#not a side effect of the curse itself

[ewnamored]

ᥫ᭡ 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔 — based on the ⌞HSR version⌝

tartaglia, diluc, ayato, morax, pantalone.

contents: female reader / mentions of violence / switching / rough and soft sex / consensual somnophilia / oral fem receiving / breeding kink / size kink / classic double-wielding Morax / goddess reader in Morax’s and she suffers from the heat / belly bulge / mentions of getting injured during sex / free use-reversed / semi public for Pantalone’s and Morax’s / established relationship. not suitable for minors.

TARTAGLIA—fighting for dominance

Despite what someone might think, Tartaglia wasn’t all about dominance and control — at least not 24/7. While the bloody past and present will always follow him, and be an ironed and branded part of his life, the man liked to make himself to be just a regular guy — when Fatui wasn’t sending him out of Snezhnaya for missions, or when he didn’t have to beat up someone cocky over an unpaid debt.

Which didn’t mean he’d let go of his defenses easily. No, he needed to put in his place, so he could feel as if he earned and deserved the rest — besides chasing the obvious thrill your little wrestling could bring. You didn’t even need to be physically strong, as long as you were armored with different tactics to make him submit, a game you two have been incessantly recycling.

You were on a losing side at the moment, pinned under your ginger-haired lover who was grinding against your naked crotch, his cock almost bending in half upon small thrusts. Tartaglia was a tough opponent, as the stimulation was driving you crazy, yet you could see the effect of his own actions — he was self-sabotaging himself.

“C-come on, great warrior, aren’t you going to fight back?” he taunted through the flush in his voice, it becoming raspy from stifled groans. His hands were gripping your wrists above your head with maintained confidence, but didn’t you know better.

“You are an idiot, Ajax,” you said cheekily, before you were grinding your pussy back at him like a mean woman.

The scales were tipped, you realized, when his pace faltered and he actually moaned, as you have returned the gesture much harder than his limits would allow him to handle.

Still prideful and prevailing, he clicked his tongue, not letting you win so easily. That distasteful guy pinched your clit, now handling your wrists with one hand for the sake of this; making you whine and him laugh in victory.

You had enough. When with another grind his cock was angled to rest in a more straight line, you suddenly pushed your hips forward and forced him to fill you up in a one, smooth manner. Ajax froze for a morsel of time, still as paralyzed by the sudden warmth and squeeze, before collapsing on top of you like a deflated balloon. You almost broke him with that very unexpected and new from a genius like you tactic; so much he couldn’t even thrust into you when impossible for an overheated by quick dive him, as if walking into a cold water with no prep.

You were lucky to be a champion as you finally could maneuver him onto his back to start using his cock, breaking your lover further.

“F-fuck…” he cursed with a shaky voice, and he punched the bed’s headrest when you started to ride him with a great appetite. With a body slack, he could only watch your bouncy tits and see his cock disappear inside your greedy hole; his precious girl rewarded additionally with a grind of his ginger pubs against her clit.

No need to worry, no need to replay brutal visions in his mind when he had you to take care of him — that is, if you weren’t perhaps level up higher in cruelty than his opponents were. Even so, the difference was in the fact that he wanted you to be cruel and that he chose you to be cruel with him; the control remaining in that truth itself.

“Dammit, I can’t, you’re too hot—” he mumbled, almost incoherent, and a “sweet” lover you were, you leaned down chest to chest to kiss him as sweetly; still fucking yourself on his cock from below. With his state, it was sloppy and messy, Tartaglia drooling over your mouth.

When you ended the kiss, you grabbed onto his hands to place them on your hips to keep him somewhat grounded, because you didn’t plan to be that merciful. They quickly mended their own weakness as you were roughing him up, too spontaneously to catch up, with deep and fast strikes. You felt him in your guts, it was hard for you to remain sane too; and yet you couldn’t stop — you needed to fuck out every last drop of fight from Ajax.

“You can’t just…!” he gasped, his legs already trembling. The paleness of his hands turned red from the extra strength on your hips.

“Why? Do you want me to stop?” you threatened, smiling provocatively. A mistake from your side, really, as the words snapped something inside the man.

“As if,” his voice beamed with unstoppable, reaching unsettling, determination.

Before you knew it, you were trapped underneath him on your belly, not given time to assimilate, as he set his own path of cruelty.

DILUC—hand holding

 As boring as it might sound, Diluc was extremely relieved about the fact you were fine with a more intimate treatment in bed triumphant over something much rougher. Of course, there were moments where he tended to lose himself in the feeling and almost in control, so scary to a man not used of being open and ridden of inhibitions; yet still, he saw anything else above just fast paced as a tool to hurt you — no matter how much you could claim you’re enjoying it. He’s hurt enough enemies, forced to fight bad men (especially Fatui), so being spared of transferring some of the battle elements into bed helped him sleep at night.

Diluc couldn’t pinpoint any more specific things he liked participating in during sex, other than learning how to please you and enjoying pleasing you — however, he’d grown to be a big fan of holding your hand. The best case scenario, when he begins to enter you, in the safety of your shared bedroom where no harm or Mondstadtian gossip could reach you.

Today was no different. He’s been smearing your pussy with your own wetness, stirring it with a tip of his cock he dragged along your slit. He was a coward, really, knowing how unstable he’ll be once he’s inside.

His hands gripped yours tightly, and you had to beg him to start, all delirious already. “Diluc, please… I can’t wait any longer!”

He cursed under his breath at your plea, knowing the effect it had on him but also of how he could never deny you of anything — you were spoiled being with him, as you should be.

“Yes… yes, I’ll give you what you want,” he uttered out with an eager promise, and slowly slid his hard cock inside of you.

You both grunted when he then filled you to the hilt and began peaceful thrusts, quickly having to find a hiding in the crook of your neck so you shouldn’t see his vulnerable and heated expression.

You, however, couldn’t have it. You needed to observe his face, to know he feels good too, furthermore to connect on another level of intimacy than just fucking a hole could bring. With your hands still beautifully wrapped in his, you gently prodded him upwards. “Please, don’t hide yourself from me, Diluc,” you muttered almost shyly, scared of startling him.

He, feebly, finally gave you this pleasure and kept his head above yours, looking into the eyes with his own ones’ trembling glitter. He was indeed blushing, yet you had absolutely no negative feeling about this other than love.

Both staring at each other as he slowly sped up, he had to stare an opinion burning in his mind, one he’d protect from any criticism, “You are so beautiful,” he moaned out, and in return, you wrapped his legs around his hips, forcing him to dive in deeper inside your pussy. Diluc gasped, and he had to lean down to kiss you with voracious hunger when that familiar squeeze coming with your pleasure arose.

The hands of you were soon brought to his chest, as he at last let himself loose in you. The change in a position was swift, with a use of his trained body, as he manhandled you on top of him. You had to press your palms steadily against him as he moved your body to be riding him. Your breath hitched when you sensed a new energy in your play.

“I’m sorry, darling…” he groaned, straight from his throat at the way you were even tighter in this position and could take more of his lengthy, “… but I have to see you. I know I shouldn’t be inappropriate like this, but—”

“No!” you protested at him trying to apologize, even more when you felt so damn good and wanted to please him mutually. “I want this. Please, have me any way you want,” you practically begged to have him rougher with you, too excited at the prospect of seeing Diluc with no inhibitions or restrictions, at his rawest version where you can see how he truly feels about you, and so you could see the man you love.

The words could be enough to kill the man as he almost cried out at your affirmation, and given no arguments to feed his guilt, his hands gripped the bridge between your ass and hips — before the exhilarating game of him bouncing you up and down, so deep and fast to accentuate his attraction for you with a scary ease, has started.

AYATO—somnophilia

The duty called, and it called, and it called both of you; but Ayato always tried to take more burden onto his shoulders, simultaneously wishing to maintain the balance between this and finding a time window for you to be included.

Of course, it was often wishful thinking, which didn’t mean there wasn’t a way for you two to swiftly deal with lack of shared moments… having an arrangement, where Ayato is free to have sex with you when you’re asleep — however, not as in “he’s using you way”, for him to take every moment he wishes. It was about you yearning for contact and connection, and if sometimes, he couldn’t be there for you when you’re awake, he’ll be there for you when he can but you’re already asleep.

As suspected, his actions weren’t entirely selfless, if oftentimes he returned to your shared chambers all pent up — still, he managed to be fair and make it even with you if you get what you want and his slow thrusts were capable of gently lulling you into a deeper phase of sleep.

There was an element of excitement too, the risk and tiny of adrenaline when he had to be quiet and controlled in his movement, as he mustn’t wake you up.

The vulnerability you were wrapped in, so content in your dreamland made you plenty of gorgeous to Ayato who was standing over your sleeping form; as he undressed. Yet he couldn’t deny the physical pull too, when what you were wearing was a skimpy, thin yukata placed on your body for an easy access — to make it worse, two halves slipping onto your sides and exposing your legs and breasts almost entirely.

Truly, he’ll have to figure out a way to gather a whole free day, just so he can travel you somewhere where you both can fuck and cuddle all day.

For now, your sleeping grace will do. Stripped to nothing so he cannot deny himself that skin to skin haven, Ayato carefully laid himself down, and moved between your legs. Despite the fact your pussy was looser during your sleep where your muscles relax, and your body had been trained to be wet during moon-struck hours, he was still a lover caring enough to prep you even then — as if you were awake, so he never dares to forget about your comfort.

With reverence, his hands fondled the soft inside of the thigh, slowly skimming towards the heat of pleasure; arising goosebumps on his way. His breath shuddered as he finally allowed himself to place his lips on the velvet of your folds, slurping on what’s been gathered during his absence. You twitched, albeit, he couldn’t be any shaken if he’s had enough time to learn when you’re truly waking up and are giving in to him.

With how wet you were, he easily assumed you’ve been thinking about this all day… perhaps had even touched yourself before falling asleep, him being your last memory. He loved you more just at the thought.

His tongue darted at the twitching hole, before slipping into the depths of your sweet hole, and he closed his eyes when feeling his own body relaxing… even if he had to hump his hardness against the futon to ease that frustration before he’s sure he played with you enough. No matter how erected, he will take care of you before himself — as it proves to be applied to every basis, everyday.

Hearing your wanton whimper, he didn’t delude himself about not having any restraint, beginning the mad smacks at your pussy. A selfish part of him hoped you’d allow yourself to have your rest disturbed, just so you two can do this awake.

MORAX—breeding kink

You being a goddess of harvest and fertility was bestowed upon your geo archon husband as a greatest of blessings, and you had accumulated many successful seasons for Liyue for centuries.

However, your nature had its own unique downside — a heat, as if you were a flower yourself. Every year when the spring came, your body turned into a begging machine, needing to be fucked and bred instantly. It wasn’t even about having a child as you couldn’t have one as a goddess, but only the cruel play of the Celestia giving you a trait like this to make you an embodiment of your abilities — no matter if useless, pesky, and yet… leading to interesting results and many shared pleasures with Morax.

Before meeting him, you strayed away from bedding any of male gods or deities, finding them incapable of feeding your insatiable desires — it was when you first saw him, just with one glance you knew he’d be a man to fulfill you well. Perhaps, too well.

You ended up in this position every year, only for it to be intense each time — just like now. The zeniths of your heat came and go randomly, so when you two were having a small tea outing in secluded bamboo forest, there was no way you could make it back to his domain. Morax, a dutiful husband, tended to you right here.

Your face planted into the grass, barely spared from the dirt with your robes thankfully riding up under it to cushion your cheek, as he mounted you — your hips were up in the air and supported by shaky limbs, as he tug your body back and forth onto not one, but two hard and thick cocks. You were so full, stretched beyond what a human body could handle if you were to be one, that the amount of cum your husband has inflated into you has been spilling into a wet pool under you every few seconds.

“Morax… ! So big… I need more… !” was really the only thing you could say repeatedly, not capable of forming any more coherent speech — no matter how improper for a goddess, and a wife of this land’s archon. A man capable of causing destruction in protection of his nation, now was causing a destruction only desirable by you.

Every pronunciation of his name, Morax rewarded you with harder thrusts enforcing additional space inside of your walls — that causing the ground to shake, literally. “I know, you are really inexorable thing before the spring… inconsolable, unrestrained… desperate. Which is why you’re blessed to have a husband like me…”

His hands grabbed you under your breast and forced you upright, so now he was fucking you off of his lap. A speed so inhumane, a human would have ended up with an extent damage already — none of them could ever be granted such great pleasures due to that reason, when only an immortal body like yours protected itself with unnatural agility and regeneration.

“Yes… yes… only you… only yours…” you exclaimed with a cock-drunk enthusiasm, throwing your head to be back at his shoulder. It tilted back, you could see a great satisfaction on his handsome face at your admission when he looked down at you — he was a possessive lover. Not much about ownership or objectification but protecting what’s his. The striking golden eyes, they feasted off of your unholy expressions.

“Yes, only mine, my wife that she is,” he mused, sounding happy, while also being fond of you — no matter how you screamed debauchery, there would be no greater sight than you, meticulously written for the words about the love between you two being preached for centuries. Morax will also make sure none of them are fraudulent.

His eyes, darkening, darted at the belly bulge created by his two cocks with their sizes, constantly becoming more and less apparent with his thrusts. Breeding you, it was an inherent interest for Morax and his nature, and he’s decided you could take some more of his seed.

PANTALONE—free use

Time was money, a golden rule Pantalone adhered to — outside of “equal exchange” principle. However, his lover stood close to what he considered as valuable, therefore so was his time with her. Time, spent in various of ways, yet with always a keypoint — sex. Pantalone liked sex, at least you have managed to make him like it, and he desired it constantly. But being busy and money never sleeping, you two had to figure out how to tackle a problem of not finding any space in a day to be intimate.

That’s why, he created a new rule in his life, in which you’re allowed to initiate sex with him any minute he’s busy with work, as long as he’s not out being busy in a field — if he’s occupied with some documents, you were free to slip into his lap and grab what you wanted.

The first proposal, you were feeling hesitant about the idea, taking it as using him or even being put in a situation where your affections are not being reciprocated as he’s busy doing something else. To which Pantalone simply responded, “It’s not actually using me if I’m enjoying this too.”

So here you were in one of the banks he oversaw again, nth time this week in his office. He greeted you with a small smile, already knowing the reason for your arrival just by your bodily appearance, before returning to work as if you weren’t here.

Standing behind his chair, you were kind enough to ease him into what you’re initiating, by the kiss of his nape and hand rubs his palliative to the stressed shoulders. Your husband shuddered, still choosing to continue working diligently. He’s mastered how to keep himself focused on his matters when you’re using him; which didn’t mean he was immune to his own desires — he truly wished he could just bend you over the desk.

The grip on his pen tightened, leaving a blotch of ink on paper as a result, because you gently palmed him over his pants. Adjusting his glasses now becoming steamy, he put the paper aside and reached for a new one.

“Sorry,” you said, quietly to not stir him out of his concentration too hard. With trembling hands, you unzipped his pants, before removing your wool winter tights along with shoes, merely flicking your skirt up. When it came to you, you already were wet, having played with yourself in the sleigh carriage to speed up the process.

You sat down on Pantalone’s lap, and slowly lowered yourself down on his now ready cock; grabbing onto the edge of the desk you were facing, as it was almost unmanageable to stay quiet.

Pantalone was no better in reaction when his writing has halted and his legs tensed under you. It took a few long seconds for him to choose to resume his actions.

But the more you rode yourself on his cock, your hot and tight hole squeezing and demanding more, accompanied by the grunts of your pleasure prevalent on his ears… Pantalone didn’t realize when he managed to grab onto your hips to help you, a work momentarily forgotten.

“I’m sure I can make this disruption worth the money I could make in an hour, don’t you think?” he whispered into your neck, biting on it gently, and when you nodded in agreement enormous in enthusiasm, he was finally helping you with an exquisite sounding chuckle of approval.

[xo2dee]

🗨️ LAMBENT

PAIRING: Sukuna/(Fem)Reader. WARNINGS: True Form!Sukuna, Pregnant!Reader, Heian Era Customs, Pregnancy, Mentions of Cannibalism, Sukuna being an asshole (what do you expect). WORD COUNT: 3,767. SUMMARY: Carrying the King's of Curses child, you knew wouldn't be easy, but you were more than happy to have a baby of your own. Even if said baby was growing rapidly while being the source of your bad back and changing appetite.

A/N: sukuna fluff is hard to come by in my opinion and so sorry if he's ooc but i wanted him like this. also, this is for lemon and ava, two of my favorite sukuna babes 🤍

JJK MASTERLIST

Wrist flicking out, you fanned yourself, eyes heavy with the sleep you had been fighting as you pursed your lips and eyed the blooming trees of the garden. Spring was rounding itself off, the scorching weather approaching you knew in weeks as you could only prepare yourself to be practically bedridden due to your ‘condition’. You’d only arrived a year and a half prior, and you quickly realized you had not seen much of the palace still after taking a husband, be it due to the duties of a noble person who were bound to spend most their days inside and entertaining themselves another way.

