#paper lantern tree | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 6 days ago

Text

The Tiger & The Moon

Pairing: Circus performer! Kwon Soonyoung x Artist! F. Reader

Wordcount: 12.7K

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Slight Bodyworship - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Use of petnames - Reassurances and clear consent (this is incredibly soft lovemaking)

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

It’s the sound of drums that draws you in.

Not hunger, though that gnaws in your stomach like it always does. Not the wind, though it hisses cold through the hem of your tattered skirt. Not even the need for safety—because that’s something you stopped believing in the moment your legs carried you across the city’s edge, away from the suffocating perfume and filthy hands of the brothel.

It’s the drums. Low. Rhythmic. Hypnotic.

You stumble across a dew-drenched field just past midnight, led only by the flickering glow of distant lanterns and the echo of music that feels like something ancient. It beats like a second heart inside you. Ahead, the tents bloom like massive, sleeping flowers—red and gold, navy and cream—sprawling beneath the stars in messy rows.

A travelling circus.

You’ve heard stories, of course. Dancers who bend like willow trees, men who swallow swords, tigers that leap through hoops of fire. But in the city, in the brothel, dreams were things beaten out of you with the back of a hand. Here, dreams seem to shimmer above the grass like fireflies.

You hover at the edge of the makeshift grounds, wrapped in a stolen cloak two sizes too big, fingers curled into the sleeves. You don’t belong here. You know that.

But then the drumbeat quickens, and something else begins—something theatrical and alive. A cheer from the crowd. The hush of anticipation. And the metallic snap of spotlights flooding the massive tent’s entrance.

You slip through the shadows, heart racing, eyes darting. No one sees you. No one cares to. But that’s the trick, isn’t it? Be small. Be quiet. Be nothing.

You crouch behind crates stacked near the back of the tent—costumes, ropes, props—and peer through a narrow flap left ajar. The scent of sawdust and sweat curls in the air, but it’s not unpleasant. Not like the sweet, rotting perfume they used to force on your skin.

Inside, the ringmaster stands in the centre, announcing acts with a booming voice and a sharp smile, cracking his whip-like punctuation. The audience roars as a woman juggles knives on horseback, her braid flying behind her. A man in glittering blue dives through a column of fire.

You watch, wide-eyed, breathless.

But then he appears.

Not from the center. No. From the shadows. From the ceiling. He swings down from a rope like gravity never applied to him at all—legs bent, body twisting midair, tiger stripes painted onto his chest in glittering gold and black.

You forget to breathe.

He’s wearing nothing but loose black pants, his shoulders flexing with each spin. His movements are sharp, primal, choreographed to the beat of the drums. When he lands, the entire tent goes silent, as if waiting for him to roar.

And he does. Not with sound. With movement.

A flip. A clawing gesture. A slide across the floor that ends with him kneeling, hand outstretched toward the crowd. They erupt.

Your pencil is in your hand before you realise it.

You pull a crumpled sheet of paper from your pocket and begin to sketch, hands working almost on instinct. Curves. Angles. His shoulders. The grace. You don’t think. You just draw.

And then his gaze flicks sideways, right to where you are hidden.

Your fingers still. Your chest goes tight. You convince yourself he doesn’t see you through the curtain of crates and outfits.

His eyes are impossibly warm and impossibly dark. And for a second—just a second—he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t grin. He just looks.

But then he’s gone again, dancing, spinning, leaping into the air as if the moment never happened. You watch him until the lights dim, the applause roars, and the ringmaster calls for the next act.

You don’t realise your drawing is finished until your pencil slips out of your grip.

Hours pass. You stay hidden.

When the crowd finally disperses and the lights begin to dim, you sneak through the back of the grounds—quiet as a shadow—until you find an empty wagon stacked with boxes. You curl into it, pulling your knees to your chest, using the cloak as a blanket. Your fingers still smell like pencil lead. You close your eyes.

And then a voice startles you. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

It’s his voice. Rough. Low. Accented in something lazy and teasing.

Your eyes fly open. He stands at the opening of the wagon, still shirtless, a towel around his shoulders and a smirk on his lips. His hair is damp.

“You know that, right?”

You sit up sharply, preparing to bolt. But he raises his hands in surrender.

“Hey—hey. Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you.” He tilts his head. “You were watching me earlier.”

You stay silent. He saw you? He steps closer.

“You’re not a thief, are you? You don’t look like the type to steal. Except maybe hearts. But that’s a performer thing, too.” His grin widens. “Unless you’re here to audition. In that case, great hiding spot. But we don’t usually hire ghosts.”

You speak for the first time in what feels like days. “I’m not a ghost.” He pauses. Cocks his head, like a tiger curious about a mouse.

“No. I don’t think you are.” You glance at the door. He follows your gaze.

“If I was going to turn you in, I would’ve done it already. The ringmaster doesn’t like strays. But me? I’m a sucker for sad eyes and good timing.” You don’t answer.

He hops up into the wagon without asking. You flinch. He notices. The grin falters for just a moment.

“Sorry. I’ll stay over here.” He drops onto a crate across from you, towel still looped around his neck, eyes scanning you with less mischief now and more curiosity. “What’s your name?”

You shake your head.

“No name? Mysterious. I like it.” He leans back and stretches his arms behind him. “Alright, no-name. You look cold. And like you haven’t eaten in a while. You planning on sleeping out here all night?”

You blink. “I have nowhere else to go.”

He studies you for a long time. “Fine. You can stay in my wagon. Just for tonight. I won’t touch you. I talk a lot, but I’m not a creep.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You’re probably better off there than out here, where Rigo might see you.”

You hesitate.

“You trust me?” he asks. You shake your head.

He laughs. Loud and unashamed. It startles you. “Good. That’s smart. But I’ll still offer.” He hops down and gestures. “Come on, Moon.”

“Moon?”

“You didn’t give me a name, so I gave you one.” His eyes soften. “You look like the moon tonight. Pale. Quiet. Far away from all of us.”

You say nothing, but you follow him.

You tell yourself it’s because anything is better than the cold.

The inside of his wagon smells like lemon oil and dust.

Not in a bad way—just lived-in, like someone’s been here too long without changing anything. Crumpled shirts hang from hooks, performance pants tossed over a stool, and a tiny mirror edged with fairy lights blinks at you from the wall. There’s a faded photo stuck in one corner—him as a boy, maybe fifteen, grinning with his arm around a tiger statue.

You hover at the threshold.

“It’s not much, but it’s warmer than outside,” he says, flicking the light on with a sharp click. “You can take the bed.”

You shake your head immediately.

“Come on. I’ve slept in worse places. The hay pile behind the giraffe cart? Unbelievable back support.” He grins again. He does that a lot, it seems—too easily. Too brightly. You don’t trust it.

You settle into the corner farthest from the door, your cloak pulled tight. He doesn’t push. He just throws himself onto the small bench under the window and crosses his arms behind his head like he hasn’t just invited a total stranger into his home.

“I’m Soonyoung, by the way,” he says. “But everyone calls me Hoshi.”

You don’t reply.

“‘Hoshi’ means ‘star’ in Japanese. My mom called me that when I was little.” He lifts a shoulder. “Thought it sounded cooler on posters than ‘Kwon Soonyoung the dancing idiot,’ so I kept it.”

Still, you don’t speak. You don’t owe him anything—not your voice, not your name, not your trust.

He shifts, observing you. His tone changes—softens.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I know what it’s like to… want to disappear for a while.”

You watch the way he fiddles with a gold ring on his pinky finger. It’s shaped like tiger fangs. Sharp. Delicate. Probably fake.

“Everyone here’s running from something. That’s kind of the circus’s thing, isn’t it?” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You run away, you join the show, and suddenly you’re someone else. Someone shinier. Safer.”

He lays back again with a sigh that sounds too tired for someone who laughs so much.

“I’m happy here.”

The words hit the floor between you with a dull thud. You don’t believe him.

The next few nights pass in a hush of repetition.

You wake in silence, hide during the day, and slip out only when it’s dark enough not to be seen. Hoshi smuggles you small pieces of fruit, leftover meat pies, and, once, a package of coloured pencils he claims he “borrowed indefinitely.” You nod your thanks, never quite sure what to do with his kindness.

He talks a lot.

About the time he tried tightrope walking and fell into the cotton candy machine. About the fire-breather who accidentally singed her own eyebrows. About the night a tiger escaped its cage and wandered into his wagon like it owned the place.

“I offered it my dinner. We’ve been cool ever since.”

You don’t laugh, but your mouth twitches. He notices. He always notices.

You stay hidden, but he never questions it. Never asks you to explain. And each night, when the music starts and the big top floods with light, you creep to your place behind the crates and watch him come alive.

He moves like he’s been set on fire and only the rhythm can put him out. Like if he stops dancing, he’ll vanish.

You draw him every time. The curve of his spine, the snap of his arms, the wildness in his grin when he lands a perfect flip.

You sketch until your fingers ache.

Until you know him by lines alone.

It happens five nights in.

You can’t sleep. The roof drips, the blankets itch, and something inside you is restless. Hoshi had told you he’d be late—extra rehearsals, he said. You slip from the wagon quietly, boots soft in the mud, coat pulled tight around your frame. The circus grounds are mostly dark—tents closed, wagons locked, fire pits reduced to embers.

You walk past a row of cages—empty now—and head toward the supply wagons when you hear it.

“You said it’d be done by now.”

It’s Hoshi’s voice. You freeze and duck behind a barrel.

“And I said the debt doesn’t clear just because you’re popular,” replies another voice—older, crueller. “You still owe me three hundred thousand. You want to leave, Soonyoung? Pay up. Until then, I own your name. Your act. Your body.”

"I’m trying. I’m performing every damn night—”

"And drinking away your cut by morning.”

"That’s not—”

"Don’t lie to me.”

You peer around the edge. Rigo—the ringmaster—stands with his back to you. Hoshi is in front of him, shirtless again, glitter smeared down his jawline. He looks smaller. Angrier.

“You said I’d be free by the Paris tour,” Hoshi mutters.

“And maybe you will be. If you keep earning.” Rigo steps closer. “But if you try to leave early, if you even think about running—I’ll find you. And I’ll break every bone you use to dance.”

Silence.

“Don’t forget who gave you a stage when the world laughed you off it.”

The ringmaster walks away. Hoshi stays still for a long time, fists clenched, chest heaving. When he finally turns, you’re already gone.

Hoshi comes back late that night, humming some off-key melody, sweat dripping from the nape of his neck.

“Moon, I brought—hey, you okay?”

You’re sitting on the floor, paper and pencils scattered around you. One sketch lies in your lap, the most detailed one yet.

You don’t answer. You just hand it to him. He looks down.

A tiger in a cage.

Its shoulders are hunched, not in fear, but in exhaustion. Its paws are bruised. Its tail is curled tight against the bars. But its eyes… its eyes are still burning.

He blinks. “Is this… me?”

You look up at him. And for once, you don’t hide the sadness in your face. “You’re not happy here.”

He doesn’t smile this time. He just kneels down slowly beside you, gaze never leaving the drawing. He places it gently on the bench, then leans back on his heels.

“No,” he says quietly. “I’m not.”

One morning, without warning, he throws a scarf at your face.

“You need air,” Hoshi says, grinning as he pulls on his boots. “And you’re gonna get it.”

You flinch when the scarf hits your cheek, even though it doesn’t hurt. He notices. His grin falters but doesn’t fade completely.

“You’ll come with me. I’ll show you around. Just don’t tell anyone you’ve been living in my wagon rent-free.”

You hesitate. Fear creeps into your stomach like spoiled wine. If they find out what you are—who you were—there’s no telling what Rigo will do. Or worse, who he might call.

Hoshi holds out his hand. Open. Steady.

“I’ll tell them you’re the new sketch artist. That the boss approved it. No one questions my mouth anymore. Too loud to argue with.”

You don’t take his hand, but you follow him anyway.

The circus in the daylight is nothing like the spectacle at night.

The glitter is dulled. The costumes hang in long rows on wires, limp and sequined. Elephants bathe lazily near buckets of water, and smoke curls from frying pans where breakfast burns on open fires.

You walk closely behind Hoshi, the scarf clutched tight around your neck, chin tucked low into the fabric. He’s all motion and brightness—waving, laughing, tossing casual greetings around.

“Morning, Andrei!”

"Hey, Mira! Save me a biscuit this time!”

People nod. Smile. Some glare. He doesn’t seem to care.

When he finally introduces you, it’s with a flippant gesture and a wink. “This is Moon. She’s our new sketch artist. Bit shy, but brilliant. Like a raccoon with talent.”

You keep your eyes down. Offer a small nod. Most people nod back with vague disinterest—too tired or too wary to care. Some squint.

A few notice the tension in your shoulders.

One of the acrobats—a tall, wiry man named Luca with sharp cheekbones and a cruel smile—lingers. He steps close. Too close.

“Didn’t know we were letting in strays now,” he says, eyeing you like a spider eyes a fly. “You get her off the street, Hoshi? Or also into your bed?”

The words land sharp and cold. You stiffen. Hoshi goes quiet.

Then he steps between you and Luca, shoulders squared. His voice loses its brightness.

“Watch your mouth.”

Luca raises an eyebrow, smirking, as he walks off.

“I’m just saying—Rigo won’t like it when he finds out you’re hiding runaways. You know how he feels about… damaged goods.”

That word—damaged—splits something open inside your chest.

You turn away, hands shaking, throat closing around the ache that’s been building since you stepped out of the shadows.

“He’s got the personality of spoiled cabbage,” Hoshi mutters as he catches up to you. “Ignore him.”

But you’re already spiralling.

As the tour continues, a juggler brushes too close behind you. A fire breather claps a hand on your shoulder in greeting, and your whole body jolts like you’ve been burned. Hoshi sees it. Every time.

When you finally slip away after dinner, you think no one notices.

You sit behind the main tent, knees drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped around your ribs like you’re trying to keep your bones from shattering. The sounds of rehearsal echo nearby—drums, whip cracks, the creak of wires overhead—but they feel far away.

Your breathing’s shallow. Your cheeks are damp with fallen tears. You hate how familiar this feeling is.

Powerless. Exposed. Vulnerable.

You thought you were past this. Thought the circus would be different.

A shadow moves in the corner of your vision.

You tense, expecting harsh words, maybe worse—but it’s just Hoshi.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t ask what happened.

He just sits cross-legged beside you, arms resting on his knees, not touching. Not pressing. Just breathing beside you like it’s the easiest thing in the world to share the same air with someone breaking.

You wait for questions. There are none. The minutes pass in silence, broken only by the occasional shout from the tent or the distant bray of a donkey.

Eventually, your tears slow. Your breath evens out.

And then—“I hate his guts.”

Hoshi’s voice is low. You glance at him.

“Luca,” he adds, as if it needs clarification. “Always sniffing around like he’s the ringleader’s favourite pet. I’m gonna replace his shampoo with glue one of these days.”

Your laugh comes unexpectedly. A real one. Crooked. Barely there. But it’s enough. He grins, but not in a triumphant way. In a relieved one.

“Better. That suits you more than silence, Moon.”

You don’t reply.

But when he rises and offers his hand again, you take it.

And when the two of you curl up that night in opposite corners of the wagon—backs to each other—there’s something binding in the silence.

And you sleep. For the first time in years.

You’ve never had someone bring you gifts before.

Not ones that weren’t dripping in expectation. Not ones that didn’t come with strings wrapped around your throat.

But Hoshi doesn’t tie bows around his kindness. He just… offers.

First, it’s a bundle of dried flowers—pressed and quirky, the kind that only bloom in colder months. He drops them beside your sketchpad one morning with a wink and a shrug.

“Found them near the trapeze wagon. Figured you might like dead things that look pretty.”

You don’t react. But you take them.

Then it’s a tin of coloured charcoal blocks—half-used, dull at the tips, but vibrant in your hands. The reds are bright, the blues deep. You don’t ask where he got them.

“Artist tools for my artistic shadow,” he says. “Now you can sketch me with proper flair. Make me taller, okay?”

Later, two perfectly peeled oranges, tucked in a napkin.

“You don’t eat enough,” he says, plopping beside you on the wagon step, his shoulder close but not touching. “You’re gonna float away at this rate. Then who’ll sketch my dramatic death leaps?”

You split one in half and hand it back to him without a word. He grins. Like he always does.

That night, he lights a candle in the middle of the wagon and sets it between you. The wax pools golden, flickering against the walls, throwing soft shadows across his face.

He talks while you draw. He always talks.

About his tiger routine, and how he once landed wrong and cracked two ribs but didn’t tell anyone. About a show in Prague where the audience threw roses—and one pair of underwear—onto the stage. About the time the tightrope snapped mid-performance and the crowd thought it was part of the act.

“I stuck the landing, though. Obviously.”

You glance at him.

“Barely broke my ankle. Ten out of ten.” He winks.

Your hand pauses on the page. A laugh itches in your throat but doesn’t come out.

“You’re hard to crack, Moon,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “I’m trying not to pry, I swear. But sometimes I look at you, and it’s like... I dunno. Like you’re made of glass, but all the sharp parts are turned inward.”

The candle flickers. So do you. He doesn’t ask anything else that night. Just hums while you sketch.

You don’t show him the drawing, but he smiles like you did.

You start watching him at night.

When the circus sleeps, and only the stars keep time, you slip out barefoot and perch behind the tent. He practices long after the others have stopped. Moves with a fever in his body, like he’s chasing something no one else can see.

Tonight, his shirt is discarded in a heap on the floor, and sweat slicks his spine as he flips, lands, stretches—again and again. No music. Just the beat of his breath and the slap of his feet against the pallet floors.

He stumbles. Not hard, but enough that he swears under his breath. You hear it—“Shit.”—followed by the dull sound of him sitting heavily on the edge of the platform.

He doesn’t notice you at first.

Then—“Moon?”

You freeze. He turns toward your hiding place, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.

“You always watch from the dark, don’t you?”

You don’t move. But he doesn’t seem upset.

“I don’t mind,” he says, softer now. “Just wish I knew what you saw when you looked at me.”

You step into the candlelight. Not fully. Just enough to be seen.

He smiles, but it’s tired. Raw.

“Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly. “Not running. Just… stepping out. Free. New city. New name.”

You say nothing.

He looks down at his hands.

“I wanted Paris.”

The words are quieter now. Less Hoshi, more Soonyoung.

“I used to dream about it every night. Dancing in Montmartre. On a stage that mattered. I wanted to be someone people wrote about. Someone remembered.”

He chuckles bitterly. “Instead, I sold my soul to a man who locks animals in cages and calls it art.”

You take another step forward. He doesn’t look at you. Just continues to stare at his palms.

“I owe him too much. Money. Time. My best years. I perform, and he lets me breathe. That’s the deal. That’s the cage.”

Your heart twists. Because you understand. More than he knows.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “I think I could just disappear. Walk out into the night and never stop walking. But then I remember—no one would come looking.” He says it with a crooked smile.

Your voice is rough when you speak. Barely a whisper. But it slices through the night like a thread of silver.

“I would.”

He freezes. His head lifts. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

You’re not sure why you said it. Or maybe you are. Perhaps you’ve known since the first time he called you Moon and smiled like he meant it.

The silence that follows is the kind that lands heavily on your skin.

“Say that again,” he breathes.

You shake your head. He doesn’t ask again.

Instead, he stands. Walks over. Stops a step away. You brace—but he doesn’t touch you. He sits down beside you. Cross-legged in the dirt.

Like he did the other night. No questions. No explanations.

Just two lonely things pretending—for a moment—that they are not alone.

They call it The Velvet Night.

Once a month, the circus throws a masquerade for its wealthiest patrons—aristocrats in velvet, merchants with too many rings and not enough kindness, and strangers with mouths that never smile unless they’re closing a deal. The ringmaster loves them, of course. Their wallets are heavier than their morals, and they pay for illusions like addicts pay for Nirvana.

Tonight, the tents are lined with gold silk. Wine flows like water. Lanterns flicker from every beam and rope. The world smells like roses, sweat, and something sour beneath.

You spend the day in the costuming wagon, where Mira and the others chatter and laugh around you, unaware—or uncaring—that your hands shake every time you touch lace or ribbon. The feel of silk between your fingers makes your stomach turn. It reminds you of curtains. Of rooms that locked from the outside.

You sew quietly. You keep your head down.

Hoshi pops in at one point, barefoot and smiling. “Moon,” he says, eyes lighting up. “Come watch tonight. I’ve got a new finish. It’s dramatic as hell. Might pull a muscle for it.”

You nod. He winks and disappears.

Night falls; the masquerade begins.

You don’t risk going near the centre tent where the patrons gather, but from a side flap, you catch glimpses. Silk gowns. Flashing jewelry. Glasses filled with golden liquid. Painted lips and empty laughter.

You know this kind of party. The kind where you aren’t a person—just something to look at, to own, to touch if no one’s watching. Your stomach turns.

Still, you stay. Because Hoshi is in there. And for reasons you can’t name, you need to see him. You lean against a pole, hidden in the dark, mask in your hand, breath held.

And then he steps into the ring.

He wears black tonight. A fitted, sleeveless top that sparkles under the lights and tight pants that hug the strength in his legs. His face is hidden behind a white and gold mask that glints with each movement.

Every turn, every snap of his limbs is poetry. He spins for them. Leaps for them. Smiles for them. And none of them know how much it costs him.

You know. You see it in the way his shoulders dip just a fraction too low when the music fades. How his chest rises with effort, not excitement.

And then— It happens.

A woman in red—older, tall, with lips the colour of blood—pulls him in with her fingertips. She slips folded bills into the waistband of his pants. Laughs. Says something you can’t hear.

And he—He kisses her hand. Grinning. Flashing that perfect, practised smile.

You stagger back as if struck. The breath leaves you in a rush.

You turn before you can see anything else and walk—fast—into the darkness behind the wagons.

You don’t stop walking until your legs shake.

You end up behind the animal cages, near the row of hay bales where the fire breathers warm up in the mornings. No one comes here at night. It’s too quiet, too far from the music and the masks.

You sit. And the tears come.

You don’t mean to cry. Not like this. Not because of him. Not because he kissed someone’s hand and smiled like it meant something. But it pulls at a memory buried so deep inside you, you had almost forgotten about it.

You curl your knees up. Bury your face in your arms. Try to pretend you’re somewhere else. But the memory creeps in anyway.

Men with cold rings and even colder hands. A room that smelled like wine and roses. The sharp click of heels. The way they’d touch your face like you weren’t even there.

Used. Brushed aside. Forgotten. Always forgotten.

You thought it might be different here. And that makes you hate yourself more.

“Moon?”

Your body jolts, instinct screaming hide—but it’s too late. He’s already seen you. Hoshi approaches slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal.

“I saw you leave. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly. “Can I… sit?”

You nod without looking up. He lowers himself onto the hay beside you, hands between his knees, gaze turned away. Silence stretches.

Then, in a voice you barely recognize as your own—“They used to make us smile, too.”

He stills.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. But the words keep spilling out, hoarse and thin, like something cracked inside you and finally let loose.

“At the brothel. We were supposed to laugh. Greet them like old friends. Let them touch us. Call it work. Call it love.”

You swallow hard. “They paid for what they took. That made it okay, they said.”

The air grows heavier with every word you whisper.

“Some of them liked it when we cried. Said it made us look real.” You feel your hands shake in your lap.

“I learned not to cry. Not to move. Not to exist, if I could help it.”

You finally look up. And he’s watching you. Not with pity. Not even with shock. Just quiet, fierce grief. Tears fill his eyes but don’t quite fall.

“Moon,” he whispers.

You flinch when he reaches out. His hand hovers near yours. But he stops.

“Can I hold you?” he asks.

Your throat closes. Your nod is barely a twitch. But he sees it.

He wraps his arms around you. Not tightly. Not hungrily. Just… safely. You don’t know the last time someone held you like this. Not to use. Not to consume. Just to be there.

He doesn’t fill the silence with apologies or, promises or empty words.

He just breathes. You feel his chest rise and fall. Feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek. His hand rubs gentle, slow circles across your back—no pressure. Just presence.

You cry again. This time, without shame.

And he stays.

