respond. The door creaks open, and he doesn’t need to look up to know who it is—he can practically feel Gojo Satoru’s grin from across the room. This was a rare visit from his rival and somewhat friend. But, he already regrets giving him his address.

“Not done yet?” Gojo drawls, strolling in with a lazy confidence, hands shoved into his pockets. “Well, this must be it—the end of the world. Should I start making apocalypse preparations?”

“Leave, Satoru.” Sukuna mutters, his voice a low growl. But Gojo just chuckles, unperturbed.

“Can’t. I live wayyyyyy tooo far. Besides, I came all this way to see the fall of the great Ryomen Sukuna. And boy, is it a sight.” Gojo steps closer, his gaze shifting to the canvas. “Her again, huh? Your mystery woman? I thought you were done with her!”

Sukuna’s jaw tightens. “Say another word, and you’ll be painting with your own blood.”

Gojo just laughs, crossing his arms as he leans back against the wall. “Fine, fine. But it’s… interesting, don’t you think? You, stuck on the same image, over and over. And all of this because of one woman.”

Sukuna can feel his patience fraying, each word from Gojo Satoru like sandpaper on a wound that refuses to heal. But Gojo doesn’t stop, his tone shifting from mocking to genuinely curious. It’s already giving him a headache.

“So, bestie…��” he says, a glint in his bright blue eyes. “Who is she? A muse? Some long-lost love? Because whatever it is, you’re about to drive yourself mad over her.”

“She’s nothing.” Sukuna says sharply, but the words lack conviction. He doesn’t want to dive into it. Especially for Gojo Satoru. He’d only try to make it all a joke and laugh about it. “Just a woman. Just a damn face that refuses to disappear.”

Gojo Satoru couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow. “Nothing? Could’ve fooled me, seeing as she’s all you’ve painted for weeks. Either she’s ‘just a woman,’ or she’s haunting you.”

Sukuna clenches his fists, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I can’t… get her out of my head, no matter how many times I try. It’s like she’s taunting me. Every stroke feels like a chase, and I can’t catch her.”

For once, Gojo’s grin fades, a shadow of understanding passing over his face. “So that’s it, huh? You’ve finally found a challenge you can’t conquer. Even after all these years.”

Sukuna scowls, eyes narrowing. “It’s not a challenge. It’s… more than that.” His voice trails off as he glances at the painting, his expression a mixture of longing and frustration.

“Then stop,” Gojo says bluntly. “If she’s driving you insane, stop trying to capture her. Paint something else. Anything else. Get back to your work, to the craft that’s kept you sane all this time.”

But Sukuna only shakes his head, his gaze fixed on the canvas. “It’s not that simple, Satoru. I can’t stop. I need to understand… Why is she here? Why does she keep coming back to me?”

Gojo sighs, running a hand through his bright snow colored hair, clearly torn between amusement and pity. “Well, I can’t say I envy you. But maybe you should try looking beyond the canvas, for once.”

Sukuna scoffs, though a hint of doubt creeps into his expression. “You think there’s anything outside this room that could give me answers?”

Gojo shrugs. “Who knows? Sometimes the answers we need are the ones we’re not looking for. But if this is what’s keeping you chained…” he nods towards the door, his voice lowering, “then maybe it’s time to find out why.”

Ryomen Sukuna says nothing, his gaze flicking between Gojo and the woman’s face on the canvas. And as Gojo slips out the door with a knowing smile, Sukuna feels the weight of his words lingering, as if daring him to break free of the chains he’s crafted for himself.

Gojo Satoru stayed in his studio for a while; the entire time his head hurt. But he couldn’t help admitting that his frustration was put on hold and that he was grateful for it. Annoying as he was, it was better than suffering what he had been suffering with the woman that haunts him.

But when Gojo Satoru leaves, he finds himself unable to leave either. From the night before, he hadn’t really found himself to sleep. But if he was still being honest, he really doesn’t think he made any progress from the ones he had already made  that he feels happy about.

Well, except perhaps three more additions to his deluded dreams of this woman. He couldn’t stop with that. That was not something he could enjoy. It didn’t look good. He didn’t think it was the best he had ever done. He looks at his canvas again and squints his eyes. It was as though he was hoping that he had painted something else. But he knew he hadn’t. There was no need to double check. 

Okay, well, he should be more honest — it’s four now. This is the fourth one. The fourth one for a while and it’s only past lunch time the next day.  Wait, is it really lunch time? He looked around again and saw his clock. His mouth agape in shock. It’s already been a whole day? It’s already the blue hour? What the actual fuck is going on?

He groans as he puts down his paintbrush and covers his face with his hands. A loud groan echoes against his skin, reflecting that bitterness he feels. He was going mad, he’s genuinely sure that he’s really going mad. This time for real. The world is ending and he’s going mad.

Once more, Ryomen Sukuna sits slumped in his studio chair, the dim, cold light from the nearby cityscape casting a pallor over his face. How can this be possible? He's rubbing his temples, staring at yet another drying and yet truly unfinished portrait of her when a familiar voice cuts through his brooding. Ryomen Sukuna turned his back and turned it back once more, just as quickly.

Fuck, its Uraume.

Shit, shit. Is it already that time?

He hasn’t messaged them for two days.

How the fuck is he going to survive—

“Sukuna–san, you have the exhibition in two weeks, you know that!” Uraume reminds him, waking over with their tone both gentle and insistent. They’re standing at the edge of the cluttered studio, arms crossed, their eyes flicking between Sukuna and the growing stack of canvases lining the walls. “Everyone’s expecting new work, Sukuna–san. You can’t just say you aren’t producing anything when this is—”

He cuts them off with a frustrated wave of his hand, as if trying to dismiss both them and the exhibition out of his mind. “I know, I know, Uraume–san. You already know that I know. Don’t you think I know? I just…… What’s the point of even going here? It’s not…it’s not finished—nothing is complete.” 

“That’s not what you’re supposed to be telling me—”

“I know, I know.” His voice trails off, heavy with exhaustion. He looks at the half-finished canvas before him, her familiar eyes staring back, mocking him. “Look, I need time. Okay? Just a little more time to get over it. I promise. It will be done soon.”

Uraume steps carefully, sidestepping the mess of brushes, scattered paint, and half-finished canvases that litter the studio floor. Their usual calm is tinged with a hint of bewilderment, their brows furrowing as they glance over at Ryomen Sukuna, who sits slouched in his chair, staring blankly at the portrait before him. 

This is the first time they’ve seen him like this—so unfocused, so… lost. It’s unnerving. For as long as they’ve known him, Sukuna was always in control, his power and his confidence absolute. Nothing stumped him; nothing could shake him from his single-minded determination.

And yet, here he is, surrounded by portraits of a woman they’ve never met, trapped in a spiral of obsession that they don’t understand.

“Get over what, exactly?” Uraume asks, a soft but firm edge to their voice, breaking the silence that has grown heavy in the room. “The exhibition is practically sold out already. You are the star of this show—you know that.” 

They hesitate, crossing their arms as they study his profile. “If you let yourself slip now, you’re going to lose everything. They expect something… groundbreaking, something other than…”

Their voice trails off as they catch sight of another painting, and then another; all of them of her. Each one shows a different expression, a different tilt of her head, a different light in her eyes, but always the same haunting face. Uraume’s gaze lingers on the latest painting, her smirk, subtle yet all-consuming, as if she’s daring anyone who looks at her to understand.

They shake their heads slowly, exhaling in frustration. “This obsession of yours…” They struggle for the right words, their gaze hardening as they glance back at him. “I don’t understand it. Who is she? And why are you letting her control you like this?”

Sukuna looks up, his expression weary, but there’s a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes, a glint that only appears when he’s truly challenged. “You wouldn’t understand, Uraume–san.” he mutters, his voice low, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “No one would. Not unless you felt what she did to me.”

Uraume raises a brow, taken aback. This isn’t like him—this vulnerability, this almost painful honesty. They’ve seen Sukuna bring cities to their knees, watched him command fear and respect with the simplest look, but now? Now, he looks more like a man haunted than a man in control. 

“Then tell me, Sukuna–san.” Uraume says, their voice softening slightly, more curious than before. “What is it about her? Why does she matter so much?”

He leans back, a bitter smile crossing his lips. “It’s like… no matter how many times I paint her, she’s always out of reach, Uraume–san.” he says, his eyes flicking to the painting in front of him, the smirk that never changes. “Every stroke, every color—it’s as if she’s taunting me, daring me to try again, knowing I’ll never capture her.”

There’s a pause, the weight of his words settling between them, thick and tangible. Uraume takes a step back, their expression wavering. They’re used to seeing Sukuna drive toward a goal with relentless force, breaking anything that stands in his way. But this? This is something else. Something they can’t touch.

“Is she worth all this?” Uraume asks, more gently than they intended. “Worth losing your edge, your control?” They gesture to the canvases around them. “If she’s haunting you this much, perhaps it’s time to let her go.”

A dark laugh escapes Sukuna, low and humorless. “Let her go?” he repeats, his gaze still fixed on the painting. “I’ve tried, Uraume–san. But she’s there, every time I close my eyes. And I can’t…” He stops himself, the words caught in his throat. “She won’t let me go.”

Uraume watches him, feeling a pang of something they can’t quite name—pity, perhaps, or fear for what this fixation could mean for him. They take a step forward, daring to place a hand on his shoulder. 

“You’re stronger than this, Sukuna–san.” they say softly, but firmly. “Whatever hold she has over you, it doesn’t control you. You’re the one in charge here, remember?”

For a moment, Sukuna seems to consider their words, a flicker of clarity in his eyes. But then he glances back at the canvas, at her knowing smile, and his face hardens, as if he’s resigned to the fact that he’s already lost.

“I thought so too, Uraume–san.” he murmurs, barely loud enough for Uraume to hear. “But I’m beginning to wonder… maybe she’s the one painting me.”

Uraume watches him in silence, feeling the cold truth of his words settle between them. They realize, in that moment, that they may be witnessing the unraveling of the man they thought was unbreakable. And for the first time, they wonder if he can even escape from the shadows of his own creation.

Sukuna follows their gaze, feeling a surge of irritation and helplessness. “It’s not that simple, Uraume–san. God, it’s just….” he mutters, running a hand through his messy fuschia hair, which is starting to look as unruly as he feels.

“She’s—she’s everywhere to me. And maybe that’s why she’s always here. Every time I try to start something else, there she is. Like a bad dream I can’t wake up from.” 

He glances at Uraume, searching their face for some flicker of understanding. “Don’t you get it? I need to work through this. You can’t just snap your fingers and make it go away. If I had magic, it would have been fine, but I just….”

“Then maybe make her part of it.” Uraume replies, unphased by his frustration. “People will want to see this obsession—whatever it is. But they won’t be satisfied with half-finished canvases of the same face over and over.”

He stands up abruptly, pacing, as if movement will shake off the weight pressing down on him. “It’s not an obsession,” he says, though the words sound hollow, even to him. “I just need… time. To figure this out. To move past her.”

Uraume watches him with a calm patience that only irritates him further. “You’ve had time, Sukuna-san. And every day, I’ve watched you do nothing but chase shadows.” They gesture to the rows of unfinished canvases, the dozens of faces that all share her haunting expression.

“Maybe you don’t need to get past her. Maybe you need to go deeper, to figure out what she’s trying to tell you.”

Sukuna clenches his jaw, feeling the heat rise in his chest. He hates that Uraume, of all people, might be right. But how could he go deeper when she’s already consuming him? They should know that this is not what he needs right now. He needs support about this trying situation. He needs kindness about this. He needs—

He turns his eyes slightly and soon enough, they land on the first portrait he’s drawn of her. It was rough around the edges, it was true. But he was trying really hard to capture what he had found in her. He thought he would never see her again. That first time, it was all too interesting. Because he thought he would never see her again. And her smile would have been everything even that one time. 

That once would have been enough, it would have fulfilled him whole enough. That one portrait, that first one — it would have been enough for Ryomen Sukuna to feel like someone was always going to look at him kindly. 

That someone would always look at him with such tender eyes. He purses his lips in a line. Here she was. Once again, staring into his soul. Frozen in time. Looking towards him as though he was the world. As though life can only be known through looking at him. He gulped.

“I’ll figure it out, don’t worry.” he says finally, forcing his voice to steady. “Just… let me handle it my way.”

Uraume sighs, a long, exasperated sound. “Fine. But remember, Sukuna–san, time waits for no one. Especially not for you.” 

And with that, they turn, leaving him alone once more in his dimly lit prison, with nothing but her face and the ticking of the clock to keep him company. Ryomen Sukuna could not move anymore for a while. He couldn’t. Not when you were looking at him like that.

The echoes of the night pangs into the slumber of the bright starry sky, and the silence in Ryomen Sukuna’s studio is absolute, broken only by the occasional soft creak of his chair or the quiet scratch of his brush against the canvas. And he despises it. Usually, he would be happy about that. It helps him focus on his work. 

Yet, he’s almost afraid to move or make more noise or appease the silence with his enjoyment. Ryomen Sukuna was afraid that if he does, he’ll break the spell that’s settled over him, the fragile connection that’s come alive between him and her.

This ghostly woman, this chasing woman who has rooted herself so deeply in his psyche. He knows she’s not real, and yet every inch of him feels as if she’s in the room with him, closer than a shadow, more vivid than any memory.

The woman on the canvas feels different this time. He’s pushed past the limits of his frustration and reached a depth of expression that feels raw, unnerving. Her face, no longer a series of lifeless shapes and colors, seems to breathe on the canvas. 

Her smile is softer now, her eyes almost… knowing. But the knowing isn’t comforting; it unsettles him, strikes some primal nerve deep inside. He steps back, shaking his head as if to clear it, to dispel the irrational thought that she’s looking back at him with intent, with purpose.

But even standing back, even half-closing his eyes, he can’t unsee her. She seems more real than ever before, like he’s peeled away another layer, only to find her hiding deeper within. He feels his heart beat faster, a slow wave of dread creeping into his veins. How can a face he created himself feel so alive? So sentient?

He backs away from the canvas, his hands covered in paint, feeling a chill settle over him. He’s been pushing himself to exhaustion these past few weeks, painting her in every possible way, but this—this feels different, like he’s crossed an invisible line. For the first time, the compulsion to paint her is laced with fear.

Still, he can’t look away. Her presence fills the room, and he feels the weight of it like a physical force. His eyes roam over her face: the faint shadows around her eyes, the suggestion of pain hidden in the tilt of her lips, the look of sorrow mingling with defiance. Each detail tells a story he’s not sure he wants to know, yet he’s desperate to understand it.

Uraume’s words echo in his mind again: Maybe you don’t need to get past her. Maybe you need to go deeper, to figure out what she’s trying to tell you.

He shudders, the thought reverberating through him. What if this woman, this apparition, isn’t just an accident of his imagination? What if she’s here for a reason, some purpose he’s been too afraid to uncover?

He recalls the dreams—the cliff, the ocean raging below, the way she extends her hand to him with that haunting smile, beckoning him forward only to disappear again and again. It’s always the same. He can’t save her, but he can’t let her go.

He’s always believed that his art comes from somewhere deep within him, from emotions he doesn’t fully understand, from memories he can’t articulate. But this feels different to him. He had never dealt with this before. 

It was almost as if it’s coming from outside of him, as though she’s reaching through the boundary of his mind, using his hands as a conduit. He lets out a shaky breath, clutching the paint-stained edge of his workbench. Is this woman, this image, an echo from his past? A ghost? Or something darker, something he’s unlocked without meaning to?

The thought stirs something in him, a strange, unexplainable pull to keep going, to lose himself in this process of bringing her fully to life. He walks back to the canvas, hand trembling as he picks up his brush once more.

This time, he paints her hand, reaching out, as if extending toward him. The fingers are delicate, almost ghostly, and he layers shadows beneath them, giving them depth, weight. He works until the details blur, until his vision is smeared with exhaustion.