You held back a snort, fanning yourself harder as you stopped and eyed a nearby bush full of bright fruit and as red as your husband’s eyes.

…Husband.

In your youth, you supposed the daydreams of living in nobility were only achievable through luck. Or perhaps told through a fortune told from the Omikuji you required as a teen, taking the fortunes of ‘blessing’ and ‘marriage’ with a grain of salt until you had grown into an adult and ran off to be elsewhere from the clutches on an arranged marriage. Into serving nobility, to becoming nobility wasn’t necessarily on your list, your marriage by all means was an unlawful one. Forged from blood and flesh when you remembered instead of sipping sake in front of the Gods, your husband-to-be curled his fingers around your wrist and bit into your palm to instead partake in you.

You had been enamored by him since you first met him, eyes memorizing every inch of his unusual face before taking his thumb into your mouth when he smeared his own blood across your lips. It had sealed your fate that moment, your love and lust for him bursting forth like a raging inferno then and during the commutation of your marriage. Something that had finally taken into effect and was weighing down on you heavily.

One you supposed was the reason for the wariness when it came to serving you.

Cutting your eyes to the side and slightly behind you, you held the sigh in, your attendant keeping her eyes on the ground (perhaps watching your feet when you walked) as to shield her pensive expression from you, however you were not the unobservant type and focused on the knot between her eyebrows. Mai, your first and most loyal attendant, was never one to shy away from pestering over you, speaking her mind and filling in for advice whenever you needed it, so to see her quiet and on edge grated your nerves more than you liked to admit. She had been your first friend when you arrived, and you absolutely despised when she reverted back into the meek and submissive attendant she played whenever your husband was around, and it was enough to make you frown and worry if you had done something wrong.

You sighed loudly, snapping your fan shut and turning to the woman slowly, “You look like you have something you want to say.”

Mai’s eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, long and curled as her doe-like eyes rose to meet yours. She seemed to mull over your statement, before bowing her head in submission and speaking quietly, “Permission to speak?”

A smile graced your lips, softening your expression and nodding to her in return, “You always have permission with me, Mai.”

And just like that, Mai’s entire attitude flipped at your nonchalance. Straightening herself up, she dropped the service act and eyed you with suspicion and wary, mixed in with tired disappointment at having to cater to your more… reckless wants. “It’s just that Lord Sukuna has told us to monitor you and keep you in the palace when he’s away. And you’ve disobeyed that… again.”

Ah, there it was. With a scowl threatening to mar your face, you turned your back to her and began to pick through the strawberries in the bush you had been eyeing before, “I’m in the gardens. That’s still the palace… Is it not?”

“Yes, but –”

“This one looks ripe…” you cut her off, not necessarily wanting to hear her prattle on about how your husband made it horrifyingly clearly that you were to say inside at all times when he wasn’t at the palace. You’d heard it all before so many times it had been practically engraved into your skull with ink, and you were fed up with sitting on your knees inside away from the outside world and learning calligraphy constantly. Lips downturned you plopped a good-looking strawberry into your mouth, humming at the juice and tangy sweetness that exploded upon your taste buds, before your stomach gave an abrupt twist and a foot kicked out against your ribs. You winced and rubbed at your belly while the fruit suddenly tasted foul, and you swallowed with a grimace, “I hate how hungry I get nowadays, especially when I seem to crave more than just human food.”

Mai had been watching you like a hawk, leaning forward to intercept you whenever you reached for another fruit, “Oh, let me get it for you –”

“Please, Mai, I can pick my own strawberries. You worry too much.” Batting her hand away, you plucked it, hiding it in your sleeve and turning to her with an exhausted smile as she took your fan from you.

“Yes, My Lady. But please consider my words, we can keep you entertained in the palace.” You watched the lines on her face carefully, creased at her eyes and wrinkles forming at her forehead, and you could only wonder if your pregnancy had been the cause of her newly formed stress (partly, you knew you could’ve blamed it on your husband, his aggressive and aloof behavior all in one keeping most of the servants on the tips of their toes, but you quickly squashed it whenever you remembered she tended to you entirely).

Of course, you knew she was only doing her job, however her job was also giving you a severe case of claustrophobia being cooped up inside all the time. It wasn’t like you were planning to ever leave the palace’s premises either, just small strolls in the garden or spending time by the pond to cool off. Honestly, you had reason to believe she and your husband were just worrywarts (yet for the latter, you would keep that strictly to yourself).

You nodded your head in the direction you wanted to go, signaling Mai to walk beside you as you sighed and lowered your voice, “The midwife told me exercise will help…” you caressed your palm over your protruding stomach, “The baby is already huge and only seems to keep growing. A little sun helps me too, Mai… I can’t stay cooped up forever.”

Mai took a few moments to respond, her shoulders relaxing and her voice regaining familiarity, “I’m only worried since the last time you fainted out here.”

Lips thinning outwards, you remembered it all too well. Not necessarily fainting, though you blamed it on the many layers you wore around the palace and how warm it was getting outside, but you remembered the aftermath and how your husband had all but slaughtered a few lowly servants in retaliation as to letting you out (and because of his temper). You had thought the gore would’ve had you running, but you’d grown so used to him murdering someone whenever they slightly pissed him off you could only sigh at the thoughts. Of course, you knew Mai’s worry also came out of fear, however you weren’t about to let him do anything to her. “I know, but I feel fine… Just swollen feet and my back aching every time I move.”

And the baby kicking at your body whenever something displeased him.

Mai sighed your name exasperatingly, dropping the formalities, “Please, given your condition I think it’s best if you return to the palace.”

Irritation began to seep in your muscles, your baby moving in response to your emotions as your feet marched faster to walk. If you wanted to walk around the garden, you were allowed to, you would deal with your husband later if he found out. “What my husband doesn’t know won’t hurt him… Just another stroll and we can go back in, I’m getting tired anyways.”

“My Lady – oh!”

Mai abruptly skidded to a halt, body bending quickly into a low enough bow for the towering sight of your husband appearing before you both. You spared her a quick glance, flickering back to your husband, Lord Sukuna, when you realized he wasn’t the least bit concerned over her. He kept all four eyes on you, a challenging glare in them and you nearly wanted to laugh at the sight of two of his arms crossed and the other two planted on his hips. He looked every part of a disappointed husband – a father in the making, and you could already feel the talking your ear was going to get. Ah well, you could always feign falling asleep on him, that seemed to always make him softer.

Bending slightly into your own bow, he spoke, addressing Mai with a singular command, “Leave,” and you only returned back to your own height whenever you peeked that she was gone. You held back the groan at the pull your spine gave, wincing slightly at the shine of the sun before his large form eclipsed it as he finally moved close to you with no one in sight. The familiarity of his warmth and scent eased some of your irritability, wondering why he was back to early and ecstatic that he came to look for you once he couldn’t find you.

You smiled up at him, rolling the strawberry around your fingers before gesturing with your head to the path you had been walking, “Walk with me?”

Sukuna was ever-so unwavering in his staring, watching you practically dawdle in your place with the world’s most unamused expression, “Weren’t you told to stay inside?”

You repressed a shudder at his rough voice as your skin prickled, another sigh leaving while your shoulders slumped; caught. “I might remember you telling me that.” He seemed to not be in the mood for your sweettalking.

A loud exhale made your smile turn sheepish. “You piss me off.”

You knew that was coming, pulling out your hand from the sleeve to produce the strawberry from before, letting his eyes follow the way you rolled it into your palm, “But you’re here now… Nothing could really happen now since I have you.”

Sukuna’s eyebrow furrowed, eyes narrowing inward before he scowled at you enough to let his upper lip slightly curve over his teeth, “Changing the subject won’t help you. Are you gonna walk back, or do I have to carry your ass and –"

In a bold move you silenced him, pressing the strawberry to his lips with two fingers and slightly pushing it forward in hopes he would eat it. His eyes couldn’t narrow or glare any further, shooting from you to the fruit, and holding them there for a few moments and you wanted to giggle because it nearly looked like he pouting. Your husband never really ate human food, perhaps to humor you before he would spit it out and complain about the horrid taste it gave him, however there were a few times his interest would peak and want a bite of whatever you had in your hand – especially when said food seemed to satisfy you so much. You supposed it was his curiosity to understand you better, having a human in such close quarters and as a wife was perhaps as jarring as it was to have him as your husband.

Toying with him, you said, “It gave me bad taste earlier… Want to try it?”

Sukuna’s lips twitched behind the fruit, a clear sign he’d indulge you that time and when you went to move your hand away from him, one of his hand snatched your wrist with a small squeeze. An unspoken word for you to leave your fingers on the fruit and indulge him. And you did so with coquettish blink, pressing the strawberry harder against his lips until they gave way and his teeth were biting into it with the juice from inside sliding down your fingers as he slowly and sensually ate the strawberry from your fingertips. It didn’t help that he kept his eyes on your own the whole time, your cheeks burning as you never were able to get used to your husband’s forward assertion on sensuality.

Your breath caught and eyes widened when his tongue slid over the length of your fingers before slipping in his mouth and sucking on them until they were free of any residue stickiness. You couldn’t help the rapid beat of your heart, lips parting as his thumb tapped in rhythm to your pulse point before he let go of your fingers with a loud ‘plop!’ and a satisfied hum rumbling out of him as you could only gaze dumbfounded at the saliva coating your fingers. After a few moments you cleared your throat and swallowed, eyeing him warily as you knew his stomach probably wouldn’t last long and he’d be hacking it up with loud complaining.

And on cue, you watched fascinated as the mouth on his stomach frowned.

Oh, here it comes. It never lasted long in his system.

You sighed as he spat it out, licking his lips and scowling at the ground, “You’re right, tastes like shit.”

“Would you like me to say something to the servants?” you asked, mentally cheering with a soft smile on your face when he fell into step with you to walk along the gardens. It was never hard to get what you wanted out of him.

“It’s not poor gardening skills, it’s you.” You opened your mouth, ready to backtalk at the insult, yet he silenced you with a hand raised before one of his fingers traced along your cheek, “Weren’t you waddling in and practically whining for some of my food?”

How could you forget, a week ago you’d been lured out of your bed chamber by the most mouthwatering smell and your baby kicking incessantly once your stomach growled. You had stumbled upon Sukuna and Uruame, the latter making Sukuna’s dinner and the dinner something you never were to partake in since his appetite did not quell your hunger. However, when you found yourself salivating with your stomach rumbling and your baby kicking, it was a jarring experience to come to realize you were indulging in cannibalism and liked it. Liked it so much your child never rolled in a fit that night and Sukuna had been extra attentive to you afterwards with his praising.

An answer was on your tongue, though you chose to neglect saying anything when your taste buds twitched at the thought of that dinner and instead enjoyed your walk in peace. Your husband only snorted, a slight laugh leaving him at your pout before he returned his limbs to himself and rolled his gaze forwards on the path you’d been on. Times with him were normally relaxing as he was actually rather lazy when he had nothing to do, his affections ranging from just enjoying your presence in silence to twirling your hair around his finger whenever you were close enough. You never minded, glad to spend time with him though it was equally as nice whenever he seemed get even clingier once finding out you were pregnant.

Even his soft, lingering touches moments ago set your heart ablaze, and you wondered if he felt the same whenever you ran your fingers through his hair whenever he felt like resting his head in your lap.

Minutes into your relaxing walk you felt it, an agonizing cramp pulsing in your back and the soles of your feet screaming in protest at being mobile for too long. Of course, you get some time to do something with him and your body halts that and screams at you to stop. You didn’t want to say anything, not wanting to bother him nor ruin the peaceful moment you were so grateful to have. Although the pain in your body had other plans, cramping upwards and throbbing whenever you tried to take another step so much you immediately had to double over with one hand resting on your stomach.

You stopped, the other hand moving to hold your aching back, and you were vaguely surprised he stopped at the same time. A wince and awkward bouts of silence later, you groaned and straightened back up, “I’m sorry, I think it gets worse every day.”

Sukuna remained silent and still, before a rumbling from his chest prickled the hair on the nape of your neck. “Hm, almost like you should’ve listened to me.” He was back in that disappointed husband stance, and you knew if you were to look into his face you’d see the smug grin at your misfortune. Gritting your teeth you didn’t give him the satisfaction, watching glumly as he sighed rather loudly and moved away from your side to continue walking in the direction of this palace.

You reaped what you sowed you supposed, having to walk back alone after being told not to be out of the palace when he wasn’t there. And your body complaints for moving about too much agreed, a quiet moan of frustration leaving you as you closed your eyes and counted to ten to calm your nerves, reopening them when the pain muted itself into a dull ache for the time. However, you completely clammed up at the sight of your husband bent down in front of you, the black of his haori draped over his shoulders shielding your view of his sculpted back and his face turned forward giving you no indication of what he was doing.

Yet, he did seem like he said something, though you were too befuddled to even understand what he had said.  

“What –”

“Are you deaf?” he interrupted, turning his head slightly and motioning with his head from you to climb onto him, “I said get on, before I change my mind.”

He wanted you… to ride… on his back? Never once did he ever engage in something like that with you (besides carrying you in his arms, but that had been the night of your wedding and he’d practically tossed you on your beds afterwards), though you weren’t about to pass by the chance for him to carry you. Though you weren’t too sure how to climb on his back and hold on so heavily pregnant, Sukuna didn’t have four arms for nothing you supposed.

Not wanting him to change his mind and keep him waiting, you clambered onto him to best you could dressed in several layers with your legs kicking free to slip underneath the lower set of his arms. You held back a squeal when your baby kicked at all the movements, arms flying forward to nearly constrict Sukuna’s airway off as he in return grunted and stood to his full height while beginning to move forward in a slow pace. You were grateful he was taking it slow, still trying to get comfortable and trying not to think about how bad it would hurt to fall off his back from his enormous height…

“Stop fucking squirming…” he grunted again, readjusting you with his arms as your body reclined higher up on his back and he continued walking, “Acting like I’ve never touched you before.”

“It’s not that. He – “ you cut yourself off, you hadn’t necessarily told him that you believed your baby was a boy, and you didn’t want to hear any of his teasing, “the baby kicks and squirms whenever I move too much.” Or whenever he hears your voice, you groused, further proving your point when he kicked at you again whenever Sukuna spoke once more. You wondered if he could feel the kick on his back.

“Damn.” A pause of silence and Sukuna was jostling you on his back, “How much does that prick weigh? Or is that all you?”

Your hand itched to slap the back of his neck, though you held yourself together and only offered him a scoff while making yourself comfortable, “He takes after his father.”

“And he wiggles like a worm, just like his mother.”

You had half a mind to say something about him referring to your child as a boy, your cheeks hot when you rested your chin atop his shoulder and eyes growing lidded with sleep while he inadvertently rocked you with his steps. You bit the inside of your cheek in a girlish thought that your husband was walking slower on purpose, rolling your ankles to stop you from kicking your feet at the idea he wanted to spend more time with you alone. Then again, he was doing all of it for you when he could’ve just left you alone, or not come out to find you at all.

Maybe some days he missed you as much as you missed him.

In a bold declaration, you pushed yourself forward until your nose was skimming Sukuna’s cheek, a chaste kissed you placed there seconds later whenever he didn’t say or do anything to push you away, “Thank you, my Lord.”

Sukuna hummed low in his throat, a deep rumbling that vibrated against your arms and soothed your aching ribs, “Don’t get used to it. I just didn’t want to wait around for your slow ass to waddle back in.” Though he sounded rather harsh, you knew he was just doing roundabout affection in his own way.

Your head lolled against his, the leaves on the trees above swaying you into a warm midday nap the longer you watched them through your eyelashes, “Take me to bed?”

You didn’t necessarily hear his response, though you weren’t dreaming it when his fingers tightened the hold he had on your thighs, the warmth he emitted doing wonders for the pains in your body as he secured you further into his back to ensure you didn’t fall off. You couldn’t help the smile, your cheek smushed into his shoulder as you took one final look at the sunlight path before you both and closed your eyes as exhaustion took its hold over.

With a last conscious thought, you reminded yourself to thank Mai later for allowing you a nice stroll in the garden – especially when you were doing it with your family.

[zephyrchama]

You rubbed your eyes. You were seeing things. Strange, sparkly things floating in the air around Solomon. They appeared to radiate out of him, causing you to stare and making his surroundings look dull in comparison.

He was just sorting books, leafing through them one at a time before placing them in one of five piles. The books were not dazzling. In fact, they were rather dusty and some were starting to fall apart. None of them had the same strange shimmer as Solomon. He practically had his own personal limelight. Your eyes narrowed. The rays didn't seem physical, perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight.

Solomon noticed the staring. The corners of his mouth turned up into a bemused smile. "See something you like?"

"Did you... do something?" you asked. It was hard to put into words exactly what was wrong.

The walking glowstick only grinned more. "You mean, with my hair or clothes?" He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the side above his ear. A tiny wave of starlight flowed out like a swarm of fireflies and dissipated into the surrounding air. "I did try some new soap that Simeon recommended the other day. Funny enough, it markets itself as 'soap scented.'"