The circus rolls into another town. Another foggy field. Another string of faceless patrons with fat wallets and vacant eyes. You’ve stopped caring where you are. All that matters is the tent. The rope lights. The sketches you leave scattered across Hoshi’s wagon table.

You sketch him constantly now. Not just onstage.

As he braids Mira’s hair between acts. As he sleeps curled on his side, hand under his cheek. As he rubs ointment onto his bruised knees.

Your pencils know the shape of his body like religion.

One night, you wait behind the curtain as the show ends.

He finishes his routine, glittering and breathless, but tonight, he’s a half-second off. His landings are sharp, but not as sharp as they should be. His final pose holds less punch, like his mind is somewhere else.

And Rigo notices.

As the crowd erupts into applause, the ringmaster stalks over to him like a storm cloud.

“What the hell was that?” Rigo snaps, grabbing Hoshi’s arm before he’s fully off-stage.

“It was fine,” Hoshi mutters, panting slightly.

“No. It was distracted. Sloppy. You’re better than that—so what’s got your head up your ass lately?”

Hoshi wrenches his arm free, jaw clenched. He sees you, just over Rigo’s shoulder, and his eyes soften for half a second.

“Maybe I’m just tired,” he offers.

“Then wake up,” Rigo growls. “You don’t get tired. You get perfect. That’s the deal.”

He walks off before Hoshi can reply.

You slip back into the shadows, heart hammering. The guilt feels sudden. Sharp. You wonder if you’re the reason his landings aren’t clean anymore.

You wonder if you’re unravelling him.

That night, you sit together outside the wagon.

The stars are unusually bright—clear for once, not clouded by fog or smoke. Hoshi sits beside you, hands clasped in front of his knees, chin resting on them. You watch the wind curl through his hair.

“We’re going to Paris next month,” he says suddenly.

You glance at him.

“It’s our biggest show. Rigo’s been hyping it for years. We’ll be at the Palais Garnier, if you can believe it.” He laughs once. “Me. In a building with gold ceilings. What a joke.”

You nudge your shoulder against his gently. He sighs.

“I’ve been thinking about leaving.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“After the Paris show. Slipping out during the night. Starting over. No more debt. No more cages. Just a train. A map. A backpack. I’ve saved enough. Barely, but enough.” He finally turns his head toward you. His voice is quieter now. More vulnerable. “I want you to come with me.”

You freeze.

His eyes search yours—not pleading, but open.

“I know you’re scared. I know you don’t trust easily. But I trust you.” A beat. “You’re the first real thing I’ve found in years, Moon.”

You stare at him, and your heart twists.

Because you want to say yes. You want to leave.

But part of you still believes you’re a shadow. Something cursed. You don’t want to ruin whatever light he has left.

So you lower your gaze.

He just whispers, “Think about it.”

You don’t sleep that night.

And by morning, everything has changed.

Hoshi bursts into the wagon, jaw tight, eyes furious.

“He knows.”

The words are like ice in your veins.

“Rigo. He knows about you.”

You rise slowly, heart pounding. “How?”

"Luca.” His mouth twists. “Little bastard must’ve told him last night. He told Rigo everything. That you’re not crew. That you’ve been staying in my wagon.”

You swallow hard. He sees your fear. Tries to soften it.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’ll—”

A voice cuts through the air like a whip.

“So this is the little stray.”

Rigo stands at the entrance, dressed in dark green and gold, his ringmaster cane tapping ominously against the threshold.

You shrink back. Rigo steps into the wagon like he owns it. Because he does.

“No name. No papers. No protection. You know what that makes you, sweetheart?” His voice drips like poison. “Sellable.”

Hoshi steps between you, blocking Rigo’s path.

“Touch her, and I’ll kill you.”

Rigo lifts a brow.

“Brave words for someone still owing me two hundred grand.”

"Take me instead,” Hoshi spits. “Whatever it is you want from her, I’ll do it. I’ll clean cages. Dance double. Fucking wear a leash if you want—just don’t touch her.”

You’re trembling.

Rigo narrows his eyes. Then—without warning—he strikes.

A backhand. Brutal. Fast.

Hoshi stumbles back with a choked sound, blood already blooming at the corner of his mouth.

You scream. Instinct. Terror. Rage.

You move forward, but Hoshi lifts a hand, even through the pain.

“Stay back.”

"You want to keep her?” Rigo sneers. “Fine. She’s your debt now. Double it. Four hundred grand. Pay it, or I send her back to the brothel myself.”

He turns, storming out as the door slams shut behind him.

And the silence that follows is deafening.

You wait until Hoshi falls asleep in his bunk—after you’ve cleaned the blood from his lip and kissed his forehead so softly he doesn’t stir—to leave. You pack nothing. Take nothing.

Just your cloak, your boots, and a sketchbook filled with drawings of him.

You run. To protect him. To protect yourself.

He might hate you for leaving, but that’s a price you’re willing to pay.

You don’t know the name of the city you end up in.

The circus had stopped on the edge of somewhere cold, grey, faceless—one of those in-between places that no one dreams about and no one stays in unless they have nowhere else to go.

You walk around with your cloak pulled tight, eyes darting with every step you take. No one notices you. That’s good. That’s the goal.

Disappear. Blend in. Be nothing again.

It’s easier than it should be.

By mid-afternoon, your stomach is growling with hunger.

You pass a street market where vendors shout over one another, hands waving, eyes hawk-sharp. You linger near a bread stall. Time it. When the seller turns his back to argue with a customer, you slide a roll off the edge of the cart and disappear into the crowd.

You do the same with an apple not long after. Your hands still shake when you tuck it into your pocket. But your feet don’t stop moving.

You’ve learned that survival means guilt becomes background noise.

That night, it rains.

You find shelter beneath a wide stone bridge, its arch stretching over a river that smells of metal and sewage. You press your back to the cold wall, knees drawn up, the stolen bread long gone. The apple you save for tomorrow.

You watch the raindrops trace lines across the river’s surface and pretend you’re okay. You’re not. You miss the wagon. The scent of lemon oil and warm blankets. The candle he lit each night—flickering against wood-panelled walls. You miss him.

The way he called you Moon like it was sacred. The way he let you be quiet without demanding answers. The way he looked at you like you weren’t broken.

You don’t allow yourself to cry.

You just press your forehead to your knees and breathe through the ache of everything.

The next morning, you wake soaked, sore, and starving.

You spend the day trying to find a way out.

You walk into a café, asking if they need help in the back. They glance at your dirty clothes and shake their heads.

You try a laundry service. A florist. A small bookshop with dusty windows.

Every time:

“We’re not hiring.”

"No experience?”

"Come back another day.”

You leave each time with your head lower than before.

By sundown, your apple is gone, and your coin purse is empty. You can feel the panic start to creep in again—sharp, familiar, suffocating.

You turn a corner, not even sure where you’re going, and walk faster.

You’re trying to think, trying to plan, when you hear it.

“Angel?”

The name slices through the air like a whip. You haven’t heard that in a long time.

“Angel, is that you?”

Across the street, under a flickering lamp post, stands a man in a long coat with a hat pulled low around his eyes. Older. Heavy. His mouth curls into a grin you know too well.

“Thought I’d recognise that little walk anywhere. Been years, but damn. You haven’t changed a bit.”

Your heart launches itself into your throat. You turn and keep walking.

“Don’t be like that, Angel!” he calls louder. “Come say hi to an old friend!”

You walk faster.

“Come on, you remember me, don’t you? You used to like me. Said I was your favourite.”

That sets you off. Your feet slam against the pavement. Your eyes scan for an escape. Shops are closed. The street is empty. You don’t dare look back.

“ANGEL!”

The shout becomes a bark. A threat. You start running.

Your breath comes out sharp and ragged. Your boots slip on the slick stones. You round a corner, then another. Behind you, footsteps thunder.

He’s chasing you.

And this time, it’s not for a transaction. You stumble past an alley and are about to keep going when a hand grabs your arm.

You scream—but another hand clamps over your mouth, and you’re yanked into the shadows and dragged underneath a rusted fire escape.

Your body thrashes until you hear the voice.

“Shh. It’s me.” Your blood stills.

“Moon. It’s me.” The voice presses against your ear like a balm. “It’s me. It’s Hoshi.”

You don’t believe it—not for a second—until you turn your head and see his eyes in the dark. Wide. Familiar.

And then footsteps pass.

“Angel! Where the fuck did you go?”

You go rigid. Hoshi’s arm around your waist tightens just a little. His other hand stays over your mouth, steady but gentle. You both breathe as silently as you can.

“I know you’re out here!” the man shouts, voice slurring now. “You can run, but I will find you. You’re mine, you little—”

The words cut off as his footsteps fade down the street.

You wait. Long after he’s gone. Until the only sound left is the wind shaking loose a gutter pipe above you.

Hoshi finally lowers his hand. You suck in a breath like you haven’t in hours. Your heart is hammering inside your chest. Your fingers tremble as you look at him—really look at him.

He’s soaked. Panting. His shirt is half untucked. Eyes brimming with worry.

“You—how—what are you doing here?” you whisper.

He exhales through a shaky laugh.

“Looking for you, obviously.”

You stare, stunned. “How did you find me?”

"You’re not exactly subtle when you run away in the middle of the night with nothing but your coat.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the sketch you made the first night you saw him. The one you left behind.

“I figured you wouldn’t go far.” His voice is softer now. “And I couldn’t—” He breaks off. Looks down. “I couldn’t let you leave like that.”

Your throat is thick. Your hands curl at your sides.

“But Rigo—he’ll kill you if you keep protecting me. He said—”

"I don’t care what he said.” His voice sharpens. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll work twice as hard. I’ll sell my ring, my shoes, I don’t care. I’ll dance until my legs break.” He steps closer. “But I’m not letting you disappear again.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. He keeps going.

“You said once that you would come looking for me.” His hand brushes your sleeve. “So now I’ve come looking for you.”

You don’t mean to. You don’t plan it.

But you step forward, fists balling into his shirt, and you crash into him like the sky’s falling.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his chest.

He melts around you instantly. His arms wrap around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

“I’ve got you now,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, Moon.”

The wagon looks exactly as you left it.

Your coat drapes over the corner of the bench, the coloured charcoals still lay scattered across the table beside a stack of half-finished sketches. The candle is fresh now, a new stub melting quietly in the jar you used to stare at every night.

You sit down in the same spot you slept in for weeks, staring at the flame until your hands stop shaking.

Hoshi hovers like he’s afraid you might vanish again. He doesn’t touch you—but he doesn’t take his eyes off you either. You don’t mind. For once, it’s comforting. A tether instead of a chain.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

The circus moves two days later.

Another town. Another dirt lot. Another field where fog clings low and the ringmaster’s voice cuts through the morning like a cleaver.

No one knows you’re back except for Mira and the twins from the rigging crew, who catch glimpses of you slipping into Hoshi’s wagon at odd hours. They don’t say anything.

Hoshi’s return, however, doesn’t go unnoticed.

The moment he sets foot near the main tent, Rigo is on him.

“Gone two nights,” the ringmaster growls through gritted teeth. “Two full shows missed without a word.”

"I was scouting a location. Spoke to the fire-breather about it weeks ago,” Hoshi lies smoothly, with just enough annoyance in his tone to pass for truth.

You listen from behind a canvas divider, heart in your throat.

Luca stands nearby, arms crossed, trying not to look smug.

Rigo eyes Hoshi but doesn’t press.

“If it happens again,” he says, voice dropping, “I’ll have another very interesting conversation with a friend of mine back in the city. Runs a brothel. Says he’s been looking for one of his girls. Thought she’d vanished. Sad story.”

Your blood runs cold.

“You leave again without permission,” Rigo continues, “and I’ll be sure to point him in the direction of our last stop. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

Hoshi says nothing. But his fists are clenched. You can see it even from here. The trap is set.

And there is nothing either of you can do.

Because if he leaves, you’ll be taken back.

And if he stays, he’ll be ruined.

When he finds you later, you act as if you haven’t heard anything. You reassure him, a smile gracing your lips that doesn’t reach your eyes. “All good. Nothing to worry about.”

On your way to the next stop, Hoshi tells you he wants to debut something new.

“A solo,” he explains, eyes lit up. “But not just me. I want it to be our piece.”

You stare at him, confused.

“Your sketches,” he explains, stepping closer. “You capture me better than any mirror ever could. I want to bring that version of me to the stage.”

You hesitate, he notices.

“Come on, Moon. We’ll choreograph it together. In secret. It’ll be just ours.”

You nod. Because how could you not?

You spend nights in empty tents and behind curtains, moving with him. Not dancing, not really—but guiding. Sketchbook in hand, you draw each frame. Each leap. Each reach. He watches your eyes more than your lines, and listens when you say “Again”. It becomes something else. Something that belongs to both of you. Not the circus. Not Rigo. Just you.

The night of the performance, he doesn’t tell anyone what he’s doing.

He steps into the center ring in silence, no music at first. The crowd murmurs. Rigo frowns from his usual spot near the edge of the tent but says nothing.

Then the lights dim. A spotlight blooms. And Hoshi begins to move.

It’s slower than his usual routines. Less about spectacle, more about story. Every line of his body carries emotion—grief, yearning, rage, release. He uses space like it’s water, shifting in and out of it with the grace of something both wild and controlled.

You watch from the shadows, breath caught. Because this—this is not a cage.

This is art. This is flight. This is freedom.

He ends on his knees, back arched, chest heaving, arms thrown wide like he’s asking to be struck by lightning.

And for the first time in months, the audience is silent.

Then—Thunderous applause. They stand. They shout.

Yet, Rigo doesn’t smile.

While you help Mira gather some of the costume bins behind the dressing tent, you hear voices again.

You duck behind a rack of sequined jackets, crouching low.

“What was that tonight?” Rigo snaps. “That wasn’t the act we approved.”

"You said as long as he performs, you don’t care what it looks like,” Luca mutters.

“I said I want obedience. That little stunt was defiance dressed up in glitter.”

A pause. Then—

“How much does he owe you again?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rigo growls. “I’ll change the amount however I want. Interest, late shows, fines. He’ll never pay it off. That’s the point.”

“And if he tries to leave again?”

"We remind him what happens to little strays who don’t know their place.”

You don’t hear the rest. You’re already slipping away, eyes wide, chest tight.

Hoshi doesn’t know. He thinks the debt is manageable. That there’s an end to it. But there isn’t. There never was.

The next city is louder than the last.

Cobbled streets overflow with carriages and clamour. Street performers clog every corner. Posters for the circus flutter on every lamppost.

You help him dress backstage that evening, hands tightening the clasps of his costume as he stretches his arms above his head. He hums off-key, as usual, pretending not to wince when his shoulder cracks.

“Nervous?” you ask, voice barely audible.

“Always,” he says with a grin, though the tremor beneath it betrays him. “But it helps that I know you’ll be watching.”

You smile. It’s faint. But real.

He cups your chin with one gloved hand, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to memorise you again. You lean into his palm before he can pull it away.

“Come back to me after,” you murmur.

“Always.”

You don’t see the man in the suit approach him.

You don’t hear the words exchanged at the edge of the ring after the show when the lights are dimming, and the crowd is dispersing.

You don’t see the glint of a silver card passed from one palm to another.

But Luca does. And that’s enough.

Hoshi returns later than usual that night.

You’re in the wagon, seated cross-legged on the bench, one of his shirts in your lap. Mending it. Or pretending to. Every sound outside sends your heart leaping.

When the door finally creaks open, you look up—and freeze.

He’s pale. His mouth is drawn tight. He walks like he’s trying not to breathe too deep.

“You’re late,” you whisper, rising quickly.

“Got caught in the crowd,” he replies, his voice hoarse.

You cross the floor in two strides and reach for his arm. He jerks it back instinctively. Your heart drops.

“What happened?”

"Nothing, Moon. Really. I’m just tired.”

You narrow your eyes, and you step closer.

He won’t meet your gaze.

“Take off your shirt.”

"What? No, I—”

"Take. It. Off.”

His jaw tightens.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you add, softer now. “Not here.”

He exhales slowly through his nose.

Then, without a word, he reaches for the hem and pulls the shirt over his head.

Bruises bloom like dark petals across his ribs and chest. Long, red welts streak across his back—angry, raised, and recent. Some are still bleeding. Others already begin to purple.

“Rigo,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Hoshi says nothing. Just stands there, eyes closed, like he’s waiting for you to flinch away.

Instead, you reach out. Your fingers brush gently across one of the bruises, barely touching. He hisses softly—but not from pain.

“He beat you.”

"It’s not the first time.”

"Because of me?”

"No.” His eyes flash open, fierce. “Not because of you. Because I might’ve had a way out. Because someone else saw what I could be, and he can’t stand that.”

"A scout?”

He nods.

“Asked if I was under contract. Told me he’d seen my last two performances. Said I had something rare.” He swallows. “I didn’t even say yes. I just took his card.”

You don’t need to ask what happened next.

Your stomach churns. Rage bubbles in your throat, bitter and thick.

“I’ll kill him,” you whisper. “I swear to god, I’ll kill him.”

"It’s nothing.”

"Don’t say that.”

He finally looks up.

And it’s you he sees now—not the artist, not the runaway—but the woman who’s watched him from the shadows every night since he met her.

“This place will kill you before it frees you,” you say.

“Then what do we do?"

Your hands reach for his.

“We burn it down.”

It begins with Mira.

You approach her first. The seamstress with needles tucked into her bun and burns on her fingers. You show her Hoshi’s bruises. You don’t say a word. Just let her see. She doesn’t speak for a long time. Then she nods.

“It’s about time.”

Then Andrei.

The tall, silent strongman with eyes like storm clouds and a permanent frown. He’d always been kind to Hoshi. Had once given you half a sandwich without asking why you were hiding behind crates.

He listens. He nods once. Then he spits on the ground.

“I’ll handle the locks.”

Then, the twins—Illya and Ivan.

Aerialists with matching red hair and scars on their ankles from the silk ropes. They’d grown up in the circus. Their parents hadn’t been as lucky.

When Hoshi tells them the plan, they glance at each other—then smile, cold and sharp.

“We’ll give them a show they’ll never forget,” Illya says.

“And if Rigo ends up gagged in a lion cage, well…” Ivan shrugs. “Oops.”

It becomes something more than revenge. It becomes a rebellion.

One by one, performers start pulling their weight for Hoshi, stalling for him, hiding you in plain sight.

You and Hoshi begin mapping out everything.

You sketch the grounds, mark the weak points, the tent poles soaked in oil, the ropes fraying after years of neglect.

Hoshi studies fire escapes like choreography. Practices his flips in silence. His eyes burn with purpose again.

And every night on your way to Paris, before the candle goes out, you sleep with your hand in his.

The Palais Garnier gleams like a dream—its chandeliers sparkle, marble stairs echo with polished footsteps, and every guest inside wears something that costs more than your entire life.

It is Paris. And tonight, the circus burns.

You stand just outside the main tent, your body cloaked in dark rain-slick fabric, the matchbox clenched in your hand.

The performers pass around each other like whispers—disguised in their roles, eyes meeting in split seconds of silent code. Tonight isn’t a performance. It’s a war.

Mira helped you lace your boots extra tight. Andrei handed you the rope soaked in kerosene. Illya gave you a pocket knife, “just in case.”

No one says goodbye.

You’re not sure if that’s superstition, or fear.

Across the field, on the opposite end of the canvas, Hoshi slips into the beast tent. You catch one last glimpse of him. His white and silver costume shimmers against the lighting. No mask. Just his face, taut with focus, damp hair clinging to his temples.

He looks back once. His eyes find yours. And you nod.

Then, he vanishes into the shadows.

Inside the ring, the final act is about to begin.

The guests—drunk on champagne and artificial wonder—roar in their seats. Rigo stands just behind the curtain, adjusting his cuffs and sipping dark liquor from a cut-crystal glass. His cane, tiger-head-topped and gold-plated, rests against his thigh.

“They think they’ve seen a show already,” he smirks to Luca. “Wait ‘til the beast steps out. Solomon’s presence raises the price of the ticket by tenfold.”

"Are you sure it’s wise?” Luca murmurs. “He was twitchy this morning.”

“They’re all twitchy before a crowd.” Rigo scoffs. “That’s what makes them pliable. And Soonyoung knows better than to disappoint me again.”

He chuckles, cruel and smug. “Besides, the tiger knows who owns him.”

You circle the outer rim of the tent now, fingers trembling as you reach the section Mira marked in chalk—just behind the main structure, near a weak seam in the canvas wall. It’s here you strike the match.

The sulfur flares with a hiss, gold against the grey.

The flame eats the rope greedily.

The wind carries the flames faster than expected, wrapping around the edge of the tent. The fire is elegant at first—just a shimmer. A flickering glow.

Then, the fuel kicks in. And the tent goes up like a furnace.

Inside, Rigo freezes mid-sip.

The crowd begins to murmur—then shout.

“What the—” he barks, turning toward the entrance. The smoke has reached the curtains. Flames curl upward in waves.

“Someone put that out! What’s happening?!”

Luca runs out with two other crew members. Chaos explodes like firecrackers. Chairs overturn. Guests push toward exits, masks slipping from sweat-soaked faces.

Then, a roar splits the air, but it doesn’t come from the crowd.

It’s deeper. Wilder. Rigo pales.

“That’s not possible.”

He turns— and sees the gate of Solomon’s cage wide open.

The chain lies coiled on the ground.

“No. No, no, no—WHERE IS HE?! WHO LET HIM OUT?!”

He stumbles back as the tiger emerges.

Solomon moves slowly at first, padding across the ring with terrifying grace. He is not panicked. He is not afraid. He is free.

The audience flees. Performers scatter.

And in the centre of the smoke and madness, Rigo stands—frozen. His cane shakes in his grip.

“Easy now,” he whispers, stepping backwards. “You’re trained. You know me. You know your master.”

But Solomon does not stop.

He snarls low as his eyes gleam with something cold. You watch from outside the tent, unable to move, unable to breathe.

Rigo lifts his cane like it’s a sword.

“You obey me!”

And then Solomon pounces.

The cane flies from Rigo’s hand as claws tear through his coat and skin. Rigo screams—a high, broken sound that echoes like a death rattle inside the inferno. He stumbles to the floor, arms flailing, trying to crawl, trying to beg, but Solomon bites down.

The tent is fully ablaze now.

A final scream is lost in the roar of collapsing canvas and shattering beams.

And just like that—Rigo is gone.

There’s only one last thing left to do.

You reach his wagon on the far edge of the circus grounds.

It’s massive—more like a carriage fit for royalty than a travelling performer’s quarters. The door, somehow, is unlocked.

Of course, it is. Overconfidence always did follow arrogance.

You slip inside and close the door silently behind you. The air smells like whiskey, sweat, and expensive cologne. The velvet drapes are half-drawn.

You move quickly.

The room is cluttered—brass fixtures, crystal glasses, boxes of cigars. But your eyes are sharp now, your purpose clearer than fear. You open drawers. Tear through desk cabinets. Rifling past letters, ledgers, and a pile of guest receipts.

Nothing.

Then—you find it.

A narrow cabinet beneath the liquor shelf. Locked. You pry it open with the tip of your knife.

Inside, you find a thick stack of bound papers, folders, and cash.

You search quickly until your fingers close around one with a name written in thick black ink across the top.

Kwon Soonyoung.

You grab it. Beneath it is a yellowed envelope, fat with bills—more than you’ve ever seen in one place.

You shove both into a satchel, sling it over your shoulder and turn toward the door.

“Going somewhere, Angel?”

Luca stands in the doorway, his face dirty with ash and smoke, eyes wide with fury.

“You stupid, stupid bitch.”

Meanwhile, Hoshi is running.

Rain pelts down in sharp slashes. His chest heaves as he pushes through the brush and out toward the clearing.

The rendezvous point, where you should already be.

He drops the bags—his and yours—by the base of the tree where you promised to meet.

“Moon?” he calls. Nothing.

“Moon!” Still nothing.

He turns, scanning the tree line, frantic.

Mira appears first, drenched and panting, dragging a case of costumes behind her. Then Andrei, carrying one of the twins—Illya, maybe—with blood on his shirt. Ivan stumbles in next, singed and coughing.

One by one, they arrive. Except you.