He steps back again, chest tight. Her hand stretches toward him now, inviting him, her fingers just a breath away. The air in the room feels thick, electric, as if she’s drawing him closer, beckoning him to cross some unseen line. He reaches out instinctively, the tips of his fingers barely brushing the canvas.

In that instant, a shiver courses through him, the chill going bone-deep. He feels his hand pull back, but it’s as if something is holding it there, holding him in place. His heart races. He hears the ticking of the clock, each tick louder, more insistent. The woman on the canvas seems closer now, her eyes sharper, more alive, her expression shifting as though she’s on the edge of speaking.

He tears his hand away, stumbling backward, the sudden movement jarring him back to himself. His studio comes into focus, the familiar mess of paint and brushes scattered around, the quiet hum of the city outside. But she’s still there, her face on the canvas, watching him with that faint, knowing smile.

His heart still pounding, he grabs his coat and stumbles out of the studio, leaving her behind, feeling her gaze burning into his back even as he shuts the door. The air outside is cold, crisp, and he gulps it down, trying to shake off the feeling that he’s walked out of a nightmare he can’t wake from.

But even as he steps into the city streets, even as the lights and the noise surround him, he can still see her in his mind, as clearly as if she were standing beside him.

And he knows, with a strange certainty, that no matter how far he runs, she’ll be waiting for him, waiting in the studio, in his dreams, until he finally dares to confront whatever truth she holds.

══════════════════

HE REALLY CAN’T HELP IT. Ryomen Sukuna’s heart hammers in his chest, louder than the muffled hum of voices in the museum, louder than the memories raging through his mind. He stands frozen, his scarlet eyes locked onto her.

This was the woman from his dreams, the face he painted until his hands went numb, until his sanity frayed. The woman he has known is like the back of his hand. She’s here, in the flesh, not on a canvas or a hazy memory, but real, close enough to reach out and touch. And yet, at this moment, she feels farther away than ever.

The woman doesn’t notice him. Of course she wouldn’t have. Why would she? He doesn’t expect her to know what he’s feeling now. She’s oblivious to the storm her presence has unleashed in his chest, the way his pulse spikes as he watches her, every nerve in his body caught between reaching for her and running away. 

She’s gazing intently at the displays, her head tilting thoughtfully as she studies each artifact, and with each subtle movement, she reminds him achingly of her—of the woman he’d known in that past life, his concubine, the one he’d lost so long ago. She has that same air of quiet intensity, that gentle focus, the same soft curiosity he remembers.

And then she steps closer to the display holding the hairpin. That hairpin—the one he’d given to his concubine as a symbol of the promise he couldn’t keep, the one she had treasured even on the darkest nights, when the weight of their hidden love had pressed heavy upon them both. The hairpin he’d clasped in her hair before she was taken from him.

The sight of it had been a punch to the gut even before he saw her. But now, watching this woman—a stranger, yet painfully familiar—reach out as though to touch the glass, Sukuna feels something crack open inside him, a wound he’d buried lifetimes ago tearing fresh and raw.

She lifts her hand, her fingers hovering near the glass, her eyes lingering on the hairpin with a look he recognizes—sadness, longing, nostalgia she can’t possibly understand.

Her face is calm, her expression serene, but he knows that look, knows that feeling. Does she feel it too? Does she feel the echo of something lost, something distant yet so deeply embedded in her soul?

His own hand trembles at his side. He wants to go to her, to pull her aside, to demand to know if she remembers, if somewhere in her heart she feels that same aching void he’s carried for centuries. But the reality sinks in, cold and unyielding: to her, he’s a stranger. 

She has no idea who he is. She doesn’t remember their stolen moments under moonlight, their whispered vows, the quiet, forbidden love that had bound them tighter than any promise. She doesn’t remember his face, doesn’t know the agony he’s endured, living each lifetime haunted by her ghost, painting her face in the desperate hope it might bring her back.

And yet, the hairpin calls to her. He watches her, rooted to the spot, as she studies it with a reverence she can’t name, can’t explain, an inexplicable connection to something lost to time. He can almost see the weight of her past life hovering over her like a shadow she doesn’t even know is there.

Sukuna’s fingers twitch, aching to touch her, to break this unbearable silence and tell her everything: that he’s waited lifetimes for her, that he’s dreamed of her every night, that every stroke of his brush was a desperate attempt to remember her, to reach her, to feel even an echo of what they once had. But how could he explain that? How could he unload centuries of grief, of longing, on her shoulders, when she doesn’t even know his name?

She turns, moving slowly to the next display. But for a single heartbeat, her gaze drifts in his direction. Their eyes meet, and in that split second, the air thickens, everything around him falling away. Her eyes—those same eyes, dark and deep, full of questions and secrets—fix on him, and he feels the weight of their shared history settle like a heavy cloak over them both.

He watches as something flickers in her gaze, an almost imperceptible flash of recognition. She blinks, and it’s gone, but he clings to it, desperate. Did she feel it, even if only for a moment? Did she feel the weight of a life before, a life they shared, a love they lost?

But she turns away, her brows furrowing slightly, as if shaking off a strange thought, and the moment shatters, leaving him stranded in a sea of regret and unspoken words. She disappears around the corner, her silhouette swallowed by the shadows of the exhibit.

A bitter pang cuts through him, deeper than anything he’s felt in centuries. She’s here, alive, within his reach, and yet she’s still lost to him. He’s still haunted by the echo of her smile, the shadow of her memory, the woman he could never save.

Slowly, Ryomen Sukuna forces himself to step away, his gaze lingering on the hairpin. He clenches his fists, feeling the familiar sting of regret, of promises broken, of lives tangled and torn apart.

He’d thought he was prepared to face her, though he could handle the pain that would come with seeing her again. But the reality is raw and relentless, tearing open old wounds he thought were healed.

In that moment, he was the only one who knew the truth: he’ll always be trapped in this cycle, drawn to her only to watch her slip away. No matter how many times he finds her, she’ll always be just out of reach, a dream he can never wake from.

Ryomen Sukuna’s heart nearly stops when he feels a soft hand on his arm, drawing him back to the present. His present. In front of this woman, this woman who haunted him with everything and anything in him.

“Are you… okay?” the woman asks, her voice gentle, her eyes warm with concern.

He’s stunned, his breath catching as he looks down at her, the stranger with the face he’s known all too well, the stranger who feels like a ghost comes to life. But he forces himself to gather his thoughts, to act like this is a normal interaction with a stranger, even though every nerve in his body feels charged with recognition.

“Ah… yes, I’m….I’m good.” he finally says, his voice rough but steady. “I just find the gallery… interesting.” The words feel absurdly inadequate, but it’s the only thing he can manage.

A small smile breaks over her lips, and the sight of it sends a sharp pang through him. It’s so familiar, so achingly familiar, that he has to clench his fists to keep himself grounded. She glances around the exhibit, her expression softening with a hint of pride.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it, stranger.” she says. “It was… hard to tell the story. To do it justice, I mean.” Her gaze returns to his, warm and inviting. “I’m a Mikoto, by the way. A descendant of Hiromi.”

He feels his heart stop at the name, and it takes him a beat to respond. “Ryomen… Ryomen Sukuna, that’s my name.” he says, his voice catching slightly as he introduces himself. 

He could only watch as her eyes widened in surprise, and she studied him, the weight of recognition glinting faintly in her gaze, though she didn't seem to realize its true depth. She probably did not expect him to have that name, that exact name, also.

“A descendant of Hiromi, too?” she asks with a soft laugh, her expression open, friendly. When he doesn’t answer, she shakes her head with a lighthearted smile. “It’s okay. The family’s too big for everyone to know where they come from anyway.”

He nods stiffly, a bit overwhelmed, struggling to keep his composure as memories flicker before him. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he aches to tell her, but he swallows it all down, letting the silence sit between them, as heavy as it is fragile.

Then, gathering his nerve, he glances at her. “Can I… can I ask you something about the exhibit? About Ryomen Sukuna?”

She tilts her head, curious. “Of course, you can.” she says. “But fair warning—it’s going to be a long story. A sad story.”

He meets her gaze, and in that moment, he sees a flicker of recognition in her eyes, something deep and familiar that calls to him. He nods. “That’s okay.” he says softly. “I think I need to hear it.”

She studies him a moment, as if trying to understand his need to know. Judging from her own reaction, it's a difficult story to even try and tell. But he was curious. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he wanted to know so badly.

He wanted to know more than anything how these two people lived. How she lived, that woman in his dreams — the woman right in front of him. He looks at her tenderly, curiously. And she nods, a quiet understanding in her expression. 

“Ryomen Sukuna… and his concubine. Their stories are really not easy. Nor is her own. His concubine’s story is difficult. She led a long, sad life. They were together for a long time, longer than Sukuna and Hiromi were wed.” Her eyes lowered, the sight gleaming with sorrow as she touched the glass, trying to reach for the hairpin. 

“She was devoted to him, in all the ways that one could describe devotion. And yet….she suffered under him… Quite a lot, if we’re to be honest. She gave him a son and she lost him and his indifference at times, it broke her.” She hesitates, glancing at him before continuing. “Though in his own way, he loved her. But well, was it enough? We cannot truly tell. From what we know from Ryomen Chiharu, she died without knowing. But perhaps, those are claims.”

The words pierce him like a knife. Hearing it from her lips, from her gentle voice, makes it all feel too real. The bitterness, the heartbreak, the weight of it all surges within him, yet he can’t look away from her. Is that what she has had to live through all that time? Was it only the heartbreak she had lived through? In that past life, in her past life — was it just grief born out of more, one after the other? Is that why she kept falling to her death? Suffering in all that pain? 

“If he had loved her then….” Sukuna could feel some sense of anger bubble through him. “Why is it not ever clear, his feelings? If you love someone, you….you tell them! You make them know when they’re alive. Not when they’re gone! What kind of man is he? Is he even a man at that point? That’s cruel….That’s…..”

In that moment, her eyes turned wide as she gazed at him. She had seen people get angry on behalf of the long suffering concubine of the King of Curses. That was normal, to feel anguish on her behalf. And yet, this mayhaps is the first time he’s ever seen someone so infuriated. And aggrieved. And bitter. Truly, in the sense of the word. Her heart felt warm about that. 

She smiles softly at him and places her hand on his own. “You know….he still did care. Even if he was a terrible man. In some ways.”

“Even then—”

“Come with me, stranger!” she says, her voice soft as she takes his hand, her touch sending an electric shock through him. She leads him to a long table draped in dark fabric, a single scroll lying open at the center. It was a magnificent piece of work.

In the middle was her, that concubine. With her elegant features and her bright eyed gaze, her tender smile that could bring life to a mundane world. The colors illuminated her with such ethereality that one couldn’t even understand. It would have taken much too much time to do this in their lifetime, during the Heian Era.

 And yet, it was so carefully made, carefully thought of. So full of devotion to her, details that one couldn’t even find in any other portraiture in that time. Sukuna could only watch as her fingers glide along its edge with a reverence that pulls him in, as though she’s sharing a secret between them. Her smile grows wider.

“This is painted and written by Sukuna himself, mayhaps, a few years before she passed.” she whispers, her eyes shining as she looks at him. “We don’t know, if he had painted and made this in secret. Or if she had known and seen it.  But….it was to her… a message. From him to her.”

The scroll is faded, ink blurred by age but unmistakable. And as Sukuna reads it, he feels his breath leave him, his pulse racing as he takes in the words he never thought he’d see again. In ancient script, barely visible, are the words he remembers writing so many lifetimes ago, a promise that felt foolish and desperate even as he wrote it:

“To you, my little one, from a thousand years to another twenty thousand years from now, you who will continue to be dear to me.”

His vision blurs, and he forces himself to swallow down the ache rising in his chest. How is that man ever so contradictory? How could he cause her hurt and then do…do something like this? How can one ever make amends, or show love, knowing they had caused grief and pain and suffering? 

He purses his lips, his face echoing in conflict. He could feel his hand tighten in a fist. The woman he saw in his dreams, and the woman he sees before him now. How they both suffered to get to this point. 

That smile a thousand years ago, so gentle and yet….so pained. And now, so beautiful and serene, happy. Truly so happy. He couldn’t help but be so overwhelmed by emotion. By all of this. She looks up at him, her face soft with empathy and warmth, her hand still resting lightly on his arm.

“What kind of person do you think could write something like that?” she asks gently, studying his reaction.

He swallows, searching for the right words, his voice barely a whisper. “Someone who knew… he’d never find peace without her.” he says, almost to himself, his gaze lingering on the scroll. “Someone… who wanted more time.”

Her eyes meet his, something unspoken passing between them, a quiet understanding that hangs thick in the air. She doesn’t say anything, but her expression shifts, her gaze softening, as if she’s sensing something she can’t quite place, something from another life pressing against the present.

In that moment, he knows he can’t tell her, can’t burden her with the weight of it all. This life may not hold the memory, the pain, the love he’d lost, but here she stands, still at his side. The universe, fate, something unknown has brought them here, and for now, in this fragile moment, it’s enough.

Sukuna’s mind swirls, each beat of his heart drumming louder against the silence that now surrounds them. The faint traces of this man’s ancient words—his promise, his plea—are scrawled on the scroll, untouched by time. 

The weight of it feels unbearable, as if this fragile piece of paper holds not just a message from the past but the entirety of his soul. He risks a glance at her, the woman with his concubine’s face, her warmth, her spirit.

She’s watching him with an intensity that pulls him back from his reverie. “I wonder if he ever found her, if he was ever reborn and given new life.” she murmurs, more to herself than to him. “If… across all that time, they somehow managed to find each other again. And are more truthful to each other. I always thought that, even when I was a child. I hoped and prayed that they found happiness together in a new life.”

Her words send a chill down his spine. He wants to tell her they did, that he’s standing here, right now, because of her. But he knows he can’t—no matter how much his heart aches to reach out, to let her in on the truth he’s carried alone for so long. The curse of knowing, of remembering, is his burden alone.

Instead, he lets his fingers drift across the edge of the scroll, keeping his gaze lowered. “Maybe he never stopped searching. Even if he is reborn. Maybe if he doesn’t remember it all. He should find her and make amends.” he says softly. “Maybe that’s why his name and his memory linger even now. So that she’ll notice. And…maybe they’ll live the way you want them to.”

She tilts her head, considering him, her smile touched with the slightest hint of sadness. “That’s a beautiful thought. Almost… almost as if he’s still out there, waiting. Even if he had to endure every lifetime alone.”

Sukuna swallows, struggling to keep his composure. “Sometimes, we don’t have a choice, about it all.” he says, his voice low. “We’re bound by memories we can’t remember, by the promises our futures will have to remake, even if we have to carry them alone.”

She studies him for a moment, her expression thoughtful, as if she’s trying to glimpse the truth beneath his words. “That sounds like something he would have said, perhaps….perhaps to her.” she murmurs, almost to herself.

The weight of her gaze feels like a hand pressing against his heart, pulling him toward her, tethering him in a way that feels more ancient than memory. But she turns her attention back to the scroll, breaking the spell, and a soft smile touches her lips as she reads the words he once wrote.

“You know,” she says after a pause, “my family used to tell stories about Sukuna. He’s more of a legend now than a real person, but there are so many conflicting tales. Some say he was ruthless, others say he was capable of great kindness. I’ve always been fascinated by that contradiction.” She glances up at him, eyes alight with curiosity. “What do you think? Was he a monster… or was he something more?”

Sukuna’s breath catches at the question, the answer sitting like a stone in his throat. How can he possibly explain that the truth was more complicated than either legend or history could capture? That he was both and neither, a man torn by his own humanity and haunted by a love he couldn’t protect?

“It’s hard to say what he was.” he answers carefully. “Maybe he was both. A monster to some, but to others… he was someone who gave everything he had. No one is….no one is truly a villain, after all.”