He was being way too casual about this.

"That's not it. Something is different." You shut your eyes really hard, then opened and closed them in rapid succession. The weird lights were still there, and still only on Solomon.

"Did you enchant yourself?" you blurted out in accusation.

"Is that what it looks like?" The sorcerer looked highly amused. It made the radiant glitter shine brighter in contrast to his seasoned old books.

"Yeah. You're all sparkly. You look like the love interest in a shoujo manga." When you closed your eyes, you could still see Solomon's afterimage.

"Is that how you see me? Well, I'm flattered."

You knew Solomon, and you knew him well. If this wasn't planned, he'd take it more seriously. He'd ask questions, diagnose your vision, and check himself over for charms or curses at the very least. He'd probe for information. He'd express more than a vague entertainment over the issue.

You pooled your magic and, to the best of your ability, dispelled whatever Solomon had going on. It was a trick he'd taught you months ago that you only used once in a blue moon, but it worked. A little gust of power crossed the room from you to him. The glitzy sparkles faded away and Solomon stopped glowing.

"I knew it!" you shouted, pointing your finger at your mentor. "You did enchant yourself!"

"Well, I always want to look my best in front of you." Solomon was chuckling as the last of his magical effect evaporated. "What do you think, did it work?"

With silver-gray hair that sparkled like stars in the right light and a bright glossy cloak that looked like the universe, Solomon was plenty eye-catching on a normal day. He didn't need more. You frankly stated, "You looked like a human disco ball."

[falesten-iw]

There’s been endless talk about bodies vanishing in Gaza: martyrs who don’t just die but are erased, turned into nothing more than smoke rising into the sky, like their souls got hacked and rage-quit existence entirely. And no, this isn’t some cinematic moment or dystopian novel. This is our everyday reality, unfolding in front of us like a cursed game with no exit.

Bullets? Sure, horrifying, but they play by rules. You’ve got entry wounds and exit wounds. Grotesque, but at least they make sense. Shrapnel? Same deal. It tears through you, maybe stays lodged, maybe tears its way out. Awful, but still following some logic. Both bullets and shrapnel can, yes, kill you, but they won’t make your body vanish.

But the weapons used by the IDF? They don’t just kill; they erase you. They leave nothing behind but the void, as if the universe itself decided you were a bug in the system and patched you out. These weapons aren’t just meant to kill; they’re engineered for maximum obliteration. Their purpose isn’t just destruction, it’s erasure. Like someone thought, "What if war, but with a side of existential dread?"

You can see that in this video. A martyr’s body lying in the dirt, and this strange black-and-white smoke curling out of him, like his very existence was being deleted in real time. It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t anything normal. It was like the laws of physics glitched out around him, like reality had decided to rage-quit too. It wasn’t just a death; it was a redacted event.

But here’s the thing: the Gazan people are still holding on. Barely. We’re clinging to what’s left of life as if it’s the last lifeline in an impossible final boss battle. But let’s be real, we can’t do it alone. There’s no Phoenix Kit or supply drop coming for us. That’s where you come in. Please help us. Donate and reblog this post to spread our story. BTW, this isn’t just my battle. It’s for 26 lives, including two orphaned children who’ve lost everything, and a family member battling hemiplegia after shrapnel tore through her during a bombing. She need urgent surgery to replace the infected, failing plates keeping her alive. The stakes couldn’t be higher. The future of 26 lives rests in your hands.

The video showing the injured family member is shared before in this post: Link.

Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.

Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link

Listed as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link

Listed on the Butterfly Effect Project, number 957: Link

Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link

If, for some reason, you couldn't donate via GoFundMe, you can donate via PayPal instead.

Donate on GoFundMe: Link

Donate on Paypal: Link Please keep the conversion rates in mind when donating through GoFundMe. Every 110 SEK is equivalent to 10 dollars, and 220 SEK equals 20 dollars and so on. Please help us !

Note: There’s even a raffle for a handmade Palestinian thob if you want to participate : Link

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[risuola]

YOU CRYIN'? — F. READER x GOJO SATORU

You and Gojo know each other since high school, and since then, you also hate each other. He bites and you always bite back, the constant argument creates tension that everybody, except you two, seem to notice. One time you said too much, causing Gojo’s self-control to snap.

cw: smut, unprotected sex, creampie, cursing, mentions of bullying (Satoru is a meanie, ok?), overstimulation, enemies to lovers kind of vibe, I feel like the "you cryin'?" line in itself is a warning if you heard the dub version of it, reader discretion is advised — 1,4k words

» PART TWO

"You cryin'?", Satoru taunted, thrusting his hips relentlessly into yours, with a handful of your hair in his unforgiving grip. Standing behind you, with one hand digging into the supple flesh of your side to steady himself, he was pounding behavior into you.

You and Satoru Gojo have a history of never-ending venom-spitting and it's safe to say you hated the man and the man hated you with passion for years now. It started in high school, where you just couldn't stand how full of himself he was, looking at everybody from above as if he was so much better than everyone and yes, you are aware of how powerful of an individual he is but the arrogance that came with it was just unbearable. Much more you liked his closest friend Suguru, but as years passed, you found yourself working closely with Gojo more and more often, because you decided to stay at Jujutsu high in Tokyo to help students learn. You were strong enough to be considered a high 1st grade sorcerer and everything you achieved, you earned by hard work and stubbornness but that didn’t stop the know-it-all from bullying you, no. He had an awful habit of pouring more fuel into the constant fire of argument between you two and you never owed him, always biting back. That being said, your constant bickering with Satoru successfully brought you to where you were now.

Pressed against the wooden desk, sweaty and exhausted as your body was chasing the fourth orgasm with no break in between. It was a torture – the way he was slamming his cock inside of you at the pace that left you breathless, it hurt from overstimulation and burned with pleasure at the same time. You always acted tough, but now you couldn't stop the tear rolling down your cheek as his grip on your hair tightened and his teeth sank into the delicate skin between your neck and shoulder.

"You’re really cryin’”, he grinned teasingly and turned your head more to the side, kissing the tear away. Delighted at the sight, Satoru pulled back and flipped you over so he could see your pretty face when he pushed his girth back onto your swollen insides, kissing every oversensitive spot on his way while hooking your thighs over his hips. You dug fingers into his skin, leaving crescent moon shapes of your nails engraved into his flesh and you once again could feel his pace picking up. Naively, you grabbed at his hip, trying to slow him down but with no effect.

"So pretty, fuck, when you cry like that," he grunted, kissing along the salty trace on your face and down your neck to see the bruising mark of his teeth was already blooming with reds and purples. "Think you have few more in you?", he asked and the thought of few more orgasms terrified you. "You'll have to, 'm nowhere near to be done, wit' ya," a chuckle echoed in his chest and you couldn't tell if his objective was to kill you in the most humiliating way possible or what.

"N-no," you protested and he laughed once more, pulling out almost completely.

"No?", Satoru grined in his usual, annoyingly handsome manner but you barely saw him through the collage of stars in your sight, "'ts too bad you've been naughty lately. Need to fuck some behavior into you."

"Gojo-", you whined, helpless against his muscular body as he was ramming ruthlessly, abusing your swollen oversensitive insides to your limits.

"Nuh-uh", he wrapped his slender fingers around your throat, putting no pressure, but redirecting your head so you looked him in the eyes and you could drown in the crystalline blue tones surrounded by thick snowy eyelashes if you wouldn't know better. "That's not my name, sweetheart."

"Go to hell, Goj-, fuck", you whined and he thrusted harder, your back was slamming against the wooden counter but he was unbothered by the echoing pounding sound that clearly was indicating what was happening in his office.

"That's. not. my. name.", he growled, accentuating every word with a particularly sharp thrust and it was enough for you to drown in the haziness.

"Sa-, uh", you tried, but his pace was unforgiving, his cock fucking you dumb but he hummed teasingly, encouraging you to speak. "'toru- fuck. Satoru, please."

"There we go, wasn't that hard now, was it?", smiling, the sorcerer lifted you up, angling his hips upwards, his cock reaching even deeper although you thought it's impossible. The blunt head kissed every spot inside you and you felt another orgasm approaching. Satoru groaned at how your walls were flexing around his girth and this time, he chased his own, the first one, the one he's been denying himself in order to drive you insane.

He was panting heavily, groaning against your neck, profanities slipping through his mouth as he twitched inside you. Suddenly he grabbed you harshly, nails digging into your trembling thighs and he lowered himself on the expensive leathery chair, giving you a slap to the tender skin, silently ordering you to work. You straddled him, supporting your hands over his shoulders and you pushed him against the back rest, surely bruising his muscles with the harsh grip you had on him. You were desperate to finish him off, to put an end to the torture he’s subjected you to for talking too much. At this point you don’t even remember what caused his composure to snap, what has gotten you into the endless spiral of agonizing pleasure with a man you despised. The man that now you were riding with the last bits of your power, fighting the mind-numbing rush of your own release to bring him to his and you could tell how close he was. Satoru’s jaws were clenched, his fingers were digging harshly into the tender skin of your sides and his hips were bucking up uncontrollably, desperate to reach the blissful relief. His abs were flexing, cock was twitching and his tone became ragged as he groaned what sounded like your name entwined with endless amounts of fucks and yeses. His eyes closed shut and he threw his head back, suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that began uncoiling in his entire body. You grabbed at his white hair, smearing open mouthed kisses all over his throat and collar bones, and your movements stuttered with your dripping pussy squelching for the nth time. That was enough for Satoru – he gave in, allowing his muscles to contract one last time as he spilled his load into you, filling you completely with warmth and you were quick to come right after him. Your ups and downs became sloppy, uneven as you slowly ride your highs out and finally, you raised your hips just enough to have him out.

Falling back heavily against his body, you leaned your head over his shoulder in hopes to calm the panting. You felt your heart drumming against your ribcage, you felt the concoction of juices running down your thigh and dripping onto Satoru’s legs, but you couldn’t care less. With his hands releasing your flesh that he was squeezing unwaveringly, you felt your body finally relaxing, your mind coming back to senses and it slowly came to you, what just happened.

Never, not even once in your life, you considered even willing to kiss Gojo Satoru. Yes, he’s annoyingly handsome; yes, his eyes are the most beautiful, magical blue crystalline spheres nature could ever create, and yes – there was a tension between you two since the day you met him, or at least everyone around always pointed that out but you never truly considered him an option and yet, you not only kissed him, but spend god-knows-how-long fucking him – or rather being fucked by him.

“You have to misbehave more often”, he teased, finally able to form his words coherently and you looked at him, eyes still cloudy but you could tell with no mistake that his lips were curled up in a smirk. You almost heard him smirking, that’s how obvious it was. You blinked, clearing your vision to take in his view. Gojo’s face was blissfully tired, he still was breathing though his mouth and the snowy peaks of his hair clung artistically to his sweaty forehead. He was stunning like this, so fucked out, he looked like he’s high and you took few mental pictures of his handsome daze. You also noted to yourself that you, indeed, need to misbehave more frequently.

» PART TWO

[adoresia]

thinking about CHOSO who notices you shivering in your sleep one cold winter night. at first he doesn’t know what to do. his own fingers are twitching at his sides as he stares down at your shivering figure, body curled in on itself trying to conserve warmth. his heart aches seeing you like this; for a moment he panics, he’s never experienced this before, not the cold obviously. Not that he was cold; his cursed technique came in clutch for times like these. But still, regarding you, what was the right thing to do?

he tries puling the blanket tighter arond you, tucking the edges close to ur chin. And when that doesn’t seem to help he shifts closer to you, hoping that maybe his presense alone will warm you up. but ur still trembling, soft whimprs falling from your lips even in the midst of your sleep; it’s enough to make him sit up again, frustrated wth himself. But then his hands glow faintly with the teltaile sheen of his blood manipuation almost on its own, it’s as if the mere sight of you in distress provoked his cursed technique, yet it takes him a moment to muster the courage — what if he hurts you? What if this doesn’t work and ends up doing more harm than good? but the sight of you so vulnerble beneath the covers was enough to push his doubts aside.

“Please stay still…” he whispers, his voice barely audible, words drowning in the quietness of the room. his hands hover just above ur body as he lets his cursed blood pulse faintly, generating warmth that radiates through you. the effect is immediate, shivers subsiding allowing your once tense features to relax as the heat seeps into ur skin. choso lets out a shaky breath, one he didn’t realise he was holding, watching you settle back into a peaceful slumber.

he doesn’t move for a while after that, his eyes fixed on u as if to make sure ur truly okay. his hand lingers near yours, the warmth of his blood still faintly thrumming beneath his fingertips. in the quiet moments that follow he finds himself smiling softly. not because he’s proud of what he’s done, but because he’s reminded once again, how much he cares about you. and maybe, just maybe, the chill in the air doesn’t matter so much anymore — not when his world feels so much warmer with you in it. tonight it was all about you. Your steady brething, the faint smile on ur lips, and the boy beside u who would do anything to make sure you stay warm.

a/n : wow what a juxtaposition!! im quite literally cooking in my bedroom right now its so fucking hot 😊😊😊 maybe i should write something about it being hot… one second guys im on a roll

click here to be notified whenever i post a fic !!

[oddberryshortcake]

Twisted Wonderland - Blessings and Curses 

In Twst, it’s said repeatedly that blessings and curses are virtually the same thing, but are differentiated only by how they either positively or negatively affect the person who is spelled. 

This is interesting because of this, in some cases, spells meant to be blessings turn into curses, which a number of characters suffer from. Some curses can also be a blessing. 

There are now at least four characters who are canonically cursed in some form, with some being more explicitly stated as cursed, others implied, and some we don’t even know what’s truly going on, so I’ll be going over everything that we do know because this magic system is mysterious and I want to know more. 

Idia Shroud, the late original Ortho Shroud, STYX’s director (Idia’s father) and the late Aidne Shroud (Idia’s grandmother) have all been generationally cursed for hundreds of years since their ancestor was punished for trying to revolt against their rivals, the Jupiter Family. 

Their curse manifests itself as firey blue hair and the ability to incinerate blot at such a speed that overblot is impossible. 

The inability to overblot can be interpreted as a blessing, but if the Shrouds don’t produce blot/live in close proximity to blot, the curse will attack their magic force and destroy it, possibly harming their lives as well. 

Because of this, the curse makes the Shrouds uniquely qualified for blot research and protecting the rest of the world from the massive phantoms created by hundreds of overblotters across history. 

This curse prevents Idia from living a normal life and, as Idia has done research on himself and the family, concluded that it is the curse is unbreakable (as most curses appear to be) 

Idia also confirms that Grim is cursed, except Grim’s curse seems to be so old and complex that he can’t decipher what it is. Grim does have blot resistance, and its theorized that he’s a direbeast fused with some other kind of animal and possesses almost human-like intelligence. 

Idia is able to conclude that someone casted an ancient spell on Grim, but the person who did it and the purpose of the spell is unknown. 

This, paired with Grim’s insatiable desire to eat blot stones produced by overblotters, hasn’t been touched upon by the plot again as of right now, but the chimera creature that resembles Grim from the prologue is an indicator that we will find out what this curse is at some point. 

Next is Silver’s curse, which is different from everyone else because it was intended to be a blessing from the very start. 

And it was a blessing for around 400 years…Until he woke up and started experiencing negative effects from the spell, which made it a curse. 

This is more on the theorizing side since Silver’s sleeping problem is brought up only once in Book 7 and not touched on again. By the end of Book 7, his sleeping issue still isn’t talked about. Given the new guest room and chat voice lines that just dropped on JPN server, it’s implied that Silver is still struggling with his uncontrollable sleeping habit and he is not cured of his curse. 

But again, we won’t know if that’s actually the case until the story continues. 

People rightfully speculate that the reason behind his sleeping issue comes from his original blessing, which was to sleep until found by someone who loves him. He was in ageless sleep until he was found by Lilia, and then he started to age like a normal child but fell asleep suddenly with no explanation. 

It’s stated multiple times in vignettes and once in main story that Silver has been taken to doctors for his sleeping issue and no one was able to find anything, implying that curses are virtually undetectable outside of the STYX technology Idia has access to. 

The blessing met its criteria and him being awake proves that it has been broken, but the reason why he’s experiencing negative effects from something that saved his life is unknown and hopefully it’ll be explained later on. Lilia also theorizes that the spell may have fallen apart due to how unpredictably long he spent under it, but that was probably just him assuming he didn't meet the spell's criteria.

Given what we know, I theorize that, in some cases, excessive amounts of exposure to powerful magic can be harmful to people, especially humans who were spelled at such a young age. 

This is how a blessing can change into a curse, it’s now a part of him whether he wants it there or not. 

Maybe his body is just used to being asleep, he was like that for 400 years and has only been awake for 18 years. Maybe there’s something else at play, we don’t know. 

We have enough evidence to assume that he’s part of the cursed club (also he’s twisted from Aurora who is very famously cursed lol) 

But he’s in the same place as Grim where you know it’s there but you’re not entirely sure why. 

