#this is late autumn before it snowed

[alchemistc]

Forecast says rain for like half the day tomorrow and a high of 68 degrees. Not sure if I believe it but if it actually happens I'm going to be the happiest girl alive.

[heich0e]

"can i call you later?"

the wind bites at your cheeks, but the sting you feel is as much from the smile on your face as it is from the chill.

"dunno," you muse, pursing your lips as though you're contemplating the question deeply. "can you?"

rintarou groans, but the sound isn't half as plaintive as it ought to be. you watch as his head hangs down defeatedly where his frame is folded over the railing that lines the front of the train station, his body pitched forward over the barrier like he's trying to reach you on the other side.

you've been saying goodbye for the past twenty minutes—or, you've been trying to. sort of. maybe. the train you'd planned to catch has already come and gone, and the next is set to soon arrive. one more and it will be the last of the night, but not even knowing that fact seems to be moving you closer towards the door to the station—content to stay here, like this, as the wind of the late fall night nips at your cheeks and the two of you muddle through your goodbye with the inelegance of two people who couldn't be less committed to it if they tried.

rintarou lifts his head to meet your gaze.

"i mean it, though." he says. "can i call you tonight?"

your stomach flips when he looks at you this way. when he keeps looking at you this way.

"we just spent hours together," you remind him, but your words are too breathy to make impact. too elated to be reproachful.

you've been on three dates with rintarou now. you think they're dates anyway, though it's never explicitly been stated. his invitations are always casual, sandwiched in between all the other texts he sends to you these days, so you might be reading into things too closely for your own good. but dinner doesn't just feel like dinner when rintarou has this way of looking at you like you're the only person he's ever laid his eyes on.

"i know," he answers. it's not an explanation, or an excuse, or even an apology. it's plain acceptance. a shamelessness you find wretchedly endearing.

you glance back at the station behind you, biting the inside of your cheek to temper your delight.

"my train is coming," you say.

he looks a bit crestfallen. laughably glum, considering the circumstances.

you drag the heel of your shoe back ever so slightly, not quite a step—at least not in any meaningful way—but inching in the direction of the doors at a glacial pace. continental drift seems positively hasty in comparison to your retreat.

"bye," he calls, his tone dejected. you watch as he lifts his hand weakly, still slumped over the railing, and waves at you with only a few fingers raised.

you want to laugh, but your chest is so full of something else—something syrupy and fluttering and good—that it's like there's no space for it underneath your ribs.

you call back to him just before you step into the station.

"rintarou—"

there are other people around, stepping between and around you both—rushing into the station to escape the cold, or moving briskly as they brace themselves and step out into it—but you hardly notice them when your eyes meet.

you smile.

"—call me later."

he calls you almost every night after that.

even as the cool autumn winds change with the seasons; carrying flakes of snow as winter blankets nagano, warming with the spring, turning heavy with humidity in summer, and then repeating the cycle anew.

even as your reluctant goodbyes turn from late nights outside of train stations to early morning words whispered under blankets as rintarou leaves for practice or away games.

even as the uncertainty of whether or not you're getting your hopes up—of whether those meetings were even really dates at all—melts away into nothing more than a memory.

you're not even sure what the two of you manage to spend so much time talking about on the phone. nothing, really. everything in its own right. rintarou's phone calls are something you come to look forward to at the end of a long day. something you anticipate when you have exciting news to share. a comfort when you're missing him and a relief when you need him most.

"is that the last one?" you ask, turning just in time to see your boyfriend—your live-in boyfriend now, officially—flop back on the sofa after he drops the last moving box atop the stack piled near the balcony door.

"yeah," he wheezes, evidently winded from the exertion—from the exhaustion—of moving house. you laugh a bit to yourself as you shuffle over to the sofa, leaning over the back so you can peer down at him where he lays sprawled against the cushions.

"aren't you a professional athlete?" you tease him. "shouldn't you have better stamina?"

rintarou cocks a brow, something sly swimming behind his gaze.

"i need better stamina?" he drawls. "you're usually complaining about the opposite."

you roll your eyes in the wake of his remark, grabbing a throw pillow from beneath his head and yanking it from under him unceremoniously, only to press it lightly against his face.

you shuffle back towards the kitchen where you'd left the box you were unpacking abandoned. you grab a plate from inside the cardboard and turn to place it on the shelf you'd decided would house your dinnerware.

"it's late," you tell him, reaching for the next plate in the box. "you should go wash up first."

you don't get a reply, and that surprises you. you creep over to the sofa again, only to find rintarou staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"hey," you laugh a little, leaning on your elbows against the back of the couch. "where'd you go?"

rintarou's gaze snaps back to yours. he still looks at you like he did on your first date. like he did outside the train station on your third. he smiles, bit it's a bit sheepish.

"sorry, was just thinking," he answers quietly. he reaches up from where he's lying on his back, brushing his thumb against your cheek. his smile turns a little bit giddy, then. boyishly charming. "can't believe we finally got a place together."

you lean into his touch, huffing a little breath through your nose—halfway to a laugh.

"guess you won't have to call me anymore," you joke, and rintarou's expression changes—falls slightly—but only for a moment. you realize what you've said, or at least think about the implications more, and you sort of understand the shift.

you fell in love through those phone calls.

you'll miss them—the ritual, the familiarity, the comfort—even though you know they've been replaced by something better.

you turn your face, pressing a fleeting kiss to rintarou's palm. "go wash up," you tell him again, heading back towards the kitchen and your (now twice abandoned) box of plates.

he seems to heed your advice this time, peeling himself up off the sofa and shuffling off in the direction of the washroom.

"don't use all the hot water!" you call after his retreating frame, and you hear him reply noncommittally under his breath before the door clicks closed behind him.

you've only got three dishes left to unpack before your box is emptied, but the shelf you'd been organizing doesn't seem to want to accommodate all of your bowls in the way you wanted, so you're left arranging and rearranging them as you try to find a way to get them to fit.

in the back pocket of your jeans, your phone begins to ring. with three plates balanced in one hand, you reach for it with the other—the movement muscle memory now, instinct more than volition, after all this time. you answer the call without even looking at the screen, holding the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you continue juggling the dishes in front of you.

"oop—hello?"

you pause after you answer the call, realizing for the first time that you shouldn't be getting a call at all. not at this time of night. not in this apartment.

the line is quiet, just the sound of breathing that you could recognize anywhere to be heard from the other end of the call.

"why are you calling me?" you ask rintarou, but the words are light. too fond to be reproachful.

you hear rintarou laugh—from the other end of the call and from the other side of the bathroom door.

"just wanted to hear your voice," he answers you (the same way he has a thousand nights before when you've asked him that same question.)

"you're ridiculous," you tell him, completely enamoured.

"i know," he replies.

it's quiet for a moment as the two of you stand on opposite sides of your apartment. on opposite ends of your call.

you shift a stack of bowls a little to the left. it all fits now. just the way you wanted it to.

"y'know, the hot water won't run out as fast if we shower together—"

you hear the bathroom door open, and when you look over your shoulder, rintarou is peeking at you from around the edge of the door—his phone held to his ear, a smile on his face you know is mirrored on your own, and a look in his eye that's never once wavered.

he tilts his head.

"—wanna join me?"

[hannnsh]

happy (late) halloween 🎃

im not late yall .. ive just been procrastinating 😔

joel is werewolf 🐺jimmy is frankenstine, supposedly ⚡️and grian is vampire 🧛

i actually started joel early october but i forgot abt it and it got left unfinished until today when i actaully have some time to do it lol

anyways i definitely am not cultured in halloween costumes, culture and monsters (i do not celebrate it lol) but i rlly rlly like halloween vibes its so pretty 🥹 fall and autumn in general is very pretty and my fav season. in my country we dont have 4 seasons so idk what it feels like tho, i have experienced snow before tho during lte winter in japan :D

individuals :3

[magical-reid]

Through the Frost

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x GN!Reader (Implied Slytherin!Reader)

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.1 K

Prompt #36: "Take my jacket, I don't want you catching a cold."

Summary: In the biting cold of the Scottish Highlands, you and Sebastian venture into the Forbidden Forest to collect Fanged Geraniums for a Herbology project, braving both the elements and an Acromantula encounter. Amid the adventure, Sebastian’s protective gestures and the warmth of his jacket lead to a tender moment between the two of you, culminating in a soft, unexpected kiss that changes everything.

The chill of the Scottish Highlands was biting, even in late autumn. You clutched your scarf tighter around your neck, your breath visible in the crisp air as you and Sebastian trudged through the Forbidden Forest. The trees around you creaked in the wind, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky like ancient hands.

“Remind me again why we’re out here when it’s practically freezing?” you asked, casting a wary glance at the darkening woods.

Sebastian shot you his signature grin, his amber eyes glinting with mischief. “Because you’re too stubborn to admit you’d need my help with your Herbology project. Or was it the lure of adventure you couldn’t resist?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond. The truth was a mix of both—there was no denying Sebastian’s knack for getting himself into trouble, and you’d rather tag along than let him wander off into danger alone.

As you pressed on, the temperature dropped even further. The wind howled, and the light snowfall turned into a steady flurry. Your hands were practically numb despite the thick gloves, and you could feel the cold seeping into your bones.

Sebastian must have noticed, because he suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned to you. Without a word, he shrugged off his dark, woolen jacket, the Slytherin-green lining standing out against the monochrome backdrop of snow.

“Take my jacket,” he said, holding it out to you. His tone was firm, but there was a softness in his gaze. “I don’t want you catching a cold.”

Your first instinct was to protest. “Sebastian, you’ll freeze—”

“Don’t argue with me,” he interrupted, stepping closer and draping the jacket over your shoulders before you could refuse. His hands lingered for a moment, adjusting it so it fit snugly. “You’re shivering. And don’t try to act like you’re not.”

The warmth of his jacket, faintly carrying the scent of pine and something unmistakably him, was a stark contrast to the icy wind whipping around you. You pulled it tighter, feeling an unexpected flush of heat creep into your cheeks.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

Sebastian gave a nonchalant shrug, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips suggested he’d noticed your reaction. “What kind of dueling partner would I be if I let you turn into an icicle? Besides, I’ll survive. I’m tougher than I look.”

“Sure you are,” you teased, the corners of your lips curving into a smile despite the cold.

The two of you continued walking, his jacket keeping you warm and his presence comforting in the eerie quiet of the forest. Somewhere in the distance, a branch snapped, and Sebastian instinctively stepped in front of you, his wand at the ready.

It was in these moments that you were reminded of the duality of Sebastian Sallow—the charming troublemaker who always had a clever retort, and the fiercely protective friend who would do anything to keep you safe.

“Next time, though,” he said after a beat, his voice lightening again, “maybe we should pick a less hazardous way to spend our evening. Like raiding the kitchens for pumpkin pasties.”

“Only if you don’t get us caught this time,” you replied with a laugh.

“Deal,” he said, his grin returning as he looked over his shoulder at you. “Now come on. Let’s find your stupid Fanged Geranium before we both freeze to death.”

And with that, the two of you pressed deeper into the forest, the snow falling gently around you. The jacket, and the boy who had offered it, warmed you more than you cared to admit.

The Forbidden Forest grew darker as the two of you ventured further in, the snow now a thick blanket underfoot. Each step crunched loudly, the sound eerily amplified in the silence of the forest. Though the jacket Sebastian had given you kept the chill at bay, you couldn’t shake the creeping unease of the woods.

“Are you sure the Fanged Geraniums grow this deep?” you asked, glancing at the looming shadows cast by the skeletal trees.

Sebastian hesitated, his wand tip glowing faintly in the gloom. “Pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure,” you repeated flatly.

He shot you a sheepish smile. “Well, I heard Garlick mention it during class. Something about preferring the deeper, more secluded areas of the forest. Don’t worry. We’ll find it.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow but kept walking. Sebastian’s confidence had a way of pulling you along, even when logic told you it might be a terrible idea.

A sudden rustle in the underbrush had both of you freezing in place. Your heart leapt into your throat as you instinctively gripped your wand, pointing it toward the noise.

“Did you hear that?” you whispered.

Sebastian moved closer, positioning himself slightly in front of you again. His shoulders were tense, and his eyes darted around the shadows. “Stay close,” he murmured.

The rustling grew louder, and a pair of glowing yellow eyes emerged from the darkness. Your breath hitched as a hulking Acromantula crawled into view, its mandibles clicking ominously.

Sebastian reacted immediately, raising his wand. “Confringo!”

The explosion of fire startled the spider, sending it skittering backward, but it wasn’t deterred for long. It lunged, and you barely had time to shout a spell of your own.

“Stupefy!”

The jet of red light struck its leg, slowing it but not stopping it. Sebastian grabbed your arm, pulling you behind a tree as the Acromantula recovered and began to advance again.

“Got any brilliant ideas, or should we start running?” you asked, your voice shaking slightly.

Sebastian’s smirk, even under the pressure, was maddeningly confident. “Running’s an option. But I’d hate to let it think it could beat us.”

“Of course you would,” you muttered.

He peeked out from behind the tree, his wand at the ready. “On my signal, aim for its eyes. Ready?”

You nodded, gripping your wand tightly. “Ready.”

“Now!”

The two of you burst out from cover, shouting spells in unison.

“Incendio!”

“Confringo!”

The combined spells hit their mark, engulfing the Acromantula in flames. It let out a high-pitched screech, retreating into the shadows as smoke curled around its massive frame.

Sebastian watched it disappear, his wand still raised. When the forest finally fell silent again, he exhaled and turned to you, his grin returning. “See? No problem.”

You glared at him, your heart still racing. “No problem? That thing could have eaten us!”

“But it didn’t,” he pointed out, his tone annoyingly casual. He reached out and gently tugged his jacket tighter around your shoulders. “Thanks to me, you’re still here to complain about it.”

You huffed, though the warmth of his touch and his playful smirk made it hard to stay annoyed. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you keep following me into danger.”

Before you could retort, a faint glow caught your eye. Just a few feet away, nestled among a patch of frost-covered ferns, was a cluster of Fanged Geraniums. Their serrated leaves snapped at the air, illuminated by the soft luminescence of their buds.

“There they are,” you said, pointing.

Sebastian followed your gaze and let out a triumphant laugh. “Told you we’d find them.”

He crouched beside the plants, careful to avoid their snapping leaves, and began to harvest a few blooms. You knelt beside him, your earlier frustration fading as the two of you worked together.

As you stood up, cradling the blooms in your gloved hands, Sebastian brushed the snow off his knees and turned to you with a smile. “See? Adventure, teamwork, and no serious injuries. I’d say tonight’s a success.”

“Speak for yourself,” you said, though you couldn’t help but smile back. “I’ll probably be having nightmares about Acromantulas for a week.”

Sebastian shrugged. “Then I’ll sit with you in the Common Room until you fall asleep. You know, for moral support.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re welcome,” he said with a wink, falling into step beside you as the two of you made your way back toward Hogwarts.

By the time you and Sebastian emerged from the Forbidden Forest, the snow was falling thickly, transforming the grounds into a glistening winter wonderland. Hogwarts loomed in the distance, its windows glowing with warm light, promising refuge from the biting cold.

The trek back to the castle was quieter, your steps synchronized as you trudged up the hill. Sebastian’s jacket still hung around your shoulders, its warmth and his faint scent grounding you in the aftermath of your encounter with the Acromantula.

“Not bad for an evening’s work,” Sebastian said as you approached the castle doors, cradling the bundle of Fanged Geraniums you’d managed to collect. “And not a single detention. That’s got to be a record.”

“Yet,” you corrected, raising a brow. “We’re not in the clear until Professor Weasley sees us sneaking in.”

He chuckled, holding the heavy door open for you. The rush of warm air from the Entrance Hall was a welcome relief. You stepped inside, snowflakes melting instantly in the castle’s glow.

The walk back to the Slytherin Common Room was uneventful, the quiet halls amplifying the soft crackle of distant fireplaces and the murmur of students preparing for bed. When you finally reached the Common Room, the emerald flames in the hearth illuminated the green and silver decor, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls.

Sebastian flopped onto one of the plush armchairs, his usual swagger returning as he stretched out lazily. “If that’s not the most heroic flower-picking mission anyone’s ever attempted, I don’t know what is.”

“Heroic?” you echoed, placing the bundle of Geraniums on a nearby table. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here we are,” he quipped, motioning to the jacket still draped around you. “Cozy in my jacket, enjoying my company.”

You gave him a pointed look, but the corners of your lips twitched into a smile. You slid the jacket off and held it out to him. “Thank you, by the way. For this. And for everything else tonight.”

Sebastian didn’t take the jacket right away. Instead, he stood and stepped closer, his usual smirk softening into something quieter, more sincere. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said, his voice low. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

Your breath caught, the playful banter fading into an unfamiliar tension. He was close now, his amber eyes locking onto yours, and for once, he didn’t seem to have another clever remark ready.

“You’ve got snow in your hair,” he murmured, reaching up to brush a stray flake from your temple. His fingers lingered a moment too long, warm against your skin.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words never came. Instead, you felt yourself leaning in, drawn by the quiet intensity in his gaze.

Sebastian didn’t move away. If anything, he stepped closer, his hand falling to your shoulder as his other fingers lightly tilted your chin. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, the warmth of the Common Room forgotten in the heat of the moment.

“You’re staring,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He smiled softly, his usual confidence tempered by something gentler. “Can you blame me?”

Before you could respond, he closed the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was both tentative and full of unspoken feelings. It was soft and slow, a moment stolen from the chaos of your usual adventures.

When he finally pulled back, his hand still resting lightly on your shoulder, his smirk returned—but it was softer now, almost shy.

“Well,” he said, his voice a touch unsteady, “that was… unexpected.”

“Was it?” you asked, your own smile breaking through.

Sebastian chuckled, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Maybe not entirely. I’ve been meaning to do that for a while now.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed how much the admission meant to you. “Took you long enough.”

“Patience is a virtue,” he teased, reaching out to take his jacket from your hands. But before you could let it go, he slipped it back around your shoulders.

“Keep it for the night,” he said, his grin returning. “I don’t want you catching a cold.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you didn’t argue. “Goodnight, Sebastian.”

“Goodnight,” he replied, his voice softer now. As you turned to head to your dormitory, you felt his gaze lingering, and you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

It had been a night full of danger, snow, and sharp-toothed flowers, but as you curled up under your blankets with his jacket still draped over you, all you could think about was the warmth of his touch and the way his kiss had chased away the cold.

[arminsumi]

. . . 𝐢 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭

Geto Suguru

Regret has haunted Suguru ever since he parted ways with you; he's pining, lost, going mad. It kills him that he's made an enemy out of someone he loved.

► "I know that I ended it... but why didn't you stop me?"

+ Warnings/content: angst, pining, friends to enemies to lovers

Suguru's deepest regret is that he didn't kiss you before he parted ways. It eats him up more and more every day, like a parasite in his chest, chewing slowly on his muscles down to his bones.

Why didn't I kiss you?

He asks himself this so often — too often, god, he can't catch a break from his own mind, can't stop this regret from gnawing on his ribcage.

But isn't he his own obstacle? He chooses not to get over you. Yes, he actively chooses to not move on. Day after day, Suguru chooses to vividly remember the day he said goodbye to you — it's become his favorite film, he's memorized all the expressions, words, tones and romanticized it to no end.

We were perfectly tragic.

Late spring, flowers on the floor, black night, his tears, his shivering lashes, that quivering voice. Looking into his eyes, you saw that he wasn't prepared to let go.

He was holding onto you. Claws in your flesh.

Maybe that's why he chose to say farewell behind the 7-eleven; it was the place where you and him first met. The story was that both your Jujutsu schools had coincidentally assigned you two to exorcise the same curse; you were confused by Suguru's technique and wrongly went for him, like he was the bad guy — isn't it all so ironic now? You remember how he panted with a smile, like he got a kick out of fighting you, how he explained to you that it was a misunderstanding and that he was on your side. He remembers receiving a hateful look from you; it made his heart tick, leading him to wonder to himself what's wrong with me? I always love women who hate me.

