vampdes

[vampdes]

DES says. . . nobody appreciates my loverboy iida. so, to the 4 iida fans out there, this is my gift to you + for zim, who doesn’t have tumblr yet (work on it).

links: MHA / BNHA smau masterlist (⚜️) + tenya smau pt. 2 (⚜️).

© vampdes . do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[vampdes]

tenya iida, after you took the first step and asked him out, made it his absolute mission to be the one to initiate your first kiss.

you, being you, had taken the majority of the “firsts” in your relationship—first flirt, first date, first hand-holding, first sleepover, first cheek kiss—and it’s not like iida didn’t enjoy you taking initiative! he enjoys everything you do and have done! but. . he’d like to do at least one thing since you’re, from what he has heard from mina, “not gonna give up on proposing first! like, at all, yn’s, like, dead-set on it!”.

the thing is, though, iida doesn’t. . well, he, uhm. . he just, you know. .—okay, okay, fine! fine. it’s just that iida can’t–doesn’t know how to. . to kiss! he’s kissed you on the cheek, of course, and–and, sometimes, when he’s feeling a bit bold, on your knuckles where your version of the promise rings the two of your wear rested! but he doesn’t know how to kiss. how to. . makeout, you know?

so. . youtube becomes his ally, and he gets really, really intimate with his pillow. it’s embarrassing, sure, and he knows he can ask you! but then, he’s not doing it himself. and iida wants to do one thing himself, you know? however, it’s not like he can practice on someone real if that someone isn’t you, so his, uhm, training, of sorts, comes up short. nevertheless, he trusts himself to not mess this up! he’s learned twice as hard as he does when he’s in sensei aizawa’s class, so he’s going to do his absolute best! aka: perfection.

on the night that iida wants to intiate the very first kiss of your relationship, he makes sure his dormroom is absolutely perfect (like the first kiss will be!). candles—electric ones! he’s not going to break more rules than he already has just to be perceived as romantic—are placed strategically around his dormroom, rose petals are in the shape of a heart on his bed (many google searches gave him that idea), and a heart-shaped box of chocolates with a large, oversized, bow-tie wearing teddy-bear are resting against the foot of his bed (the chocolate is being held by the bear! cleanliness is key when it comes to romance). iida surveys his room, nods in confirmation and reassurance of the ill words plaguing his mind, flips his arm over and look down to check the time: 8:35pm. you’ll be here in, approximately, five minutes! iida is, once again, growing butterflies in his stomach. different forms of the same feeling arise, and the all pinpoint to one thing: iida’s unsure.

he’s never been unsure of something before! not when he wanted to become a hero, not on any test or pop quiz, not when he accepted you asking him out on your very first date nor when you asked him to be your boyfriend officially, not on anything before this, his first kiss with you. should he intiate? should he let you take the lead like always? should he—oh god, what should he do! his internal freak-out is cut short by the sound of your knuckles rapping against his door. deep breath in, deep breath out, deep breath in, deep breath out, deep breath in—iida opens the door with a smile, and moves aside for you to come in after you kiss him on the cheek.

stick to the plan, tenya, he told himself, trying to make sure he didn’t implode before your lips were firmly, or what is softly?, pressed against his.

you looked around the room in awe, giggling at the electric candles and teasing him for always playing it safe. little did you know, he’s not tonight! he’s going out of his zone, out of his metaphorical shell, and is venturing into the unknown zone of your relationship. iida shyly shows every tiny aspect to you, flushing more and more each time you complimented him and his ideas or called him cute or smart, before leading you to your designated seat: the edge of his bed. you, as instructed by the video, sit on the left and he sits on the right—so he could lean in whilst the notebook, voted no. 1 most romantic movie on reddit!, played in the background. his plan, so far, has been going swimmingly and will end on the absolute highlight of the night when he kisses you.

after the movie begins, iida does one of the, as the internet said, best romance movies of all time. he yawns, stretches, and places his left arm over your shoulders. you turn to him, smiling with narrowed eyes, and ask: “are you flirting with me, mr. class president?”

his face bloomed a shade of red that was nothing but him becoming flustered from your words. the thing is, he wasn’t prepared for this. you weren’t supposed to say anything—oh god. does he stick to the ‘book’? does he quote-unquote ‘wing-it’?

iida looks at you, his glasses reflecting what the characters were doing on his tv, and he leans in. he leans in, tilts his head so his nose does not press-up against yours, and his lips softly peck yours. soft, gentle, unsuspecting. you did not kiss back—he should’ve asked. oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—“iida. . was all this just so you could. . so you could kiss me?” you let out a laugh that has him retracting his arm from around your shoulders and his face turning to face away. embarrassing. he feels embarrassed. you’re laughing at him, obviously, for how inexperienced he is and how–how horrible this whole thing was!

you move closer to him, place your right hand on his solid, thick left thigh and your left on the right side of his face in order to gently turn his face towards you. you’ve never seen iida this flushed, fucking adorable.

“don’t laugh,” he says.

you grin, “i’m not.” then, you see his eyes move from yours and down to your lips. yours, as they’ve always done, do the same. his are a soft-pink, dusted with the gloss that’d transferred from your lips to his own. he’s pretty, impossibly so, and you smile. “do you want to try that again? promise, i will not laugh.” iida holds out his pinky, you mimick zipping your mouth shut and handing him the key, and you intertwine your pinkies. he takes a deep breath in, he’s very cute when he’s very nervous, and he slowly but surely leans in. he obviously wants to have control of the first kiss in your relationship since it must be an astronomical milestone to him, so you lean in miles slower than him.

somehow, you two old, ancient, aged snails kiss. the two of you kiss, and he fucking melts against you. he hands move upwards from being positioned at his sides like boulders. one cradles your face, the other holds onto your waist. his lips mold against yours, and everything sounds like heaven. the angels are singing, the suns shining out god’s majestical ass, and you’re kissing your hunk of a boyfriend. not just one kiss, not just two kisses, and not even just three! five consecutive kisses. FIVE consecutive kisses! five sweet, soft, kind, gentle, hot, heart-pounding, romantic consecutive kisses.

when iida pulled away, glasses pushed upwards in order for you to not lose an eye, he, nervously, asked: “. . was that okay?”

you responded with a kiss. and then another kiss. and more and more and more and many, many more kisses. your boyfriend is the cutest human known to man—you love him. . you’ll let him have the first ‘i love you’, though. he’s obviously aching to win this little competition.

© vampdes . do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[vampdes]

Foggy Mirror matching pfps 🫶🫶🫶

[vampdes]

LOVE ME, EVEN STILL

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader synopsis: After nearly a year of dating Hannibal, everything unravels when you discover his basement—along with the truth that he’s the Chesapeake Ripper and murdered your best friend, Beverly.

You were stupid.

An utter fool.

An unknowing pawn in Hannibal’s grand, bloody symphony.

Your hand shook as it gripped the stair's banister, body swaying from the adrenaline and nausea. Each step up from the basement was a herculean effort. You should’ve known. You should’ve seen it.

You almost didn’t reach the end of the stairs before the bile rose up your throat and spilled out across the polished kitchen tile.

The sight below had been horrific. Mundane at first glance—labeled containers, meats sealed in vacuum-packed pouches, but the deeper you dug, the more everything began to reek of rot and betrayal. Pieces that looked too human. Bones with marks that told stories. The bloodless curve of what had once been a jaw. And the unmistakable glint of Beverly’s necklace smeared with dried blood.

Your best friend.

Your only true friend.

You thought she ghosted you. Just like others after you got into a relationship with Hannibal.

But no.

She was down there.

She never left.

And Hannibal, your Hannibal, had been feeding you lies alongside everything else.

The front door opened. You didn’t hear it at first. Just the blood rushing in your ears, the animal scream building behind your teeth.

“Darling,” Hannibal’s calm voice drifted in, followed by the soft click of the door shutting, “you’re home early.”

You turned. He looked beautiful as always—tie tight, hair neat, not a single drop of blood on him despite being painted in it. Figuratively. Literally. You didn’t know what the fuck anything meant anymore. He noticed the vomit. Then your trembling hands. Then the open pantry door behind you.

His lips pressed together. “Ah.”

That was it. Ah. As if you’d accidentally found his wine stash. As if this wasn’t the unraveling of everything.

“You killed her.”

There was no need to clarify who.

He paused. “Yes.”

No denial. No plea.

Just yes.

That was the final straw. You screamed—a broken, guttural sound—and lunged at him, fists flying, years of trust and affection burning away with every punch.

He let you.

Your fist connected with his jaw—once, twice—until blood seeped from his lip. You shoved him hard, and he crashed into the wall, but didn’t fight back, didn’t block.

“You were the one who held me when she stopped talking to me!” you yelled, striking him again, this time shoving him into the dining room table where so many goddamn dinner parties had been held. “You told me you missed her too. You fucking lied—and you did it with her blood on your hands! You killed her! You lied! I fucking loved you!"

“I did not lie,” Hannibal whispered, blood on his teeth. "I do miss her. And I still love you."

“Shut up!” You grabbed the front of his shirt, slamming him into the table again. “You—manipulative, gaslighting, inhuman—bastard! Don't try to rationalize your actions as something that was needed. She was my friend, she was the only one who supported us when we began dating. Why did you do it?"

The words tear out of you, raw, feral—more accusation than question. Hannibal's pulse thrums against your fingertips: steady, maddeningly composed. How can he be so calm when you are coming apart?

He doesn’t raise a hand to stop you. He never has—not through the blows, not through the screaming.

“For you.” he says simply.

The room goes silent, the way a forest does when a predator prowls too close. Your breath catches; rage surges again.

“For me?” Your fist lashes out, striking the side of his face. “For me? You butchered the one person who always believed in us—who never made me feel broken for loving you!”

His head snaps to the side, but he straightens with almost graceful inevitability, like a flower righting itself after a storm. “Beverly believed—yes. But she also investigated. She saw threads I could not let her pull.”

“You could have let her arrest you!” you spit. “You could have turned yourself in—confessed, anything. But you—” Your voice cracks, grief bleeding through fury. “You carved her up and served the pieces to your own silence.”

Hannibal’s eyes soften with something that might be sorrow—never remorse, but something cold and crystalline. “Beverly’s death was regrettable. Yet inevitable. She threatened everything we’d built.”

“All we built was a lie!”

“It was a life,” he corrects, voice velvet-smooth even through blood. “The most honest life either of us has known. You found sanctuary in my arms. I found companionship in yours.”

Your grip slackens, shoulders shaking. “I thought you were safe. I thought—'at last, someone who understood the darkness without drowning me in it.'” A bitter laugh breaks free. “Turns out you were the tide itself.”

He lifts a hand and places it over your heart. You’re too exhausted to shove him away. “Even now,” Hannibal murmurs, “your heart races not only with anger, but with grief and affection. You love me still.”

You hate that he’s right.

A choking sob claws up your throat. “I don’t know what I feel. I want to hate you. I should hate you.”

“Love and hate are not opposites,” Hannibal whispers, eyes shining fever-bright. “They are twins, sharing a womb. The opposite of love is indifference—and look at you.” He presses harder against your chest. “You are anything but indifferent.”

For a heartbeat, the old tenderness flickers—those nights tangled in sheets, the quiet dinners, the way he traced constellations on your skin while reciting poetry in French. Then Beverly’s smile blazes behind your eyes, and the tenderness curdles.

You shove him away. He staggers, colliding with the dining table edge. Cutlery clatters like distant bells.

“I could call Jack,” you rasp. “I could call Will, Alana—they’d be here in minutes.”

“I will not stop you,” he replies. “But know this: I have contingency plans. By the time they arrive, I will be gone—vanished into myth. And you will remain—implicated, isolated. They will doubt your innocence, your sanity, perhaps your very humanity for having loved me.”