Lastly, Malleus has joined the cursed club as of the end of Book 7.

The Senate “blessed” him, and their intention truly was blessing. However, the effects of the blessings have become more of a curse to Malleus. 

Malleus himself even interprets himself as cursed. 

He was blessed to be so powerful that no one could do him any harm, however, because of his power he was harming everyone around him, including his loved ones, which is something that kept Malleus isolated and repressed.

Because the curse hindered his ability to express emotion, he was robbed of what he actually wanted, which was the ability to be happy, sad, and being able to hug someone without the fear of hurting them. 

Malleus is the best example of blessings and curses being virtually the same thing. What was a blessing in the eyes of the senate was a curse in Malleus’s perspective. 

Because of what happened, Malleus’s curse isn’t ‘broken’ per se, but he can no longer physically perform the kind of magic he was able to perform when both his horns were intact. 

I don’t know if there’s anything Idia, Grim and Silver can do to break the effects of their curses but we’ll have to see as the story goes on.

IN CONCLUSION, having consequences to powerful spells and an open interpretation of how magic can both save and harm someone simultaneously is a really interesting aspect of Twisted Wonderland that I hope gets expanded upon in the future. 

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

You were towing a dangerous line, and you knew it. You shouldn’t be here, you should be walking right back to your quarters without looking back.

But gods, the way Simon was looking at you, had you unable to form a coherent thought. Had any rational part of your brain was slowly fading from your grasp. You of course had seen him without his mask before, but every time he laid his face bare before you had your stomach tying itself in knots. How was it humanly possible for a man to be so…pretty?

You’d found yourself in his quarters only minutes ago, under the guise of returning one of his masks you’d found in the training hall. Both of you knew it was shitty excuse, both of you knowing full well why you were here, in his room.

The two of you have been dancing the line of professionalism for months now. From the constant staring, lingering touches, flirty banter…You knew it was wrong, and so did he. But neither of you brought yourself to care since that line had never been officially crossed.

Until now. You honestly had no idea why tonight of all nights you showed up at his quarters. No thought as to why your feet had seemed to move on their own, leading you to his door.

Now here you were, pressed against the closed door of his room, watching him walk toward you as a familiar warmth began to spread in your lower belly. He was stalking toward you, like a predator closing in on his prey.

“Simon.” You spoke, cursing yourself as your voice came out shaky. You hated knowing he knew the effect he had on you.

“Y/N.” Came his gruff reply, and you swore you could see a ghost of a smile dancing on his scarred lips.

“Tell me this is not a good idea.” You said, unable to take your eyes away from the man in front of you. Your breath hitched as he was so close now that you could feel the heat from his breath fanning your lips. “Tell me to walk away, Simon.”

Simon didn’t speak, didn’t dare move a muscle as he held your gaze, his eyes holding nothing but pure lust in them. You could feel heat begin to pool between your thighs as you heard him loose a shaken breath.

“You’re my superior. We can’t do this. Tell me to walk away and we won’t ever revisit this.” You were trying to convince yourself of this more than him at this point. You let your eyes scan across his face, taking in every gorgeous detail of his freckled, scarred skin that you could commit to memory.

Still, Simon said nothing, only continued to inch his face closer to yours, his lips now inches from your own. His hands laid flat on the door on either side of your head, effectively caging you in. It took every ounce of self restraint not to jump on him in that moment.

“Simo-.” You were cut off by his one of his hands snaking around your neck, applying just enough pressure to have you biting back a soft groan.

“You gonna shut up now?” Simon chided, his eyes darkening as his fingers tightened their grip around the base of your throat. “Because if you’re done trying to convince yourself that this is a bad idea, I’d very much like to take you to my bed and show you just how wrong you are.”

If you weren’t soaked before, you certainly were now. “S-Simon, this is wrong, and you know it.” You tried, knowing full well you didn’t give a shit that it was.

“I don’t care.” Was all he said, before finally closing the gap, his lips engulfing yours in a heated kiss. “I don’t fucking care.”

And neither did you.

[callsigns-haze]

Pamper queen

Azriel might be the most intimidating man, the definition of the devils shadow, but really he's a pampered drama queen. Each weekend him and his mate go full out in skin care and Rhysand and Cassian find it hilarious.

Warnings: Fluff, alcohol, would acne extraction be one??? sparring and cursing oh and Azriel being a drama queen

Wordcount: 2.8k

Azriel x reader

Cassian's laughter rings out like a clap of thunder, echoing off the walls of Rhysand’s office. He’s leaning against Rhys’s desk, half a glass of wine in one hand and a teasing glint in his hazel eyes. Rhys, seated comfortably in his high-backed chair, smirks in that lazy, knowing way of his. His violet eyes flick to Azriel, who is leaning stiffly against the far wall, his shadows unusually still as they curl around his shoulders.

“So, Az,” Cassian starts, dragging out the name like it’s a punchline in and of itself. “You’re telling me you—the terror of Illyria, the spymaster of the Night Court—spend your Sunday nights getting your face poked at?”

Rhys snorts, swirling his wine. “Careful, Cass. If you laugh too hard, he might sic Y/N on you. I hear she takes her...skincare duties very seriously.”

Azriel doesn’t so much as flinch, though you can see the faint twitch of his jaw, a crack in the stoic mask he always wears. He levels them with a cool, unbothered stare, but you know better. He’s biting back a sigh.

“She does it for me,” Azriel finally says, his voice even, though there’s a defensive undertone there. One that makes Rhys's smirk widen and Cassian practically howl with glee.

“She does it for you?” Cassian wheezes, his wings rustling as he doubles over, clutching his stomach. “Oh, please, tell me she gives you one of those fancy face masks too. Maybe with cucumbers for your eyes?”

Azriel’s shadows swirl as if annoyed on his behalf. “You two wouldn’t understand,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.

Rhys raises a brow, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk. “Oh, we understand perfectly, Az. Your mate loves taking care of you, and you love letting her. But—” Rhys’s grin sharpens, his tone turning wicked— “we also understand that you’re probably lying there, utterly miserable, while she does it.”

“You don’t move, do you?” Cassian cuts in, barely containing his glee. “You just let her sit there with her little kit of torture devices and—what—dig into your pores? Do you even blink, Az?”

“Of course, I blink,” Azriel replies dryly, but he still hasn’t moved from his spot against the wall. You suspect he’s calculating the fastest way to leave the room.

Cassian doesn’t let up, his laughter spilling out in waves. “I’d pay good money to see it. You, flat on your back, probably wincing while she scolds you for not using whatever cream she gave you last week.”

“She doesn’t scold me,” Azriel says calmly, though his shadows twist tighter, betraying his irritation.

“Oh, I bet she does,” Rhys says with a chuckle. “And I bet you love it.”

That earns him a glare, but Rhys just shrugs, unbothered.

“Does she threaten you too?” Cassian adds, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Like, ‘Hold still, Azriel, or I’ll use the extractor tool.’” He waves his hand dramatically for effect, then bursts into laughter again.

You can’t help but grin as you step into the room, the scene unfolding exactly as you imagined it would. All three males glance your way, but it’s Azriel who straightens immediately, his shoulders relaxing as you approach.

“You’ve been talking about me, haven’t you?” you ask lightly, fixing Cassian and Rhys with a knowing look.

“Never,” Rhys drawls innocently, though his smirk gives him away.

“Always,” Cassian counters, beaming. “But it’s not our fault Az is the perfect source of entertainment.”

Azriel lets out a long-suffering sigh, his gaze softening as it meets yours. You cross the room to stand by his side, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“Don’t let them bother you,” you murmur, though you’re smiling. “They’re just jealous because they don’t get this kind of attention.”

Cassian gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “Jealous? Of him? Sweetheart, I’d rather face the Blood Rite again than let anyone near me with one of those pointy tools.”

You glance at Azriel, biting back a laugh at the subtle flush creeping up his neck. He doesn’t say a word, just shifts closer to you, his hand brushing against yours.

“I think he looks amazing,” you say simply, giving Azriel a warm smile.

That shuts Cassian up—briefly, anyway. Rhys just grins, lifting his glass in a mock toast.

“To the neatest, most put-together Illyrian in all of Prythian,” Rhys says, his tone light. “And to his very patient mate.”

Azriel rolls his eyes, but you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Later, you know he’ll pretend their teasing didn’t bother him. But for now, you squeeze his hand, silently reassuring him. And as always, he squeezes back.

-----

The bedroom is quiet save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Warm golden light flickers across the walls, casting shadows that seem to dance lazily as Azriel lies sprawled on the bed. His wings are folded neatly against the mattress, his arms resting loosely at his sides. He’s shirtless, his dark hair slightly tousled, the picture of relaxation—or as close to relaxed as Azriel ever gets.

You sit comfortably on his chest, your knees bracketing his ribs as you settle into your usual Sunday night routine. Your little tool kit is open on the bedside table, neatly arranged like a surgeon’s tray. Azriel’s shadows are quieter than usual, watching from the corners of the room as you bend over him, your focus completely locked on his face.

“Doesn’t this hurt?” you ask softly, your tone teasing as you press your fingers gently against his cheek, angling his face toward the light.

“No,” he replies evenly, though his voice is low and smooth, a sure sign he’s trying to play it cool. “It’s not painful.”

You hum, leaning closer as you examine the faint speckles on his nose and along his jawline. “I don’t believe you. You always flinch when I use the extractor.”

“I don’t flinch,” he counters, his hazel eyes flicking up to meet yours. There’s a glint of challenge in them, though it’s softened by the way his hands rest lightly on your thighs.

“Oh, you flinch,” you reply with a smirk, reaching for the little metal tool. His gaze shifts briefly to it, and though his expression remains impassive, you catch the subtle way his throat bobs as he swallows.

“You act like this is torture,” you tease, pressing the flat of the tool against his nose and gently extracting the first blackhead. He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

“It’s not torture,” he says, though his tone is a little clipped.

You pause, raising a brow as you glance down at him. “Would you prefer I stop?”

“No,” he says immediately, his fingers tightening slightly against your thighs. “Keep going.”

You grin, biting back a laugh as you lean over him again, the warmth of his skin brushing against yours as you work. His sharp cheekbones and strong jawline are as familiar to you as your own hands, and you take your time, your fingers brushing softly against his face as you clean every little spot you can find.

“Cassian and Rhys would have a field day if they saw this,” you murmur after a moment, sitting back slightly to admire your work.

Azriel lets out a low sound that might be a sigh—or a groan. “Don’t remind me.”

“I think it’s sweet,” you say, setting the tool aside for a moment to trace your fingers along his jawline. “That you let me do this. That you trust me with this.”

His eyes soften as he looks up at you, the intensity in his gaze making your heart flip. “I trust you with everything.”

Your breath catches at the honesty in his voice, your chest tightening as you lean down to press a kiss to his lips. He lifts his head slightly to meet you, the kiss slow and gentle, his hands sliding up to rest on your hips.

When you pull back, you smile, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “You’re too perfect, you know that?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, his shadows curling lazily around the edges of the bed. “I’m far from perfect.”

“Well,” you say, reaching for the tool again, “your skin is getting pretty close.”

He groans softly but doesn’t protest, his hands returning to your thighs as you continue your work. And though he’ll never admit it out loud, you know he doesn’t mind. Not really. After all, this is one of the few moments where the walls he’s built so carefully come down, where it’s just the two of you, and he can let himself be cared for.

The fire crackles softly in the background as you press the extractor tool gently against Azriel’s nose, your fingers steady and precise. His skin is warm beneath your touch, his breath even—at least, for now.

You’ve just started working on a particularly stubborn blackhead when Azriel lets out a low groan, his head shifting slightly on the pillow.

“This is taking forever,” he mutters, his voice a deep rumble laced with annoyance.

You pause, your fingers hovering mid-air as you shoot him a look. “Azriel.”

“What?” He arches a brow, feigning innocence, though there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrays his irritation. “I’m just saying, it feels like you’ve been at this for an hour.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. You set the tool down and lean forward, planting your hands on either side of his head so your face is directly over his. “Would you rather I stop and let your pores clog up completely? Maybe let your skin get all rough and dull so Cassian can tease you even more?”

He scowls at the mention of Cassian, his hazel eyes narrowing. “That’s not what I said.”

“No,” you say, sitting back and picking up the tool again. “But that’s what you meant, wasn’t it?”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as he mumbles something under his breath.

“What was that?” you ask, tilting your head as you press the extractor against his cheek.

“I said,” he repeats, louder this time, “I don’t see why this is necessary every week.”

“Oh, you don’t, do you?” You pause again, raising an incredulous brow as you set the tool aside. “This coming from the man who polishes his knives until they shine and organizes his weapons room by category, size, and colour?”

“That’s different,” he says defensively, his shadows stirring faintly around the bed as his wings twitch against the mattress.

“How?” you challenge, crossing your arms over your chest. “You care about your weapons. I care about your skin. Same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing,” he mutters, though his voice has lost some of its bite.

You let out an exasperated sigh, leaning forward again. “Azriel, if you don’t hold still and stop complaining, I’m going to start using a much rougher technique.”

His eyes flick to the extractor in your hand, and you catch the faintest glimmer of unease in his gaze. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” you say, your tone firm but teasing.

He groans again, throwing an arm over his eyes like a petulant child. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re impossible,” you counter, gently nudging his arm aside so you can get back to work.

Despite his grumbling, he stays still, his hands resting lightly on your thighs again as you focus on the task at hand. You work in silence for a few moments, the tension slowly draining from his body as your fingers move carefully across his skin.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he mutters after a while, his voice softer this time, almost fond.

You pause, smiling as you glance down at him. “I know,” you say lightly. “And you’re lucky I’m patient enough to deal with you.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, his lips twitching upward despite himself. “Fair enough.”

And just like that, his complaints cease, his body relaxing completely as you finish up your work. Because deep down, he knows—no matter how much he groans or grumbles—there’s no one else he’d trust with this, with any of it. Only you.

-----

The sun spills golden light across the Illyrian training ring at the House of Wind, the morning air crisp and filled with the faint rustle of the breeze over the mountains. Azriel stands at the edge of the ring, rolling his shoulders to loosen up, his wings spreading slightly before tucking back behind him. He looks as sharp as ever—his dark leathers perfectly tailored, not a hair out of place, his skin practically glowing.

Cassian is the first to notice.

“Well, well,” Cassian drawls, swaggering into the ring with his usual cocky grin, his wings flaring slightly as he stretches his arms above his head. “If it isn’t Prythian’s finest male.” He eyes Azriel with mock scrutiny, squinting at him as if trying to decipher something.

Azriel doesn’t respond, just rolls his neck in that deliberate, unbothered way of his, but you can already see the faint tightening of his jaw.

Rhysand strolls in behind Cassian, his violet eyes sparkling with amusement as he takes one look at Azriel and smirks. “Cass, do you smell that?”

Cassian sniffs theatrically, tilting his head as if deep in thought. “Hmm. Smells like… lavender? No, wait—rosehip oil.”

“Ah, that’s it,” Rhys says with a chuckle, crossing his arms as he leans casually against one of the posts. “Our spymaster smells like a luxury spa. Did Y/N slather you in some kind of serum last night, Az?”

Azriel levels them both with a flat look, his hazel eyes dark and unimpressed. “Are we training today, or are you two just here to run your mouths?”

“Oh, we’re training,” Cassian says, his grin widening as he steps into the center of the ring. “But we couldn’t start without acknowledging the sheer… glow you’re giving off this morning.”

Rhys raises a brow, feigning curiosity as he gestures to Azriel’s face. “What is that, Cass? Would you say he looks… radiant?”

“Definitely radiant,” Cassian agrees, nodding solemnly. “Like he just stepped out of one of those little beauty salons in Velaris.”

Rhys chuckles, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “You know, I bet Y/N has a standing appointment for him every Sunday night. Blackheads, moisturizers, maybe even a face mask.”

Azriel finally sighs, his shadows curling faintly around his shoulders as he steps into the ring. “Are you two done?”

“Not even close,” Cassian says, his grin positively wicked. He gestures to Azriel’s face, circling him like a predator stalking its prey. “You know, I think I see my reflection in your cheekbones, Az. Do you polish those, too?”

“I hear there’s a new Illyrian skincare regimen,” Rhys adds, his tone mock-serious. “First, you take a mate who’s very detail-oriented. Then, you let her pin you to the bed with a toolkit every week.”

Cassian barks a laugh, clapping a hand to his chest. “Does she have one of those little mirrors too? The kind that shows every pore?”

Azriel exhales slowly, his jaw tightening as he fixes them both with a cool stare. “You two are acting like children.”

“Children with flawless skin,” Rhys says smoothly, grinning.

Azriel takes a deliberate step toward Cassian, his wings spreading just slightly—a silent warning. “Keep talking, and we’ll see how flawless your face is after I plant it in the dirt.”

Cassian, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. He just laughs again, his broad shoulders shaking as he squares off with Azriel. “Oh, come on, Az. We’re just appreciating the effort. You’re putting the rest of us to shame.”

“I don’t need to try to put you to shame,” Azriel deadpans, his tone as dry as the Illyrian steppes.

Rhys snickers, stepping into the ring with a casual wave of his hand. “All right, let’s not bruise Cassian’s ego too much, Az. You know how fragile it is.”

“Fragile?” Cassian scoffs, but before he can launch into a tirade, Azriel moves—swift and lethal, sweeping Cassian’s legs out from under him in a single, fluid motion.

Cassian hits the ground with a grunt, glaring up at Azriel as he props himself up on his elbows. “You’re in a mood today.”

“Maybe it’s the rosehip oil,” Azriel replies dryly, offering the faintest smirk before turning to face Rhys. “Your turn, High Lord.”

Rhys laughs, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Oh, I’m not about to mess with someone who just spent the night being pampered by his mate. You’re clearly in top form.”

Azriel doesn’t respond, but as the three of them settle into training, you can’t help but notice the slight upward twitch of his lips, barely there but unmistakable. Because as much as he complains about their teasing, a part of him doesn’t mind. After all, it’s not every day he gets to keep them on their toes—and he’s more than happy to remind them why he’s still the spymaster of the Night Court.

[enviedear]

ON MY WAY TO HEAVEN, TOOK A DETOUR TO MY VICES

｡𖦹° M.GRAYSON

🎧ྀི it was meant to be an easy mission, something mundane—but the second you and mark wake up feverish and desolate, you put those hopes of ease to bed. something's in your bloodstream, festering, begging to be let out—soothed. the worst of it all—whatever the hell’s in your system has infested itself in mark as well. and you’re not sure how long he can bear it.

wc 3.8k | minors dni, 18+ CW | S3X POLLEN FIC so, dark content (i'd say. they're close pre-fic but not this close), main!mark also, college!mark, college!reader & superhero!reader, cursing, ominous villian, they're drugged, pain from battle, body discomfort, characters horny under duress, fevers (is that a warning), mentions of yakking, plot—what plot? smut: piv, unsteady consent (see; s3x pollen), hints of voyuerism.

the ground beneath you doesn’t feel real. just jagged rock and cold dirt, and your heat-slick skin pressed to it like it’ll help. it doesn’t. nothing seems to. you're not sure you even remember when the effects started, but you're sure you've prayed to every god within the span for it all to stop.

you groan, roll onto your side, and blink up at the burnt orange sky. your fingers shake as they press the comm at your ear. nothing. just static. the sound of your own ragged breathing, like it’s echoing from somewhere deep inside your chest.

across from you is—mark—INVINCIBLE. suit torn, chest rising and falling like he ran the globe and back. he shoots a look at you—eyes blown wide. his stare hold recognition first, then confusion, and then something else. something hazy, almost delirious. until he bends forward, on his hands and knees, coughing hard.

his shoulders twitch, wings of tension mar his back. he spits onto the ground, breath steaming in the cooler air—there's too much heat pouring out of him.

you breathe out his name, a weak, inquisitive tone. he flinches like it hurts.

"think i—" he tries, then swallows the rest. “it hit us. during the fight. whatever it was.”

you nod. you don’t say anything. you already know.

because your body feels wrong.

burning. wriggling. like every nerve is two seconds from misfiring. like if you moved the wrong way—against how your body is craving—you’d tear something open from the inside.

you sit up almost impossibly slow, every muscle screaming. mark collapses back onto the dirt beside you, blinking fast. skin flushed. chest heaving.

you don’t meet his eyes. you can’t, instead, you clear your throat, trying to hide some of the discomfort you're feeling. if mark's already far gone, one of you has to keep a clear(er) head.

for a split second, you can hear cecil reprimanding you for getting caught in this situation—whatever it is.

"maybe it’s some kind of toxin.” you mutter, trying to keep it clinical. detached. “we have a fever. we can just wait it out.”

“yeah,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “sure. just a fever.”

except it’s not—and you both know it.

the burn behind your ribs, the pressure deep in your hips, the way your pulse stutters every time you hear him shift beside you—it’s not pain. it’s something else.

something archaic and primal, something utterly abysmal.

you shift, just slightly, and your breath catches—pain threading sharply through your core. it’s not the injuries. not bruises, or sprains, or broken skin. it’s deeper. like an anatomical pressure valve being tampered with from the inside.

mark’s hands twitch where they rest in the dirt. his fingers curl into a fist. his jaw’s clenched tight, like he’s trying not to make any sound.

you follow suit—you don’t speak. the silence stretches, and stretches.

and then—mark's voice, “don’t touch me.”

the words come from somewhere not right. too low, too strained, practically rehearsed. but his words are clear. and they make your stomach drop.

you blink, “i wasn’t going to.”

his adam’s apple bobs, head nodding, “i know. i know. just—don’t.”

the two of you sit there, breathing in tandem, a vile cadence. the feeling, a ribald fever—it’s escalating. second by second. beat by beat. breath by breath.

you try your comm again, the same static greets you.

“we need to move, we can't stay here.” you say. it’s more head-strung than true plan. “get somewhere safer. a building. cave. anything but open ground."

mark shakes his head, scanning the sandy terrain, “don’t think i can fly right now.”

you look over. he’s shaking. his hands, his shoulders, his mouth. he’s not meeting your gaze anymore. his pupils are nearly black with dilation. his lips are parted, breath shallow.

you open your mouth to say something—anything—but your stomach turns. a wave of heat rolls over you so strong it knocks every bit of air from your lungs. like you’ve been anesthetized with pure fire. like your body’s burning up, molecule by molecule.

you fall back onto your elbows, gasping, "fuck—"

mark startles at the sound, eyes snapping to you. but this time…he doesn't look away.

you finally see it—not confusion, not resistance. just raw, scorching lust trying so painfully to wear the face of shame, disgrace, humilation.

his voice is practically a whimper, “hmm—it’s getting worse.”

you nod once, voice coming out unnecessarily gritty, "yeah. i know. it got me too."

and that’s when it hits you.

you weren’t meant to die in that fight. you were meant to survive it. long enough to get away—together. long enough to fall apart—together.

long enough to complete whatever sick, calculated, and meticulously planned sequence someone else set into motion. the thought has you reeling away from the dark-haired hero. your body cries out at the movement, but you force it anyway.

the barely-there logic left within you is screaming at you to get away, to not succumb to the lurid visions invading your mind, to realize that this isn't right—it's warfare of your own body, your autonomy.

you dig your own fingers into the dirt, trying to anchor yourself to something that isn’t your own body, that isn’t his breathing.

you shouldn’t look at him again. you know better. but your body doesn’t listen, and your eyes drag back to him like they have to.

and he's trembling—trembling—like he’s the one doubling over in both need and humiliation. as if this is breaking him, the unbreakable—like it is you.

and maybe he is. maybe this thing, whatever it is, doesn’t care that he’s half-alien, that he’s strong enough to break worlds. right now, he looks damn near breakable.

"we have to fight it.” you say through your teeth, but it sounds less like an order and more like a plea.

“i am fighting it!” he snaps back, but there’s no venom, only pain. he drags a shaky breath in through his nose. “i’ve been fighting it since you said my fuckin' name.”

you flinch. not because of what he said, but because of how much truth there is in it. you're both trying, both failing.

something curls inside you—tight and electric. want, not yours, not entirely. it's something layered, ancient—synthetic. something meant to reduce thinking things to base instinct.

“we must have gotten tagged,” you say out loud, trying to organize your shared chaos, trying to drag reason into your mess. “during the fight—maybe tech, some compound, i don’t know. it’s designed to keep us…compliant. distracted.”

mark breathes out a ragged chuckle, “yeah? i think it’s working.”

you don't laugh back.

because you're terrified that it is, indeed, working. that whatever you were hit with, doesn’t need to be permanent. it just needs to last long enough to make you too weak to resist. the various, "why's" all but lost on you. you just know it can't happen—you can't succumb.

“i don’t know if i can move...” mark murmurs. he’s curled inward now, knees drawn slightly to his chest, like he’s trying to keep something inside. “my body is—i don’t know how to describe it. everything’s too much. you feel that too?”

you nod, far too fast, like it’ll stop the shudder building inside you, “like it’s crawling under my skin. like i'll...lose it if anyone touches me.”

mark exhales, slow and bitter. “yep. like that.”

your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. you taste copper. maybe from biting your cheek. whatever—it tastes rancid.

you can’t stay like this. you can’t.

you scramble onto your knees, nearly retching from the sensation alone, but you stay up, teetering. “we have to get somewhere. underground. shielded. wherever this thing can’t—find us. we’re not safe out here.”

mark doesn’t respond. not at first.

then, faintly, like it’s killing him to admit, “i don’t know if i trust myself to be anywhere alone with you.”

that hurts worse than anything. not because he’s wrong. but because he’s right.

you stare at him, raw and quiet, and your voice cracks like brittle glass, “mark—it's not just you going through this. do you think i even trust myself right now?”

he lifts his head, finally. eyes still wild, but there’s clear guilt beneath it now, a thick and ugly weight pulling down the corners of his mouth. “i’m trying, okay? i’m trying so hard not to think about what this is making me want—from you. i’m trying not to want it too.”

that’s what makes it worse.

because he said it. he feels it. wants it, he does. you do too.

you can feel impulse pulling at the edges of your self-control, grinding your mind down to something basic and desperate. all of it—every broken thought, every sharp-edged craving—leads you straight to him.

your voice wobbles, barely a whisper, “what if it’s not just trying to…divert us?”

mark’s breath catches, you hear it so clearly, too clearly.

“what if it’s trying to make us…” you swallow, the word tastes sour, thick, “bond.”

you don’t need to explain. not to him. not to the guy you shared an anatomy course with last spring. not to a half-viltrumite who knows what it means when instincts override reason. he knows, same as you.

his arms twitch. he covers them over his face as if he can block the thought out of existence. “fuck. that’s—”

“inhuman,” you finish. “which makes sense. we’ve fought worse.”

“but nothing that’s…used us like this.” he shakes his head. “nothing that’s made me want to—oh, god.”

you look down at your hands at his outburst—how they tremble like they’ve got a will of their own. how they ache for something, but nothing you can give them. not without losing everything else.

you whisper, “we need help.”

mark groans, “but no one’s coming—are they?”

you glance back toward the horizon. no sign of movement. no hum of backup. no smoke flares or jets. just the buzz of static and your own ragged breath.

no. no one’s coming.

you and mark are on your own.

and whatever’s been done to you—it’s not done yet.

"maybe we just...touch? something...i'm sorry—just, please." he sounds desperate, and you know he is. equally as needy and out of it as you.

Dismissal passes across your mind, gone in a flash, "just touch?" your question comes out so soft, you wonder if he can hear you over the wind.

"yeah—here," he grabs your wrist, and for a second, you're overcome with solace. in your belly, your heart, your head—pure relief. but then the small touch becomes far too little, far too fast.

he pulls you closer, straddling him now, and you can smell him—sweat and saccharine sin. his breath fans across your neck as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“here...” he says again, and this time his voice is low, guttural, like he’s barely holding himself together. his hand slides from your wrist to your hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, possessive and demanding.

you shiver, your body betraying you as heat pools low in your belly. his other hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, and you can’t stop yourself from parting your lips, letting out a shaky breath.

"this is so fucked up," you manage. you don't pull away, but you give him the most serious look you can muster, "i'm so sorry."

mark swallows, "i know, i am too. i just want to make you feel better—make us feel better."

you nod—because he's right. you believe him. it’s not a lie, not a trick, not some smooth line he’s tossing out just to get laid. it’s him. desperate, aching, more human than you’ve ever seen him.

and still, it’s wrong.

but so much of you doesn’t care. not now, not when you feel like this and he's staring at you like you're the only oasis in this desert.

his thumb trails your lip again and you don’t even flinch, don’t even blink. instead, your mouth opens for him, and that’s when something in his expression fractures. his breath stutters like a heartbeat skipping a step and he exhales your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

then he's kissing you. the contact brings a new kind of pain and pleasure—sharp and bittersweet. you gasp into his mouth, your hands finding their way to his shoulders. it hurts. everything hurts. but it also feels…so good. like coming home to something you’d never known was missing. he tastes addicting—it’s overwhelming in the best way possible.

his kisses are wet and demanding—hard enough to bruise, and you let him. god, you let him. you need him to. you can't stop yourself from moaning as he drags you in closer, fingers sinking into your hips and waist, pulling you flush against his own body.

your core throbs in time with his heartbeat as he presses against you, free hand digging hard enough into the the ground that the dirt beneath cracks. his lips move down your jaw, teeth nipping at your earlobe, "you feel—really, fuckin' good. Feels good to touch you."

you can tell by the way his words run on, he's rambling. if it weren't for the need in your own system, you'd try to pull this back—make him realize how stupid this is.

but you don't, "does it make you feel any better? am i helping?"

he groans, eyes half-lidded, "not anymore—" his head falls to the crook of your neck, nose inhaling your scent, "i need more."

he says it as such a plea—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say. it wrecks you.

"okay..." you breathe, fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. "okay, mark."

he shudders, your name desperately falling from his lips again as he kisses at your throat, open-mouthed and hungry. like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever even wanted to taste. when he drags his teeth along your pulse, your hips jerk against him, and the answering grunt punched out of his chest feels like a prize.

your hands are tearing away at his suit before you even realize it, palms skating across much too warm skin, the heat from his body almost intolerable. his muscles jump beneath your touch as he pulls back just enough to look at you—flushed, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen. he’s shaking. quivering. trying so hard to hold himself back.

"please don't hate me for this. i need you," he pants, voice breaking. "i want—i just want us to get better."

you nod again. not just because you can’t speak, but because you feel like you had given in to this the minute his skin touched yours. every pulse of your body is screaming for him, every synapse firing off his name. you drag his mouth back to his instead of answering, and he whines into the kiss, his hands slipping off your suit like he’s done it a thousand times before.

his fingers are clumsy, yes—but they're reverent. like you’re something sacred and holy. something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.

you feel his restraint slipping, fraying at the edges the longer you’re pressed together, the more your bodies align. he’s trying so hard to be gentle, to be careful, but his hips keep rolling against yours like they have a mind of their own, like he can’t help it—like he’s fighting himself just to keep from tearing through every physical layer between you.

your head falls back, and he takes advantage, licking into the valley of your neck, hand sliding over the swell of your chest. the contact makes you whimper and arch into him, needing more, needing everything, and you feel his grip falter as he breathes against your skin.

"you don’t—fuck—you don’t know what you’re doing to me," he grits out, forehead dropping against yours. "fucking unfair really—"

"stop—stopping. you're the one being unfair." you whisper, and that’s what shatters him. your rebuttal is all it takes.

his resolve crumbles—and he’s on you like he was made for it.

his hands are everywhere, frantic and greedy, yanking at the fabric of your suit like he can’t stand the damned thing. his mouth crashes into yours again, this time with no hesitance, no restraint—just pure, crude need. his tongue explores every inch of your mouth as if he’s trying to put the taste of you to memory.

you can feel his cock pressing beneath you through his torn suit, and you roll your hips against him, needing to feel more, needing to feel him.

"fuck," he groans into your mouth, hands gripping your hips so tight it almost hurts.

you don’t even think anymore. your hands are fumbling with the yellow and blue material covering him—exposing more and more of his red-tinted flesh. he lets out this broken little laugh at your effort, a desperate sound that only makes you want him more, but then he’s helping you, masks is thrown to the side, then the vibrant colors of your suits follow—leaving both of you bare. taking in eachother—the rise and fall of his chest, his toned stomach—down, to his cock. and fuck, is he perfect—thick and hard and already leaking, tip glistening.

you wrap your hand around him, stroking him slowly, just to hear him moan. he doesn’t disappoint. his head falls back, his mouth falling open as he lets out this low, guttural sound that goes straight to your core.

"holy fuuck," he breathes, his hips jerking into your hand. "you’re gonna fucking ruin me."

his words only prove to egg you on, because then you’re pushing him down into the ground, clambering onto his lap like a woman possessed.

your hands are on his chest, skimming over the hard planes of his body as you position yourself over him. he grips your hips tight as you sink down onto him, taking him inch by inch—until he’s buried to the hilt inside you.

he chokes out your name, his head lulling as you start to move. his hands are everywhere now—on your breasts, your ass, your thighs—like he can’t decide where to touch you first. but it doesn’t matter. all that matters is the way he feels inside you, the way he fills you so perfectly you swear you’ll never need anything else.

and then you’re riding him like your life depends on it—hard and fast and needy, your hands bracing yourself on his chest as you take what you need from him. and he lets you—he lets you use him like this, lets you take control, and all the while he’s watching you with this look in his eyes—like you’re eden personified.

"fuck," he groans again, his hands tightening on your hips as he thrusts up into you, wild. "you feel so fucking good. so fucking perfect."

the air’s dry and scorching around you, sun sinking low but still brutal, painting everything in a haze of gold and sweat and dust. your knees dig into the sandy dirt, scuffed and trembling from how you’ve been riding him, but neither of you let up—not when his hands clutch you like you're the only thing tethering him to earth.