Because of how you met, you and Suguru being 'enemies' was a running joke that carried on through your late teenage years.

Springs passed. Things changed — no, things got worse. Suguru was drowning and no one could see it, not even you, the girl who knew him like the back of her hand.

Suddenly, all those years spent living side by side each other in blissful, oblivious youth converged into a moment of goodbye.

There went by the scent of those falling flowers. Suguru's nerves were at full attention, sharp and prickly all over his skin. Goosebumps. He was jittery, even shaking — a look that you never thought he'd wear, being as cool as he always was.

You told him, "You don't have to be someone you're not just because of me." but he didn't want to hear that. No, he needed to hear something else. He needed to be told "Suguru, no matter what path you take, I'll always love you, deep down inside."

The night breeze chilled him. He stared down at you, eyes full of hurt like you've never seen in a man's eyes before.

Stark neon light from the vending machines painting your features, he didn't miss how your lips quivered. He leaned into you slowly, but then there was a sudden stutter in his movements. Something held him back.

Suguru chickened out from kissing you — that's what it seemed like to you, anyways.

But it was deeper than that. He never opened up about it. He just left. He just went.

. . . 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭,

and he's still haunted by memories of that night, heart rotting with regret. He can hardly sleep, can hardly eat, can hardly keep any food down — how could he stomach food when he can't even stomach his own choices?

Suguru visits the place where you and him first met.

He trudges through snow in winter, kicks leaves off his path in autumn — leans against the wall where the both of you once stood and just stares at the floor, allowing himself to hurt all over.

But no season makes him hurt quite like spring, when the scent of blooming flowers is so potent and strong that he chokes up.

What would you do if you saw him again?

He's thought so deeply about what he'd say to you that it's become a script; he knows the words by heart.

Why didn't you stop me?

Did you have feelings for me?

Do you hate me?

Please let me kiss you. Just once.

No, he's scratched the last one off his script.

He sighs to himself all the time — all the time. How did he make an enemy out of the one he loved?

A question that plagues his brooding mind is do you still love me even after what I did? He wonders if it's even possible. Sometimes he just settles on the assumption that you and Satoru hold a deep hatred against him.

. . . 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮,

your face appears around the corner; he can't mistake it.

Meeting you again after years have passed, though as enemies, makes him feel stilled, like all the chaos stops momentarily.

He doesn't know what to say, or how to act, so he just stays silent and motionless in front of you.

You speak and feelings start to rip him apart. "Suguru, where have you been?"

It's awkward. It's melancholic. The tension between you and Suguru is not just because of the gruesome truth of what violence he committed, nor the betrayal; no, it's more than all that.

He's utterly speechless, holding an unbreaking eye contact with you. Gazing into your eyes after so many years of staring into fuzzy photographs makes him feel giddy like a little kid, despite the severe expression you have.

You talk slowly and carefully to him, almost warily, and it breaks his heart little by little.

"I know we're not allies, but I'm still the same Suguru that you used to spend nights talking to." he quietly reminds you, hurt evident in his voice.

He gazes deeper into your eyes, deeper and deeper until he's dizzy. You hardly know how to respond.

"Suguru," you whisper back, tearing up, "Why did you do it?"

He doesn't respond, completely ignoring this.

"... I still think of you."

"... hey, answer me."

As he comes two steps closer, you back two steps away.

"... and I left so many things unsaid."

"... Suguru, I know, but — "

"... and I should have kissed you before I left." he blurted out.

Shocked, you take a moment to register what he just said.

"Why didn't you?"

"I just didn't want to taint you." he breaths, "I'm too fucked up and you're too sweet for me."

He brings his face closer to you, casting a shadow over your whole body, backing you into the wall. The setting sun peeks out from behind him, the breeze slows.

Suguru looks at you like an adoring, sad puppy. His face is full of all his regret and lust and longing and desperation. You've never seen this look in his eyes before — he's kept everything to himself ever since you met him.

Looking intently at your lips and wetting his own, he begs you softly, "Please, let me kiss you."

You shake your head very slowly, feeling so conflicted.

"Just once? Please, I need it so badly." he admits desperately, and then says your name in the softest tone you've ever heard a man speak in; your name, every letter so special to him, each syllable quivering in the air between your faces.

He's so close you can see every detail in his face; the harrowed eyebags, the sorrow in the wrinkles of his eyes, and flashes of memories in his pupils. Even more than all that, you can see the downturn of his parted mouth.

"I want to," you admit, swallowing sharply, "But I can't."

Lashes fluttering so sorrowfully, Suguru pulls back a little.

It's the same place, the same season, and the same pitiful situation.

There's a small silence in which you feel a madly desperate feeling emanating from Suguru, and then he crashes his lips onto yours so hard that you whimper.

Breathing hard, heart thumping up against his chest, Suguru holds you in place while he presses his wettened lips against you, tilting his head to the side to deepen the kiss.

You quickly surrender to him, and when you reciprocate his kiss — he whimpers. It's so subtle and quiet, but you feel it on your lips and tongue.

Kissing until you both run out of breath, Suguru finally pulls away — plucking little kisses from your lips as he does, like he just can't stop yet.

"I'm so sorry," he apologizes heavily, still keeping close to your face, not ready to let go. "I need you."

You look up into his eyes and he feels shivers going down his back.

"... I won't tell Satoru." you breathe.

His breath catches, and he doesn't hesitate to go in for the next kiss — and the next and the next and the next until you're letting him mark your neck with a harsh hickey.

Of course, you can't spend all day there, you realize after fifteen minutes of making out with your 'enemy'.

"I've got to report back." you tell him, "He's going to get suspicious if I'm out too long."

"Okay," Suguru pulls away, licking his lips and rubbing them together like he's just enjoyed a feast. "Can I see you again?"

"I don't know..." you mutter unsurely, "If Satoru finds out, he's going to — "

"So what?" Suguru feathers, "I don't care what he does, I don't care if I ruin your reputation — I need you in my arms tomorrow."

Your expression spoke volumes.

"Okay, I'll be here tomorrow night." you murmur.

Suguru's guilt hardly affects him as he goes home; your kisses meant everything to him. Your reciprocation and lamb-like weakness in his arms filled him with ecstasy.

He doesn't care that you were his 'enemy' — maybe the taboo makes it feel even better. It's wrong. It's not allowed. And he wants it so bad, he stands with eager anticipation behind the 7-eleven every night, waiting for you.

This place where you two first met, now five years later, has become a spot where you and him make out like teenagers.

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤���: 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐢'𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲

[starkitxxz]

Crave you like a drug🎄💊

Sol x gn!reader

HAPPY HOLIDAYS FELLOW READERS AND TO EVERYONE CELEBRATING THIS DAY! I might be a little late but oh well... *proceeds to drop the trigger warnings

TW: DRUGGING, vague mentions of stalking and somnophilia, mentions of private parts, sexual themes, implied NONCON S3X, [Reader] is a virgin

Not suitable for minors, proceed with caution.

Wc: 3.2k

“Keep it hidden, and do whatever you want. Just be careful.” He said as he handed out what his friend needed.

“But I’ve been craving them so badly-”

“Do you want to make it riskier for you?”

“I- Fine. I’ll be careful.”

“Good.” 

♡♡♡

You flick the switch of the heater, warm light beginning to radiate heat from its vents. 

The once cold, lifeless room was filled with holiday decorations. Wreaths and colorful lights brought the place to life. A medium-sized Christmas tree was placed on the corner of the room, cute little ornaments stacked on its artificial leaves. Even though it wasn’t as big as those you see online, it was enough to make you feel the holiday spirit.

You flopped down on the couch and switched the TV on with the remote, wearing Sol’s soft jacket that you kept since he gave it to you a few days ago. You treasured it like it’s something special to you, something that can shield you from an icy blizzard. 

The reporter on the screen held her microphone in the middle of the sidewalk. Snowflakes continued falling as it clumped up into a small pile of snow, as if a pile of autumn leaves were replaced by frozen stardust. The reporter adjusted her fluffy hat, bringing the microphone close to her face.

“As of tonight, the temperature of this month’s winter season will change from 8 degrees celsius to 6 degrees celsius–Along with a mild snowstorm in- [static]”

The channel switched the moment it lost signal, you hoped the snowstorm she was talking about won’t affect this town. Lowering the TV volume, you wondered what would happen to you if you denied Mr. Z’s offer. You’d die of hypothermia by now. You can’t afford to struggle in this piercing cold weather alone, you’re doing this for the sake of your family and your home.

A breeze of cool air brushed against the side of your face, and you shivered at the sensation. Looking to your right, you see your window slightly open. It welcomed the chilling breeze inside your comfy abode.

You might need to buy another lock again.

You stood up from the soft cushion and closed the window shut, keeping the cold wind away from your room.

You caught a glance of your snowy surroundings. Trees were drained of its leaves from the freezing temperature, leaving it in a lifeless, chilly state. Street lamps and stores gleamed with glowing LED lights, flickering with different vibrant colors, with holiday decors plastered on glass panels and brick walls.

There were families reunited and bonding together in joy, couples clinging to each other like a matching puzzle set—afraid of losing each other amidst the snow filled town.

You wonder what your friends are doing, especially this Christmas Eve. They must be hanging out with their families right now. Semester break will only last for a few days, so it's worth every minute of family time.

You wished you could visit them this year. At least before a load of schoolwork.

You looked at your Christmas tree, noticing a present beside it, wrapped in shiny blue paper with a little snowflake on it.

Crowe’s present.

He gave it to you the day before, knowing he can’t drop by and visit your apartment. It’s a shame he couldn’t be here.

Or atleast, the friend group, except Deryl–He knocked on your door and placed a small yellow box on the ground. He didn’t hesitate to snatch some snacks as well. You didn’t mind though, he seemed like he was in a hurry.

When will someone stay the night here and celebrate the holiday with you-

Buzz. Your phone vibrated and the screen lit up, getting your attention.

You walked to the sofa and picked your phone up, a notification displaying on your homescreen.

Sol: Yo, are you free right now?

You type in your phone’s password and reply to his message.

You: Yeah, why?

Not a minute has passed til he replied back.

Sol: I was thinking of offering holiday treats to you, as a Christmas gift. Do you want some?

You: Sure, I could really use a midnight snack later

Sol: Okay, See you at 11?

You: Yup, I’ll wait

You check the time on your phone, 10:21PM displayed on the top left of your screen.

Sitting back down on the sofa, you lean back and stare at the ceiling.

♡♡♡

“I bought the cookies you asked for-”

Sol almost flinched from his spot, placing a hand on his chest from the sudden intrusion. 

“What the hell-”

“Relax, it’s still warm.”

Hyugo carefully placed the winter themed box of cookies on the pack of snow, as Sol continued to spy on you behind the snowy bushes. 

Hyugo knew Sol had done this every night, just to ‘look after’ his so-called soulmate. Hiding in the bushes or behind trees, holding a pair of binoculars as you minded your own business inside your apartment,oblivious to the fact your stalker is watching your every move.

Heck, maybe even when you’re changing clothes. His perverted, obsessed self would LOVE to see that

But of course, he won’t admit that. 

Hyugo cleared his throat, earning Sol’s attention once more–as snowflakes drifted slowly, covering the bare trees with cold flurry.

“Are you going to sit there and wait for them to fall asleep?”

“Maybe” Sol’s lips curved into a lovestruck smile, his thoughts wandering to the times where you slept so peacefully. The times where you were unaware of your surroundings, free from the chaos of reality, though your unconscious state was only temporary. 

It was only a matter of time before you woke up, yet, Sol managed to visit you late at night. Knowing you were in a vulnerable state, he took it as a chance to make every minute intimate and memorable to him. Every lingering kiss, every brush of his fingers, tracing your warm skin, remained as a reminder of his devotion to you.

To him, you’re a deity

And he will worship you like a devoted follower, a hopeless servant willing to offer everything for even an ounce of your love.

Like a prayer answered from the heavens above.

Hyugo sighed as he grabbed the cookie box. Sol raised an eyebrow at this but shook his thoughts away.

“Should I give the cookies to them or-”

“No, I’ll do it.” Sol got onto his feet, determined to meet you this time around. He hoped to see the face he admired the most.

Even after seeing you plenty of times every night.

“Alright, I’ll head home. Take care.” Hyugo handed the box to Sol, snow crunching beneath him as he walked away.

“Wait, did you add the-” 

“Yes. I did.” Hyugo responded and he glared at Sol, warning him of what he might do–though he can’t help but support Sol with his obsession over you only because of the deal they made.

Sol nodded, watching his friend disappear from his view, while he held the box of lukewarm cookies.

Sol cursed under his breath, he didn’t want you to receive cold cookies by the time he arrived–but then again, you could always heat it up.

Sol walked up the stairs to your apartment, the steps creaking underneath him. His mind was clouded with imaginable scenarios of what could happen with you and him alone. You and him, alone, in your apartment.

Hah, you have no idea…

Standing in front of your door, he knocked on the hard wooden material. He heard the sound of your footsteps approaching as he stood there, waiting.

You twist the doorknob and open the door, greeted by the tall figure before you. 

He wore a black hoodie, soft and comfortable enough to keep him warm in this harsh, frigid weather. He held a box of cookies, noticing the holiday themed designs when you took a peek–as well as the brand logo plastered on the plastic front cover of the container. All too familiar with the brand, you realize it’s from one of the delicious bakeries you went to!

The nostalgic scent of vanilla and cinnamon, friendly workers and their signature cinnamon buns, served with a cup of hot coffee–it made you wonder, does Sol buy pastries there? Or did he guess it’s your favorite bakery?

Whatever the answer is, you’re glad he bought you cookies from the bakery you love.

“Are these… from the Downtown Cinnamon cafe?” You asked, confirming your suspicion.

“Yes, I thought you would like it,” he replied with a soft smile, a faint blush forming on his cheeks.

“Like it? I love it! Thank you Sol” You smiled as you accepted the offer. “Please, come in”

Sol stepped into your house and closed the door behind him, examining the place. Wreaths, vibrant lights, cute reindeer stockings, all displayed on the walls. The faint smell of cozy vanilla and inaudible noises from the TV filled the room.

“Wow, you really put in the effort,” he commented, acting surprised at your winter themed decorations.

As if he hasn’t been spying on you for a while.

He’s seen you hang those bright string lights on your Christmas tree the day before Christmas eve, and when you bought the stockings from a nearby shop that costs less than $5.

“Do you want some hot chocolate? You must be shivering right now.”

“I’d love that,” Sol replied, and he felt his heartbeat quicken. 

As delusional it may sound, he will definitely appreciate a cup of hot chocolate, mainly because you made it yourself.

If it reminds him of you, he’ll happily take it.

If only something eventually reminded you of him too… 

You nodded and headed to the kitchen while Sol sat down on the sofa, the box of cookies set on the coffee table.

You place a kettle, half filled with water, on the lit stove, waiting for it to boil.

As soon as it whistles, you twist the knob off. 

You placed a black mug on the counter, grabbing a packet of hot chocolate powder and a pair of scissors, cutting a straight line across the plastic cover of the packet. You pour all of the packet’s powdery content into the empty mug, discarding the plastic after.

You fill the mug with hot water, combining the chocolate powder with it as it steams. 

You return to the living room, holding a small tray with a mug of hot chocolate with a spoon and a jar of soft marshmallows. 

“You can add marshmallows if you want,” You smiled as you placed the tray on the coffee table. Sol nodded at the suggestion, opening the jar of marshmallows and putting 2 of them in the drink, making a plop.

As you were about to sit beside him, you noticed something missing under the Christmas tree… wait, there’s one gift missing…

Rising up from your seat, you approach your Christmas tree and inspect it, and to your surprise, Crowe’s gift is missing.

“Uh… Sol, have you seen a square shaped present wrapped in a blue wrapper?” You asked as you began to search for it, failing to catch sight of the scowl on his face.

“No, I haven’t,” Sol replied, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. 

You cursed under your breath. You knew it was just under the tree, you didn’t move it somewhere else. 

Maybe you actually placed it somewhere else, it’s getting late already, but….

How will Crowe react when you tell him you lost his gift?

Letting out a sigh, you sat down beside him once more and glanced at the clock. It displayed 11:47PM, and you realize there’s still 13 minutes before Christmas. 

And you get to celebrate it with Sol.

“It’s almost time,” You uttered, gaining Sol’s attention as the scowl on his face disappeared, now displaying his calm facade. 

He looked at the clock, 11:49PM shown on the clock. He smiled, at the thought of celebrating the holidays with you. Looking back at his hot chocolate, he took another sip.

Suddenly, your stomach growled, only then you realized you didn’t eat properly for dinner. You were too busy with the decorations and sleeping the whole day, you didn’t have time to eat that much. Or maybe you just don’t feel like eating.

Whether you slept or slacked off whatsoever, you have to eat now. 

Good thing Sol brought those cookies.

You lean forward and open the lid of the box, the tasty smell of cinnamon from snickerdoodle cookies makes you want to eat it all. 

“It smells so delicious!” You exclaimed in delight as you grabbed a portion, taking a small bite. And you swore it’s one of the greatest cookies you’ve ever tasted.

You never knew they made the cookies this good, especially as a holiday treat. It melted in your mouth smoothly, tasting the vanilla and cinnamon as you chewed it into bits. It filled your tastebuds with delight.

Sadly it will disappear once Christmas is over.

Sol looked at you in a way he was surprised at your reaction, enjoying the taste of the cookies he bought for you. 

Thank goodness you like it…

Bet you’ll love what’s next…

“Is it good?” He asked and drank his hot chocolate halfway. He looked at you expectantly, as if he was waiting for either your response or for you to eat more of those cookies. 

You nodded, swallowing the melted cookie. A friendly smile was plastered on his lips, “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” 

The clock ticked till 11:54PM, a few more minutes until Christmas.

You grab another portion, and another one, enjoying the delicacy a bit too much. It just tasted so so good, and you weren't skilled enough to bake something like this. Something so sweet and tasty.

“Hey, save some for me,” Sol chuckled as he grabbed one for himself, taking a bite and letting out a satisfied hum.

By 11:58PM, the box was left empty as well as the mug of his hot chocolate. You licked your lips to gather any leftover crumbs around your mouth. Looking at the box, you can’t believe you actually ate it all.

“Damn, I’m so full,” You commented, overwhelmed by how appetizing the cookies are.

“Yeah, same,” Sol replied, often glancing at the clock every few seconds. 11:59PM.

“Are you sure you won’t go home yet? You keep looking at the time-”

“Yeah, I’m sure, I just need to… do something…” 

“Do what?” You looked at him confused, until a sudden gush of warmth fueled your body, putting you in a relaxed state as your muscles loosened.

Strange, it’s so hot here…

“Mmh… I feel a bit weird right now…” you said as you leaned back on the couch, letting the soft cushion absorb you. 

You can’t help but feel… excitement.

Heat coursed through your core, burning with lust. A strong sense of wanting to be satisfied, thirsty for intimacy. Your heart rate rapidly increased every second.

49…

“Are you okay? You look like you're in a haze there…” Sol asked as he scooted closer, reaching a hand out to check if you’re on the right mind. 

It must be something I drank- no, maybe it was the cookies… You thought, as you began to crave fulfilling your desires. But not in front of Sol, at least not now.

43…

“Y-Yeah, I-Im fine…” You managed to stutter, grasping the soft material of the sofa cushion with your hands.

“Are you sure-”

40…

“I-I feel… so… fuck…” You tighten your fists on the cushion. Wild, inappropriate thoughts ran around your disoriented mind.

Sol looked at you with a sly smile, “what do you feel, pumpkin?”

36…

“I-I don’t know,” you replied as you felt your arousal growing. A feeling of your crotch yearning to be touched. A feeling resulting in risking your own purity. 

You look at Sol, his red-orange irises locking onto yours. 

When did he look so fucking… attractive…?

31…

“You seem a little dizzy there,” He said as his warm breath hit your ear, his face ever so slightly close to you.