Your stomach knots. Of course he’s laid traps; of course he’s weaponized your year together. You taste bile again. “You’re blackmailing me with my own life.”

“I’m giving you a choice.” He straightens, shoulders back despite the blood and bruises—a prince draped in ruin. “You can expose me and be crushed beneath the machine you unleash, or you can stay—rage, weep, heal—while I place the world at your feet, bending every horror into art until it sings for you.”

Silence. Your heartbeat drums in your ears. Every cell screams to run, to fight, to collapse. But you’re frozen between doorways—between the man you thought you loved and the monster you now know.

“Why me?” Your voice is a broken reed. “Out of everyone—you could have chosen anyone to groom, to—”

“To love,” he interjects. “I chose you because your mind is a cathedral built of shadows. You see darkness and you do not flinch; you catalogue it, name it, understand it. You are a mirror polished to brilliance—reflecting my monstrosity and making it beautiful.”

You tremble. “All I ever wanted was to feel safe.”

“And you are safest with me,” Hannibal says. “Because anyone who harms you becomes art—becomes history.”

There it is—the truth, gleaming and grotesque. Your eyes burn as tears finally spill. “Give me the knife.” you whisper.

His brows lift, but he reaches into his jacket and produces a slender, bone-handled blade—the same you’ve seen carve cherries and throats alike. He offers it, hilt-first.

You take it. Cold. Perfectly balanced.

Hannibal bares his throat. “If you cannot bear my love, end it.”

Your fingers tighten around the handle. You imagine it—steel biting, blood blooming, his body collapsing like a marionette with cut strings. Justice for Beverly. For everyone.

But another image overlays it: nights of quiet conversation, his hand steadying yours when tremors seized you, the way he listened—truly listened—when the world dismissed you.

You shake, blade hovering an inch from skin.

“Why won’t you fight me?” you choke.

“Because whatever you choose, I will honor it.” His eyes are endless, fathomless. “That is my love.”

A sob shreds your chest. The knife clatters to the floor, point skittering across hardwood. You collapse against the wall, sliding down until your knees are touching your chin and you're nothing more than a ball of limbs.

Hannibal kneels, slow and careful, not touching you. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I don’t know anything.”

“Then breathe,” he says, voice gentle. “Breathe, and the answer will come.”

You do.

In. Out.

Each inhale tastes of copper and bile and heartbreak. Each exhale stings your raw throat.

[vampdes]

"Your husband knows about me, intimately."

Yandere! Dilf x bttm male reader

You had always assumed your sugar mommy was either single or had a very free relationship with her husband. You learn this isn't the case after you meet a man at a bar, and find that he knows more about you than you'd like.

Anal sex, anal fingering, rough sex, you break the bed on this one, stalking, cum tribute, possessive behaviour, cheating, infedility, mentions of m/f sex but never fully described because I'm lazy!

“Your husband knows about us,” you say.

You're sitting across from her in her tea room, and she's just served you some rare yellow tea (‘you look so pale, darling’). Your relationship with Claudia was not vague, it was defined and signed. You'd be her companion in moments like these, as usual after you've fucked and reached mutal bliss for however long or little Claudia wants. In return you were allowed a fixed stipend that covered all your living costs and then some.

You had been a host before, that's how you met this elegant and beautiful woman, but Claudia always liked to possess things. So she approached you with this contract. The idea of being a thing was less threatening when you could also afford other nice things.

“Yes, I suppose he does,” Claudia says, lounging in her afterglow. She wore only a silken robe, and you your boxers

“He's not… upset?” You ask, feeling a bead of sweat roll down your spine.

Claudia rolls her eyes. “Just drink your tea, darling. Charles is only upset when business is bad.”

Ofcourse, before this, you had met Charles – not knowing he was the Charles. Now you found yourself metaphorically wedged between these two wealthy sycophants.

About a week ago…

Yandere! Dilf who… You meet at a bar one night with your friends. You peel off from the group to sit and talk with the handsome older man sat in a booth by himself. He's hard to talk to at first, withdrawn. Eventually, you coax him to open up, buying him a drink and leaning in closely – it reminds you of your days working as a host. The satisfaction of earning a regular customer.

Yandere! Dilf who… Tell you his wife is cheating on him, and you sympathise with him. Nevermind the fact your sugar mommy is a married woman, because that's different . You assume your sugar mommy (lady, as she prefers it) has some sort of agreement with her husband, and never questioned it further. You brought him another drink, nodded and put your hand on his as he vented about years of an unsatisfactory marriage.

Yandere! Dilf who… When you place your hand on his thigh, leaning in closely. You know he's hard, You ask if he wants revenge, your lips ghosting over his. He says he just wants you.

Yandere! Dilf who… Drives you to his penthouse with a hand on your thigh, you lean across the space, talking, slightly tipsy. When you get home you both fumble in the dark, you ask for light but he says no – not until you're in the bedroom. You pout and ask him why he doesn't want to see you, he silences you a kiss and half your clothes are off by the time the back of your knees hit the bed.

Yandere! Dilf who… guides to your knees with his big hands, calloused yet surprisingly soft. You undo his belt and zipper, and he makes a joke about how every silver fox has a silver tail when you oggle at the silver streaked in his pubic hair. You had to turn your head into his thigh as you stifled a slight laugh, not because it's funny but because it is so bad. He instructs you to stand, and puts down a pillow for you to kneel on. It was a mercy, because you were there a while.

Yandere! Dilf who… moans and groans, rocking his hips into your mouth. You hollow your cheeks and suck, pulling yourself off his dick to run your tongue down his entire length and swipe across his balls. Before immediately putting it back in your mouth and taking it to the hilt, his pubic hairs were ticklish against your face as you deep throated him. He moaned, his hands tangling in your hair. You started to choke around him, the fluttering of your throat so euphoric he released down your throat. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, spots danced across your vision - death by dick?

Yandere! Dilf who…pulls you off leisurely, admiring how the mix of semen and spit connect your lips to his departing tip. He holds you there, head tilted back as you gulp for air.

“I hope your appetite isn't ruined,” he says, and oh how he stares down at you. You feel dissected.

“I'm just getting started.”

Yandere!Dilf who… fingers you for a horrible amount of time. He works you open leisurely, cooing about how good you'll look on his cock whilst a finger curls against your prostrate. You whine, and by the end of it you're taking three fingers with ease.

“That was quicker than I thought,” his gravelly voice remarks, hitching one of your legs over his shoulder. He presses a kiss to the ankle, and you actually blush. “I suppose you have experience in this as well, I almost forgot.”

Before you can ask ‘hey what do you mean by that. Your dick was ticking my lungs areoli just a minute ago—’ followed quickly by ‘wait aren't areola my nipples?’ he buries himself in you in a brutal snap of his snap.

Your mouth is agape in a silent scream, drifting off into a whine as you bury your head into the pillows, your legs were kicking uselessly as your body was catching up the sensation of fullness.

Yandere! Dilf who… fucks you tenderly then brutally, holding you close then pinning you down, reducing you to a creature halfway to grief out of how much it was, and halfway to total bliss out of how good it was.

The lewd sounds of skin against skin overpowered your cries, your wanton moans.

Yandere! Dilf who… is an attentive lover, which makes him all the more crueler when he knows you're reaching out to hold him, to find some leverage as he plowed you into the mattress, and he denies you with a tsk. Your knees are by your shoulders and your feet somewhere higher as he finds leverage in this position where you can't cover yourself – can't flee.

You whimper and fist at the sheets, the pillows tossed to the ground after you tried to hide in them. You were drooling, weeping, flushed red and your eyes rolled back into your head as you came with a shout. He lifts your hips higher, thrusts deeper, and beneath you the creaking bed cracks once and for all. You yelp as a sudden dip forms…

You guys broke the bed.

When he finishes you feel his warmth pool in your gut like a match, you let out a whine when he pulls out – half hard.

“We're not done just yet.”

Yandere! Dilf who… is good at after care. He cleans you up, inspects the bites he left on you and confirms none of them broke skin (“A shame.”), carries you limp in his arms to the washroom. He lathers you, holds you. He doesn't demand more, and when you lay down on his bed you look at him, a little nervous, and ask.

“Do you want me to stay?”

He tilts his head to the side.

“What ever made you think I'd want you to leave?”

You let yourself be gathered into his arms, you breathe in his expensive body wash and fall asleep like that. Sandalwood and citrus notes on your mind.

Yandere! Dilf who… doesn't wake up first. You slip out of his arms and drape a robe around yourself, stumbling out of the room quietly whilst picking up your clothes. Your lower back is aching, but it's lost in all the hickeys that crown your collarbone. You'd almost think him a vampire for how much he'd latch onto you.

Yandere! Dilf who… left the room to his study unlocked, and you stumble in whilst getting dressed. His laptop is sat open and you tentatively press the space bar, only for it to light up and go immediately to his desktop (he didn't set a password?).

What catches your eye is an email notification with your name in the subject. Your full name.

‘On the matter regarding L/n, F/n.’

Your hands shake as you click on it, settling at the edge of the plush seat. What you find is a resignation from a private investigator, citing that the requests had gotten too unethical to continue.

You find an email thread 79 emails long. It starts with an image of you and Claudia after having sex, your hair wild from where he ran his hands through it. You're smiling at something she said - you remember this day.

Then it's your name, your social security number, your address, your parents address, the addresses of the schools you attended. Your stomach drops as you scroll and watch as Charles - now you know that he's that Charles - curated an intricate portrait of your life. Of the bars you frequented.

Then it's pictures, so many pictures. The final request was to put cameras in various rooms of your house, including your shower, before the PI resigned.

You scramble through his desks, trying to find something. A pen, a phone, something.

You find a photo of yourself, taken candidly whilst you were on the beach. Its sticky and the paper is crinkled - it's a cum tribute. You gag, rolling your chair away from the desk only to bump into…

Yandere! Dilf who… wraps his arms around you, locking you in that chair.

“I never quite figured out how to set a password,” he sighs, his breath is minty. Your mouth is dry. “Though, I suppose I didn't expect company so soon.”

He pressed a kiss to your cheek and you felt his teeth.

“You're Claudia's husband,” you remark, dryly.

“And you're her boyfriend. Very liberal of her to allow you to see other partners, probably the only liberal thing about her.”

He shrugs, and pulls away.

“ I should go home,” You say around the lump in your throat.

“Of course,” he purrs, sauntering away. “I did hope you'd stay for brunch, but I suppose your appetite has been ruined.”

He smiles, studying you. Alight with horror and sat in his seat wearing basically nothing.

“I'll see you around.”

You stumble out of the apartment, your clothes the wrong way around.

[vampdes]

Vampire Lestat drawing in anticipation for the SDCC panel 🎸✨

[vampdes]

HELLMOUTH

pairing: baby saja x hunter! male reader

synopsis: You weren’t supposed to fuck him. You were supposed to restrain him, report the circle breach, and walk away. Instead, Baby SAJA’s in your bed with his wrists bound and your name spilling out of his mouth like a prayer. He asked for it—smug, bratty, soaked in power—and you made sure he remembers exactly who he gave it to.

content warnings: 18+, smut, power bottom dynamics, rough sex, top male reader, restraints (magic thread), bloodplay, demon magic, breathplay, possessive language, slight dub-con atmosphere (mutual desire is clear), degradation, overstimulation, rune/sigil kink, light aftercare.

word count: 1.4k

His wrists are bound to your headboard with red charm-thread, smeared where he bit through the ink. Not that it matters.