“can’t—can’t stop,” he pants, voice rough and cracked from the heat and how hard he’s breathing. his pupils are blown wide, sweat sliding down his temples, dark hair sticking to his forehead. the usual softness in his expression is long gone, replaced with something animal—something ravenous. “feels like i’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

he shifts, steadies himself with one arm on the ground, and drives up—deeper—hard enough that you cry out, your body jerking in his grip. you go limp in his grasp, falling forward into him. it's the closest you've gotten to relief yet, and your mouth is expelling every sound of pleasure it possibly can.

and god, the look on his face when he hears you. it’s ravaged, desperate, like he’s starving.

“again.” he breathes. “make that sound again. please, fuck—i’ll give you anything.”

your body responds on its own, hips rolling to meet his thrusts, dragging him deeper, tighter.

the compound is still thick in your blood, turning every brush of skin into a live wire, sending every moan into something that echoes inside your skull.

“i wanna come with you,” he moans, almost frenzied now, head tipping back again. “wanna feel you lose it around me. you’re—shit, you’re so wet, i can feel you shaking—please, just—come on, come on, please.”

he thrusts up into you again, snapping his hips. your body gives in before your mind does—tightening, clenching around him, and his whole body jerks beneath you. you're both a mess, just grasping at eachother like you're one. your vision is overcast, blurred and your ears seem to be dialed in on every sound falling out of mark's lips.

his mouth drops open. he shouts your name, follows it up with a slew of curses, praises, prayers.

he grabs your waist like he's afraid you'll vanish, grinding up into you through the wave of it, chasing your high as if it's a storm.

“that’s ittt.” he groans, burying his face against your chest as he spills into you, hips still twitching, breath ragged and rough. “that’s it, that’s it…”

he holds you like he doesn’t know where he ends and you begin, arms wrapped tight around your back, heart pounding against your ribs. both of you shaking, ruined, covered in sweat and dust and heat—but still not entirely satisfied. not really.

you pull yourself off of him slowly, wincing at the sudden absence of his warmth. the ground feels like ice beneath your skin, the coolness juxtaposed with the burning heat that radiates from the two of you.

neither of you speaks at first. you can hear him trying to steady his breath, but it’s labored, like he's still unsure whether he's waking up from a dream—or a nightmare. you sit next to him, not quite looking at him, but not able to stay away either. the weight of the air around you presses down, heavier than the sand and dust under your hands.

mark shifts beside you, the sound of his movements dragging you back to the moment. he looks at you, eyes wide and confused, but there's something else there—something darker, almost desperate.

"we can't tell anyone about this," he mutters, the words catching in his throat.

you nod, your hands shaking slightly as you pull your knees to your chest. the weight of the situation presses down on you like a vice, but his words, though simple, offer some strange sense of clarity. there’s no going back now.

"i know." you whisper, voice strained but firm.

he runs a hand through his hair, fingers raking roughly, but it’s clear he’s struggling to pull himself together. "we can’t let anyone find out what happened," he says again, this time more to himself than to you. "not yet. not until we figure out who—or what—the hell did this to us."

you meet his gaze then, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. there’s a quiet understanding in the air between you, a silent agreement forged in the mess of everything that just happened. the rawness of what you've shared is terrifying, but it’s also…something only the two of you know. and that means, somehow, it’s yours to carry.

"we'll go back." you say quietly, though the words feel like a weight in your chest. "just… we go back home. like nothing happened."

he nods, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. "yeah. no one needs to know about this. not yet."

with a deep breath, you both stand and grab your suits. the haze feels as though it’s slowly slipping away, but in its place, doubt is bubbling. neither of you are too sure what you got yourselves into—but you know it changed everything.

writer's note .☘︎ ݁˖ this is so unlike anything i've ever written so i hope i did okay—i just had to write something for mark. he's captivated me. also i got through the entire series so fast i had to write just to quell my invincible brainrot LMAO. this fic isn’t beta’d, so if there are grammar mistakes and such i’m sorry! if you enjoyed this—reblog or comment (or both and i'll love you forever)

dedicated to @inthehystericalrealm to hoping we find our own mark variants in this life <3

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

[ilsanslut]

꒷♡꒷ GAME OVER!

♰ synopsis: in which you seek attention from your boyfriend and end up paying the price. content/trigger warning(s): 18+. smut. gn!reader. full-nelson. rough sex. tummy bulging. creampie. angry(?)!nagi. minor degradation. cursing. ꒷꒦

“Stop it, Y/N.”

Seishiro warned you without looking up from his phone screen for a moment, his fingers still dancing across the glass with expert skill. You were lying beside him on the couch, your bare foot on his bicep, gently nudging him to throw him off his game. You couldn’t help yourself. You wanted his attention, but instead, he chose to play some dumb mobile game. So, you decided to take it upon yourself to get his attention—by lightly kicking him until he paid attention to you.

“Y/N.” His typically soft tone grew a bit of a firm edge, with the slightest hint of frustration making itself known to you.

You giggled to yourself, partially in amusement and partially in incredulity, as you were surprised to hear the slightest infliction of irritation in your typically lax and impassive boyfriend, who, in his own words, “doesn’t get angry because it’s bothersome feeling negative”. Was that about to change? Were you finally about to make Seishiro angry?

There was only one way to find out, right?

You gave him a few moments of reprieve, allowing him to get sucked back into his game and forget about your little mischievous self, despite your antsy toes wiggling against his deltoid giving you away. It appeared to be working because Seishiro's eyes were wide and unblinking as they became laser-focused on his screen, even drawing the device closer to his face just as his tapping became near manic when you suddenly jolted your foot forth and even managed to push Seishiro aside for a second.

“Y/N!—”

GAME OVER, YOU LOSE!

You were so shocked that you could not even contain your laughter. You cackled maniacally as you were holding your stomach at the fact that Seishiro lost, moreover became frustrated with you.

“Haha, I can’t believe it! See, Sei? This is what happens when you chose to ignore me~.”

Though you quickly stopped laughing when your boyfriend's piercing gray eyes locked with yours, his stare was owlish and unwavering, boring fiercely into your own. What made matters worse was that he did not even look angry, but you could feel it radiating off of him in harsh waves that nearly suffocated you and immobilized you where you lay. Your breath caught in your throat as dread suddenly chilled your veins, your mouth gaping as you tried to think of something else to say in your defense, but it was futile.

“So that’s what that was, huh?” His tone was chilling, effectively silencing any rebuttal you could’ve thought to muster up. His head cocked to one side, fluffy bangs shadowing his unblinking eyes as they continued to pierce into your own.

“You just wanted . . . my attention?”

“M’sorry, m’sorry, Sei~! P-please, I can’t! I won’t do it again, I pr-promise—!”

Seishiro had ripped through your underwear, thrown you on top of him, and folded you in a full-nelson to fuck you silly before you could blink. You were choking on your own words as your boyfriend’s cock pistoned in and out of you at a furious pace, leaving you breathless with every unrelenting thrust, each one more vigorous than the last. You could feel him hitting the deepest parts within you, battering your inner walls, and pumping every last bit of his frustration with you into your tight hole.

“But isn’t this what you wanted, Y/N?” He muttered into your ear from behind you. The crazy bastard didn’t even sound breathless as he fucked you within an inch of your life. “You wanted my attention, didn’t you? Wanted to make me angry? Make me lose my game, hm? You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, both in ecstasy and vexation, your jaw lulling open as you babbled incoherent curses through your drooling brims. The pleasure was so great, you felt so full, you could hardly think, let alone form a proper sentence! Not to mention, in this nigh-pornographic position, you were gifted the sight of not only your striker boyfriend pounding you senseless but also the prominent indent that appeared on your belly from every time his stupidly big cock reached the deepest depths within you.

Not caring for a response from you, Seishiro let out a series of soft, muffled grunts from his lips as his cock throbbed within you. “Since this is what you wanted, you should be able to take it, no?”

“B-But Sei! Your too—mpfh! Y-You’re too damn b—”

“—What? Big? You cry about that all the time, Y/N, and yet you take my cock like the pretty slut you are every time without fail.” You could practically hear the eyeroll in his voice as he spoke, pausing his thrusts for merely a second as he adjusted his grip on you, attempting to pry you open further as though you weren’t already splayed out above him. Interlocking his fingers behind your head and pushing himself firmly onto his heels, he basically growled into your ear, “So do me a favor and shut up and take it.”

Without warning, he used his newfound leverage to pound into you with enough force to make your vision go white and your toes curl in the air as he pummeled directly into your sweet spot, eliciting a series of pleasured shrieks and breathless mewls from your drooling lips. You’d be sure to apologize to your neighbors later.

“Ah, there it is. Y’gonna cum f’me?*” He grunted, his breath hot against your ear, as his cock twitched inside of you.

“Oh my god, y-yes! Sei, yes, yes, yes!” You squealed as the knot in your belly tightened.

“Hmmfh, then go on, pretty. Make a mess f’me.”

Before you knew it, you did exactly that, coming undone as you made a mess atop your sweaty and partially clothed bodies. Simultaneously, Seishiro let go inside of you, both of you breathlessly moaning in unison. Your back arched off of his chest as you felt thick, hot ropes of steamy, milky cum shoot into your depths and bloat you full of his seed. It was heavy, too, a result of Nagi not jacking off often, as he found the action to be ‘too much of a hassle when I have you’.

His grip slowly released on you, gently setting your tired and quivering legs down to rest as he lay beneath you, equally exhausted. Even as he did so, his cum still languidly pumped ropes of cum into your abused hole as it slid out of you, making a mess of the poor cushions beneath you two. You would never be able to hold it all, but as you both descended from your highs, neither of you seemed to mind.

Before you could relish in your serenity, you felt a sharp swat on your thigh from your boyfriend beneath you, who now held a small pout on his lips. “Next time you want my attention, just ask. I was about to beat my high score.”

You laughed softly, rolling your eyes playfully as you gazed lazily up at the ceiling. Oh right, that’s what started this mess, huh?

“Mmm, I dunno, Sei.” You drawled, your voice laced with mischief. “If you’re going to fuck me like that every time I bother you while you play, I might have to do it more often~.”

Seishiro said nothing in response. He didn’t even stir beneath you. That is, until your body was turned over and you found yourself face-down on the cushions, trapped beneath your boyfriend's weight, his thick forearm encircling your throat from behind.

“S-Seishiro—!” There was a squeal in your voice as you felt his arm tighten around your throat, pressing you hard against the cushions with his massive bulk and body weight.

“S’that how you feel, Y/N?” His voice was deep, with the faintest of growls beneath it, as he held you taut in his grasp. Between your thighs, you felt his heavy cock hardening once more as he lazily humped it against you, causing your eyes to widen. After emptying the entirety of his balls into you and fucking you into next year, he was getting hard again?!

“Maybe you still haven’t learned your lesson.”

Oh, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t absolutely enthralled by Seishiro when he was like this, and you would most definitely be lying if you said you weren’t going to mess with him while he played again.

ⓒ vampiie 2024 — all rights reserved. please do not repost my work outside of tumblr, modify, or translate my work in any form. please do not share my work on tiktok or any other site.

[ccupcakqs]

— the light in the lake ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: minor injury mention, smitten percy pairing: percy jackson x daughter of apollo a/n: for all my apollo girlies :)

you weren’t expecting him.

it had been a quiet afternoon — the kind where sunlight drifted lazily through golden curtains, catching in the dust motes like glitter suspended in honey. most of your siblings were outside, training or writing awful poems for offerings. you’d taken the rare stillness as an invitation to read, curled in a beam of sunlight with a book balanced on your knees.

then the cabin door swung open.

and there he was.

percy jackson. limping. bleeding. looking like he’d walked straight out of a war movie and directly into your life.

“hey, sunshine,” he said, like he wasn’t currently dripping blood on the hardwood floor.

you sat bolt upright, heart skipping. “percy?”

he gave a lopsided, sheepish smile and lifted his hand from his side just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the red. “you got room for one more hopeless case?”

“you’re bleeding,” you said, already setting the book aside, your fingers tingling as your healing instinct surged to the surface.

“only a little.” he wobbled on his feet. “not fatal. probably.”

you crossed the room in three steps and guided him, none too gently, to sit on the nearest bunk. “you are so dramatic.”

“some girls like that in a guy,” he said, wincing as he lowered himself. “you know—mysterious, brooding, covered in blood.”

“if that’s your idea of flirting, you need a full reboot,” you muttered.

your hands were already glowing faintly. warmth built beneath your skin as you peeled back the ripped hem of his shirt. the cut was deep, diagonal across his side, angry and red. a monster had definitely tried to take a piece of him.

“what happened?” you asked, focusing on the wound even as your eyes flicked to his face.

“training gone wrong. very wrong. or maybe I offended a hydra’s mother,” he joked, biting back a hiss as you gently touched the skin around the injury.

“hydras don’t have mothers,” you murmured absently, placing your hand over the worst part of the gash. “they just appear.”

“well, i found the one exception.”

a soft glow bloomed between your palm and his skin. his breath hitched.

your magic wasn’t flashy like some of your siblings. it was subtle—warm and steady, like the sun breaking through clouds. it crept along the edges of the wound, encouraging his body to knit itself back together. slow. soothing. patient.

he was quiet now. watching you.

you could feel his gaze more than see it—an almost physical thing. like sunlight on the back of your neck. you tried not to look up.

tried not to notice the way he softened in your presence.

“you always do that,” he said finally, voice low.

“do what?”

“shine like that.”

you blinked, caught off guard. “i’m healing you.”

“not just the magic,” he said. “you just... glow. all the time.”

your hands stilled for a moment. heat crept up your neck.

“that’s a side effect of being apollo’s kid,” you said lightly, trying to brush it off. “we’re all cursed with photogenic lighting.”

but he didn’t look away. “no, it’s not that. it’s you. you shine like... i don’t know. sunlight on water.”

you swallowed. your heart did a small, dumb flutter.

“you have a concussion,” you said, carefully avoiding his eyes. “you’re talking nonsense.”

he laughed softly. it was a good sound. it made your stomach twist a little.

“maybe. or maybe i’ve just been meaning to say that for a while.”

your fingers lingered at the edge of the wound, which was mostly healed now. the skin had stitched itself clean beneath your touch, smooth and unbroken.

you let your hand rest there just a beat longer than necessary.

when you finally pulled back, you sat down beside him on the bed. neither of you said anything right away. the light through the window had shifted, turning the cabin gold. it caught in his hair, glinting off the edges of his eyelashes.

he looked at you, quieter now. softer.

“i hate that you keep seeing me like this,” he said. “bleeding. wrecked. broken.”

you turned your body toward him, knees touching.

“i don’t,” you said simply. “i’d rather see you like this. real, than not at all.”

his breath caught.

then, after a pause, he said, “do you say things like that to everyone?”

you smiled, small and sure. “no. just the ones i’d stay up all night to heal.”

percy didn’t say anything. he just reached up, fingertips brushing your cheek so softly it felt like a dream.

“you’re dangerous,” he murmured.

“i heal people,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“exactly.”

his thumb traced the corner of your jaw. your breath caught. time folded in on itself, like the whole world had narrowed to this one moment, this one room, this one boy looking at you like you were sunlight incarnate.

then, like a spell breaking, he leaned back slightly and let his hand fall to his lap.

“can i rest here?” he asked. “just for a while?”

you nodded, heart thudding. “yeah. of course.”

he stretched out on the bunk, sighing as he sank into the pillows. you covered him with the blanket, tucking it under his arms with a tenderness you didn’t try to hide.

just as you turned to walk away, his voice drifted after you, low and sleepy.

“you really are the light in the lake.”

you paused, smile blooming slow.

“you say the weirdest things when you’re tired.”

“not tired,” he mumbled, eyes closing. “just in love.”

you didn’t let yourself answer. didn’t let yourself fall into that feeling.

but gods, it would be so easy.

and maybe, just maybe, you were already halfway there.

© ccupcakqs. all work written by me. DO NOT PLAGIARISE!

[jsbluu]

left on seen - a park jisung smau

you, a first year college student at ncit university, "stumble" upon the twitter account of your campus crush, park jisung. you've had a crush on him since your junior year of high school, but he always seemed to have a flock of girls (one girl) chasing after him.

out of a boost of confidence (and maybe a little too much to drink), you decide to send him a dm. what's the worst that could happen? he has thousands of followers, it's not like he's ever gonna see it.. right?

wrong! will jisung reply to you and fall in love? or will you just become another girl lost in his dms. read to find out!

disclaimer: none of the characters in this smau depict the idol's real personalities. everything you see is completely fictional!

➨ pairing: park jisung x fem!reader

➨ posting schedule: wednesdays & saturdays at 5pm cst

➨ status: ongoing!

➨ genre: failed humor, suggestive innuendos, underage drinking, cursing, slowburn, “strangers” to friends to lovers, ANGST, sewerside jokes, an evil woman trying to come between them, jealous jisung, jealous y/n, for the sake of the story everybody is the same age, mentions of side effects from hangovers including nausea (absolutely NOTHING explicit as i do have emetophobia), random mentions of characters that are not technically introduced, SO much miscommunication it’s actually crazy, may or may not be a smut scene in this eventually..