29…

“Do you need help letting it all out, darling?”

27…

You shook your head, “N-No, I-” 

He cuts you off, “You’re unusually hot.”

He brushes the back of his hand on your cheek lightly, warmth coming into contact with his hand.

The effect is working.

Seems like he doesn’t need to add any more substances.

23…

You gulped and gazed at his lips, fuck, why does it look tempting?

Whatever it is, it feels so thrilling.

It makes you feel so alive, so eager, so inclined to just kiss him right here right now.

But it feels so wrong…

Sol noticed your focus on his lips, a chuckle escaped his mouth. He loved the way you were reacting right now, like he planned it all out. He planned all of this just to give you more of his undivided love.

And why care if the neighbors heard you and him?

“What are you looking at, pumpkin-”

Suddenly, you clutched both of his wrists and pinned him down above the sofa, as it let out a squeak.

Sol’s eyes widened at the sudden move, but his reaction quickly turned into lust. He was longing for this just as you are.

He has been waiting for this reaction from you. 

It’s almost unbelievable how a fine amount of aphrodisiac can affect you, and most especially, your own body.

14…

“Oh darling, you have no idea how badly I’ve been wanting this,” Sol confessed with lovestruck and lustful admiration. The tent in his pants was almost evident as he locked eye contact with you.

“You’re practically aching for me aren’t you?” He whispered in your ear seductively.

10…

“Maybe…” You replied back and leaned closer, your body roughly touching against his–yet, you desire to feel all of him.

8…

“Maybe?” He raised a brow, smirking at your response. He has full control on you, despite your conscious yet hazy state, the effects will last for a while. After all, he wanted to make this as special as possible.

A blush crept up to your face, lost in the thought of his lips meeting yours. The very thought of it made you turned on-

4…

You held both sides of his face, letting his bound wrists free as you pressed your lips against his. He feels how desperate you are for this, how you’ve been craving him ever since the drug affected you. He wanted this too. 

3…

He yearned for this, he yearned to claim his soulmate’s lips as his–but when will you realize? When will you finally realize you’re bound to him by soul…?

For now, he will take advantage of your vulnerable, needy state.

2…

His hand ran through your locks and pulled your head closer, deepening the kiss. His heart pounded against his ribs, feeling your rapid heartbeat as well. Overjoyed by the sensation of your lips, he slid his free hand underneath your shirt.

1…

Breaking the kiss, he whispered, “Happy holidays, pumpkin.”

0…

Before you could react, your shirt is lifted over your torso.

♡♡♡

Imagine what happens next lmao

[itsabouttimex2]

Eclipse Kings

Part Four: Sweet Little Star

(Part One: Mountain Monkeys) (Part Two: Barbed Dusk) (Part Three: Wild Dawn) (Part Four: You Are Here)

(Extra One) (Art! Thank you to @lemon-ti)

(The “servants” around this lovely ecliptic pagoda are well-tailored to the needs of their lords, no matter the scenario- including hot meals and tension breakers.

You are the only sanctuary that MK has ever known. Through blistering summers spent as the shores of a rippling blue lake, through winters spent huddled together under a stack of blankets, hidden in a hole of straw-lined mud to try and avoid withering chills.

You are all the “home” that MK knows.

But the two demons who call him are certainly trying their damnedest to make up for lost time… to very little avail.

“Since we found you so late yesterday, we never got a chance to celebrate your birthday, Xiaotian... we can-

“Yesterday wasn’t my birthday,” the boy huffs, fingers deeply kneading the thick cotton trim of his new cape. “That’s not until winter.”

“…Xiaotian,” Macaque says, almost astonished at how confidently incorrect his son was, “you were born in the middle of autumn - who told you that it was winter?”

“Y/N.”

“…ah. No, that- okay,” he huffs, pinching the growing knot on his scarifying forehead- without the crown, his usual gouges were quickly healing - as he quickly pieced things together. “They didn’t know your birthday, so… so they just made that up. You were too little to remember the day, so Y/N lied-“

“Nuh uh! They wouldn’t lie to me !”

“…my bad, kid. Of course not. No, you were too little to remember, so Y/N just… pretended to know so you could celebrate. But your real birthday is in the middle of fall- it was yesterday.”

“No, cause it’s in the winter!”

Wukong laughs as his sable mate sits beside him, nestling into the plush cushions and groaning.

“Easy, moonbeam. Don’t push yourself- he’s still a toddler. We’ll get through to him.”

“I’d rather him just remember us and everything we did together,” Macaque snaps back throwing his head into Wukong’s lap- who, for his part, begins to smooth out the inky tresses of fur laid out before him. They stay there for a minute, quietly enjoying each other’s company, and then-

All of Macaque’s ears stiffen, six sharp points flaring up under his fur, which Wukong fluffs to hide them from sight. As much as he loves them, his mate’s feelings are very dissimilar.

He looks over with both hands over Macaque’s ears, looking to the marble doorway-

And it’s just you , wearing “your” lovely sky-blue hanfu, sash shoddily tied and silk pouch held close.

The umbrakinetic demon stands up without a noise, slowly walking over to you for a closer examination- he had heard about your little fit, and didn’t want a repeat for himself.

“It suits you,” Macaque says, giving an approving look to your new outfit- he reaches for the sash, maybe to correct or tighten it, but pulls away when you flinch, simply saying: “You can keep it. If you want.”

Be polite. You want this outfit. And you want the pouch. Be polite.

“…thank you. And.. were you… talking about his birthday?”

The king rolls his shoulders to stretch them, causing the thick spikes of fur on his head to swish and temporarily dip over his many, many forehead scars- they’re a lot more obvious now that he’s smashed the barbed circlet and scrubbed the dried blood from his forehead. “We were. Xiaotian didn’t know that it was in the middle of autumn. I hear the two of you celebrated it in winter.”

“Well, most of the time- it was just whenever snow fell for the first time in the year- I… I really didn’t have… I didn’t have too much to work with. So it was… usually in winter, or really late fall, one time we got really unlucky and it was mid-spring.”

“…what do you mean, ‘unlucky’?” Asks the Monkey King, standing up from his lavish recliner to replace all his accessories, each string of citrine beads and looping gold chains clinking against each other as he threaded them back into place. “I don’t remember ever hearing the mortals talk about a bad snow during spring- not anytime this century, at least.”

“It wasn’t bad- not for anyone else. We- MK and I,” you start, trying to ignore their little twitches at you using his nickname, “we lived in a little sunken hut. It was always falling apart in place, and- and I had to patch it up all the time- so snow was always really hard, cause it would make the mud I used all wet, and it’d drip from the holes-“

“You were using mud to keep your house together?”

Both of them share the same look, worriedly gazing upon little MK with a sort of regretful hindsight, thinking on how hard it must’ve been for him to reside in that squalid, rotted hovel- though Wukong is the one who speaks up. “So you- you and Xiaotian were living in a little muddy wreck?”

Macaque- you can’t read his expression, not quite, stares on with a deeply set frown- if you had to wager a guess, he seems to be some form of vaguely disappointed . Maybe that’s standard for kings when they hear about things like this. You don’t really care what he thinks- not when MK was fed, warm, and happy.

That was enough for you.

If they wanted to pull back and say it wasn’t enough for them, then- oh well.

But that’s not what happens. There is no remand or reproach, nor any discouraging words as to your care of their darling boy.

They just frown, thinking of what you- and more importantly, MK - might have gone through.

And you frown too, caught in a tense silence louder than any storm, more charged than a bolt of lightning forming in graying skies.

It’s simply… too much. There’s been too much everything across too little a timeline to accommodate for proper adjustment, so now everything has wound to a point of near shattering, fractures displayed so prominently across the terse “bond” shared that they were nearly visible to the naked eye.

And it isn’t for a solitary second that the quiet stretches on, heavy and suffocating- it’s pervasive, leaving you all standing there quietly.

You can feel their eyes on you, assessing, judging—not just your words but the years you spent with MK, the choices you made when you had nothing to work with but scraps and hope. They’ve swooped in now, claiming- reclaiming, as the nagging voice in your head reminds - him as theirs, and though you know he’s safer here, better provided for, the thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

He had been fine without them.

He had been fine with you.

Why couldn’t it have just kept being you and- not your “temporary charge” Qi Xiaotian, Golden Star of Flower Fruit Mountain- but your little brother, MK?

Life had been miserably hard. It had been cold and drudging and dreary, and more than once you had come to one of the many peering peaks across the mountain, and sat on the idea of a quick end to the struggling.

And you had met your little “Monkie Kid”, just as cold and alone as you had been.

He had not just been your little brother-

He had been your entire reason for living.

And what did you have to live for now, with two people who could grant him ever luxury and possession a child could desire?

What did you have to live for?

Was there anything you-

“Excuse me,” calls a curt voice from behind, slicing the tension with practiced, professional ease. “We’ve prepared dinner for you, my lords.”

Like a metal door long unopened, there’s a hesitant, straining moment before the inevitable give , and then you all turn to look- at a very lovely woman. Her hair has been trimmed chin-short and styled into thick black waves, pulled to each side of her face to prominently display a golden ferronnière.

“My husband and I have finished cooking, and we wished to call you in before the meal grew cold,” she says, utterly unabated by the gone-cold atmosphere. “So we insist that you come and eat soon- preferably, right now. ”

There is no rolling of heads or smashing of bones arisen from the terse almost-command, and instead the Monkey King nods along with a chuckle and a laugh half-forced. “Of course, of course. Sorry for forgetting-“

“If you were truly sorry, you’d be in the kitchen eating all of our hard work.”

“Ahahaha! Fair enough! Moonbeam, let’s go have dinner. We can talk about celebrations tonight, together- when it’s quieter.”

Without you around to interject, of course.

Because why would anyone care about how long you spent in a crumbling shack held half-together with scraps of scrounged fabric and dried mud when you offered inconvenient things like “makeshift birthdays” and “learned attachments”?

Before your thoughts get too seething, the woman lightly claps her hands, snapping you and MK to attention.

“Since the two of you have… “lived a life of little substance”, let’s say, we’ve prepared a list of softer meals to help you both adjust to proper eating as quickly as possible- in about the course of a week. Sudden indulgence to richer foods could sicken you both- especially Lord Xiaotian. Today we’ve made a honeyed rice porridge with ripe tropical fruit, but I imagine you’ll also see fortified broth with bouillon powder, and… well, we’d be here all day if I laid them all out.

As the woman sends you and your brother down a hall together, before turning back to her eployers.

“And,” she whispers to the two kings, voice nearly low enough for you miss it, “ we’ve set aside some fruit purée and steamed milk with honey, if nothing else will work.”

“You are such a gem,” Macaque breathes, expressly pleased with her loyal diligence. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-“

“Your children are waiting,” she confirms, nudging him along. “Hurry and eat with them-“

And though he starts to correct her, to clarify that you are in fact not his child- the woman is gone in a swish of her long green dress.

You keep your head down, one hand gripping all of MK’s tiny fingers during your unflinching trek down the ornate hall. There’s hand-drawn pictures of many different demons, all portrayed with respect and pride. In one a purple minotaur holds an axe over his shoulder, horns and blade polished to a shine, in the next he’s standing beside a red-robed woman, tears brimming through his amber eyes as they focus on a small bundle in her arms. In another there’s a pachyderm demon, portrayed with thick glasses and a gargantuan stack of books- including one he must’ve been working on when the picture was drawn. The next is a bird with golden wings held aloft, spear dug into a training dummy made of stone. Then a lion, holding as many mortals possible aloft while trudging in waist-deep waters. One after another, demon after demon- though only those same four, aside from the woman.

Whoever they are, the kings clearly cherish them.

And said demons walk in unison just backwind of you, though their steps lack the carefree rhythm of easygoing camaraderie. They are just in steady lockstep, too close behind for comfort. You can hear the faint clinking of Wukong’s gold chains and the occasional rustle of Macaque’s red and black robe as they exchange glances, silent communication passing between them.

And then MK squeezes your fingers at tightly as his little fingers allow- a familiar gesture you’ve known through harsh nights and sluggish days, through famine and sickness and chill.

An anchor of reassurance in the overwhelming storm of unfamiliarity.

The shift you underwent was violent and painful. You had woken up half-paralyzed and nude, being scrubbed down by the two beings you feared most, incapable of speaking or moving- it had left a not-insignificant mark.

But MK?

MK had made a choice. He had chosen to come back, you were sure of it, sure that he had made a deal for your safety and retrieval alongside his own- of course he was going to adjust better than you.

But he was still a little boy.

A little boy who had spent his life in the hollow embrace of mud walls and patchwork blankets, in the firm grip of your scarred arms. This was a kingdom of excess, a world so vast and strange that it overwhelmed just as much as it comforted. He looks up to you, his tiny thumb fiddling with your knuckles, and you know what is being asked.

Are you staying?

You squeeze his hand back.

Always.

Neither of you is exactly cozy , but the air between you feels warmer for that little exchange, the newfound fuzziness lasting until the tall and gilded arc of a lavish dining room stands before the two of you, beckoning in.

Inside, the dining room gleams with you might bitterly call opulence . The long table stretches nearly half the length of the room, carved from a dark wood polished to a mirror’s finish. Gold filigree edges the surface, intertwining in swirling patterns that catch the warm glow of the lanterns overhead. The chairs are high-backed and cushioned, draped in fine fabrics with purple and gold-threaded embroidery. The centerpiece is a grand arrangement of flowers- peach blossoms and chrysanthemums interspersed with glowing lotuses.

The sheer decadence is suffocating .

MK gasps loudly at the sight, his wide eyes reflecting the glittering splendor. You squeeze his hand again, grounding him, grounding yourself. The boy looks up at you, half in wonder, half in unease. You feel it too- the crushing weight of not belonging. This isn’t your world. Not really. Not ever.

Not yet.

A man; dressed as elegantly as the woman that you presume to be his wife, is stocking the table with loaded plates. Not a drop spills onto his gold-lined white tangzhuang, no matter how much he moves.

“It’s an honor to be serving you again, Lord Xiaotian. And an honor to serve his savior, dear child.

He pushes up the bridge of his circular glasses, causing a sharp gleam to roll over them before coming over to usher you both in.

“Now, please- take your seats.”

There’s two chairs set aside specifically, both piled with stiff cushions to help someone of the height-disadvantaged reach the table- MK’s is especially egregious, containing no less than four.

Speaking of the boy, he tugs at your hand again, his curious eyes shifting between you and the chair meant for him. “Can we really sit here?” he whispers, voice laced with awe and a hint of anxiety.

Before you can answer, Macaque’s low voice cuts through the air as he and Wukong stride into the room after you, affably clapping their servant on his shoulders. “Of course you can,” he says, his tone soft but firm as both golden eyes land on you both. “This is your home now, Xiaotian. You can be wherever you want.”

Home. The word burns.

Maybe it sears even worse than the branding iron that haunts your dreams.

You take the seat beside his, allowing the cushion to sink as best it can under your meager weight, providing a nice abatement to your sore legs- though the cream Macaque had used to clear out grime and dirt had stopped burning not long after it was used, there was a dull ache left from both the concoction and, well… everything , really.

The man with glasses places bowls of warm, sweet-smelling rice porridge before you and MK, forcing your eyes to the bowl. The simple meal is an obvious concession to your past, but the presentation is impeccable, garnished with thin slices of banana and a drizzle of honey. It’s almost too beautiful to eat. Almost .

MK digs in immediately , tiny hands clutching the spoon with the clumsy enthusiasm only a child could muster. His muffled hum of delight sounds out at the first bite, drawing adoring coos from the two kings, and a faint, weary smile from you.

He deserves this, you think. He deserves a hundred lifetimes of warm meals, safe beds, and more love than his little heart could stand to hold.

You, however, hesitate. The porridge is still steaming, the honey forming golden rivulets over the creamy surface, but you can’t bring yourself to taste it just yet. It feels foreign, indulgent in a way that grates against the life you’ve lived- against the life that has shaped you into a scrapes-by survivor accustomed to spare bits of fuel.

You manage to lift the spoon and take a small bite.

The honeyed porridge is warm and sweet, slices of ripe banana on top to add a buttery texture that melts effortlessly on your tongue, imbuing a whisper of richness to each bite.

It’s good. Too good. It makes your chest ache.

Hunger is the world you have known, sprinkled through every aspects of your life in pieces. In the cold of winter on your stick-thin ribs, never enough meat to keep warm. In the gnawing ache that follows you to sleep. In the morning, curling like smoke in your chest as you wake, already weary. Hunger walks beside you, a shadow that stretches long.

A word heartbreakingly uttered from the lips of your darling little brother, spurring you to further and further extremes to keep him fed.

But today you are both full and warm, dressed and clean.

The thought pricks your eyes with tears, and the spoon seizes as a lump grows in your throat.

You could have never given this to MK.

The movement of your unwieldy hand grows faster and faster, shoveling more and more of the sweet porridge into your mouth, smearing it over your lips as tears begin to fall. Your spare hand drifts downwards to cusp the mildly growing curve of your stomach, feeling the meal compound through you. You drop the intricate spoon, and it clatters uselessly to the ground. In favor of scooping the meal bite by bite into your mouth, you do the simplest- and more importantly, fastest- thing possible.

You upend the contents directly into your mouth, the honeyed porridge spilling past your lips and onto your chin and cheeks. You drain it to the last drop and lick the remnants like a starving dog, and then set down the exquisite piece of china to reveal the tears dribbling over the sticky mess across your face.

“I want more,” you beg, voice plain and will broken. “Please, I-“

“ I don’t want to be hungry anymore.”

“…get them another bowl,” says Macaque, looking at you more closely than ever before. “As many as they need.”

”Until they’re full.”

[withleeknow]

seasons of you.

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff or at least i hope so lmao, not v edited and literally no one is surprised lol i sound like a broken record atp just adding that into every post word count: 0.7k note: inspired by a highly fucked up thing that @matchannie said to me yesterday lmao it has not left my brain since you said it you absolute monster

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / masterlist / ko-fi

minho falls in love with you four times a year.

minho falls in love with you in the spring, over blooming cherry blossoms and vibrant daffodils that greet you on your weekly sunset walk. over the feeling of your fingers intertwined with his own without soft fluffy gloves getting in the way, now that it's finally warm enough to retire that extra layer of protection for the season. over the sun coming out of hibernation and filling your days with golden light, falling upon your face and casting you in a magical hue. over the remnants of winter that still leave behind a palpable chill in the air early in the morning or late in the night, that has you reaching out for the comfort of his warmth. over your delighted smile when he brings home a bouquet of tulips after a long day at work. over your glassy eyes, reddened nose and flushed cheeks as he takes care of you when the seasonal allergies kick in.

minho falls in love with you in the summer, over picnics in the park where you both lay on blue gingham picnic blankets, your head on his chest, as you watch the clouds overhead drift peacefully. over watermelon gelatos passed between teasing lips, the confectionary melting too quickly for your liking under the blazing sunlight. over spontaneous drives to the beach even though neither of you can swim, but you go just for fun, just to build sand sculptures in the shape of your cat babies and stand on the edge of the water to splash at each other. over long naps on the couch on days where you're too lazy to venture into the outside heat, preferring to stay cuddled up together under the air conditioner with niki playing in the background.

minho falls in love with you in fall, over shared slices of pumpkin pie as you watch the leaves turn yellow and red right outside your window. over the adorable way you hide your face behind your hands on nights where he puts on a horror movie because he insists on honoring the halloween spirit. over your off-key rendition of taylor swift's all too well (the 10-minute version) for most of the season because you adamantly claim that it's autumn's official anthem. over weekends spent attached at the hip, baking sugar cookies for hours on end. over your crestfallen pout as you take note of how the days keep getting shorter and shorter, already missing warm sunny weeks with all your heart.

minho falls in love with you in winter, over matching scarves and beanies, even though he often has to carry them for you because you have a bad habit of forgetting them before you go out. over the first snow of the season because they say that if you witness the first snowfall with the person you love, then you will stay together for a long, long time. over sweet cuddles in bed as a bad christmas movie plays on tv, and you fall asleep on his shoulder about half an hour into the movie despite being the one to select the movie in the first place. over your return from a shopping spree with your girlfriends with nothing for yourself but everything for soondoongdori, from christmas themed clothes to treats and toys.

but then again, maybe it's not entirely accurate to say that minho falls in love you merely four times a year. if he wants to be precise, then he would say that he falls for you anew every morning he wakes up and sees you asleep in his arms like a delicate miracle granted by a star he once used to wish upon. if he wants to get technical, then he falls in love with you with every smile that you send his way, which is a terribly sappy thing for him to admit but it doesn't make the statement any less true.

minho loves you every day of every week, of every month, of every year. he's loved you before he even met you, when you were just a romanticized idea in his head and hadn't yet walked into his life like the angel he was always meant to find. he loves you every minute of every hour; there isn't a second where you're not on his mind, not a single beat of his heart that doesn't spell out your name. he loves you throughout the seasons and a million times in between.

permanent taglist: @onlyycb97wife @starsandrqindrops @borahae-reads @abbiestearsricochet @cutiespaghetti @anthropologykpopmultistan @moonlinos @mjnhoz @caitlyn98s @piercidh34rts  @stayceebs97 @linocz @yaorzu-blog @biribarabiribbaem @kayleefriedchicken @extrhotjne @caitxx1 @palindrome969 @todorokiskitten @azuna-sz @meanergreener @nxzz-skz @jazziwritesthings @poutypoutybin @bookyeom @jisuperboard @wyzminho @amarecerasus @channection @lastgreatamericandynasty1 @judeduartewannabe @chanshyunjin @firelordtsuki @astronomicallyyy @alm334 @lashaemorow

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 08.04.2024]

[mysteria157]

Merry Christmas from my little corner at the @pixelcafe-network. Thank you so much for hosting this gift exchange! I had so much fun writing this for my elf @grimmweepers. Your Christmas list gave me the opportunity to write Sukuna for the first time. I wanted to lean as much into your likes as much as possible so that it feels like it's you in this story.