She nods slowly, seemingly satisfied with his answer. “I like that answer.” she says quietly. “I think we all have pieces of light and shadow inside us. Maybe he was just… someone trying to find a balance, even if he had caused so much hurt. Even if he had failed.”

The irony cuts deep, the tragic poetry of her words like salt in an old wound. Her voice is gentle, but there’s a conviction in her tone that makes his chest tighten. If she knew the truth—if she knew what he’d lost, the sacrifices he’d made—would she still look at him this way, with this soft reverence and understanding?

Lost in thought, he hardly notices her reaching for his hand. Her fingers wrap around his, warm and grounding, and he’s stunned by the simple, natural ease of her touch, as though they’ve done this a thousand times before. Her hand fits perfectly in his, and for the first time in centuries, a glimmer of hope stirs within him.

“Come with me again, stranger.” she says, leading him past the scroll and into a smaller room at the end of the hall. “There’s something else I want you to see.”

They walk in silence, and he lets her guide him, his heart racing, wondering if perhaps, just maybe, she’s starting to feel the pull too—the invisible thread binding them across lifetimes. She stops in front of a display case holding a small, intricately carved pendant, its silver chain gleaming under the soft lights.

“This pendant, it was passed down to Ryomen Chiharu, after a few years.” she says, gazing at it with a fondness that surprises him. “It belonged to her. His concubine. One of the only things she kept close to her heart.”

Sukuna stares at it, his mind reeling. The pendant was once his gift to her, that King of Curses—a token, a promise of protection. Seeing it now, preserved and cared for, feels surreal, a whisper of the life they once shared. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, his voice thick with emotion he’s barely keeping in check.

He wondered, maybe if it was the right time, the right place. If he hadn’t been so enthralled with another — maybe it would have been a match that would have ended with less pain and more joy. Perhaps if the King of Curses had found himself able to move forward, he would have been happier. Maybe his concubine would have been happier. 

But that was a thousand years ago. And humanity keeps making that same mistake. Little by little, you could find people repeating it over and over again. That makes Sukuna so bitter and sad, grievous and angry all at once. How could fate be so twisted? How could fate seem so indifferent to it all? How could…how could fate not stop such suffering of people who wish to be happy? 

“I always thought it was sad, you know?” she continued, her tone soft. “She must have known he’d never be hers completely. But she still kept this close to her heart.  Thinking of him. It’s like she never stopped hoping.”

Sukuna’s throat tightens, the weight of her words pressing into the raw ache within him. “Hope….hope is fragile.” he echoes, his voice hollow. “It can be a painful thing to carry, especially when there’s no chance of seeing it fulfilled.”

Her gaze turns up to him, searching, as though she can sense the depth of his grief but can’t name its source. “Maybe.” she says, her voice a whisper. “But sometimes… hope is all we have.”

He looks away, afraid she’ll see the truth in his eyes. He wonders if she understands, if somewhere deep down, a part of her remembers. But even if she doesn’t, he can feel her empathy, her gentle warmth reaching out to him, soothing his restless spirit.

She squeezes his hand, her touch gentle and grounding. “Thank you,” she says, smiling softly. “For listening to her story with me. I know it’s heavy, but… it’s part of our legacy, isn’t it?”

He nods, his heart raw and open, feeling the weight of the centuries fall away, even if just for this fleeting moment. It’s not enough—not enough to heal the wounds, to bring back what they’d lost—but for the first time, he feels something close to peace.

And in that silence, in her quiet smile, he dares to hope that maybe, just maybe, there will be a way to find and know each other again. She was right there. He likes to think she is. Right in front of him. There was hope, somehow. 

That she would be happy. That maybe, just maybe – he could see her smile so beautifully again. A smile that would reach all the way to her eyes and warm her face and towards the reach of all the heavens.

Sukuna stands there, his fingers still brushing the edge of the glass case, the pendant gleaming faintly beneath his touch. He feels an unfamiliar warmth stirring within him, a strange, hesitant urge for something… more, something real and tangible. He looks down at her, her expression still soft with that quiet empathy that unsettles him as much as it comforts him.

Before he can second-guess himself, he clears his throat, casting a sidelong glance her way. “Would you, uh… would you like to grab a coffee sometime?” he asks, a bit gruffly, as if trying to sound casual. “Maybe you could help me with some ideas for my art. I’m….an artist by the way. ”

The question hangs in the air between them, and for a moment, he feels exposed in a way he hasn’t in centuries, like he’s offering a piece of himself he’s long since hidden. He braces himself for rejection, for her to smile politely and turn him down.

Sukuna watches her smile, a genuine, radiant expression that spreads across her face like dawn breaking over a darkened sky. It’s infectious, igniting something deep within him, as though it was a feeling that has lain dormant for centuries beneath layers of pain and regret. 

Everything in him felt warm inside. Everything in him grasped to life, hoping that she could nourish it to last forever. Her acceptance feels like a lifeline thrown into the stormy sea of his existence, and he clings to it with a desperation he can’t quite articulate.

“Tomorrow sounds perfect, stranger.” she says, her voice a gentle balm against the jagged edges of his heart. “Oh, I should stop calling you that, shouldn’t I? My apologies, Sukuna–san. I wanted to tease you for a little more time.”

As she writes her number on a slip of paper, the world around them fades into a blur. The museum, the exhibits, the weight of history—all of it dissolves until it’s just the two of them, suspended in this fragile moment of connection.

He takes the paper from her, fingers brushing against hers for the briefest second. It sends an unexpected spark through him, and he’s momentarily lost in the warmth of her skin, the softness of her touch. He forces himself to pull away, catching her gaze again, wanting to savor the moment a little longer.

“What do you like to drink?” he asks, trying to keep the conversation going, to stretch this fleeting connection into something more tangible.

“Coffee, mostly. I love a good espresso.” she replies, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. “But I’m always open to trying new things. I’m sure the cafe will have new wonders. How about you?”

He nods, remembering the countless cups of coffee he’d consumed over the years, each one a bitter reminder of the countless sleepless nights spent alone. “I’m more of a dark roast person myself. Stronger the better.”

“Then I’ll make sure to introduce you to the best place in town. They have the most incredible brews, fit for a long suffering artist.” she says with a playful grin, and for the first time, he can’t help but smile back. It’s a small, simple thing, but it feels monumental, like a bridge forming over a chasm he thought would always divide him.

“Great….I uh….” he replies, his voice a little steadier. “I look forward to it.”

They linger for a moment, both seeming to hesitate, caught in a bubble of anticipation and something deeper that he can’t quite name. He’s never been one for lighthearted interactions, especially when it comes to connections. Yet here he is, standing before a woman who feels like a piece of his lost history, someone he feels inexplicably drawn to.

With one last lingering look, she steps back, her smile still warming the air between them. “See you soon, then, Sukuna–san.” she says, her voice light yet meaningful.

“Yeah….. I’ll see you soon.” he echoes, his heart pounding in his chest as he watches her walk away, the soft sway of her figure leaving him breathless.

As he turns to leave the gallery, the weight of the memories of a thousand years presses less heavily on him. He had left behind Sukuna's world, and birthed a new. He hopes he can. He wants to. He wants to make that woman happy. She deserves to. She deserves to be happy, in the way he couldn’t do it. He promises himself that.

For the first time, he feels a flicker of inspiration reigniting in his chest, like a spark that’s been waiting for just the right moment to burst into flame. The idea of coffee, of sharing thoughts and laughter, of discussing art with someone who understands the nuances of his legacy—it excites him in a way he hadn’t felt in what seems like an eternity. It excites him to burn with joy.

The streets outside are bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, the colors alive and vibrant, reminding him of the canvases he has yet to fill. He can almost picture it now, a new piece forming in his mind—a swirling mix of shadows and light, of loss and hope, reflecting everything that has led him to this moment.

In the days and nights that follow, he begins to sketch again. The woman’s face, a beautiful blend of familiarity and freshness, dominates the canvas, layered with strokes of longing and the bittersweet pang of memory. He paints her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and the gentle warmth that radiated from her smile.

Every brushstroke feels like a conversation, a way to weave their stories together—a blend of art, history, and the unspoken connection that binds them. The artist’s block that had once felt insurmountable begins to crumble, each session at the easel pulling him deeper into his thoughts and feelings, and farther from the suffocating grasp of despair.

He dreams of their meeting, the way her presence felt like coming home, and as their coffee date approaches, he finds himself wrapped in a mix of excitement and nerves. What would they talk about? What would she think of his art?

That evening, as he stands in front of the mirror, he catches a glimpse of himself—disheveled fuschia colored hair, weary bright scarlet eyes; but beneath it all, there’s a glimmer of something he hasn’t seen in ages: hope. A hope for the future. A hope for a new world, a new life. One that will echo years and years from now about joy.

Tomorrow, he tells himself as he brushes down his shirt, it will be different. 

Tomorrow, he’ll make her the happiest person in the world.

Tomorrow, he’ll hope that she will never have any more days to frown.

When the sun rises, he feels it all too well. There was a flutter of anticipation in his chest as he prepared to meet her. Each step feels lighter, each moment filled with possibility. The thought of sharing coffee and stories—his past entwined with hers—ignites a spark of creativity he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

As he enters the café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee envelops him, and he scans the room, searching for her familiar face. When he spots her, seated at a cozy corner table, her hair cascading softly around her shoulders, he feels a rush of warmth.

Her smile brightens the space around them, and as their eyes meet, he knows he’s ready to embrace whatever this connection holds. It’s a chance to delve deeper into their stories, to explore the tangled threads of fate that brought them together.

“Hey!” she says, her voice lighting up the air between them as he approaches. “I’m so glad you made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” he replies, the weight of the past lifting as he takes a seat across from her. “So, what’s first on the menu?”

As you sit together, enveloped in the warmth of shared memories and laughter, Sukuna leans forward, his gaze both intense and gentle. The edges of his usually guarded expression soften, and the small lines near his eyes deepen with a smile that’s almost boyish.

“You know," Sukuna says, his voice low and thoughtful, “I have to say this to you… but… I never thought I’d find someone who could understand me like this. The things I’ve seen—it’s hard to explain to people who haven’t lived through the same nightmares."

He glances down at his coffee, a faint smirk on his lips. “But with you, it doesn’t feel like explaining. It’s like I’m just… remembering with someone else who was there too. This feels so natural. Between you and I.”

She smiles, feeling a warmth blossom within her. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I mean, if someone had told me even a month ago that I’d be here with you, talking like this…” She trails off, laughing softly, feeling a little lost for words. “I would’ve thought they were crazy. But here we are.”

Sukuna chuckles, the sound surprisingly warm, free of his usual biting edge. “Crazy doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He pauses, his gaze meeting hers, searching as if he’s trying to decipher something hidden. “It feels like I know you… not just from now, but from a long time ago. Almost like I was meant to find you.”

His words send a shiver through her, a feeling both comforting and unsettling in its intensity. She nods slowly, letting the feeling settle within her. “I know what you mean,” she whispers, her voice barely above a breath. “It’s like we’re picking up where we left off… wherever that was.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving hers. “Every lifetime,” he murmurs, as if saying it to himself. “Every single one, I think I’d find you.” His hand drifts across the table, his fingers brushing hers in a tentative, almost reverent way. “And every time, I’d be the luckiest man alive.”

She looks down at his hand, his touch grounding her. “Do you believe in that, then? In soulmates? Lifetimes together?”

He smiles, almost a little sadly, as if unsure of his own answer. “Maybe I never did before… but with you, I can’t help but think maybe I was wrong.”

A comfortable silence settles between them, the words hanging like a delicate thread binding them together. After a while, he speaks again, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You… you make me see things differently, you know that? I just met you, but I just… I think it’s meant to be.”

There’s a vulnerability in his eyes, one she’d never expected to see. “Like maybe life doesn’t have to be as lonely as I thought it was. Or maybe, it just doesn’t matter, as long as I’m here… with you.”

Her heart aches at his words, sensing the pain he’s carried and the hope he’s now daring to hold onto. She laces her fingers with his, giving a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore, Sukuna-san,” she says softly. “Not as long as we have this. As long as we have each other. Maybe… maybe we’ll find something more to life together.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding. When he opens them again, there’s something raw, something almost fragile in his gaze. “I’m… I’m honored,” he whispers gently, a small smile forming on his face. “If that means I’ll be able to live by your side in this life.”

She blushes, feeling the depth of his sincerity. “I’m just as grateful, you know?”

“Thank you.” he says, the words rough, yet sincere. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“You never have to say thank you to me.” She whispered back to him, smiling even wider. “Or say sorry. Okay?”

“Okay.” He smiles back at her, almost contagiously. 

“So, do you….do you wanna watch a movie with me?”

“I’d be honored.”

In that moment, it feels as though nothing else exists—just her and him, caught in the quiet gravity of each other’s presence. 

As the sun sets outside, casting a warm glow over their table, Ryomen Sukuna feels a flicker of something he thought long extinguished. 

And as long as she’s beside him, he knows he’ll be right there with her, finding a new meaning to every breath and every heartbeat, perhaps better than he’d ever dreamed. 

After that day, Ryomen Sukuna stopped having those nightmares about that long suffering concubine.

Instead, he started to dream of a tall man and that long suffering concubine, walking away from him — smiling. Together.

══════════════════

HE WAS LUCKY HE MADE IT. He hadn’t slept much, but it was all worth it. He liked to think that he made his best gallery presentation yet. He knew she liked it just as much as he did. And that had made him even more happy. 

He wasn’t the best of storytellers, he knew that much. Writing was more or less something else to him. But, art like this? He could do it. And so, as he promised, he would make happiness appear on his canvas. He would make that concubine happy again. 

 As the evening progresses, the atmosphere in the gallery transforms, infused with a blend of excitement and reverence. Guests drift in and out, their whispers and laughter weaving a tapestry of shared appreciation for Sukuna's work. 

The vibrant energy of the space pulses with life, but at its core lies a poignant sense of introspection; a collective acknowledgment of the stories each painting holds.

Sukuna stands near the centerpiece, his gaze lingering on the depiction of himself and his concubine, locked in an eternal moment of tenderness. The hues swirl together, capturing not just their faces but the very essence of their souls; a connection that feels almost palpable. Each brushstroke is infused with the weight of longing and regret, but now, standing beside his companion, he recognizes a glimmer of hope amid the sorrow.

As the crowd ebbs and flows, Sukuna finds solace in watching her interact with the guests, her warmth radiating in waves. She engages effortlessly, sharing her thoughts on the art, her enthusiasm infectious.

He catches snippets of their conversations, her laughter ringing out like music, and he can’t help but smile at the ease with which she navigates the social landscape. It’s a stark contrast to his own guarded demeanor, and yet, her presence encourages him to lower his defenses, to engage in this world he once viewed from the shadows.

With each passing moment, Sukuna feels a shift within himself. The uncertainty that had plagued him for so long begins to dissolve, replaced by an exhilarating sense of possibility. As the crowd gradually dwindles, he glances at the painting again, his heart swelling with emotion. It’s more than just an image; it’s a testament to love that transcends time, a narrative that binds past and present.

Suddenly, he turns to find her standing close, her expression reflecting a mixture of admiration and something deeper. “You’ve poured so much of yourself into this, Sukuna.” she says softly, her eyes shimmering with sincerity. “It’s not just about the concubine; it’s about you, too. You’ve laid bare your soul.”

The intensity of her gaze sends a shiver down his spine, and he swallows hard, feeling exposed yet liberated. “I wanted to capture the essence of what we had… to honor her, in my own little ways.” he replies, his voice low and steady. “But I realize now it’s also about my journey. This is as much about my pain as it is about her love.”

She nods, her understanding palpable, and in that moment, he feels a deep connection; there was an unspoken bond that links them through shared experiences and emotions.

The weight of his past no longer feels like a burden; instead, it becomes a source of strength, a wellspring of creativity he can draw from as he embraces this new chapter in his life.