Back in the wagon, Luca steps inside and slams the door behind him. “You think you can just destroy us and walk away?” He bellows. “You think he’s free? He’ll never be free. Not from this. Not from what he is.”

You stand your ground even though your body is already coiled like a spring.

“Rigo owned that tiger,” Luca spits. “He made all of this. You think you’re better than us? You think you’re something because Hoshi likes you?”

He spits the words like it’s poison.

“You’re still just a broken whore who’s good at looking sad.”

You don’t have time to answer.

He lunges.

His hand strikes your face first—hard, open-palmed, knocking you into the desk. Pain blooms across your cheekbone.

Before you can recover, he kicks you in the side. You cry out and crumple against the cabinet.

“You ruined everything,” he growls, dragging you up by your hair. “He could have had a future. We all could. But no—you had to make it about you.”

You thrash, kicking. Your elbow connects with his ribs, but he punches you in the stomach. Air flies out of your lungs. Your vision swims.

You hit the floor hard.

Then—you see it. The brass tiger paperweight on the edge of the desk.

You lunge for it.

“You think you can beat me?” he snarls, dragging you once more. “You can’t even fight.”

You close your fingers around the cold metal.

And without thinking, you swing.

The sound of impact is dull and sickening. Bone cracks. Luca stumbles backward, stunned, blood pouring from his temple.

He sways, then crashes to the floor.

The smoke is crawling into the wagon now. The wood slowly engulfing into flames.

You grab the satchel, stagger to your feet, your ribs screaming in protest. The velvet curtains are alight.

You throw open the door, choking, stumbling into the open air. And run.

Hoshi is pacing.

“She should be here.”

"Maybe she went a different way,” Mira suggests gently.

“No. We had a plan.”

Then—movement.

You burst through the trees, soaked in blood and soot, your dress torn, your lip split.

Hoshi turns and runs to you.

“Moon—Moon, what the hell happened?”

He cups your face, frantic, hands shaking.

“Are you okay? What—did someone—”

"I’m okay.” You gasp. “I’m okay. But we have to go. Now.”

You hold up the satchel. “I have it. Your contract. The money. Everything.”

His eyes widen.

“You went back.”

You nod once. Then: “Train. Now.”

You run.

The entire company—burned, bruised, breathless—runs together through the wet fields, dragging bags and trunks and instruments and cages. You help Andrei lift Illya. Hoshi carries your satchel when your arms give out. Mira wraps a scarf around your bleeding arm without a word.

In the distance, you hear a whistle.

The tracks shimmer in the dark.

An old freight train rumbles past, slow and moaning.

You run faster.

Hoshi helps Mira up. You push Illya into the cart. Andrei hoists Ivan. Hoshi jumps up next, then turns and grabs you.

Your knees almost buckle from exhaustion—but his arms are around you, pulling you in.

The doors close. The train rolls on.

And as the last glow of the fire dies behind you—you are free.

The train groans against the tracks, the kind of sound that settles into your bones like an old ache. It’s been three days since the fire. Three days since the circus ceased to exist. Three days since Rigo’s scream was swallowed by a blaze you lit with your own hands.

You haven’t spoken about it.

Not with Hoshi. Not with anyone.

The others are gone now, scattering like embers from a dying flame. Andrei leapt off at a sleepy station near the border, chasing rumours of a woman who once promised him she would wait. The twins disappeared into fog-cloaked hills, saying something about a cousin’s vineyard and never setting foot in a tent again. Mira kissed you both goodbye, said Paris was too heavy and lacework was lighter.

Now, it’s just the two of you in an empty freight car, rocking slowly toward the south. The sea, maybe. Or some small town with cheap rent and no haunting past for either of you.

The silence between you grows louder with every mile.

Hoshi crouches in front of you, his hands gently pressing a warm cloth to your cheek. The swelling has gone down, but the purple bruising still blooms over your ribs, your jaw, and your hip. He’s been nursing you like this every day, his fingers careful, his voice low.

But tonight, you’re both too tired to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

“Stop fidgeting,” he mutters, dipping the cloth in a tin cup of boiled water.

“I’m not.”

“You say that right before you wince.”

"That’s because you’re hurting me.”

He sighs, but there’s a flicker of something under the breath—something sharp and coiled.

“I’m trying to help, Moon.”

"I didn’t ask you to.”

It slips out colder than you intend, and the moment you say it, you regret it. His hand stills on your skin.

You flinch, not from pain but from the look in his eyes.

He stands slowly, tossing the cloth aside.

“You don’t have to bite me every time I get too close.”

"I’m not—”

"Yes, you are.”

He steps back, the space between you stretching like a chasm.

“Every time I try to touch you, really touch you, you act like I’m going to burn you alive.”

"That’s not fair.”

"Neither is the fact that I haven’t slept in three nights wondering if you’ll be gone when I wake up.”

That stuns you.

The candlelight flickers. Rain begins to tap softly on the metal roof above.

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening.

“I know you’re scared, Moon. God, I know. But I’m scared, too. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know what this is.”

You want to say something. You do. But the words are stuck in your throat.

He turns away slightly, his voice quieter now.

“And I’m starting to think you’ll leave now that I’m not something to fix.”

That breaks something in you.

“So that’s what you think this is?” you whisper. “That I stayed because you were broken?”

His silence says enough.

You stand, even though your ribs scream. You move closer until there are only inches between you and the man in front of you.

“I’ve never stayed for anyone, Soonyoung. Not once.”

He doesn’t answer.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Your voice shakes when you speak next.

“But I want to stay with you. Every day.”

The words hang in the air between you, trembling like your breath.

Hoshi’s eyes search yours—wide, stunned, reverent. Like you just handed him a whole galaxy and asked him to hold it.

Then, slowly, carefully, he steps toward you, his hand lifting to your cheek.

And his lips finally meet yours.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, but you don’t. You melt.

The kiss deepens, slow and aching. Your fingers twist in his shirt, pulling him closer as he backs you gently toward the soft pile of blankets laid out on the freight car floor.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.

“Don’t,” you breathe, voice small. “Please. Just—don’t.”

Soonyoung kisses you again, slower this time. Fuller. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth from scratch. His hands stay at your waist, not roaming, not demanding. You press your chest into his, heart pounding like a drum against his ribs.

You whimper when he grazes your lip with his teeth.

His thumb strokes over your hip.

“Still okay?”

"Yes.”

He unbuttons your shirt slowly, each pop of a button a small act of worship. He kisses your shoulder as it slips off, trailing warmth in his wake. You’re trembling—but not from fear.

His eyes drink you in as he pushes the fabric down your arms.

“You’re so—” he swallows. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

You flush, chest tightening.

You’re not used to this. Not this kind of looking. Not this kind of wanting.

He kneels in front of you like one would at an altar, before his hands softly remove your pants.

When you’re bare in front of him, shivering in only your underwear, he leans forward—pressing his lips gently to the bruises on your ribs. Your stomach. The cut on your collarbone.

“You survived so much,” he murmurs. “And you’re still here.”

You bite your lip, fighting tears.

“I want to make you feel good, Soonyoung,” you whisper. “I want to—”

He shakes his head.

“No.”

You blink.

“You don’t have to give anything tonight. You don’t owe me pleasure, Moon. You never did.”

"But—”

"Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like,” he says softly. “Let me show you what it means to be wanted.”

You shudder as he leans in again.

“You deserve to be worshipped, not used.”

He gently instructs you to lay back on the blanket, your hair fanning out like a halo. His lips trail along your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. Every kiss is slow, like he’s savouring you. Every glance between kisses makes you ache deeper.

When he finally pulls off his shirt, you see the bruises still healing across his ribs, and your breath catches. You reach out, kissing the darkest one.

“You got this for me.”

“I’d do it again.”

His hand slips between your thighs, fingertips brushing the cotton of your underwear.

“Can I?”

You nod, voice caught in your throat.

He eases the fabric down, then settles between your legs like it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be.

The first touch of his fingers against your clit is gentle. Careful.

He strokes between your folds, collecting your building juices and learning every gasp that leaves your mouth, every arch of your back, every shiver of your hips. He watches you with the same expression he wears on stage—focused, present, enchanted.

And when he slides a finger inside your wet heat, his mouth meets your breast, kissing, sucking, syncing the rhythm of his tongue with the one from his fingers.

You reach for him—needing him closer, needing his weight, his heat.

“Soonyoung—please—”

He groans against your skin.

“You feel like heaven.”

Your pleasure builds slowly, like a tide rising, until you’re trembling beneath him, and the world is spinning behind your eyelids. His fingers continue their steady push and pull inside of you as his thumb gently flicks your clit.

You don’t even realise when you fall.

You suddenly cry out his name, shaking, as waves of pleasure ripple through you, raw and real and overwhelming.

Hoshi guides you through it, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your jaw.

When the aftershocks fade, you pull him down, your legs wrapping around his waist.

“I want you,” you whisper. “I want all of you.”

He hesitates.

“Are you sure?”

"I’ve never been more sure.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time. Your bodies slide together, skin to skin, as he removes his pants. His hard cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. He doesn’t break eye contact when he guides his tip to your entrance and pushes into you. You gasp softly, your legs falling open wider to make space for him. He stills halfway through, his brows drawn in concentration, the corded muscles of his arms shaking where he holds himself above you.

“You’re okay?” he pants.

“Yes,” you whisper, overwhelmed by the stretch of him within your walls, by the way your heart cracks wide open under the weight of being cared for.

“You feel like… fuck, Moon. You feel like home.”

He finally bottoms out with a groan, hips pressing flush to yours. Your head tips back, a moan slipping past your lips at the feeling.

He doesn’t move at first. Just lets you adjust. Your hands trace his spine, nails dragging lightly. His breath is ragged against your neck.

When you lift your hips, he takes it as permission.

He moves. Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.

The friction sparks something deep in you, something raw and tender. Your body arches into him, chasing each slow grind of his hips.

He kisses your lips again.

“You’re so good,” he breathes. “So perfect. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair as he thrusts deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside of you, you never bothered to search for.

The rhythm builds—deliberate and measured, but full of heat. He rolls his hips against you, his body moving like a dance, like the final act of a performance meant only for you. Each thrust pushes in just right, pulling soft, gasping moans from your throat.

“Soonyoung—please—don’t stop.”

"I won’t. I’m right here.”

You cling to him, overwhelmed by the pleasure building in waves again, dizzy from the closeness, from the way he never looks away from you. His forehead presses to yours. Your lips brush as you breathe each other in.

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your aching bundle of nerves again and circling it gently with his fingers. You cry out at the combined sensation, your hips jerking, pleasure blooming fast and deep.

“Come for me, Moon,” he whispers. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You shatter beneath him—back arching, a sob torn from your throat, the orgasm rippling through you so hard it steals your breath. Your whole body trembles, tears spilling from your eyes.

Soonyoung kisses them away.

“That’s it, love,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”

Your walls cramp around him with your orgasm, and he groans—a low, desperate sound—and thrusts faster, his hips losing their rhythm as he chases the edge as well.

"I love you,” he gasps, his voice wrecked. “I love you, I love you, I—”

And then he comes too, with a shudder and a cry against your skin, his come pouring into you, his body collapsing into yours.

You wrap your arms around him as he trembles through the aftershocks, your hands stroking his back, your heartbeat thundering in your chest.

Neither of you speaks for a long time.

You simply hold each other, sweat-slick and breathless and ruined in the most sacred way.

And when he finally lifts his head to look at you—those eyes soft with everything he doesn’t know how to say—you whisper, “You’re mine now.”

He smiles.

The sea is quieter in the mornings.

You like to think it’s listening.

The breeze carries the scent of salt and citrus, the sky soft with watercolour light. Your little studio stands just beyond the dunes, tucked beneath an olive tree that’s older than you’ll ever be. The walls are whitewashed and cracked in places, but the inside is alive—with your brushstrokes, with the stories only colour can tell.

You painted the studio walls with everything you couldn’t say. A tiger in flight. A girl with stars in her hair. Fire that doesn’t burn but frees.

Soonyoung says it feels like walking into your soul.

He still calls you Moon.

Even now. Even after all this time. Even when your given name hangs on your business sign in elegant cursive: Galerie de Lune.

You laugh now, more than you cry. Not because everything is easy, but because it’s no longer unbearable.

Soonyoung teaches dance in the community hall just down the road. Most days, he brings home sand in his shoes and glitter on his neck from the children, who insist on decorating him like he’s part of the show.

He teaches them rhythm, footwork, and how to roar on stage without fear.

“No one can take your voice if you learn how to use it,” he tells them, tapping their chests where their hearts beat bold and wild. “Even when it shakes.”

Sometimes, you watch through the open windows as he twirls a girl in pigtails or lifts a boy with stage fright into the air until he forgets to be afraid. You still can’t believe he’s real.

Sometimes you touch his back in the middle of the night just to make sure he’s still there.

The bed is a little fuller now.

There’s a child who curls up between you most nights, her little body warm and soft and full of questions. She has a gap in her teeth and a temper that rivals thunder. She calls him Papa and you Maman and insists she was a tiger in her past life.

You might just believe her.

The adoption wasn’t easy. Your body, marked by things you never asked for, couldn’t carry life without danger. It broke you once, quietly and completely, in the dark of a hospital room. But he never blamed you. Not for a second.

He only kissed your tears and whispered, “Then we’ll find the child who’s already waiting for us.”

You did. And she is perfect.

Sometimes you still flinch in your sleep. Sometimes he still wakes from dreams of iron bars and snapping chains, sweat beading on his skin, whispering names he never told you.

But it’s not like before.

You soothe each other back down, palms on hearts, kisses against temples. The panic no longer owns you. It visits. It passes.

You have anchors now. You’ve built a world where no one owns you. Where no one watches from behind velvet curtains. Where no one pays to touch you, or beats you for dancing too slow.

Here, in this quiet coastal town with your studio and his stage and a child that carries light in their palms—you are finally free.

And you are still in love.

Tonight, the stars are out.

You sit on the porch with your sketchbook, legs tucked beneath you, your child asleep inside. Hoshi brings you tea and a kiss on your cheek, still sweaty from rehearsal, his shirt hanging loose on his shoulders.

“Whatcha drawing, Moon?”

"You.”

"Again?” he laughs.

“Always.”

He sits down beside you, thigh pressed to yours, gaze fixed on the dark waves in the distance. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, quietly, he says, “Do you ever think about the fire?”

"Sometimes.”

"Do you regret it?”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “No. It saved you.”

"It burned everything down.”

"Only what needed to die.”

He takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. “You rebuilt me.”

"No,” you whisper. “You just finally had room to bloom.”

He hums, content. And as the tide laps against the shore, you realize something so simple it nearly brings you to tears.

You are safe. You are free. You are loved.

And your tiger still sleeps beside you.

A/N: Don't ask me where this came from, I have no idea. Did I cry while writing it? Yes. Am I also incredibly proud of it? Yes. Anyway, hope you enjoy and that it breaks your heart like it did mine. 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

169 notes · View notes

luvumiah · 12 days ago

Text

Father’s Day

The early morning light bathed the quiet farm in gold, the kind that made everything look soft and alive. Outside, chickens clucked lazily, and a rooster called out, as if giving the family permission to start the day.

Inside the cozy wooden house, nestled under handmade quilts, Toji Fushiguro lay asleep—until he felt something thud lightly against his chest.

“Happy Father’s Day!” Megumi’s voice whispered—too loud to be sneaky, but just shy enough to try.

Toji opened one eye. His son was standing on the futon, puffed up proudly, holding a paper in both hands. Scribbled crayon drawings colored the whole thing: a stick figure of Toji holding a big sword, a little boy with a blue shikigami next to him, a girl with curly puffs and a pink dress, and their mama in the middle—tall, strong, and smiling with her hair in a headwrap.

Behind Megumi, Yumi climbed up clumsily, her little legs kicking and her curls bouncing. “Papaaaa,” she sang, crawling on top of Toji’s blanket and planting a drooly kiss on his cheek. “I drawed too!”

“You did, huh?” Toji grunted, but there was a soft smile tugging at his lips as he looked at the colorful chaos of the card.

Megumi beamed. “We woke up early so we could do it before Mama made breakfast!”

“Hmm…” Toji sat up slowly, resting his arm around both of them. “You little punks planning a full ambush today?”

“Nooo,” Megumi said, giggling.

Yumi clapped her tiny hands. “You the king!”

“Toji,” came a voice from the hallway. Smooth, warm, and just a little teasing. “Get up before they smother you.”

Their mama stepped in holding a steaming plate of grits, eggs, sausages and toast with a glass of orange juice. Skin glowing in the morning light, and her floral wrap skirt moved with a soft swish. You leaned down and kissed Toji on the lips, then ruffled Megumi’s hair and scooped Yumi into your arms.

“You’ve got chores off today,” you said. “Your kids worked hard to make it special.”

Toji looked up at you, his smirk lazy but full of something deeper. “Didn’t think I’d live long enough to get breakfast in bed.”

You smiled. “Well, now you’re stuck with us. Better eat.”

⸻

The cicadas hummed in the tall grass, the air thick with the smell of roasted vegetables, smoky grilled chicken, and honey cornbread.

The family gathered around the wide wooden table on the wrap-around porch. Lanterns hung from the beams overhead, casting soft amber light across their faces as the sun dipped low behind the trees.

Megumi picked at the macaroni, eyes narrowed in thought.

Yumi had a tiny crown of flowers still lopsided on her head, chewing with her mouth open.

Toji sat at the head of the table, relaxed for once, sipping from a cold glass of sweet tea.

And you- his wife—watched all of them with that quiet, fierce love that only came from knowing loss and choosing joy anyway.

“Megumi,” you said, “slow down. You’re not in a race.”

“He’s eatin’ like he just fought a demon,” Toji teased.

“I’m hungry,” Megumi mumbled through a mouthful.

“Same!” Yumi chimed in, lifting her empty plate like a trophy. “I ate two chicken legs!”

You laughed. “That’s ‘cause you barely ate lunch. Y’all had that tree party and left me with the cleanup.”

“You were invited,” Toji said, smirking.

“I was also cooking, sir.”

He grinned and reached across the table, brushing her fingers lightly. “It was perfect.”

Your gaze softened, her thumb rubbing along the back of his knuckles. “So were you.”

After dinner the family sat under the giant old tree near the barn. Toji had Yumi asleep on his chest, thumb still in her mouth, and Megumi beside him with his little sketchbook, drawing him again—this time with a huge sword, and a cape.

You sat nearby on a picnic blanket, legs stretched out, straw hat shading your eyes as you braided wildflowers into a ring. Bees buzzed in the clover, and the warm wind carried the soft scent of lavender from the edge of the garden.

“You know,” you said, glancing up, “you’re a good dad.”

Toji looked at you. For a moment, the weight of his past tugged at the edges of his mind. All the things he never thought he’d have—peace, family, something worth waking up for.

He reached out and brushed your face with his thumb.

“I’m trying,” he said simply. “For them. For you.”

You leaned over and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“And that’s more than enough.”

From the tree, Megumi piped up: “Yumi’s drooling on you again.”

Toji sighed. “Perfect.”

They all laughed.

And on that simple, golden day on the farm, the man who once thought he didn’t deserve happiness held his family close and knew—without a doubt—he did.

⸻

The house was quiet. The children tucked in. Megumi was sprawled across his bed with a book half open on his chest. Yumi had passed out mid-sentence while clutching her stuffed bunny.

Toji stepped out of the bathroom in soft cotton pants and a wife beater, rubbing a towel through his hair.

You stood at the foot of the bed, the room lit only by the glow of a single lamp. You finally let your hair down now—long, soft coils trailing over her shoulders. The robe hung loosely from your hips, untied.

“Kids out like lights?,” Toji said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Mm-hmm.” You approached him slowly, deliberately.

He looked up. “You good?”

You reached into the nightstand and pulled out a small wooden box wrapped in navy cloth. Setting it in his hands.

He raised an eyebrow. “Another gift?”

You smiled. “Different kind.”

He unwrapped it and opened the box. Inside: a custom leather knife sheath, hand-stitched, engraved with a simple carving of their family under the big tree.

Toji didn’t speak right away. His fingers traced the details, eyes lingering on the tiny outline of Megumi holding a little bird. Yumi in a dress, and your tall frame beside his.

“I made it after last harvest,” you said softly. “Figured if you’re gonna carry a blade again, it should rest in something that reminds you what you’re really fighting for.”

Toji swallowed once, jaw tight. “You… made this?”

You nodded.

He reached for your hand and kissed it, rough lips against warm skin. “You always give me more than I deserve.”

You stepped closer, guiding him gently back until he lay against the bed, head propped up against the pillows.

“You deserve peace,” you whispered, climbing onto him sitting on his lap. You deserve rest. And love.”

Your hands slid over his shoulders, slow and intentional. Their bodies found the familiar rhythm of comfort, not just passion. The kind of closeness built on years of choosing each other, over and over.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees.

Inside, Toji eyes roamed over yours as you slipped the robe from your shoulders.

“Happy Father’s Day, Toji,” you whispered. Placing gentle kisses along his jaw.

“ but I got one more gift for you” you said as the robe fell completely off of your body resting against your thighs. He looked over your body licking his lips eyeing you up and down.

He wrapped his arms around your hips, the knife sheath still resting on the nightstand beside him like a quiet promise.

“Best damn one yet.” He mumbled as he pulled you down for a kiss.

a/n: id give him 3 more kids that night ☺️

#x black reader #jjk fluff #toji fluff #toji x black reader #dilf toji #toji fushiguro #dad!toji

167 notes · View notes

fushigurokogane · 1 month ago

Text

"𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝘿𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙎𝙖𝙮 𝙊𝙪𝙩 𝙇𝙤𝙪𝙙"

Pt.4 of "Just Knock Next Time" fem!reader x megumi fushiguro an: Hi loves!! Soooo im really excited for this part!! Also for the parts in this series, they'll probably have different names now. I feel like im just trying out new concepts at this point but lmk if you guys liked the fic!! Pt.1 - Pt.2 - Pt.3

“Let me get this straight,” you said slowly, squinting at the mission report. “We’re going undercover. As a couple. At a cursed-infested hot springs resort.”

“Yes,” Ijichi confirmed, adjusting his glasses. “Strange occurrences began after the place started marketing itself as a romantic retreat. Patrons have reported hallucinations, missing time, and… partial possessions. Curses are feeding off the intimacy in the air.”

You glanced at Megumi. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel the tension radiating from him like static.

Gojo, lounging nearby with his blindfold pushed up to his forehead, grinned. “What’s the problem? It’s practically a paid vacation. For two very convincing lovebirds.”

“We’re not—” you started, then stopped. “We’re not actually—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Megumi cut in, calm as ever. “If that’s the mission, we’ll handle it.”

Gojo smirked. “That’s the spirit. Just don’t forget to hold hands, okay?”

You resisted the urge to throw your report binder at him.

You tried not to look nervous as you and Megumi walked through the heavy wooden gate of the resort, your bags in hand, your fingers… brushing his.

The hostess greeted you both warmly. "A couple’s suite, yes? This way.”

You could practically feel the secondhand smugness from Gojo all the way back in Tokyo.

Megumi leaned closer as you followed the woman down the hall. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just trying to act normal.”

He glanced at you with a faint, amused look. “You holding my hand like it’s radioactive says otherwise.”

Flustered, you adjusted your grip on your bag. “Sorry, it’s just—this is weird. We’ve… kissed like once. Now we’re sharing a bed.”

“I can switch to the floor if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“No!” you said quickly, then cleared your throat. “I mean. It’s fine. We’re professionals.”

He looked at you again. “Right.”

But his ears were slightly pink.

The room was stunning—tatami mats, a private open-air bath, paper lanterns, and yes… one large bed. Thick futon, red silk cover, petals scattered like a cliché.

You dropped your bag and sighed. “It’s like a cursed rom-com.”

Megumi stood at the window, eyes scanning the trees. “I feel something. Weak cursed energy. But subtle. Like it’s waiting.”

“For what?”

“For us to play along.”

You raised a brow. “So what, we pretend to flirt until the curse shows itself?”

Megumi finally looked at you. “Pretty much.”

There was a long pause.

Then you said, “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

You stepped closer, heart pounding way harder than any mission should’ve warranted, and slipped your arms around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder.