I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: True Form!Sukuna x Reader (Ryu)

Rating/CW: slight dark romance, fluff, implied sexual content, dark themes (references to violence, blood, destruction, and a hint of cannibalism because it's Sukuna). MDNI!

WC: ~8.5K

Summary: Sukuna gives in to mortal festivities, for the promise of a worthy gift, unaware that some traditions leave marks deeper than ancient power.

Divider: @cyberbeat @arminsumi @firefly-graphics | Masterlist

The winter night drapes itself across the ancient estate, stars scattered above like diamonds on black velvet. Fresh snow has transformed this formidable domain into something almost magical—though no amount of pristine white can truly soften the centuries of power that seems to pulse through every shadow of the grounds.

You used to take these walks alone, finding solace in the environment that gave way to the shifting change of the seasons. But now, on this chilly and almost silent night, your solitary footprints are accompanied by another. Deeper, more commanding treads belong to Sukuna, whose very presence seems to make the stars above burn brighter, as if they, too, acknowledge the power that moves beneath them, feeding off the cursed energy he emits with every breath.

Your exhale forms a frosty white cloud before vanishing into the night air. It’s cold, far too cold for a walk, but you’re out here to clear your thoughts, to quell the overwhelming urge to ask Sukuna a question that you don’t want to imagine the answer to.

The thought first emerged when fall gave way to winter, the autumn leaves replaced by the starkness of bare branches now hidden beneath blankets of snow. The thought of markets late at night adorned in yellow lights, of hot cocoa and gifts wrapped in red ribbon.

The words, having coiled behind your teeth for days like a spring, finally slink past your lips. “I was thinking…what if we celebrated Christmas together?”

“Christmas.” The word leaves his mouth not as a question, but as if it’s not worth inflection.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting your rolling anxiety. He’s never been one for new things. This is his domain, after all—his home, his formidable walls that he has erected and ruled with an iron fist. The mere thought of anyone—let alone a mortal—suggesting something outside his design is almost laughable.

You pause in your footsteps, tracing his looming shadow in the snow before you look up at him. He’s tall, looming with a height that comes not from this realm, his silhouette dwarfing everything around him. While you are covered in furs and wool and warmth, he stands in a simple black Haori, barely covering his skin and open to show his chest.

The dark markings of his tattoos glow like black embers in the moonlight, each one a testament to the ancient power that pulses beneath his skin. Two pairs of muscular arms fold across his chest, large and thrumming with strength. An archaic strength that can level cities and destroy with little effort, yet those same fearsome arms cradle you with unexpected gentleness in the depths of night.

The fact that you understand this side of Sukuna, gives you the strength to press on.

“It’ll be our first Christmas together,” you press.

“A mortal festivity,” he claps back, naturally sharp but with little heat.

“I’m a mortal,” you counter, meeting his gaze head-on, refusing to back down from the menacing glare you can see right through. “And from what I remember, I am your Queen.”

Quadruple crimson eyes narrow from your truthful declaration, their glow cutting through the frost-laden air like embers in the snow. The two on the right gleam brighter against the rough texture of his half-petrified cheek, like jagged stone contrasting with smooth flesh on the other side. “You mistake indulgence for approval.”

You shrug, nonplussed, sniffing the chilly air up your runny nose. “Then indulge me. Mortals, like myself, put up Christmas trees, decorate their homes, bake treats, and watch movies.”

He hums, taking a step toward you. As he draws closer, the air shifts. While you have no cursed energy, you’ve come to know his intimately. It presses against your skin like an unseen force, electric and stifling, its movements mirroring the emotions he tries to smother. You’ve learned to read it like your favorite book, though it’s a story only you seem privy to, and you don’t intend to let him know.

“Indulge me?” you try again.

He remains unconvinced, his characteristic indifference plucking at your cold skin as you look up at him unflinching. It’s not like he denies you often. Sukuna, for as powerful as he is, gives to your many asks with a wave of his hand as if your happiness is unwarranted, even if his gaze flickers to you minutely for praise at haven catered to you.

Your confidence has only grown steadily, but that anxiety that curls around an ask still tastes sour. So you pull out another mental note card, a line you practiced in the mirror for days for this very moment.

“Gift-giving is also another tradition,” you sigh in faux nonchalance, pursing your dry lips as you try to ignore the flicker of curiosity you see on his face. The subtle tick of his jaw, the way one of his eyes tightens just so, the feel of his cursed energy pausing in its movements as if to hear you more clearly. “I know you’d never turn down any sort of offering. Especially from your Queen.”

Only seconds of anxious silence pass before that deep hum permeates the air, a gentle give. “You use that title often, Ryu.” You shrug again, biting the flesh of your cheek to suppress the victorious smile you can feel in your muscles. “Why must I wait for a specific day of the year to receive a gift? I can simply take what I want with little effort.”

His hubris knows no bounds. Neither does your perseverance.

“You put up with a few days of Christmas cheer, and I’ll make sure you get the best gift ever. Something wonderful and fitting for the King of Curses,” you promise, hoping to bring him home with your sales pitch. “But no griping.”

Sukuna scoffs, indignation heavy in the sound as he puffs white smoke into the air. “I do not gripe.” The look you throw him is unimpressed; one brow arched in a silent challenge that grants you a narrowed-eyed glare of concession in return. “Why do you assume you will get what you want?”

He reaches for you as he complains, and despite his sharp tone, you lean into the weight of his touch. You’ve come to know the language of his hands, each gesture a revelation of the complex nature he embodies. Like now, as he adjusts the furs draped around your shoulders—precious things hunted and skinned himself. His movements are deliberate, with hands impossibly gentle despite their proven capacity for destruction.

“Because you see me,” you whisper, the words soft but heavy with meaning. They carry the weight of something unspoken, a recognition of the four-letter word he is not yet ready to voice—your understanding of his care beneath his praise, his protection weaved into his possession.

A sales pitch now seems trivial, disrespectful even, in light of how the tone has shifted around you. Shame prickles at your skin, but it fades just as quickly, overwhelmed by the truth of your words. You do see him, even when he's being stubborn.

Sukuna’s answering hum to your question—to the anxious worry that started this conversation—reverberates through the air, an unspoken approval that settles in the space between you both.

Days later, the skies bloom with gentle hues of cotton candy—pale blue and pastel pink, slowly darkening as the sun peeks on the horizon. The dawn of winter greets you with its chilly embrace, its breath sharp and unrelenting, its touch frostbitten. You’re bleary-eyed as you shuffle over broken branches and moss-covered paths in the East forest.

The weight of your determination keeps you moving, even as your body protests, regretting your tenacity because why would Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, buy a tree when he can simply ‘get one from the backyard.’

“I like that one,” you offer, shakily pointing with a heavily gloved finger at a modest six-footer, its snow-laden branches slumping under the weight.

“If I’m to entertain a mortal festivity, it will not be done poorly.”

You’re far too cold to point out his first gripe of the day. His voice carries that familiar edge, but beneath it rests a note that only you can hear—the same careful attention he uses when observing the movements of his enemies, now turned to the expansive forest to the east of his estate.

You close your mouth around an exhale, your cheeks puffing like a fish in your own rendition of a pout as you follow him. The forest stretches silent and vast around you, a living extension of how far his power goes. Sukuna stops abruptly, still as stone as he surveys the trees with a menacing gaze. The dominance he exudes seems to make the air itself hold its breath. You’re simply a spectator—watching an apex predator stalk its prey—it would be a marvelous sight if you weren’t shaking like a leaf.

“This one,” he declares at last, voice carrying the familiarity of pride and authority as he looks up at a magnificent pine.

It’s uncharacteristically different in every way; a shadow brown trunk as thick as his waist, strong branches that house deep green needles, forming their own canopy over the other and covered in the white blanket of snow. Its towering height practically pierces the sky, a physical representation of how the being in front of you sees himself—ambivalent and all-seeing.

With a flick of two fingers, Sukuna’s Cleave technique slices cleanly through the thick trunk. The looming pine shivers, snow plopping from its arms in white globs before it slowly falls to the ground with a muffled thud. The wind that picks up from the disturbance tousles his pink hair, strands whipping against his marked face. One of Sukuna’s muscular arms grabs his prize and effortlessly hoists it onto his shoulder.

You can’t help but admire the broad expanse of his back. The curve and dip of muscle against black markings that shift with each movement, the skin warm to the touch despite how cold he makes himself seem.

The sight of him makes you think of his Christmas gift—your secret project—the fabric carefully chosen to embrace that strength with something just as enduring. You wonder if he will notice the details, the painstaking intricacy you’ve chosen just for him.

His gift is soon forgotten when his gaze falls on you, an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Carmine pools that invite you to step closer and gaze beneath its liquid, to see small slivers of vulnerability presented in the form of the pine on his shoulders. He’s waiting, expecting not praise for his strength, but praise for what he has provided. An offering.

You smile gently, genuinely, and without quivering despite the temperature. “I love it,” you compliment, watching as your words card over his offering like a caress that only fans the flames of his pride. His belly mouth curves into a smirk, chuffed in agreement with its host, white teeth glistening and ghostly breath puffing in steaming plumes.

He walks to you, thunderous steps shaking the forest floor but doing little to shake you, tucking and readjusting your furs once more before ushering you back to the estate, his unspoken need for you to get warm carving a smile onto your face.

In Sukuna’s vast estate, where shadows roam, and servants move with silent reverence, there is no room for joviality and merriment. He rules unflinchingly, with a face usually etched in disinterest and a heart that beats only in the throes of violence and battle. But since you’ve set foot in his domain that he keeps dark and teeming with fear, things have changed.

Now, the halls carry the scent of your vast perfume collection, a blend of smoky oud and earthy florals that linger in the air long after you pass. The servants, once bound by fear, now offer gentle smiles to the mortal who goes against the rules of this cursed realm.

Now, the shadows walk with you, satisfying your thirst for the paranormal as they follow you like a silent watchdog, a testament to the orders of their master—a being with four arms, four eyes, and a grudging acceptance of your presence.

Now, the mortal who carved her way into Sukuna’s domain with hardly a blink, the mortal who can see beneath his veneer of bleach-white bone and hardened blood…

Now… that mortal has decided to bring Christmas to these ancient halls.

Darkness now flickers with light. Pine garland decorates the windowsills in the expansive front room of Sukuna’s estate, its sharp scent striking through the air with every brush of your fingertips along its needles. The front room, what was once empty and meant only as a tunnel to another destination, is now lively from your touch.

A tall fireplace, its mantle wrapped in garlands of cypress and silk ribbons the color of deep red wine that reminds you of his eyes, casts a warm glow over goblet-red curtains that frame looming windows and fur-lined chairs that you curl into when you read your many books.

Sukuna has molded his domain to fit your silent requests. Your Christmas spirit that Sukuna continues to entertain if only for the promise of his reward, breathes life. His spoils—the cleaved pine—stands proudly by the fireplace, its branches wrapped in shining white lights and delicate ornaments.

Uraume was diligent, while unwilling to entertain anything pertaining to mortals, their loyalty outshines their disinterest when it comes to their Queen. Said loyalty shines in the snow that rests on each emerald branch, crystalline shimmers colored amber and orange from the roaring flames of the fireplace. Their technique ensures it will never melt, an ethereal touch of winter preserved.

You can’t help the warm smile that graces your features as you admire the transformed space. But it’s the scents wafting from the kitchen that draw you from your admiration. Cinnamon and nutmeg dance with something darker, a metallic tang that speaks to how well you’ve learned to blend your world with his.

Uraume, for as menacing as a curse user they are, has the cooking skills worthy of Michelin praise. The kitchen is their sacred domain but is now a battlefield of flour and spices, mortal and ancient alike. The heat from multiple ovens warms your bare toes, and copper pots and pans clank and steam with soluble renditions of a Christmas feast.

Sukuna’s dutiful servant moves about the kitchen with practiced ease, refusing help from the other cursed spirit-like servants in your presence no matter how many times you’ve insisted that you don’t mind.

“The consistency is correct,” Uraume observes, subtle praise in their soft tone as they nod toward the ruby liquid you’ve folded into dough. “Sukuna-sama will find it acceptable.”

You hide your smile at their careful choice of words. Months of coexistence have taught you to read the subtle ways in which Uraume expresses care—their meticulous attention to your recipes when cooking for you, your happiness from delicious meals enough to mask their fondness they will never admit to.

“We’re going to make gingerbread houses,” you exclaim an hour later to an indifferent Sukuna. His presence in the kitchen is rare, and you’ve had to ignore the peep of garbled eyes from cursed spirits who poke through the kitchen doors in disbelief before scuttling away in fear of being caught.

The counter is littered with cooled cutouts of gingerbread house walls, arches, and windows. White icing in pastry bags that will serve as glue and gumdrops to be adorned as paneling is the perfect setup for this small occasion between you both.

Despite Sukuna’s menacing demeanor, he is astute. It’s why he’s achieved the status he has now, why he’s feared among the world, both mortal plane and astral. So he wastes no time piecing together his own creation, his eyebrows creased in concentration fitting of a warrior planning a siege.

As Uraume flutters around you both, you recount the tale of Hansel and Gretel, Sukuna’s crimson eyes gleaming with interest at the more gruesome parts of the brothers Grimm.

“So this witch,” he muses, two hands delicately pipping white icing for a jagged wall, his other two hands covered in flour. “She devoured children who wandered into her domain.” His eyes twinkle with approval, his belly mouth curving into a devious smirk. “An acceptable response to trespassers.”

“She built the house to lure him in,” you add, swallowing a chuckle as you feel his cursed energy wiggle around you in interest. “That’s why it was made out of sweets.”

“Why did these children not become a proper meal?”

“They outsmarted her,” you explain, watching in muted supplication as his face drops from satisfaction to disapproval. “Pushed her into her own oven.”

His belly mouth scoffs, frowning as his thick tongue tastes the spiced air. “Mortals.”

As your special cookies perfume the air with metallic sweetness, you admire Sukuna as he works. He utilizes all four hands to guide his gingerbread creation to completion, clicking his teeth when a wall crumbles in his palms and humming in delight when the icing holds steady. Your gingerbread house lays half-created as you watch him, observing in silence until his masterpiece sits before you.

It’s a fortress—walls as imposing as a cathedral’s, windows designed to daze would-be escapees. The path to the door winds hypnotically, sugar-crystal steps that seem to pulse with cursed energy, leading young feet exactly where he wants them. The final touch? Miniature figurines made of pretzel sticks and marshmallows that are arranged at the front door like an offering.

“The witch’s failure was in her execution, not her concept,” he declares. Where normal gingerbread houses invite warmth, his promises something darker—a blend of Christmas tradition and Sukuna’s deadlier inclinations. “No child would think to check for a secondary barrier here.” He speaks as if defending a dissertation, pointing to the candy canes that could easily become weapons instead of the holiday cheer they should represent.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles from your chest, soft and genuine, as you admire his evil architecture. Four eyes find you immediately, piercing in their gaze as if defensive, yet still holding something akin to wanting your approval. Your hand finds his marked cheek, fingers tracing the tattoos that mirror all over his body. He leans into your touch with imperial indifference, wary of Uraume’s presence in the kitchen but not indignant enough to deny your warmth.

“A domain worth of the King of Curses,” you praise, watching how his belly mouth curves into the wide grin that his master does not offer. It’s more than enough to know he’s satisfied.

“And why is yours unfinished?” Sukuna asks, crossing his arms in mock reproach despite the splattering of flour on his skin and Haori. “Surely, my Queen will make something of equal likeness.”

The oven behind you dings before you can reply, and Uraume retrieves your treat, the aroma rich and spiced. You slide the steaming plate between you, the burgundy cookies still piping hot and ready for him.

“I had other priorities,” you supply, blowing on your fingers before you offer a cookie to his belly mouth. It opens wide, tongue lolling to the side like a panting dog and already watering before you place the cookie on his taste buds. He chomps loudly, sharp teeth devouring the concoction of ginger, blood, and aged spices from Uraume’s private garden—a perfect blend of your world and his. His cursed energy warms, wrapping around your waist in approval as Sukuna throws cookies into his own mouth now.

“Is this my gift?” is all he asks, satisfied but ever impatient as he and his stomach finish the plate. You don’t resist the eye roll. “It’s a very acceptable gift. However, I wouldn’t have entertained Christmas if you only wanted to cook.”

“It’s not your gift Sukuna.” You wave him off, snatching the now empty plate before his belly mouth’s tongue can lick at the blood crumbs, another heaping plate taking its place that Uraume leaves. “And don’t try to guess. You won’t get very far.”

“Hm.” He leans back slightly, one of his hands reaching to dust flour from his forearm. You roll your eyes again, choosing instead to finish your gingerbread house while he sulks. “Then it must be something more…significant. Ancient scrolls, perhaps? Found deep within forgotten temples, imbued with curses?” His voice drips with mock curiosity as if daring you to reveal even the slightest clue.

You snort, pausing mid-pipe to give him a flat look. “First of all, ancient scrolls? Really, Sukuna?” His belly mouth grumbles at being ignored, lips covered in a red dusting of cookie smacking for more. “Second of all, what would I be doing roaming around a temple? This isn’t the Heian era, despite how much you like to talk about it.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, more intrigued than annoyed by your commentary. “So I am wrong?”

“Completely,” you answer, biting back another laugh as you return to your task of piping green icing along a gingerbread wall to resemble bushels of grass. “Do you think your gift revolves around curses and destruction?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” he counters smoothly, his tone smug and his gaze unwavering.

You roll your eyes for what feels like the nth time in only so many minutes, feeling the warmth of his cursed energy curling around your waist again, tugging at you like a child pulling his mother’s sleeve for attention. “Just eat your cookies and stop guessing, Sukuna. You’re nowhere close.”

His belly mouth snickers as Sukuna throws another cookie into it, but his narrowed gaze lingers on you as if memorizing every shift in your expression, every subtle movement of your hands, waiting for you to slip. You have a feeling that even though Christmas is only days away, his curiosity will make it seem like an eternity.