You learned ten minutes in that he likes fighting the bindings. The flex of his arms, the way his claws twitch and fumble against the magic—he moans when they burn. He rolls his hips into the mattress, taunting you even when he’s already panting, flushed, sweat damp across his temples.

“Your wards are weak, hunter,” he gasps, grinning as the sigils glow hot against his skin. “You tie all your enemies up this pretty?”

You slap your hand over his thigh—hard. His breath stutters. The mark on his throat pulses.

“You don’t look like you want to be freed,” you say. “You look like you want to be used.”

His laugh drips with challenge. “Then fucking do it.”

You grab him by the jaw—sharp, forceful—and tilt his head until he’s staring straight at you.

His mouth is swollen. His lips are red. His fangs are just barely peeking out, and you can see the outline of a summoning sigil under his collarbone, still active.

That’s the thing about demons like Baby. They don’t just get off on pain. They get off on submission. On loss of control. On the exact moment when you finally say:

“You asked for this.”

You spit in your palm and drag your hand down his cock—slow, cruel. He shudders. His legs twitch where they’re spread open, still glowing faintly with the remnants of the circle he broke crawling into your bed like a fucking temptation.

You stroke him once. Just once.

And he arches.

“Fuck—” he hisses, hips jerking. “Took you long enough, hyung.”

You slap your hand over his mouth and lean in, nose against his throat.

“I said shut up.”

He nods, too fast. But he’s smirking under your palm, and you know he’s going to talk again. Of course he is.

Demons like him need to be put in their place. Mouth first. Ass second. And crying by the time you're done.

You lean in close—your hand still covering his mouth—and let your breath drag across his cheek. He tries to chase it, tries to part his lips, but you press harder.

“You don’t get to talk anymore,” you murmur, and pull back just enough to look at him—really look at him. “Not until you earn it.”

His cock twitches against his stomach. Good. He gets it now.

You reach down, spreading his legs wider, and watch the way the blood-wrapped charm thread glows along his thighs. He’s so fucking wet already—messy and leaking and needy—and still acting like he’s in control.

He lifts his hips toward your hand again, wrists tugging helplessly at the bindings, fangs biting down into a breath.

“I said—” you growl, removing your hand just long enough to slap him once, hard, across the cheek—“shut up.”

His head turns with the hit, eyes fluttering.

Then he smiles. It's not sweet.

“Make me.”

You do.

The first thrust knocks the breath out of him. He gasps, full-body twitch, spine arching off the bed. You don’t give him time to adjust. He doesn’t deserve time. He’s been asking for this since he smirked at you in rehearsal like he owned the whole damn world.

You grab him by the hips and force him back down. Let him feel how deep you are, how strong you are, how ruined he’s going to be by the time you’re finished.

He moans. Louder than you expect. His legs shake around your waist and the summoning sigils under his skin start to glow again—pulsing, fucked-open magic.

“Is this what you wanted?” you snap, fucking into him with enough force to rattle the headboard. “Or are you going to cry about it?”

He tries to say something. You don’t let him. You slam into him again and his voice breaks—just sound, raw and desperate. You press a hand flat over his throat and lean over him, your mouth against his ear.

“This power act,” you growl, breath heavy, “is cute. But I don’t think you understand what you just signed up for.”

He trembles under you. Not from fear. From tension. His wrists twist again against the glowing red charm-thread, mouth open, moaning through his teeth as you start to fuck him for real, mercilessly.

He’s cocky even now, trying to grind up into it, trying to ride back onto your cock like he’s in control—but he’s not. He’s loud and leaking and dripping sweat onto the sheets, bound and glowing and twitching around you like the magic can’t decide if it wants to mark him or melt him.

Your hand tightens on his throat.

“You’re mine until that bond burns out,” you whisper. “You gave yourself to me, remember?”

His head snaps back—sigils flashing—and he moans.

“Yes,” he gasps, voice breaking. “Yours. Fuck, I—hyung, I can’t—”

“You can,” you snarl, driving in deep and grinding your hips down. “You will. I’m not stopping until you’re begging me to.”

He already is.

He’s wrecked by the time your rhythm really sets in. Back arched. Wrists raw. Neck slick with sweat. You lean down and drag your tongue over the side of his throat—catching the taste of burning sigil, old blood, and something darker underneath.

He whines.

You fuck him harder.

His legs wrap around your waist, desperate now, heels digging in. His claws rake against the threads binding him and spark at the edges—like even his power is losing shape under you.

You shove your hand into his hair and yank his head back.

“Look at me,” you say. “Don’t you dare look away.”

His eyes flutter open, pupils blown wide.

You spit in his mouth.

He moans.

He’s a mess. Wrists shaking in their restraints. Thighs trembling with each thrust. Mouth open but no sound coming out anymore—just gasps, broken and hot and high in his throat like he’s forgotten how to beg.

You fuck him through it anyway.

Faster. Deeper. Until his whole body jerks beneath you and the runes burned into his skin start to glitch—sparking faint gold and red like they’re about to short out. Even the threads binding him are flickering, magic fraying at the seams.

You lean over him, panting, forehead pressed to his.

"You still with me?"

He nods, too fast. His whole face is flushed, hair stuck to his temple, eyes glassy.

Then he breathes out, barely audible—

“Didn’t say stop.”

You lose it.

Grabbing his hips, you pin him down and slam into him until the bed shakes, until the air smells like sweat and sex and the tail-end of a summoning circle burning out. He arches once—choked noise in his throat—and then he’s coming.

Hard.

It hits him like a wave, his whole body seizing around you, toes curling, head thrown back with a cry that sounds more like a sob than a moan. His cock pulses untouched between you, mess splattering across his stomach. The rune on his collarbone flares—then dies out.

But you’re not done.

Not until you’ve milked every last twitch from his body.

Not until he’s sobbing your name with his arms still tied, hips trying to squirm away but too sensitive to move, too full to think. You fuck him through it—slow now, deliberate, watching the aftershocks ripple through his thighs.

Only when he gasps—"I c-can’t, hyung, please—"—do you slow.

Do you stop.

Do you press a hand to his stomach and just hold him still.

For a moment, all either of you can hear is his ragged breathing

You lean down and kiss his cheek, just once.

He flinches—over stimmed. Then melts into it.

“…you good?” you ask, voice hoarse.

He hums. A small, satisfied sound. Quiet.

You reach up and start untying the threads around his wrists. His arms fall limp the second they’re free. He lets you touch him now—lets you trace over the marks, lets you pull the sweat-slick hair from his face.

He blinks at you, eyes half-closed, still wrecked. “Next time,” he mutters, “I’m on top.”

You grin, slow and mean.

“Not a fucking chance.”

Baby groans, turns his head into the pillow, and mutters, “Worth asking.”

You let him rest. For now.

But deep in your chest, under the blood-warm haze of spent magic, you know something’s shifted. The bond might burn off by morning. Or it might not. He might walk out like it never happened. Or he might crawl back into your bed with that same mouth, same smirk, same glowing sigils begging to be pulled apart again.

Doesn’t matter.

You’ll be ready.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[vampdes]

EYES ON ME

pairing: jinu x male reader

synopsis: It was supposed to be just another street performance—the SAJA Boys running through “Soda Pop,” crowds screaming, cameras flashing. You were busy managing sound checks and soda cans, not flirting. But then Mira from Huntrix showed up. You helped her with a charm, she smiled, and Jinu saw the whole thing. He didn’t say a word. Not until later—when the van emptied out and he finally had you alone. Now he’s got his hands on you, his name in your mouth, and one goal in mind: remind you exactly who you belong to.

content warnings: 18+, smut, jealousy, possessive behavior, bottom male reader, rough sex, oral (reader receiving), marking, light restraint (pinning hands), cream pie, slight degradation/praise mix, power imbalance (idol/manager), implied size kink, fast-paced encounter in a semi-public setting (merch van).

word count: 1.2k [req]

The crowd’s loud, the boys are louder, and you’re two seconds away from stapling someone’s charm mic to their shirt yourself.

Somewhere between their third run of “Soda Pop” and the camera crew asking for just one more shot, you’re juggling half the sound team, two open energy drink cans, and a makeup stylist yelling at you about sweat on Abby’s nose. And Jinu? Jinu’s off to the side pretending he’s not watching you—but he is.

He always is.

You chalk it up to being SAJA’s manager. You’re supposed to be everywhere. Suppose it makes sense that his eyes are always tracking you, even when he’s catching his breath between takes. Especially when he thinks you’re not looking.

You catch Mira’s eye across the crowd.

She’s leaning against a tree like she just “happened” to be passing through. Sunglasses on. Bun too tight. That very specific Huntrix kind of bored that always hides something sharper underneath. She gives you a small wave when your eyes meet, and you walk over—figuring it’s just the polite thing to do.

“You all really lean into the theme,” she says, nodding at the soda-shaped mic stand. “It’s cute.”

You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “Cute’s what sells.”

Her lips quirk. “Are you managing them or babysitting?”

“Both,” you admit.

She lets you fix the charm bracelet falling off her wrist. Nothing major. A simple leather cuff with an old-school sealing rune, half-charred at the edges. You tighten the strap, hand lingering maybe half a second too long before you step back.

She smiles. “Didn’t know you were so good with your hands.”

You huff. “Don’t start.”

You don’t see Jinu watching. You don’t have to. You feel it.

They wrap the shoot. You give the usual high-fives, towel passes, headcount. The boys scatter—some to vans, others to food stalls. You’re wiping spilled soda off the merch table when you hear someone clear their throat behind you.

You turn.

It’s Jinu. Still in his sleeveless fit. Hair damp. No mic now. Just that look on his face—the quiet, unreadable one he gets before a fight, or worse, before something personal.

“Didn’t know we invited Huntrix,” he says flatly.

You blink. “They weren’t on the call sheet.”

“You looked happy to see her.”

You pause. “It’s Mira.”

He steps in. Close. Too close. His voice drops a notch.

“You smiled at her like you smile at me.”

The mood changes fast. You feel it in your chest before your brain catches up—like he’s about to say something he’s been holding back for way too long. You can taste it behind your teeth. His eyes flick down your face. His fingers twitch at his sides.

You’re about to say something—something dumb, probably, something like you’re imagining things—but he moves first.

Faster than you expect. Hand at your neck, other gripping your hip, walking you backward into the merch van’s open side door.

It shuts behind you with a loud slam.

“You like making me jealous?” he says, mouth right against your jaw.

“No,” you breathe. “I didn’t even do anything—”

“You touched her.”

“Her bracelet—”

“You smiled.”

You open your mouth again. He shuts you up with his hand sliding under your waistband and squeezing.

“Jinu—fuck—”

“Don’t care.” He growls. “You’re mine.”

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been waiting weeks to do it.

Hot, rough, a little too eager for someone who’s usually all calm and composed. His hands are already dragging under your shirt, palms flat against your stomach, like he’s checking to make sure you’re real. You gasp into it, and he smirks against your lips like he owns the sound.

You try to speak again. He doesn’t let you.

One hand shoves your jaw up. The other drops low, cupping you through your pants—fingers curling, slow and confident—and your brain shorts out for a second.

You twitch. He chuckles.

“Sensitive?” he murmurs. “Knew you would be.”

You should stop him. Should say something about professionalism or boundaries or literally anything other than "fuck," which is the only thing that makes it out of your mouth when he palms you harder.

His teeth scrape your throat. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

He backs you into the van wall, hands everywhere—gripping, pulling, undoing your belt like it’s routine. You're not sure when you ended up flat on your back on a pile of spare SAJA hoodies, but by the time his mouth is on your neck, you’re already breathless and half-naked.

You’re half-naked before you even realize what’s happening. Your shirt’s gone. Your belt’s loose. Your legs are open and he’s between them, looking down like this is the real stage and you’re the performance.