He tensed—but only for a second. Then his arms came around you, steady and warm.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’m cold.”

“You’re not.”

“…Shut up.”

His chest vibrated with a soft chuckle.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, the lamp flickered.

You both turned.

Shadows twitched in the corners of the room. And a faint, almost imperceptible moan echoed through the walls—long, low, like breath from a mouth that wasn’t human.

Megumi’s jaw clenched. “It’s watching.”

You reached for your weapon. “Let’s give it a show.”

The curse revealed itself—amorphous and humanoid, with tendrils that lashed like tongues of fire. Its mouth split in four, whispering fragments of past lovers’ arguments and confessions like a broken record.

Megumi summoned his Divine Dogs, sending them to flank.

You slipped through shadow, blade in hand, cursed energy crackling in your fingers.

It lunged for him.

You shouted, “Megumi—!”

He turned just in time, deflecting with a shadow shield, but the curse shrieked and split itself in two. You hit the left one, slicing it through with a burst of cursed energy—and Megumi finished the right one with a well-placed strike and a growled:

“Max Elephant.”

The massive shikigami crashed down, shattering the spirit in a tidal surge of force.

The room fell silent again.

You exhaled, heart pounding, soaked from the splash. “That thing seriously tried to third-wheel us.”

Megumi walked over, water dripping from his hair. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, brushing hair out of your face. “Romance curses are the worst.”

“You handled it well.”

You met his gaze.

“Not bad for your fake girlfriend, huh?”

There was a pause.

Then Megumi said, quietly, “You’re not fake. Not to me.”

You froze. “Megumi…”

“I’m done pretending it doesn’t matter. That you don’t matter.”

You stepped closer, letting your hand slide into his.

And this time, you kissed him first.

No cursed energy. No pretense.

Just you and him—and everything that had gone unspoken.

taglist: @ehcilhc @amesenseii @vintag3u @obsessivestrawberrysimp @moonymoo1 @arabella0001 @sassymilkshakewitch @sutefa02 @hawkwithsocks @akiducky @auraxyzz @arasakaa @chexzavamarie @faeriebloomie (just so you guys know, i'll tag the people that comment under my posts for this series 😊) ©fushigurokogane - please do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work!

178 notes · View notes

starsinthesky5 · 1 month ago

Note

What’re our favs joe and songbird up to during Memorial Day weekend?

a/n: this is longer than intended LMAO

wc: 4k

warnings: SMUT, mdni, fluff, lots of down-badness

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

it’s late afternoon and the sun’s still strong, glinting off the water as they laze around in the backyard of a friend’s lake house—the kind of place tucked away in the trees, all bright umbrellas and glass pitchers of pomegranate margs on teakwood tables, music floating low from a speaker tucked in the corner. the scent of grilled burgers and sunscreen hangs in the air. red, white, and blue towels drape across every chair, paper lanterns dangle overhead, and someone’s dog keeps shaking water onto whoever’s closest.

the group’s sprawled across every surface, a mix of couples, teammates, and old friends, laughing over card games, tossing a frisbee barefoot across the lawn, or passing beers down the line. there’s a girl braiding hair on the dock, one of joe’s buddies setting up a cornhole tournament like it’s the olympics, and another trying to climb onto a unicorn float too small for him while everyone cheers him on.

joe’s at the edge of the pool, legs in the water, cartier glasses low on his nose. he’s got a drink in one hand and a lazy smile tugging at his lips, eyes locked on her as she floats by on an inflatable lounger—orange bikini-clad and glowing, skin kissed gold from the sun and glittering with droplets. she’s wearing one of his old LSU caps backward to keep the sun out of her eyes, the same one she stole weeks ago and refuses to give back—and he swears nothing has ever looked sexier. not the bikini, not the way her legs dangle off the float, not even the smirk she gives him when she catches him staring. just the hat. his girl, in his hat.

someone lobs a beach ball across the pool, and it bounces off her float with a soft thump, making her laugh as she bats it away toward one of the guys, trevor, probably, who nearly topples off his own float trying to catch it. she glides over to joe and splashes him with a lazy kick, laughing when he groans and flops a hand dramatically over his face.

“you’re a menace,” he says, but his smile’s soft and lovesick.

they snack on watermelon and pineapple chunks between dips in the water. she tries to feed him a piece of mango and misses, getting sticky juice on his chest, which turns into her licking it off with a sly grin. he nearly falls off the lounger trying to drag her into the pool after that, all laughter and gasping and legs wrapped around his waist as they sink under, surfacing with matching smiles and breathless little kisses.

there’s a moment later when they’re wading waist-deep, arms around each other, and quinn swims by and says, “jesus christ, get a room,” to which she just flips him off without even looking. joe grins against her temple. “we do plan to,” he thinks.

he can’t keep his hands off her. his fingers trace slow, delicate patterns along the curve of her ribs, palms settling possessively on her hips, the heat of his touch grounding her every time she tries to swim away, pulling her back with gentle but insistent tugs. she finds herself constantly reaching for his curls—slick, damp, and tangled from the pool—twisting the strands between her fingers like a secret comfort, flicking droplets of water at him whenever he pouts in mock offense, making him grin wide and teasing her right back.

the day stretches out before them in honeyed slowness, each moment melting into the next, endless, warm, and perfect. the sun hangs lazily in the sky, casting golden light that shimmers on the water’s surface, while the air is thick with laughter and the faint scent of sunscreen and summer blooms. when the sun dips lower and the light softens to a peachy glow, they finally break from the pool. she wraps herself in a soft, oversized towel, the fabric still warm from the sun, and settles with her legs draped across his lap as they sink into a cushioned chair near the water’s edge. joe nurses a cold high noon, the ice clinking softly in the glass, his sunglasses sliding back onto his nose as he relaxes into the moment. she’s tucked comfortably under his arm, a bowl of frozen grapes resting in her lap—sweet, cold bites melting on her tongue.

someone brings out a speaker, and summery pop hits start spilling through the yard, the upbeat melodies mixing with the hum of conversation. she hums softly along, head resting on joe’s shoulder, feeling the slow, lazy rhythm of his fingers tracing random, soothing shapes into her thigh—circles, lines, little hearts—each stroke a gentle reminder of his presence and his care.

across the yard, max and his girlfriend are fumbling with sparklers, their excited chatter punctuated by groans when they nearly set the bag on fire with their premature attempts. someone starts clapping, a slow grin spreading through the group as the evening stretches on, warm and full of quiet joy.

she leans in slowly, lips barely grazing his, a teasing brush that sends a shiver straight down joe’s spine. the warmth of her breath mingles with the humid air as her teeth catch his bottom lip, tugging it gently, claiming it like she owns it, and in that moment, he thinks maybe she does. maybe she always has. his breath hitches, chest tightening with need as she deepens the kiss, tongue slipping inside to dance with his, swirling, teasing, demanding. the world shrinks until all he can feel is her; soft, wet, insistent, urgent.

his hand slides down her side, fingers spreading wide on the warm curve of her hip, pulling her impossibly closer, the heat of their bodies crashing like a wildfire no one can stop. the slick stickiness of sunscreen mixed with pool water makes every touch electric, skin sliding deliciously against skin. “if you keep lookin’ at me like that,” joe’s voice drops lowly, ragged with want, “i’m not gonna last till sunset,”.

her eyes flash with a wicked glint, that familiar teasing spark that always gets him undone. “then why don’t we just forget the sunset?”,

their bodies press tighter, the tension coiling in his chest, the ache between his legs growing unbearable. “come inside with me,” he murmurs, voice husky, lips grazing her ear. it’s not an order—it’s a promise, a need, a plea.

inside the lake house, the shift is immediate and electric. the bright, golden sunlight spilling through the windows softens into a gentle, muted glow as dusk begins to settle outside. the cozy scent of cedar wood mingles with the smoky remnants of grilled food, wrapping around them like a warm, familiar blanket. faint laughter floats in from the porch, slow and carefree, but inside the bathroom, everything tightens, the air thickens with something darker, more urgent, raw and alive between them.

the bathroom door clicks shut behind them, a small but decisive sound that seals off the outside world. her towel slips off her shoulders like water, sliding down her body and pooling silently at her feet, revealing smooth, glistening skin catching the soft overhead light. joe’s swim trunks follow next, falling free as his body presses close, sun-kissed and flushed, every muscle defined and gleaming. his chest, sticky with the sweet remnants of mango juice and the sharp tang of pool water, rises and falls with slow, steady breaths, heat radiating off him.

the shower roars to life, warm water cascading down in thick, hot sheets that turn their skin into slick, shining silk. she steps fully under the spray, water streaming over her like liquid fire, and joe’s hands find her back, pressing her firm against the cool tile. the sharp contrast between the heated water and the cold surface beneath her sends jolts through her body, heightening every nerve. his palms flatten over her breasts, thumbs circling and brushing the tight, swollen nipples that peak beneath the water’s touch. his fingers trail down the sides of her ribs, teasing the soft, sensitive skin, before slipping lower to grip the curve of her hips with possessive, demanding strength, anchoring her to him as if daring her to try and pull away.

his mouth follows the path his hands have traced with a deliberate, reverent hunger. first, soft, feather-light kisses trail from the curve of her neck down to the hollow just above her collarbone, each touch slow and worshipful. the skin there is warm and delicate, flushed from the sun and the heat of the shower. his lips part slightly as his tongue flicks out to tease, wet and slick, tracing tiny, tantalizing circles that send unpredictable shivers rippling through her body. then, his teeth nip—gentle but firm—at the tender skin just beneath her jaw, a sweet sting that makes her breath hitch and pulse quicken.

“you smell like sunscreen,” he murmurs against her skin, voice low and thick with need, “pool water…and me.” the words are a promise, rough and intimate, as if claiming her scent is as much his as hers.

she laughs—a breathy, shaky sound full of raw desire—as her fingers snake into the damp curls at the nape of his neck. her touch is possessive, pulling him closer until the heat of his body presses against hers. under her palm, she feels the rapid thud of his heartbeat, a fierce rhythm matching the heat pooling between them. “i want you, joe,” she whispers, voice soft but trembling with urgency, “right here. right now,”.

his fingers slide lower, slick with her wetness and the shower water, moving with slow, calculated precision. they explore her folds, tracing the swollen, sensitive skin with expert care, mapping out every curve and crease as if memorizing her. his thumb circles her clit lightly at first, teasing the delicate bundle until she gasps, arching into his touch. the wet slickness between them deepens, and his touch grows bolder, pressing and swirling just right to unravel her control.

she parts her legs a fraction more, inviting him deeper, breath catching in her throat as his thumb finds that sweet, aching spot beneath her folds. the sensation sends warmth flooding through her, a delicious fire spreading low in her belly. “look at you,” joe’s voice drops to a rough growl, heavy with lust and reverence, “so fucking wet. dripping just for me,”.

“yes,” she pants, words ragged, voice thick with want and surrender, “please don’t stop. don’t ever stop,”.

his fingers slip inside her, slow and teasing at first, curling and pressing just so against her walls, coaxing soft, desperate moans from her parted lips. each movement is careful but insistent, driving her higher. his thumb never falters, rubbing slow, languid circles over her clit, stoking a fire that burns hotter with every stroke. she trembles beneath his touch, hips rocking on their own, seeking more, needing more. “you gonna come for me, baby?” joe’s voice is rough, soaked with lust and promise, each word a spark igniting the air between them.

her body tightens involuntarily, legs shaking as waves of pleasure build with crushing force. “joe…i’m gonna—,”.

her hands clutch at his broad shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscle as a shudder rips through her. she gasps his name—raw, breathless—voice breaking into desperate, pleading sobs, the heat and release overwhelming her senses. joe cradles her firmly, steadying her with his strength as his lips trail a scorching path from her neck to her jawline, whispering filthy promises that make her skin burn and pulse with need.

with a low groan, he lifts her thigh high, fingers digging into her soft skin as he presses his hard, slick cock against her glistening folds. the friction is electric, sending delicious shocks through her body that make her gasp. then, slow and agonizingly intended, he slides deep inside her, filling her completely with every inch, stretching her in the most exquisite way. the fullness steals her breath, making her head fall back against the cold tile.

their bodies move together in a wild, desperate rhythm—raw and primal, perfectly matched. joe’s hands hold her tight, one wrapped possessively around her raised thigh, the other braced against the slippery tile wall as he thrusts with steady, urgent power. the slick slap of skin against wet tile echoes all around them, a hypnotic, frantic soundtrack to their lovemaking. the hot water sprays over them, mixing with their uneven breaths and wet, needy moans, washing away the world until only the two of them remain.

“fucking amazing, baby,” joe growls, voice thick with possessive hunger as he thrusts deeper, harder, each movement claiming her more fiercely. “this pussy’s fucking perfect. made for me,”.

she gasps, tightening around him instinctively, breath coming in wild, jagged gasps. “all for you. always yours, joey,”.

joe groans, lifting her even higher, pounding harder with every stroke. the pressure builds, driving her closer and closer to the edge until she’s crying out his name, thighs trembling and nails raking down his back, voice breaking into desperate, beautiful sobs of release.

and then joe follows, body shuddering violently as he spills deep inside her, every muscle clenching as he holds her close. his breath is heavy and ragged, chest rising and falling against hers as he carries her through the aftershocks. their skin glistens, slick with water and sweat, the heat of the shower wrapping around them like a cocoon.

they collapse together, tangled and trembling, hearts pounding in perfect sync, every nerve raw and alive. the moment stretches on, messy, breathless, achingly beautiful, and they stay there, wrapped in each other, lost in the warmth of the afterglow.

—

later that night, the house hums with a warm, lazy buzz. the lingering scent of cold beer and charred burgers still hanging thick in the air, mingling with the faint trace of citronella candles flickering softly on the porch outside. the night wraps around the lake like a velvet cloak, broken only by the distant crackle of fireworks. bursts of pink and silver flare across the sky, casting a shifting glow that dances on the water’s surface, painting everything in fleeting color.

the party’s winding down; friends are scattered like sleepy shadows between porch swings swaying gently in the warm breeze and the dock where the water laps quietly below. some of the girls are curled in hoodies and blankets, their laughter low and breathy, drifting through the night like a lullaby. someone passes around sparklers, the tiny flames sputtering and glowing bright. ryland waves his sparkler with exaggerated care, drawing hearts and squiggles in the air, while trevor films it all on his phone, narrating like some late-night documentary filmmaker.

from across the kitchen, where people are rifling through the fridge for leftover snacks, she catches joe’s eye. he lifts one eyebrow just the slightest bit, that familiar mischievous glint sparking in his gaze. she answers with a grin—a slow, confident smile that says more than words ever could. barely a nod, barely a glance, but it’s all he needs.

their hands find each other in the quiet chaos, fingers intertwining with a light, electric touch. they slip away together, sneaking down the hall like kids trying not to get caught, giggles muffled behind cupped hands, hearts racing with that delicious thrill of stolen moments. the guest bedroom door clicks shut softly behind them, the window cracked open just enough to invite in the cool summer air.

he pins her gently beneath him on the cool guest bed, lit only by moonlight and the wild flashes of fireworks through the window. the sheets rustle beneath them—crisp and cool, scented faintly with cedar and fresh detergent—grounding them in this private, perfect moment. her skin is still dewy from the shower, glowing with a soft, warm sheen, lips swollen and kiss-bitten. he presses his mouth to hers again, slower now, dragging his lips over hers like he’s savoring every second, every taste, every breath.

“god,” he murmurs against her lips, his voice low and thick, heavy with need. one hand slides down her thigh, fingers hooking around it to pull her closer, deeper against him. “can’t get enough of you. never could,”.

she shivers at the sound of his voice, the warmth of his palm trailing along the inside of her leg, fingers teasing the slick heat waiting just for him. “joey,” she breathes, voice soft and trembling, hips arching up greedily, desperate to feel him again. “need you to fuck me. again,”.

he groans deep in his chest, forehead dropping to rest against hers, breath hot and ragged. “i got you,” he promises, voice thick and reverent. “this time i’m gonna take my time. just for you,”.

and he does.

slow, steady strokes that make her body arch and stretch beneath him, arms tightening around his neck, nails dragging faint red trails down his broad back. he holds her like she’s fragile, like she’s the most precious thing in the world. his hands wander everywhere, stroking up the soft ribs, tracing the line of her jaw, brushing damp hair back from her forehead, thumbs pressing softly into the dimples at her hips as he sinks deeper and deeper into her, again and again.

his hand then rests low on her belly, warm and wide, splayed across the soft curve just below her navel. it lingers there, his thumb stroking gently over the skin already kissed pink from his touch and the sun from earlier. her breath stutters when he presses down just slightly—not hard, just enough to make her feel the way he fills her, deep and heavy and so achingly present.

“you..you feel that?” he whispers, voice slipping, like he’s barely holding it together. it’s not cocky—it’s heated. in awe. “feel how deep you let me in?”.

she nods, lips parting around a soundless gasp. his other arm curls beneath her back, holding her close while his hips rock slow and deep, letting her feel every inch, every unspoken word he can’t say with anything but his body. the imprint of him presses against her belly from the inside, and he watches with a kind of obsession as his hand flattens against the spot, in love with the way her body stretches around him, takes him so well, like she was made to.

“look at you,” he breathes, his forehead resting against hers. “you’re perfect like this. i’m so deep, baby—right here,” he murmurs, pressing just a little more firmly over that faint bulge. “i can feel myself inside you,”.

she whimpers at the pressure, overwhelmed by how full she is, how tender he’s being even as her whole body tightens around him. he kisses her then—slow, messy, tasting of worship and want—like he’s trying to memorize how it feels to be this deep, this close, this completely inside her heart.

her breath catches, a sharp gasp escaping as she nods, fingers digging into his arms, holding on tight. he grinds in deeper, rocking the bed gently against the wall with each slow, powerful thrust. outside, fireworks continue to pop and boom like heartbeats in the distance, their rhythm syncing perfectly with his motion. the shifting bursts of light paint his golden skin, sweat sparkling at his temples, eyelashes fluttering as he watches her with pure, worshipful devotion.

“so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, voice rough, catching as he picks up the pace just a notch. “this pussy’s mine, yeah?”.

“yours,” she pants, breathless, “just yours,”. his hand slips lower, sliding between them to press fingers gently to her swollen clit, circling in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. she clenches around him, moaning softly into his neck, and he pulls her tighter against his chest, whispering filthy praise right into her ear.

“you take me so good, baby,” he groans, “so tight around me. fuck, you’re perfect. never gonna get over how good you make me feel,”.

she spirals fast, heat and pleasure crashing through her, his name falling from her lips like a prayer, soft and desperate. he never breaks eye contact, never stops murmuring how good she is, how much he loves her, how wrecked she makes him feel. “cum for me, sweetheart,” he begs, hips stuttering as she tightens around him once more. “let me feel it,”.

she shatters beneath him, a trembling cry, clutching him close, thighs trembling as the waves of pleasure roll through her in unstoppable tides. he keeps moving, slower now, tender, coaxing her through it until he follows, guttural groan tearing from deep in his chest as he spills inside her, hips pressed hard, body shaking with the force of release.

they collapse together, his weight warm and steady draped over her, their chests rising and falling in perfect rhythm, breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath. the soft murmur of the lake and distant noises wrap around them like a gentle lullaby, the world outside fading into a hushed glow. the warmth of his body pressed against hers feels like an anchor, grounding her in the moment, making everything else slip away. before words can find their way, his lips brush hers again—slow, tender, grateful—each kiss carrying the weight of everything they feel but can’t say, exhaustion and devotion folding into one another.

“you okay?” he murmurs softly, pulling back just enough to search her eyes with his own—vulnerable, sincere. she smiles, sleepy and content, arms tightening around him as if to hold onto the moment forever. “perfect. you?”.

his grin is boyish, soft, the kind that makes her heart ache with how much he belongs to her. “i’m in heaven, sweetheart,”.

they lie tangled there for a while, the heat of their skin mingling, fingers tracing lazy patterns along shoulders and arms, small touches full of quiet love. his hand slips under her hair, fingers threading through the damp strands, brushing gently over her scalp as she lets out a soft sigh. she presses closer, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath her ear—a steady rhythm that makes her feel safe, loved.

“you’re still warm,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.

“only because you are,” he replies, voice raspy from his post-orgasmic state, but still tender for her. his thumb brushes over her cheek, careful and slow, memorizing the soft curve of her jaw. “i want to hold onto you like this forever, baby,”.

her lips twitch into a sleepy smile. “you’re such a cheeseball,” she teases, her fingers poking lightly at his ribs. he laughs, the sound rumbling against her chest, and she presses a kiss there, right over his heart. “only for you, i swear,”.

the fireworks continue their distant celebration, soft bursts of pink and gold painting the sky in slow, rhythmic waves. they lie side by side, the night air cool against their skin, the faint scent of summer lingering like a memory. the flickering light spills through the cracked window, casting dancing shadows that play across their bodies—highlighting the curve of his jaw, the delicate line of her collarbone, the soft rise and fall of their chests as they breathe in sync.

she wiggles her fingers teasingly against his chest, light and playful, tracing lazy patterns over his skin. her voice breaks the comfortable silence, quiet but full of mischief. “so…you think anyone heard us?”.

he shrugs casually, but there’s a sly curl to his lips that tells her he’s already enjoying this. leaning down, he presses a sluggish, tender kiss to her temple, the warmth of his lips sending a soft shiver down her spine. “let ‘em,” he says softly, “honestly, you sounded way too good to be quiet. everyone knows you have the voice of an angel…guess that applies to the bedroom, too,”.

she snorts, flicking a finger to poke him sharply in the ribs. he squints, mock offended, twisting away just enough to make her laugh. “you’re the worst,” she says with a grin, eyes sparkling with affection.

he grins back, all warmth and love wrapped in that mischievous expression. “and you’re mine. all mine,:.

her fingers keep drifting, tracing slow, idle circles on his chest—fingertips soft and searching like she’s soaking in every inch of him. her voice drops into a husky whisper, thick with teasing and something more tender. “so, what now, mr. heaven? gonna cuddle me until i fall asleep?”.

“only if you promise to keep stealing my hoodies and stealing my heart,”.

she smiles, eyes fluttering closed as she leans into him, but not before she steals one last kiss—lazy, soft, the kind that lingers just long enough to make her breath hitch. “you’re impossible,” she murmurs against his lips.

he chuckles quietly, tightening his arms around her as if he could never get enough. “and you’re worth every second of it,”.

outside, the night stretches on, fireworks blooming like wildflowers across the expansive sky. but inside this quiet room, beneath the gentle glow of moonlight and the lingering warmth of their bodies, the world feels still, perfect. wrapped up in each other, they drift slowly into dreams, hearts full and souls intertwined, safe in the quiet, tender afterglow of their love.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #yail asks #yail #joe burrow blurb #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fic #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fluff #joeburrow #nfl smut #nfl fan fic #nfl imagine #cincinnati bengals

221 notes · View notes

the-kr8tor · 6 months ago

Note

Hi my love 🤭

I'm pretty sure that Christmas doesn't exist in the Arcane universe so maybe a NYE event of sorts featuring Ekko and Reader?

They're either decorating or preparing some fireflies-fireworks. And while Ekko tries to hide his feelings for you, the fireflies around him keep turning into hearts behind his back! They aren't helping at all!

The end is up to you! I know you'll rock it 🥳

Thank you for the request, pookie!! I hope you like it ☺️❤️❤️

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 2.2k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), R has nicknames, cw food mentions, cw alcohol mention, cw injury mention, established relationship, best friends to lovers (speed run edition), love confession, lovestruck! Ekko, firelight! Reader, fluff!

Navigation

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

The entire hideout is busy, firelights running around, trying to get everything together before the sun sets. But it's not for some operation to bust a shimmer delivery or to keep some chem barons out of their territory— no, it's for something more festive. An occasion that's more happy that entails some alcohol, twinkling lights, greasy food and most of all great company. Ekko stares fondly at you from across the hideout as he thinks that your presence is his favourite. But Ekko doesn't let it show, or he hopes it's not noticeable.