As he often says, Sukuna indulges for you quite often. Trivial mortal instruments meant to stave off your boredom. He tells himself it’s for his own peace, to keep you from pestering him in the throne room, even though he still searches for you and longs for your presence in his lap.

One of those mortal instruments? A television. He knows what they are but has never been bothered to pay attention—an invention he dismissed as frivolous and mind-numbing. The flickering screen is often a source of laughter and comfort on one of your sleepless nights, and though he swore to never sit beside you while it played, here he is. On Christmas Eve. Reclined casually on the expansive sofa in your chambers, a disdainful sneer aimed at the annoying mortal known as ‘Buddy the Elf’, judgment radiating from his very being.

“Ryu, you cannot possibly enjoy this,” he huffs, one hand picking at nonexistent lint on his linen pants, another draped over the back of the couch, and one more cradling your soft form against him.

“Elf is a Christmas tradition!” You insist, handing a heaping hand of buttery popcorn to his belly mouth who accepts with a please grumble. Unlike Sukuna, who prefers a more…carnivorous diet, his belly mouth will eat almost anything it is fed. You chuckle softly, laying your head on his naked chest as you both watch Buddy decorate the department store into a winter wonderland. "I love it."

“He trespasses into their domain and then defiles it. Disgusting.”

“I thought you agreed not to grumble.”

“I never agreed.”

You hide your smile in the warmth of Sukuna’s side, breathing in the familiar aroma of burnt incense that clings to his skin, grounding and intoxicating. The movie plays on, you enjoying, while Sukuna analyzes each scene with the precision he’d use to raze a village. He won’t admit what he’s been reduced to—a powerful being indulging in idiotic entertainment to please the mortal lady of his estate. All for a gift that he cannot guess.

You trace idle patterns on his marked arm. Each touch makes his cursed energy flutter beneath your fingertips, electric kisses on your skin that he pretends not to notice. These are the moments you love most—when the fearsome King of Curses allows himself to simply…exist beside you, his pride softened by the peace you often bring.

“A weapon,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through Buddy and Jovie’s shower singing.

You blink, craning your neck to look up at him. “What?”

He gestures expectantly to the room around him. “You’ve found a weapon worthy of my domain.”

You should have known the moment he stopped complaining about the movie that his attention had drifted. The fact that this is what he is thinking about makes warmth bloom in your chest. “Are you guessing?”

“I do not guess,” he insists, glowering at the television to avoid looking at you, his curiosity-tinged cursed energy betraying him. “I deduce.”

A weapon would be fitting for someone like him—his strength, his dominance, his endless hunger for power. But it’s a far cry from what he will get. You throw more popcorn into your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at just how wrong he truly is.

He’s silent only for a moment before he adds. “Why must I wait until tomorrow, when you can simply tell me now?” His logic is, as usual, rooted in authority and impatience. You chew another handful of popcorn deliberately, ignoring him as you keep your eyes glued to the screen.

Not even five minutes pass before one of his large hands brushes against the nape of your neck. His fingers card through your hair, tugging the strands—not enough to hurt, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You know what he’s doing. His touch feels like a predator sneakily luring in prey. You know this game—this is Sukuna feigning boredom because he’s curious, using seduction to coax you when you’re being stubborn. It’s as effective as it is dangerous. But this time, you’re prepared.

“If you’re going to ignore the movie,” you trail off, your voice a mix of seductive challenge and amusement. You twist in his lap to straddle his waist, sliding your hands up his chest, tracing your fingers around his nipples in slow, deliberate circles. He does not react, at least not on his face. But you can feel the imperceptible jut of his hips, feel his cursed energy hum up your calves, and wrap around your body like a warm fog.

“I know of something else we can do.” You’re suggestive, voice dropping to the pits of your stomach as your lips brush along the sharp edge of his jaw. The shift in power is immediate, and exactly what you want. His hands tighten on your waist, head tilting slightly, giving you better access to lavish him with praise.

“Is that so?” His voice is pitched low, heady already. “Anything is better than this drivel.”

You roll your eyes as you fall back on the sofa, your body arching under his touch as he pulls you closer. Your hand slides lower, tracing the edge of his haori where it hangs loose against his skin.

“You’re impatient as usual,” you whisper, nipping lightly at his neck. “But you’ll wait this time. Won’t you?”

His eyes narrow as if in protest. But he doesn’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, his hands roam your body, each touch firm and possessive. You grin against his skin, knowing you’ve managed to distract him…at least for now.

“A temple,” his voice rumbles through the darkness, shaking you from the deep edges of sleep. His massive form curves around you possessively, his warmth seeping into your skin. Both of you lie tangled in the aftermath of your earlier indulgences—the sofa, the wall, and, finally, the silk sheets of his bed. All bearing witness to his insatiable need for you.

“Mmm?” you mumble, still trying to pull yourself awake.

“Built in my honor,” he elaborates without repeating himself, shaking you again with a harshness that makes you yelp and throw a glare over your shoulder. He smirks to himself as if he’s finally solved the mystery. “That is my gift.”

You groan, burying your face in your pillow, but secretly relishing in the way he can’t seem to let this go. Rolling over halfway, you peek up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. The moonlight creates a shimmering backdrop, outlining his form with silver, blood-red eyes gleaming with determination. For someone who claims to have no interest in mortal traditions, he’s relentless about this one.

“You woke me up to guess….again,” you grumble, glaring at him through a half-open eye.

“I do not guess,” he starts, ready to repeat the same phrase from hours ago. “I simply—”

“Deduce, yes, I got that the first time.” You cut him off and surge up to give him a kiss, feeling his surprise for only seconds before he melts into your affection. “Go to sleep.”

“A secret text,” he murmurs against your lips, undeterred even as his arms pull you closer. “Written in blood.”

You grimace before answering with your lips on his again, your leg curling around a thick waist, ready to use the ammo from your arsenal just like a few hours ago. “Do I need to distract you again?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow.

The midnight air watches with bated breath as Sukuna rolls on top of you, his towering frame rousing the tingle between your legs.

“I know your method of distraction,” he whispers against the skin of your neck. His belly mouth kisses the skin of your inner thigh, licking its lips at the promise of what you might offer if you’re willing. “Considering you are no novice, one might think that you keep secrets from your King often.”

Your affronted laugh dissolves into a sigh as both stomach and Sukuna adorn your skin with wet kisses—one along the vein of your pelvis while the other works at the skin behind your ear. “O-one might think,” you manage, gasping as his mouth finds the pulse in your neck, “that my King is simply impatient for Christmas morning.”

“It is already past midnight,” he growls at the feel of your touch drifting lower, his cocks already throbbing and oozing precum. “Merry Christmas.”

“A proper Christmas morning!” you correct with a chortle, smacking his chest playfully. He hums noncommittally, the sound vibrating through you both, possessive and yet tender in a way that only you are privy to. “A few more hours. Let me wake up properly.”

With those final words, you promptly roll over, denying him any more sensual touch that could ignite the early morning. Sukuna, used to your defiance, simply grumbles at your withdrawal, choosing instead to press searing kisses along the naked skin of your back. They ignite the embers in your belly but are not persistent enough to tempt you further.

“A domain expansion,” he insists, inhaling the perfume at the dip of your spine, lips brushing the soft skin there.

“I can’t even do that.” Your voice is heavy, the dredges of sleep finally pulling at your consciousness.

“More blood cookies.”

You remain silent, using his solemn guesses as music to lull you back to sleep.

Sukuna can feel your presence even deep in sleep, his cursed energy wound tightly around you like a second skin, always attuned to your warmth, your breath, the way you shift beneath the covers. So when that connection shivers—when his energy touches only empty space—his crimson eyes snap open. Your side of the bed is still warm, a ghost of you lingering on his silk sheets.

He can still feel you in the estate, so he rises slowly, surveying his chamber. He takes in the transformation--the pine and silk ribbons that are around the mantle now present in his chambers, and the smell of cider and blood cookies that still wafts in the air around him. Resting along one wall is a beautiful vanity carved from marble with obsidian-lined mirrors and velvet surfaces adorned with your plethora of fragrances. The table near his window is littered with books, a speaker—another mortal instrument—rests quietly, no classical music that you enjoy playing.

His room—once untouchable, dark, and sacred—is now infused with you. It should feel like a violation, his personal sanctum defiled with the touch of a mortal. And yet.

His body is no longer cold in the halls because you thrive in warmth. His servants may bow in fear to him, but they smile at you. Shadows, once tools of terror, are now a source of protection and amusement, a manic gleam of fascination with the otherwordly preventing you from being fearful.

His emotions are still a mystery, but slowly unfurling like petals that have been sleeping for many winters. Anything besides strength and power, besides determination and tenacity are weak—should be weak. But you feel these emotions plenty, and to Ryomen Sukuna, you are far from weak.

The soft yellow lights from the pine tree spill against the floor, welcoming his bare feet as he enters the large living room that has come to life because of you and for you. He won’t admit it out loud, the pride that surges through his chest like a rushing wave when he looks at the tree. A pagan symbol meant to honor a god that is not himself, willingly brought into his domain by his own hand, a rare sight in his forest that only his eye could catch. He cleaved it. He carried it upon his shoulders. He cupped the approval in your eyes like water in a shallow pool in a drying desert, sacred and coveted.

His efforts have become yours, decorated in tinsel and ornaments, in obnoxiously bright lights and snow that will never melt. And you sit next to it, your silhouette glowing against the roaring fireplace, your gaze looking up at what he’s allowed you to have. You noticed his presence long ago, but you remain transfixed with the tree, a soft smile gracing your features as he draws closer.

“It is far too early,” he rumbles, his voice gentle but heavy in the silent Christmas air. “Come back to bed.”

You huff in reply, not bothering to offer words even as he sinks down next to you. His arms crossed over his chest, his legs folding in to sit with grace on the fur-covered floor. This close, he can smell another fragrance that you collect, a smoky Oud that coats your skin like a second skin.

It’s one of his favorites, yet another thing he will not admit, but you know. You know from the way he buries his face in your neck at night, his chambers shrouded in darkness beside the slanting of moonlight on his sheets, his cursed energy caressing your skin in appreciation.

“It’s a great tree, you know,” you sigh, wistfully. You hope to keep the tree up and lit long after Christmas passes. It’s a wonderful sight, a depiction of a past life before you became aware of the unknown, of curses and spirits, sorcery and realms besides Heaven and Hell. To see it now, in the domain of a powerful king, shining brightly as if the one who cut it down did not have four arms and eyes. “It’s strong…resilient.”

“Of course it is. Who do you take me for?” he snaps, tone not holding any heat as his sharp gaze looks at you from head to toe. He leans imperceptibly into you when you laugh, a sound that shakes from your robe-covered chest and into the warm air, the shadows catching it as if they are fireflies in the night.

You finally pull your gaze from the tree, looking to Sukuna and he refuses to let you hear the hitch in his breath. He refuses to tighten his jaw or let you hear the click of bone as he fights the urge to openly bask in your gaze. “I have something for you.”

You grab a box beneath the tree, the only object that decorates the skirt. You’re climbing into his large lap before he can protest, willingly invading his space without fear of the consequences. For others, a swift death. For you, a subconscious shift in his form, one of his arms falling behind you and hitching along your hip to steady you on his thigh.

“I hope you like it,” you muse, shrugging with indifference to shield your anticipation. “I know "human sentiments" are not your specialty.”

The hands not holding your back trace along the red ribbon, silky soft and tied neatly by you. But before you can push the box more insistently into his hold, his hands slide under yours, firmly stilling your movements.

One of his hands reaches behind his back, his form shifting closer before he presents you with his own box. It’s smaller than yours, crafted in dark, polished wood, the flames from the fireplace glimmering along the surface.

“How can I let you meddle and not have anything to counter it with?” It’s all Sukuna offers, tone low and edged with something warmer than usual. He places the box in your hands, his gaze heavy on your face as though waiting for a reaction. Truly, the thought of him getting you something had not crossed your mind. Sukuna seemed more than willing to put up with your holiday antics if only to get something in return. So the weight of the box in your hands, cool against your palm, feels substantial.

Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid, the dark wood creaking softly. Nestled inside a bed of rich blue velvet, is something that steals the breath from your lungs. It gleams against the firelight as you pick it up, its crystal surface refracting shards of gold and crimson that dance across your body. The shape is elegant yet otherworldly, the surface etched with markings that you’ve come to see throughout his estate. A stopper made of black Onyx crowns it, carved into a teardrop that you pinch and pull to open.

The scent curls into the air, smoothing beneath your nostrils in a delicate yet commanding embrace. It’s sharp at first, with notes of what you recognize as juniper and lemon, fresh and crisp like the frost that curls on the windows in your chamber. You’re an expert in fragrance, so it doesn’t take you long to detect the undercurrent of bergamot and pepper, adding an edge that’s reminiscent of Sukuna’s power—lurking beneath the surface.

It seems as if the notes are never-ending. Pine needles and incense weave into a rich, earthy warmth, like the forest you both walked through to cut down the decorated pine that rests behind you. Amber and balsam provide a sweetness that lingers with its base notes and a touch of vanilla. Finally, the richness of cinnamon adds a spicy conclusion, as if kissing your skin before it fades into the morning air.

“You didn’t,” you begin, mouth suddenly dry, your eyes quite the opposite. “You made this…?”

“Do you think anyone else could, Ryu?” he counters, his tone holding a rare softness that you wish you were more levelheaded to preserve forever. A hand not resting on your back drifts along your shoulder blades, caressing in a mixture of observance and reverence. “It is yours.”

Like everything else in this domain.

That is what he wants to add. Is what curls at the tip of his tongue. But he uses your fluttering eyelashes to distract that urge that throbs in his chest. Uses the sight of you resting the perfume carefully back in its velvet encasing before closing the wooden box as if it might break.

“It’s beautiful,” you finally whisper, uncaring of how shaky you sound. The gift is uniquely Sukuna, deeply reflecting his essence but still having you in mind. “Thank you.”

He offers that characteristic hum, rumbling through your body and clenching around your heart with a force he’s not yet ready to acknowledge. His belly mouth curves into a smug grin, but his eyes are still on you as if searching for something.

“Another example of my indulgence that you mistake for generosity.”

The way his cursed energy hums around you, warm and protective, tells you otherwise. And it only serves to make you laugh, finally wiping the tears from your cheeks and gently setting the wooden box on the fur rug beneath you both.

“Uh huh,” you tease, snickering at his frown you can see right through. You finally pick up your box, the surface warmed by the fire, now resting in his hands. The teasing air around you both falls to the wayside, hushed anticipation taking its place.

He’s spent days pestering you about what he would get, and now, with you on his lap and his massive hands cradling the box with unexpected gentleness, his curiosity morphs into something else. A prize he’s excited to have and now afraid to open. Not in fear—Sukuna has no room for fear—but in anticipation.

It takes everything in you not to snatch the box and open it yourself, but eventually, he does, and the purse of his lips and the narrowing of his eyes fall before you like a book as old as time finally opening.

The silk is as dark as the shadows that roam these halls, shimmering like oil in water as it slides along Sukuna’s thick fingers. To anyone else, the material would simply be silk. But to Sukuna, he can feel the cursed energy that pulses along it, no doubt stitched together with a cursed thread strong enough to embrace him and yet still soft to the touch.

You had no way to conjure or control cursed energy to weave into the fabric, so you had to turn to Uraume for help. Their frosty hands had guided yours, harnessing the cursed energy necessary for you as you wove the threads, ensuring the haori could hold the weight of Sukuna’s power while remaining as delicate as the intentions behind it.

The silk mirrors the intricate markings on his skin, its edges dyed in gradients of shadow and blood.

“It’s a Haori,” you finally speak, soft and given space so he can observe his gift without hurry. “It’s all you really wear, so I thought crafting something of my own would be….nice.”

Words gather on his tongue, and then scatter like leaves in a storm, too feeble to express the weight of what he feels. He knows that a simple hum of approval won’t be enough—not this time. Not for you. But as he readies himself to speak, opening his mouth just so, his breath catches when he looks inside one of the sleeves.

The inner lining is adorned with ancient symbols sewn in patterns only he would recognize, the same ones you’ve felt him trace in the air around you when he thinks you’re sleeping, offering protection for when he cannot be near you. They shimmer faintly, their glow deepening in the shadowed folds of silk and fading when touched by light—a testament to the darkness he commands and the solace he finds within it.

“Ryu—”

“At least put it on,” you interrupt, voice slightly shaky and betraying your exposed nerves. You hold the garment delicately, taking it from him and helping each arm through the sleeves. The silk moves like smoke around his massive form, designed to accommodate while maintaining the elegant lines that befit a being of his stature. Your eyes are on his skin, focused on the hem of his lapels as you trace over it and rest your hand on his chest.

“There,” you whisper, smiling but not looking up at him. His heart is steady beneath your palm, not fluttering like a bird in a cage, and you’re not sure whether to be upset that your gift doesn’t make his heart race. “It looks good on you.”

It fits him perfectly and thrums with a warmth that echoes the temperature blooming in his chest. That three-letter phrase—that elusive word that’s made his lip curl in disgust since the beginning of time, now pounds in his ears from the garment that sits on his skin.

It’s not just a garment—it’s an acknowledgment of who he is in his truest form, a declaration that you see his beauty in both his power and his evolution. The way it drapes over his marked skin, how it seems to pulse with its own life in response to his cursed energy—these details speak to your understanding of him, how you’ve learned to…love both the demon and the subtle changes your presence has wrought in him.

“You see me,” he finally speaks, uncharacteristically hushed. You see him—demon and protector, destroyer and creator, ancient force and the being who has learned to nestle mortal joy in hands only meant for destruction.

They’ve always been directed at you. Not from him. He’s never said them before. He’s never really known how, and part of him has always been envious of how the words can fall so effortlessly from your lips.

He’s never said them before. And yet now, at this moment, it feels like if he doesn’t act, the opportunity will be lost forever, forced down into the pit of his belly for who knows how long.

You hold your breath when you feel one of his hands cradle your cheek, massive enough so that his fingers card through your dark hair.

“And I see you, Ryu.”

The words feel like a promise. Like they will probably be rare but will only hold more and more weight as time goes by. And that’s okay for you. To be in his presence. To open him up and show him that he is capable of something gentle enough to hold you. That’s your gift that you will never need to wait until the 25th of December for.

His belly mouth is unusually silent, but his cursed energy tightens around you like a caress. Warm and vibrating, a protective weight that will remain around you for as long as you breathe. It speaks volumes that his pride won’t quite let him voice.

You lift a hand to rest on his cheek, tracing along the smooth skin that gives way to the rough texture that wraps around his right side. His two eyes on this side are more narrowed, encapsulated in the hard surface around it but still oozing dominance that could make others cower and definitely not come closer like you do. You cup his jaw before finally meeting his gaze—soft meeting a harshness that will never affect you, love meeting the beginnings of the same that linger beneath crimson pools.

“I see you too, Ryomen.”

The sound of his name makes his chest tighten, the organ behind his sternum pounding irregularly for only a second before falling back in line. His given name is forbidden for any who wish to speak it in likeness—he will only tolerate the name ‘Ryomen’ if it is wrapped in fear, or if it falls from your lips.

The silence lingers for what feels like forever, his hands holding you on his lap while he lets you map his face. Your heart flutters, happiness pulsing through your veins with every beat, cataloging every aspect of this moment in your mind forever.

“There is one mortal tradition,” he finally muses, his voice carrying that particular note of mischief that always makes your breath catch, “that I find…acceptable.”

It’s the kind of tone that usually follows lips along your skin and hands between your thighs, reminiscent of a man who can only bask in vulnerability for moments before shifting to something heady and tinged with lust.

Before you can question his motives, one of his hands lifts to hover above you both. His cursed energy manifests between his fingers, dark and potent, morphing itself into something that makes you snort in delighted surprise. Dark tendrils grow slowly from the mass of energy between his fingers, twisted and mangled to form branches, its leaves pitch black with berries that gleam like drops of blood.

A twisted version of mistletoe, the only representation that would be acceptable to someone like Sukuna.