“I think you’ve done an incredible job of that, you know?” she says, her voice softening. “You’ve shown that even in our darkest moments, love remains a guiding light. It’s beautiful.”

Sukuna’s heart races at her words, and he feels a warmth blooming in his chest—a mixture of gratitude and affection. “Thank you, really.” he replies, his voice sincere. “It means a lot to hear that from you. You’ve been… a source of inspiration for me.”

Her smile deepens, and there’s a spark of something electric in the air, a subtle shift that sends his pulse racing. “I’m glad I could be here for you, you know?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s a privilege to witness your journey, to see you reclaim a sad story to a happy one.”

He looks at her, the soft glow of the gallery lights illuminating her features, and he feels a wave of emotion wash over him. For so long, he had been shackled by the weight of his past, haunted by the ghost of his concubine and the mistakes that had led to their separation. But here, in this moment, standing with her amidst the beauty of his creations, he feels the chains loosening.

“Will you stay a little longer?” he asks, almost hesitantly, fearing her response. “I’d like to talk more… about the paintings, about everything.”

Her eyes light up, and the warmth in her smile reassures him. “I’d love that.” she replies, and they find a quieter corner of the gallery, away from the remnants of the evening’s festivities.

As they settle into a cozy nook, surrounded by the lingering essence of art and history, Sukuna feels a sense of calm wash over him. The world outside fades, leaving only the two of them and the unspoken connection that has blossomed between them. 

“What do you see in these paintings?” he asks, eager to hear her perspective.

She leans forward, her gaze thoughtful. “I see love, loss, and resilience. Each piece speaks of a journey, a struggle to find beauty amidst pain. But what resonates most is the longing—the desire to reconnect with something that was lost. It’s powerful.”

He nods, her words echoing his own feelings, and as they discuss each painting in turn, he feels an exhilarating rush of creativity and clarity. The art becomes a conduit for their emotions, a way to explore the complexities of their shared experiences.

They dive deep into conversation, their voices low and intimate, each word exchanged drawing them closer together. She shares her own stories of loss and heartache, of moments when she thought she’d never find her way again. It’s a cathartic exchange, and he listens intently, captivated by her honesty and the strength she exudes.

With each revelation, Sukuna feels the walls that the King of Curses had built around himself begin to crumble. He shares his own struggles, the weight of his legacy, and the guilt that had shadowed him for centuries.

And perhaps, redemption may soon come for him in love.  In this safe space, he finds himself opening up that man, that myth, that curse,  in ways he never thought possible, unearthing emotions he had long buried. 

The night wears on, and as the last of the guests trickle out, the gallery transforms into a cocoon of intimacy. It’s just him and her, surrounded by the echoes of their stories, and for the first time in ages, he feels a sense of belonging—a connection that transcends time and pain.

“I never thought I could feel this way again.” he admits, his voice thick with emotion. “After everything I’ve lived through… I thought I’d lost the ability to truly connect with anyone.”

She reaches out, her hand brushing against his in a gentle, reassuring gesture. “You haven’t lost that ability, Sukuna. You’ve just been waiting for the right moment, the right person….the right time.” she says, her gaze steady and filled with warmth. “I’m here now, and I want to be part of your journey.”

The sincerity in her words washes over him, and in that moment, he knows he’s found something rare—a connection that has the potential to redefine his understanding of love, art, and the future. The vulnerability he feels is both terrifying and exhilarating, but he knows he’s ready to embrace it.

As the last notes of music drift into silence and the soft, warm lights dim, the two of them sit close, hands intertwined, surrounded by the vibrant, intimate world he has created.

Each painting on the wall, each sculpture in the dim light feels like a memory brought to life, and she feels him relax beside her, the weight of his past somehow easing with each quiet heartbeat.

His thumb gently strokes her hand, and in that small, tender motion, she feels him say more than words ever could. With her here, in this sanctuary he’s built out of his own creativity and passion, he’s no longer the solitary figure haunted by shadows. He’s simply a man who has finally, against all odds, found someone who can see past his darkness and anchor him in light.

As they stand to leave, his gaze drifts to one of his portraits—a work that captures a moment from another time, another life. In it, the King of Curses sits beside his beloved concubine, her expression full of light and laughter, radiant in a way that suggests an unbreakable bond. 

Ryomen Sukuna pauses, his hand still entwined with hers, and a rare, gentle smile crosses his face.

Looking at the painting, he lets himself hope, just a little. Perhaps, even in a world he once saw as cold and unyielding, there are threads of something beautiful woven into his story. Perhaps, even for someone like him, there could be a happy ending, one he’d never dared to imagine.

He leans down and whispers softly, almost as if confessing a secret. “I like to think they found each other again, you know? That somehow… this time, they got to be happy.”

She squeezes his hand, her eyes shining with warmth and understanding. “I like to think that too.” she replies gently, her voice full of affection.

They walk out together, the cool night air surrounding them as they leave his art behind. And as he catches her smile, he feels his heart swell with gratitude and a strange sense of peace.

For once, he isn’t looking back, haunted by the ghosts of what once was. Instead, he’s looking forward—toward a future that, with her beside him, feels so much brighter than he ever thought possible.

In his heart, he offers a silent prayer, hoping that they’ll continue to find each other, in this life and in all the ones to come. And as they disappear into the night, hands intertwined, this Ryomen Sukuna hopes that the King of Curses finally allows himself to believe that, this time, happiness might be his after all.

══════════════════

THERE WOULD BE NO MEMORY OF THIS WHEN HE’S REBORN. Ryomen Sukuna knows that much. That is the will of the unknown, of the gods unseen and unheard. He does not care much about the propriety of the accuracy. Why should it matter what their name is? He was dead, why should he care?  

In the stillness of the afterlife, everything feels suspended, timeless. Everything was not what he had expected. Long ago, he had resigned himself to the thought that a final death would lead to the depths of burning inferno. And yet, it was not. He was stuck in a journey, a journey that continuously repeats over and over again. 

He does not know what those gods intended with that. What was the purpose designed by the gods? What was the purpose of this journey? He had asked himself that for hundreds of years, walking and walking like the pilgrim he was and yet without end in sight. There was no road that was left to find a stop.

Perhaps, that is until now.

Ryomen Sukuna was the first to notice.

There was a wide shoji that appeared before them.

Ryomen Hiromi was quite unsure about what that was all about. But when she stepped right in front of it, the field protecting it had barred her from even touching it. She pursed her lips in a flat line. This door was not one for her to enter. 

And she probably had already known that. Looking at him with those knowing purple eyes, she knew that it was not for her. It was for him. The gods had sent him a path, and it was not to be with her. It was a road for him to take, a road that was for him. Only him.

He took a short step towards it and allowed his hands to feel the space occupied by the massive wooden shoji. His touch could pierce its space. It was truly for him. There was no mistake in that. Uraume looked at him with a tense uncertainty. His most loyal Uraume is quite that timid  child, still. Just as when Sukuna had met them years and years ago. 

For a moment, it reminded him of Chizuru. That gentleness of that youth, that tenderness of youth. He could only see his little one. The little one that he misses most. His soul is already at peace, and perhaps Sukuna would never see him again. 

He doesn’t deserve to. He wasn’t a good father to him. But moments like this, it gives him relief. Even if Chizuru didn’t need him anymore, then someone else did. And that someone still needed him. Even if he wasn’t the person suited to be needed.

Sukuna looked down at them, and then nodded reassuringly. Uraume reached forward and gasped. Their touch too pierced through its barrier. Of course, Sukuna thought to himself. Uraume tied their entire life to him.

They were one in the same. The loyal servant cannot live without the master. No, no. Sukuna corrects himself. There was always a need for someone. People will always need people.

He stands there idly as Ryomen Hiromi stood beside him, though keeping a distance. Everything around them had grown brighter. Brighter than before. All that surrounded them had been bathed in a soft, eternal light that neither burns nor fades. 

This place, this moment, is for closure—a place where the bonds of the past can either linger or be released. A purgatory for souls, sinner or not. All souls look the same to the gods. Well, that’s what Hiromi had told him.

Sukuna’s gaze rests on Hiromi, taking in the warmth in her expression, the calmness in her presence. Even here, she glows with an inner light that he has always cherished. Serene as the moonlight, as mellow as the clouds. 

There had always been a quiet grace that no one could replicate. He had known that in his long lifetime. And for as long as he had lived, he thought that his job had been to protect it. To protect her. No matter what, with everything in him —  even if it often meant tearing down the world around him.

For a long while, they simply stand together, the weight of their shared history resting between them. A thousand years, feeling even more than that, reflected in the understanding that came in the silence. He had known her too well, she had known him too well.

There was nothing left between them. Only knowing. And perhaps, that’s why it wouldn’t have ever worked. He thinks about that. Knowing someone, even too well, will never truly be living a life with them. 

There was too much he did not know about her life. There was much she did not know about his own. They had lived lives that grew out of their tender love. People who loved each other so much, that they risked everything in the world — finally became two boats in the night waiting for each other to pass. 

Perhaps that’s all that there could be, he thinks about it now. No matter how much he loved her, no matter how much he still does love  her — they were parallel lines. Right people, wrong place. Right place, wrong time. 

That in itself was hard to admit, he knows that. He always has. But it was hard to say. It was hard to accept. Perhaps it always will be. Yet there is so much more beyond that grief of something already lost. Of life already lived and passed by. No matter how much he wants to follow Ryomen Hiromi with all the love in his heart, with all the devotion given from all his life, there will always be fate. And fate knows better than he. 

As much as he tries, he was not a god.

He will never be one, he has tried to be.

He was just a sinner, a cruel cursed sinner.

Taking a deep breath, Sukuna speaks, his voice soft, yet resolute. "I can feel it, Hiromi." he says, looking down at his feet. “Somewhere out there……..I am soon to be reborn. Soon….I must enter this door.”

Ryomen Hiromi’s face softens, and a knowing smile tugs at her lips. She tilts her head, teasing, but with a hint of sadness that she can’t entirely hide. How could she? Ryomen Sukuna was her person. He was her family. Her dearest friend, her confidant.  The man she loved, still does love. The love of her life. 

But she knew that he was not yet ready. Perhaps he will never be ready to move forward like this. There was much tying him to the world of the living. To the earthly life. And she knew it wouldn't be her. It will never be her. 

She could see it in the corner of his scarlet eyes. He too had lived a life. He had moved on. And he wants to see that loved one again. He wants to return. Even if he does not know it. He wants to see that smile on her face again.

"So, you’ll stop following me now, huh?"

He chuckles, the sound quiet, almost reverent, as he brings her hand to his chest. "I’ll love you most in the world, you know that.” he murmurs, each word weighed with truth. “You were the part of me that was good, Hiromi. Everything I am….was because of you.”

She looks at him, shaking her head. She remains smiling. “Endless flattery is not your style.”

His eyes warmed towards her. “It is not flattery if it's true. You know that most. I do not lie, not easily. Not without reason.”

“I know.” She huffs back in response, her eyes lowered to the floor. “I know you too well.”

“I need to go. You know that. There are still…..too much left undone. I have a lot to make amends for, things I must repair.” His voice grows steady, almost solemn. “I need to start with someone else I love. Someone who’s waiting, on the other side of the shore.”

Hiromi’s gaze flickers, her surprise shifting to understanding. There’s a light in her bright purple eyes, a pride that only deepens as she studies his face. For a moment, she wondered when he had grown up. When had he aged this well, lived this well. A part of her mourns the things they never saw. But she knew it was too late. He had someone else waiting to see those sides of him now. 

“I always hoped you’d find something worth living for, beyond me. Beyond our clan. Beyond Jujutsu.” she says, her words carrying an emotion he hadn’t expected. She laughs. “You’ve done well, Sukuna. I know you would. And now you’re better at admitting your faults. You’ve….you’ve truly grown up! Father and uncle would be so glad to see it, don’t you think?”

The weight of her words settles deeply into him, her silent devotion across lifetimes coming into sharp focus. Ryomen Sukuna closes his eyes, feeling the immensity of all that they’ve shared, all that he’s never truly expressed. 

“There’s still much for me to set right, Hiromi.” He looks at her, his expression softening as he finally speaks the words he’s never quite managed to say before. “But the love we shared… It's the best part of me. It’s the part of me I want to carry into the next life. Everything you taught me, it will be for the better.”

A soft laugh escapes her once more, and she shakes her head as if she’s hearing a promise she’s waited lifetimes for him to make. Her hand reaches up, gentle, almost motherly, as she brushes a stray hair back from his face. Leaning in, she presses a delicate kiss to his cheek. 

“You don’t have to say anything else. I’ve always known you loved me.” She pulls back slightly, her hand lingering against his face. “I’ll always love you too, Sukuna. But we have different lives now. Paths that aren’t tied together anymore. No paths are bound, after all. Isn’t that what was taught?” 

Her words are tender but firm, and he nods, finally accepting what she’s known all along. “I know.” he whispers, the smile on his face tinged with the bittersweet ache of goodbye. “But I think I’ll be alright, night flower. I’ve found something, someone… who I believe can make me better. She’s out there, waiting.”

For a moment, she could feel her heart shatter. In that moment, to remember what he had called her. With those words, with that tone of finality. With that tone of farewell. She could feel the warmth of water echo through her eyes. But she tries to make sure they do not pour. Those tears shouldn’t be poured. Not for him. He does not need it. She must send him happily. She must send him off with a smile. A good farewell.

Hiromi pulls away, her hand slipping from his, though her gaze remains fixed on him with a profound love and pride. Her bright eyes gleamed at him, even brighter than before. She smiles at him, though he could notice how tight it was. No matter how happy she is for him — she will mourn. She can’t help it. 

“Then, I want you to find her, hm?” she says softly, the conviction in her voice like a benediction. “Find her and find your happiness, the kind that lasts. The kind that you finally deserve.”

He nods, and there’s a rare, open softness in his expression, a gratitude as deep as the ages they’ve spent together. He takes a good look at her, as though he was memorizing this moment. For as long as it still lasts, he wants to remember it. He wants to remember her, giving her blessing. 

“Then, I’ll go, nightflower.” he says, his voice low and filled with purpose. “I’ll find her… and try to live the life I dreamed of with you.”

Hiromi smiles gently, and with one last lingering look, she turns to leave, pausing only to say. “Someday, I hope to meet her too—the one who brought you peace. Bring her back with you. So that I may thank her for taking care of you.”

He nodded at her. He takes a deep breath as he lowers his gaze and sees Uraume looking at him, as though asking for courage. Sukuna takes Uraume’s hand and tightly grips it, but is careful not to hurt them. A ghostly smile appears on his face, beaming it towards them. 

Uraume could feel their eyes glisten as they felt the warmth of that smile. Uraume could feel warmth in them, tenderness — tenderness that molds their will to live with courage. Sukuna turns his head slightly, looking at Hiromi. His smile gets wider, and becomes more honest than before. She smiled at him, waving him off. 

As he and Uraume walked towards the shoji, Ryomen Hiromi knew that she too has to move away. Ryomen Sukuna slowly watches her walk away into the path of light, alone, feeling the weight of a thousand lifetimes lifting from his shoulders. He could feel his breath hitch as he watches her walk away, perhaps for the final time, perhaps until they get reborn again. 

If you were not waiting for him, if he had not met you, if he had not loved you — perhaps he would have turned away from these doors and moved towards the path of life and rejected rebirth. He would have let his soul rest in peace for all of time. But he knows that he was no longer that person anymore. He wanted to move forward. He wanted to break the cycle. He wanted to be with you.

Ryomen Sukuna is ready to face the world again, this time with a purpose that is as clear as the love he feels for the woman he will now seek.  He must atone. He must live a new life. He must make you happy. 

Both of you will be happy, he knows that. And as he steps forward, towards his own rebirth, he carries her blessings, his heart finally open to the happiness he had once believed was out of reach. He will live it now. He will atone, he will find redemption. He will make you happy.