“Jinu—”

“You’ve been looking at everyone but me,” he says, thumbing your waistband down, “but you’re the one who's been on my mind since day one.”

His eyes flick up, locking with yours.

“So now you’re gonna look at me. Just me.”

He goes down on you first. Slow. Heavy.

His tongue is hot, demon-warm, and he sucks like he wants to hollow you out. Hands on your thighs, holding you open. Holding you still. You arch, helpless, your voice a cracked gasp as his mouth works on your cock in steady, messy pulls.

You try to move. He pushes you back down.

“I said, eyes on me.”

You look. You regret it instantly.

He’s staring up at you with his mouth full of your cock—lips swollen, spit slick, pupils blown—and he looks so fucking smug about it.

You come in his mouth way too fast.

He drinks it down, slowly. Licks his lips. Doesn’t break eye contact once.

Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says:

“Not done with you yet.”

He flips you onto your stomach, presses you into the mat, and fucks you open like he’s been waiting for this since the day you joined the company.

His cock is thick, unrelenting, and he fucks deep—one hand pinning your wrists down above your head, the other on your waist keeping you where he wants you.

You try to muffle your sounds against your arm.

He doesn’t like that.

“Let them hear,” he pants. “Let the whole fucking building know who’s making you feel this good.”

You’re begging before you even realize it. Voice cracking. Heat building. Your whole body trembling under the way he pounds into you, pace brutal and unfair and so good it hurts.

“Jinu, please—fuck, I’m—”

He leans over, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, I’m—fuck—”

You come again, dizzy and wrecked, pulsing hard against the floor.

He finishes a second later, buried to the hilt, grinding into you with a groan that’s pure possession. You feel it—hot, thick, spreading inside—and you collapse under him, breathing like you just ran a mile.

You don’t remember when he pulled out.

But you do remember him pulling you into his lap after, still sticky and shaking, kissing your jaw like you’re something delicate instead of the mess he just made.

You slump into his chest. Your voice is hoarse.

“…So you were jealous?”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re lucky it was just Mira.”

You pause. “What if it had been Romance?”

Jinu tightens his grip.

“Try it,” he says. “See what happens.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[vampdes]

Favourite fics

ღ= smut

𖤐=texts

❀=fluff

☹︎=angst

☠︎︎=dark

Blue =TT (MHA) - @http-tokki ❀

Meet & greet =KT (MHA) - @whirlybirbs ❀

Aberration =Various (MHA) - @bakuhoes-dumbass ☠︎︎

Happy fuggleversary! =Various (MHA) - @vampdes 𖤐

Final moments in their arms =Various (MHA) - @blairxbear ☹︎

@cursed-carmine (dividers)

[vampdes]

TIME FOR DINNER!

prints • insta • twt

[vampdes]

this blog…. is beautiful omg… my jaw is on the FLOOR

STOPSTOP OMG IM A HUGE FAN STOP

ahem. thank you 😊😊😊😊😊😊😊

YOURS IS ACTUALLY SSSOOOO EYE PLEASING and i bark and pant like a dog everytime i read ur posts ure so gifted omg i love ur works

[vampdes]

i could cry from happiness. this is majestical. im in bakugou heaven.

𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜!

pairing: racer!bakugou x crew cheif!reader

warnings/genre: cussing, sexual innuendos, reader’s a bit on the bossy side (no bullshit, typpa attitude)

notes: thank you cars 1/3 for this inspiration.

1.3k | being the crew chief and his boss would be easy if it weren’t for all the feelings.

the sun beats down on the road, the asphalt shimmering like it’s on fire. engines roar in the background, a chorus of machines begging for speed. you watch as the blur of orange and green pass by again, bakugou’s car (queen explosion murder god, you hate it just as much as anyone else) takes a sharp turn on the track. his engines screeches before shooting back to life again.

bakugou grumbles, you hear it in your earpiece, but it’s not enough to make out exactly what he says. you imagine he’s gripping his steering wheel like it has personally offended him, lips pressed into a deep scowl.

you stand in the pit, arms crossed. your attention shooting up from the screen to the real life race every now and then. it’s your job to watch, to notice so when his vehicle jerks slightly to the left. you hesitantly reach out towards your ear piece.

it’s just an inch, your brows furrow, but that could cost us the whole thing. having made up your mind, you tap your mic on and it crackles to life.

“you’re overheating. pull back.”

bakugou scoffs, but before he can protest you cut in again, “or i’ll get on that damn track and make you do it myself.”

“no way,” his rough voice echoes in your ear. “i’ve got half n’ half on my ass.”

you sigh through the line. not a nervous sound, a knowing one. bakugou imagines you pinching at your nose bridge. the thought is enough to make him crack a smile.

“and you’ll keep him there if you listen to me.” you look up at the track. out of the corner of your eyes, a yellow flag waves in the air, a saving grace to your oncoming headache that is bakugou katsuki.

“yellow flag. shoto’s gonna pit. you need to pull back—“

“are you fucking—”

“now.”

your tone leaves no room for argument, bakugou curses under his breath, but he adjusts. you’re the boss after all, the only one who can talk him down, talk him through, or talk him out of punching someone in the face after a race. the fire to his gasoline.

you’ve been on his team for a while now, climbing up from tire specialist to chief, and every step you took felt like a battle especially with him. bakugou is impossible. reckless, arrogant yet equally brilliant and completely genuine.

and the worst part? despite his loud mouth and his glare, he is a winner.

and you adore him for it.

even when he leans in too close at team meetings. even when he causes yet another upset worldwide when he proclaims he’ll win this race and every other race afterwards. even when he snaps at reporters and then looks for you across the paddock like he needs you to calm the noise in his head.

it is unfair, you think, but everytime it happens there you are right by his side yet again. it makes your breath hitch how quickly he looks past the cameras, searching for you. it makes your chest ache with the idea of something more.

but you’ve known him long enough to know though that if katsuki bakugou wanted something more from you, he’d have said it by now.

that fact is set in stone when you made your way up the chain of command, promotion after promotion. seeing his face more often and seeing his resolve go from the cocky rookie to masterful vetern. your permanency was stitched in red thread across your chest right under your name: crew chief.

you are technically his boss, whether he admits it or not, and that alone was what made you draw a hard line in the sand when it came to anything other than racing.

though there were times when that line was blurred. one specific night comes to mind. bakugou’s first back to back of the season. a team celebration, filled with loud music, endless champagne, and confetti. everyone was riding the high, it showed in the way they all laughed too hard, talked too fast.

you were there, drink in hand, smile pulled tight and practiced. but the buzz was already fading from your system. you’d never liked being the center of it or at least not like this. not when it felt a little too shallow.

so you slipped away.

you found solstice in a quiet balcony. your shoulders sagged. for a second, it was just you. the stars. the wind. then— bootsteps.

you didn’t turn.

“you always duck out like that?”

his voice cut through the quiet, low and rough.

“i don’t like noise.”

he leaned on the doorframe, champagne glass in one hand, half-buttoned race team shirt open over his fireproofs. hair messy. smudged with glitter and a bit of soot like the celebration just couldn’t wash him clean.

he finds his way next to you leaning on the balcony. your team’s celebration echoes through the walls, the laughter fading away into cricket chirps.

bakuogu sighs, “everyone’s talking about your calls.”

you shrugged, swishing the champagne in your glass. “just did my job.”

you don’t know when, but he was closer now. too close.

“damn good, though.” his red hues flicked to the side of your face, searching. “you got me over the line.”

“sure, but you still didn’t listen to half of what i said,” you clicked your tongue, shaking your head.

he huffed a short laugh, “but you still brought us home.”

you hum and the silence that followed was softer. quieter. the stars your only witness to the way his eyes shimmered when you finally met his gaze.

you don’t remember who was the first one to lean in.

something in your chest tightens. a scoff echoes through your mic and you can hear bakugou’s shit eating grin even before he speaks.

“you alright, cheif? or are you done riding me?”

you shoot out of your seat in the pit box, eyes wide and jaw clenched. this fucking guy.

“if i don’t ride you, you crash. so shut up and win.” you grit.

silence. then a low laugh from the other end of the line. you hear him take a breath, anticipating a snarky reply from the driver himself but then—

“uh… just a reminder to keep this line clear so we can communicate openly.” a warm voice crackles in your ear. you look over at the pit and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, “whatever denki.”

tufts of eletric blonde hair, peek out from the pits. he waves you off, a drill in his hand, with a knowing grin and wink. there is no word from katsuki, but his engine revs in the distance, prompting you to turn away from kaminari. it’s like he knows you’re watching him because your mic cracks to life again.

“shut it, box dye.” kaminari protest, but you do not care to listen. you can hear bakugou’s grin through the mic.

“win? yeah, yeah. i’m on it, chief.” his voice is softer, kinder like there’s something there hidden between the lines. it makes your knees weak, flashbacks of that night play in your head.

later, when the race ended and he climbed out of the car, face flushed and sweat-slicked, his eyes found you across the track. he pulled his helmet off, grinning with sharp teeth like a warrior.

you marched up to him, a weird combo of rage and thrill mixed in with every step. “you ignored my call to pit on lap 92.”

he looked down at you, smug. “still crossed that damn line first.”

“you could’ve—”

“but i didn’t.” he stepped close. “you trust me?”

you didn’t back down. “i do. doesn’t mean i won’t kill you if you die on my track.”

his gaze dropped to your lips. “then i’ll just keep giving you reasons to keep me alive.”

you hated how hot your cheeks felt under the oil-stained brim of your hat. you scoff, walking forward towards your team who’s already celebrating.

“don’t start something you can’t finish, katsuki.” you don’t expect him to say anything back, as your getting closer and closer to the team, but even with how well you work togethere— you should also know by now that he’s full of surpises.

“oh, i always finish, chef.” he murmurs in passing, jogging slightly ahead of you. he doesn’t look back, but you already now he’s smiling.

[vampdes]

the fact that this is astronomically an eye-catcher is not insane at all. this is entirely too good. if it was book, id cry at the fact that it came to an end. praying you grace my feed with more of this food 🙏

A WHOLE NEW WORLD

summary: You were never supposed to be anything more than a thief. But a stolen bracelet, a runaway heart, and a single reckless wish change everything. Now the world is spinning out of control—and the boy you can't forget might be the only real thing left to hold onto.

pairing: princess jasmine!choso kamo x alladin!male reader

content warnings: 18+, ftm choso (she/her pronous are used in the first half bc nobody knows of this), mahito is a warning of his own, top male reader, drowning, reader is an unreliable narrator (sorry bro).

word count: 8.0k

best viewed in dark mode

The market always smelled like too many things at once. Spices. Sand. Fruit that’s a little too ripe. Sweat. You’ve been running these streets since you were old enough to steal your first loaf of bread—and dumb enough to think it was free. These days, you know better. You know which stalls swap their goods by the hour, which alleys to cut through when the guards give chase, which rooftops creak beneath your weight and which ones won’t even notice you’re there.  

And today? Today, you’re hungry. Not just for food, though you could eat. It’s the other kind of hunger. The kind that scratches at the back of your throat and says don’t sit still too long. The kind that makes you pickpocket out of boredom, not desperation. Which is why you swipe the silver apple from the merchant’s tray with a grin and no remorse, tuck it into your sash, and disappear into the crowd like smoke.  

⋆｡°✩  

“Thief!” someone yells. You sigh. That was faster than usual. Megumi chitters from your shoulder, fur twitching, eyes sharp as ever. He flicks your ear like this is somehow your fault. You flick him back and keep moving. You don’t run. Not yet. You walk like someone with somewhere to be. Let the tension build. Let the guards get close enough to think they have you. And when the right corner comes—you bolt.  