“Of course, you’d make it look menacing,” you tease, giggling softly as his other arms draw you closer to his chest. His belly mouth snickers from below you, ready to join his host in whatever is planned. One of your fingers traces the metal of his gauges, your eyes narrowing in playful indifference.

“Then I advise you to have one ready for next year.”

Your heart stops, lungs seizing in your chest as the words tunnel into one ear and out the other. Next year. The idea hangs in the air, fragile and precious—proof that even Ryomen Sukuna, with all his arrogance and dominance, is willing to entertain a future with you.

The mistletoe pulses above you, casting reddish shadows across your faces, and you don’t need to think any longer as you lean in to slide your lips along his. His hands widen the expanse of your back, your robe slipping off your shoulders to hang in the crevice of your elbows, the heat from the pulsing mistletoe spreading over your chest. The naked feel of you against his torso pleases him, and beneath the prideful smirk against your mouth, beneath the snicker from his belly, you taste that four-letter word in his mouth, siphoning as much of it as you can before you pull away and rest your forehead against his.

“Merry Christmas,” you whisper against his lips, your body warming even further despite the heat from the fireplace.

He offers that hum—that characteristic hum that means so much.

Acquiescence.

Agreement.

I see you.

The mistletoe falls to the floor, crunching beneath your weight as Sukuna lays you on the fur, hands tracing your waist, sliding along your spine, hiking your legs around him. He doesn’t speak, content to admire you beneath him—a mortal without cursed energy who loves perfume, the paranormal, and classical music. A mortal who hates spiders, but loves Gothic architecture, monsters, and the many books that line his walls.

A mortal who has crawled beneath his skin and nestled there, unwilling to leave. And he’s too ashamed to admit that he gave up trying to pry you from inside of him a long time ago.

You throw your arms around his neck, impatient and tired of his staring, carding your fingers through deceptively soft pink hair to pull him down so that you can once again honor this particular tradition—one that, like everything else between you, has been transformed into something uniquely yours.

Merry Christmas, @grimmweepers !!!!

[dexthtoyounglings]

Double A Misfit

Lucien x Reader Fluff

Summary: It's a snowy day in Velaris, yet you can only think about the Autumn Court male who burned a fire in your blood.

Warnings: mutual pining (can someone tell me if I'm using this term correctly idek)

A/N: This is my first ever ACOTAR piece. I'm a bit nervous about this because I knew I wanted to write, but there was nothing in my brain really.... yeah. Also, I know this is way past the holidays, but it's snowing here so.

•--•

Gentle. The fall of the snow outside of your window was gentle. The snowflakes laid soft kisses on the ground, crowding together, a family reborn into foreign membranes. It was beautiful, a symbol of the changing seasons, uniquely precious to Velaris.

You watched alone, a fire burning in the hearth in front of you. Fire licked into the open air, searching for something to embrace its heat more closely. Though the beauty of the cold drew you in, your heart seemed to cry the same way that the fire did. Warm bodies felt cold when lonely, as yours did.

It struck you then, the same way your yearning did every winter. An intense want for the same thing your friends had. You had considered that you were simply the problem, that you never could stick anywhere. Even Amren, cold and caved in when she wasn't content, seemed to inhale the same love that everyone else did, breathing it back out into the group.

Yet, somehow, you never stuck the same.

Maybe that's exactly why you sat here, watching the snow, sympathizing with the fire, while a pile of presents sat on your table. Wrapped with a delicate hand, a bow placed on top of each, and his name written in cursive on a tiny sticker.

He left tomorrow for the Spring Court. He left tomorrow, for Tamlin, that kindness in his heart unwavering. He showed that same, gentle kindness towards you, a clone to the fire that reached out it's fingers. When his hands touched yours, a warmth spread, yet a soft chill soothed deeper than surface level.

Lucien was a dream. You had decided that the moment you met him. The hard lines of his face, cut from cinnamon and bark, yet structured through the very sun which tanned his skin. The plains of his face, sharp, but also smooth like a baby blanket. His eyes, soft in every nature, sucked you in, leaving you breathless.

Gods, everything about him was made with a precision, one that was built to make you fall to your knees.

The knock at your door was enough to startle you to your feet, brushing off the size-too-big brown sweater you wore, sleeves threatening to swallow your hands with every movement. Your blush seemed to glow brighter, ashamed at being caught in a daydream.

Socks slipping as you started for the door, you combed a hand through your hair. It wasn't usual that you were greeted so late at night.

Opening the door, a stinging cold burned at your eyes, brushing past your legs with the irritation of being denied entrance. If you didn't know any better, you would've thought the wind was trying to sweep your visitor inside as well. "Trying" ended up being a fleeing word, the lanky body standing in front of you allowing himself in before the cold could nip at your limbs any longer.

You sent out a 'thank you' to the wind, a howl against your window its only response.

"Lucien," you breathed, shocked at his sudden appearance.

He smiled at you, warming the room with the shine of his teeth. The light from the fireplace cast an orange hue onto his honeyed skin, your heart skipping a beat, every feature hightlighted by the cast shadows. The straight edge of his nose, the way his lips spread over his-

"I was thinking about you," he remarked, unlacing his boots with a calm fluidity, "I wanted to stop by before I left tomorrow. Didn't need you missing all my greatness."

You rolled your eyes, hearing the obvious smirk in his tone, even with his head down.

You stepped back to watch him, unlacing the other boot and kicking it off, standing themselves at attention on your door mat. He shrugged off his coat, revealing a green turtleneck which hugged his arms, alluding to the lean yet broad nature of his chest, tucked into black dress pants. His hair, a glowing shade of red, still had snowflakes in it.

He ran his hand through the front part of that sea of autumn, shaking off some of those flakes. You watched, lips pressed together, keeping composure as he took a few steps before plopping himself down on your couch.

It never failed to shake you, the way he was so comfortable in your place of rest. It spread a heat through you all the same, like the flames were reaching for your heart at his mere existence.

Out of everyone, he had always shown interest in your space.

In you.

You walked over, not noting the way his eyes watched you intently, sitting beside him. His one legs was stretched out across the cushions, forcing you to lift it up, scooting underneath and allowing it to rest across your lap. You never touched people much, though it was not foreign to be physically connected to Lucien.

It was a problem, as it was also a blessing.

"Usually you're happy to see me," he teased.

You rolled your eyes, again, "I am happy to see you, that doesn't mean you aren't obnoxious."

He relaxed a bit, arms spreading over the back of the couch, "There's that little spark."

A silence took over the room. It was familiar, recognizable. Except, this time, it snuck into each breath a little differently, like a hint of something else existed within that silence. Your eyes looked anywhere but his, but his laid on you, drinking in every ounce he could get.

Your fingers twitched, reminding you of the icebreaker that existed right under your nose. You snatched up the pile of presents, setting it on the leg that was laid out on your lap.

"I have presents for you. I meant to find you before you left for Spring, but I... lost track of time."

Lucien breathed in deeply, starting at the three boxes. For him. He moved his leg off your lap, at attention, sitting in a stance that was more serious than the previous. Summoning those he had left at his house in self-consciousness, presents with a shiny yellow and auburn paper sat in his own lap. Your name written on every one.

Surprise played on your features, not expecting gifts from him. You should have guessed in the end, knowing Lucien and his heart. He always looked out for you. He was one of your kind; a stray without a definite home. A wanderer that made a name for himself, as well as a family.

"You first," you whispered, handing him the top present.

Lucien held it, lithe fingers finding purchase in the folds of the present, ripping the soft silver paper, revealing a small box. Lifting the lid, there sat a broach, a deep brown with hues of orange, reminiscent of his own mother's eyes. You knew, having been lucky enough to see the woman that shared such a love for Lucien as you did. Yet, the love you gave was on another level deeper than hers. Hidden and deep-seated, thriving just to be near him, begging your hands to grab him, have him in any ways tangible.

"It's beautiful," he breathed, looking up at you, russet eye reaching out like a siren call.

"There's more," you nudged the next one towards him, blushing at the close attention he paid to every movement.

Setting aside the box that held the broach, he resumed, tearing into the present, met with another plain box. He took it apart, mechanical eye whirring with excitement as his human one flashed excitement.

"A cloak. Gods, how did you know this was the one I wanted?" he asked, smiling wide, "I just saw this in the shop the other day."

You smiled, body curling in on itself at his joy. You pushed the last one to him, feeling bad for interrupting his joy, but shyness crept in at his reactions.

Behind the layer of wrapped paper was a large shoebox, thick cardboard, without detail. He opened the lid, pushing aside the paper that surrounded what was hiding beneath. Boots. A pair identical to the ones he had complained about having to throw away months prior. They were specially designed in the Spring Court, which pushed you to travel and meet with the maker. It took a while before you had heard news of success from the man, but it came nevertheless.

You remembered his face when he realized he would have to get a new pair. You swore at that moment you had never seen a look more devastating. A vow you made yourself; you would never allow him to look that way as long as you could help it. So you left the next day, using diplomacy as your excuse.

Lucien's eyes flicked to yourself, full and beautiful. His soft, burnt umber eyelashes framing them in such a damning beauty you knew for him to die, that beauty could never exist again. Glossy, he blinked away moisture that filled the orbs beneath.

"Where did you get these?" he asked, exasperated.

You blushed. "I had them replicated. The shoemaker was flattered that they had been so well-loved."

He released a shaky breath, striking your heart all the same.

"How do you expect me to live up to these?" he asked, a shy grin taking over his face, "My gifts seem pathetic."

You shook your head, chin low, "I doubt anything you give me could seem 'pathetic.'"

His eyes captured yours again, taken from the sight of his boots. You felt important when he looked at you, like a flower in a glass case, protected and yet shining through.

He set down his boots, as if they no longer mattered, attention fixed as he placed a present in your lap. Your hands tore through, savoring the intricate design and the time placed into wrapping these. Had he thought of you the whole time, like you did while wrapping his?

Except, you had thought of him the whole time you spent wrapping everyone's gifts. You never seemed to stop thinking about him.

Similar to the one that had held his cloak, you unboxed the one in your lap, peeling back paper to see a soft cream sweater. But, holding it up, you gaze at the design. A running fox, knit in the top right of it, directly above your breast, the back holding a similar design, yet the creature sitting upright. The soft texture almost made you angry, knowing it wouldn't be appropriate to wear it every day.

"Lucien."

He hummed in response, questioning your call of his name.

"It's so beautiful," you looked up at him, love seeping from your pores.

His whole face went a shade deeper, pointy ears pulling back. He had no words, handing you another. You opened it with the same grace, finding a small box, one that left you clueless as to what it could hold. You looked up at Lucien, seeing the way that he chewed on the skin inside his cheek. Lifting the lid with a small shake, the bottom half fell into your hand, gaze drawn to the necklace inside.

You couldn't have guessed how much Lucien made from Rhysand weekly, but with his frequent absence, you imagined this cut a chunk. A gold, dainty chain trailed down to what was centered; a teardrop pendant, a diamond shining in the center, refracting the dim orange light that consumed the room. Paired with it were earrings, each with a matching teardrop shape that hung off the ear. They were-

"Gorgeous."

Lucien shifted, adjusting his hands only to rub them up and down the black of his pants. "Feyre had to help me pick them out."

You smiled to yourself, catching his stare. A nervousness that you didn't catch much darkened his cheeks.

You quirked an eyebrow, "Is everything okay, Lucien?"

He avoided your eyes, taking a deep inhale, his chest expanding with the breath. Watching it fall back out of his mouth, he began to speak.

"Y/n," his throat caught the way your name came out. He tried again, "Y/n. I have been... meaning to tell you this for quite some time now. I-" he took another deep breath, looking into your eyes.

"I have loved you since the very first moment I met you. The grace of knowing you fell upon me like a sword I had no choice but to use. Everything you are, and everything you have grown to become has enchanted me so deeply I don't feel I have the capacity to hold it in much longer."

Your jaw fell slack, watching as the stars in his words, in his posture, and in his confidence fell in line, brightening the world you had known.

"I can't breathe knowing you're not mine, but I know if you requested it say so, I would try to shed that part of myself to make you happy forevermore. To separate from you after every interaction is like tearing myself away from my very own soul. I do not think I can bear it much longer; the pain of not having you. I am yours, as wholly as I am my own," he bowed his head, "Without you, I feel half of myself has been lost to whatever Gods demanded you be created. And to be with you here drives me crazy, to know that I cannot hold you in my arms and share you with myself the way my body begs. I need you, and I have grown to known this. I need you deeper than just a friendship, than just a lover. I need you, in this deep string that tugs at my heart, pulling me till I come home; till I find you."

You felt it then. You had always felt it, but it had been muddy, confusing, and had misled you so many times. That fog cleared now, your mind registering exactly what it was -- that glowing golden string, existing only to keep Lucien tied to you.

It made so much sense, cleared out your mind and filled it with every memory and dream you had associated with the male in front of you.

It must've been what launched you at him as well.

Your hands cupped the face of your mate, bringing your lips to his own. Like a mould crafted to fit your own, your mouth fit like a missing puzzle piece. Smooth, warm lips embraced your own, sharing a dance that seemed to spill a power into that bond, its glow burning brighter than the sun in which Helion commanded. Every movement was met with a hunger, one emerging from the years it took you to survive the Autumn Court in which you had met and find him in the Night Court in which you not resided. Centuries of waiting, of reaching into the darkness beyond your eyelids and finding him without his casual heat.

You pulled back, slow as you let your lips cling to each other, forgetting to resist the urge to plunge back into him as you pressed another kiss to his mouth. You lost your mind in that cavern between you, balancing on that rope, folding into each other.

He murmured against your lips, "Y/n."

You only allowed yourself enough space to separate your mouths, resting your forehead against his. Your thumb stroked the scar that cobwebbed under his left eye, capturing you in it's lure.

"Lucien. I could never deny you," you closed your eyes as you nudged your nose against his, reopening them, "I have loved you; this whole lifetime, I have loved you. Even before I knew of you, I loved what you were."

He smiled, a giddy, childish smile, caging the air in your lungs. A new vow, here and now;

Gods, you'd do anything to see him smile like that again.

•--•

[studiogrimm810]

Intentions

pairings/characters: (pining) sam x gn!you, dean is barely there

summary: after a disappointing call from your father regarding your place with in the family, sam is the only one who can truly understand and offer you the support you need to process this heartbreak

warnings: disowning, strained family dynamic, alone for the holidays, a dad💀

word count: 2,892

A/N: this was a request by the lovely elle (@blossomingorchids), i hope i struck the tune you were looking for. this was SO much fun to write!!!🧎🏻

———————

The Life was never easy. Jumping from town to town, motel to the backseat of your shitty sedan, diners and dive bars- it was completely contradictory of luxurious. But one thing you could always rely on was the gratification of seeing your family.

After what has felt like months of isolation and constant grind, it was now the holiday season. Snow blanketed the icy ground, framing the view from where you sat on a motel porch, reminding you of such. It had been too long since you’ve seen your family and you didn’t have to reach out to know that your mother would give you a piece or two of her mind in regards to your lifestyle.

You missed her birthday, the more notable holidays you celebrate in the autumn months, and now maybe the last monumental holiday of the year- but you’ll make it work.

Finally, after weeks of hoping, days of organizing, and a quick vampire hunt with the Winchesters, you plan to bid the boys an early goodbye in preparations for visiting your family. Your chest swells with uncontainable excitement at the thought of surprising your mother.

Currently, you nursed the rest of your beer handed to you earlier by Dean and watched as lazy waves of fresh, flakey snow settled on the already icy mounds that coated any greenery turned brown due to a frosty death.

You waited for the buzzing adrenaline from your hunt to drain as you claimed this too cold and wildly uncomfortable patio chair as yours. Sam occupied the other chair and Dean simply leaned onto the hood of his precious baby. You all watched the innocent weather- doing what it does and leading you and all other occupying humans to adjust accordingly to its indomitable force.

The weather almost makes you worry about not making it back to your childhood home- almost.

At this point, nothing can stop you from coming home and seeing the warmth of a motherly glow emit from her smile or seeing the threat of tears in your fathers lids. Maybe you’re setting your expectations too high, claiming your own presence in your family’s home to be too monumental of a regard- but the ache in your chest overrides any fear and settles the homesick nostalgia deeper into your very being.

It was going to be a great holiday.

“How we feeling ‘bout another round?” Dean asks, thrusting himself to his feet from the hood of Baby.

“Count me in,” Sam tips his almost empty bottle, keeping his eyes focused out to the beyond of snow.

“I’ll pass, I have to get on the road soon if I want to make it by breakfast,” you sit up, placing your empty bottle with an echoing clink on the pavement of the sidewalk below.

“Are you sure you're up for the drive? It’s still a good four hours,” Sam said with a raised brow, finishing off his drink, and referring to your hometown just a few hours north.

“Hells yeah,” you scoff a quick jerked smile, unable to contain the simmering excitement. You just loved surprises. “I’ll probably have to hit the road soon though. Don’t want the alcohol to make me too sleepy,” you sit up, pulling out your phone to check the time- 2:32 AM.

“Just be safe, yeah?” Sam asks with a simple and polite smile that he uses to cover his deeper worry of your mental state on such little sleep after two beers and an adrenaline filled hunt.

Before you can respond though, your phone rings with a call. Your fathers name flashes on the screen. The lax expression hardens like oobleck at the slap of reality- why is he calling so late? Your previous restless excitement freezes into a still under-layer of stiff bone.

“Excuse me,” you say mindlessly, standing and walking a few paces to the field beside the motel, swiping to answer the call.

“Dad?” You ask, a subconscious fear that they’re in trouble tearing a ripple in your speech.

“Hey, kid,” his tired and strained voice forces through the call- you can almost see the stubble on his chin from the pull in his voice.

“Is everything okay? Why are you up so late?” You ask, the blizzard of nerves tangling up every overthought under your skin putting you on edge.

“We’re fine, kiddo, all is well here- just…” his voice trails, harnessing something with a weight beyond a few loaded words. He sighs, a heavy puff. “We’ve been talking and-,” your dad takes another simple pause, and you imagine him running a hand down his face with a slight eye roll like he usually does in times of exhausted stress. “We just think that maybe it’s better off that you’re not around for the holidays.”

As if Medusa tiptoed out from the woodwork, your body settled like stone. A heavy, weighted dread that shredded any emotion above contentment settled deep in your stomach and you felt six years old again.

“What do you mean?” The words ghost past your lips without registering their syllables.

“Look, honey. You know we love you. I just think that it’s better off that you’re not around for the holidays,” he sighs, “your mother worries so much for you but- but the longer you’re gone, the easier it is for her to relax. I know that you probably couldn’t even make time for us anyways,” the disappointment cuts deep.

“Dad-.”

“No, I get you're ‘saving the world’ or whatever, but you still have a responsibility with us. Your siblings feel your absence, your mother grieves for a child she hasn’t lost- all because of your need to be self-sacrificial. Your duty isn’t to the strangers you help, it’s to the family you neglect,” his words pour out with a confident slur and you deduce he’s been drinking. “Just do us a favor and don’t show up. Don’t remind us how close we are to losing you or how your absence has left us disappointed in the adult you’ve become. It’s better that you just stick with the life you chose instead of teetering back and forth between suicide and comfort.”

You’re speechless. The words that you’ve queued for retaliation dissolve under his spewing confidence. He is angry and hurt and drunk. You can picture him now- freshly abandoned recliner with a double six-pack worth of Bud’s scattered about the side table. He’s pacing the homey living room that’s frosted with warm holiday decor, probably the only one awake in the house. The house that’s full of your family. Your family.

Your entire family is in that home and you’re here.

Your entire family?

A family.

Not yours, not anymore.

“If you’ve ever cared for us, don’t bother. We’ve anticipated your reckless death for so long it may as well be fate. I love you, kid, but just forget about us like we have you.”

The line is dead before the words fully settle into your bones like the enochian sigil Cas implemented years ago- maybe even replacing it with the force at which it was etched.