[shybluebirdninja]

For Keeps

Summary      : Old Logan proposes to the love of his life. Note                : fluff

Logan’s POV

It’s late when I finally get in. The house is dim, a warm glow spilling from the kitchen and the faint smell of rosemary and garlic filling the air. I close the door softly, hoping not to disturb her, but she’s already there, peeking her head around the corner with that smile that makes my chest ache.

“Long shift, old man?” she asks, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms, but she’s smirking like she already knows the answer.

I chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck. “More like a long week. Bunch’a rookies out there can’t drive to save their lives.” I slip off my coat, hanging it on the chair as I try to ease the knots in my shoulders. The box in my pocket feels like it’s burning a hole, waiting to be pulled out.

“C’mon, go sit. I got dinner just about ready,” she says, already turning back to the stove. I catch a glimpse of her, standing there in that old apron she insists on wearing even though it’s stained and frayed at the edges. The sight of her there, in our kitchen, making dinner after my long day, hits me harder than any fight I’ve ever been in.

I settle into my chair, watching her move around, her hands quick and sure as she spoons the pasta onto plates. There’s a glass of wine by my plate, and she’s even got my favorite sauce. The woman thinks of everything, and it makes me feel like a damn fool for waiting this long.

Finally, she sits across from me, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and looking up with that soft smile she saves just for me. We dig in, talking about nothing and everything, and for a few minutes, it’s like the world’s drifted away, and it’s just us. Her laugh, her voice, the warmth in her eyes—it’s all I need.

After a while, I realize I’ve hardly touched my food, just staring at her, trying to get my nerve up. She notices, of course, tilting her head, a little crease forming between her brows.

“Babe? You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just… somethin’ I’ve been wantin’ to, uh, talk to ya about,” I mutter, reaching into my pocket for the little velvet box. My heart’s pounding like I’m some teenager. Almost makes me laugh, the way she can do that to me.

When I finally pull it out and set it on the table, her hand flies to her mouth, eyes widening. I can barely bring myself to look at her, staring down at my rough, scarred hands instead. “Look, I know it ain’t much. Had to work a few extra shifts, do a few odds and ends—”

She cuts me off with a choked laugh, and I finally meet her gaze. Tears are already pooling in her eyes, and that smile, that damn smile that’s always been my undoing, is breaking through.

“Logan…” she whispers, voice thick with emotion.

I clear my throat, suddenly feeling every one of my years. “Guess what I’m tryin’ to say, darlin’... is, if you’d have me, I’d be the luckiest man in the world.”

She looks down at the ring, then back up at me, and there’s a look in her eyes that makes me feel like I might just be worth something. “Yes,” she says, her voice shaking. “Yes, Logan.”

She reaches across the table, sliding her hand over mine, and I pull her close, pressing my forehead against hers as the weight of it all sinks in.

“You’re really sayin’ yes, huh?” I murmur, my voice catching.

“Yes, you old fool,” she laughs, wiping her eyes. “There’s no one else. Just you.”

My breath stutters, and for a moment, all the doubts and insecurities melt away. I press my lips to hers, softly, slowly, feeling the warmth and truth in that kiss. She’s here, right here with me, and for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this old heart’s got one last chance at happiness.

[chuusmuts]

imagine innocent!kabukimono finding out you lactate

smut(?) i'm not sure myself, sorry. afab reader, lactation kink, nipple play, fingering, just kabukimono being in love with your boobs/breast milk.

kind of another version of innocent kabukimono going wild because gosh, i'm so horny for him (´┓`*)

some nights ago, while doing the laundry, he noticed some milk stains on your clothes, particularly on the chest part. as far as he remembered, the milk stock had already finished, so being the curious boy he was, he decided to ask you about it. kabukimono could feel his heart beating faster, feeling nervous for some reason as he walked over to you. it's nothing wrong, right? he just wanted to know where did you get the milk. "hey, umm... can i ask something?" he asked quietly as he looked at you timidly.

your ears perked up at his voice, and you turned your head to look at him with a surprised face. it was unusual for him to look so shy like that. "um... yes? what is it?" you asked in confusion. there was it again. when you turned to look at him, he noticed a wet spot on your kimono. and again, on the chest part, on your breasts. did you not notice it?

"oh, it's nothing important." kabukimono said softly, his heart still pounding. "i saw some milk stains on your clothes, specifically on your chest area. i just wondered how they got there." he bit his lip, feeling even more nervous than before. he wasn't sure why he cared so much about this, but he felt like he needed to know.

still confused, you tilted your head in puzzlement before impulsively looking at your clothes, and oh gosh, the milk stains were big. your cheeks and ears immediately flushed, your eyes widening as you covered your breasts with your arms. like he said, it's nothing important, your milk was just leaking. you were merely lactating, and it's something kabukimono didn’t know.

"t– this!" you stammered. "it's nothing, s– so, you don't have to worry." from the look of your reaction, he could sense the embarrassment coming from you. normally, people would've already guessed what was happening, but that's not the case with kabukimono. since he's a puppet, he was completely clueless about this whole situation.

"mhm." kabukimono nodded, trying to process everything you said. he was lost, unsure of how to respond. he watched you cover your breasts, feeling both confused and intrigued. "umm..." he started in hesitation. "why do you think i'm asking, then?" he looked down at himself, frowning slightly. "you see, i'm not really used to seeing that kind of thing, y'know? It makes me curious, and... well, I want to know about it." he blushed shyly under your gaze.

"y– you want to know..?" fiddling with your fingers, you watched him sit beside you on the bed. "that's um..." you looked down for a while before looking at him again. you weren't really uncomfortable, just abashed. well, maybe it's not a bad idea to tell him. he already found out, anyway.

"s– so, uh... basically, women's breasts produce milk... whereafter, it will come out from the nipples." you started as you tilted your head down so your hair would fall over on your face to hide your embarrassment. "this usually happens while pregnancy to feed the baby later, s– so, i don't know why it's happening to me. it even keeps leaking from my breasts..." obviously, you felt insecure and shy since lactation doesn't usually happen to unmarried women.

kabukimono's eyes widened, and he could feel his own cheeks flush with heat as you explained everything, his heart pounding once more. "mhm," he murmured, nodding slowly. "that's interesting." he shifted, feeling awkward, unsure of what to say next. "so... does it taste good?" he asked, smiling nervously.

for a moment, you thought he was asking about the taste of your breast milk thus, you got extra embarrassed. "that's... i, myself, do not know since the only time i drink it was when i was a baby. so, i'm not really sure. i'm sorry, i can't help you with that." you said in a quiet tone, your arms still covering the wet part on your breasts as you chewed on your bottom lip. still, what you didn’t notice was him looking at your breasts intently.

he swallowed hard, feeling a sudden urge to taste the milk. it seemed like such an odd desire, but he couldn't help but feel drawn to it. "umm... could I try it?" he asked, glancing back at you, his eyes pleading. he felt vulnerable and exposed, but he also felt like he had to know. there was just something about breast milk that fascinated him.

"e– excuse me?" you almost choked on your saliva since you didn't expect him to ask the most unforeseen question. your heart began to thump as fast as his when he asked to drink your milk. was he... that interested in it? "c– could you repeat that again?" you were so embarrassed that you're afraid you heard him wrong, and it's just a hallucination.

"could I taste your milk?" kabukimono repeated, this time without stuttering. he was practically quivering with excitement, his hands clasped together in front of him. how could he not when he's about to try something new? "please, please let me try it." he leaned forward, his breath hitching in anticipation as he begged you.

in your eyes, you could see how his eyes sparkled. you could see that he really wanted to taste the milk so badly and be needed to know if it was good or not. that stupid eyes of his. sometimes, his curiosity is really out of this world. you just let out a shaky breath as you looked away. you knew he didn't have an evil purpose and was just curious about the taste of breast milk, but... this was clearly wrong. however, when you looked at him once again, you found yourself hard to deny him even though you felt like your heart was going to burst.

"i– uh, okay." you whispered quietly, looking away again. kabukimono smiled brightly as he reached out to touch your breasts, sliding them off your kimono and gently cupping them in his hands. his thumbs brushed against your nipples which were leaking with milk, causing them to harden. "is this alright?" he asked, his eyes never leaving yours as he continued to rub your nipples.

"y– yeah." you let out a shaky sigh as you closed your own eyes, refusing to look at the sight of him brushing his fingers against your soft nipples. "j– just don't take too long, please." you continued with another whisper before whimpering quietly, which you hope he didn't hear it.

kabukimono nodded and hummed softly, his eyes roaming over your boobs, taking in every detail. he licked his lips, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips before leaning in closer and pressing his mouth against one of your nipples, sucking gently. as he suckled on your sensitive bud, he began to lave it, his teeth scraping lightly across its surface.

a soft moan was ripped off of your throat, and it made you cover your face with your hands in embarrassment. this was the first time he had seen a woman's boobs and the sight of it was too intrigued for him to ignore. to add in, your milk was delicious, too. as he continued to lick and suck, his tongue flicked against your nipples, savouring every drop, causing his mouth to make little sucking sounds as he did so. you could feel your breasts slowly getting emptied as he started to suckle harder.

kabukimono groaned impulsively, his tongue dancing over your nipples, sucking deeply. he pulled your kimono aside, exposing your entire chest, his mouth working furiously as his tongue lapped up the excess milk that dripped onto your skin. he licked up every last drop, dragging his tongue across your skin until your breasts were coated in a thin layer of milky saliva. when he finished, he released your nipples with a wet pop before lifting his head, his eyes gazing at your flushed face.

your nipples were now swollen from how hard he sucked and when you realised he was done, you peeked through your fingers to look at him as you asked, "y– you... you're done?" you asked breathlessly, not noticing your top was already stripped off by him. "yeah." kabukimono said, grinning, his tongue slipping out to lick the milk off his lips. he glanced down at your breasts, his eyes lingering on each of your swollen nipples. "it tastes good." he said simply, his voice full of satisfaction. looking up at you again, his eyes filled with wonder and excitement. "i'd love to taste more if you'll allow it."

sliding on your kimono again, you only smiled awkwardly as you thought nothing of it. yeah, he was just joking, you thought to yourself. he might even forget about it on the next day. wrong. on the following day, kabukimono knocked on the door of your room again. obviously, he wanted to drink more of your milk. however, you being clueless like always, you had no idea that he really liked and still remembered your tits and breast milk. "yes, kabukimono? do you need anything?" you questioned.

"yes." kabukimono answered, his eyes twinkling. he glanced down at your chest, and his eyes lingered on each of your plump breasts. "i want some more of your milk." he said it like a normal request, his voice soft and sweet. his gaze was still fixed on your breasts even after stepping into your room and shutting the door behind him. "i can't stop thinking about how delicious it tasted." he said, his voice low and husky, completely different from earlier.

"...eh?" you froze in your track when he asked for your milk again. did you just... fucked up?

thus and so, breastfeeding him had become a routine for you as he kept asking for your milk every day. you knew you could say no, and he would stop immediately, but you didn't have the courage to. he's so innocent, you almost thought he was still a child for a moment since he kept begging you to breastfeed him.

it had been a month, and yet you're still nursing him as a routine. and even though it had been that long, you still couldn't shake off the embarrassment every time you fed him. howbeit, you had noticed something strange lately. every time you breastfed him, he would occasionally moan, leave marks on your breasts, nibble on your nipples and fondle with your breast while he drank the other one.

today was no different as he suckled on your nipples while fondling with your breast. whilst you struggled to hold back your moans, kabukimono moaned shamelessly and loudly, his tongue swirling around your nipple as his hand pinched and twisted your other nipple, rolling it between his fingers, causing you to whimper and squirm. his eyes glanced up at you, and he murmured lowly against your boob. "mmm..."

eventually, he lifted his head, and as his eyes locked with yours, he spoke, his tone suddenly becoming passionate. "you're so beautiful." he wasted no time as he leaned in and kissed your collarbone before biting it softly. subsequently, he turned his attention to your other breast, suckling on your nipple as he bit and pulled on it lightly before swirling his tongue around it.

he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely as he sucked on your nipples. he had no idea, but he had been experiencing weird feelings every time he drank your milk. he had this strange attraction toward your breasts and milk, and he wanted to keep sucking on them. in other words, he had come to know what it was to feel desire and pleasure without realising it himself. maybe he wasn't as innocent as thought because unknowingly, a few days ago, he had found out what sex is without you knowing. and even if he's just a puppet, he's still a man.

you mewled a muffle moan as your hand moved to grip onto his hair, rubbing your thighs together as you felt your slick drip down between your legs. at this point, you already gave up on trying to hide your whimpers as another one escaped your lips when he flicked his tongue over your nipple and rolled the other one simultaneously. "a– ah, kabuki..." your voice was as delicious as your milk as you called out his name.

kabukimono's lips parted widely, his tongue sliding along your other nipple as his body trembled with lust and desire. lashing his tongue out, his teeth grazing your flesh. he let out a husky moan, his eyes watching you as your face contorted in pleasure. "mmm... i'm sorry, y/n." he whispered half-heartedly. he came to know what he was doing was wrong. therefore, he needed to at least apologize, even though it was unenthusiastic.

still, his desire won over him, and he couldn't stop himself from suckling on your nipples, from leaving hickeys all over your soft boobs. he didn't know how bad it was affecting you as your eyes welled with tears, and you almost became a sobbing mess from too much pleasure. he swirled his tongue around your nipple once again before suckling on it, each suck sending a stronger jolt of pleasure right to your clit.

you also felt how he pressed his body against you, his hips pushing against your thighs and his hard length pressing against your leg. your grip on his hair tightened a little, and your moans began to get louder as you were slowly falling apart, kabukimono having zero idea about this. he was only focusing on your body, more precisely, obviously your boobs and breast milk.

even after your breasts were emptied, he couldn't stop himself from sucking on your nipples. it was too addictive to him, he just liked it when your soft breasts were pressed against his face. whereas your body writhed underneath his, he slid his fingers inside your pants before brushing his thumb against your clit and rubbing it at a slow pace, causing you to let out the cutest whimper. he could feel how wet you were and if he had to be honest, he was proud of himself.

"i love your breasts... they taste so good." he mumbled, sucking on your nipple harder as his thumb began to pick up its pace and rub your clit faster, his fingers pressing into your folds. drool dribbled down from the corner of your lips as you bucked your hips, unable to control yourself any further. your breath slowly became ragged as he stroked your clit and and swirled his tongue around your nipple before sucking on it again.

shortly after that, he moved his lips from your nipples down to your tummy, licking your tummy and leaving trail of kisses and marks. while he did so, he inserted his fingers inside your hole and began to fuck you, causing you to cry out and arch your back in pleasure. "k– kabuki–!" you screamed his name as tears streamed down your cheeks.

hearing you screamed his name only fueled his desire as he didn't stop and instead thrusted his fingers harder inside you, teasing your sweet spot. he wanted to make you feel good, to hear you moan, to hear you whimper. he wanted to watch you squirm, to watch you cum because of him, just like he read and saw in the book. shortly afterward, your walls clenched around his three fingers and an orgasm washed over you as you moaned loudly, your eyes rolling back and cum pooling out of your cunt endlessly, coating his fingers.

he stopped for a moment and took out his fingers, lashing out his tongue to taste your delicious slick. after he licked it clean, he inserted his fingers again inside your tight walls and began to thrust inside you. he didn't give you any break and instead quickened his pace. you catched a glance of his very pure eyes glancing down at your wet pussy and you just knew he wasn't done with you yet. "i wonder what else my tongue can do with your delicious body."

[rene-darling]

TAKING- advantage of the strongest

He's been having a hard time lately, he's lost Suguru, his one and only, of course- you on the other hand are overjoyed at that fact.

It's annoying, after all, you've done for him, he calls out his name instead of yours, it's time you taught him a permanent lesson on manners.

P.s I TOLD YOU ITS NEVER GOJOVERRR RAHHH- [credits- __3aem on insta]

Also, follow my insta r3xni3 n text me, let's talk, im bored!!