⋆｡°✩  

You lose them after five turns, three leaps, and one stolen chicken skewer that you do, in fact, eat. You’re not sorry. Megumi squeaks his approval as you hop down from the awning and dust off your hands. The back street is quieter here. Fewer eyes. Fewer witnesses. And that’s when you see her.  

⋆｡°✩  

Dark cloak. Hood up. Shoulders tense, like she doesn’t want to be here. Like the world is too loud for her today. But her hands are delicate where they rest on the edge of a fruit cart—fingers trailing over a pomegranate like she’s trying to remember what sweetness is supposed to feel like. Her eyes flick up. Meet yours. There’s a flash of something you don’t expect. Not fear. Not scorn. Recognition.

And then the fruit seller turns, sees her fingers on the goods, and yells something sharp in a dialect neither of you speak. Her eyes go wide. You step in without thinking. “Hey!” you bark. “That’s my sister.” The man scowls. “She doesn’t talk,” you add quickly. “Head injury. Real tragic.” You loop an arm around the stranger’s shoulders, tug her away from the cart before either of you get hit with a broomstick.  

She doesn’t resist. Not until you’re two alleyways over and laughing breathlessly, and then—  

“Why did you help me?” she asks, voice low, cautious.  

You blink. Her hood’s fallen back a bit. Her face is pale and fine-featured. Sharp eyes. Loose braid. A little too well-groomed to be anyone’s sister from the lower quarter. You shrug. “Didn’t feel like watching you get yelled at.” She studies you. Really studies. Then—“You’re a thief,” she says, like she’s not sure whether to be impressed or irritated.  

“I’m a specialist,” you correct. “It’s different.”  

⋆｡°✩  

She walks like someone who’s used to silence. That’s the first thing you notice. Even in the backstreets—where the city’s heartbeat slows and the noise fades into sun-warmed stone and dust—she moves like she’s afraid to take up space. You pretend not to notice. You’re good at pretending.  

“So,” you say casually, adjusting Megumi’s grip on your shoulder. “You always ‘almost’ steal pomegranates, or was that just for flair?” She glances at you. Dry. “I wasn’t stealing.” You raise a brow. “You had your hand on it.” “I was thinking.” “Dangerous hobby.” She doesn’t answer that. Just keeps walking.  

She doesn’t belong here. Not just because of the cloak or the way her braid looks like it was combed by someone paid to do it. It’s the way she watches everything—eyes sharp beneath the hood, like she’s memorising the exits. Like you used to.  

“Are you lost?” you ask eventually. “No.” “Running from something?” She pauses. Then: “Not anymore.”  

⋆｡°✩  

You lead her to a little archway near the edge of the district—just low enough to duck into, just quiet enough to feel safe. You toss her a piece of the stolen chicken skewer. She catches it. Megumi squeaks at you like you’ve betrayed him. You toss him one too.  

She eats slowly. Not like she’s starving—but like food hasn’t made her feel human in a while. The light catches on something at her wrist—a bracelet, mostly hidden by her sleeve. Woven threads and silver beads. Not expensive, but loved. You can tell.  

“Nice bracelet,” you say casually. She covers it with her hand. “It was my mother’s,” she says, too quickly. You nod. Say nothing.  

The moment stretches. Softens. And then— Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Not guards. But not far off. You both freeze. You tug your hood lower. She pulls hers up. Your heart kicks once. Not from fear—from instinct.  

“Come on,” you whisper. You grab her hand. She follows without hesitation.  

⋆｡°✩  

You split off near a vendor stall. “Go that way,” you tell her, gesturing to the alley. “Sharp right, then left again. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.” She hesitates. Then she nods. “Thank you.” You grin, backing away. “It’s what friends are for.” She rolls her eyes. Then disappears.  

You wait until the coast is clear before slipping your hand into your pocket—and finding the bracelet you never meant to steal. Your stomach dips. You stare at the familiar weight. The tiny silver bead worn smooth in the centre. You didn’t take it to be cruel. You took it because… something about her made you want to keep a piece. Just for a little while. You sigh. “I’ll bring it back,” you tell Megumi, who just tilts his head. “I will.”  

You’ve snuck into a lot of places before. Noble houses. Merchant vaults. One bathhouse, by accident (long story). But the royal palace? That’s new. It’s not the guards that make you hesitate. It’s not even the sheer size of it—white stone and winding corridors, too many windows and not enough exits. No, what throws you off is how clean it is. No dust. No noise. No secrets whispered in the walls. You hate it.  

Megumi clings to your shoulder as you scale the garden wall, little claws digging into your shirt like he’s second-guessing your choices. You pat him once, then drop into the hedges. “I know,” you mutter. “But I promised.”  

The bracelet weighs heavier today. Not just in your pocket. In your chest.  

You don’t even know her name. But you remember the way her fingers curled over it. Like it wasn’t jewellery—like it was a memory. You’re not a good man. You know that. But you can be good for one thing. Even if it’s just this.  

⋆｡°✩  

You make it halfway across the inner courtyard before you see her. At first, you think you’re imagining it. The light hits just right—filtered through silk drapes and pale stone—and there she is, no hood, no cloak. Her braid is clean and tied back, her robes richer, darker, edged in silver thread. Two guards flank her at a respectful distance. Another man walks just behind her—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, well-dressed. Not a handmaiden. Not someone she reports to.  

They’re following her.  

Your heart stops.  

She’s not just from the palace.  

It’s her palace.

⋆｡°✩  

You’re frozen in place, suddenly very aware of the bracelet in your pocket and the stolen way you’re dressed and the dirt still clinging to your boots. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t even know her name.  

And she’s the princess.  

You take a half-step forward anyway. You don’t know what you think is going to happen. Maybe you’ll give the bracelet back. Maybe you’ll say something—anything—before you vanish again into the city and pretend you never made a promise to someone you never should’ve touched.  

And then—  

“Caught you.”  

⋆｡°✩  

A hand clamps down on your shoulder. Hard. You twist. Megumi screeches and leaps off you. But it’s too late. You’re face-to-face with a man you’ve never seen before. Light blue hair, loosely tied. A smile that doesn’t touch his pale eyes. He’s dressed like a royal advisor. Gold trim, rich layers. But the look he gives you is sharp enough to slice.  

He glances down at your hand. “Oh,” he purrs. “What’s this?” You don’t answer. “Breaking into the palace just to return a bracelet?” he asks, tone sweet and sour all at once. “How noble.”  

You try to pull away. His grip tightens. “Come,” he says, and you feel your stomach drop. “Let’s talk.”  

The desert doesn't begin the way you expect. It creeps in slowly—grain by grain, hush by hush. You don't even realize you've left the city until the horizon loses its edges and the color of the world flattens. Gold swallows grey. Stone gives way to sand. And suddenly you're small beneath a sky so wide, it feels like it's watching you.

Megumi is silent on your shoulder. Tense. You don't blame him.  

Mahito glides ahead, his pale blue hair ghosting behind him like the tail of some ancient thing. He hasn't said much since dragging you from the palace. Just that there's a cave. That it's full of treasure. That you'll find what he needs at the center.  

"You'll know it when you see it," he'd said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.  

Now, as the wind picks up and the dunes shift under your boots, you're starting to think this wasn't one of your better ideas.  

⋆｡°✩  

The cave entrance yawns before you like a mouth. Massive. Monstrous. Carved from obsidian and gold in the shape of a jaguar—or maybe a lion, but wrong. Too sleek. Too alive. Its eyes glow. Its teeth form the archway.  

Mahito sighs, almost bored. "Try not to touch anything but the lamp. The cave doesn't like greedy hands."  

You stare at him. "That's it? No map? No backup plan?"  

He grins. "Where's the fun in that?"  

The moment your foot crosses the threshold, the ground rumbles.  

⋆｡°✩  

Inside, the air turns thick—warm with the scent of old incense and metal. The walls pulse with veins of gold that glow like trapped fire. And the treasure...  

It's everywhere.  

Goblets crusted with emeralds. Weapons wrapped in silk. Jewels in colours you don't have names for. You step carefully, avoiding the statue that watches with jewelled eyes—  

—until Megumi squeaks.  

You turn just in time to see the ruby in his paw.  

Small. Beautiful. Terribly red.  

"Megumi," you whisper.  

The cave roars.  

⋆｡°✩  

Treasure collapses like water. The ground splits. You sprint, dodging falling stone, the lamp suddenly heavy in your grip as the entrance grinds shut behind you.  

You make it out—barely—hands scrabbling at the ledge as your body dangles over nothing.  

Mahito appears above you, framed by sunlight.  

"Help!" you shout.  

He smiles. "Pass me the lamp first."  

You hesitate.  

He stomps on your fingers.  

⋆｡°✩  

You fall.  

For one terrible second, all you see is sky. Then stone. Then—  

—Something catches you.  

Soft. Woven.  

A magic carpet sweeps beneath you, spiralling upward as Mahito's laughter fades. The lamp still burns in your hand.  

You stare at it.  

Wipe off the dust.  

And give it one, tentative rub.  

⋆｡°✩  

The explosion of light nearly blinds you. Smoke pours out in brilliant blues and purples, the air buzzing like it's trying to become sound. Then—  

A shape. A grin.  

And a voice like laughter and lightning:  

"DID SOMEBODY SAY WISHES?"  

Standing before you is a man, glowing faintly at the edges, with white hair that sparkles like frost and a robe that won't stay one colour.  

"Hi," he says, flashing teeth. "I'm your new favourite mistake."  

You open your mouth. Close it.  

Megumi faints.  

The man catches him mid-collapse and coos, "Aww, that's fair."  

You point. "What are you?"  

He beams. "Genie. Name's Gojo. Wishes. Magic. Sparkles. Screaming exes. The usual." He tosses Megumi gently onto a cushion that wasn’t there a second ago. Then turns back to you.

“You get three wishes,” he says, lifting three glowing fingers. “No refunds, no substitutions, no wishing for more wishes, no bringing back the dead, and no, I can’t make your eyeliner sharper—that’s between you and your mirror.”

You stare. He waits. Then tilts his head.

“…You okay there, street rat?”

⋆｡°✩  

You’re still trying to catch your breath when Gojo starts doing cartwheels in the air. Literal ones.

Glowing, twirling, smug-as-hell flips while conjuring a sparkling drink in one hand and a mini fireworks display in the other. Megumi clings to your shoulder like he’s ready to bite the next magical thing that moves.

“You okay there, sparkle-thief?” Gojo asks between spins. “Wanna make a wish? Something big? Bold? Perhaps shirtless with charisma?” You stare at him. Then down at the lamp in your hand. Then back up.

 “…So you can do anything, right?” Gojo winks. “Three wishes. Anything your heart desires, babycakes.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, waving the lamp a little. “I mean outside the wishes. Just you. Can you do anything? Or do you need the wish to work your mojo?” Gojo puffs up immediately.

“Excuse me? Excuse me? I am the most powerful being in the known realms. You think I need permission to do a little trick like—” he gestures vaguely “—I dunno, get you out of here?”

You shrug, mock-casual. “I mean, this cave’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it? Magical, collapsing death trap and all that. Maybe you can’t.” Gojo’s eye twitches.

You lean back on your palms, baiting him harder. “I mean, I get it. Maybe that’s why you need the wishes. You know. Limits.” Megumi squeaks like he knows exactly what you’re doing.

Gojo freezes midair. Then slowly floats down, landing in front of you with arms crossed and a pout forming fast.

“You wound me.” You give him a little shrug and a smug grin. “Prove me wrong.”

⋆｡°✩

There’s a snap. A burst of wind. And suddenly, the world flips. The cave vanishes. The stone. The heat. Gone.