Sure, your father has always been emotionally distant and your relationship with him strained, but you never imagined him speaking to you like that. The brutal honesty of his poisoned words have done their damage though, securing all of your doubts and insecurities of your place in your family.

It was a tough decision- you promise it was. You tried college, even gave a normal life the previously proclaimed try, but it didn’t fit. It felt like you had stuck yourself into a fizzy bottle of cola that threatened to spit you out at any moment. It was too strict, too encompassing, and too expectant. However, since you’ve been on your own and riding the Eisenhower roads from troubled town to troubled town, you’ve found your purpose. You’re skilled, stealthy, witty- made for The Life. And it was hard to abandon the path paved for you by your family’s privilege, but it was necessary for you to feel comfortable in your own skin.

Your arm loses its stability and your wrist slacks back to your side, barely clutching your phone in your hand.

The field beyond is wavy with white powder and the quiet that is absorbed by it solidifies your presence. You turn back to see Sam accept a fresh beer from his brother. Dean settles back into his spot on the sleek black hood of his personified ego, uttering unintelligible words with an effortless smirk.

You pocket your phone and cast one more envious glance along the steady horizon.

Walking back to the brothers, your embedded guilt worsens as you feel the shift of energy amongst the trio.

“Everything okay?” Sam asks first because of course he does.

“Slight change of plans,” you sniffle, refusing to feel embarrassed since you can blame the simple act on the freezing temperatures around you. “I can take you up on that other round,” you attempt a casual smirk to Dean as you settle back into your chair. The brothers share a glance.

“Who was that?” Sam asked with a slight tick of his head toward your phone, his gaze latching onto the direction of the pocketed item.

“My dad,” you sink into the previously comfortable position that now feels like a lazy river that’s swirling you down into a nothingness pit of, well, nothing.

“Heard,” Dean nods, kicking himself off the hood and heading back inside to retrieve an ice cold beer. In hindsight, he could’ve left the packs outside on the icy pavement and saved himself a trip or two.

“What did he say?” Sam sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees and slacking the fizzing bottle in his bruised hand- marked from previously saving your ass from the clutches of a blood-drunk vamp.

“Basically told me I’m not-,” your words start with such baffled confidence but quickly melt into heartbroken speechlessness. You sniffle, unable to blame it on the cold this time due to the stray tear that rolls down your cheek.

You’ve confided in Sam more than once about your rocky relationship with your family but it was still difficult to formulate the situation for another to envision.

“Said it’s better I don’t come home. That I’ve only disappointed and worried them with my ‘choices’. I think he disowned me,” the last five words melt out in a guttural despair. The reality hits, the meaning of your fathers words and the implications of them already saving themselves a spot in the newest dictionary. It’s settled. You’re alone.

“He said that?” Sam bucks back in a shocked confusion, his brows furrowed in misunderstanding.

“He sounded so done with me. Like he would rather accept losing me than my ‘flaky’ appearances. Like they’d all be better off,” the words waver your volume, causing an embarrassing sob to rip from your lips.

Soft shuffling followed by a nearly inaudible click of a door latching, lead to Sam’s warm hand on your back. His fingertips curl slightly, causing his nails to trail a short and sweet drag over your clothed skin.

“I’m so sorry,” his words are genuine. They’re loaded and meaningful. You can almost hear your own heartache in his voice but the feel of his palm steadying you settles the second threat of a sob.

“Family is hard,” he starts, his thumb caressing over the wrinkled folds of your jacket that ripple under his influence. “You’ll never be able to please everyone, and you’ll never be able to rise to their unreasonable expectations. I know you,” he sets his bottle on the pavement and uses his now free hand to push back some of your fallen hair. “You’re kind, caring, strong, empathetic. You try so hard for the approval of others and I hate that you don’t receive the respect you deserve for the effort you contribute.”

He’s quick and organized, almost like he’s practiced this before. For you or himself? You don’t know, but crafted for a misunderstood child for sure.

“Unconditional love is the one thing each and every one of us is entitled to from birth but is unfortunately the one thing that’s rarely supplied to us. I’m so fucking sorry that the people responsable for giving you that would cast you aside like this.”

His free hand rests on your knee, almost like he’s trying to funnel the depth of his words upon your skin.

“You’re doing the right thing, yaknow,” he says and you know he’s considering the insecurities you’ve once disclosed with him. “This life is hard and complicated and isn’t made for just anyone. You’re talented and smart and-,” he halted. When you look up, his lips are pressed thin and he’s obviously holding back.

“I’m just sorry,” he shakes his head, deciding to finish his projected rant, his grip on your form stiff but assuring.

The night is still- silent. The tiny crystals falling from the clouds above settled on the frozen blankets with soft clinks and trickles. Icy rain, almost. The sound is melodic.

“I don’t understand how he can default to this- accepting my fate as if I’m walking a damn plank,” you sniffle, wiping away a few more tears that stain your skin with almost freezing force due to the weather.

“He’s hurting,” Sam defaults, “he’s scared and he doesn’t understand. But that’s still no excuse.”

A comfortable but emotionally aching silence settles between you two. Dean’s taking too long with your beer but you remember the click from earlier was the motel door closing, offering you and his younger brother some space.

“Me and Dean didn’t have much planned for our Christmas, we never do,” he scoffs a soft chuckle, “but we can make an effort for you. I know that Dean secretly loves building gingerbread houses.” Sam nudges you softly, hoping to lighten the tension embedded in your shoulders.

You appreciate his effort, you really do, but your fathers words are still fresh. His voice still echoes in your skull, reminding you of all the ways you’ve disappointed them in your life.

Sam can see the conflict in your tense features. You’ve now buried your face in your palm but by the scrunched skin that lines your hidden eyes, he can tell the toll this incident is taking on you. He really hopes his words of encouragement weren’t too preachy but were instead a helpful chant you needed to hear. He definitely knows how it might have helped him when he was hurting badly.

He knows the feeling all too well. He’s disappointed John, Dean, Bobby. Just about everyone he’s looked up to in his life has casted back down a look of disgusted contentment that framed him like a spotlight- showing how his once innocent infantile being was now an abdominal hallmark of the literal apocalypse.

All his life, his skin has felt wrong, his hands moved in a way he didn’t want, even his body ached for a taunting drug that led him to his most regrettable moment, but he always intended good. He always sought felicity for those around him. And he never intended the pain his actions inflicted on those he only wanted to protect.

And selfishly, worst of all, he was constantly misunderstood. Something he wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy. Hell, even Lucifer had his reasons.

He knew his speech was a lot of ‘self-help’ words you would almost want to cringe at, but he desperately wanted- no, needed. Fucking needed, you to know that despite all of whatever your father said to you, that Sam knew your intentions were selfless and thoughtful. That you aren’t just some dumb kid who took up this life on a whim.

“You’re doing the right thing.” And that. That is what settled with you the most. It’s what you believed, but until now, you trusted no one to remind you.

“Then why does it feel so wrong?” You peak out from the comfort of your own palm again.

“Because it hurts,” he says with a sympathetic cringe. “Because life isn’t fair and acceptance is a curse.”

The crystals continue to fall all around you two. Sam’s firm hold on your knee and repetitive caress on your back keep you steady.

“But I can promise you one thing,” he says with emphasis that implies he’ll continue once you look at him fully. “You’ll never lose us,” Sam means him and Dean out of obligation, but he wishes to specify himself. He wishes to make himself stand out a bit higher to remind you that you aren’t just another hunter friend with relatable baggage but yet a good friend which he shared a profound bond with.

You’re different. He’s different. But to each other, you’re the same.

To each other, you’re worthy of love without bounds, you’re deserving of a microphone to defend yourself with, you’re obligated a benefit of the doubt.

For each other, you’re always there to listen, examine, and determine a deeper understanding of intent and not initial thought.

With each other, you’re whole. You’re beyond a mutual understanding. You’re quite simply understood. And even when you aren’t, there is still the unspoken promise of patience to be understood.

Sam Winchester offers more than you feel you’ll ever deserve. But for him, he fears he could never supply you just enough.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

>tags: @blossomingorchids

[shadowdaddies]

The Offering

Nesta x witch!Reader smut (AU)

A/N: I'm very much in the Witchy Girl Autumn spirit. This is an AU where Nesta is a Death Goddess; be warned it's a bit dark and twisty.

Warnings: mean domme!Nesta, fingering, oral f!receiving, tribbing, pussy spanking, breath play ish?, degradation, idk this is filthy just beware and minors dni or I'll hex you

Ice-coated leaves crunched beneath your bare feet, the remnants of snow a dulled sting against your skin. Unable to fight the shivers that wracked through you, you inwardly cursed yourself for being such a weak witch to be phased by something as little as the weather. 

The heavy black cloak draped over your body provided your only protection from the late December air as you found your small opening in the forest and knelt. Shaky hands, stiff from winter air clumsily pushed debris to the side, pulled kindling from your pack, carved the spell circle into the dirt.

Hands dirtied, breath cloudy in the crisp cold, you looked to the sky as the stars seemed to dim even without the light of the moon. The second full moon of this month - and the last of this year - would guarantee the strongest connection to the earth. As mother nature began anew, you would so draw from her power, praying to the goddesses for guidance and strength to begin anew as well.

Regretfully, you pulled the black shawl from where it draped across your neck, sucking in a deep breath at the chill that filled your bones when you laid the offering at your makeshift altar’s base beside the purple candles and fruits you’d set to honor the Crone. 

The symbol of new beginnings, wisdom, and serenity - your last hope was sacrament and supplication to the waning facet of the Triple Headed Goddess. As darkness enveloped the land and the wind grew eerily still, you breathed light into the candles with a whisper of a spell-cast. The kindling caught quickly, blazing to life with a ferocity that had you pulling off your cloak. 

Completely bare in the darkness with the spirits of goddesses and witches past watching curiously, you began to chant in the old language - your story, and your please for help. A soft smile graced your lips as the flames raged higher and higher, the only source of light in this Black Moon night, signaled that your voice had been heard.

As warm hope swelled in your chest, you closed your eyes, head thrown back in whole surrender to the powers that listened, only for that warmth to be brusquely ripped away. No gust of wind signaled the suffocation of the flames before you. It was the cold, a supernatural force that rattled your core which told you something was amiss. 

Eyes fluttering open, you gasped at the sight of the North Star shining brightly in the sky, where it had been missing only moments ago. 

“It’s snowing,” a sultry voice purred. You jumped at the sight of a woman - not a woman, but something... more - leaning against the pyre, seemingly unbothered by the simmering embers of extinguished flames against her exposed skin. 

Translucent silver fabric draped over the curves of her body, your eyes drinking her in as they trailed upwards. The thorned diadem that circled her braided hair seemed to mimic the silver flames that danced in her eyes, and you gasped at the realization of who was before you.

Lady Death read your expression with a taunting smirk, eyes glittering with amusement as she leapt from the altar with grace. You watched in awe as she picked up a pomegranate from the offerings, humming a cheery tune that seemed to betray the nature of her being. 

“It’s snowing,” she repeated, brow arched in question as Death’s gaze raked unabashedly over your naked body. “Aren’t you cold, little witch?”

The heat from her gaze sent a shock of confidence though you, your expression shifting to match her own. “I could ask the same of you, Lady Death,” you countered, accentuating your own, slow stare. You allowed yourself to fully revel in her form, the unexpected beauty of a goddess of death. 

Her long legs reflected the star’s light through the slits of wispy fabric in her gown, her breasts peaked from the cold, nearly as pale as the snow that had begun to drift upon the forest floor. 

A laugh echoed through the air, and your eyes snapped to hers to find that same taunting smile, lazy like a predator who’s caught its prey. “I am Death,” she purred, plunging a finger through the flesh of the pomegranate in her hand. “I don’t get cold, pet.”

Tipping the fruit to her lips, pomegranate juice flowed down, staining her lips a deep red and trailing down. Down her throat, the red liquid flowed slowly between her breasts and below the dress. 

You could feel heat rise to your cheeks, cunt fluttering at the mere sight of her, of everything you could and could not see. The fruit rolled from the goddess’s fingertips, dropping to the ground unceremoniously as she strolled toward where you still kneeled on the ground. 

A single finger curled under your chin, easily maneuvering you how she pleased. “Why did you summon me?” 

Heart thundered in your chest, eyes widening as you registered her question. “I-I didn’t mean to summon you,” you argued, voice pleading. “I was making an offering, hoping for a blessing from the Crone-“

“You meant to summon the Crone?” Death’s grip sharpened on your chin. 

Willing your heart to still, you forced yourself to look into her eyes, the depths of them swirling with dark power. “No, I meant to ask for wisdom. For blessings with a fresh start. My life-“ You choked slightly at the press of her hand at your throat, just hard enough to make your head feel lighter.

“You summoned me, you naive little witch.” She spat the last word like a curse, cupping your jaw as she jerked your head to face the circle behind her. “You summoned the Crone. Hecate, Coatlicue, Muerte, Meng Po, Lady Death.” The briefest pause. “Nesta.”

I go by many names, witch. And yet, you somehow ‘accidentally’ summoned me, for a mere blessing?” 

“W-well, yes. I just wanted to move on, my relationship-“

A sharp cackle cut off your rambling, the noise so unlike how the goddess had sounded earlier that you nearly jumped again. 

“You know, pet,” Nesta whispered, leaning down until her face was a breath away from your own. “I appear to those who call on me as what they truly desire. And you, my dear, see me as myself.” Drawing back slightly, the goddess’s hand moved to stroke your hair in a frighteningly soft manner.

“So tell me, pet, what do you truly desire?”

Eyes dropping down to the trail of sweet juice that stained Nesta’s skin, you could feel her smile as though she could read your thoughts. Lust overcame you like a force of its own, head cloudy as you heard yourself babble admissions of want. 

“Take it. Take what you need, little witch.” Nesta gasped as you lunged forward, pulling her to her knees along with you in the dirt. Lips instantly found hers, a clash of teeth and tongues as you licked every bit of remaining fruit from her mouth. 

Trailing down, you followed the path of temptation down her chest with a frantic need you had never felt before, pawing at the scraps of fabric that held Nesta’s dress in place. She laughed softly, the sound quickly turning to a moan as you took one of her nipples into your mouth. 

“Lay back,” you panted, Nesta’s amused lack of urgency only spurring on your own frustration. “Please,” you whined, helpless in your need to touch her, taste her. With a soft hum, she obliged you, laying back on the thin blanket of snow with a slowness that allowed you to strip her bare before she hit the earth.

Bringing your lips back to her chest, you licked and sucked dark bruises that drew sinful moans from the goddess. She reveled in the pain and pleasure, and with that knowledge you dragged your nails down her thighs, cleaning up the juice until you hovered above her glistening cunt.

Practically panting in your crazed state, you spread her legs to settle in when you felt yourself suddenly lifted. Death had easily flipped you onto your back, her hips nestled atop your own as she pinned your wrists into the dirt. 

“You look so cute like this. Needy, desperate enough to let me do anything to you,” she growled. So wrapped up in your lustful haze, you simply nodded along, weakly arching your hips for some sort of friction. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you asked for, baby,” Nesta cooed. Her hips lowered to meet yours, legs interlocked as she slowly ground her clit against your own.

Soft moans flowed from her lips like a melody, your own soft pants swallowed by her lips crashing against yours, her teeth sinking into your skin, lips sucking your tongue into her mouth as though she was trying to consume you. Nesta kept you pinned beneath her, using your body as she humped and rolled her growing slick against yours. 

You had never felt so helpless yet so powerful, lacking control but seizing pleasure. Your pussy clenched, lips gaping as you felt yourself begin to hit your orgasm when Nesta abruptly pulled away. “Not yet, pet,” she tsk’d at your fucked out confusion beneath her. 

“You need to take care of me.” Turning around, Nesta slid up your body, her sticky cunt perched over your mouth as her hands skated down your hips. “Show me that you deserve my blessing.”

Fully pressing her weight onto you, you moaned at the feeling of breathlessness, the taste of her dripping against your chin and lips as her hips began to rock. Taking advantage of Nesta releasing your wrists, you wrapped your arms around her thighs, pulling her closer to lick her clean, sucking and lightly nipping at her clit while you studied her reactions to every motion. 

You could tell she was close, doubling down your efforts when she suddenly thrust a finger inside of you, curling against your slick walls with embarrassing ease. She chuckled, adding to the humiliation when she added a second finger, twisting a curling with tortuous slowness that stole your focus from her pussy.

Nesta’s thumb found your clit, your hips bucking up at the sudden feeling. Before you could register what happened, Nesta was fully sitting on you, cutting off your air as a harsh smack landed on your pussy. Your scream was muffled by her cunt on your lips, but Nesta rolled against you in response, moaning at the vibrations.

Lifting up slightly, the goddess rolled a soothing hand over your puffy clit. “You take what I give you, pet. Now, stay still. I will not ask again.” She gave no warning before plunging her fingers inside of you once more, this time faster as her tongue licked a wet stripe down your clit. 

Your legs burned from keeping them still against the cold, hard ground, head swimming from how long you’d been held between Nesta’s thighs when she fluttered around your tongue. “Come, now,” she commanded, and your body obeyed. Shaking and moaning, you savored her release as she worked you through yours. 

Sitting up with an impossible grace, Nesta smirked at you over her shoulder, lips stained red and shining with your arousal as the North Star cast a glow over her silhouette. You lay, sore and exhausted, as the goddess crawled up your body, sitting her wet pussy on your stomach. She looked down at you with a sense of appraisal, hands lazily roaming every inch of your skin.

“I think I’ll have to keep you,” she hummed, thumb lazily dragging across your bottom lip.

“Keep me? What does that mean?” you squeaked out in a whisper, eagerness and fear eddying within your mind at the possibilities. 

Nesta only offered you a cryptic smile, thumb dipping into your mouth where you could still taste the pomegranate’s sweet nectar on her skin. Tongue flicking out, you wrapped your lips around her like second nature. “Good girl,” she muttered as the forest grew dark around you once more.

[azsazz]

With Me

Eris x Rhysand's Sister!Reader

Summary: Anon Req: I know your request are closed but still writing. In the future could you do something with Eris x rhys sister?

Warnings: Graphic depictions of canon violence

Word Count: 1,520

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It had been on a wisp of an autumn breeze that Eris found out.

Found out about the plans of the High Lord of Spring, how he and his sons planned an ambush on the wife and daughter of the High Lord of Night on their travels to the Illyrian mountains for a visit with her son.

He had been on his horse, red as the leaves on the trees, scouting the borders between Autumn and Spring. The wind ruffled his hair and tickled his pointed ears with the whispers of scheming sons. Eris had stilled the mare beneath him and urged the current with a touch of magic to enhance the conversation.

That High Lord will pay for everything he’s tried to do to ours.

He won’t even know what’s coming. And neither will those little bitches.

Dibs on the older one.

It had eaten Eris throughout the day. Across the rest of his round on the border, during battle strategy, between sword fighting with his younger brothers. Lucien was learning quickly how to play his brothers against each other, and even scored a hit on Eris while his mind had been run through with worry.

He is a smart male but the thought of going to his father with this news didn’t feel right, but keeping it to himself felt even worse. So, after a family dinner that he loathed, Eris put on his emerald robes and marched into the Night Court territory.

He was too late. 

Eris caught the scent of your blood on a tornado of wind that carried the harrowing cries of you and your mothers downfall. You had been brutally attacked by the Spring Court sons and their father, and as Eris crept closer he saw blood coated flowers sprouting from the ground. The High Lord’s magic, a love note to the High Lord of Night.

A soft gurgle caught his attention as he stepped into the clearing washed in moonlight. The sight before him was harrowing; your carriage door ripped off its hinges, the windows blown out. Even the large, black steeds that had been pulling the wagon had been slaughtered, their entrails long lines in the white snow.

A wet cough, one with the whisper of death accompanying it drew his attention. Eris didn’t hesitate to locate you, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of you curled beneath your slain mother, her arms still wrapped around you protectively. 