...gojo Satoru...

Seeing Gojo with his head in his hands sitting at the edge of the school stairs wasn't a new sight for you, in fact for the past week you've been seeing him sitting there.

Crying, sobbing, or simply sitting in misery. He's always thinking of that damned suguru. Honestly, it was hard to get him to show you any affection with suguru around, and now that he's gone it's gotten even harder!

It's not that you hate suguru, you just love gojo, and seeing your gojo in pain annoys you, but. It also makes for the perfect opportunity to shove yourself in his life, when he's most vulnerable and make him rely on you

"what up 'toru?" Sitting down next to him gently touching his shoulder, you can't be too forward now. "..mhm, it's nothing." Hmm, well you knew it wouldn't be that easy, of course he wouldn't open up to you just yet! So you'll just keep trying- "come on satoru, this isn't like you, you're the strongest-"

"Can you leave? I'm not in the mood y/n." Running his hands through his hair he groaned as he hid his face. You got up without a word, it's fine, if he pushes you away you have many more ways to push back harder.

The continuing weeks during classes you would always make small talk, distracting his mind from geto. Then you'd buy him sweets saying that there was some buy one get one free offer, which is why you had brought one over for him there wasn't

You occupied him on the missions he'd usually go to alone, keeping him from feeling lonely. No matter how hard they were and no matter how much strain they put your body through you'd reassure him, you're fine!

He'd notice how you'd push yourself for him, it made him- feel. Feel something other than the constant sorrow due to Geto's absence.

He started reciprocating your 'kindness'. he would let you rest your head on his lap after a stressful mission and sometimes..he'd rests his own head on yours.

Shoving yourself in his life to replace the sorrows he felt didn't only include platonic relations. Every once in a while, whenever the feelings of loss came back too harshly, all he wanted was to forget. Get lost in pleasure, in anything, just- just please make him forget.

His tears which usually stained his face due to sorrow, now stained his face due to mind-numbing pleasure, his body was yours for the destroying, just please, please make him forget. Even if just for tonight!

" 'toru, use your words now, tell me what you want, hm?" You moved your hand ever so slowly, it hurt. "Just- just please, touch me, ruin me, do whatever you want. I'm yours, yours all yours- Suguru please.

Hah- fuck. He's so lucky he's Gojo Satoru. your gojo Satoru. You can feel yourself growing numb as you let out an unhinged chuckle "Sure Satoru." You try pronouncing his name with that same softness, to replicate that tone of pure love and kindness geto had, but alas, you never truly get it right.

Still, it's close enough for him. as he whines, bucking into your hand. You have half the mind to leave him like this, writhing on the bed, but you never do. This isn't the first time, and certainly isn't the last. You're sure every single fucking time you've seen satoru he's called out his name,

But, as you gaze down at him and as he stares up at you with his pretty blue eyes which spill with tears by the second, you can't help it. Perhaps you pity him, or perhaps you simply don't care if he's using you as a means to an end, since in return, you get to be the one fucking him dumb. And not Suguru, 'cause he's dead. But that's beside the point.

Rocking his world as his vision blanks, eyes rolling back as sweat covers him. You don't mind the pain of when he bites into your shoulder, you don't mind the fact that Suguru's name slips out of him more than your (can be fake) cock

But, for some reason you just can't take it today. Something takes over you, you swear, as you grab harshly onto his neck, gasps leave his throat as he huffs for air. "Wh- Ah pl- EAse- hah."

"say my name." "Wha- AHh-" pressing your hand down harder you're sure it'll leave marks. "Y/n. Fucking say it you dumb bitch." Tears fall down from his cheeks and onto your hand but it only seems to egg you on "Ah- mhm y-y/n please?" As you let go gits of his coughs fill the air as his pink chest rises up and down for air

Suddenly he gasps once more as you push against his prostate, you're far too pleased with him saying your name to let him rest, even to catch his breath.

His cries ring in your ear as his hands scratch onto your skin, leaving deep bloody marks in their wake he stares up at you with his tear stained eyes, mumbling only your name for the rest of the night.

You hope he's learned his lesson, and if not. You wouldn't mind teaching him another one.

[apocalypseornaw]

Shaky Ground

Dean Winchester x Reader

When Dean accidently hurts you during sex it leads to you feeling unsure about your relationship because for the first time ever he won't reciprocate your attempts at intimacy even after you're healed

Cursing, mention of a bruised cervix, body parts being bruised,supernatural level of violence, NSFW happenings

Requested by @fullbelieverheart This ended up longer than Sam's version... sorry I love Sammy but Dean has my heart

Dean's jaw ached from how hard his teeth ground together. The hunt had been too close. You'd nearly...he didn't want to think about it. He couldn't think about it. He followed you into your shared hotel room, greatful Sam had the foresight to get two rooms. He couldn't imagine having to share the room with his brother right now.

When you turned to face him he felt his anger dissolve into that underlying fear. You didn't have any serious injuries, no more than him or Sam but the fact that if he'd been a little slower or a little weaker or if you'd had a little less fight in you.... "come here" he barely got out before scooping you up into his arms and walking towards the bed. What he couldn't say with words, he could say in other ways.

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

You woke up slowly, the small amount of light from the curtain hitting your eyes. You could feel Dean's arm tucked tightly around your waist. As much as you wanted to cuddle up against him you could tell from the discomfort you were in that something was wrong.

You tried to move his arm without waking him but the moment you touched him his eyes fluttered open "What's wrong sweetheart?" You smiled at the concern in his voice "We didn't clean up before we fell asleep last night. I feel gross" he chuckled lightly and pressed a kiss to your shoulder "Good point. Let's grab a shower then I'll go wake Sammy up"

You felt him move out the bed so you moved to do the same but felt a harsh pull through your lower body. At first you assumed it was the usual post sex soreness, Dean was well endowed to say the least but when you had to bite down on your lip to not cry out you knew it was more and when you saw streaks of blood on the sheet you cursed lightly under your breath. Dean looked back from where he was pulled fresh clothes out of his duffle "Something wrong?" You smiled stiffly "No"

His smile dropped "Don't lie to me baby. What is it" you swallowed hard then bit back a grimace as you stood out of the bed and pulled the cover back "I um apparently bled a little last night?" He walked over and looked at the stains "You don't have periods because of your iud" you nodded slowly. His eyes went from the stain to your face then moved slowly down to your body "Did I hurt I hurt?"

You shrugged "Not really" you watched his throat move as he swallowed hard "let me rephrase the question here. Are you in pain right now from something I did last night?" You let out a breath and let your gaze drop to the floor "My pelvic area is really sore and it kinda hurts to move fast and I think I'm gonna bruise on my hips"

Dean moved slowly towards you and you felt his hands touch your body gently, his fingers tracing where you knew bruises would be. "Dean" you spoke his name softly and started to cover his hand with your own but he pulled away "I'm gonna go shower in Sam's room. There was an urgent care a few towns over. We'll stop by and see what's wrong" "It's not that serious Dean" you tried again but his face had already taken on that hard mask "I hurt you, inside and out. At least let me take you to a doctor"

"Just shower with me" your voice was nearly a whisper but he shook his head "I need to wake him up anyway" you watched him dress in yesterday's clothes and grab his clean ones before slipping out the door, only taking time to lock it behind himself.

"I needed the help" you whispered with tears in your eyes before slowly bending down to pick up your duffle bag. You hoped nothing was serious because the look in Dean's eyes was enough to snap your heart in two.

You sat in the backseat absorbing the silence that filled the impala. You had a bruised cervix and some mild bruising on your hips and thighs. The look in Dean's eyes when the doctor asked if you were safe at home...jesus.

You closed your eyes and laid back against the seat, holding your stomach where the heated patch Sam had found at the pharmacy was helping to soothe your muscles. You knew Dean would never hurt you on purpose and its not like you were exactly complaining, hell you'd been begging him not to stop as a matter of fact.

You tried not to let any discomfort show because outside of holding your hand while the doctor had done a pelvic exam he hadn't shown any physical affection. Anytime his eyes found yours in the mirror you would give him a small smile and he'd look away. What was going through his head?

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

Deans head was anything but silent as he drove. What kind of man hurt the woman he loved? Intentionally or not? He glanced back at you in the mirror and this time you didn't notice his attention. You'd stolen Sam's flannel as a pillow as was using his jacket as a blanket. The anti inflammatory meds along with antibiotics had meant all of you had needed to stop for lunch to make sure you had food in your stomach but he hadn't been able to eat much.

His thoughts were filled with the fact that he'd hurt you. The one person you should've been able to trust to protect you was the one who hurt you. You must have finally gotten comfortable because you hadn't stirred in the last few miles and it seemed like you were asleep. "She's ok Dean. She's strong and heals fairly fast" Sam spoke softly, ignoring the daggers Dean glared in his direction "Sam they looked at me like I was abusive or worse. I bruised her cervix. I've never done that to anyone. Not even when I was a kid figuring out what goes where. I'm a grown man. How do I fuck up this bad? And bruises on her hips and thighs?"

Sam shrugged "Dean you're strong as hell man and she's got a high pain tolerance. You two were amped up from a hunt. Adrenaline was high. Just don't let this come between you" Dean glanced back at you again as you moved around in your sleep, a slight twinge of discomfort flashing across your face twisting his heart with guilt "Easier said than done"

Bruises fade internally as well as externally. What proved to be harder to heal was the ever widening gap between you and Dean. When he finally started sleeping in the bed with you again he'd wear a t-shirt and either sweatpants or loungepants to bed.

He'd kiss you but it would never go past a quick kiss. No tongue would ever even make it into the picture and he'd rarely even hold you when you slept. You were losing your mind. You'd tried everything you knew that would normally have him begging you but he'd either curl up behind you and go to sleep or make an excuse about helping Sam.

You fought back tears yet again as Dean barely brushed a kiss to your lips before heading into town to pick up needed things for the bunker. You grabbed a bottle of water and headed for the library to help Sam do research, maybe getting your mind off the growing doubt in your heart would help.

----------

You sat down at the table and Sam glanced up "You didn't go with Dean?" You scoffed "and have him accidentally touch any part of my body? The scandal" you hadn't meant to say it but it slipped out. His eyes widened "Guess he's still avoiding a certain subject"

You covered your face with your hands "Fuck I shouldn't be talking to you about it" "Hey, if it helps then talk" Sam offered and you let your hands slide down to offer him a greatful smile "I love him so much Sam and I know relationship are so much more than that but I miss the connection. I miss being in his arms. I miss feeling like I'm completely his and that he's completely mine"

You wiped your eyes before the tears could spill. He nodded slowly "He's scared. He won't admit it but he is. He felt so horrible when he realized he hurt you and the way he was treated at that urgent care... he doesn't want to risk hurting you again so you're gonna have to put the foot forward and make it intentional. All cards on the table thing"

You nodded after a moment "Thanks Sammy" he smiled "Of course"

You knew Dean had purposely stayed up late tinkering around in the garage. Baby didn't need tuning up, neither did your car. He kept them in top form. He was avoiding you.

You walked around the room you shared with him, stretching your legs and wondering just how to approach the subject without him feeling like you were pushing him into a corner. Dean never reacted well if he felt like something was an ultimatum but this wasn't fair to either of you.

You were healed up, inside and out. You hadn't blamed him any, even when you'd still been sore to the touch. You'd always known Dean was strong. Hell he fought monsters for most of his life, hand to hand and won. That required physical strength. Mix with the fact that you had a pain tolerance that Bobby had called insane...well you were surprised it'd taken this long for an accident to happen.

You loved Dean's strength, he was normally so gentle with you but that one night you'd almost died. You'd known it just the same as him. The adrenaline hadn't even faded from your system to acknowledge it when you'd gotten back to the hotel and you needed to feel like you were still alive and he needed the confirmation you were still alive as well. Dean out of every person on the face of the earth would die a thousand times over before ever intentionally hurting you and you knew that to the bottom of your heart. If only you could make him see that.

You laid down on the bed and curled your legs up under you. You felt defeated. If you couldn't win the fight for your relationship, how the hell could you win any others?

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

You heard the door crack open after a while and started to pretend like you were asleep but turned to face Dean was was standing next to his dresser. He smiled softly "Did I wake you?" You shook your head "No, I haven't exactly been sleeping good"

He dropped his gaze down "Are you hurting again?" "Physically? No" you replied softly before turning around again, giving him your back. You didn't want to hurt him but you had no clue how to give voice to your own fears in the moment either.

You choked back a sob when the bed dipped behind you right before you felt his arm slip around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. "I'm so sorry sweetheart" you gently laid your hand on his arm, fingers lightly trailing over the skin because you were honesty starved for any touch from the man now holding you "It's ok Dean"

He leaned his forehead over to rest between your shoulders, warm breath hitting your skin where the shirt you slept in had slid down "I would never hurt you please tell you know that" "I know" you whispered.

You laid there for a few minutes just enjoying the fact that he was holding you before he moved around. You thought he was getting comfortable to go to sleep but his lips brushed against your neck. Your breath came out in a harsh shudder "Dean" you started to turn to face him so he loosened his grip to let you turn in his arms.

He kept one hand on your hip, lightly tracing the patterns on your shorts "Can we talk?" He asked and you nodded. "I'm terrified here sweetheart. The night I hurt you... I almost lost you that night and I was blinded by the what ifs...we should've showered...got some food or something to calm down first...I know that now..."

"I wasn't exactly telling you to stop Dean" you cut him off and he smiled slightly "I know but still it's my job to protect you, even if it's from me" you picked at the front of his shirt and nodded "You do protect me Dean" he gave you a look and you grinned before pretending to lock your lips.

"Seeing blood on the sheets and knowing I caused it. I hurt the woman I love bad enough she bled?" He closed his eyes for a moment so you took the opportunity to move your hand from his chest to his jaw, cupping it gently and letting your nails scratch the scruff covering it from the days he'd missed trimming it.

"Can I talk now?" He opened his eyes slowly and nodded "you do protect me Dean. That night, yeah we could calmed down and not let adrenaline run us but lesson learned. I was never mad at you, if I hadn't been hurting I would've kicked every last one of those doctors asses for even thinking such of you but I did yell at them"

He laughed, resuming letting his fingers trace patterns on your hips "Yeah I remember you yelling excuse the fuck out of him for having a big cock I know it's not like any of you or any of your husbands have to worry about that issue" you smiled at seeing him relax even just a bit "I'm not made of glass of Dean but I do acknowledge the fact that the man I'm in love with is extremely strong. I also know that the man I love with would never hurt me intentionally but Dean I miss you. I've been healed up for weeks now and you'll barely kiss me"

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

He leaned closer to catch your lips in a gentle kiss. Just when you figured he would move away he gripped your hips gently then rolled over onto his back so you were left straddling him. When you gasped from the sudden movement he deepened the kiss, rolling his tongue against yours in a way that had your head spinning.

When you were forced to break away from his lips he grinned up at you "I miss you too sweetheart. I'm still worried I'm gonna hurt you" you rolled your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment then shrugged with a playful smile "Face your fears Winchester"

When you slipped your shirt over your head his eyes darkened "You gonna lay back and let make sure you're good and ready for me?" One of his hands teased up your side to graze over your breast. After so long with no intimacy every little touch had small gasps leaving you and it was clear from the weight growing against your thigh that the sounds falling from you were having an effect on Dean.

You nodded so he pulled you down to him, his mouth finding your left nipple. Teeth barely grazing the sensitive bud. A low moan of his name escaped you as you rolled your hips against his causing a low groan to leave him.

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

He released your breast then turned the two of you over so you were on your back and he was now over you. You watched him as he slipped his shirt over his head and tossed it. You didn't waste any time letting your hands find his chest, fingers exploring the expanse of skin that you loved. His eyes closed at such an innocent touch but you knew it he was as starved for your touch as you were for his the touch was anything but.