You’re standing in open desert again, beneath a pale violet sky, stars blinking into view one by one like they’re surprised to see you alive.

Megumi topples into the sand beside you. You blink. Then slowly turn. Gojo is frozen mid-strut, mid-celebration, one finger raised in triumph. And then—

His whole face drops.

“Wait.” You grin.

He stares at you. “You—”

“I didn’t wish for anything,” you say, smug and victorious. His mouth opens.

Closes. Opens again. “You tricked me!”

“You tricked yourself,” you say, dusting off your hands. Gojo slaps his forehead. “Oh my god, you gaslit a genie.”

“I prefer to think of it as ‘strategic flattery.’” He paces in a circle. “This is so embarrassing—this is like day one Genie Academy stuff—never let them goad you, Gojo—”

Megumi snickers. Gojo glares at him. “Don’t laugh. He’s your thief.” Megumi just grins wider.

You flop down in the sand with a sigh, running your fingers over the curve of the lamp. Still warm. Still yours.

Gojo eventually stops pacing and flops down next to you, kicking his sandals off mid-air.

“So,” he mutters, still sulking. “You've got three wishes left. Gonna wish for a palace? Infinite gold? A harem of emotionally damaged men?” You shake your head.

You pull the bracelet from your pocket. And you say, “I want to become a prince.”

Gojo raises a brow. “Oh? You royalty-curious now?” You smile a little.

“No,” you say. “But she is.”

⋆｡°✩

Gojo hovers upside down for a second. Then rolls onto his back in midair and kicks his legs like a teenager hearing drama for the first time.

“Ohhh,” he sings. “It’s a crush.” You shoot him a glare. “It’s not a—”

He floats closer, chin propped on one glowing hand. “She’s beautiful, mysterious, emotionally reserved, probably a little dangerous—”

You blink. “You’ve never even met her.”

“I’m magic, babe. I know things.” He spins once, flaring his sleeves with dramatic flair. “So! Wish number one: turn you into a prince. Let’s do this!”

You pause. Just for a second. “What’s the catch?” you ask warily. Gojo gasps. “How dare. I am deeply offended.”

“You said you’ve got screaming exes.”

“Yeah, but they’re mostly jealous I look this good in silk.”

“Gojo.”

“Fine, fine. No catch. But you have to be specific.” He floats down to eye level, suddenly serious—well, serious for him. “You wanna be a prince, I can do that. But a real prince? With history, backstory, legitimacy, social clout, a tragic origin story?” He wiggles his fingers. “You gotta be clear.”

You hesitate. Then say quietly, “I just need to be… enough. Enough for her to look at me like I belong in her world.”

Gojo softens. It’s barely there, but real.

“Got it,” he says. Then he claps his hands once.

And the world explodes.

You don’t know where you are.

There’s colour everywhere—glitter and silk, ribbons of light, sand turning to glass beneath your feet. Megumi yelps as he’s scooped into a flurry of golden fabric, then promptly drops out the other side wearing a tiny embroidered vest and hat.

You are also suddenly in new clothes. Many clothes.Too many. A turban appears, spins three times, and explodes.

A jacket snaps onto your shoulders, then vanishes, then reappears in a different colour. Gojo mutters to himself, throws a handful of stars into the air, and steps back.

The whirlwind fades. You stumble forward and catch a glimpse of yourself in the water.

You look like someone else.Not a stranger. Not fake.

Just… polished. Taller. Cleaner. Like a better version of who you’ve always tried to be. Gojo whistles.

“Damn. You’re gonna break hearts and laws with that face.” You stare.

Touch your chest. Then look up.

“…This is me?”

He grins. “For now.”

⋆｡°✩

It starts with music. Low and distant at first, like a heartbeat under the ground. Then louder. Brighter. Faster.

By the time it reaches the palace gates, the sound has become a parade. Drums pounding. Horns blaring. The ground practically shakes beneath it. People gather at the edges of the street, wide-eyed, murmuring, pushing to see what the noise is about.

The guards don’t even know what to do. One of them drops his spear. And at the centre of the chaos— You.

Perched atop an extravagant, over-decorated, too-sparkling chariot that Gojo conjured five minutes ago because, quote, “You need drama.” There are banners in colours you don’t recognise, dancers flanking your path, golden confetti swirling through the air like it’s trying to make up for your anxiety.

Megumi rides next to you on the magic carpet, arms folded and expression deeply unimpressed, wearing a crown Gojo forced on him.

You want to throw up. You smile instead.

⋆｡°✩

Choso watches from the upper balcony. He doesn’t say anything at first.

Geto stands beside him, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the spectacle below. “Another prince,” he mutters. Choso hums. This one’s different.

The way he smiles at the crowd—not too big, not too forced. The way he bows at the gates. The way he scans the palace—once, quickly, like he’s trying not to look for something he wants to see.

It tugs at something in his chest. Something familiar. He frowns.

⋆｡°✩

“Introducing,” Gojo declares from the front of the parade, spinning mid-air and throwing glitter like it's a legal requirement, “the dazzling, the dashing, the devastatingly single Prince of the Seven Sands and Fourteen Rivers and One Very Cool Monkey—”

You elbow him. Hard. Gojo coughs. “—I mean. Prince—”

The guards step aside. The palace gates open. And you step through.

⋆｡°✩

You’re led into the throne room with trumpets blaring, velvet swishing around your ankles, and Gojo whispering terrible advice in your ear.

“Don’t trip,” he mutters. “Don’t bow too low. Compliment her—them, compliment them. Say something about the tapestry. Or the hair. Or, ooh, eyes! But don’t say eyes first, that’s creepy. You know what, just—say nothing. Smile. Look rich.”

“Gojo.”

“Also, maybe mention your monkey. Everyone loves a monkey.”

“GOJO.”

He vanishes in a puff of smoke. You inhale slowly. And step forward.

⋆｡°✩

Choso is already seated. Elegant, poised, eyes unreadable behind thick lashes.

You bow too low.

Geto raises a brow. Mahito smirks from the side like he’s already smelling a lie. And the king—Gakuganji, crowned and ancient and only semi-awake—beams.

“Ah! Our guest!” he says, gesturing with a heavy hand. “Look at this fine young man! What a jawline!” You straighten. Smile. Try not to sweat. Choso blinks at you. You clear your throat.

“It’s an honour,” you say, your voice suddenly a bit too deep, a bit too dramatic. “To be in the presence of such radiant… uh, royalty.” Choso tilts her head.

You panic. “And of course,” you add, “to meet the legendary tiger. I hear it has an excellent sense of character.”

Yuuji, lounging beside the throne, bares his teeth. Loudly. Choso hums. “He usually growls at liars.”

“Ah,” you say, blinking. “How… loyal.”

⋆｡°✩

Mahito glides forward, all polite venom. “What kingdom did you say you were from again, Your Highness?”

You freeze. Think fast.

Gojo appears behind Mahito, invisible to everyone but you, making frantic throat-cutting motions. “Uh—the Eastern Expanse. South of the Glass Sea. Just beyond the Twin Cliffs of—”

“—Cringe?” Gojo mouths.

“—Valour,” you say tightly. Geto narrows his eyes. Mahito hums, clearly amused.

Choso sips from a cup and doesn’t even try to look interested.

⋆｡°✩

Gojo reappears beside Geto, this time visible, in a deep navy robe and too much jewellery, swirling wine and batting his lashes. “You must be exhausted,” he says softly. “All this watching. You should sit down. Or let someone rub your shoulders. Or maybe your ego?”

Geto blinks at him. Then smirks.

“Is this your first time attempting seduction?” he asks. Gojo grins, teeth sharp. “Would you like it to be my last?”

⋆｡°✩

You, meanwhile, are dying.

You’ve complimented the floor tiles. You’ve fumbled three metaphors. You’ve told a story about a camel that might not have landed. And Choso hasn’t smiled once.

Worse, she hasn’t looked at you the way she did in the alley. Not yet. But something in her gaze lingers now—longer than before. Like she’s trying to place a shadow she saw once. A voice she heard in a dream.

You shift, fingers brushing the inside of your sleeve where the bracelet still sits. And you think: Not yet.

⋆｡°✩

The palace quiets after dark.

Servants vanish behind doors. Lights dim. Voices hush. The music from the courtyard fades into nothing but wind moving through marble archways and the distant hiss of sand brushing against stone. You’re standing on the edge of the upper balcony, staring out at the stars, feeling like they’re too far away.

Behind you, footsteps. You turn. Choso steps into view, arms crossed over her chest, long coat pulled tight despite the heat. Her braid is loose. Her expression is unreadable.

“You’re out late,” she says. You shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.” Choso doesn’t move closer, but doesn’t walk away either. You hesitate. Then smile, gentle. “Could say the same for you.”

“I’m always up late,” she replies. “Hard to rest when everything is so… quiet.” You nod. “Silence is loud, sometimes.”

A beat.

She glances sideways at you. “You’re different.” You tense. “Different how?”

“From the others,” she says. “The other suitors. You don’t walk like you’re owed something. You don’t speak like you believe your own story.” You glance down at the marble beneath your feet.

“I don’t.”

⋆｡°✩

Just then, Gojo appears beside you. Not fully visible—more of a glimmer in the air, like moonlight caught in motion.

He leans close. “Hey,” he whispers. “This is your moment.” You blink. “She’s standing there, all mysterious and gorgeous and complicated, and you’re just standing here like a guy with no game. You wanna impress her?”

You mutter under your breath, “I thought you weren’t supposed to interfere.” He winks. “I’m not interfering. I’m supporting. Now ask if she wants to see something cool.”

⋆｡°✩

You inhale. Then turn to Choso. “I know this sounds strange,” you say, “but… would you like to go for a ride?” Choso raises a brow.

You nod toward the balcony edge. “I have something to show you.” Her expression doesn’t change.

But after a beat, she says: “Fine. But if this is another metaphor, I’m leaving.” You grin. “It’s not.” You whistle.

And the carpet soars up from the shadows.

She steps back, startled. Then stares. The rug hums with magic, hovering just above the floor, tassels fluttering like they’re twitching with excitement. Choso blinks. “Is that—?”

“Sentient? Yeah. A little sassy too.” You step onto it first, then offer your hand. She hesitates. Then places her palm in yours.

Her fingers are cold. But her grip is strong. You help her up. She sits in front of you, eyes flicking to the edge of the balcony, then to the sky.

“…Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Nope,” you say, smiling. “But that’s the fun part.” And with a soft shudder—

The carpet lifts.

⋆｡°✩

The palace falls away beneath you. The night air rushes past your skin. Choso’s breath catches in her throat as the city unfurls beneath you—lanterns flickering in narrow alleys, domes gleaming under starlight, the world spread wide and glowing and endless.

She turns to look at you. You don’t say anything. You just hold on. And take her higher.

⋆｡°✩

You land softly, almost weightlessly, on the terrace just outside Choso’s chambers.

She’s still quiet, still wind-tousled, still flushed from the cold kiss of sky on her skin. Her braid is coming undone, and one hand rests on her chest like she’s trying to hold something in—something that might spill over if she speaks too soon.

You linger there a moment longer, letting the carpet drift backwards into the shadows. You watch her, eyes drawn to the way she turns from the railing to you. A slow pivot. Unreadable expression. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “For that.”

You smile. “Anytime.” You step back, ready to take your leave.

And before you think better of it, you add— “Good night, princess.” It’s meant to be charming. Light.

But her smile falters.

Not in a way that says hurt, not exactly. More like she’s standing on the edge of a truth he’s been holding for too long. You notice too late. “I’m not—” she starts, then stops.