His hands busy themselves with the wires needed to light up the lanterns. Fingers mindlessly twist around the red wires, but his eyes are nowhere near it. He looks at you as the orange glow of the sun bathes you in its light. Skin shining under it, smile blindingly bright as you grin at a fellow firelight who's helping you hang the rainbow streamers. It was your idea to celebrate the new year all without using loud fireworks since it would give away the hideout's position. In place of the traditional firework celebration, you've suggested sparklers and lanterns that people would tuck their wishes in before letting the paper lanterns go. The lanterns’ hot air would stop just before it reaches the top of the tree so that it doesn't escape the hideout.

With the help of Ekko's genius, and your expert pyrotechnics, the firelights can finally celebrate the festivities properly all without being worried of giving their location away. And with the help of the entire commune, preparing food, putting up decorations and setting up the table, it's all going according to plan.

Ekko thinks that you two make a great team. He can't help but smile at your back as you stand on your tiptoe to reach a tree branch. His oversized jacket looks great on you. He draped it over you this morning after he saw you walk out with a flimsy jacket when the chill in the air has turned into the negatives. You haven't shoved it off, he even pretended not to see you cuddle close to it whenever a breeze passes by.

You stand precariously on a ladder, body stretched up high. He sighs, looking like a lovelorn schoolboy. All the years of knowing you and having feelings for you, he has never felt like this, as if his heart is about to burst out of his chest and jump away towards your hands. He blames all the quiet nights you two have spent together planning the celebration. His mind keeps going back to the small moments where your knee would nudge his own, shoulders kissing his, and eyes aglow under his work lamp as you stare softly at him.

He jumps when he suddenly felt a spark on his fingertips. Following the electric shock, there's loud laughter around him.

With narrowed eyes, he finds the source. “What was that for?” Ekko asks Scar, nose scrunching up at his right hand man, whose finger was just pressing on the on switch. The others are holding in their laughter when Ekko glances at them.

“You were ogling.” Scar says with a teasing smirk.

“I wasn't.” Ekko goes back to connecting the wires, realising that he has forgotten to put on his gloves before working because he was staring at you from the get go. “I was making sure she doesn't fall.”

“From all the way over here?” Scar raises a pierced brow, eyes glinting with playfulness. Ekko blames Scar's light heartedness to the sweet mocktails a firelight concocted for the occasion.

“Shut up.” Ekko clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he pretends to finish up the wires.

“Sure.” Scar hums whilst there's snickering around him. Some even make kissing noises behind his back. They're lucky he's in a good mood or he'll send them to patrol the area instead.

“This one's done.” Ekko practically shoves the lantern in Scar's arms. He was caught in the act, but he'll be damned if he shows his flustered state.

“The next batch is near her by the way.” Scar leans to whisper, “you're within catching distance if she falls.”

Ekko's in a forgiving mood, and he can't keep hiding his clammy hands from everyone. So with a slight shove at Scar and quickly snatching his gloves, he makes his way towards you.

You heard his almost silent footfalls that's oh so familiar before you could even take a peek at him. “Hey, bossman, how're the lanterns?”

“Didn't I tell you to stop calling me that?” He looks up at you, hand stabilizing the ladder while you stretch yourself further up.

“The meaning of the nickname was lost on me years ago, Ekko.” You glance down, smiling sweetly at him. Unbeknownst to you, the sun shines directly behind you, giving you a heavenly aura as he sighs and grips the ladder tightly from the sight. “Besides, I'm used to it. It's a cute nickname.”

“Yeah, suits you, bossman.” Scar adds from way across the hideout. Ekko almost throws a light bulb at him, it would've hit him dead on.

Scar and those big ass ears of his. With a roll of Ekko's eyes, he turns back towards a giggling you, and his brown eyes immediately turn soft.

“Aren't you supposed to be making the sparklers?” Ekko can't help but give you a gentle smile as you tilt your head at him.

“Ah, now I remember why I call you bossman.” You take a few steps down to level with him. Leaning on a step, chin pressed atop your elbow, you meet with his brown eyes. “Finished it a few hours ago with some help from Vi.” Your eyes dart down at his hands, blinking at his slightly singed fingertips. You take his hand worryingly as his eyes zero in on your hand bracelet around his wrist. “What happened?” The pad of your thumb ghost over it carefully.

“I'm surprised Vi didn't set anything on fire.” He looks at your face while you stare with concern at his minor injury. “The thing suddenly turned on.” He's hoping that you can't feel his rapid pulse under your hand.

“What?” You almost break your neck at how fast you look at him. “We made the right calculations—”

“It's fine.” Ekko turns the table, hand reaching up to your elbow, cupping it gently. Your breath hitches in your throat, he notices, making him gulp down his nerves. His hand moves away in case you're uncomfortable from the touch, but you take his hand before he could fully leave your side. His heart leaps in his chest, anymore movement and it'll finally escape into your hands.

“I'm fine, trouble.” He squeezes your hand once, eyes darting quickly at your intertwined hands to remember it by.

“You sure?” Thumb running along the inside of his wrist, you can feel his pulse hammering wildly against his skin. “Alright, just check the damn thing before touching it, okay?”

“Yeah.” Ekko nods, mind telling him to press a kiss on each of your knuckles that he refuses to indulge himself in. “Now who's being the boss, hm?”

Chuckling, you roll your eyes as you reluctantly release him. His touch lingers for a moment longer, fingers grazing down your palms before you climb back up. “Go back to work or we'll be stuck preparing here until midnight.”

“On it, boss.” He mockingly says, walking away and towards the unfinished string of lanterns.

The sound of the ladder creaks as you step up, it has Ekko's worry knocking behind his back. And just as when the creaking turns into splitting wood, he's already turning around, bolting towards you at a speed he didn't even know he could manage.

The next thing you know, you're in his arms. “Holy shit!” You screech whilst firelights circle around you in a hurry. You can hear their sigh of relief when they see you and Ekko alright. He has fallen on the dusty ground with you on his lap, but you both got out of the fall without a scratch. Noticing him being under you, you grasp at his face, eyes wildly checking him for injuries. “Shit, are you alright, Ekko?!”

He groans, face falling atop your clavicle, arms still wrapped around you protectively. In truth, he's hiding his face from everyone else, knowing that they're snickering amongst themselves. His behind aches, but he's glad that he caught you in time. He can't begin to imagine if he didn't.

“Ekko?!” You call for him when he still doesn't respond. “Medic—!”

“I'm okay.” Grasping your bicep, he takes a deep breath before leaning away from you. “No medic needed—!”

Your sudden embrace has his face buried in your chest. Cheeks warm, his arms hovers around you in surprise for a second before hugging you back.

“I thought I killed you!”

“Mmfmfmmhmf.” His muffled voice has you moving away quickly lest he dies of suffocation instead. He takes in a deep breath to stabilize his staggered breathing while you still cradle his face. Pupils blown out, he refuses to look at the circle of firelights who are certainly making kissy faces at him or giggling amongst each other. “I said I'm fine, trouble. Are you okay?” Hands over your back, he sees your eyes glimmer under the light, lip jutting out into a frown.

Your arms unconsciously wrap around his neck, relief evident on your face. You're the one who fell from twelve feet, and yet you're worried about him. You could only nod, moving to embrace him again. Gentler and softer this time as you hide the tears clinging to your lashes against the crook of his neck. You'll never forgive yourself if you hurt him.

Ekko's hand rubs along your back, hugging you against him as he quietly shoo away his people. Scar helps disperse the crowd, but not without sending a quick wink at him.

The air around him seems to lull him to sleep, or was it your comfort that has him relaxing in place? He could stay that way with you forever, if you asked, he would gladly grant it.

“At this rate we'd be here until midnight.” He whispers against the shell of your ear. Chin placed atop your shoulder, he looks at the shattered pile of wood that used to be a ladder.

“I'm sorry.” You suddenly move away, subtly wiping away at your eyes. “Thank you for catching me.”

His heart wretches out of his chest. “I didn't say you should go.” Hand around your own, he stops you from standing up, but gives you enough space to leave.

You stay, squeezing his hand as you fall back into his lap. “You sure? We're right in the middle of the hideout.”

“I figured you weren't ready to leave just yet.”

Your hand reaches towards his cheek, staying there to rub affectionately away the dust sticking to his skin. “I thought I hurt you. Please tell me you're alright.”

“Better than.” He leans against your hand. Giving you a minute, he takes you in. From the curve of your lips, to how your cool hand feels on his warm skin, and to your frostbitten nose. He laments under you. Eyes darting around, it finally occurs to him that you two are right in the middle of everything. For what he plans next, he wants it to just be you and him. “C’mon, let's get you some water, yeah?”

Inhaling, you rub away the tears and stand up. You help him up with a hand, and he doesn't let go until you're both inside the tree house all alone. He knows that he should wait for the countdown, but he can't wait for a second more. Not when you look at him like how he looks at you. With longing and unequivocal love.

So when he spills his guts to you, all the soft and gentle words he has scrawled in his mind over the years, all with the thought of you— you didn't waste time crashing your lips against his own.

Ekko staggers forwards, hand bracing so you don't hit the wall. But you'd be too busy to notice anyway whilst you're kissing him fervently.

When he couldn't breathe anymore from the air stealing kiss, he leans his forehead against yours. Irisis blown out, hands cupping your cheeks as he inhales your scent and memorizes how you hold him close with your arms wrapped around his waist— he can't help but chuckle.

“Should I have waited for midnight?” He breathlessly asks, affection dripping from his words as he leans away to fully savour in your besotted state.

“Ekko, I've been waiting since you kissed my cheek when we were kids after I saved your ass from an enforcer.” You giggle as he mirrors your smile. “No, you shouldn't have waited. A kiss and a confession at midnight is cliché anyway.” Joking, you wipe away the sheen off his kiss bitten lips while you admire his lovestruck gaze that you're awfully fond of.

“We can still do it, kiss under the lanterns but this time without our teeth clashing and you almost tripping when you pounced on me.”

“I didn't pounce!” You feign an offended gasp, hand on your chest as he laughs and chases your lips. Kissing you with every breath you take. “Oh a very happy new year to us.”

Ekko takes it as a big yes for another kiss when the clock strikes twelve. Hopefully more in the new year, and for years to come.

271 notes · View notes

amuromi · 1 year ago

Text

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.9k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! heian era!au, concubine!reader, true form!Sukuna, unprotected sex, established relationship (married), canon typical violence, era typical misogyny/gender roles, unhealthy obsession, mentions of death, mentions of cannibalism and blood, (Sukuna is a lunatic), Sukuna is referred to exclusively as “Lord Sukuna”

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ I got a bit carried away with this one. My love of psychological horror was clawing to be free but I think I kept it pretty contained…

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 ✦ ⋆˙ engawa ┈ a hallway-like path surrounding the house ⋆ shoji ┈ a sliding door/divider ⋆ koto ┈ a Japanese zither/stringed instrument

The winter storm has leached everything into bleak shades of black and white, like ink on parchment. The trees are thick black strokes against the deep gray clouds, dusted with a thick layer of snow as flurries fall like stars through the courtyard. In the moonlight each snowflake shines like pearls, soft and lustrous as they dance on the wind. From the edge of the engawa it almost looks like staring into the great gaping mouth of a beast that’s swallowed the world, spears of ice hanging like jagged teeth from the edge of the roof, the wind shuddering through the estate in howling gusts. The cold night is scented with dreams of spring, sweet smelling coal burning in braziers, wafting gray wisps of floral-scented smoke into the wind.

It’s quiet aside from the sharp whistling of the wind and the hissing of snow melting over hot coals, then, somewhere within the estate, a bell tolls for the Hour of the Rooster. Nightfall, despite the veil of darkness already laid out by the storm clouds. Suddenly there’s the sound of footsteps soft as summer rain, pattering through the estate and the shoji begin to blossom with the warmth of firelight as candles are lit throughout the sprawling house. More snow gathers in soft sheets over the courtyard before there’s a gentle knock to announce a soft-footed servant coming to renew the braziers and light the lanterns. The scent of lavender is renewed as the coals are sifted and replaced and the engawa is streaked with blushing shades of gold as the pink-tinged paper lanterns are lit in turn.

Of all the rooms in the vast estate, yours is the most adorned. Which is to say, it looks as though your room is used for more than sleeping. There’s a modest desk with inks and paper, a small table for combs and perfumes, and a trunk for miscellaneous things beside the chest of drawers filled with kimono. When she’s lit the last lantern, you ask the girl to send for your personal maid. A dowry servant, though not originally one of yours. Life in this estate is fleeting in that way.

An unbalanced teacup had been the undoing of the girl your father sent to accompany you in your marriage. Stained silk and scalded skin, later soaked with splatters of blood. But the tatami were changed and the kimono and girl were replaced. Your new maid is a bit older–a few years your senior–originally belonging to a woman that came before you. Certainly not First Mistress because she would loathe to see you even look upon anything of hers. No, she served a less honored concubine that wasn’t worthy of the title “wife,” even if it’s a hollow honor in itself. Still, your maid had belonged to the unknown mistress before she perished. It all happened before you were brought to the estate, but the haggard weight of the loss still sits heavy on her shoulders. Her face always looks like a crumpled piece of paper that someone tried to smooth flat, creased with hidden worries. She arrives quickly, kneeling to await her orders.

“I’m happy,” you tell her. “A new Mistress is joining the family tonight, isn’t that right? Happy news.” The maid hums something to the tune of affirmation, long since grown used to your unflinchingly jovial disposition. She once asked if you wear a smiling mask throughout the day and take it off once you sleep. It’s a silly question, of course, but you like to imagine that you smile even in your sleep. There is nothing to be sad about. Living a life such as this is no different than a deer grazing in a meadow. There is nothing beyond the grass. Nothing farther than the horizon or higher than the tallest tree. What is there to be sad about when the world has been folded into something small enough to hold in your hands, a piece of origami meant to be appreciated and not pondered. There’s happiness in the simplicity that this life provides, though you seem to be the only one to realize it.

The other two Mistresses of the house say that you should be locked up in a rice chest and left out to die. That it’s cruel to let you live in such a state of delusion. How little they know, yet it’s still too much. At times, it seems that they are far deeper in their minds than you’ve ever been. Caught up in worries and tribulations that haven’t plagued you in a long time, since you let go of your humanity. What use is pretending to be human when you’re treated like a pet. Treasured and pampered but still inferior to the master of the house. Because your husband has no true use for human brides. In keeping the three of you, he has honored each of your families with the knowledge that their blood has produced something too intriguing to kill off just yet. Perhaps if he desires an offspring to assume his legacy he’ll have a true use for one of you.

Other brides have been offered and had their families culled like squashing bugs. It made you feel some air of superiority, knowing that you were chosen from a dozen women to be honored as a new wife to the King of Curses. It only took a few months for you to realize your place in all this and the last thread of your humanity snapped like a frayed koto string. Thinking of yourself as a person is useless when the person that holds your life within his hands sees you as no more than a doll to be toyed with as he sees fit.

“I’m happy.” You always mean it when you say it. Happiness is all you have left when faced with the truth of how finite your existence is. There is no world beyond the walls of this estate. No people beyond its residence and staff. No purpose outside of serving your husband with unwavering loyalty. In that regard you are the most precious of his wives. The others, their devotion wavers. You’ve seen it in the way they still hesitate to follow simple instructions, still tremble and shrink in Lord Sukuna’s presence even as you bloom like a flower in the light of the sun. He is your sun. There is no life without him. Which is why you are happy to simply exist in this small world that he’s made for you.

His power has greatly uncomplicated your existence, turned it to something purposeful, something that will end when you’re no longer of use. And Lord Sukuna will always tell you when you serve no further purpose to him. How many underlings has he executed because they were no longer of use? You imagine they must’ve felt great pride in the moments before their demise at the hands of their King. Pride in knowing that they did what they were made to do. As a child you had scoffed at the idea that your only purpose was to be wed and serve your husband as a proper wife should, but that was when the husband of your future was set to be someone unremarkable. Lord Sukuna is greater than any man that’s ever lived. Perhaps even ascended beyond the concept of a man to become the strongest sorcerer to ever live. As the daughter of a highly regarded family known for birthing remarkable sorcerers, you take pride in your small but purposeful place in all this. The culling of clans, the clashing of factions trying to unseat your husband. History will remember you because you will play your part until the very end. An end you’ll greet with a smile if it should come by your husband’s hand.

“Will the Fourth Mistress be here soon?” A new deer to join the herd, a new flower planted in the garden.

“By the Hour of the Bird, the last message said.” Your maid agrees. Soon, a new Mistress will be here. It’s been so long since another woman has joined hands with Lord Sukuna. The last being yourself nearly two years ago. First Mistress had been collected three years ago, and Second Mistress came along only a short few months behind her. Lord Sukuna had waited half a year after that to marry a third wife, and you must’ve served him well because there’s been no need for another until now. It makes you wonder if death is close at hand. A raven had come earlier in the day, before the snow began to fall, announcing that Lord Sukuna would be returning from his excursion by nightfall. Perhaps he wanted to arrive home in time to greet his new bride.

Fourth Mistress. Unlucky number Four, terrible number Four. Blowing into her marriage with a snow storm. It’s all terribly inauspicious, but Lord Sukuna has reason for everything he does. Nothing is without purpose. Even death has cause when dealt by his hand. Even if it comes tonight you will go towards it fully satisfied. The snowfall looks beautiful, and the cold isn’t so terrible with the legion of braziers burning around you and the thick furs draped over your shoulders. It’s a wonderful night to die if it should come to that.

“Shall we go welcome her?”

“First Mistress insisted that you need not be present for Fourth Mistress’ arrival, your highness.” First Mistress, Jurina, whose hatred towards you cannot be quelled by any manner of platitudes.

When you first arrived, you’re sure it was mere jealousy that compelled her to act out against you. A multitude of wives is not uncommon among high ranking men, but rarely is it expected that they should all live together. Most wives are left in their parents’ homes to be visited whenever their husband deems it fit. To walk the hall of your home and come across the woman your husband sees when he is not with you must be jarring to the first woman he married. Jurina seemed adamant about dispelling you from the family upon your first arrival. Now, her animosity isn’t borne of jealousy, but discomfort.

Your happiness makes her nervous. She’s said it herself. Snapping and raging at you for your unflinching smile even as she and Second Mistress have slowly begun to lose themselves in the monotony of this life. Sitting and waiting, then serving when Lord Sukuna comes home. To them, your complacency, your happiness, is something eerie and othered. Akin to the curses your families seek to eradicate. Unnatural. Inhuman. Though it hardly matters what they think of you. They are not your reason for being, and Lord Sukuna seems to find your smile charming.

Despite the chill, you find yourself reaching for a fan. A gift from Uraume. They’re strangely doting towards you in a way that they aren’t to Lord Sukuna’s other wives, bringing you gifts when they accompany Lord Sukuna on long trips away from the estate. A set of calligraphy brushes, a jade bracelet, a new kimono. You’ve amassed quite a collection of possessions by Uraume’s spoiling, though the fans are your favorite. All made a beautifully lacquered wood, some painted with gilded designs, the folded paper painted by the hands of careful artists. Crashing waves and blossoming trees decorate each of your fans and you take great pride in keeping them all in pristine condition because you’d hate to perform a dance with a damaged fan.

Of all of the things filling your room, your koto is the most precious. It had belonged to your mother and she offered it with teary eyes as your wedding gift, absolutely bereft that she had to marry her daughter off to a monster to appease the head of your father’s clan. But such was your purpose in being born into a highly acclaimed sorcerer clan. Take your blood and lend your body to another clan so that you might make more powerful jujutsu users. Your father had complained of the waste in sending you off to quell the King of Curses, insisting that sending you to Lord Sukuna would be a waste of a bride. Curses have no use for brides nor, truly, does their King. Still, Lord Sukuna keeps all of you alive and well in his home. To what end? It’s hardly your concern.

“Bring my koto,” you hum. “I want to dance.”

The maid goes about carrying the large stringed instrument to the edge of the room where the opened shoji separates the warmth of your room from the chill of the engawa. It is a happy coincidence that your maid had been taught to play the koto some years ago when she was still an eligible maiden. But her father grew ill and when he passed her mother sent her off to find work to support herself because she couldn’t afford a dowry to marry her off properly. So she sits and serves, waiting for you to name your song of choice with her fingers poised over the strings. The song you choose is one of comfort, the first your mother ever taught you when you were learning to dance and play. There’s a practiced grace to your movements, smooth as a flowing river as you dance with your fan. The song is short but it is always your favorite to perform.

A rare beauty in the north, she’s the finest woman on earth. A glance from her, the city falls. A second glance leaves the nation in ruins. There exists no city or nation that has been more cherished than a beauty like this.

Flecks of snow melt against the bare nape of your neck, so cold it feels like burning, but you want to keep dancing. The weather has no bearing on your mood. Rain or shine you are happy to sing and dance, amusing yourself as you wait to be of use to your lord husband. Perhaps he has already returned home along with his new bride but without the order to accompany him you will stay in your room, performing to your heart’s content. Your maid begins to pluck out the notes of your next song request, fingers stuttering over the strings as if she’s forgotten how to play the melody. That’s alright, you will dance even without proper music, swinging your fan with practiced poise as your voice contests with the howling of the storm. It’s a song of longing and melancholy. Fitting for a woman separated from her husband.

Are you going away? Leaving me alone? How could I live if you’ve gone away? Are you going away? Leaving me alone? I want to keep you unhappy with me. I fear you may never return. Sadly, I will let you go–

“Stop whining, I’m here.” A voice interrupts your singing, a smooth timbre that rumbles like a roll of thunder. So please, come back soon after you leave. In a heartbeat you’re on the floor, kneeling before your husband. Lord Sukuna is soiled from his travels. Kimono stained and torn, the scent of blood lingering heavily around him, along with the buzzing aura of excess cursed energy leaking into the cold air around him.

“Welcome home, Lord Sukuna.” He purrs at how you prostrate yourself at his feet, always so satisfied with your absolute submission. He once told you your lack of fear was something intriguing, your unwavering adoration far more interesting than submission borne of fear. It’s something he’s found in so few of his followers and you imagine it’s why he shows such preference for Uraume’s company. Of all of your husband’s subordinates, they are by far the most devout. Perhaps even more than you because they know what Lord Sukuna is trying to achieve with all the calamity he causes. Your lord husband has never made you privy to that knowledge, and as a good wife you remember it is not your place to ask. If you are meant to know something, he’ll tell you.

“Get out.” His voice is thick with something akin to revulsion, though you don’t bother to raise your head. Lord Sukuna hasn’t spoken to you so gruffly since you first proved your devotion to him. Behind you there’s the sound of frantic movements as your maid assumedly makes herself scarce in the presence of her master. When she’s gone Lord Sukuna gives you permission to lift your head. In the low light, you can hardly see his face. It’s hard to tell Lord Sukuna’s mood even in bright lighting. He hardly changes from his stoic expression unless there’s blood being spilled, then a smile–more like a deranged baring of his fanged teeth–finds its way onto his face.

“Come bathe with me.” He doesn’t wait for you to react, already halfway down the engawa by the time you gather yourself enough to stand. Lord Sukuna traverses the estate with practiced ease, as if this was his childhood home and not all place of residence usurped from some affluent family. Though the perks of Lord Sukuna’s minions commandeering such a luxurious home for their leader and his family are the accommodations afforded to only the highest nobility. Because only families with more money than time to spend it can afford to build their home large enough to encompass a hot spring along with all the other necessary land. The air is humid around the bathhouse, curtained with steam as clouds of warm air seep out of the secluded space.

Lord Sukuna stands expectantly at the edge of the rocks surrounding the steaming pool, waiting for you to fulfill your wifely duties. With great haste you begin to undress him. His kimono is ruined beyond repair, delicate white silk tattered and stained with browning patches of blood. Still, you take great care in folding each article as it’s removed from his body. There’s no added layers despite the inclement weather, no added underclothes beneath the outer layer of clothing. Your hands reach skin sooner than you expected, flinching away from the warmth of his muscles as if his skin were an open flame. Despite your status as his wife and your consequently intimate knowledge of his body, you still err on the side of caution when it comes to touching Lord Sukuna. He had only asked you to undress him, not to run your fingers over the corded muscles of his arms. Luckily, your husband seems unconcerned with the wayward touch. Instead of snapping at you he rolls his shoulders as if the layers of clothes had been restricting his movements. In all likelihood, they probably have.