When his eyes fluttered open the look in them made your stomach flip. He caught your lips in a searing kiss that wasn't rough but wasn't chaste either. It made heat flare through your body as his fingers teased the waistband of your shorts "I need to feel you" he whispered as his fingers disappeared under your shorts.

One of his fingers teased through your folds and he groaned when he felt how wet you already were "Oh baby, I've been neglecting you haven't I?" His words were teasing but his tone wasn't as he moved from your lips to your neck, kissing and nipping every place he knew would make your body react. When he finally slid one finger into you, you gasped at the feeling.

He curled his finger up and easily found that spot inside of you, adding a second digit as your arousal grew even more. The sound was lewd as he worked you to an orgasm, marking your neck as chest as he did. You were embarrassingly soaked when he used his thumb to rub circles on your clit that was all it took to push you over that edge and you came with a loud moan of his name.

He caught your lips in another passionate kiss before pulling his fingers to his mouth, holding your eyes as he licked them clean. "I need a taste" he murmured, moving to hover over you. He started at your lips,letting you taste yourself on him before starting down your body kissing and marking every inch of skin he could.

You were a fucking puddle under him before he ever got to your shorts. When he settled himself between your knees he smiled at you "I love you sweetheart" you smiled weakly "I love you Dean" he pulled your shorts off your legs and started at your left ankle, kissing up to just shy of where you needed him before repeating the action on your right leg.

Just when you thought he was going to tease you more he licked a long line into you and when your response was to tangle your fingers into his hair he dove in like a man starved.

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

You'd already came two or was it three times? Hell you had no idea. All you knew was your legs felt like they were made of jello, your entire body felt soft and Dean still hadn't let up. "Dean, please baby I can't"

He leaned back from you, chin glistening with your wetness "Tapping on me?" You nodded "Come here please" for the first time you saw hesitation in his eyes. "Please" you repeated and he left another kiss on your clit before making his way back up your body. When he kissed you, you tasted yourself on his lips.

You could feel his hardened cock through his sweatpants and hooked your leg around his waist to pull him down to you "I want you" "Sweetheart.." "I trust you" you whispered and saw something shift in his demeanor. Was that what he needed to hear?

He stood up long enough to kick his sweats off then climbed back up the bed, holding his weight on his arms. You could feel his cock sitting against your thighs "You won't hurt me" you whispered. He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips before lining himself up with your entrance.

When he started to push in you both let out a harsh breath. He froze, eyes searching your face so you laughed breathlessly "It's a normal you're big and we haven't had sex in a while reaction. Don't stop" he kept going at your encouragement until he was fully inside of you.

Once he was buried inside of you, you felt his hand shake slightly when he brushed the hair out of your face "Are you ok?" You nodded "I'm ok baby. You can move" he let his lips find yours as his hips gave a tentative roll. When you moan lightly he moved down from your lips to your neck.

----------

He buried his face in your neck as he found a pace that had your hands gripping his shoulders and praises of him falling from your lips. "You're the perfect one sweetheart. Look at you. All spread out for me, loving me" he groaned into your flesh and you knew he was close. He was holding back to make sure you found your own release.

He slipped one hand between your bodies and when his fingers found your clit your orgasm had you screaming his name. You could feel his hips falter and knew he was close. "I'm not gonna break. Nothing hurts" you whispered and his thrusts got just slightly deeper as he chased his own release. When he finally came and buried himself inside of you with a final thrust he pressed his head over onto your chest as both of your heavy breathing filled the room.

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

When Dean gently pulled out of you his eyes tracked the sheet under you so you smiled sleepily "We need to get cleaned up but I promise that's just a wet spot. No blood"

He pressed a deep kiss to your lips "I'll go start a bath. You get in first and I'll change the sheets then come join you" you raised an eyebrow "Dean we hadn't had sex in weeks. You just wrang like four orgasms out of me. Are you gonna wrap me in a sheet and carry me to the bathroom?"

He nodded as he slipped his sweatpants back on as if it was ridiculous for to you to think otherwise. You knew arguing was pointless so why not enjoy the brute strength of the man you loved? You shook your head with a laugh "I love you Dean" he grinned "I love you too. Now arms up"

[dearsnow]

THIS CAN WORK

- as you’re trying to forget about him, the man who broke your heart shows up at your doorstep. or in which jake gets yelled at by the entire hard deck. (jake “hangman” seresin x fem!reader, angst -> fluff, reading part 1 is probably a good idea but idk if it’s 100% necessary)

PART 1

word count: 2,032

a/n - the official part 2 is here!! thank you for all the love part 1 got <3 i’m not personally the biggest jake fan but writing this was honestly so fun. i loved exploring the softer and more insecure parts of his personality, so i may have more planned for him in the future 👀

It’s been two days since Jake cut you out of his life, and to say you’ve been devastated is an understatement. You still have his shirts and his stupid nighttime noise maker, and with them, the lingering feeling of his touch on your skin. You’ve already texted to let him know that you’ll drop off his things later, but he has yet to respond. It’s like he’s dropped off the face of the Earth. Good, you think. Let him. But he better at least wipe any memory of himself from your thoughts first.

You’re trying your best to forget, you really are. You took down the pictures of him that hung on your wall, right by your bed, and you’ve shoved the pillow that holds the faint scent of his cologne into the depths of your closet, and the photos of him on your phone are sitting in the recently deleted album. It’s better this way, you tell yourself. You need to get him off your mind as soon as possible and move on to better things, better people. Like a stubborn stain, his presence remains.

But you still want him like you’ve never wanted a single thing before, and it makes you sick.

Jake had never felt worse in his life. As soon as he saw you walking away, he regretted it, but if there’s one thing Jake Seresin hates, it is being wrong. His friends called him every synonym for wrong in the dictionary that night.

“You’re an idiot, Bagman. She was the best thing you had going for you and you just pushed her away like that?” Phoenix scoffed. She had overheard snippets your break-up, and after prompting Penny, she knew the full story within seconds.

“I did what was best for her-“

“No, you did what was best for you.” Penny interjected. “If you can’t make the effort to keep someone so amazing in your life, you’re never going to get anywhere. Relationships require compromise and change on both sides. The whole time you were with her, she was bending over backwards to accommodate you, and you couldn’t even shift to the side a little and give her a pinch of what she needed.”

Jake could feel anger rising in his throat. He knew best, right? No one saw his perspective. No one could feel how unhappy he would’ve made you. He was setting you free. Right? Please, let him be right.

Rooster prodded him in the stomach with his pool stick. Apparently everyone was in on the conversation. “You’ve got that self-pitying look, man. You fucked up. You’ve been fucking up. If you really think you’re not good enough for her, isn’t that a reason to become good enough for her?”

“I just…” For the first time, Jake was at a loss for words. He was coming to recognize that he was wrong. He was so, so wrong, but that felt like a slap in the face. For the first time, Rooster’s words didn’t intend to antagonize him. They were honest, and he hated it.

Bob tried to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Jake pushed it off. “You should talk to her.” He offered. “Tell her your side, and if she’s open to it, work on yourself so you can be good for her.” His voice was soft and soothing, like he was whispering to a wounded animal. Jake felt himself burning up under the gazes of his friends.

“Yeah,” He swallowed hard, finally coming to terms with the fact that he can make mistakes. “Maybe I will.”

You’re humming to yourself, cleaning your apartment’s modest kitchen. The sun is out, shining golden beams upon the shiny counter you’re wiping down. It smells like the nicely-scented cleaner you just bought. The old one smelled too much like him. But, as you move on, so does life. Thinking about it gives you a headache, so you’ve chosen to do anything but think.

A knock at your door makes you put down your rag. You figure it’s just your landlord, considering that you were meant to pay your rent yesterday. You sigh, readying yourself to tell sweet Mr. Hammond that you’ll pay it ASAP.

Your fingers grip the door handle and pry it open. The thing has always been a little too hard to move; old hinges, you figure. Before you can get the door to open fully, you stop in your tracks. Jake.

He’s holding a bag of your favorite takeout with a sheepish look on his face. You consider slamming the door, but it would probably get stuck if you moved it too fast. “Have you come to collect your things?” You ask softly, looking him up and down. He looks like shit. He has seemingly forgotten how to shave, his stubble turning into the awkward length that you always chided him to take care of, and his deep green eyes are laden with sadness. It almost makes you feel bad for him— until, of course, you remember he broke your heart. Calm down, you think, make this quick and easy. Get him in and out.

“No.” He states simply. “I wanted to apologize.” This is a big thing for him, something so new that it sounds foreign to your ears. Jake apologizing? His shoulders are hunched slightly. You resist the urge to put a loving hand on his chest, as you usually did when he was feeling out of sorts.

“It’s fine.” Your voice is quiet, laced with as much kindness as you can muster. “I put all your stuff in a box, if you wanted to pick it up.” You’re still subtly prompting, trying to get him out again.

He places the takeout in your grasp, his pinky finger brushing lightly against your own. You hate how it still makes you tingle. Your other hand picks at the edges of your soft loungewear. Jake purses his lips slightly as you step backwards, your feet shuffling against the linoleum floor. “Can we talk?”

“I thought we just talked.” You respond curtly. He sighs, eyebrows drawn.

“I mean really talk. Just hear me out this one time, and if you want, you’ll never have to see me again.”

You nod slightly, resigning yourself to the fact that you have to get this over with. At least your apartment is clean and sparkling; in your own way, you’re telling him that you don’t need his permission to live a nice life. You can clean, and you can take care of yourself. The takeout finds its place on your small table. You pull out a stool from the side of your island and sit down as the stool’s legs creak underneath you. Jake sits, too, opposite you. His hands are shaking a little, but you turn your gaze up to his face.

You can hear his breaths deepening as he clasps his hands together. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

“I appreciate your apology, but that doesn’t really change what happened.” You state. He holds up a finger as if to tell you to wait just a bit. Your eyes pass over his dejected expression, his mouth tilting just the slightest bit downwards.

“I know. I was being stupid, and I see that now. You’re amazing, honey. You’re nice and generous and this genuine kind of comforting that makes me smile. When I’m with you, I feel like I want to be better. And trust me, I do. I want to be so much better for you. When I first met you, I thought that you’d be a fit for Bob or something, that’s how amazing you are. I thought deserved someone like him, someone just as caring, but I fell in love with you instead, and now look where we are.” He chuckles dryly. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I guess I just felt inadequate and stupidly insecure. I know I’m not what a respectable girl like you would want, so I pushed you away and hurt you instead. I didn’t consider your feelings at all that night, and for that, I really am sorry. I don’t know if that explanation changes anything now, but I had to give it a shot; you were never too sweet, I was just too damn bitter.”

His words come out in a ramble. You’ve never seen him so much as stutter, but his confident, calm voice is bordering on anxious. You can’t even believe what you’re hearing.

It takes a lot of guts to say something like that. When you look back on your interactions, on everything he’s ever said or done around you, you finally see it clearly. All he does is build himself up to be this great figure, so much so that people can’t tell that his ego has been sorely bruised. That’s why he shrugs off comfort and security, fucking up every sure thing in his life during the process.

He’s boring a hole into your forehead with how hard he’s staring. His hands are still white-knuckled, holding each other like they’re seeking some sort of solace. The tension in the air is palpable as you take a breath. “Thank you. I… It’s nice to hear you acknowledge that.”

Jake can hear his breathing quicken shakily. That could’ve gone a lot worse. You’re not screaming at him, hitting him, kicking him out, anything that he thinks you should do. You’re just sitting there, nails digging into the flesh on your arm, looking shocked and heartbroken all at once. He takes one deep gulp of air. “You’re welcome. I’ll get out of your hair now.” He stands to leave, but your smaller hand catches his. His palm is damp.

“I’m sorry you ever had to feel that way about yourself.” You say. His small admission of insecurity weighs on you like nothing else. “You’re a good guy, Jake. I hope you’ll take this as an opportunity to work on yourself and find what makes you happy.”

Budding tears prick at his waterline. He hasn’t cried in a long time, but looking at you makes him want to. He wants to slide into your arms and sob, press his face into your neck and tell you over and over that he wants you back. He has to try. He thinks he’ll regret it for his whole life if he doesn’t. “You make me happy,” he hesitates, “and if you’ll have me, I’d like to have you around while I work on myself. I need you. You make me want to be good enough for you.”

You take one step, then another, and he doesn’t protest a single bit as you envelop him in a hug. His muscles relax as he wraps his arms around you, the tension breathing a sigh of relief. “I’d like that.” Your voice is slightly muffled from being pressed into his chest, but he hears you loud and clear. “I missed being with you.”

You missed the way he would cook you breakfast in the mornings with a dish towel thrown over his shoulder and classic rock playing from his phone. He always told you that you’d get the whole experience when you visited him, starting with his lips caressing your collarbones and continuing with breakfast in bed. It didn’t even matter if you didn’t want to leave; he would take you with him, wherever he went. He even got in trouble once for sneaking you on base.

You missed his scratchy morning voice and warm hands and how he always had an arm around you. You missed him caring about you, wiping your tears, and you missed how confidently he showed you off and stood up for you. You missed almost everything about him, if you’re being honest. You thinking you could live without him was but a brief lapse in your sanity.

“I missed you too.” He whispers. “I… I really do love you, darlin’. I’ll shape up, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” You smile.

For the first time in a while, Jake can feel hope pricking at his heart, and you can feel it beating through his shirt.

Maybe, just maybe, you think, this can work.

Taglist: @seitmai

[leclerc-hs]

Jealous sex with Charles 🤩

smut under the cut! xoxo

YOUR FRIEND’S APARTMENT buzzed with a lively energy as guests mingled under a soft, warm glow of string lights draped across the ceiling. The space, modest but cozy, was transformed into a hub of festivity. The mix of eclectic décor added character: vintage posters hung askew on the walls, and potted plants created pockets of greenery that contrasted the otherwise urban feel.

You were a few drinks in—the buzz of the alcohol you consumed staining your cheeks with a slight reddish hue. Your earlier fight with Charles’ still sat in the forefront of your mind, leading you to keep drinking. 

It was a rather toxic relationship. A game of cat and mouse. Both of you never wanting to confess your true feelings for one another. It was childish honestly, the way neither of you refused to just be together.

“Why does it even matter if he texted me?”

His eyes were cold as he looked at you, his biceps flexed as his arms cross over his chest. “It’s whatever. Go try and fuck the entire town for all I care!” 

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

-

Charles stood across the room, the throb of the bass vibrating through his chest, but it was not the music that had him fixated. His gaze was locked onto you, and the intensity of his stare betrayed a growing, seething fury. The makeshift dancefloor seemed to blur as his attention narrowed solely on the scene unfolding before him.

An ex-fling of yours—one who had always carried an air of easy charm—had just sidled up to you. His presence was impossible to ignore, a magnetic pull that drew your attention away from the crowd. With a casual confidence, he leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The proximity was intimate, almost invasive, and Charles could see the way his breath seemed to linger a moment too long, his intent as clear as day even from a distance.

Charles’s jaw clenched as he watched, his hands tightening on the neck of the glass beer bottle in his hand. Though the words spoken were lost to the pounding music, the effect was immediate. You laughed—a spontaneous, genuine burst of amusement that seemed to resonate across the room. The sound of your laughter, bright and carefree, was like a dagger to Charles.

 It wasn’t until Charles saw you slip out of the room that he found his feet moving almost immediately, following you.

“Having fun?”

You lazily turned to the sound of his voice, your hair in complete disarray from all the dancing you’ve done tonight. It wasn’t until now that you let yourself really look at him.

He looked fucking hot. But so did you.

Your lips curled into a small smirk. “Yeah, think I’m going to head out soon. Got a big list of people to go and fuck. Tight schedule and all that.”

Charles felt his cock thicken against the thick material of his jeans. You always had a dirty mouth. Always so vulgar. It was one of the many things Charles loved about you.

You watched as Charles’ right eye slightly twitched at the mere mention of you going and fucking other people. The normal green of his eyes was no longer there, an almost black color there instead.