She takes a breath. Steadies herself. And says it clearly, steadily: “I’m not a princess. I’m not even... her.” You blink.

She lifts her chin a little, eyes burning with something fierce and fragile all at once. “I’m a man,” she says. “I always have been. Even if—" She swallows. "Even if not everyone believes it.”

There’s a silence after that. Not empty. Heavy. Alive.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

You just look at him—the way the moonlight brushes the sharp line of his jaw, the proud set of his shoulders, the tremble he tries to hide in his hands—and realise that somehow, he looks more royal now than he ever did in silk and jewels.

You find your voice. “I believe you.”

His next breath is shaky. “You thought I was someone else.”

“I didn’t,” you say. Quietly. Honest. He glances up. “I thought you were someone extraordinary,” you say. “I still do.” Something in his face cracks. Softens.

You step forward. Close enough to touch. But you don’t—not yet. “I don’t care about the title,” you murmur. “I don’t care about the rules. I care that you smiled at me once in an alley, and I haven’t been able to forget it since.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the day he was born.

And then— He reaches for you.

⋆｡°✩

His hands find the front of your robe. Yours find the line of his waist. It’s not frantic. It’s not even heated—at first.

It’s something slower. Deeper. Something that hums between your ribs and makes your skin ache just to be closer. When he kisses you, it’s hesitant. Careful. Testing the shape of your mouth like he's still afraid he’s not allowed.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting to. Like you knew, somehow.

Like this has always been the truth.

⋆｡°✩

The bed is quiet. Soft. Too large, too royal, too untouched by real life—but you forget that quickly. Because he’s beneath you.

Because his hands are in your hair, and your fingers are trembling as you trace them down the length of his spine, over the curve of his ribs, careful with every inch like he’s something sacred.

He breathes out your name when you kiss the spot just below his ear. His legs part instinctively when your body moves between them. Your name again—this time shakier, needier, like he’s falling open for you without even meaning to.

You ask before anything changes. He nods. And you move together like something pulled by gravity.

The room glows gold and shadow. His skin is warm. Softer than you thought. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

You kiss down his chest, over his stomach, tasting every part of him that he gives you. He arches when you touch him—soft sounds spilling from her lips like prayers, like confessions, like things never said aloud until now.

He wraps his legs around your waist. Whispers your name again like it means something new. And when you press into him— Slow, careful, trembling—

He doesn’t flinch. He lets you in.

⋆｡°✩

It’s slow. Not quiet.

He gasps when your hips move. Moans when your lips return to his. You try not to fall apart at the sound—try to last just a little longer, to feel all of him, to remember this as the first time you were seen and wanted and welcomed all at once.

He holds you tightly. Kisses you deeper. Moves with you, against you, beneath you. You don’t rush. You can’t. It builds like a wave.

Like heat and ache and everything breaking open. And when it crests—

You fall together.

⋆｡°✩

Afterwards, you lie tangled in silk sheets and shallow breaths, the world narrowed to the space between your bodies. Your hand in his. Your thumb brushes the line of his knuckles. You press a kiss to his temple. He exhales.

And smiles for real this time.

You wake to the sound of birds. Soft, scattered, high in the distant trees.

The kind of sound you never hear in the lower quarters of the city, where the only music is wheels against stone and the creak of heavy doors. You let it wash over you. Let yourself believe—for one last, fragile minute—that the world outside is as kind as this bed, this morning, this boy sleeping beside you.

Choso lies curled on his side, braid undone, dark hair fanned across the pillow like spilt ink. One hand rests loosely against your chest, fingers twitching now and then with dreams he hasn’t woken from yet.

The light filters in slow and gold, turning the silk sheets into something almost holy. It slips over the slope of his shoulders, the faint line of a scar near his collarbone, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

You could stay like this. You could forget the city, the lies, the borrowed name stitched into the back of your coat. You could forget the way Mahito watched you with a smile that never touched his eyes.

You could. But you don't.

You can't.

⋆｡°✩

You shift carefully, brushing your thumb over the back of Choso's hand. He stirs. Blinks sleepily up at you. His lashes catch the light. "...Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," you say, softer. He doesn't pull away. Doesn't flinch. He just watches you for a moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes, like he’s still waiting for you to change your mind now that the night is over.

You don't. You kiss his forehead. He exhales, a sound more felt than heard, and tucks himself closer. You let your fingers trail lightly down his back, tracing the spaces between his ribs, the small scars and marks of a life you haven’t heard about yet—but want to. You want to learn them all.

You think: I could stay. But footsteps echo down the corridor outside. A voice calls faintly—court summons, morning meetings, new dignitaries arriving. Reality creeps in like the tide.

You meet Choso’s gaze. Neither of you says it. Neither of you has to.

This world isn’t made for boys like you. Not yet.

You don’t realise you’re being followed until it’s too late.

The palace corridors twist like veins, familiar but shifting somehow in the heavy evening air. You’re almost back to the guest wing, to the safe warmth of Choso’s voice, when a shadow cuts across your path.

Mahito. Blocking the hall. Smiling like he’s been waiting for this. You freeze. Your fingers twitch toward the lamp hidden in your sash. Too slow.

⋆｡°✩

"You're clever," Mahito says, voice silk-slick. "I'll give you that." He steps closer. You don't move.

"But not clever enough." His pale eyes gleam. His hand lifts lazily—and before you can even reach for Megumi or the lamp—   a sharp shove, magic crackling at your back—

You stumble. Arms grabbed. Ropes you can't see binding around your wrists, your ankles.

"Street rat," Mahito murmurs, almost tender. Then—

The balcony edge rushes up. He doesn't even watch you fall.

The air tears past you in a scream you can’t hear. The river below catches you in a brutal, crushing grip—icy and endless and roaring in your ears. You sink fast. Weighed down by silk, rope, and fear. You thrash. Fight. Try to scream for Gojo—but the water fills your mouth, your nose, your eyes, dragging you under.

You reach for the lamp with your bound hands. Mouth a desperate plea into the black. Please.

The lamp flashes against your chest. Heat surges in your lungs. And the world shatters.

⋆｡°✩

You’re gasping on the riverbank. Coughing so hard it tears at your throat. Gojo kneels beside you, drenched, furious, still sparking faintly with leftover magic.

"You—" he chokes, raking a hand through his wet hair. "You used your second wish." You can’t even answer. You just grip the sand, coughing, as Megumi clambers over your chest, clicking his teeth in frantic relief. "You’ve got one left," Gojo mutters.

Quiet now. Almost broken.

⋆｡°✩

But you don’t have time to think. Not yet. Because somewhere in the palace, Mahito still stands.

Still smiling. Still plotting. You push yourself to your feet.

And you run.

The guards are scattered. The throne room churns with confusion. Gakuganji—the Sultan—is slumped against his throne, eyes glazed, words slurring.  At Mahito’s side, a tall staff gleams darkly, twisted into the shape of a cobra.

You don't need Gojo to tell you. The staff is the key. You charge.

⋆｡°✩

Mahito turns just as you reach him. He grins. "You just don’t know when to die, do you?" You don’t answer.

You swing— Hard. The staff cracks at the base, splintering under the force of your stolen sword.

The magic whines. Then—  shatters. Gakuganji blinks. Shakes his head.And roars for the guards. Mahito snarls—lunges for you—but four soldiers tackle him before he can reach. They drag him toward the dungeons. He twists once to glare at you over his shoulder. "I’ll be back," he spits. "You’ll have to wait," you say, voice steady now.

And the doors slam behind him.

⋆｡°✩

Gakuganji turns to you. "You saved my mind," he says gruffly. "And my kingdom." You swallow. The lamp is heavy in your sleeve.He smiles.

A slow, approving smile. "And if my child wishes it," Gakuganji says, voice rising, "you shall have her hand."The room erupts in cheers. Choso stands stiff near the throne, eyes wide—face unreadable. And in that moment—

You realise the world would give you everything you want. If you kept lying.

Gojo appears by your side, quieter now. He doesn't say anything. Just looks at you. Waiting. Hoping. You tighten your fingers around the lamp. And you hesitate.

⋆｡°✩

The celebration fades around you.

 You barely hear it—the clapping, the cheers, the way Gakuganji beams, and the royal guards stamp their spears in approval. All you see is Choso.

Standing a few steps away. Not smiling. Not rushing forward. Just… waiting. Hesitant. Hopeful. Fragile in a way that cuts deeper than anything Mahito could have thrown at you.

⋆｡°✩

Gojo stands at your side. Still shimmering faintly from the river. Still waiting. Not pushing.  Not pleading. Just standing there like someone holding a string he already knows you’re about to let go of.

You reach for the lamp. Feel the weight of the final wish burning against your skin. Your throat tightens. You promised. When you first met him—lost and laughing in a puff of glitter—you promised you’d set him free. That was before you fell in love with the wrong name.

The wrong life. Before Choso looked at you like you were worth it. Before you knew what it felt like to belong.

⋆｡°✩

You close your fingers around the lamp. Breathe.

And you can feel Gojo’s gaze—steady and unbearably gentle. Waiting. Trusting. You falter. You think– Just a little longer. Just until the wedding. Just until you’re sure.

You need him. You can’t do this without him.

You can't.

⋆｡°✩

You lower the lamp. Don’t say the wish. Don’t say anything. The betrayal is small.  Quiet. You don’t even see Gojo flinch.But you feel it.

In the way he goes, very still beside you.  

In the way the magic in the air dims—like a candle guttering before it goes out. You glance at him. He smiles. Almost. A threadbare thing.

"Guess some promises are easier to break," he says softly. No anger. No accusation. Just… sadness.

⋆｡°✩

Before you can speak, before you can explain or apologise or take it back— Gojo retreats. The magic swirls around him, blue and gold and soft with resignation.

The lamp hums once in your hand. And he’s gone. Sealed away. Silent.

You stand alone in the throne room. Choso approaches carefully. And the crowd cheers again. But it sounds so far away. Like the echo of a door closing behind you.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t sleep that night. Not really. The palace celebrates around you—banquets and music and the rustle of gold—but it sounds muffled, like you’re hearing it through water.  

You sit alone by the windows, staring out over the empty streets, watching the stars blur.

The lamp sits heavy in your hands. You haven’t touched it since Gojo vanished inside. You don’t know if he’s listening. Or if he even wants to anymore.

The knock at your door comes soft. You don’t move at first.

You think maybe it’s Choso—come to ask if you’re alright, to pull you out of your own head the way he did once with a single smile. But when the door creaks open—

You see blue hair. You see Mahito’s grin. And you know you’re too late.

⋆｡°✩

It’s not a fight– It’s a theft. A blur of motion—magic flaring cold and sharp in the small room—the lamp ripped from your hands before you can even shout. You stagger. Reach. Miss.

Mahito steps back into the shadows, lamp cradled against his chest like a prize he was always meant to have. "Thanks for keeping it warm," he says sweetly.

Then he’s gone. Vanished into the dark.

⋆｡°✩

The alarm rises seconds later. Too late.

Guards scrambling through the halls. Choso shouting your name across the marble. Geto throwing orders like knives.   But none of it matters. Mahito has the lamp– And you know what comes next. You know because you know him—better than you want to.

He’ll wish for power. For the throne. For the kind of magic no mortal should ever touch. And no one—not even you—can stop him now.

⋆｡°✩

Unless. You run. You don’t think– you just move. Out of your chambers. Down the steps. Through the garden where the night air burns cold against your skin. You find Choso at the fountain, sword half-drawn, looking for you.

His eyes widen when he sees your face. "What happened?"You gasp for breath.

"He has the lamp." For a second—just one—fear flashes across Choso’s face.

But then he straightens. Grips his sword. "Then we take it back."

You reach the throne room just in time to see it happen.