Lord Sukuna is something that is no longer human. A higher being ascended beyond the physicality of a normal man, as if his body could no longer handle the brunt of his power and needed to evolve to fit the newly emerging shape of his soul. Once, before you first laid eyes upon him, Lord Sukuna had the appearance of a mere man. An unremarkable face and body. But now he has become something beyond the shape of a human. “A two faced demon with four arms,” as the members of your clan had called him when talks of appeasing the great King of Curses began whispering through the halls of your maiden home. Of course his rumored differences held no bearing on whether or not the clan would be willing to sacrifice a bride to satisfy the Disgraced One. His four eyes and black markings make no difference to your devotion. He is still the husband you’ve dedicated your life to.

Tentatively, you try to strike up a conversation as Lord Sukuna settles himself in the warm pool. “Has Fourth Mistress arrived yet?”

“Yes, she arrived before I did. I expected you to be with the others, fawning over her. Why weren’t you?” His tone is calculated as if he is trying to decide if there is cause for punishment. Your next words are chosen carefully.

“First Mistress did not think–it was requested that I not attend to Fourth Mistress’ arrival.”

“Are you not my wife?” Lord Sukuna asks, annoyance thick in his tone. Of course you are. In this life you are nothing if not his wife. “I expect that you’ll act your part. The lady of the house is meant to greet guests upon their arrival. I don’t care what Jurina says. You’re of noble birth. You know the rules on how to conduct yourself. Act like it.”

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my lord, but I am not the lady of the house. That is First Mistress Jurina’s title.” To go against your husband’s word is wrong, reason enough for him to lash out at you, but it is the truth that Jurina is always reminding you of. She is First Mistress, the matron of the estate. It is you that is a lowly concubine in comparison to her status as a legal wife. Lord Sukuna bristles at your insolence and you duck your head to receive your reproach. He’s a short distance away, submerged to his waist in the warm water, but Lord Sukuna can move like a striking snake. It would only take half a beat of your heart for him to reach you and tear it from your chest if he so desires it.

Tonight’s admonishment is far less violent. Coming in the form of a disparaging growl before he snaps at you to undress. You do so with the same care that you disrobed your husband. As his wife, you are an extension of him, and you dare not mistreat his items in his presence. Once your clothes are folded you approach Lord Sukuna with hesitant steps. You’ve discovered that drowning and burning are the worst means of death and the boiling water of the hot spring is a combination of both. Still, if tonight will be wasted on death, at least it will come in Lord Sukuna’s arms. He reaches to help you into the water, drawing you close while his second pair of arms stay splayed on the rocks behind him. He moves you as he pleases like a doll being perched on a shelf, positioning you to straddle his thigh.

“Look at me, woman.” His tone doesn’t sound angry, but that has never been a successful way to guess at Lord Sukuna’s intentions. He can execute someone with a smile. You hope he’ll offer you that same cruel grin when he pushes hot beneath the bubbling water.

“I do not care what order I married any of you in. It should be clear by now that you are the woman of this house. First or third, it doesn’t matter. Jurina’s words hold no weight over you. Do I make myself clear?” There’s a franticness to the way you nod your head, chirping out a pinched “yes, Lord Sukuna!” as he holds your chin to keep your eyes on his.

“You’re the only wife that matters to me, stupid woman. The rest,” he scoffs, “I wouldn’t spit down their throats even if their lungs were on fire. Even the new one. Jurina is nothing and no one. I will kill her right now if it will please you.”

And that had been the original crux of Jurina’s jealousy. The priority with which Lord Sukuna always seemed to treat you. There were always rumors about the estate that you are the favored wife, the one that truly matters, but it is hard to believe rumors when Lord Sukuna hardly does anything to validate them. Though his constant quelling of his temper in your presence should be evidence enough. It’s a rare thing for your husband to lash out at you, but you always assumed it was simply because you were careful with your actions. Never giving him any reason to turn his ire against you. It’s plain to see now that the reason for your persisted well treatment is simple. You are his favorite wife.

Possessive as he is, Lord Sukuna has favorites in everything. Cursed weapons that he favors over all others, and servants that he calls on more often than the rest. To know you hold weight among his most precious possessions is dizzying. Of course, to Lord Sukuna, a favorite thing is a useful thing. It’s easy to imagine that you’re the most useful of his four wives. Neither of your seniors have remarkable cursed techniques despite hailing from quite notable families in the hierarchy of the jujutsu world. And any technique they do possess is woefully untrained as is expected of women in the world of sorcery. Women of jujutsu-laden clans are meant to be vessels from which the next generation of male sorcerers are born, not taught to be sorcerers in their own right.

It was only by a terrible coincidence that you were able to train your own technique. A jealous cousin and a well. A harsh push to your back after she whispered about how she should be the one to marry first despite her inferior talents as a homemaker. She got her wish, the husband she so covetously desired. Last you heard she’d been returned to your family’s estate after being set aside for a more fitting woman.

When she pushed you, falling felt like flying and dying felt like burning as your lungs filled with water. In the end you’d spent nearly a week at the bottom of that seldom used well, floundering for your life as your cursed technique kept you in a constant loop of dying and reviving, bursting back to life stronger than when you died. Chrysalis is what your family had taken to calling your ability when you were finally fished out with a bucket of water. Death was something impermanent to you, though the manner of which you passed holds bearing on how long you’ll be stuck in your “cocooned” state. You imagine being killed by means of jujutsu would kill you properly, forever, but no one has been bold enough to try. Certainly not now that you are a treasured wife of the King of Curses. Though you’re sure Lord Sukuna will kill you eventually, when your purpose has been served. For now, it seems your purpose is to provide him with the comforts a wife can offer her husband.

“Kiss me.” He commands, hand on your jaw already pulling you towards him. There’s never been anything delicate about Lord Sukuna as far as you could tell. He’s always had an air of harshness to him, something wild and untamed that bleeds into his every movement. You’ve decided it must be because he lives the same as you, unimpeded by the world around him. The King of Curses bows to nothing and no one, so why should he govern himself by the laws and morals of humanity. Kindness, restraint, it doesn’t seem to exist to your lord husband. The same way fear no longer exists to you. So when Lord Sukuna’s hand–large enough to hold your head in his palm–pulls you towards his fanged mouth, you feel nothing but unadulterated lust. It’s unbecoming of a woman to find herself so lost in her bodily whims but you’re no longer just a woman. You’re Lord Sukuna’s woman, and within the walls of his home, shame no longer exists. You melt against him as his sharp teeth find the softness of your lips. Blood spills between your open mouths, dripping down your bodies before dripping into the water with a soft tinge of pink.

“Sweet,” he hums.

It’s no secret that Lord Sukuna is prone to fits of bloodlust so blinding he’ll tear his teeth into anything soft he can find, no matter the origin of the flesh. Animal or human it’s all the same when he’s tearing his claws through a warm body. He’s mentioned sampling your body once. How he’s thought about tearing off bits and pieces of you to taste. Of course, he told you that he would only maim you in such a way as punishment for misbehavior–it hardly matters when death would only find you mended and made anew–though it hasn’t stopped him from sinking his teeth into you when he’s wrapped up in another kind of lust.

Usually imperceptible if you aren’t looking for it, the only sign of Lord Sukuna’s arousal stands proudly between your legs, so large they breach the surface of the water as he holds you steady in his lap. His upper arms are still splayed out on the stone behind him as he reclines as if he is seated on a throne. He’s shown you what a throne fit for the King of Curses would look like, but only once. In his domain. An infinite wasteland bathed in blood with a single shrine standing at its heart. A corrupted chinjusha of flesh and bone. All gaping maws and cracked skulls. A shrine dedicated to the only higher power Lord Sukuna will ever respect; himself. The strange mouth splitting a seam between his muscles always reminds you of his Malevolent Shrine, of the four grotesque mouths that stand where the four doors of a shrine would be. Its tongue is strangely textured, like that of a cat’s as it lolls out of his stomach to lap at your skin. Sometimes you find yourself wondering if Lord Sukuna has control over the appendage or if it acts of its own volition each time the grainy feeling drags over your body, but it isn’t your place to ask. Who has control or not, it doesn’t matter. Lord Sukuna is your husband and you relish even the smallest touch whether it’s intentional or not.

“Are you going to please your husband?” He asks. The answer is always simple. Yes. It is your sole purpose now that he’s taken you as his wife and torn your world into the smallest pieces until only this single scrap remains. It’s becoming so precious no matter how small and defaced it becomes. Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you stepped out of line. Tried to leave the estate, tried to defy Lord Sukuna. In truth, you’ll never know. Your husband is your world and your world is your husband. Of course you will do everything within your power to please him. He seems satisfied with just the look in your eyes as you stare up at him, waiting for his next command. If it would please him you’d slash yourself open, spill your innards into his lap and watch him feast on your flesh. His true wish is far more gentle, something a more humble husband would ask of his bride.

“Touch me.” His clawed hand is already guiding yours to his stiffness, wrapping your fingers over the length of him. It’s so strange that curses can bleed, but Lord Sukuna isn’t exactly a curse nor is he a human. He’s something more but his heart beats just the same. You feel it in your palm as his cock twitches in your grip, thick veins thrumming under his skin. Perhaps it’s the water or more likely it’s something innate to your husband because he always feels hot to the touch, his skin is nearly scalding as you wrap your hands around his twin cocks, fingers spread too wide to touch around his girth. Lord Sukuna looks pleased as he leans back, eyes watching you as if to catch a flaw in your presentation. A rogue frown or unintended scowl that would prove your supposed dedication false.

Even after so long he’s waiting for you to break, to truly realize what you’re doing and be disgusted enough to shrink away. The only thing you feel at this moment is heady arousal. It pools like molten lava deep in your stomach, seeping between your legs and into the water. There’s been no permission given so you remain still, but your hips ache to shift against the strength of Lord Sukuna’s chiseled thigh, to relieve a bit of the tension his lingering gaze has caused. But his hand hasn’t strayed from your hip, in fact his grip has tightened with each stroke of your hands. There’s a stinging bite as his claws dig through your skin, burying deep enough to draw blood despite the composure still set in stone on his face. He is still a man in some regard. Still a husband enjoying the touch of his wife. The thought blooms sweetly in your chest, lifting a soft smile to your lips. Lord Sukuna notices in an instant, four eyes still trained on your face. He snatches your chin up, straining your neck with how quickly he guides your eyes towards his.

“What are you smiling about, brat?” Another attempt to catch you in a lie, to find some falsehood in your contentment. Even your lord husband finds himself questioning if your happiness is true. You thumb over the head of one of his cocks, bringing the taste to your lips. And because he is watching you so intensely you make a coquettish show of dragging your tongue over the pad of your finger, gasping when Lord Sukuna’s fingers bury deeper into your delicate skin. There will be cuts and bruises when he’s done with you. There always are. Then your maid–or, on some occasions, Uraume–will come to tend to your body marked by your husband’s touch. You like the way your body burns when he’s through with you, memories of his touch simmering in your mind. He scoffs when you wrap your lips around your thumb. With a cruel smile he hooks his own thumb into your mouth, talon scraping against your tongue as he pulls your jaw until your mouth is as wide as you can bear with only the slightest twinge of pain.

Drool pools in your mouth, dripping out of the corners as they sting with the strain of Lord Sukuna’s strength. He sneers, looking pleased with the mess you’re making as he leans down to lick it up before spitting it back into your open mouth. You nearly choke and rush to swallow with a rattling cough. It tastes like blood, likely your own though you wonder if your husband sank his teeth into something before coming to you. The blood on his clothes looked dry, though you can never be certain with Lord Sukuna. You banish the thought, thrilled with the way he no longer seems to be dividing his focus.

Before he had looked uninterested, as if his mind was elsewhere even as he looked at you servicing him so happily. Now he’s leaned in close enough for you to see his eyelashes, a rare treat with his immense stature. He’s nearly all you can see, all you can feel and you revel in it as your world shrinks to this tiny pinprick. There’s nothing outside this bathhouse. Only the infinite nothingness that surrounds a domain. The world could come apart outside these four walls and you wouldn’t care as long as Lord Sukuna keeps you in his arms. As if he knows your thoughts, the very deepest desires of your heart, Lord Sukuna drags you up his leg by the hand still embedded in the fat of your hips and the feeling sings through your body as your clit catches against the firmness of his thigh. Your hands tighten around his cocks still pulsing in your hands, though his only reaction is the slightest twitch of his lip.

“Am I doing a good job, Lord Sukuna?” You ask around his thumb, truly desperate for approval. If you were any more pitiful he might’ve pet your hair like a loyal hound. Instead he laughs, something short and sardonic as his teeth nip at your cheek. Warmth blooms then drips down the curve of your face and you know he’s broken skin once more.

“Enough with the stupid questions. If you want my praise you know how to earn it. Show me how badly you want it and I might reward your efforts.” You slip from his lap, mourning the loss of his leg pressing between yours as you kneel in the water. It’s up to your neck as your knees meet the bottom of the pool, steam billowing like a veil in front of your eyes as you center yourself at the apex of Lord Sukuna’s thighs. He’s spread out above you like a proud effigy, a statue meant to be worshiped. You feel a transcendent kind of devotion kneeling at the feet of your lord husband. The taste of him lands heavy on your tongue as your lips tease at the head of his dick, swallowing him in slow increments. Despite the harsh preparation of your mouth, you still wish to savor every moment spent servicing your husband.

His face is clouded in shadows again as he leans back, head tilted towards the ceiling. The lanterns flicker playful shadows across his body, highlighting and shrouding pieces of him as you bow to take him into your mouth in earnest. Your jaw still aches from the way he nearly unhinged it, but it works in your favor as your lips wrap around his length.

There’s nothing dignified about the way you’re swallowing his dick, little focus being allotted to your own comfort as you take him as deeply as his size will allow. His body is strange, of course, but it’s all you’ve ever known of a man. Aside from Lord Sukuna you’ve never seen any man bared beyond his chest, although you know innately that humans aren’t meant to have the endowments he does. His second cock presses against your cheek, dribbling over your skin as you hollow your cheeks until Lord Sukuna’s thighs twitch. Muscles seizing tighter as the head of his cock meets the tightness of your throat. Breathing is far from your mind, a need secondary to pleasing your husband. It’s a messy endeavor and you loathe to think of how terrible you must look. It’s always been a point of pride to preen yourself to perfection because husbands like their women to look beautiful when they arrive home, or at least Lord Sukuna seems to prefer it. Though he never seems bothered by what is surely a horrid display as split slicks down your chin and tears dot along your lash line as you gag around his dick.

Lord Sukuna flicks your forehead after a while, likely drawing another scratch between your brows. It’s a fraction of his power. It’s likely he could take your head apart as easily as squashing a peach under his heel yet he hardly puts effort behind the reproach. Only enough to draw your attention as he drags you, coughing and drooling, off of his cock. They’re both gathered into one fist so he can drag the taste of his leaking precum over your parted lips.

“You know better.” Lord Sukuna does not take things in half measures. His intentions are clear. If you’re going to pleasure him, do it right and do it well. Your jaw pops open again, wide enough to take his twin cocks into your mouth. He stretched and strained your mouth but there’s only so much that can be done with the sheer size of him. And while he does well to shield his thoughts at the best of times, you imagine he must be gleaning a fair bit of pleasure from your messy sucking as his hand remains in your hair. His claws scratch against your scalp, gentle enough to keep your skin intact as he keeps your mouth wrapped around him. A burning type of exertion settles painfully in your jaw but you’ll endure. Lord Sukuna never likes to keep you like this for long. With both of his weeping cocks tangled between your lips you can hardly take more than the head of each. In the end, his preference will always be the wet heat brewing between your legs. Another bout of pain sings through your scalp as Lord Sukuna pulls your mouth away from him, leaving threads of spit dripping between your bodies. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, pressing against the grooves where his teeth bit into your skin until they begin to bleed anew.

He manipulates your body as if you’re merely a puppet dancing on strings. A flex of his arm and you’re lifting off your knees, hips stretched wide to accommodate the width of his body between them. His spit-laden cocks are pressed between your bodies, grinding into the soft expanse of your stomach as he pulls your bleeding mouth to his. He suckles at your torn skin, humming at the taste of your blood seeping onto his tongue. His hands find your hips, pressing into the marks he’s already left there as he hikes you higher against his body. The tongue lolling out of his stomach finds its way between your thighs, lapping at the mess that’s left after the water washed away the first wave of your arousal. It’s nearly too much with how textured the wide appendage is but you welcome any type of relief you can find as Lord Sukuna pulls your head to the side quick enough to send a stinging twinge up the column of your neck. The pain is only intensified as he noses against the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder, as if he’s looking for something.

His tongue sweeps over your skin before his fanged teeth make a home in it. There’s a rippling groan that thunders in his chest as a true taste of your blood spills into his mouth. Before long, your head is spinning from blood loss. Lord Sukuna must feel the change in your pulse as it turns slippery, harder to catch beneath your skin. He pulls away with a satisfied groan as his hands press your hips deeper into the expanse of his lower tongue.

“Enjoying yourself, brat?” Lord Sukuna sneers, and because you have no sense of shame you find yourself nodding earnestly. He’s hardly touched you and what touches he’s shared have been steeped in equal parts pain and pleasure, yet you’ve enjoyed it all the same. It’s awkward and teasing because there’s no tact to the way his lower tongue moves between your legs. It’s like striking a flint without starting a fire, dull sparks of teasing pleasure that leave you wanting more. You’d rather have his face between your legs and a more dexterous tongue teasing you to the edge, but it would be presumptuous to make any kind of demands of your husband especially when he’s a man like Lord Sukuna.

In most regards, your pleasure is incidental. Secondary to his own. So when his teeth snap over his claws, biting the sharp points into flattened nubs, you feel your excitement growing. He’s learned from experience that his rough treatment of your body should not extend to certain places. After only a few times he pressed his clawed fingers inside you, Lord Sukuna learned that it would better serve him if his nails were dulled before he went poking them inside you. And they’ll be grown back to full length by night’s end. He can manipulate the shape of his body as easily as fire melting snow. His hand smooths over the side of your body, sliding against your ribs and hips as he makes his way between your legs. His fingers plunge inside with little warning, forcing you open with a swiftness you could almost call desperation. If something so undignified could ever be said about the King of Curses.

Lord Sukuna is a behemoth, dwarfing you in every regard, and his hands are no different. His fingers reach deep inside you, stroking over the place that has your back bowing as he makes space for himself inside you. He hums at how easily you take his fingers, sounding somewhere between amused and approving. It flutters through your chest and settles atop the arousal already building inside you.

“Give your body to me, woman. Open yourself to your king.” You try to say something as he slips another finger inside you but it comes out as little more than a breathy whine. This is already too much and yet it can’t compare to how full you’ll feel when he gets his cocks inside you. His fingers are a luxury offered in preparation for his true reward and you take it happily. He smirks at the way your thighs strain as you try to grind against his touch. The heel of his hand is pressed tight against your clit and you buck your hips against the feeling. Lord Sukuna’s skin is thick, nothing like the softness of your own and it feels just the right amount of rough against your clit. One of Lord Sukuna’s hands finds your hair again, yanking hard until you’re looking up at him with tears shimmering in your vision.

“There’s my spoiled brat. This is how you act. This is how the wife of a king is meant to be. Take what you want, woman, take everything I give you.” A dark laugh booms through the room as you whine and paw at Lord Sukuna’s chest. He adds another to the litany of scratches decorating your skin as his teeth nip at your neck, distracting you from the sting of another finger finding its way inside you.

“You were made for this,” he reminds you. “Made to be mine. My bride. You can take it.” He sounds almost patronizing, voice softening to a teasing lilt as his thumb presses against your clit. Like with everything, Lord Sukuna is harsh, forcing you to the edge quicker than expected. Each curl of his fingers yanks at the string tightening inside you, pulling you closer and closer to the edge as he moves his hands with inhuman speed inside you. Everything is hard and fast and your thighs start to tremble in his hold, body shivering as Lord Sukuna all but wrings the orgasm out of your body. You clench hard around his fingers, pussy dripping down your thighs as you try to steady yourself with your hands on Lord Sukuna’s shoulders. He allows it, revels in it as he pulls you into another bloody kiss. But even as you tremble in his arms, Lord Sukuna doesn’t stop. His thumb is still circling your twitching bud even as you try to whine out a plea for mercy. It only brings a fanged smile to his lips.

“Take it,” he grunts, “I know you can.” It really feels like you can’t. The tension brought on by your orgasm hasn’t dispersed and you feel like a knot being pulled ever tighter, back curling until your face is buried against his chest. He smells like the bath. Like sweet oils and wildflowers as your nose is buried against his scalding skin. With your forehead pressed against his chest your eyes have nowhere to look but down. Down at the way his cocks are straining to be touched, flushed and leaking just out of reach. You look up to distract yourself with the black markings etched into Lord Sukuna’s chest. Your kisses are sloppy, wet and open-mouthed as your tongue peeks out to trace the shape of each tattoo. It’s not until your teeth begin to nip at his chest that Lord Sukuna scruffs you once more.

“Trying to leave a mark on me, brat?” As if you could. Your teeth are likely no different than trying to pierce his skin with a blade of grass. “What a greedy little bride I have. So eager to defer to another wife’s authority when you’re this possessive of your husband. Isn’t that right, woman?” You try to shake your head. Of course, you aren’t possessive of him, you know your place. You are the Third Mistress. Perhaps you are his favorite but there is a hierarchy that must be upheld in the household. To so brazenly try to claim full authority over your lord husband would be lunacy. There is no higher authority than the King of Curses himself. You’re simply a pebble lingering in the shadow of the highest mountain.

“Yes you are,” he grins. You whine as he pulls his hand from between your legs. “Look at the mess you’ve made trying to mark me up like a bitch in heat.” There’s no sense of embarrassment welling at his degrading words. What sense is there in hiding how well your husband pleasures you? And Lord Sukuna seems proud as his tongue licks up the mess you’ve made on his hand before pressing a kiss to your parted lips. You taste yourself on his tongue. Your blood and your pleasure.

“You’re going to take me so well, aren’t you?” It’s hardly a question. Simply an ordered phrased as if you could deny yourself the feeling of being split open on Lord Sukuna’s cocks. He starts with one, always. Dragging the leaking head through the mess he’s made of your cunt, tapping against your clit until he finally presses inside. His body is a marvel and you’re blessed to be so acquainted with it as the length not pressing inside you grinds against your clit as he makes you take him as deep as your body will allow. Lord Sukuna has been known to be rash and unpredictable, a being of pure chaos when the mood strikes him, but when he’s with you like this everything he does is deliberate.

He’s rough but not destructively so. Yes, you’re bleeding as he bounces you in his lap, drawing a litany of breathless sounds from your lips, but he’s always intentional when drawing blood. You’ve been trained well in these years of marriage to take him. To weather any storm Lord Sukuna throws at you. His hands are bruising on your hips as he drags you up and down his length, hands that could shatter your bones with the slightest bit of effort and yet he only uses enough strength to hold you close. You’re not deluded enough to think that Lord Sukuna loves you, certainly not in the way a lover should, but he cares enough to treat you with a level of gentility.

“Thank you,” you babble it like a prayer, over and over. Worshiping at your husband’s altar for even the briefest thought given to your safety, your pleasure. It can never be said that Lord Sukuna is a neglecting lover, at least not with you. He’s everywhere all at once. Hands on your hips and at your breasts, pinching at the aching peaks of your nipples. His face is buried against your throat, teeth surely raising welts as his tongue laps at the taste of blood and sweat dampening your skin. You cling to him in turn, nails digging into the thick muscles of his arms with no hope of ever drawing blood. Still, he grunts out a laugh as you drag your dull nails across his skin, leaving nothing but the whisper of claw marks behind. An arm slips out from under your grasp, unbalancing you, but Lord Sukuna is quick to steady your boneless body as he reaches between you to take hold of his second cock. It’s thick and straining, leaking against your skin as he presses it in beside the first. The stretch is harsh, a stinging pinch between your legs soothed only in part by his thumb drawing shapes against your clit. He hushes you when your whining gets too loud, hands clamping tight to your hips to keep you from squirming away from taking all of him.