➨ taglist: closed

➨ a/n: this smau was heavily inspired by "score that goal" by @/lqfiles! score that goal was the first smau i ever read and i immediately fell in love. thank you for inspiring me to make my own! i'd also like to thank by bestie/loml for helping me create this entire thing, from the title down to the plot itself, i lub you >_<

y/n's friend group | jisung's friend group | honourable mentions

chapter 1: party time!

chapter 2: 13 reasons why

chapter 3: it’s so jover :(

chapter 4: new friends!

chapter 5: first day of class

chapter 6: study buddies (not!)

chapter 7: awkward silence

chapter 8: rem

chapter 9: alley oop

chapter 10: shared pages

chapter 11: three’s a crowd

chapter 12: jisung’s tweet

chapter 13: yes or no?

chapter 14: she said yes!

chapter 15: two to one (to two)

chapter 16: the aftermath

chapter 17: blooming confusion

chapter 18: yikes!

chapter 19: damage control

chapter 20: plan a

chapter 21: a long overdue apology

chapter 22: it worked!

chapter 23: jisung is STUPID (ft s’mores and mark)

chapter 24: he’s a directioner?!

chapter 25: a little TOO friendly

chapter 26: the bet

chapter 27: party time pt.2!

chapter 28: mistletoe by justin bieber

chapter 29: go with the flow

chapter 30: they’re onto me..

chapter 31: please invest in a diary

chapter 32: IDGAF!

chapter 33: get that d!

chapter 34: y/nsung official date

chapter 35: hallway couple

chapter 36: step back

chapter 37: ..did he fumble?

chapter 38: plot twist

chapter 39: stinky flowers and tears

chapter 40: mission: confrontation

chapter 41: the showdown

chapter 42: message received !

end

© jsbluu | please do not copy, reupload, or translate my work.

[poisonlove]

The Addams curse | w.a

Pairing: Wednesday Addams X reader

A/N: Okay, I admit it. I read a story that inspired me so much that I "stole" the idea

Wednesday was painfully aware of the curse she inherited from her family: the Addams curse. It was a curse that had existed since the 5th century, binding an Addams to their soulmate. A curse that would drive one to madness if rejected by that person, a madness that would torment them even after death.

As alluring as that last thought sounded, Wednesday didn’t want to become a slave to another person.

And she especially had things to do.

Just the thought of her father's expression when he looked at Morticia sent a warm, nauseating sensation to her stomach, a warmth that was far from pleasant. It was a reminder that in her life she would encounter… her other half. She would prefer to skin herself alive than to fall into this trap.

Because love was, in fact, a trap.

Thanks to reading a book about her family's history, she learned that the curse activated with the first contact with the destined person. A touch that sent thousands of electric shocks coursing through the body, a bond capable of quenching the thirst of her cursed soul.

That’s why she was averse to any contact: no one, ever, would trigger that curse to drag her into madness. She categorically rejected the idea of succumbing to temptation; she was even willing to kill the destined person, fully aware that she would die immediately afterward.

there was another side effect: if your soulmate died, you would follow them incapable of living without them.

Wednesday pressed her lips into a thin line.

That moment had arrived the instant she crossed the gates of Nevermore Academy. A warmth spread through her body and an annoying itch kept her on edge. Wednesday mentally cursed herself for having attacked students at her old school: at least she wouldn’t have anticipated her end. Her parents watched her with curiosity as they approached her new room and Wednesday tried to maintain an unreadable expression, fully aware that chaos reigned inside her.

Where her mother stayed in the past: Ophelia Hall.

As soon as they opened the door the itch intensified and something indefinable vibrated in the air. She wasn’t sure if it was due to the curse or the fact that she had entered a painfully colorful room. A girl immediately sprang up from the bed, a smile stretching from ear to ear as her blonde hair with blue and pink streaks danced toward their direction. Another girl sat cross-legged on the bed to the girl to far too… enthusiastic.

There it was again, that annoying itch.

“Hi, roommate!” the blonde exclaimed excitedly.

Wednesday felt nauseated, a wave of discomfort tightening her stomach in a cold grip. It was a new sensation for her. She felt her throat constrict, the urge to vomit ready to explode but the lack of food ingested that morning left her with only a painful emptiness, like an abyss sucking her from within. With a shiver she realized that the nausea wasn’t caused by hunger but by the curse that poisoned her insides, slithering through her veins like a subtle venom.

Oh no.

The impression of tiny spiders weaving her stomach from the inside sent a chilling shiver through her, insinuating itself between her bones. Every thread of that imaginary web seemed to tighten around her, making every breath harder than the last. The sensation of being trapped, of losing control, terrified her in a way she would never admit to anyone. Wednesday found herself immobile; perhaps "paralyzed" was the best word.

“Are you okay? You look... pale,” the blonde said with concern.

Other eyes turned in her direction.

“Oh… Wednesday always looks half dead,” her father commented with an ironic smile.

Her mother’s hand rested on her shoulder, giving her a quick squeeze, a gesture that could have seemed comforting but for Wednesday was a reminder of the distance between them.

But inside, Wednesday felt a turmoil boiling in her chest. A raw, primitive energy surged through her like an electric current, making her muscles tremble. Paradoxically, it was the first time she felt so… alive. That pain, that sense of oppression and that devastating nausea had awakened an intensity she had never experienced before. It was as if the curse was showing her the limits of her humanity, forcing her to feel closer to life, precisely because she was on the brink of her annihilation.

If her mother hadn’t placed her hand on her shoulder, she probably would have fainted.

“I understand,” the blonde mumbled, a look of confusion on her face. “Anyway, I’m Enid, and that over there is my best friend Y/N,” she exclaimed enthusiastically.

Y/N timidly waved her hand as a greeting.

“I’m happy to meet you!” Enid exclaimed, filled with bubbly happiness, opening her arms and walking toward her.

Wednesday’s eyes widened and she quickly took a step back to avoid contact. The itch had appeared as soon as she entered this room and the gothic girl didn’t know if it was the blonde girl who was the possible cause. There was also the chance that it was the other girl, Y/N, but honestly she didn’t want to know in any case.

Enid slowed down and looked at her with disappointment.

“Oh… I see you’re not a hugging person,” she mumbled weakly, still wearing a big smile on her lips.

“Do you like the room?” she asked curiously, her eyes so bright it seemed like she had two stars instead of irises.

“No,” Wednesday replied venomously.

“Sorry… Wednesday… is allergic to colors,” her father justified and Enid raised her eyebrows in confusion.

“What does it do to you?” she asked weakly.

“My flesh is peeling off my bones,” Wednesday replied in a flat tone, her lips reduced to a thin line. She felt the itch slowly fade but the annoyance remained on her. A faint laugh reached her ears, forcing her to turn toward Enid’s best friend. “Sorry… that was funny,” the latter stammered trying to justify herself as her cheeks flushed.

Wednesday stared at her intensely, a visceral hatred bubbling within her.

“Well… I’ll go now,” Y/N mumbled weakly. The girl got up from the bed and Wednesday found herself analyzing her quickly: tall, slender, long y/c hair and eyes of the same color. A smile resided on her lips and the goth felt as if her own were about to rise in reflex

she held back.

“It was nice to meet you,” she mumbled timidly.

Y/N passed by her and the proximity was enough to awaken the unsettling sensation gripping her insides. But luckily for Wednesday, it lasted only a few seconds.

(...)

Nevermore turned out to be much more fascinating than Wednesday had imagined: gorgons, werewolves, sirens, vampires and all the other creatures that populated the world of outcasts. However, what intrigued her the most was the series of murders wreaking havoc in the quiet town of Jericho. A frenzy of curiosity filled her; she felt inspired.

She longed to discover the identity of the killer, continue her novel about Viper and investigate any mystery that could be connected to her ancestor Goody Addams.

She would think about escape later.

Regarding her curse, Wednesday had narrowed it down: Enid, Y/N, and Yoko. Tayler and Xavier had quickly been eliminated from her list. Tayler for covering her mouth during the excursion in the woods to avoid being discovered by Sheriff Galpin and Xavier for taking her to the infirmary when she fainted. In both cases, she hadn’t felt anything, a total absence of emotions.

But Y/N was different. She was almost 80% sure that you were her soulmate.

Every time they spoke, even if she could detect a note of sarcasm in your responses to her icy remarks, she felt a palpable energy between you two, an electric current that seemed to draw her closer to you. Her eyes couldn’t tear away from yours and an unbearable fire exploded in her chest. She found herself experiencing mental blackouts lost in your gaze and on more than one occasion she had even stammered. She hated the curse, hated herself, and above all, hated you.

But what got her into trouble were her thoughts crowding her mind like a chorus of impatient voices: Take her hand, kiss her, find out if you are her damn ruin. These thoughts didn’t manifest with Enid or Yoko. With Enid, there was a weak itch, a sense of comfort but not attraction, probably because they were roommates. And Yoko? Well, she was simply a friend of Enid and Y/N.

Wednesday blinked and directed her gaze back to her plate.

The goth found herself having lunch at a table with her roommate's group. Despite loving solitude, she found herself amidst Enid and Yoko, with Y/N sitting in front of her, a calm expression on her face.

The buzzing continued.

Wednesday was close to Enid, so close that their shoulders brushed against each other. Anxiety gripped her stomach but she needed to narrow down the list, she wanted to know: she bit her lower lip and decided to eliminate the distance by leaning her weight against Enid's shoulder.

Nothing.

“Oh, sorry,” Enid shifted.

Wednesday furrowed her brow. Why hadn’t anything happened? Maybe the contact needed to last longer? Should she hold her hand or something? The goth extended her hand and placed it on the blonde’s arm.

Nothing.

She quickly fell into a panic, the electricity increasing around her and decided to touch Yoko.

Absolutely nothing.

“Do you want to kill me? Did you touch garlic with those hands?” Yoko asked, panicking as she looked at Wednesday through her sunglasses.

“I don’t think so… You would have already burned,” Y/N commented playfully. Wednesday looked up and locked eyes with Y/N. This only meant one thing... Her suspicions were true.

It was you.

You were her soulmate.

Oh, fuck it.

[casscainmainly]

Duke and Bruce: A Question of Definition

When re-reading Cursed Wheel, I was struck by this exchange. Suspicions around Bruce's motive for taking in Duke is a running thread in their relationship, but what fascinates me about this moment is that Duke is using this suspicion against Bruce. He knows Bruce will be hurt by this accusation. More than hurt - Bruce's "maybe" suggests uncertainty, a lack of faith in himself. In this exchange, Duke and Bruce are both uncertain of what they mean to each other, and both troubled by that uncertainty.

This uncertainty runs throughout their time together. I'm going to try to track Bruce & Duke's dynamic through the years; basically, this post collects my disparate Bruce-Duke thoughts from my full Duke read. So warning that this is a LONG post.

I will probably contradict takes I've had in the past but you live and you learn 😭. Also the Bruce-Duke dynamic shifts a lot so this is not definitive or 100% correct - lots of these moments can be interpreted differently! But with all that said, let's jump into Zero Year!

The Beginning

Duke and Bruce first meet during the disaster called Zero Year, where Riddler blacks out and floods Gotham:

Batman (2011) #21

At its core, Zero Year and Endgame are about Bruce's relationship to Gotham. Duke says "He thinks you're dead[...] ever since he killed the city." Batman's death becomes intertwined with the city's death; in the reverse way, Duke in Bruce's mind will become intertwined with Gotham. This exchange sets up their relationship as reciprocal: Bruce gives Duke his fish, and Duke gives Bruce information. From the beginning, they have equal need for each other.

Batman (2011) #30

After Duke's parents rescue Bruce, Bruce tries to persuade Duke to leave Gotham. Duke replies: "No. We're here." Duke's decision to stay in Gotham directly influences Bruce to stay as well - here, we begin to see Bruce linking Duke to the city. This issue establishes that their relationship in some ways revolves around the city itself.

Batman (2011) #38

Then, Joker arranges for Duke and his parents to star in a re-enactment of the Wayne murders. Bruce manages to rescue Duke only, and then Bruce asks Duke to help him find a first aid kit for Jim. This scene parallels their first meeting in #21 (see the fish panel above!), with one handing something to the other. Their positions are flipped: this time it's Duke handing something to Bruce. The flipping nods to the 'reciprocity' aspect, and also to the way they parallel and will continue to parallel each other (particularly in Snyder's writing).

But this is also the first moment of genuine connection between the two of them! Bruce asks Duke to be a "friend," and they fist bump. Nowhere near familial, but a bit more intimate - this intimacy is more on Bruce's side than Duke's though. Duke still sees Bruce as primarily Batman, but Batman begins to think about Duke as an individual. This one-sided growing intimacy is a core tenet of their dynamic.

Symbols and People

Let's address this 'one-sided intimacy'. To Duke, Bruce is Batman first and foremost, and he criticises Bruce whenever he's not:

Batman (2011) #47

To Duke, Bruce is just anybody, but Batman? That symbol "inspire[s]" people, and "no one could be [Batman] but you!" His faith in Bruce is entirely tied to the Bat symbol. Concurrently with his growing understanding of the Robin symbol in We Are Robin, a large part of Duke's early story is about symbols as markers of community and hope. He prioritises Batman's relationship to the city over any relationship he personally could have with Bruce.

Bruce's view of their relationship has shades of this too. He tends to describe Duke in terms of his effect on the city:

From Batman & The Signal #3 and Batman: The Secret Files: The Signal respectively, both of these are about Duke's potential to benefit Gotham. The latter in particular shows Bruce idealising Duke as the 'perfect' Gothamite, a "represent[ation]" of the city's best.

This kind of idolisation skates close to early Bruce-Cass, particularly the idea of Duke being the 'best' (analogous to Bruce calling Cass 'perfect'). But Bruce does not go as far as he did with Cass. Other Duke fans have said this, but in a lot of ways Bruce is actively trying not to fall into previous parenting/mentoring failures. So he tamps down this symbolisation with lines about Duke as a specific person:

Batman & The Signal #1

"Something independent of the past, and... of me." The wording here is so careful, so constructed to highlight Duke's agency and to separate Duke from Bruce's previous relationships. Bruce also separates Duke from himself, avoiding the projection that was characteristic of, yet again, early Bruce-Cass. I'm Cass-brained so I'm mostly using Cass but these pitfalls occur for his other kids as well. Bruce does see Duke as a symbol of Gotham/hope, but he also knows the importance of seeing Duke as an individual with agency.

Bruce's struggles drive him to differentiate Duke from the other Robins, to cover him in bats but allow him to work during the day, to constantly show how important Duke is to him personally but only verbally acknowledge Duke's importance to Gotham. He ends up simultaneously pulling Duke into the family (offering him the manor, giving him a Batsuit, working alongside him in All-Star) and accepting Duke's distance (allowing him to work in the daytime, giving him his own cave, putting him on the Outsiders).

And Duke, being the detective he is, notices.

Insecurity

A ton of Duke stories feature people telling Duke he doesn't fit/shouldn't be here:

Dark Nights: Death Metal Robin King // Cursed Wheel Part 2 // Cursed Wheel Part 6 // Detective Comics (2016) 983

Duke brushes some of these instances, but he does internalise some of it. See Batman and the Signal #1 and Cursed Wheel Part 6:

Duke's insecurities are not about Bruce alone. They're about being unable to find community, represented by the Batfam in both cases. But Bruce is a huge factor in the insecurity, and the Cursed Wheel panel in particular is so evocative for me. The way Duke frames it - "They found a way inside with you" - suggests that Duke is expecting Bruce to help him. He doesn't want Bruce's approval, but he does need Bruce to help him through this, in the reciprocal way they've always helped each other.

But I think Bruce's struggle to define what Duke means to him, as I outlined above, is part of why Duke feels Bruce isn't helping him. Duke begins to question Bruce's motives in taking him in:

Batman and the Signal #2 // Dark Days: The Casting

Bruce shuts it down every time (including in Cursed Wheel Part 6), but it doesn't really make Duke feel better. "I chose you because of who you are / I only wanted to be there when you decided what you were going to become." Bruce consistently highlights Duke's agency/individuality as the reason he took him in, but it just doesn't jibe with what actually happens - not Bruce giving him two suits, putting the bat on him, etc. And Duke sees that inconsistency, so anytime Bruce pulls out an 'it's just because you're cool Duke,' it doesn't ring true. They both know that's not Bruce's entire motive.

That brings me to the panel I opened this post with. Duke questions whether Bruce took him in for self-serving reasons, and Bruce pauses before saying "maybe." Duke hits on the reason for Bruce's inconsistent behaviour - Bruce himself is uncertain about his motives for taking Duke in, and afraid they are selfish. This uncertainty in turn sows insecurity in Duke, because he values and desires transparency. As long as Bruce is unsure about why he took Duke in, Duke cannot be fully comfortable in his position in the Batfam.