Mahito stands at the centre of it all—grinning, wild, radiant with stolen magic.  The lamp in one hand. Gakuganji slumped to one side. The guard kneeling with empty eyes.

He holds the lamp high. “I wish,” Mahito says, voice sharp with triumph, “to be Sultan!” The air twists. Magic slams into the walls, cracking stone and shattering chandeliers.  The throne reshapes itself beneath him, black and gold and monstrous.

The room falls silent. Mahito—no longer an advisor, no longer anything human—turns his new crown in his hands. And laughs.

⋆｡°✩

You flinch backwards. Choso catches your arm. "Stay with me," he says, voice low. You nod. You draw your sword—cheap steel against magic.  It feels useless.

But you raise it anyway. Because the alternative is letting Mahito win. And you’re not that boy anymore. You’re not a street rat sneaking bread from market stalls.

You’re someone worth fighting for.

⋆｡°✩

Mahito steps down from the throne with slow, theatrical strides. Around him, the corrupted guards start moving toward you. Choso draws his sword too. Geto appears from the side doors, slipping through the chaos, blade flashing as he cuts down two of Mahito’s enthralled soldiers.

Megumi—small and furious—claws his way up a guard’s leg and bites. You lunge forward. Steel against steel. Magic crackling at the edges of your vision.

⋆｡°✩

But you’re not winning. Not really.

Mahito’s too strong now. Too fast. Too twisted with power, he was never meant to touch. Every time you cut down a guard, two more replace them. You duck a strike, parry another, heart pounding, throat burning. You can feel the ground tilting—everything sliding toward ruin.

⋆｡°✩

And Mahito watches. Smiling. Like a cat watching mice tire themselves out before the kill. "You can’t win," he says lazily. "You’re nothing. You were always nothing." Your hand tightens on the sword hilt.

You think of Choso’s hand in yours.  Of Gojo’s crooked smile.  Of Megumi clinging to your jacket like you were something worth protecting. You raise your head. And you smile back.

⋆｡°✩

"You’re right," you say. You lower your sword. Mahito frowns– confused.

"You’re right," you say again, louder. "I’m nothing. Just a street rat. A liar. A thief." You take a slow step forward.

"You’re the powerful one now. You’re stronger than anyone. Smarter. Better." You meet his eyes.

"And it’s not enough, is it?" Mahito’s smile falters. The doubt creeps in. The greed. The fear that even with the world under his heel, someone somewhere might still look down on him. You step closer. Let him see the bait.

"If you’re really that great," you murmur, voice dropping to a whisper, "why settle for Sultan?" Mahito freezes. You smile, small and devastating.

"Why not wish to be the most powerful being in the world?"

⋆｡°✩

The silence snaps. Mahito whirls toward the lamp. His knuckles whiten around it. "I wish," he snarls, "to be a Genie!"

The magic screams. The world bends. The ground heaves beneath your feet as the lamp flares—blinding white and burning blue—and Mahito’s body twists, warps, shrinks.

He screams. Not in victory. In terror.

Because he understands, too late, what you already knew: Genies are powerful.

But they are never free.

Chains—gold and searing, lash around his wrists. The lamp yawns open like a mouth. And Mahito is dragged inside. Gone. Sealed.

Forever.

The throne room stills. You lower your sword. Choso catches you when your knees buckle, steady hands warm against your ribs. You close your eyes. And breathe.

⋆｡°✩

The throne room is a mess of broken marble and stunned silence. But none of it matters. Not the shattered columns, or the scorch marks on the floor, or the lingering weight of magic still trembling through the air. You’re still standing.

Choso’s hand is still wrapped around yours. And in your other hand— The lamp. Heavy.

Alive. Waiting.

⋆｡°✩

You lift it carefully. Thumb tracing the worn edge of the spout. You hear Gojo’s voice in your head—bright, careless, teasing:

"What would you wish for, street rat?" And you smile.

⋆｡°✩

You don't hesitate this time. You hold the lamp close. "I wish," you say, voice steady, "for Gojo to be free."

The magic bursts out like a second sunrise. Blinding. Joyous. Real.The lamp trembles in your grip—then stills.

And Gojo— Gojo appears in a cascade of light, blinking like he’s seeing the sky for the first time. He touches his own chest, stunned. No chains. No pull back into the lamp. Just him.

Just free.

He laughs—wild and hoarse and a little broken—and then turns and tackles you into a hug so hard you stagger back two steps. "You crazy, beautiful, reckless idiot," he breathes into your hair. You laugh too—wet and breathless and so full it almost hurts.

"You’re free," you whisper. "Yeah," he says, pulling back to beam at you. "Yeah, I am."

⋆｡°✩

Geto appears at his side, folding his arms and giving Gojo a once-over like he’s assessing a particularly troublesome stray cat. "So," Geto says dryly, "now that you’re not a mystical prisoner of cosmic servitude anymore…" Gojo grins, flashing teeth."You’re stuck with me," he says, leaning casually against Geto’s shoulder like he’s always belonged there.

Geto rolls his eyes. But his hand finds Gojo’s without hesitating. "S'pose I could do worse," he mutters. Gojo’s grin only widens. "Aw," he coos. "You like me."

"Don’t push your luck."

⋆｡°✩

The court regathers slowly. The king—Gakuganji—steps forward, the crown still slightly askew on his head, but his eyes clearer now than they have been in weeks. He looks at Choso.

Really looks at him. Like seeing him for the first time. And Choso—

Choso straightens. Takes a step closer. And says, quietly but firmly:

"I’m not your daughter." The words hang there. Heavy. Sacred. "I never was." A beat. A breath. And then— Gakuganji chuckles. Low. Rough. Like stone cracking. "Good," he says. "I never liked raising girls. Too much screaming." A pause. Then, softer:

"I’m proud of you."

Choso blinks. Then bows his head, just slightly, like he’s carrying something too big to hold all at once.

⋆｡°✩

"And," Gakuganji continues, voice carrying, "I suppose I’ll need a new law." You stiffen.

The king’s gaze sweeps the hall. "From this day on," he says, "royals may marry whomever they choose. No bloodlines. No borders."

His eyes settle on you. "Just hearts."

The hall breaks into cheers. You barely hear them. You’re too busy watching Choso. The way his mouth curves, small and shy. The way his fingers reach for yours again.

The way he shines.

⋆｡°✩

Later, in the garden where the stars first found you—

You stand with Choso under the heavy branches of a fig tree, the lamp finally quiet at your feet, and the moon turning the world silver. You take his hand. You feel it tremble. You let yours tremble too.

"You don’t have to say yes," you whisper. "You don’t owe me anything." Choso looks at you for a long moment. Then steps closer. Presses his forehead to yours.

"I’ve been waiting my whole life," he breathes, "for someone who sees me." You close your eyes. Breathe him in.

And the world—this strange, broken, mended world—feels like it might finally be yours. Together.

⋆｡°✩

Somewhere above, Gojo and Geto bicker about constellations. Megumi steals a peach tart from the palace kitchens and almost gets caught.

And you— You kiss Choso under the stars. Not because a story told you to. Not because a wish demanded it.

But because, for the first time—

You can.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq @gaozorous-rex-blog @idkmissgurl @sa1ki-deactivated20250510@sooniebby @seomn

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[vampdes]

Bound by Power

R. Sukuna x male reader

The King of Curses finally meeting someone on his level and ending up marrying him.

Fluff(?), possessiveness, mentioned of murder/killing, threats, slight ooc, tall reader.

Imagine being the husband of Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses, a being said in hushed whispers, his name carrying enough weight to send even the most seasoned sorcerers trembling. To most, the very idea is laughable. Who in their right mind would choose to love, let alone marry, such a monster?

And yet, (Y/n) did, he was the perfect match.

He was tall, maybe even taller than Sukuna himself in his true form, (Y/n) was the definition of grace wrapped in unlimited power. With a voice like calm thunder and eyes that flickered with mysterious wisdom, he carried himself with an ease that suggested he had seen way worse than the King of Curses.

And maybe…he had.

When Sukuna first laid eyes on him, it was supposed to be just another day of bloodshed. He sensed power, thick, ancient, divine. That’s what drew him. What he found, however, was a man standing in the ruins of a battlefield where bodies began to rot, he was there not with fear, but with curiosity.

“You’re not afraid of me,” Sukuna had spat almost angrily, his four arms cracking with cursed energy.

(Y/n) simply tilted his head, letting a lazy smile stretch on his lips. “Why would I be? I’ve seen uglier things.”

The insult might’ve cost another limb. But Sukuna laughed.

“How amusing.”

It wasn’t just the comment. No, what made his black heart twitch was what happened next. He launched an attack, one meant to kill , not test, not tease. And yet, with a flick of his fingers, (Y/n) deflected it. As if swatting away a fly.

“You really are powerful as they say,” he said gently, his voice almost warm, like silk over steel.

Sukuna's grin twitched. He hated the idea of being impressed, even more than that, he hated being curious and (Y/n) was nothing if not intriguing.

Now a married life with Sukuna was complicated. Yes, he was more beast than man with a taste for destruction, suddenly, he stopped attacking villages ever since his husband raised a finger and simply said, “No.” Sukuna hated being told what to do. Except from (Y/n), it wasn't an order, it was expectation, and for some twisted reason, he obeyed like a dog.

Right now, the two stood on top of a ruined cliffside, the sky changing orange from a dying sun. Wind tugged at (Y/n)'s robes as he leaned back on the rocks, arms crossed, watching the horizon.

Sukuna was staring with intensity.

"You're too soft." He sneered. “It’s disgusting.”

(Y/n) chuckled, brushing hair from his eyes. “And yet here you are, with me instead of gutting someone.” Sukuna grunted, arms folded, the mouth on his stomach grinning while the one on his face scowled, his eyes looked forward but one of them were always attached to his lover, husband, spouse? It didn't matter.

“Don't test me." He grunted, saying it like he meant it.

“Oh my, how romantic,” (Y/n) teased, tilting his head.

In truth, Sukuna had never known peace. Not until him. Not until those stupid warm hands that could level a mountain instead chose to hold his face so gently. Not when nights spent in silence, laying beside a man who could probably kill him, and still kissed his face after every battle.

Despite his hatred of love, he might’ve started to feel it, or something dangerously close. He didn’t understand, didn’t want to. Love was weakness, it was foolish, disgusting, fragile. Whatever this was, this need that graze at him every time (Y/n) so much as looked away, it was somewhere deep, cold inside him.

His sharp nails dug in as he held the man tightly, the divine warmth of (Y/n)'s body pressed flush against him, standing between his spread legs. One hand yanked him back by the waist when he tried to shift even slightly, the other gripped the back of his thigh, firm, possessive.

Sukuna’s nose found the crook of his neck, breathing him in like he was starving. “Try to leave,” he growled, low and husy, lips brushing against skin, “and I’ll kill you.”

It wasn’t a threat. Not really. It was a plea, wrapped in bloodied instinct and biting hunger. Because the thought of him gone, of that warmth suddenly disappearing, twisted something cruel inside him. (Y/n) didn’t flinch or laughed at his face. He hummed, soft and calm like always, arms coming around Sukuna’s shoulders as if he were embracing a lover, not a monster.

“Wouldn’t dream of it."

[vampdes]

??? this just pmo so bad wtf. removing a COUPLE of words doesn't stop making it plagiarism. this is dumb omg

What a fucking loser

Should a file a DMCA or whatever that is

Also can you mass report that blog or wtv so we can take that fool down thanks 🙏🙏

[vampdes]

8k words through the prince charming gojo fic and I haven't even gotten to the smut 💀💀

this fic may come to about 9 to 10k words 😭

[vampdes]

husband..