“Be a good wife and accept your reward.” Lord Sukuna hisses as he presses deep inside you. The weight of him settles like molten heat inside you, his hand pressing over the shape of himself through your stomach. “Hush, you can take it.” He hisses, biting at your cheek as tears well in your eyes once more. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a strange feeling to be so full all at once.

“My pretty wife.” He’s only this sweet when he has you close to breaking, teetering on the edge of insanity from the way he’s taking his pleasure from your body. “Look at me, woman. Keep your eyes on your king.” It’s hard to look anywhere else. He isn’t sweating, this is hardly more than a leisurely stroll for him, but the humidity has left his skin beaded with moisture. It makes him shimmer in the torchlight like the divine being that he is, wasting his time on a creature as lowly as you. It’s your blessing that he’s so enraptured with you at the moment. Your eyes slip shut, tears streaming down your cheeks as every corner of your body feels lit aflame, the heat only made worse as Lord Sukuna’s hand finds your jaw.

“I said, eyes. On. Me.” He growls. With a bit of resistance, your eyes flutter open, white light swimming at the edge of your vision as Lord Sukuna drags you to the precipice of insanity. He’s close. Far less careful and coherent as he drags you up and down his lengths with startling strength. He’s pressing against every sweet spot inside you, igniting a thousand flames at once that threaten to swallow you whole. There’s a pitchy mantra of “wait, wait, wait” playing on your tongue but it only seems to further entice your husband.

“You gonna sing for me, woman? Go on, let me hear something pretty when you come for your king.” He’s taunting you, laughing at how shrill your voice sounds. It nearly does sound like you’re singing as you wail his name, back bowing as he rips another orgasm from your spent body. It’s as quick as a lightning strike and nearly as blinding, eyes clouding white for a moment as you fight to keep your eyelids from fluttering. From taking your eyes off Lord Sukuna for even a moment. You feel yourself clawing at him, clinging and grasping to keep yourself grounded as pleasure shatters through your body. Vaguely you can hear Lord Sukuna laughing, something tinged dark with amusement as he works you through your orgasm. He has no patience to wait for you to regain your breath, to see the light of coherence return to your eyes. Instead, his hands grip tighter to your waist, nails biting into your skin as he works you faster over his cocks. His voice dips low, a rasping gravel as he grunts, squeezing every bit of his own pleasure from your body. It’s barely a change, just the slightest shift, but you’ve done this so many times that you can almost sense when he gets close.

Lord Sukuna gathers your loosening muscles back into some semblance of an embrace, holding you tight to his chest as he pushes your hips low enough for your bodies to meet in earnest. The feeling is a wet slide of skin against skin, the mess of your joined pleasure slicking up your bodies. It nearly feels like choking as he holds you still, the shape of him pressing every so slightly against the softness of your stomach. He’s more gentle now, but only by a hair’s breadth, as he thumbs over the shape of his body making a home for itself inside yours. There’s always a hint of softness at the edges of moments like this. A bit of the darkness bleeds from Lord Sukuna’s eyes as he guides your hips to grind against him, thumbing where he sees himself beneath your skin. Lord Sukuna has always been smart, his intelligence far exceeding that of your woefully undereducated mind.

There’s never been a time where you were certain of his thoughts, but in moments like these you think there’s a hint of curiosity sparkling in his eyes. Something desirous of the unknown and intangible. He moves in shallow thrusts, thumb dancing lazily over your puffy clit for only a moment more before he’s spilling inside you with a satisfied groan. But, still, he keeps you there. As if forcing your body to take to everything he’s given you. If it were up to you, your womb would quicken to give him a child; proof of your devotion. But even the fantasy sounds impossible. Lord Sukuna has shed his humanity and with it, you assume, his ability to continue his legacy by way of heirs. Though he hardly needs them.

Lord Sukuna is a shining beacon of the height of jujutsu, proof of what greatness can be achieved when you’re willing to go beyond the standards set out by society. He’s immortal, indomitable. Children would only be another jewel in his crown, more pawns to serve his greater will. And it’s unlikely such children of greatness will ever come to pass. In all your years of marriage, there’s never been a single moment where you thought for even a moment that Lord Sukuna’s seed took. And it likely never will. It’s wasted as he lifts you off of his softening length, everything he gave you dripping out into the spring water. The light flickers and for a moment it almost looks like there’s a spark of disappointment in his eye, then the torches shift again and the shadows are gone.

“You did well, woman.” He hums, running his hands over the length of your body. The heat of his palms and the babbling water works to soothe the aches and pains of being so thoroughly used by your behemoth of a husband. “Who do you love, wife?” He asks after the breath finally returns to your lungs. Of course it’s him. There is no one else. No man could compare, like a pebble being compared to a shining jewel.

“Good girl.” He says when you’ve finished your babbling. Like a true king, Lord Sukuna loves to hear his own praises and you’re more than happy to sing them. Sometimes it’s startling how perfectly the two of you exist together. He’s the sun and you’re a flower turning your face to gaze upon him always. Which of his other wives could ever share in a fraction of your devotion? No one will ever love Lord Sukuna as you do, save for maybe Uraume. Perhaps they don’t love him, but there is a fine line between love and admiration. The loyal servant comes bustling into the bathhouse after Lord Sukuna has had his fill of soft caresses and breathless praises.

The fact that both of you are bare makes no difference to Uraume. They lift you from Lord Sukuna’s arms with startling strength, hands frigid against your skin as they guide you to sit and go about drying your body and combing your hair. It’s always strange to be tended to by someone other than your personal maid, more so when it’s by the hands of Lord Sukuna’s most trusted servant, but it seems Uraume sees you as an extension of Lord Sukuna as much as you do. They dry and dress you, sending you back to your room so that they may speak privately with your husband. Some time later when the bells of the estate are tolling for the Hour of the Dog, the strumming of your koto is interrupted further by screaming. Something bloodcurdling terrified as it rings through the house, echoing into the snow speckled night. Vaguely you think of how the screaming sounds like First Mistress Jurina.

#sukuna ★#sukuna x reader smut #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader #jjk smut #★ mine!

1K notes · View notes

flyingbanananas · 2 days ago

Text

Accidental Courting (Izou x Reader)

Sharing food, exchanging gifts… You only want to be kind and show Izou how much you appreciate him and his willingness to share his culture while visiting Wano with you. But every gesture seems to draw stares and knowing chuckles.

Are you accidentally being rude, despite your best efforts?

If so… why does Izou look at you with such soft eyes instead of scowling?

_____

~ 8.000 words

Part One of the “It’s Never Easy” Series

The moment you set foot on Wano soil, it’s like stepping into another world.

The air smells like cedar smoke and summer rain while mist curls along distant hills and crimson torii gates stand like sentinels along the winding path that leads toward the capital. Moreover, a procession of paper lanterns sways in the breeze as you and the others disembark from your small, hidden ship.

Your jaw drops instantly. “It’s… beautiful.”

Izou glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Still want to come?”

“Are you kidding?” you breathe. “This is incredible.”

Next to you, Ace stretches his arms behind his head, already looking somewhat bored. “The trees are cool, but where’s the food? I heard they’ve got sweet buns the size of your face.”

Whack.

Thatch smacks him on the back of his head with a huff. “Stop only thinking about food. I’m pretty sure the point of this trip isn’t stuffing our faces. Right, Marco?”

Marco is already scanning the treelines. “Right, yoi… Izou wants to visit family, so we keep a low profile, stay out of trouble, and let Izou enjoy himself for once.”

You nod. “Right. We let Izou do all the talking then.”

“Why does he get to talk?” Ace instantly grumbles.

“Because if you talk,” Marco says calmly, “we’ll start a war yoi.”

You stifle a laugh while Izou doesn’t even glance at Ace as he leads the group forward, robe swaying with every step. His posture is straighter here, and his expression quieter like something in him slots back into place just by being home.

You fall into step beside him, your boots crunching the gravel path.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods. “Haven’t been here in a long time. Feels… strange.”

You look at him for a second longer, watching the way the breeze brushes against his dark hair and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. “Well, thanks for letting us come with you. I feel like I’m walking through a painting.”

He doesn’t smile exactly, but his eyes soften.

“Just… mind your manners,” he murmurs.

You travel for nearly thirty minutes before encountering the first locals—a small group of older people standing near a roadside shrine, their voices hushed, their movements slow. One of them, an elderly woman, spots Izou as you approach. Her expression shifts from curiosity to recognition, and she bows. Deeply.

You stop, startled, and watch.

Izou returns the bow, his spine folding forward with elegant ease, hands folded neatly at his waist. The others pick up on the gesture and follow suit, if a little awkwardly. Thatch tries to match the depth, Marco bows with precision, and even Ace gives it an honest attempt.

You’re the last one just standing there like an idiot.

Panic rises. You bow quickly, clumsily, but now your brain’s screaming: How deep? How long? Too short? Too stiff?

Then, just as you start to straighten up, a hand presses gently between your shoulder blades. Not forceful, just steady. Guiding.

Izou.

“Lower,” he murmurs, voice barely audible. “Just a bit.”

You freeze in place, heart skipping in your chest, and adjust yourself with a muttered apology.

The elderly woman says nothing, and the others don’t seem to react, but you swear one of them gives you a look. Not cruel. Not judging. Just… assessing.

You feel your cheeks heat.

When the group moves on again, Izou falls into step beside you once more. He doesn’t say anything about your awkwardness. Doesn’t tease. But his shoulder brushes yours, just barely.

You get the sense he’s watching your every move - not to scold you, but to make sure you’re okay. And somehow, that makes it worse. Or better. You're not sure yet.

“You did fine,” Izou says calmly.

“I short-circuited, Izou,” you mutter, still warm in the face from the encounter. “You all bowed and I just stood there like a statue. I might’ve actually squeaked.”

“I noticed,” he says dryly, though there’s no real judgment in it.

You groan. “Great.”

“You’re not from here,” Izou says simply, like that settles it. “No one expects you to get it right.”

You glance at him, squinting. “But you fixed it anyway.”

He lifts one elegant shoulder in a soft shrug. “Couldn’t let you keep bowing like that. It looked like you were apologizing for murdering someone.”

Marco’s voice pipes up just behind you. “To be fair, you usually are.”

You swat him without even looking back. “Not here, I’m not.”

Ace snorts. “Give it time.”

“I’m trying to respect the culture, thank you very much,” you huff, crossing your arms as the group continues up the path.

The path narrows as you wind deeper through the countryside. The scent of smoke and incense thickens, and soon the trees thin to reveal a small cluster of wooden buildings nestled at the foot of a hill.

Izou slows his pace, gaze drifting over the buildings with something like nostalgia softening his features.

Then someone bursts out of the front door.

A young woman in a pale kimono practically flies down the front steps, long dark hair streaming behind her. She looks so much like Izou, with the same dark eyes and elegant bearing, that you blink in surprise.

“Izou!” she gasps, voice high with joy.

He barely has time to react before she throws her arms around him, hugging him so tightly he actually takes a step back. His arms come up automatically, one hand cradling the back of her head as he laughs—a real, full laugh you’re not sure you’ve ever heard from him before.

“You got taller,” he murmurs into her hair.

“You got slower,” she sniffs, squeezing him tighter before finally pulling back. Her eyes are shiny, but her smile is huge. “You didn’t write, you didn’t send a message, I didn’t even know if you were really coming until I heard rumors!”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he says gently.

She swats his arm. “Idiot.”

“Definitely related,” Marco mutters behind you.

You grin.

Izou turns toward you, still smiling in that quiet way of his, the kind of smile that seems rare enough to feel important when it happens.

“This is my little sister,” he says, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Kikunojo.”

"Nice to meet you," you smile and glance at Izou. "Should we bow again?"

Kikunojo lets out a soft, melodic laugh. “You don’t have to. This isn’t an audience with the shogun.” She bows to you anyway, graceful and deep, with hands folded over her stomach. “But it is a pleasure. Izou rarely brings anyone home.”

You bow quickly in return, not quite as fluid but sincere. “It’s an honor to be here.”

Kikunojo’s smile softens further. “You must all be exhausted from the journey, and hungry, I imagine. Please, come inside. You’re just in time. Dinner is nearly ready.”

The moment the word hungry leaves her lips, Ace lights up. “Finally,” he groans. “I was about to start chewing on my own arm.”

Whack.

Thatch doesn’t even look at him as he smacks the back of Ace’s head with ease. “Have a little grace, would you? We’re guests.”

Ace scowls, rubbing the spot. “I was being honest!”

“Try being quiet instead yoi,” Marco mutters, brushing past them both.

Kikunojo giggles behind her sleeve, her expression unreadable and amused all at once. “You brought quite the lively group, brother.”

Izou exhales through his nose, his tone dry. “They grow on you.”

“I believe you,” she says, stepping aside to let you all pass through the inn’s doorway.

The air inside is warm and softly lit, the floors polished to a gentle sheen, and the scent of simmering broth drifting in from the back. You slip off your shoes, following Izou’s lead, and step up onto the raised wooden floor.

The place feels lived in but not worn down instead it appears to be quiet and welcoming. Like someone took the time to make sure everything was ready for your arrival.

But you’re not the only one taking it in.

“Wow,” Thatch murmurs, glancing around. “This is… way nicer than I thought.”

Ace’s jaw drops. “They’ve got yukata ready?!”

Sure enough, a small wooden rack nearby holds a variety of neatly folded yukata—indigo, cream, deep green, patterned with delicate motifs. Without hesitation, Ace grabs the brightest one he can find: a bold red with orange wave patterns.

“This one’s mine,” he declares.

“Of course it is,” Marco says dryly, though you catch the faintest twitch of a smile as he surveys the room.

Kikunojo steps in behind you. “I’ve laid out a few things to make you comfortable. Please, feel free to choose whichever yukata you like. You’ll find washing basins and fresh towels through the hallway to the left. When you’re ready, we’ll be in the main room for dinner.”

You nod quickly, bowing your head again. “Thank you. Really. This is… amazing.”

She smiles, and something in her eyes suggests she’s glad you’re being sincere about it. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. And don’t worry about formalities too much while you’re here. Just try not to break anything.”

Ace already has one arm in his yukata, half-spinning in the middle of the room. “No promises!”

“Ace,” Thatch groans.

You’re guided to a smaller adjoining room, divided by sliding paper doors - simple but elegant. Inside are bedding rolls tucked neatly to the side, low lacquered furniture, and enough space for each of you to rest in separate areas without feeling cramped.

As you gather your chosen yukata and step toward the changing area, you glance back at Izou. He’s standing just off to the side, watching the group settle in with a mix of fondness and mild disbelief.

“Go on,” he says, catching your eye. “We’ll eat soon.”

You nod again, clutching the fabric in your arms.

____________

A low table is set in the center of the main room, surrounded by floor cushions, each place set with care. There are ceramic dishes arranged with seasonal vegetables, simmered fish, miso soup, and delicate pickles.

Moreover, a warm clay pot steams gently in the center, its broth bubbling as Kikunojo ladles in thin slices of meat and tofu with ease.

You sit beside Izou, mimicking his every move like it’s a test you desperately want to pass. When he folds his hands and bows slightly toward the food, you do the same. And when he uses chopsticks, you mirror him, resisting every urge to fumble.

Across the table, Ace is already digging in, slurping noodles and humming with his mouth full.

“This is amazing!” he exclaims, eyes sparkling. “Is this lotus root? What is this WHACK Hey!”

Thatch swats him again. “At least try to act like you weren’t raised in the wild.”

“I was raised in the wild!”

Marco sips his tea without comment.

You manage to hold back a laugh and return your attention to the food, trying not to seem too wide-eyed at how beautiful everything looks.

Carefully you pick up a delicate slice of fish glazed in something sweet and smoky, and when it hits your tongue, you actually pause.

Oh. Oh, that’s good.

Then, without thinking, you reach for another piece and gently place it in Izou’s bowl.

“You have to try this,” you murmur, leaning in just a little, your voice softer than before. “I swear, it’s perfect.”

You expect a quiet thank-you, maybe a nod, but what you don’t expect is the softening of his whole expression.

He pauses, just for a heartbeat. His eyes flick down to the fish, then back up to you, softer now. There’s something gentle there, almost guarded, like a secret he’s not ready to share. And then, a small smile, almost like it’s just between the two of you.

“Alright,” he says, and picks up the piece with his chopsticks like it’s nothing.

But across the table, Kikunojo has stopped mid-pour, her eyes sharp with sudden interest as she glances between the two of you.

She notices the way Izou’s shoulders relax ever so slightly, how his voice carries a different warmth when he talks to you. And when he tastes the fish, he doesn’t comment on the flavor; instead, he offers a small, satisfied nod, like he’s savoring more than just the food.

Then in the corner of your eye you catch Kikunojo watching you – just briefly – before she looks away, but not before her gaze makes you question yourself and your gestures.

“…Did I do something wrong?” you ask softly, careful not to make it obvious. Your eyes flick to Izou’s bowl. “I… was that rude?”

Izou meets your gaze, his brow lifting slightly. He studies you, as if debating whether to say more. Then, with the faintest shrug, he replies, voice steady and soft. “No. Not rude.”

“Really?” You glance at Kikunojo this time, your expression openly concerned. “Please tell me if I did something out of line. I wouldn’t want to offend anyone.”

She looks at you for a long moment. Then at Izou.

There’s a beat, where she seems ready to explain something. But the way her brother looks at you—quiet, unreadable, yet undeniably tender, makes her pause.

“No worries,” she says at last, her voice smooth and kind. “No harm done.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the tension easing from your shoulders. You smile again, lighter this time.

“And here I was thinking I accidentally called you an idiot or something,” you say to Izou, half-joking, half-trying to hide your earlier nerves.

Izou chuckles, low and easy. “No... nothing even close to that.”

His eyes flicker toward yours, linger for just a second too long, then drop back to his food like he’s trying to play it cool.

You smile, turning back to your own plate… only to be interrupted by no other than Ace.

“Hey, was that the fish you gave Izou?” he grins, leaning across the table. His eyes gleam with mischief. “Come on, share some with me too!”

You turn to him, unimpressed, and gently push his chopsticks aside. “Get your own. I’m not your personal waitress.”

Ace blinks, a little surprised by your edge, then smirks, delighted. “Oh? But it’s totally fine when it’s Izou, huh? Playing favorites.”

“I’m not.”

“You so are!”

You roll your eyes, trying to dismiss it with a scoff, but your ears burn all the same.

As you continue to eat you don’t seem to notice how Kikunojo continues to watch you closely. But eventually she shifts her gaze to Izou and raises a single, knowing eyebrow. It’s a silent question, not teasing exactly, but close.

”Why don’t you say something?”

Izou doesn’t answer with words. He only offers the faintest of shrugs, eyes still on his tea as he lifts the cup to his lips. But his smile lingers a little longer this time. And it’s different, not one meant for the table, or even for Kiku.

It’s the kind of smile you offer when something quietly matters. When you're not ready to name it out loud, but you’re already holding it close.

And Kiku sees that, too.

She hums under her breath, almost like a laugh, and finally looks away.

_____________

Later that evening, when you return to your room well fed and tired, you find a small hand-painted charm in the gift basket left in the corner of your room. It’s a delicate little thing – red, gold, and black, strung with a paper tag that reads “for protection and sincerity”.

You think of Izou, how gently he’d touched your back, how he hadn’t laughed when you messed up. How he looked like someone caught between two worlds and carried himself like he belonged in both.

So, you pluck the charm from the basket and tuck it into your pocket. He needs this more than you do right now… so maybe you’ll give it to him tomorrow.

_____________

The next morning, you find Izou standing alone beneath a flowering tree behind the inn. Soft petals drift around him, caught in the breeze, and scatter across the surface of the koi pond below. He’s watching the water, arms folded neatly, his face unreadable.

You shift the little paper-wrapped charm in your hands and step closer, careful not to crunch the gravel beneath your feet.

“Hey,” you say gently.

He glances over. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you admit. “Too many crickets. Loud little things.”

You come to stand beside him, the silence stretching out in the way it only can with someone you trust. A comfortable quiet, filled with birdsong and the ripple of fish in the water. And after a few beats, you hold out the small bundle.

“I found this in the gift basket in my room. Thought you might like it.”

He raises a brow, but takes it from your hands without question. His fingers are warm against yours, and as he peels back the paper, his expression stills. Inside is a deep red omamori charm, threaded with gold and marked with two careful ink strokes: protection and sincerity.

He studies it for a long moment.

“…You’re giving this to me?” he asks, voice lower than before.

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly unsure. “I figured, with us being here and… probably messing up a bunch of stuff culturally without realizing, you might need it. I mean… not need it, but maybe it’s, like, a nice buffer? I don’t know. Is that not okay?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours.

“No,” he says firmly, and closes his fingers around the charm. “It’s not rude. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

You blink. “Really?”

Izou nods once. He doesn’t smile, not quite, but the edges of his gaze soften. Then, to your surprise, he tucks the charm into the inside fold of his kimono close to his chest, pressed over his heart.

“I’m planning to go to the temple today,” he says after a pause. “If you want to come.”

You blink. “Oh.” Then you smile, bright and open. “I’d like that very much.”

Izou returns your smile, though his is more reserved. Softer. “Me too… If it’s not too much to ask we could go now… You know… before it gets crowded. It’ll be quieter.

You blink again, then nod quickly. “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. I’m gonna get dressed then!” you say quickly, practically bouncing. “Give me ten minutes!”

You rush back inside before the excitement can bubble over. Your room is still dim with morning light, and the scent of tatami mats and sakura hangs in the air. You go straight to your luggage and pull out two kimonos you’d set aside the night before.

One is pale lavender with delicate silver cranes stitched along the hem, airy and graceful. The other is a deeper shade of indigo with subtle plum blossoms curling around the fabric.

You hold them up in front of the mirror, shifting your weight back and forth.

“They both look nice,” you murmur to your reflection, but the mirror is no help at all.

So, you purse your lips, glancing toward the door. Izou’s room is only a few steps away, and you know him well enough to know he wouldn’t mind.

Probably.

You pad quietly down the hall, barefoot, the fabric of your robe rustling softly as you go. You knock lightly, but don’t wait long before sliding the door open.

“Izou?” you call gently, poking your head in.

He’s already dressed, standing beside a low table adjusting the sash at his waist. His kimono is dark with soft floral patterns stitched in faded silver and violet. It fits him perfectly, of course.

He looks up the moment he hears your voice. His gaze drops to the two kimonos in your arms, then back to your face.

“I can’t decide,” you confess with a sheepish grin, stepping inside. “Do you think the lavender or the plum one suits the temple visit more?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just steps forward and gently lifts the plum kimono from your arm. His fingers brush yours briefly, a warm touch that lingers longer than it needs to.

“This one,” he says softly.

“Yeah?” You tilt your head, looking between the one he’s holding and the one still in your arms. “I thought you might say that actually… It’s a bit more traditional-looking, huh?”

Izou’s lips quirk, but he doesn’t explain further. His gaze flickers over your face, then down to the fabric again.

“We’ll match if you wear it,” he says softly.

“Match?” You blink, then look at his kimono. Sure enough, plum blossoms. “Oh! That’s adorable. We’ll look like a set.”

He chuckles, low and smooth, but there’s something else behind it. Something softer. Fonder. “Yes… a set.”

You beam without catching the subtle shift in his expression. To you, it’s just a cute coincidence. But to him…. To Izou it means something more… because matching outfits are a sign of commitment.

A subtle declaration, but of course you don’t know that.

“Thanks, Izou!” You tell him and rush off to change with a smile.

_____________

Even though it is rather early the road through the village is busier than you expected.

Many stalls line both sides of the path, vibrant and loud, filled with vendors shouting over one another to sell fresh peaches, steamed buns, trinkets, and charms. Moreover, children run between adults, chasing kites and each other.

You walk beside Izou, your sleeves brushing now and then. The road is just crowded enough to press you closer than usual.

Every so often you glance to the side, eyes catching on something you think might make a good souvenir — a little frog-shaped coin purse, or a painted wind chime that jingles softly in the breeze. You're in the middle of admiring a delicate porcelain tea set when movement at a nearby pottery stall catches your eye.