Parenthood

But what's the root of Bruce's uncertainty? Right before the Cursed Wheel argument, Bruce suggests moving Elaine and Doug away. What Duke says - 'maybe you took me in out of guilt' - is a paraphrase of what a Jokerised Elaine told him earlier. This argument, and Bruce's uncertainty, revolves around Duke's parents.

Bruce is kind of the reason anything happens to Duke's parents anyway (since Joker mimics the Wayne murders), but Bruce also promises Duke everything will be alright:

Batman (2011) #38

Duke doesn't blame Bruce for what happened to his parents or his inaction on finding them - he calls Bruce's amnesia 'selfish', but it's more a general critique than a personal one. But I think Bruce does blame himself for failing to keep his promise. I'm extrapolating a lot because we don't really see any of Bruce's feelings, but thinking of his reaction to Duke's mom's absence in Batman: Urban Legends #18:

Jefferson says Duke is going to make a mistake that he'll "never forgive himself" for, but they "owe [Duke] more than that". This is pure extrapolation but I like to read this as touching on Bruce's guilt for never having found Duke's parents earlier, something he'll never forgive himself for. He owes Duke, which is why he becomes hell bent on finding Elaine when she goes missing again. But if he's guilty at this point, then the guilt could have run through their entire relationship.

Which makes things so complicated!! Bruce feels guilty about not saving Duke's parents; Bruce loves how much Duke loves his parents; Bruce thinks it's not good for Duke to spend so much time thinking about his parents; Bruce also, maybe, a little bit, wants to be Duke's parent. Thinking of this tidbit from Detective Comics #984:

Bruce warns Jefferson about how he should treat Duke, and the very first thing he says is that Duke "won't want another father figure". This shows that a) Duke and fatherhood is a touchy subject and b) it's a subject at the forefront of Bruce's mind. This wording also leaves it ambiguous whether Bruce considers himself a 'father figure'. The next line is nonsense about Duke respecting Bruce too much to 'challenge' him, which is plain wrong, but it does show that Bruce is not very clear what his relationship to Duke is. He's not exactly a 'father figure,' but neither is he a stranger like Jefferson. This in-betweenness is repeated by Duke in Batman & The Outsiders (2019) #1, when he says "You're not my father. And you're not Batman." Batman occupies this nebulous role in Duke's life, orbiting fatherhood but never quite touching it.

Though I think this discomfort around fatherhood is more on Bruce's side, nebulous fatherhood is also a motif for Duke. In Batman & The Signal, Gnomon's presence disrupts a lot of Duke's beliefs about 'family'. We don't have too much on Duke's feelings about Gnomon (recurring thing... sigh) but we do have morsels:

Batman: Urban Legends #18 // Batman: The Secret Files: The Signal

Gnomon makes Duke question Doug's 'father' status; simultaneously, Duke struggles with this idea of 'trading' his WAR family for the Batfamily; then, in Urban Legends, Duke imagines his mom accusing him of loving his dad more than her. All of this shows Duke is deeply troubled by familial replacement - he's terrified of losing his family, particularly Doug and Elaine, because he's found other people he considers family. Bruce figures as both a symbol of the Batfamily and as a possible-father, undergirding a lot of Duke's fears here. So while Bruce more overtly grapples with the way their relationship is defined, Duke also struggles with it.

It's why Duke imagines Bruce under 'family' in Batman & The Signal #3, and then immediately amends it to 'mentor' and 'friend'. In a way, Duke's namelessness in All-Star Batman is a symbolic encapsulation of how neither of them name what they mean to each other.

Our Best Selves

BUT while their relationship is complex and filled with uncertainty, it can also be a really beautiful, really healing thing for both of them.

All-Star Batman #3

Bruce has a long history of shutting people out and being dishonest, which has landed him in hot water with his allies many times. But Duke, who represents honesty and truth, allows him in turn to be honest. Duke knows Bruce needs someone to hear him talk about Harvey, and Bruce knows that Duke needs the truth. And they offer each other what they need, as they have from the very beginning.

Bruce does this for Duke, too, in Batman: Urban Legends #18:

Duke has been working himself to the bone trying to find his mom, to the Outsiders' worry. But it's Bruce's appearance that allows Duke to finally talk about what he's been working on. This panel just really gets me because Duke is talking to all of them but looking straight at Bruce - at a man so entangled with Gotham, with what happened to Doug and Elaine. He wants Bruce to understand. Bruce does.

They are both people who have such a deep love for Gotham, for their parents, who believe in rehabilitation and the goodness of people. And they'll always save each other.

All-Star Batman #5

All-Star Batman #5 // Batman (2011) #50

So actually this section is about the random Duke appearance in Detective Comics #982. Deacon Blackfire tells Bruce that Gotham is cursed, and the issue takes Bruce through ruminations about underserved Gotham neighbourhoods, the role of community, and ends with him watching the sun come up with a little boy. IT'S SO DUKE, like everything Duke stands for, but it's also what Bruce stands for too!! And what's interesting is that when Bruce is told he's alone, he imagines Dick, Babs, Damian, and Duke. Duke says, "we're out best selves because of you."

The Duke-Bruce relationship is a reciprocal one, so Bruce may bring out the best in Duke but Duke also brings out the best in Bruce. And they both believe in the best of people, the best of the city. They are both in love with Gotham, with their families, and they both deeply believe in rehabilitation and promises. They are their best selves because of each other.

Conclusion

In Cursed Wheel Part 4, Duke decides to keep his parents on the premises. He tells Bruce that no matter what his parents say, the truth is that they love him, and he can take it. And Bruce smiles.

Because even though Bruce was the one who suggested moving his parents away - even though he may want Duke to be in his family - he loves Duke because he would never let his parents be moved. Through all of the symbols they make out of each other, all of the slippery definitions of fatherhood, friendship, and mentorship, they are two people who fundamentally get each other. Duke gets where Bruce is coming from with Harvey, and Bruce gets what Duke needs (with the daytime, with the Outsiders, with finding his mom).

The best Bruce-Duke moments are layered with an intimacy that isn't necessarily familial, but is also not strictly teacher-student. They've grown close, but they are also still independent of each other - and though I don't think either of them will ever fully say what they are, that's not so important. They may never be fully free of the uncertainty that underlies their relationship, but they love each other, and the indefinability of their love doesn't make it any less strong.

[tatzelbookwurm]

A Round Door Like a Porthole, Lazarus Green Pt. 1 Pt. 2 (you're here) Pt. 3 Pt. 4

Art of LBM

Danny was still lying under the Specter Speeder, mind reeling as the words “they opened this portal with a child sacrifice, and bound his death and all the lost life potential to their bloody machine to create a perpetual gateway to the Infinite Realms” ran in a loop through his head. Could that really be true? Is his death attached to the portal, forever lodged in the doorway, preventing it from closing?

The guy clearly knew what he was talking about. The bit about why his ghost friends and frenemies caused so much chaos as they unleashed their obsessions on Amity Park made so much sense. It would certainly explain a lot of his interactions with ghosts after he died. 

 Danny silently cursed himself for not destroying everything in the lab before they got here. He and Jazz hadn't worried about the portal schematics, because they honestly didn't have any way to open a portal, only cycle energy in a recursive loop that shouldn’t have done anything. No one, not he and Jazz, not their parents, not Tucker or Technus, had been able to figure out why it had worked when Danny was inside. But if the machine was able to sustain a portal that was already opened. . . He wondered idly if he could light a fire that looked accidental and would both destroy the lab and leave the two men enough time to escape. It’d probably be too risky. And who knew what destroying the portal would do to him. Fully kill him? Destroy him completely and shatter his core? It might be worth it to prevent anyone from gaining this knowledge. 

No wonder Lex Luthor was interested in this business. A child was murdered in this basement, and for all Tim knew, the child’s soul could still be trapped here fueling a Lazarus Pit that connected the world of the living to the afterlife. What Luthor could do with an interdimensional portal or even a single sample of Lazarus water. . . Tim shuddered to think.

On the one hand, he was grateful that Wayne Enterprises secured the business before Luthor had the chance. On the other hand, he felt rather ill to think his family had directly enriched mad scientists who performed child sacrifices. At least he had full faith that between him and Oracle, they’d hunt the Fentons down and make sure justice was served.

“What is to be done for the child?” Tim asked Constantine. “Is his soul tied to that machine?”

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it’s just his death.” 

“You’re gonna have to explain the difference to me, ‘cause I’m not sure I see the distinction.” Tim said wryly. 

“I guess. . . Hm. You could think of it as the moment of transition drawn out endlessly like a plucked string whose note never stops vibrating. Like life is the anchor point of one end of the string, and the afterlife is at the other end, and the child’s death is the note created when his soul crosses from one side to the other. The soul is the bow causing reverberations, but the reverberations are the actual death itself. The effect of the soul’s passage. And in this case, the portal is amplifying the death so it doesn’t end like a normal death ‘note’ would.” Constantine leaned in to examine some of the runes that were part of the array. “Not a perfect metaphor, obviously, since you bow perpendicular rather than parallel to the string, and death and souls are nothing like music, but you get the idea, right?”

Tim was still caught on John Constantine saying the words “death note” together unironically in a sentence. He was going to have to share that with Steph later. Maybe with the whole family group chat, even. “Yeah, the metaphor makes sense, as much as any of this occult stuff does to me.”

“Whatever. As for whether there’s anything we can do for the child, I think we’ll have to try and summon him if we can.” The Brit started pulling items out of his trenchcoat’s inner pockets. “We need to ask what the spirit wants done, before we go messing with things we don’t understand.”

“Alright, need anything from me?”

“Yeah, move this stuff out of the way so I can draw a circle.” Constantine directed Tim to shove aside a few stacks of boxes, something called a Fenton Ghost Weasel, and together they shifted a coffin-shaped iron maiden that for some reason was labeled Fenton Stockades. Then he set to work chalking a circle and runes on the ground.

Finally he sat back and dusted chalk off his hands. “That should do it.”

“Will this be bright too?” Tim asked warily.

“Eh, might be? Shouldn’t be too bad.”

Tim grabbed an auto-darkening welding helmet with a green “Fenton” sticker on it off the workbench and slipped it on.

“Alright, here goes.” Constantine began the summoning ritual.

While Danny debated arson, the other two had finished clearing a space and chalked some kind of circle onto the floor. He tuned back into the conversation when he heard the trenchcoat guy begin a traditional incantation for a summoning. Were they trying to summon him? Danny really hoped it wouldn’t work. 

When people tried to summon the Ghost King he could almost always ignore the pull. This pull, however, was very strong and immediate. It seemed proximity made a difference, or this guy was just better at summonings than the average cultist. Before Danny could accept the inevitable, he was pulled bodily — literally! — out from under the vehicle and across the floor, still flat on his back on the Fenton Under Car Creeper, with the Specter Speeder’s ecto-engine hugged tightly to his chest. The wheels of the Fenton Creeper (not to be mistaken with the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick) sped him straight to the summoning circle. Still very much in human form. 

This was his first real look at the guy called Constantine, and he couldn’t help a horrified yelp. “Eugh!! What the fuck is wrong with you, dude!?!!” 

His lapse in attention made him lose the battle with the summoning spell, and it gripped him, pulling him through the convolutions of the spellwork even though he was already lying half across the circle, and forcing him to change into Phantom in the process. It was such a disgusting sensation, like he was one of those squishy water filled tube snake toys that look like a fleshlight, and someone squeezed really hard and abruptly so he turned inside out and went flying to go splat against a wall (or in this case, against the ground inside the circle of chalk). He tried and failed not to retch.

The younger man in the crisp suit whom he’d already identified as Mr. CEO-Timothy-Drake-Wayne looked at him in startled bafflement, while the older blond, still smoking his cigarette, (gross, and was that thing never ending?) was probably looking at him. Maybe. It was really difficult to tell, because he was a frankly vile sight. Danny winced and swallowed down nausea. “What have you done to your soul?”

“I — what?”

“Trypophobia central, man! Ugh that’s gotta be the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. Can’t you cover it up?”

“Who are you?” Timothy Drake-Wayne interjected.

“I’m the dead guy? You literally just summoned me.”

“Constantine said you were a child”

“I mean, I was?” Danny looked down at his obviously twenty-something year-old self and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a while since I was fourteen though. These things happen.”

“Not typically, no. The dead tend to be pretty unaging.” Constantine said. 

“Dude I’m not having a conversation with you while your soul looks like Escher’s swiss cheese nightmare. Anyways, some of us do. Heck, I know a guy who constantly shifts from infant to old man and every stage in between. It’s pretty distracting when you’re trying to get him to let you fix the timeline again.” Danny continued to look anywhere but at the blond man. “But if it’s so important to you, I can —” He got an abstracted look, and slowly de-aged himself until the two men stood over a fourteen year old boy with snow white hair and glowing green eyes.

“That does not help. No.” The guy whose soul looked somewhat like a bleeding tooth fungus said. He turned away and started doing something magical. Danny hoped it would mask his soul in some way, but so far all it did was make Danny feel like he needed to pop his ears.

He also felt particularly uncharitable, so he didn’t revert to his natural age, and instead tried to see how young and cute he could make himself appear.

“So are you just haunting this basement? Seems hazardous, given the former proprietors.” Timothy tried to redirect the conversation. He didn’t seem nearly as distressed to see the ghost of a child, but his eyes darted surreptitiously to the Lichtenberg figure Danny used to always hide under gloves.

“Nah, haven’t been back here in years. I mostly live in my Infinite Realms haunt these days.”

“You . . . live? Is that just a figure of speech?”

“It’s rude to ask about a ghost’s nonliving status, you know. Highly taboo to ask how a ghost died or poke into the circumstances of our deaths without permission.” Danny admonished. Making himself younger than fourteen took more effort than he expected.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Timothy raised his hands placatingly to the boy who now looked younger than Damian. “What brings you back to Amity Park?”

“Uh, you summoned me? Are we still not clear on that?”

Tim looked pointedly at the Fenton Creeper and the engine Danny still held. He’d shrunk down to the size of a four year old, and the engine really should be crushing him given it was bigger than his torso now. He quickly set it aside, and turned his biggest puppy dog eyes on Tim.

“You were in here already, and you looked pretty alive for a moment there.”

“I can look lots of ways!” Danny focused really hard on looking as cute, small, and nonthreatening as possible. He thought it was working when all of a sudden there was a pop! and he was smaller than he’d ever managed before. 

Timothy Drake-Wayne looked like a giant. The other guy, who had thankfully managed to put away his soul somehow, wore scuffed oxfords bigger than Danny. Hell, he could probably fit his entire self into one of Constantine’s shoes if that wasn’t a bizarre thing to do, and they weren’t already full of stinky feet. Holy shit what happened to him!?

Tim blinked down at the cat? Snake? Ghost. . . thing at his feet. What the fuck. A moment ago he was talking to an adult man whom he’s pretty sure was dead and he’s very sure was trolling them. Now his interlocutor had turned into an adorable creature with soft white paws, a long twisting tail, big pointed ears that swiveled like a cats, and a humanoid face that should’ve been creepy but was actually eliciting cute-aggression in him. Tim blinked again. The little baby ghost creature blinked enormous green eyes back at him. Then it yawned, revealing three rows of needle sharp teeth that looked like a cross between what you’d find in the mouth of a shark and a cat. Yikes.

“Does that mean the interview is over?” Tim asked him.

The creature just blinked up at him again, then zeroed in on his shoelaces, pupils expanding until only a narrow band of green ringed them.

Yup. The interview was over. Those paws hid some wicked claws which could apparently slice through leather with ease. Oh, Tim really hoped ghost scratch fever wasn’t a thing. At least the ghost looked sufficiently contrite after he yelped, and it waited while he removed a shoelace to sacrifice as a toy.

If Damian ever met him, there would be a new member of the family. Maybe he should name the creature preemptively so they didn’t have a cat-snake named Bat-Ghost in Wayne manor. 

“Do you have a name, little baby cat-snake ghost? Little baby ghost man?” He cooed as the miniature monster dashed back and forth, intent on shredding his shoelace.

The ghost paused long enough to chirp, “Li’l baby man!” before launching himself at the string. Even shocked, Tim’s reflexes had him whisking the toy out of the way, and the ghost went careening under a cabinet.

He wedged himself in the gap, landing face first in a dust bunny, and quickly wriggled backwards with an indignant squall. His wordless protestations cut off as he fell into a violent sneezing fit that thankfully dislodged him from beneath the cabinet.

Tim suppressed his laugh, and asked, “Little Baby Man? Is that what you want to be called?”

The ghost pawed most of the dust away from his nose, but spider webs covered his face and a big dust bunny perched atop his head like a fascinator with a cobweb lace veil. He looked Tim right in the eyes and nodded, dislodging the dust in his hair and setting off more sneezes.

“Li’l Baby Man” he confirmed. He placed a paw on Tim’s shoe and chirped, “Tim!” Then he pointed his tail at Constantine and said, “Gross!” with narrowed eyes.