“Let me be clear, cherie.” He takes a step towards you, your eyes dropping down to his glistening chest that pokes through the many undone buttons of his linen shirt. “You’re only fucking me.”

-

“You’re so funny.” Charles mutters as he shoves your face into the plush mattress of his bed, your dress and underwear thrown somewhere along the confines of his room. “Thinking anybody else could take care of this needy pussy, hm?”

His cock slipped into you with ease, the stretching burn eliciting loud moans to escape your lips. 

“That’s it…” He let out a guttural moan, pushing his hips as far into you as he could. In dire need of closeness. “Let me hear how I make you feel.”

You gasped, if your cheeks were slightly red before they were burning red now. 

He gives you no warning before he’s scooping his arm under your stomach, lifting you from the mattress and flipping you onto your back. You fall to the mattress with a slight bounce and a small shriek. He wastes no time slipping his cock back into you, his thrusts harsh and calculated.

“I hate you.” You say in between harsh breaths as Charles leans over you, his weight all being held by his arms at the sides of your head.

“Yeah?” He laughs. “What else, hm?”

He can’t help but feel his cock grow harder inside of you at the bite of your tone.

“You’re insufferable…” You begin, moans escaping in between each word. “So mean to me…”

“And you never apologize.”

Small tears stream down the sides of your face as his hips pick up the pace in between each angry statement of yours. As if it was egging him on. 

“Yeah, well you’re mine.”

Your pussy clenches tightly around his cock at the phrase. “I’m so mad at you.”

“Yeah? Tell me how mad you are baby.” 

He’s practically panting in your ear as your nails scrape along the thick muscles of his back, the pleasure building in your stomach, almost ready to spill.

You latch your legs behind his back, pressing the heels of your feet into him, shoving him deeper into you. 

“Fuck you.”

And that’s all the encouragement he needs before he’s shoving his entire cock inside of you, completely bottoming out with each harsh stroke. You were completely dazed as he lets out an occasional laugh. Almost mocking you.

“Faster—ah shit…” You plead, your hands trailing any inch of his skin you can touch. 

His lips meet yours hotly. It’s a clash of tongue and teeth, and nowhere near perfect. Both of you are groaning into each other’s mouths hotly, tongues meeting tongues.

“M’ gonna come,” You moan into his mouth, his hips not slowing down. He pulls his lips off of yours for a few seconds, soft grunts echoing throughout the room.

“Such a good girl, hm?” He smirks. “C’mon give it to me.”

The tight squeeze of your cunt on his cock was almost mind numbing to Charles. You let out soft mewls as you reached your orgasm. Your walls fluttering around him repeatedly.

“You’re so fucking hot.” Are the last words you hear before he pulls out of you, spilling his hot cum all over your stomach in white stringy spurts.

[moonstruckme]

hello mae ! could i ask for an apple pie with any of the marauders with these prompts?

“a flea market wedding dress” & “hands stained with pen ink”

it would also be alright if it’s just the first one if ever you don’t feel like writing with two of them in mind !

- 🧸 (i always forget to sign off with this 😭)

Thank you for requesting <3

cw: some non-sexual nudity (it's hardly mentioned only really implied)

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 749 words

“Do we need eggs?” Remus asks from the other room. 

“I don’t think so.” You zip the dress up in the back, relishing in the smooth feel of the fabric on your skin. It fits like it was made for you. “I’m not feeling very eggy lately. Our last ones went bad.” You smile at yourself in the mirror, going to show Remus.

“It just feels strange not to have eggs…” he trails off as you come into view. It’s not your appearance that surprises him—you’ve been showing off your finds from the flea market since you got home—but the dress itself. “That’s pretty.” He sounds a tad breathless. “It’s, um. It’s white.” 

“Yeah,” you laugh, “it was someone’s wedding dress, once. Isn’t it nice?” You give him a little twirl. “I think if I take out some of the layers in the skirt it could be cute for summer. Very flowy.” 

“Very.” Remus caps the pen he was using for your grocery list, amusement coloring his tone. “You look lovely in it, dove. You know everyone will think we’re getting married when you wear it out, though, don’t you?” 

“With the way you dress?” You grin. It worsens when he stands, coming over to you with a grin of his own. “Doesn’t seem likely.” 

“My jumpers are very dapper,” he says, smiling into a kiss. 

You hum noncommittally, and he gives your middle a playful warning squeeze. A quick peck to your lips, then another, longer and sweeter. You set your hands on his chest, feeling the soft material of the jumper he’s wearing now. 

“I don’t know,” you tease, looking down at your contrasting outfits. “I think—oh, Remus!” 

You move away from him, but the damage is done. Two smudges of ink remain on your dress where his fingertips were. 

Remus is quick to follow your gaze. “Fuck.”

“It’s okay,” you say, even as your heart sinks. 

“No, dovey, I’m so sorry.” He looks like he wants to reach for you again, but he looks at his hands and swears instead. “I can—wait one second.” 

He goes back around the counter, and you hear the sink running. 

“Really,” you say, “it’s fine. It was only a few quid.” 

“No, but you were excited about it. I think I can get it out.” 

“It’s ink, Rem, it’s…” 

You trail off as he comes back around the corner, soapy dish sponge in hand, and presses it to your dress. 

“What…” You move your arm out of the way. Remus settles a hand on your hip, holding the both of you steady as he bends closer to your waist. He swipes the sponge over the fabric with a concentrated furrow between his brows. “Are…are you washing me?” 

“I’m getting the stain out.” 

“I don’t think soap is going to do it, honey.” 

The look your boyfriend casts up at you is equal parts loving and exasperated. “It usually works for me. This isn’t my first time getting ink on clothes.” 

That, you can believe. The writing in Remus’ notebooks is always smeared, the culprit to be found in his inky hands. Sometimes you swear he gets black and blue stains up to his elbows. You’ve no clue how he manages it.

“Now we only need to put baking soda on it, and it should come out.” He gives your dress one last good scrub with the sponge.

“Right,” you say hesitantly. “So should I just lie down for that, or…” 

“I probably should have had you take it off first,” Remus admits. “I panicked, a little bit.” 

You laugh. He looks relieved to hear it, some of the guilt easing from his expression. “That’s my fault, I guess.” You unzip the back of your dress, trying to step out of it without disturbing the stain. 

“No, I think it’s all still mine,” Remus says, but he takes it from you.

Once he’s done arranging it in the sink and piling it with baking soda, he comes back to you, slotting a hand behind your ear and letting his fingers slip into your hair. 

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses you. 

You roll your eyes. He knows you can’t be cross at him when he does that. 

“You just didn’t want me to be better dressed than you,” you say, though there’s nothing but fondness to be found in your tone. 

“You’re always better dressed. As you’ve said, the bar isn’t high.” 

“Oh, shut up. You know I like your jumpers just fine.”

[bunnys-kisses]

ferrari blood

toto wolff

cw: smut/pwp, vampire!toto, driver!reader, blood (drinking), jealousy, possessive!toto, human!reader, missionary position, intimacy

i know i'm on vacation, but this is a little thing for a server i'm in to celebrate halloween! i'll see you all again on sunday <3

toto liked you in red. while not the colours of his team, he found it brought out your complexion so beautifully that it would be a shame to deny himself your beauty. toto remembered when the colour was associated with courage and sacrifice.

but you were no sacrifice, in fact you were a willing participant. so when you dressed in red, he associated it with heat, passion, love. and toto loved you in all shades of red. except for one.

"schatzi. my little light." toto said in a calm voice as he leaned forward, "why are you wearing that ferrari t-shirt?"

you looked at toto for a moment. you could feel his hungry gaze on you, "oh yeah! i spilled some of my dinner all over my shirt and carlos was nice enough for me to borrow one of his."

toto narrowed his eyes, "carlos? where were you that he had an extra shirt lying around?"

you blinked at him, "oh, i was in his driver's room with charles." then smiled, "they invited me for some take out before we left for england tomorrow, sir." you then added, "i thought having something in my stomach wouldn't make me... pass out like last time."

it was a tradition, you'd let your vampire team principal have a bit of your blood. and you would end up more relaxed for the upcoming race. it was as simple as that. toto was dressed in a button up white shirt and dark slacks.

"i love you in red, my little light." he said as he relaxed against the couch, "but not that kind." he eyed your figure, "you never looked right in ferrari."

you stepped towards him. if he had his way, you'd be dressed in something nicer. a sharper fit that highlighted the curves he adored. something low cut that showed off your beautiful breasts and the slope of your neck. ferrari red would never be able to present you to your fullest potential, just as racing for them would not make you win the world championship.

he patted his thigh and you walked towards him. slow careful steps, less like a nervous deer and more like a self assured woman. he smirked, you were teasing him. how cute.

"i think i look just fine." you responded as you got yourself onto your lover's lap. you felt his fingers drag across your neck and you leaned into his touch lovingly.

"i would disagree." toto replied before he showed you his fangs. vampire fangs out of a movie. the first time you saw them, you got scared but now you eagerly pressed yourself further against him. he smiled a little, "i hope he didn't like this shirt." then took you by the back of the neck.

you shuddered, nipples grew hard in your bra as toto sank his teeth into your neck. you held onto his shoulders tightly. the feeling of being bit in such a way was intense. you clawed at toto's strong shoulders while he drank your blood.

you felt the nerves of the upcoming race melt from your core. and toto felt the curl of possessiveness form in his gut. you were his sweet, darling angel. his little light. you should be treated as such, not marked with the logo of ferrari.

"toto." you whimpered as you felt your heart race and toto devour more blood. you trusted toto, he had self control. it was you, his little human, that didn't. you clung onto him tightly as a bit of blood got into the shirt, staining it a deeper red.

something often happened when toto had a taste of your blood. the anxiety you felt before a race was replaced with a heated lust in your core. you squirmed against him but toto's strong grip kept you close to him. you whined a little bit and felt your core throb as he dragged his tongue across wounds and stopped the bleeding. he was sated, but you had your blood seeped into the collar of the ferrari shirt.

"see, my little light. this red is more beautiful on your skin." then made you look at him. you could see the lust in his dark eyes. he was a vampire, but also a possessive old man. if this were a horror novel you'd be the damsel in distress. but you didn't feel like you were in distress. instead you watched your lover lean back on the couch and you straddled his waist.

you ran your hands across his chest and giggled a little bit at the sight of your lover. you felt a thud in your chest, the blood missing made you a bit lightheaded but that could also be from the immense pleasure you felt racing through your core.

"toto."

he chuckled and grasped your hips, "i know, my little light. but i cannot have sex with you while you are still clothed. how are you feeling, does your head hurt?"

you shook your head, "all good!" then smiled at him.

toto smiled at him, blood stained his teeth, "excellent, i don't need my favourite driver to get sick on me." he reached for you and cupped your face the way you would a puppy.

you giggled and leaned into his touch, all cute but dopey smiles. you looked painfully cute. toto helped you off his lap and got up off the couch, he took you by the hand and led you to the bedroom. toto got the t-shirt off your pretty body as soon as he could, he wanted to see the shirt burned. he watched your wobble a little when you tried to get your jeans off before you were face first in the bed in just your underwear.

even after centuries of living, toto still found new things to love about you. he admired your figure as he took off his button up and the shirt underneath. you rolled onto your stomach and got your bra off then your panties. eventually all clothes ended up on the floor.

toto could see the bite he left you already bruising a little, and when he got onto the bed with you, he traced the marks her left. he said, "your blood tastes sweeter than any wine on earth. it pulls me in. you are an enticing woman, and you drive me crazy." he said, his cock stood at full attention, he could feel the thump of want in his body.

you felt heat in your cheeks as he pressed himself up against you. your legs wrapped around his waist. you gazed into your lover's eyes and swallowed. you heard the stories of the vampires, but yet, toto was an enticing creature. made from the night, he pulled you into his world. not only were you his racing star, you were also the woman that he cherished. even if you never let him touch a drop of your blood, he would still yearn for your warm touches across his cold soul.

his world had become so much brighter with a little warmth in it. from the love of a human. he kissed his marks on your neck before he sank his cock into you. he felt you tense up from the intrusion, but then relaxed a moment later. you accepted him wonderfully.

"you did wonderful today." he said, "both on the track and in my lap. you raced with such beauty, i don't know why you still get so anxious." his voice was tender, but his thrusts were a little harder. you whined under him and he continued to speak, "you are more beautiful than any other driver to cross the paddock. your are the sun and i am simple a creature that yearns for your light."

you thought about turning your head away from him from the intensity of his words. you whined a little when he made you look at him. you squirmed a little bit and felt the leap in your chest. no words were spoken, only your sweet noises.

"don't look away from me." he said, "i wish to see your beauty as i fuck you." he smiled at you as he continued to thrust against you. he watched your body shift from the pleasure and he thought that you looked perfect under him. this would be the racer who wins it all, and toto would spoil you in return. he knew deep down he'd eventually turn you into a vampire, but he would love to spend eternity with you. his beloved bride, his racer, his light. he kissed you once more as he held onto you hips with both hands once more. he moved against you and felt comfort in his movements. you brought a life into toto's life that had been absent since his days as a human. even the sun he could walk in now was nothing like the sun you brought into his life.

his lips found your neck once more where he carefully nipped at the soft skin, he touched the other side of your neck. he remained close to you as he sank his teeth into your neck once more. he felt the blood in his mouth and the pleasure against his nerves. paired with the sharp sounds of your want for him. you squirmed a little and he kept you pinned with his larger frame.

he always stood so tall against you like a shadow. he could be so imposing, but when you looked at him, you never felt fear. not even with the fangs and the thirst for blood. instead you happily made your boss and lover happy with healthy drinks of blood. it wasn't like you were running out of it.

it was better for him to take it from you then lose control and harm someone else, or himself. you needed your lover happy, you needed him in a clear mind to navigate you towards victory. and when he pulled his mouth away from your neck, his lips stained with blood. you pulled him in for a hot kiss, with your hands in his dark hair. he pushed into your further, his pace relentless and you felt the buzz of heat in your brain.

"look at you." toto said softly, "perfect for me." he chuckled a little as he leaned in to lick a bit of blood off your lips. why would he ever want another when he had you.

his movements continued and you arched your back a little bit from all the pleasure. you once joked that toto spent all that time as a vampire figuring out how to make a woman orgasm. he said that sometimes it took the right partner. and that was exactly what you were.

his perfect partner.

it took a long time, but now he had you. and as he felt orgasm throb in the back of his mind, he continued to fuck you. and you continued to hold onto him. the two of you kissed once more with the throb in your neck. even pressed so tightly against him.

you whined a little louder as you felt the pleasure from head to toe, you clung to your vampire lover. you said, "please, toto."

"i'll always have you." he said as he gave you the pleasure you needed. he felt you tighten around him and with a few more heavy thrusts, you came while you held onto him as tight as you could.

he shuddered at the feeling of your climax. he pulled you into another heated kiss and felt his own orgasm wrack through him. a few heavy thrusts and he finished inside of you.

after the peak of climax, you relaxed with your hands on the soft covers. you swallowed and looked up at your lover with a heated glance. you shifted a little as he pulled out and you took him by the arms and pulled him next to you in bed.

you put a leg over his hips as you held his face. even though he was older, he had remained unchanged for decades. you joked that he was an old man and he said that if you kept talking like that, he was going to show you that he was a young man in ways that counted.

"i wait for it, sir." you replied as you kissed him once more.

"how are you feeling, my little light?"

you nodded, "i'm alright, just a little bruised. have you had your fill, toto?" you held his face and smiled at him. you looked a little more tired after two feedings and one fucking.

but toto held you close and kissed you cheek, feeling the heat on your skin. your precious blood under the skin. he replied, "of course, even a drop is more than enough."

you giggled and stayed close to him on the bed.

he added, "but, my little light." he took you by the chin to look at him, "never wear that awful red again." then kissed you. <3