To your left, an older woman glances up from arranging her wares. Her gaze sweeps over you Izou briefly, then lingers a little longer than necessary. She takes in your matching colors, the slight closeness, and the ease in your movements beside each other.

Then she offers you a small, knowing smile.

“Oh,” she says softly, to no one in particular, but clearly aimed in your direction. “How lovely! Plum blossoms for both. A sign of harmony, you know.”

You blink. “Huh?”

The woman doesn’t explain further just tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear and returns to adjusting a small clay vase like she hadn’t said anything at all.

You glance at Izou, puzzled. “What did she mean by that?”

He’s quiet for a beat longer than expected. Then his lips quirk faintly, and he says far too casually, “Just an old saying.”

“If you say so…” You push the rising feeling of unease down and keep walking.

But it happens again.

A man selling persimmons catches your eye. He gives you a knowing smile - small, but unmistakably amused, and nods politely as you pass. You blink, confused, and glance behind you to check if he is looking at someone else.

Unlikely, there is no one, but Izou beside you, close as ever, with his arms tucked neatly into his sleeves.

“Odd,” you think, and try not to think about it too much. After all, Izou doesn’t seem to be concerned, so why should you be?

But then a few steps later, a mother walking with her child suddenly slows as you approach. Next, she leans down and says something in a soft voice, too fast for you to catch, but the child giggles and stares right at you. Then at Izou. Then back again.

“What was that about?” you murmur, trying to smile politely as they pass.

Izou shrugs, face neutral, but his eyes are almost too calm. Like he’s holding something back.

”Why do I get that feeling that everybody knows something I don’t?”

Luckily, you’re finally nearing the far end of the village, the crowds thinning out, the temple just visible beyond a row of trees. Only a handful of stalls remain between you and the quiet ahead.

But then one of the stalls catches your attention immediately. The air around it smells of something grilled and sweet, a smoky, nutty aroma that makes your stomach twist in a pleasant way.

You pause without thinking.

“Smells amazing,” you murmur, already stepping closer.

The vendor beams at your reaction and begins wrapping one of the rice cakes before you even ask. And before you can pull out your coins, Izou’s hand moves quietly between you and the vendor.

“I’ve got it,” he says simply.

You blink, surprised, but say nothing as he pays.

The vendor chuckles softly as he hands the rice cake to you, not unkind by any means, but with the kind of knowing smile that makes your stomach flutter for a different reason. His eyes flick from you to Izou, and there’s a warmth there.

“Enjoy,” the vendor says. Then, with a subtle smile, “She’ll love it.”

You feel your ears go warm.

Izou only offers a polite nod and turns to continue walking, his expression unreadable save for the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

You scramble to follow him, clutching the warm bundle in your hands. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

His tone is casual, but your heart skips anyway.

And behind you, the vendor chuckles again low, amused, and just loud enough to feel like the punchline of a joke you weren’t meant to hear.

But then finally the road leads you to the edge of the village, and the noise of the stalls fades behind you. Ahead, a stone stairway leads up the hill, flanked by carved lanterns and shaded by tall pines. The temple you two plan to visit sits above, overlooking everything.

You slow at the base of the steps, still holding the rice cake. The warmth has soaked through the paper by now, soft and steady in your hands. A harsh comparison to the chaos inside of you that you can no longer ignore.

“…Are people staring at us?” you ask quietly.

Izou doesn’t look away from the path ahead. “Mm.”

“…Why?”

This time he glances at you, brief but deliberate. “Why do you think?”

You frown, uncertainty knotting in your chest. “I don’t know,” you mumble, heat blooming across your face. “I must’ve messed something up again. Maybe I did my hair wrong, or it’s the kimono’s color, or I wore the wrong sash, or…” Your heart suddenly drops. “Should I go back? I can change!”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “I picked the kimono, remember?”

You blink up at him, that spiraling panic softening just a touch. “I know, but—”

“Why don’t you take a bite,” he says gently, nodding to the rice cake in your hand. “Might help settle your nerves.”

You glance down at it, the scent drifting up—sweet and warm and toasty. You take a slow bite. The crisp edge gives way to soft chew and sweet red bean paste, and despite everything, a tiny noise of approval escapes you.

“…You’re right,” you murmur, chewing. “That actually helps.”

Izou hums, watching you with the faintest smile ghosting the corner of his lips. The breeze lifts a lock of his hair and carries with it the distant sound of wind chimes.

You take another bite, then hold the rice cake up to him, offering it wordlessly.

He raises a brow. “You’re sharing?”

“Of course,” you smile up at him, trying to cover the quiet flutter in your chest.

“I bought that for you,” he says quietly and you would have assumed that he truly doesn’t want to take a bite if it weren’t for that lingering look in his eyes.

“I’m offering a bite,” you chuckle softly, “not the entire thing. Come on. It’s really good.”

Izou hesitates for a moment but then leans in slightly and takes a small bite close enough that you feel his breath brushing your fingers, warm and brief. Then he pulls back, chewing thoughtfully.

“…You’re right,” he says. “It is good.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out too breathless.

Luckily Izou doesn’t tease. He just watches you for a moment longer, then reaches out with two fingers and adjusts the edge of your sleeve where it slipped slightly off your wrist.

He doesn’t say why. He doesn’t need to.

You look at him, heart suddenly full of something you don’t have words for, and in that moment, the noise of the market fades completely. The laughter, the whispers, the tension from before, it all disappears into the quiet space between you and him.

Izou’s voice breaks the silence, soft and almost hesitant: “Do you still want to go to the temple?”

You blink, surprised by the question, by how careful he sounds. Do you?

“I can take you back to the inn,” he offers gently. “If it’s too much… if you’d rather.”

Your eyes drop to the small, warm remnant of the rice cake in your hands, then up to the stone steps ahead, the temple looming just beyond. You take a slow breath, then shake your head.

“No,” you say quietly, but with certainty. “I still want to go.”

Izou studies you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as if weighing your words.

You offer a small, shy smile. “You wanted to go. And I don’t want to ruin this for you.”

Izou’s brow furrows, and he steps closer. “You’re not ruining anything,” he insists firmly. “Whether you stay or go back, it doesn’t change anything. You don’t have to worry about that.”

You bite your lip, uncertain.

He softens, voice dropping to a gentle rumble. “If you want to go, then we'll go. If you need a break, we can turn around. Either way, it’s fine.”

You smile again and shake your head, pushing down the soft giggle that dares to escape your tight lips.

You move on.

_____________

The temple sits quiet at the top of a stone path, surrounded by wind-chimes and willow trees. It isn’t grand or towering. It feels lived-in, loved. Worn wooden beams curve softly under carved tiles, and paper lanterns sway between weathered posts.

You climb the last steps slowly, trying not to let your thoughts race ahead of your feet. Izou walks beside you, hands folded neatly in front of him, expression unreadable but unmistakably calm. Always calm.

Naturally, you fall into step just half a pace behind, unsure where you should be.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. Every step he takes seems sure, quietly measured, and respectful. You watch the way he holds his hands, how he walks without rushing. It feels like there’s a rhythm to it, one you weren’t taught.

So you copy him.

Or try to.

Hands folded the same way. Stride small and even. You don’t want to risk doing something wrong, not in a place like this not when it clearly matters to him.

At the main hall, Izou slows, then stops just before the offering box. He bows once—deep and respectful, and steps forward silently. You mimic the bow a beat after, not quite as fluid, but earnest.

He pulls a small coin from his sleeve and drops it gently into the box, the sound barely a whisper against the wood. You fumble for your own coin, offering it the same way.

Izou brings his hands together in front of his chest, fingers lightly touching, and bows his head in prayer. His eyes close. Shoulders still. He doesn’t rush.

And of course, you follow every movement. Match the shape of his hands. Lower your head. Try to still your breath the way he does.

Eventually, he opens his eyes, and for a moment his gaze flickers toward you. Feeling his stare you look up, half-expecting him to look surprised or annoyed. But his gaze softens… just slightly… just for you… and a small smile flickers across his face, brief but real.

You blink at him. “What?” you whisper, uncertain. “Did I mess it up?”

He shakes his head slowly, that tiny smile still curling at the edge of his mouth. “No,” he murmurs, “you’re doing it… perfectly.”

And then he turns to light incense, stepping quietly to the side.

Of course, you follow. Just close enough to match his pace. Just close enough not to lose your place beside him. And together, you place the incense upright in the ash bed. Side by side. Your hands nearly brush.

You keep your gaze lowered, but movement catches at the edge of your vision.

Two older shrine-goers, praying near the incense trays, glance up. One smiles. The other leans toward her and whispers something beneath her breath. You catch the phrase “still so traditional” before it’s lost to the wind.

You blink. Traditional?

You’re just trying not to embarrass yourself further.

Still, your steps stay cautious. You keep your hands folded the way Izou does. You walk in silence.

You want to do it right.

Then, when the offering is done you two turn to leave. Still, you can’t help but look over to the older women again and notice how one bows her head while the other smiles as she watches you both pass, like she knows something you don’t.

So, you glance at Izou and lean toward him, keeping your voice low. “Are you sure I didn’t mess anything up?”

He hums lightly, almost amused. “You didn’t.”

“Because…” You glance back again. “They keep looking at us like we just announced something. Or agreed to something. And I… I don’t know what I’m missing.”

Izou doesn’t answer right away. But his pace slows just enough that you notice.

When he does speak, it’s quiet, thoughtful. “They probably saw something familiar.”

You blink. “Familiar?”

“Something they remember,” he says. “From when tradition wasn’t just formality. When it meant something.”

You glance sideways at him, brows still slightly knit. “Is that a good thing?” you ask, still not completely understanding.

Izou doesn’t look at you right away. His gaze stays ahead, fixed gently on the path winding back down through the trees. But the corner of his mouth lifts, not a smirk, not teasing. Something softer.

“Yes,” he says, and this time, he does look at you. “One might say that.”

His voice is steady, but there’s a glimmer of something behind the words something you can’t name yet, but it feels warm. Quietly proud. Maybe even fond.

But you don’t press. You just walk the rest of the way beside him, wondering what, exactly, they all saw that you didn’t.

_____________

What a day… You enjoyed experiencing the culture and interacting with the locals, but once evening comes around, you’re truly happy to be back in the inn.

The inn’s common room glows with golden light, lanterns swaying gently as night folds over the village outside. The table is already full with ceramic dishes piled high with leftovers, cups clinking softly as another round of sake is poured.

Thatch leans back, laughing at something Ace just said, something loud and ridiculous, at Marco’s expense, judging by the exasperated look on his face.

You smile faintly, letting their voices fade to a low buzz and not really listening, thoughts bouncing from memory to memory, replaying the day’s moments over and over.

Eventually, you glance to Izou, who’s sitting next to you. He hasn’t said much all evening.

But to be fair, you haven’t either.

“Izou,” you murmur, low enough that only he hears. “Can we talk?”

He looks at you then, eyes steady. “Is something wrong?”

“I just… Please…” You nod toward the hallway, and he follows without a word.

You end up near the edge of the garden, where the paper walls let in the soft sound of wind chimes and the distant laughter of your friends. It’s dimmer here, quieter. And when you turn to him, your hands are folded tightly in front of you.

“I’m not stupid,” you begin, voice soft but firm. “I know something’s been going on.”

Izou doesn’t respond, he just watches you, unreadable.

“People stared,” you go on. “They whispered. They laughed. At us. And you…” your voice catches, “…you won’t tell me why. I’ve asked. I’m asking again now. Just once more.”

Still nothing.

You exhale, starting to turn away, but then Izou reaches into his sleeve and pulls something out. A small, rectangular parcel, neatly wrapped in deep red cloth.

He holds it out to you.

You blink, confused, but take it carefully. Your fingers unwrap the cloth slowly, revealing a slim wooden box. You open it.

Inside is a hairpin.

Delicate and exquisite—silver inlaid with lacquered flowers, with a tiny crane poised in flight at the end. It glimmers faintly in the light, too beautiful to be anything casual.

Your breath hitches. “Izou, this is…”

He cuts in, voice low but clear. “In Wano… when someone wants to court another person, they don’t use words at first.”

You look up sharply.

“They offer gestures,” he says. “Meals. Walks. Small touches. Gifts. And eventually… a hairpin. It’s the final step before the proposal.”

The silence that follows is thick. Dizzying.

You stare down at the hairpin, its delicate craftsmanship glinting in your palm. The crane’s wings are outstretched mid-flight, caught in a moment of motion, and yet your whole world feels like it’s holding its breath.

When you speak, your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Izou’s gaze lifts to meet yours, but he doesn’t answer right away. You push, just a little more, because you need to understand.

“All those times I asked if I did something wrong,” you murmur. “If I offended anyone. You could’ve told me what it meant. That I was…” Your words falter. “That I was doing all that by accident.”

Still, he says nothing.

Your voice sharpens, not with anger but with hurt. “Why didn’t you explain it to me?”

Izou finally exhales, slow and quiet, like he’s setting something down inside himself.

“Because it wasn’t wrong,” he says simply. “It never felt wrong.”

You blink, startled.

“I liked it,” he continues. “Being looked at that way. Being given food, and walked beside, and…” He hesitates for a moment, then finishes softer, “It felt like I was being chosen. And I… I wanted to pretend. Just for a while.”

Your breath catches in your chest. He’s looking at the floor now, his voice low, unsure. Like he’s afraid to look up and find regret on your face.

And maybe you should be angry, or embarrassed, or feel tricked. But you don’t. You’re just quiet for a long moment.

Then, with slow, careful fingers, you lift the hairpin from the box and hold it out to him.

Izou freezes.

His eyes drop to the pin, to the crane resting in your open palm, then to your expression. Whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten. He doesn’t reach for it at first.

You give it a little nudge toward him.

And finally, he takes it.

His hands are shaking.

You see it, the tremble in his fingers as he wraps them around the gift he gave you. The way he holds it like it’s something fragile, something breaking.

Like he thinks you’re handing it back.

“I just…” You start, then pause. You turn away, looking down toward the wooden floorboards, suddenly very interested in the weave of your sleeve. “I don’t know how to put it in.”

You don’t see his face, but you hear the breath he lets out. A sound caught somewhere between disbelief and relief.

“Could you…?” You swallow, still not facing him. “Would you… put it in for me?”

Silence stretches just long enough that you wonder if you misread something until you feel him move.

He steps behind you, slow and steady. And when his hands rise to gently brush your hair aside, your whole body goes still.

His touch is feather-light, reverent. He gathers your hair with more care than you thought possible, pulling it back just enough to find the right place near your ear. You feel the cool brush of metal as he slides the pin in.

And he sees it, then—your ears flushed bright red, the blush creeping all the way to the tips. Your shoulders tense under his touch like you’re trying to hold yourself perfectly still, even though you’re clearly on the edge of bursting into flames.

Izou smiles.

It’s soft. Private. A little stunned.

“Adorable,” he can’t help himself from saying it out loud.

He lingers just a moment longer, smoothing one last stray piece of hair away from your cheek, his fingertips ghosting across your skin.

And when you finally turn to look at him again, your blush hasn’t faded, but there’s something proud in your eyes now, too. Like you’ve chosen this. Like you’re not afraid of being seen anymore.

The crane glints in your hair between you.

And Izou… he just stares at you, utterly undone.

Then, like his body moves before his mind can catch up, his thumb brushes softly across your cheeks, tracing skin like he’s memorizing it.

You stay still, heart fluttering like the crane resting just above your ear.

Your breath catches when his hand tilts ever so slightly, his fingers cradling your jaw now. You open your eyes to find him already looking at you—closely, deeply—like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Izou,” you whisper, though you’re not sure what you meant to say. Maybe just his name. Maybe just to breathe it into the space between you because you need him to know how you feel without saying anything else.

“I know,” he murmurs, just as quietly.

But he still doesn’t move.

Not yet.

There’s a reverence in the way he waits, giving you time… always giving you time. And it’s that patience, that gentleness, that makes your chest ache with wanting.

So you tilt your chin up. Barely. Just enough.

His eyes flick to your lips. Just once.

And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow, almost tentative at first. A brush of lips, soft and searching, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to have this… if you’ll stay or pull away.

But you don’t.

You lean into him, one hand rising instinctively to grip the front of his kimono, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. And that’s all the answer he needs.

His other arm curls around your waist, drawing you closer, holding you steady as his lips press more firmly into yours—still tender, but now with more weight. More intent.

It’s not a kiss meant to steal your breath.

It’s a kiss that gives it back to you.

When you part, neither of you speaks right away. Your foreheads rest together, the hush between you humming with something alive.

But then a sudden gust of wind chills your skin, making you shiver beneath the soft night air and Izou feels it instantly.

His hand presses to the small of your back.

“Come on,” he murmurs, already shrugging off his haori. “Let’s head back. It’s getting cold.”

The walk back is slow and quiet, your steps unhurried, your heart still fluttering from the kiss and everything it meant. The hairpin glints gently in your hair as you lean a little into him, warmed more by his presence than the borrowed fabric.

When you return to the inn, laughter and voices are already spilling out of the common room. Inside, Ace, Thatch, and Marco are sitting cross-legged around low trays stacked with sake cups and half-eaten snacks, joined now by Kikunojo.

The moment you and Izou step into the light, Kiku looks up. Her gaze sweeps over you both—your flushed cheeks, the borrowed haori still wrapped around your shoulders, and then... the crane hairpin gleaming in your hair.

Her expression shifts immediately, all amusement and recognition. “Well,” she says, eyes dancing. “Congratulations.”

You blink, not expecting anyone to figure out what just happened by looking at you for less than three seconds.

Ace immediately pauses mid-sip and whips his head toward her. “Congrats for what?!”

Thatch nearly chokes on a rice cracker. “Hold on, hold on, what did we miss?! You two were gone for, like, five minutes!”

Kiku smiles behind her cup, absolutely enjoying herself. “Look closely.”

Thatch squints. “What am I looking for…? Oh. OH.” He points dramatically at your head. “The hairpin. It must have something to do with the hairpin!”

“Exchanging gifts, especially hairpins and other accessories are a sign of commitment, yoi.” Marco sips calmly. “It’s the final step in a Wano courtship ritual.”

Ace screams. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN FINAL STEP?! WHEN WERE THERE OTHER STEPS?!”

You burst into laughter just as Izou casually sits down and pours himself a drink like nothing is happening. You slide down beside him, flushed but smiling, and reach for his hand your fingers linking without hesitation.

“Oh my god, it’s real,” Thatch whispers. “It’s actually happening. I thought you two hated each other.”

“We bickered like once,” you say, amused.

“Which is flirting, apparently!” Ace gestures wildly between you. “Since when? No one tells me anything! Was this happening under our noses the whole time?!”

You’re laughing into your sleeve, but Izou’s hand is still in yours, steady and warm. He watches the chaos unfold with a faint smirk, as though this is exactly what he expected from his loud brothers.

“Okay but LISTEN,” Ace says, suddenly pointing between you and Izou. “We need a timeline. When did this start? When did you fall in love? WHO confessed? Was it dramatic? Did someone cry?”

Thatch slaps the table. “Did you hold hands before this? Kiss behind the inn? Is there a secret love letter somewhere? I need to know everything.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Ace cuts in again.

“Oh my god… NO… did you accidentally court him? Was it one of those ‘oops we’re married now’ situations?!”

“Well…” you begin and than look towards Izou for help, but he doesn’t answer, just raises his sake cup to his lips and takes a slow sip.

“Oh no,” Thatch groans, smacking the table again. “That’s what happened.”

Ace gasps. “And he knew the whole time! Maybe even planned it!”

“I didn’t plan anything,” Izou says smoothly.

“I don’t believe a single word that’s coming out of your mouth !!” Ace howls, flailing dramatically. “I swear, if one more surprise drops on me tonight, I’m throwing myself into the koi pond.”

You’re laughing so hard your sides hurt, but there’s a fluttering warmth in your chest you don’t want to let go of. You look at Izou - his eyes, his steady presence, the way his thumb gently brushes your knuckles beneath the table.

And maybe he feels it too, because he leans in and murmurs, just for you: “You’re glowing.”

“Blame the sake,” you tease.

“No,” he says softly, his smile deepening. “It’s not the sake.”

“STOP WHISPERING SWEET THINGS WE CAN’T HEAR,” Ace yells.

“WE’RE YOUR FAMILY, DAMN IT,” Thatch adds. “WE DEMAND TRANSPARENCY.”

“You two are the worst,” you say, still smiling.

“No, YOU TWO are the worst,” they shout in unison.

_____________

The docks are bustling as you prepare to leave, the sails of your ship tugging gently in the wind, and the early morning light painting everything gold.

You hug Kikunojo tightly, your voice soft. “Thank you. For everything.”

She squeezes you back just as firmly, a warm smile on her face. “Take care of him,” she whispers into your ear, then pulls back with a glimmer in her eyes. “And keep wearing the pin. It suits you.”

Your hand instinctively touches the ornament tucked neatly into your hair, and you nod, throat tightening a little.

Izou stands nearby, exchanging quiet farewells with a few other locals, and when your eyes meet, his expression softens in that way that makes your heart flip all over again.

But the moment is short-lived, because as soon as you both step aboard the ship, you can feel that chaos is about to start.

“Alright, listen up!” Ace announces, sliding down the mast with exaggerated flair. He plants himself firmly in front of you, arms crossed. “New rule: no sneaky late-night strolls, no romantic moonlit talks, and absolutely no eloping behind our backs!”

You blink at him. “We’re not… Ace, seriously?”

“I mean it!” he insists, pointing between you and Izou. “If we give you two even an inch of privacy, next thing we know, you’re getting married in the middle of the night by candlelight with no witnesses and we’ll all find out from a note taped to the mast!”

You can’t help laughing, lifting your hands to try and calm him. “Ace, come on, it’s not like that. We’re not planning anything. I swear.”

Thatch strolls up behind him, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the drama. “That’s what they want us to think. But we’ve seen the signs. The blushes. The stolen looks. You’re one quiet dinner away from exchanging vows.”

“Exactly. Therefore, I will sleep outside your door,” Ace threatens dramatically. “I will do it. Just try me.”

You open your mouth to protest again, but you feel Izou shift beside you, entirely too calm. In fact… smug.

“Well,” he says smoothly, folding his arms, “technically… I could marry her right here. In my cabin. Doesn’t even need to be formal. Quiet. Private. No interruptions.”

You turn to look at him, eyes wide. “Izou!”

But he’s smirking now, and there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes. He’s enjoying this.

Ace gasps loudly enough to echo off the sails. “OH HELL NO. You are NOT sharing a room! Not unless I’m sleeping between you two from now on!”

You sigh through your laughter, watching as Ace frantically starts drawing diagrams in the air with wild gestures while Marco walks away in the opposite direction, pretending not to hear a word.

Through it all, Izou’s hand remains firmly in yours.

You glance up at him, smiling despite the ridiculousness of it all. “You really like riling him up, don’t you?”

His smile softens. “Only a little.”

And even with Ace shouting about curfews and Thatch declaring himself your “maid of honor just in case,” it’s quiet between the two of you in that one perfect moment, like the chaos only makes it sweeter.

You glance up at Izou with a snicker you can’t hold back, eyes still bright from laughter. “Just wait until the others hear about this.”

He lifts a brow, returning your grin with a gleam of mischief in his gaze. “And Pops.”

Your expression shifts into a mixture of amusement and mock horror. “Oh, Pops is going to love this.”

Your laughter softens as Izou turns toward you, the teasing fading into something quieter, gentler. The breeze tousles his hair, and the warmth in his eyes isn’t playful anymore… It’s something deeper.

You don’t need words.

His hand rises, fingertips brushing against your cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, lingering there as if afraid the moment might slip away. You tilt your face up instinctively, breath caught between heartbeats.

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow, tender, full of the kind of affection that’s been building in quiet glances and stolen moments. The world around you fades away… the sway of the ship, the distant shouting from below deck, even the sound of the sea. It’s just the two of you, wrapped in that single, perfect kiss.

Until…

“OH MY GOD IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!!”

#fanfiction #fanfic #one piece #op izou #izou x reader #izou one piece #whitebeard pirates #one piece x you #one piece x reader #one piece fanfiction #one piece wano

103 notes · View notes