Your eyes were wide with fear, mouth gaping like a fish. Blood of both yours and your mothers surrounded you, leaking from your lips, from between the hands you had pressed weakly to your stomach.

Falling to his knees, Eris reached a hand out but halted when your eyes met his. His mind was reeling, a young warrior with little battlefield experience before a female struggling through her thinning breaths.

Something stirred deeply within him, something he knew but couldn’t say, wouldn’t admit out loud until years later. 

You had enough strength to shift your hand in the snow, reaching towards him, eyes screaming a plea for help from the handsome son of Autumn. 

And he did. He held your organs in his hands as he winnowed you from Night into his own territory, right into the hands of his mother. 

Amaretto stood with a start, the book in her hands falling loudly to the floor. There were no sounds in the room, not even the crackling of the fires raging in the hearths. She kept it this way so she could hear the sounds of her husband's footsteps when he walked down the marble halls of the Woodland House, each echo a shot to her confidence.

“Eris,” she gasps at her son, who looks over at her with wide, pleading, auburn eyes. She halts in her tracks, that look in his eyes, the sheer terror on his face. Her own eyes softened with a knowing look, and she uttered, “Oh, Eris.”

He and his mother worked in tandem all through the night. And when Beron’s footsteps began to sound down the hall Eris had been the one to distract him, goad him. He didn’t care about the bruises and pain inflicted by his father’s hand because it was nothing to the pain he could feel from you, through the thread of the bond that had appeared at the sight of you. 

His mother saved your life with the little trickle of healing magic she had left. Always hidden from Beron, but would use it to save her son’s mate’s life. Two gentle souls that deserved much better hands that you had been dealt in the world.

Eris stayed by your side when you had been moved to a guest room. You hadn’t woken for days and he couldn’t figure out a way to hide you from his father who would surely use you against the Night Court, who were mourning the news of their felled female family members.

Word had come of the slaying of the Spring Court High Lord and the two eldest sons, leaving young Tamlin to take his place. In the fray, the High Lord of Night had been murdered as well, with Rhysand taking the chair of rule.

It was all very confusing times. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“Eris,” you plead, tears staining your eyes. He can feel the cracking in your chest even though you’re trying to hide it from him. You’ve never been good at blocking your feelings from your loving mate, but the thought of returning home was all too much. Eris wasn’t understanding your fear, your need to go home to the Night Court after so long away, after Amarantha’s reign of terror has finally ended. “I need to see my brother.”

Eris had hidden you from the wretched female while he and all of the other citizens of the Autumn Court had been forced beneath the mountain. It had been a long, lonely fifty years of trying to find a way to get back to Velaris, to get inside of the barriers that had been protected with an extra boost of Rhysand’s power before he became trapped.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, hugging you closely. The both of you are laid up in his bed, days of reacquainting each other with the other’s body after so long away. Your mate had all but fallen apart in your arms, and you in his, the loneliness of your years spent wondering how your mate fared against the powerful female set to ruin your world. 

“Come with me,” you beg wetly, clutching to his clothes. He had winnowed right back into your arms as soon as he was able, and he hasn’t let you go since. You hadn’t wanted him to. “Let’s run away from Autumn, together.” 

Just like Lucien had done, chased away from the Court he knew as home while their awful brothers hunted him down. It had been another harrowing night for Eris, one you held him through. 

Only the knowledge that his brother was safe in the Spring Court had kept him from completely falling apart.

“I can’t just leave like this, fawn,” he answers wetly, stroking your hair back from your face. You’re as beautiful as the day you woke up, when your eyes landed on his and the bond made itself known to you. He has spent every day since thanking the Mother for this time with you, for sparing you that winter night, for keeping you safe when he was trapped under the mountain with no way out. “Not yet.”

Your voice breaks and hot tears stream down your face, throat tightening to the point where no words could break if you tried. You want Eris to come with you, you need Eris to come with you. You’ve only just gotten him back and it cannot be time to give him up already.

“It’s okay, fawn,” Eris consoles sadly. He will keep you in his arms tonight and tomorrow, up until he escorts you to your brother’s land and makes sure that you are safe with them. He has been a selfish male for so many years, falling headfirst into the mating bond. He’d fallen into you completely and without any remorse, the same way you had found yourself falling into him. “You need to do this. And I will be here, fighting for a better life for us until we can be together, freely.”

Eris and Amaretto had come up with an elaborate plan to tell the rest of the family. That Eris would hide you until you healed, and found his mate at the Autumnal Equinox balls. It would ensure your safety, being classed as a High Fae, but also being Eris’ mate. You had learned to deal with Beron and Eris’ insufferable brothers for years.

You love Eris with every fiber of your being, and the thought of parting with him so soon after getting him back tears your heart to shreds, but you need to go, especially after everything Eris had told you happened down there. 

“I love you, Eris.” 

“I love you too, fawn.”

[yourhoeshorses]

Your Hoes Horses Immersive Shader Packs for SSO!

AND MORE!

Free to download right here!

Preview pics and additional update information in the cut below <3

UPDATE! Previously, my shaders were mainly based around the shader affect IMMERSE. Unfortunately, the new PC I bought was unable to process those affects, so I had to switch to MXAO (earlier version of IMMERSE). I personally really loved IMMERSE and I'm extremely sad I had to stop using it, the shadows were so smooth! I have tried my best to make these shaders look and behave as similarly as possible to earlier versions of my preset packs. There is occasionally some issues with shadows, but I've tried my best to hide any weirdness. Besides that, I have improved the load order (I think idrk tbh) and added some new affects into the mix with these presets! I hope you enjoy!

SPRING

Frost Melt

Frigid Rain

SUMMER

Morning Dew

Everyday

Late Afternoon

Overcast

Before the Storm

Rainy

Sunset

Twilight

Clear Night

Foggy Night

AUTUMN

Cool Fall Day

Final Warmth

Late Autumn

Days End

Dreary Nightfall

WINTER

Clear Skies

Frozen Air

Snow Fall

Suns Rest

Aurora

Midnight Blizzard

+NEW!!!

INTERIORS

Home Stable

Dungeon

[perfectlyoongi]

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who bakes cakes with you in the early hours of the morning when the whole city is still asleep. three or four in the morning were sacred hours in your house as autumn approached. with matching aprons and wine glasses in hand, you and Jungkook followed instructions as disorganized as possible, hoping to find some cake batter or cookies in the midst of your laughter. the music played low, remaining completely silent when you and Jungkook exchanged jokes and visions, but always lulling you into a little dance that lasted the entire morning. at six in the morning you sat at the table tasting your creation before saying goodbye and falling asleep in your rooms. “today i want an orange cake. i know it’s late, but do you want to do one with me? i found two recipes that might be good. i’ll even let you have the first slice.”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who has a collection of photos and videos of you that you might consider embarrassing. Jungkook seemed to have a certain gift when it came to humiliating you: whenever you were distracted, or too involved in something, Jungkook made a point of saving everything on his phone, creating a folder in his gallery with just your photos. you could say it was a hobby of Jungkook’s that always made him happy, as it was in these more personal moments that your soul truly shined and oh, how he was in love with that light. “you are so done on your birthday. you’ll see, i’ll post the photos i took of you in the car yesterday. you were beautiful. the world needs to see your natural beauty.”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who always orders your favorite pizza when he doesn’t feel like cooking. you shared the household chores, it was an agreement that was quickly made by you as soon as you became housemates; but there were days when Jungkook came home more tired, or even after dinner, and there was no desire or patience to cook. as such, Jungkook would order your favorite pizza from your favorite pizzeria and, after paying for it, he would call you over for dinner while he went to bed. in a way, you were always Jungkook’s priority. “hi, the work ran a little late today, sorry. i already called for your favorite pizza and you have the money here. i hope you eat well. i’m really tired. good night, angel. good night.”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who buys letter magnets to communicate with you on the fridge when your are mismatched. there were times when you would get home when Jungkook had just left. there were times when Jungkook would go to sleep when you were preparing lunch. there were days when you didn’t even see each other. but as you shared a house, communication was essential to make that experience comforting. so Jungkook bought a large number of colorful magnets in the shapes of letters for you to use as a means of communication. they were only used for basic things, of course, but it was still a very tender gesture on Jungkook’s part. “buy bread. dinner 8pm. seal.”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who always gives you a ride in winter, even if it’s just to get bread. Jungkook was so warm and helpful. if you needed something he was there to make sure you didn’t miss anything. and, when the weather was more brutal, with snow and rain decorating the streets, Jungkook always made a point of taking you wherever you needed to go, secretly keeping in his heart all the streets shared with you, shouting the most popular songs in the radio. it could be mere minutes, but it was enough to leave Jungkook completely surrendered to you. “don’t be stupid. with this cold? you may get sick and then what? i don’t know how to take care of myself, let alone you! I’m looking out for your well-being, that’s all.”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who plays drunk uno with you on long summer nights. when the boredom was a lot and the nights were too hot, you and Jungkook decided to distract yourself with a simple game of cards. changing some of the rules, you and Jungkook agreed to play several games of uno until one of you was too happy to continue. there were screams and laughter, a lot of cheating and distortions, long nights enveloped in pure happiness and complicity. without there ever being a loser, but also without any winner, you and Jungkook repeated the game on the hottest and most boring nights, each of you needing the other’s presence to make that summer something unforgettable. “no, no! you can’t put a +4 after i told you to take 2! stop being a cheater and accept your defeat. no. put the card back into your deck!”

ROOMMATE!JUNGKOOK who declares himself to you when the storm stole all the light in your house. several candles were scattered around your living room in an attempt to bring some comfort in that darkness. sitting on the couch without having much to do, you and Jungkook watched time pass slowly. a long period of silence danced around the various flames, stealing all your comfort and offering Jungkook a small door for him to finally open up to you. and it was when you went to get water that Jungkook followed you to the kitchen and, very confused and nervous, finally confessed to you. “i don’t know if it’s the candles that are making me nostalgic or if it’s really your company, but i want to tell you something. i like you. a lot. i don’t think i should like you this much but i have no control over my feelings for you.”

[scorpioriesling]

Hello! Do you think you're going to continue writing part 5 of " invisible strings" with eris? I really loved this series! Thank you

Invisible String - Part 5

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Eris x reader

Warning(s): Please be advised; this part might not be suitable for all audiences. Proceed with caution.

Summary: You'd taken the nanny position for the royal family over a year ago, not expecting what would come of it or how close you'd grow to the child you cared for. Things became tough for Eris when his wife left him and his daughter, and he found it increasingly harder to raise Riley himself. He soon realizes, you've provided a lot more than the typical job description duties for his daughter... and maybe for him, too.

SR’s Note: My apologies, this took forever for me to finish writing for you all (I've had so much on my plate lately). This part IS SHORT, HOWEVER I'm literally already working on the next part and wanted to give you guys at least what I had done so you knew I was indeed working on it! Lol. I added in the advisory so that younger / uncomfortable readers won't read the series without knowing or expecting potential risks in content to come. For those who enjoy or look forward to content as such -- I hope you are excited! Nonetheless, I hope readers will enjoy this series that came to me in a dream one night. (; Much love to all.

Tags: @mellowmusings @talesofadragon @rcarbo1 @mandziaaa @lilah-asteria @a-frog-with-a-laptop @kitsunetori @dannul @velarisdusk @lamarmotta @paintedbyshadows @i-know-i-can @adventure-awaits13 @acourtofbatboydreams (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ:

The Autumn Court experienced the changing seasons like any other in Prythian. Spring was still spring, there was still snow in the winter -- but, the current state of dreary, grayness that took over the sky and stretched beyond the court's borders was quite the contrast to a usual week in July.

Perhaps, it was a reflection of the inner turmoil seeded in those residing in the Forrest House.

"Y/N," Riley whines. "When will the sun come back?"

You sigh, wondering the same.

"I don't know Riles. I truly don't."

She huffs, her fingers reaching for her the mason jar sitting in the middle of the table. The wilting flower inside has lost the vibrant orange coloring on its petals from last week, now replaced with wilting brown ones.

"My flower is yucky with no sun on it." She frowns. You pat her head as she inspects the plant, your shoulders stiffening when you hear the front door open and close quietly.

"Daddyyyyy," Riley groans. "When is the sun coming out?" She trills, hopping off the dining room chair and making way for the front door. It seems she heard him come in too, as she makes her way toward the foyer.

The two of you had gone the entire week with as little communication as possible -- a whole lot of "yep"s and "mhm"s and nods and short debriefings. Since the whole closet incident from the week prior, you hadn't gotten the courage to talk with him again anyways; he'd been so cross with you, so irritated. Your cheeks heated at the thought, how embarassed you'd felt that night. The shame.

Honestly, the whole thing made you a bit angry.

You take a deep breath as footsteps approach, their hushed, mindless conversation drowned out by your own thoughts clouding your headspace. It's not until Eris is standing right in front of you that you come back to reality.

"Play tea party?"

You glance down, taking in the little one's innocent expression from down below. You give her a soft smile, looking to Eris quickly before returning her gaze.

"I'd be honored, dear -- would you go set it up? I'll come join you in a few minutes. Let me talk to your dad first." Riley nods, skipping down the hallway toward her bedroom. Eris looses a sigh, passing toward the kitchen island and leaning against it before looking to you again.

"So..." He says, folding his arms across his chest. You suck in a breath, prepared to hand it to him -- ask him what the Hell all that disrespect was for, what the deal is with the gowns, what was going on between the two of you, all of it.

But, your eyes catch on the wilting stem in the glass jar still sat on the table. You stall a moment, every angry thought in your head receeding like the tides when you consider what could be a more imortant topic of conversation in this very moment.

"So..." You begin, taking a step toward him. He watches you, his face expressionless, as you continue. "I... I've been thinking. Riley is, almost five, and... well, it is the last week of July..."

He simply nods, as though saying go on without saying it. You can't help but roll your eyes, stepping to stand right across from him in the space between the island and the kitchen counter.

"I think she should be enrolled in school."

His brow twitches at this, the most you've gotten from him all week. It's silent for longer than necessary, almost uncomfortable, so you start again.

"She's asking me things, Eris, that she needs a proper teacher for-"

"No."

You startle, blinking as his face returns to that look of emotionless stone.

"W-what?"

"I said no." He shrugs, staring you straight in the eye like it isn't negotiable.

"...Okay, well, I want you to hear me out." You say, trying to remain calm. "She wants to learn. She's inquisitive, and smart, and she-"

"I know she's smart." He cuts in. You huff, your brow furrowing.

"Eris, you're not even listening to me." You can't help the way your voice pitches, but his brows flatten into a straight line.

"I don't need to hear it, Y/N -- she has you. We can hire a teacher to come here if you want. But no, she isn't going to a public school where Gods know what could happen to her." He says, his low tone rising with each sentence.

You push off the counter, folding your arms across your chest. "She needs the social interaction with other kids her age, Eris. You can't keep her locked up in here-"

"I'm her father," he says angrily, leaning toward you. "I think I know, what she needs."

Once the words leave his mouth, his face softens as though he realizes what he's said and how he has acted. You stand still, your eyes wide as you stare up at him. Never has he acted so defensive, not even with the damned dresses -- but this, this was on a whole different level.

You watch as his expression changes from rage to pure worry, his concerned eyes searching yours in desperation. You can't help but look away, only glancing back when his fingers hesitantly reach for your arm.

"Y/N, I didn't mean-"

"Don't." You yank your shoulder back, sneering up at him. He drops his hand slowly, shaking his head as he fumbles for his words.

"I'm sorry Y/N. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that, I-"

"You're damned right, you shouldn't have." You said, glaring up at him through your brows. The lump in your throat only grew as you began to feel bad, practically kicking him while he was indeed apologizing.

Maybe he deserved it... a little.

You turned on your heel, making way for Riley's room. He could make dinner tonight. After all -- maybe some pretend tea would do you good.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ:

"I need to leave at first light for another trip with the guard."

It'd been a few days since you'd had it out with Eris, and maybe it was good you did; he'd been much more present, insisting on cooking, proving more when he was home, and being more involved with not just his daughter but you as well when he was home in the evenings... well, as much as you'd let him be. You hadn't entirely forgiven him yet, all things considered, and the incident from a few weeks ago hadn't even been mentioned, so the relationship was, awkward. To say the least.

"How long this time." You said it as plainly as you could, trying to ignore the burn of the firepoker upon your heart at the thought of him leaving again. You wished it didn't hurt so bad, wished it didn't effect you so much each time.

"Only three days. A quick trip to Spring and back." He nods assuringly, setting his pack on the dining table and looking to you. Nodding, you awkwardly run your hand along your arm, feeling a bit exposed under his intense gaze. This late in the evening, you knew he didn't tell Riley he'd be leaving (per usual) -- so she'd wake up tomorrow with that lovely realization.

"Ok." You chew on your bottom lip, and Eris sighs, stepping toward you. He reaches for your hand, but sensing your hesitation, he retracts. A look of sadness crosses his face before his eyes meet yours.

"Those dresses... in the closet." He murmurs. "They were Selene's." His jaw tightens at the name, and you swear you stop breathing. This was not the conversation you planned to have tonight.

"She... her family, they pass them down for tradition." He continues. "On her way out, she didn't really care to take them; I mean, she took just about everything else, but." He huffs a humorless laugh, but continues when you don't say anything.

"Anyway... I kept them because." He sighs, his head dropping before looking to you again. "You're right, Y/N. Riley is a very smart girl. One day, she is going to ask about her birth mother, and, well."

He shrugs. "I'm not going to have anything to show or give her that was hers." His gaze drops.

"The only thing I had left was those silly dresses from her side of the family."

Your heart clenches as though you can feel every ounce of sorrow he is feeling in that moment. You reach out, your hand caressing his cheek softly before you can think.

"Eris, I... I had no idea, really, I'm sorry-"

"Please, Gods don't apologize." His hand covers yours, his fingers wrapping around yours as he holds it against his cheek. "I know how it looks, and how it must have looked when you happened upon it." He sighs, his other hand reaching for your waist.

"It didn't help that I handled the situation poorly, either." He admits, sorrowfully looking into your eyes. You gaze up at him, your mouth twisting to the side. "I can't take it back, but I truly hope you can understand how sorry I am Y/N."

You step closer, closing the gap between the two of you as he pulls you into a firm embrace. His hand runs through the strands of your hair, a gentle reminder that everything might, just might, be okay.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ:

"Y/N! Another!"

Riley holds out an identical bloom to the one previously in the mason jar to you th efollowing day, her earlier sadness at her father's departure replaced with temporary glee.

"Oh wow! Look -- this one is very vibrant." You wink at her, continuing on the path back to the Forest House.

"Vi...bran...t." She sounds out, examining the stem in her hand. She dumped out the dead flower pre-garden walk, and surely will now want to replace it.

As the two of you approach the front door, you stoop down to grab the few pieces of mail collated there. One envelope of deep mohogany with gold embossing catches your eye -- but, you follow the little girl inside nonetheless and push the door closed.

"We put this in the cup?" She asks, already making way for the sink to gather more water for her jar. You set down the paper pile, giving her all your undivided attention.

"Of course dear," you say, helping her to sit on the counter and fill her jar from the sink. She places the new flower in the glass, beaming at its brilliancy.

"Yay!" She squeals, her little feet kicking with delight. You help her off the edge, carefully transporting the jar to the table where it sat prior.

"We make sure this one has sun," she insists. "So it won't be ugly."

You chuckle, returning to the mail pile and plucking the envelope from the top. Your intrigue only grows when you see it is adressed to Eris, Riley and you.

You don't waste another moment in tearing it open.

Scanning the page, you feel a new kind of excitement -- a flutter of hope in your heart, a surge of excitement through your veins. Every nerve ending is electric within you as your true joy grows, the passionate feeling inside deeper than what you thought you could explain before. You felt, like truly, what you said meant something. Someone cared what you said, and you'd been heard.

"Riley?" You called. Her little footsteps bounded into the room, a look of interest on her face as she took you in and the paper between your fingers.

"Uh huh?"

You grinned, telling her the wonderful knews.

"Your daddy signed you up for school next month, sweetie."

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: