yoonkinii

[yoonkinii]

Fissure (1)

Synopsis: The Virelith does not speak. The faithful must never see. And she was born to kneel. As the chosen Voice of the Sanctum, she carries the weight of silence, draped in ritual and shadow. But when she’s sent beyond the holy walls with a disgraced warrior who has cursed the Virelith and lived to tell of it, the path ahead begins to rot beneath her feet. The further they stray, the more the veil thins. And something ancient is listening.

Fallen Holy Knight! Jeon Jungkook x Veiled Priestess! Reader

Genre- dark fantasy / gothic / enemies to lovers / angst / blind devotion / religion / forbidden love

Warnings- language / death / gore / self sacrifice / killing / religious psychosis / major character death. (as parts are released, please inform me if I have missed any warnings and I will update the list)

word count: 2.2k

Character list + aesthetic

Masterlist

a/n: sorry the first chapter is so short. I wanted to make something that would draw people in and not shove a bunch of information into them. Chapters will be longer as the story goes on. thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy :)

The bells of the Sanctum tolled thirteen times. 

Not twelve for the measured hours, nor one for mercy, but thirteen; an omen by design, a number that crawled along the spine like a whisper from the grave. It was not a sound, but a submission: the soul bowed, the body laid bare to be hollowed. Each peal echoed through the Sanctum;s vaulted emptiness like the voice of Virelith himself, a sonorous command that shook the marrow of all who dared listen. No one moved. Not until the final chime vanished into the shadows like a drowning breath, 

Then, they stirred.

Figures robed in ivory and ash, faceless behind sheer black veils that fluttered through no wind stirred the air. They shifted in silence, parting to allow her passage. Beneath them, the obsidian floors gleamed like still water, reflecting the iron braziers above as though the stars had been cast downward in exile. Candles burned low in holders the color of congealed blood, their flames hissing with unseen breath, casting tall, twitching shadows the writhed like revenants summoned from the dust. 

She stepped into the hall of silence, where words came to die, and knelt within a scorched ring of stone that marked the place of binding. 

Her veil different from theirs. It draped in five translucent layers, silk dyed in a gradient from bone white to pitch black. It spilled past her collarbones like smoke, stitched with glyphs of silver thread that shimmered faintly, as though they wept. When the candlelight struck it, the glyphs stirred, ever so slightly, as if drawing breath. Her face remained hidden, her sight clouded by the veil but her purpose was clear; she was meant to see with the weight of revelation. 

The hem of her robe whispered across the stone, trailing threads of silence. Her sleeves were laced with pale crimson, curling up her arms like dried blood on snow. The fabric clung to her in uneven spirals, folded velvet, ash dyed linen, woven together like mourning and devotion. She dared not speak. Dared not breathe too loud. The silence here was not absence; it was presence. It watched.

Above her, seated upon a dais carved into the shape of a blooming corpse lily, stood the High Magister of the Veil- her father, Oberon Saith. 

In one hand, he held a blackened censer, its smoke trailing like threads of thought. In the other, the Book of Unknowing, the only scripture said to hold all truths of Virelith, the great holy one. His veil ended just beneath his nose, revealing a mouth pale and still, embroidered with seven concentric circles: the mark of his rank, of silence made master.

And then his lips moved. 

His voice filled the chamber. A voice cold and hollow, as if spoken from behind the veil of death itself. 

“Y/n of the inner Cloister,” he spoke, each word heavy as stone. “You have been summoned by Virelith to walk the path beyond the Sanctum, as once did your mother. Do you accept the burden of revelation?”

Her voice was but a thread of breath, drawn from somewhere far beneath her ribs. 

“I do.”

“Do you forsake the world, and the self alike?”

“I do.”

“Do you carry silence in your blood, that it may devour blasphemy and unmake desire?”

A hesitation. A flicker. The briefest tremor in the hollow between heartbeats; a memory of hunger, of flesh and self and a life once lived. 

“I do.”

Oberon turned without a word. 

Behind him, three veiled attendants emerged like shadows congealing into form. One bore a black urn of obsidian glass, so polished it seemed to drink the light. Another carried a blade carved from sanctified bone, its curved edge etched with runes that whispered against the silence. 

“Then let it be witnessed,” Oberon intoned, his voice echoing like a knell. “You shall walk the path your mother once did, to seek the Godshard, the vessel of revelation, key to the oracle’s wisdom, and final crucible for your faith in Virelith.”

The attendants approached. 

The tallest drew the blade with ritual grace, its edge gleaming pale as moonlight on a corpse. The smallest of them stepped forward, delicate hands lifting the sleeve of her robe until flesh was revealed; soft, vulnerable, waiting. The blade pressed to her inner arm.

There was no cry. No flinch. Only the flow of blood, dark as pomegranate wine, sluggish and solemn. It welled from the wound and traced a sacred line downward. The urn was brought close, it’s open mouth yawning like a gate into the void. 

Her blood fell. One drop. Then another. Each swallowed by the abyss without sound. Then came the smoke.

It rose suddenly, twisting in tendrils of grey and violet, perfumed with incense and something older- older than memory, older than language. She inhaled sharply as the vapor curled upward, and for a breathless instant, the smoke parted. 

A great eye stared back.

Lidless. Immense. Watching.

And then - nothing. Silence again

-

She was led to the Sanctum gates by four veiled guards, their footfalls hushed against the stone like a funeral procession. Gone were the ceremonial robes, her bone and ash and crimson threat now replaced with a simple garment of white linen that ghosted just above the floor. A black sash, tight around her waist, held scripture embroidered on the threads that spelled truths that were not meant to be spoken out loud. Only her veil remained unchanged, trailing down like breathless silence, and the leather boots at her feet. 

Mist curled low over the stone courtyard like a shroud. 

Waiting in the greying dawn stood Jeon Jungkook, the Blasphemer. 

She stilled.

Behind her veil, her lips curled into a frown of quiet disdain. His presence unsettled something within her, some unspoken sense of sanctity now threatened. The memory of her father’s voice was still fresh in her mind, still echoing beneath her skin. 

“Father, Virelith would not approve,” She said, the words low but firm. “The retrieval of the Godshard is sacred. To entrust it to one so steeped in blasphemy…it borders on heresy.”

Though she could not see her father’s eyes behind the ceremonial veil, she had felt them. Cold. Unyielding. Like judgement passed in silence.

“This is not open for discussion,” Oberon replied. His voice soft and restrained, carried the weight of iron bells tolling for the dead. She had swallowed the tremor it summoned in her. 

“Jeon Jungkook’s skills,” he continued, “are unlike any the holy knights have ever borne witness to. In order to ensure the highest chance of your return, he was offered a bargain.”

She had opened her mouth, a protest forming on her tongue. 

“He lives in exile,” her father continued, as if reading the shape of her thoughts. “And he will only return if you live to see the Godshard unearth, his freedom is tethered to your breath.”

She gnawed at her bottom lip, the bite ground her. 

Exile. 

The Sanctum’s condemnation was no simple banishment- it was erasure. To be cast out was to walk the world as a ghost, denied the gods, the people, the faith. Alone in a land where even the wind would not speak your name. 

She had not pitied him. Not truly. But she understood. And so she had bowed her head, the words slow and bitter as they left her. 

“I understand, Father.”

Jeon Jungkook was a man of legend but not the kind the Sanctum sang about. 

Once a high ranking holy knight, now a blasphemer cast from grace, his name was a scar across sacred record. He had cursed Virelith aloud, turned his back on the god before the congregation, and for that, he had been exiled, both body and soul.

He wore no veil. 

His face was bare, unrepentantly so. Smooth, sun warmed skin clung tight to the sharp sculpt of his cheekbones and jaw, as though carved by something both divine and vindictive. Strands of ink dark hair curled across his brow like creeping shadows, dampened by the morning mist. His lips, full, plush, and out of place on a man so hardened, were drawn into a thin, unimpressed line as he watched her approach. 

His eyes were wide. Not with innocence, but with something worse, something aching, unreadable, half buried in the umber of his irises. They held the weight of someone who had once been holy…and had chosen to fall. He looked less like a man and more like a forsaken idol. An effigy broken from its altar, smeared with ash, still warm with the breath of those who once knelt before him. 

But this idol had spat like poison and bled defiance. And now, he bore the wounds. 

There were no remnants of the knight he once was. No glint of consecrated steel. No banner stitched to his shoulders. No sigil of the Sanctum laid over his heart. What he wore was dark, dense, and silent armor shaped by necessity, not oath. 

It draped over him like a shadow poured from an eclipse, slick with old rain, heavy with older blood. One side was clasped at the collarbone with a battered iron pin, unmarked, no insignia; just a dented disc stained with rust. The other hung loose, shifting like a torn wing with each motion. It whispered when he moved, the sound of soaked cloth over stone, the voice of a storm that refused to pass. 

Beneath it, his armor was cobbled and brutal. Blackened leathers sewn in angular seams, reinforced at the ribs with panels hardened from long campaigns. Thick belts crisscrossed his chest, brass buckles dulled and worn smooth by years of dust and salt. His arms were wrapped in vambraces, some riveted, others tied with rawhide cords and old chains, scavanged, reworked, rebroken. 

His legs were clad in quilted plating molded to his form, ribbed for movement, not ceremony. And at his hip, hidden beneath the dark folds of his coat, she caught the gleam of a blade. Well hidden but the ruby hilt glimmered briefly like a tongue of fire in the gloom. 

There was no symbol of Virelith. No sigil. No scripture. No sign of home or sanctuary. 

Jeon Jungkook wore only the vestments of exile, scars, silence, and the grit of survival. 

He leaned against the cold stone archway of the Sanctum walls, one boot pressed against the wall, arms folded loosely across his chest. His gaze slid between her and Oberon with the disinterest of a wolf eyeing an old shrine. He was tall, his height almost rivaling her fathers who stood to be amongst the Sanctum.

Then he spoke.

“You’re late.” His voice was smooth, velvet pulled over iron too soft to be mocking, too precise to be kind. 

She flinched just slightly, startled by the blunt weight of his voice. 

Oberon stepped forward, his movement deliberate, precise. He did not look at Jungkook, not fully. His gaze hovered just past him, as if to acknowledge him directly would invite something profane into the sanctified air. 

“You will guard her life,” he said, his tone as hard and cold as the sanctum stone. “Your exile ends only upon her return. If she dies, you will not return at all.”

Jungkook snorted, the sound low and dry as scorched parchment. His dark eyes narrowed, a flicker of annoyance catching in their depths like dying embers. 

“Exhiled for speaking,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet stretched over a blade. “Not punished for listening. Poetic.”

Oberon did not dignify with a reply. He simply turned, the hem of his ceremonial robes whispering across the floor like ash carried on still air. He gave a small nod to the guards who lingered behind him, their presence like silent wraiths of the Sanctum.

They approached her with ghostlike steps, the metal of their armor barely whispering. One extended a leather bound satchel, simple but meticulously packed. It was all she had requested. No spare robes. No excess. She traveled light, as her mother once had. 

She opened the satchel briefly, fingers brushing reverently against the worn leather of a small diary tucked within; her mothers. The edges were frayed from age and use, the pages fragile as old petals. She hoped the words inside would be more than memories. That somewhere within the ink stained thoughts, her mother had left a trail; signs to follow, turks half buried in grief. 

Satisfied, Oberon gaze no farewell. No blessing. No touch of parting affection. He turned and walked back into the Sanctum’s hollowed walls without once looking back. 

She did not let it wound her. Not visibly.

Adjusting the strap of her satchel, she stepped past Jungkook without a word. Her stride was slow, each footfall a weight carried not just by the journey ahead, but by the crushing expectation wrapped tight around her shoulders like a second veil. She could feel his eyes follow her, unblinking. Watching. Measuring. 

A moment later, she heard him fall in step beside her.

They walked in silence, their path winding downward, the black gates of the Sanctum blurring behind them, being swallowed by pine and fog, fading into myth. 

Only when the spires were lost to mist did he speak again. 

“So,” Jungkook said, voice idle and laced with amusement, “You’re the holy lamb.”

She did not turn to face him. Her gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, her spine straight, her steps measured. 

“And you are the knife,” she replied, voice flat as stone. 

A pause. Then the faintest grin curled at the edge of his lips; sharp, secretive. 

“Perhaps this won’t be so boring after all.”

-

Taglist (open)

[yoonkinii]

Fissure- FF announcement

Synopsis- The Virelith does not speak. The faithful must never see. And she was born to kneel.

As the chosen Voice of the Sanctum, she carries the weight of silence, draped in ritual and shadow. But when she’s sent beyond the holy walls with a disgraced warrior who has cursed the Virelith and lived to tell of it, the path ahead begins to rot beneath her feet.

The further they stray, the more the veil thins. And something ancient is listening.

Fallen Holy Knight! bJeon Jungkook x Veiled Priestess! Reader

Genre- dark fantasy / gothic / enemies to lovers / angst / blind devotion / religion / forbidden love

Warnings- language / death / gore / self sacrifice / killing / religious psychosis / major character death. (as parts are released, please inform me if I have missed any warnings and I will update the list)

a/n- o no! I have disappeared for awhile and suddenly reappeared! this ff is solely based around the song, forbidden fruit. This ff does discuss religion (not a real one, I made one up for entertainment purposes) and being blindly devoted to it. this ff will also not be sunshine and joy, I wanted to make a ff that had a more gothic and creepy tone. so beware for that as well. first part will be up soon as soon as I polish it up to my liking. I hope you enjoy reading this ff as much as I have while creating the world and story.

Character list + aesthetic

Dictionary - TBA

Masterlist

Taglist: open

[yoonkinii]

Fissure Character list + aesthetic

Jeon Jungkook

Y/n Saith / MC/ wtv you want to refer to yourself. its you.

Character list:

Oberon Saith: High magistrate of the Sanctum, y/n's father

[yoonkinii]

BTS m.list

Jeon Jungkook

Fissure

1 |

Synopsis-

The Virelith does not speak. The faithful must never see. And she was born to kneel.

As the chosen Voice of the Sanctum, she carries the weight of silence, draped in ritual and shadow. But when she’s sent beyond the holy walls with a disgraced warrior who has cursed the Virelith and lived to tell of it, the path ahead begins to rot beneath her feet.

The further they stray, the more the veil thins. And something ancient is listening.

Fallen Holy Knight! Jeon Jungkook x Veiled Priestess! Reader

Genre- dark fantasy / gothic / enemies to lovers / angst / blind devotion / religion / forbidden love

Warnings- language / death / gore / self sacrifice / killing / religious psychosis / major character death. (as parts are released, please inform me if I have missed any warnings and I will update the list

Character list + aesthetic

Dictionary - TBA

Masterlist

theme song- forbidden fruit - tommee profitt

Temptation I can't escape you, escape you Desire You're my forbidden fruit, forbidden fruit Oh You're my downfall Downfall

[yoonkinii]

The Tragedy of a Duality

Gojo Satoru x Female Reader and (Past) Ryomen Sukuna x Female Reader

Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3, Chp 4, Chp 5, Chp 6, Chp 7 (Final)

In the present, you are a sorcerer and the cherished wife of the Honored One. In an era long gone, remembered by only one, you were ordinarily human and the beloved bride of the King of Curses. How fitting it would be, in an evening of destruction, to have your heart torn in two.

Content: JJK Universe and Canon Events (tho tweaked to incorporate reader), Fluff, Angst, Flashbacks, Ambiguous ending, Violence, Death, Female reader but left descriptively vague, No use of y/n, True Form Sukuna in the past, Itadori Yuji is Sukuna's vessel in the present but nothing inappropriate b/n reader and Itadori as the vessel, Innuendos, Allusions to + Vaguely described sex so avoid accordingly, Mildly Possessive and Jealous Satoru. Will add more CW to each chapter if needed.

WC: 6.1k

Chapter 5

You suspect that Sukuna still knows it’s you approaching the doors of his bathing chamber even if your footsteps are rendered nearly silent because of the stockings on your feet. The hour is late and the night is cool, and you are just a little vexed that he hadn’t come to see you upon returning home from his two weeks away. When one of the maids had whispered the news to you as you sat reading in the room you share with Sukuna, you hadn’t dallied and only slid on a robe over your nightgown before slipping into the hall.

Now, however, when you stand in front of large, double wood doors with your fist poised to knock, you find yourself hesitating. You still aren’t quite certain of how far your formalities with your new husband are supposed to go. Three months is barely enough time to become familiar with a person, let alone bind yourself to them in matrimony, yet you’ve resigned yourself to both. In an effort to find success in such endeavors, you’ve dipped your toes into the metaphorical waters and pushed at what boundaries you could find when it comes to establishing your place at Sukuna’s side, even when it proves difficult. 

When his temper isn’t mercurial he’s stoic, when it isn’t enough for him to be quiet he hides behind aloofness, and the rest of your communication is all done in some annoyingly blunt manner. Teaching Sukuna tact isn’t something you had foreseen as a wifely duty for yourself, but alas, maybe the two of you would be better off for it.

“You may enter.” 

The suddenness of his voice makes you jump, and you realize Sukuna must have grown tired of sensing you waiting and contemplating on the other side of the door. Embarrassment warms your cheeks, and you consider fleeing back to your room, but something about the weariness of his words stills your feet. Concern has you pressing open the doors. 

Thick steam rises to meet you and billows out behind you into the hall until you shut the doors again. Hundreds of candles are scattered along the perimeter to cast flickering light against the walls. The room is humid and damp, and instantly the fabric of your nightgown begins to stick to your skin uncomfortably. Below you three steps down is an expansive pool built into the floor. Large grey stones and black tile trim the edges of it, and at the end farthest from you, Sukuna lounges on a ledge in waist deep water. You blanch when you notice the pink tint of it and when your eyes flick to the corner behind him, soiled linens lay in a heap of dirt and blood and who knows what else. 

“You have returned,” you say in lieu of a greeting. You carefully maneuver down the set of stairs and stop when your toes reach the edge of the pool across from him. A grumbling noise is his only response until Sukuna lifts his upper set of arms out of the water and drapes them along the edge of the pool. Two of his fingers on his right hand curl back and forth in a request for you to come nearer. Not interested in denying him, you pad over to him, mindful of the slickness of the floor and the stockings still on your feet. 

You come to a halt next to his left arm, and you have to stifle a gasp because the state of him is evident up close. Sukuna’s hair is saturated in blood and drying in matted clumps. Dirt and more blood mar the skin of his face and chest not obscured by his tattoos. For a second, you fret over how much of it might be his own, but there are no visible wounds to his body and you shove down the building panic. 

Sukuna continues to watch you, and when you cast your eyes about the room and they fall onto a basket of cloth in a corner, an idea comes to mind. 

You tilt your head towards the basket. “May I?” 

He turns infinitesimally, and you see his eyes flick back to where you indicated. After he gives an elegant nod of his head, you scurry over to the basket and lift into your arms. Back at Sukuna’s side, you glance between the steaming water, the awaiting cloth, and the hem of your robe that is darkened from the moisture it has already absorbed. Without debating it further, you undo the tie that keeps your robe shut and shrug it off your shoulders. In the next instant, your nightgown falls to your feet and the warmth of the room hits your bare skin. You toe off your stockings last, and just as you go to step down into the water, Sukuna lifts an arm to supply you a steadying hand. 

When you first enter the water, the heat of it stings your skin and draws a hiss from between your teeth. You go to lower yourself to your knees next to Sukuna’s side, but halfway down his hand tightens around yours and pulls you forward. His other hand helps you straddle his hips, and the burn of the water continues up your body to where it laps at your shoulder blades. At least you could blame the heat in your cheeks on the temperature of the room, though whether Sukuna would believe that to be the cause over the way his naked body is flush against yours is unlikely. 

Sukuna reaches with the arms not on you for the basket of linens. He drags it across the stone so it is within your reach and then lets his eyes drift closed as his body relaxes. You feel a smile tugging at your lips, and with a gentle hand, you dip a cloth into the water and wipe away the grime on his face. You brush over his brow and then trace down his cheek, pausing every so often to wet the cloth again before it becomes so dirty that you discard it and replace it with a clean one. When you finish with his face, you continue down his neck to his shoulders and then the solid plane of muscle that is his chest. 

From your peripheral, you catch Sukuna looking at you through a single slitted lower eye. His stare isn’t critiquing, nor is it cautious or wary. Instead, though it’s difficult to be sure through the steam, you would think it’s focused, content on following every lithe movement of yours across his body. One of his lower arms is wrapped around the small of your back while the other grasps your thigh under the water. His nails scratch softly and mindlessly, back and forth, and the act of it sends goosebumps all over the skin exposed to the air. Dare you think, Sukuna missed you. 

“Why did you hesitate outside the doors?” 

“Is that what I was doing?” you ask innocently. A glance from beneath your lashes gives you a glimpse of a frown on his face. 

“You are my wife, are you not?” And Sukuna clearly is not interested in whatever evasive game you try to play. You scrunch your nose in defeat. 

“I suppose so, in every sense of the word.” 

“Then I must ask you again: why did you hesitate?” 

Your sigh is long, and you let your hands fall into the pool with a small splash. “I am not sure,” you tell him honestly. “Perhaps you intimidate me. I am still getting to know you, and what you allow of me.” 

Sukuna’s face is surprised and pensive. “Do I?” 

“Mhm,” you hum, and you lift your hand out of the water to resume wiping at his skin with a soaking wet cloth. “Quite the reputation precedes you, if you are not aware.” 

A hand smooths up your spine. “Well, let me be the one to reassure you, Wife.” 

You assume Sukuna will further part your thighs or find some hidden place on your body with his lips that makes you call out for him, but instead, one of his fingers hooks under your chin so he can raise it up until your eyes meet his. The burning red of them is intense.

“Would it please you to hear how your beauty bewitched me the moment I saw you standing under that pear tree?” 

Your breath hitches, and the cloth in your hand tumbles into the water with a heavy plop. 

“Or,” Sukuna continues, and there is a genuine grin that is beginning to form on his face, “I can tell you how your intellect and wit far surpasses anyone else’s that I know. You are stunning and magnificent in all your ways.

“If I had not kept you for myself, if my selfishness was not near as great, then ultimately, some worthless mortal man in that unassuming village of yours would have asked for your hand and never realized the treasure he keeps under his fingers.” 

Your body flushes warm all over, and you can no longer blame it on the heat of the water. You know Sukuna can hear your heart pounding because it is ringing in your own ears, and he confirms it when another hand slides up to settle over it in between your breasts.

“Do not cower from me,” he tells you, and his voice is resolute in its sincerity. “Come to me, when you feel so inclined, and I will always be willing to let you find me.” 

You are rendered speechless from his declaration and thoroughly flustered in every other way. Sukuna watches you patiently as your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with some dignified response, but nothing sensible finds your tongue and you look everywhere but at him. 

There is a chuckle from Sukuna, and he lets his hand on your chest and back drift away to give you whatever space needed to not overwhelm you. Contented, he seems, he leans back again and shuts his eyes while waiting for you to continue with your earlier ministrations. 

You are thankful that his focus is no longer on you, and with a stuttered breath, you pick up another cloth to dip in the water and resume making progress on removing the evidence of whatever battles Sukuna fought from his skin. 

A few minutes later, once you have finished with his body, you turn to his hair and click your tongue in disapproval. “Did you not have the opportunity to bathe?”

Sukuna opens one eye lazily and grunts. “I did.”  

“Truly? The state of your hair and body would prove otherwise.” 

Hands tighten on your waist and thigh and now all of Sukuna’s eyes are on you. 

“I was occupied the last remaining days,” he refutes. “Besides, now I have no intention of doing it myself ever again when I know I could have your assistance instead.” 

There is heat in his voice, but you ignore it in favor of cleaning his hair. You rest your knees on top of Sukuna’s thighs and sit yourself up as tall as you can in order to stretch your arms up and above his head. One by one, you pick out bits of leaves and other questionable objects before softening the blood in it with warm water. Your stomach tilts and churns as you comb the matted parts loose with your fingers, but you manage to keep any bile down as you rinse it out. 

Sukuna sits relatively still and patient with eyes closed as the water runs down his face and over his shoulders, but as you spend an extra minute working at a particularly heinous knot right above his ear, you feel him nipping at the underside of your breast. The scraping of his teeth draws a squeal from your mouth as you shy away from him, but the strength of his grip doesn’t allow you to venture far. Instead, he urges you closer against his chest and looks up at you with eyes that are asking and beseeching.

Sukuna has never forced you. Not into the marriage that saves you from a bleak life of nothingness in a village that is equally lackluster. Not into his bed the night after the ceremony, though you did find yourself there and under him willingly. And not anytime after that, despite his best efforts in persuading you to indulge in him. He still does not now, even when you can feel him between your legs. 

There must be something answering and pleading on your face because Sukuna suddenly has two hands that grip at your rear while another cradles your jaw and brings your head close to his. Water splashes at the edge of the pool, and the knot in his hair is all but forgotten.You rock against him in a way that wrenches a gasp from you and a rumble from his throat, but you pause in making any more movement with your hips to whisper against his lips.

“Promise you will take me with you the next time you must leave and every time after that.” 

Sukuna grins at you, and it is devious and thrilling all at once. “Anything you desire, you shall have.” 

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

When you pop your head around the doorframe of Nanami Kento’s office, he is hunched over his desk with a pen in one hand and the side of his face propped up in the other. 

The paper he’s focused on is full of an elegant script you’ve always been envious of. Even in school, when Nanami was staunchly dedicated to transcribing every lecture in writing, the delicate strokes of his letters and the straightness of his sentences made his notes akin to art. You would tell him so at every opportunity, and the way the bridge of his nose would flare pink afterwards was a test to every bit of your self control to not squeeze him out of some affection-induced aggression. 

To this day he continues the habit, even if his face is lined by exhaustion and the burden of responsibility. Nanami has not once forgone wearing his fine-pressed suit or rather uncouthly patterned tie since returning to sorcery after abandoning corporate monotony—despite your gentle coaxing to do so. And the sight of him now, when it’s way past lunchtime and he clearly hasn’t taken a break all morning, makes you ever more grateful that you managed to stop at a quaint little bakery on your way back to the school. Nanami is perfectly capable and independent to nearly a fault, but you can’t help thinking he’d do well with someone to care for him. 

“Hey there,” you announce, and you do so delicately to avoid spooking him. When Nanami lifts his eyes to see who awaits at his door, you let yourself in and share a kind smile as he sits back in his chair and plucks his glasses from his face.

“Hello. It is always a pleasure to see you.” 

You don’t miss the emphasis on that last word, and you can’t help the giggle that arises from it. Anyone who has been around long enough knows of Nanami’s meager tolerance for Satoru’s antics. Diametrically opposed in their personalities, the two of them have just as many—if not more—moments of ire-filled tension than any that are relaxed and easy, and oftentimes one is in need of saving from the other (namely Nanami.) So, when he’s already worn out and not looking to be overstimulated, you know Nanami is grateful to not see your other half trailing behind you as he usually does.

“Even more so today,” you tell him, swinging a brown paper bag containing a fresh sandwich and half a dozen varieties of bread at your side before plopping it on his desk. “I’ve come bearing gifts.” 

Nanami has already been eyeing the bag since before you set it down, no doubt catching a whiff of the intoxicating scent of freshly baked bread when you entered the room, and in an impressive show of self restraint, says, 

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I insist.” You wave your hand dismissively as you fall back into one of the two tan wingback chairs Nanami has situated in front of his desk. “Besides, it’s not an entirely selfless offering. Or at least not completely. Consider it partly as a thanks for doing Satoru’s research a while back, and also because I would like to pick your brain if you can spare the time.” 

Nanami’s hand is halfway into the bag by the time you finish, and a small part of you feels bad when he withdraws it so he can sit up straight in his chair and turn his attention to you. The other half of you is desperate for information and doesn’t get hung up on the fact he’ll have to wait a couple more minutes for his lunch. 

“Of course,” Nanami says, interlacing his fingers together and resting them on his desk. “What can I assist you with?”

“Did you find anything else in your research on Sukuna pertaining to a wife of his?” you ask. “It’s not that I don’t have faith in Satoru to keep the information straight, but I just want to make sure he didn’t accidentally leave anything out, I guess.” 

Nanami nods in understanding. “I shared with Satoru everything I found, but to be thorough, why don’t you repeat what he told you and I’ll let you know if anything is missing.” 

You tell Nanami everything Satoru told you that night verbatim, but to your disappointment, he is shaking his head at the end. 

“That is the entirety of it, I’m afraid.”

You slump in your seat as some of the wind leaves your metaphorical sails. It’s not as though you expect some grand, unspoken details to emerge from the depths of Nanami’s brain, but you did hold on to some meager hope that he’d have something new to share.

 “I was wishing that wasn’t the case.” You sigh, and Nanami looks apologetic, but you let go of the disappointment in favor of moving on to your next question. “Next thing, if you don’t mind. I know since Itadori ate that one finger he’s—,”

“Three fingers, actually,” Nanami interrupts hesitantly.

“Three?” you repeat flatly, and he nods. “Where did the other two come from?” 

Nanami leans back in his chair as his eyes flick upward in consideration, and then takes a moment to click through his computer and scan through something before shifting back to answer you. 

“The first is the one Itadori found at his school and then consumed while trying to help Fushiguro. I’m assuming Gojo came home from that assignment late and told you about it?”

How could a name sound so familiar when you know you have never heard it before?

It’s your turn to nod as you stare a bit dazedly at your longtime friend. Surely Satoru didn’t intentionally withhold the information about the extra fingers from you, but you’re still shocked that you’re just now hearing it from Nanami. 

“The second Itadori ate the same day Sukuna appeared in the lounge and claimed you were his wife. Gojo gave it to him later in the afternoon.” Your mind flashes back to the unassuming black box almost hidden under used napkins. 

And the strange dream and odd tingling of your skin that followed later that night. An eerie, but reasonable coincidence?

“The third?” Something in your voice must be off because Nanami looks at you with a furrow of his brows.

“Itadori informed us that Sukuna ingested the third finger after he took over during the first year’s assignment at the detention center.”

Another vanishing dream; the urging throb in your chest; the same white-noise sensation over your arms while in the morgue. Denial could make anything sound like a second coincidence, right?

“Oh,” you breathe out, and your nail bites into the meat of your finger as your hands sit in your lap. “I didn’t realize I was missing out on all that information.” 

“I thought Gojo would have told you about the second, but the record of the third was documented in the report that Shoko wrote up that night.”

You must have stopped paying attention to the words on the paper by that point. 

The sigh you release sounds just as tired as Nanami looks, and he offers you a small smile of shared pity. 

“All that’s to say, there are twenty fingers total that Itdaori will ultimately come to consume, and that will result in the full manifestation of Sukuna’s power as it was a thousand years ago. It’s just a matter of time until we find them all.” 

For once, you did happen to know about the extra set of arms that Sukuna had, hence the twenty fingers, but it wasn’t something you like to think about too much. The idea of it is a tad off putting. Freaky, if you have to choose a word. What is concerning to you, however, is a burgeoning theory you aren’t sure you believe that is unfortunately taking up space in your head. 

Would these bizarre dreams you can’t quite remember and the odd sensations on your skin continue to occur each time Itadori ingests a finger? And what could possibly happen when he eats the last one? 

“That sounds ominous,” you say because you don’t know how else to describe it. 

Nanami sighs and leans back in his chair. “We’ll all be here to handle it together, I suppose.” 

Your only response is a nod, and you glance about Nanami’s office before pushing off your knees to get up. 

“I appreciate your help. But now,” you tell him with mock sternness, “please enjoy your lunch.” 

Nanami’s face lights up, and he reaches for the bag with an enthusiasm only reserved for his favorite indulgences in life. It brings a smile to your face.

He says his thanks as you turn to leave his office, but just before you walk out the door, you spin back around. Your eyes flick to a little postcard that sits on a bookshelf behind his desk—an image of golden sand and sparkling blue water—and you call his name just as Nanami is bringing the sandwich to his mouth. 

“You should really take that vacation soon,” and Nanami’s eyes go soft as a chagrined smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You deserve it.”

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

“You’re hovering.” 

“Is that what I’m doing?” 

“Mhm.” 

“I like to think of it as I would rather never be parted from you.”

“The intention behind the action is what differentiates the two, Satoru.” 

It is not unusual for Gojo Satoru to always be right at your side at any given moment. 

“Concerningly over-attached,” is what Nanami calls it. 

“Clingy is an understatement,” Shoko remarks most days. 

“Dedicated,” is how Satoru proudly puts it. 

For you, it’s somewhere in the middle, maybe a combination of all three, but trying to decipher which one it is at any specific time is more work than you care to commit. All you know is that you don’t really mind that your husband trails after you like a love-sick puppy, or that he will always slip his hand into yours if he thinks it’s been too long since the last time he touched you. If anything, you’d argue you are equally besotted with Satoru, though maybe you reserve your physical proof of such for when it’s just the two of you. 

No matter, you would never take for granted how Satoru chooses to express his love for you, but it feels like as of late that his constant presence near you has more to do with who resides in your shared student than his desire to spend every waking moment with you while you’re at work. 

“Fine,” Satoru pouts, and he slumps over you to rest his chin on your shoulder. You’d normally bat him away for showing physical affection in front of the students, but Itadori is currently preoccupied with practicing fighting stances in the obscure training building you found in a remote part of campus, so you decide to indulge Satoru while the two of you stand in the corner observing him. 

“Care to tell me why?” you ask. You reach your arm up behind you and around his neck so you can scratch your nails through his hair, and it earns you a pleased grumble. You can feel the vibrations of it where he is pressed against your back, and you smirk—both at the sound and the way you know it’s an effective tactic to get Satoru to loosen his tongue. 

“I dunno,” he mumbles, more focused on turning his head every which way so that he can receive the maximum amount of scratches. “Just checking in on you.” 

You would narrow your eyes at Satoru if he were looking at you, but he isn’t, so you give a gentle, albeit pointed, tug of his hair. He whines and lifts his head from your shoulder. 

“You sure about that?” 

Satoru comes around to stand in front of you, though not quite enough to block Itadori from your view, and his face is drawn in some sort of concern. “I promise, I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

A weary sigh puffs your cheeks as you let it out, and you tip your chin down a little as you level Satoru with a look. 

“And I assured you that I was alright.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Satoru says, and you can’t see if there is any worry in his eyes through his blindfold, but you hear it in his voice, “but you looked upset last night when I got to the morgue and he—,” 

“I was just a little taken aback, Satoru.” 

You do reach out for his hand and give it a squeeze in reassurance, and your heart does the same when he takes in a stuttered inhale. It’s not like Satoru to be so anxious, and you try to put aside whatever disgruntlement you have in favor of making sure he feels alright. He smiles at you in return, but you note how it’s not quite as bright as usual. 

“You would tell me if there is something to be concerned about, right?” 

The question is unexpected, and you hate how it puts something inside of you on the immediate defensive. 

You smile tightly at him. “You know I would, Satoru.” 

You assume he’s studying you before he finally nods, and when he takes a step back, you pull your phone from your pocket to check the time. “Off to train Fushiguro?” 

“Yup,” Satoru quips, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll pop back in later?” 

You bob your head a bit half-heartedly in acknowledgement before giving him a small wave goodbye. Satoru hesitates in turning towards the door to leave, but when he finally does, he calls for Itadori to offer his encouragement. 

“This month will go by quickly, Yuji. You’ll see.” 

And to some extent, Satoru is right. 

Itadori bounces back from his temporary stint in the land of the dead with relative ease and normalcy. He is eager to return to his training, and though he’s disappointed his survival has to remain a secret from his friends a while longer, he complies without complaint. From then on, the days pass with little-to-know fanfare. However, much to your displeasure, it doesn’t escape your notice that you aren’t left alone with Itadori for very long at any given time. 

Nanami claims he’s hiding from Satoru when he slips into the lounge with you and Itadori some afternoons. The boy is ecstatic to see him and hangs off every word Nanami shares with you two, but you eye him suspiciously, a little amused at how he very intently refuses to meet your gaze. You decide not to pester him too much about it, figuring that it isn’t his decision that is forcing him here, and instead you watch as Itadori does his best to crack a smile from your normally impassive friend. The two of you both cheer enthusiastically when Nanami inevitably gives in to a grin with a shake of his head. 

On other days, Satoru is already spread out on the sofa next to Itadori by the time you make it to them. Even through his blindfold you can tell that he watches Itadori carefully when you come around the sofa to greet them, but when nothing happens and Itadori simply gives you a wave and happy smile, Satoru’s shoulders relax. He reaches out for you when you stand in front of the two of them, but you are mindful of your student in the room and only allow Satoru a quick brush of your arm before you step away and laugh at the pout on his face. 

As for Sukuna, he keeps himself relatively scarce except for the rare instance. Every once in a while during training, Itadori’s eyes go blank when they are set on you. You do your best to ignore it, and once Satoru catches on to it, he’s quick to step in between and block you from Itadori’s line of sight. On another random afternoon, when you return to the lounge with your lunch in tow, a bright green pear is waiting at your place at the small dining table on one side of the room. You look questioningly at Itadori, but he only gives you an unaffected shrug, too preoccupied with shoveling his own meal into his mouth to bother with an explanation. 

When you ask Satoru about it later, assuming it was him who left the pear since he would be the only one who pays attention to your favorite snacks, his face hardens before he denies that it was his doing. You stare at each other in the following silence, and you know both of you are thinking the same thing: 

Sukuna. 

You know it’s nothing, that at the end of the day, whatever minute happenstances that occur between you and Sukuna mean nothing. Satoru, however, seems to vehemently disagree, and his penchant for hovering tips into the realm of the excess. By the time the month of Itadori’s sequestration is over, you’ve reached your limit for how much you can handle Satoru and his lingering doubts without any conversation being had about it. 

So, you breeze into your shared office one evening, long after the school day ends, and round on him with hands on your hips as you ask point blank, 

“What are you doing?”

Satoru isn’t surprised to see you, clearly having sensed you coming since his blindfold is already hanging around his neck, and he turns to you from the computer on your desk with a smile. 

“I’m actually working. You should be proud,” he says blithely and folds his hands primly in front of the keyboard. His voice is light, if not a bit snippy, but you notice the rigid straightness of Satoru’s shoulders and the way he seems to be guarding himself, and it keys you into the fact he’s playing dumb. 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

He’s unbothered by the unimpressed arching of your brow and the way you cross your arms over your chest while your toe taps against the rug on the floor. “Oh?”

You let out a sigh of frustration and poke your tongue into your cheek. “Nanami has been supervising every session I’ve had with Itadori this month.” 

Satoru shrugs, dismissive in his attitude. “Maybe he’s missed hanging out with you.” 

A muscle under your eye twitches, and you struggle to keep your voice calm. Arguing with Satoru is something that seldom occurs, but when it does, your spats tend to escalate more than you would like—a wrongdoing you are both culpable for. “And what about the times he was unavailable? You were always there before I even arrived.” 

“Well, have you thought that maybe I missed—,” 

Your patience vanishes. “Satoru, that’s enough!”

The sudden loudness of your voice and the command that snaps from your mouth stuns him into clicking his jaw shut as he jerks back against his chair. His earlier smile is long gone, and the frown that takes its place is hard and displeased. If you weren’t already so worked up, both by Satoru’s overprotectiveness and now his antagonizing behavior, you’d let the argument go in favor of having a more productive conversation when the two of you have had a moment to calm down.

“That was uncalled for, I’m sorry,” you admit, but you scrub your hand over your face before letting it flop back against your side in frustration. “I just…really, really don’t like feeling like I’m being babysat because someone is doubting my abilities or questioning the trust they have in me.” 

Satoru’s expression changes into one of confused alarm, and he pushes back from the desk to make his way over to you in just three long-legged strides. 

“That’s not what I think,” he insists, crossing his arms in front of his chest so he mirrors your stance. 

“Really? Because that’s how it comes off.” You glance over Satoru’s shoulder out the window of your office and then look at a picture of the two of you hanging on the wall before returning to him. “Is this about Sukuna?” 

Satoru looks taken aback. “Why would this be about him?”

“What else on earth could this possibly be about, Satoru?” You gape at him in bewilderment and bristle at how unforthcoming he’s being. “Is what he said bothering you?” 

“Of course not!”

“Are you sure? Then explain to me why it’s only ever when I’m working with Itadori that you and Nanami just decide to come join us. That never happens when I train Fushiguro and Kugisaki.” 

Satoru sputters and drags a hand roughly through the ends of his hair. “I’m just looking out for you. I promise I—,” 

“But why? I am perfectly capable of protecting myself!” A thought crosses his mind and you gawk at him accusingly. “Do you think I’d be unfaithful?” 

Satoru’s eyes bulge and he waves his hands wildly in denial. “No! No, of course not. That’s not it at all.” 

But he pauses for a moment and his tongue darts out over his lips as he considers his next words. Even the brief hesitation stings and you feel your hands begin to tremble. “I just…what if what Sukuna says is true and you—,”

“‘I’ what? He’s a monster, Satoru!” you burst out in frustration. One of your hands slashes up through the air and you feel your throat go tight as tears burn your eyes. For a split second, you wonder which of the two of you needs the reminder more.

Sukuna is nothing more than a latent curiosity, an academic inquiry, a brief musing when boredom strikes.

 “Sukuna is evil and a murderer, and there should be no reason that conceivably convinces you that I would ever entertain the idea of being with him willingly! Where did that idea even come from? Do you really think that lowly of me?” 

Your voice rings out in the quiet of the room, and you’re left breathing heavily as Satoru stares at you with wide eyes. When his shoulders start to sag and his chin lowers in defeat, the haze of anger and betrayal fades, and you start to feel incredibly guilty. 

“Satoru—,”

Someone clearing their throat behind you interrupts whatever attempt at an apology you are about to make, and when you spin around to see who is there, Itadori is standing in the doorway of your office with a sheepish expression on his face. Your heart sinks to your stomach and embarrassment heats your cheeks as you take a deep breath. 

“I-I’’m sorry,” Itadori stutters, and his eyes flick between you and where Satoru still stands behind you. His feet begin to shuffle backwards seemingly on their own accord and he rubs a hand at his temple. “I wanted to ask Gojo-sensei about the reveal tomorrow, but it can wait.” Itadori spins on his heel as he waves hurriedly. “Sorry again for the interruption!”

The boy is gone before you can get a word out, and with a disappointed groan, you turn back to Satoru and throw an arm out in the direction Itadori just fled. “One of us should go after him.” 

His sigh of defeat hits you in the chest and has you yearning to reach for him, but Satoru is already stepping around you and towards the door before you make up your mind to move. 

“I’ll do it,” he mumbles, and you hate how he yanks his blindfold up over his eyes without looking once at you. “We’ll talk later.” 

Without another word, Satoru is gone, and you’re left in the silence of your office to stew over how things went wrong so quickly. 

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

A/N: Just two more chapters after this 🥹

Taglist (open): @kalopsia-flaneur ; @kafanizdakicokiyi

[yoonkinii]

Jjk M.list

Gojo Satoru

Perfectly Imperfect

Synopsis: Everyone is born with a soulmate. Everyone knows by the time they hit age 18, a different kind of soulmate mark will appear. Some are unable to see color until they meet their soulmates gaze, others have matching tattoos. These are the more common ones; ones that can be tracked down in history but others are rare. So rare that there’s rarely any information available about it. Rare like yours and the only case of this soulmarking was dated decades ago with only two lines describing it.

"Person A and Person B afflicted by this marking will discover themselves to be covered in string-like tattoo markings in certain areas. These areas are what the soulmate A or B deem unworthy of themselves; or rather, what they hate about themself."

This wouldn't be a problem for you if it wasnt for the fact that everything from the collarbone to your ankles was decorated in white string-like lines.

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader

Theme song: Bonfire - wave to earth

What color is my sky painted? What color is your emotion? Close your eyes slowly and feel the wind. The bonfire is fading out. Maybe we are falling Falling down with the rain.

amore mio aiutami- Piero Piccioni (literally the song that plays when M/C looks at him)

Warning(s):

18+, Sub!Gojo (gasp!), cursing, mentions of self-hate, discussion of Self-hate, mentions of minor character death- Will be added as chapters progress but if you see something that I didn’t include here, please let me know!

Note(s):

Expect this to be a short fic. I do not plan on having this over 6 parts and even then it could be less or couple chapters more. Depends on how I write everything.

Part(s): TBA

Ryomen Sukuna

Snippets of Love

Synopsis: Glimpses of your relationship with Sukuna through prompts/questions.

Paring: Sukuna x Reader

Theme Song: Heart To Heart - Mac DeMarco

So I had a late Arrival So, we never saw the start of each others lives heart to heart

Notable tags: ModernAU, slight age gap, Canon/Fanon implements, Sukuna still has his tattoos, CEO Sukuna, uncle Sukuna, college student reader, pierced Sukuna.

Note(s): Inspired to do this series based on Kyarrcha fanart of Sukuna on Instagram! I want this to be mostly based on requests about certain moments such as when Sukuna and you first met, first date, and things like that. This can also include certain scenarios or environments. Feel free to send in requests but I will also add in my own takes.

Requests: Open.

Warnings: will be listed in the sections.

You are not required to read snippets in order, but it is recommended.

How y♡u first met Sukuna!

How y♡u met Sukuna again (and got his number)!

First date with Sukuna!

Sukuna letting y♡u doll him up!

Sukuna with drunk y♡u

Jealous Y♡u

Argument with Sukuna

Choso Kamo

Echos of Desire

Synopsis: Choso is one of the few to possess abilities that transcend human limits. His family was taken away from him and he was given to serve the king. He was trained in nothing else but to kill and follow orders. He was a man made weapon. His name whispered in fear- the kingdom's boogeyman. He hates it though. Hates how his freedom was ripped from his hands. Hates how his ‘gift’ is more like a curse. He is offered a deal he can’t deny- transport the princess to safety in a neighboring kingdom. The only problem is, she’s the daughter of the man that took everything from him and she is being hunted down by unknown forces. 

Pairing: Choso x Reader

Theme Song: my love is mine all mine - Mitski

Moon, tell me if I could Send up my heart to you? So, when I die, which I must do Could it shine down here with you? 'Cause my love is mine, all mine I love mine, mine, mine

Notable tags: FantasyAU, Fanon (I am creating my own world and using some pieces of jjk in it), major character death, burning alive, abuse, gore, blood, mentions of self loathing, anger. (Will be updated as more parts come out)

Note(s): Just a little something.

Part(s): 1 |

Headers by @uzmacchiato

[yoonkinii]

BG3 M.list

Astarion

We Were Human

Synopsis: Astarion died as soon as he became something the world has never seen before. No one noticed the damage before it was too late and the Astarion everyone loved was lost to the new one. No one could notice when the turn was slow and silent. He slowly lost the playful glint in his eyes. Lost the love he gaze upon me with. Lost everything that made him the man I loved. Oh, how I would give anything to get him back. I would gladly give up my damned soul for him.

(Aka you are transported back to the past in order to prevent Astarion from losing himself once more. The only problem? You don't have a lot of time.)

Theme Song: Vore - Sleep Token

"You have become the voice in my head Only recourse we're left after death Your viscera welcome me in, welcome me in My life is torn, my bones, they bleed My metaphors fall short in the end Your flesh and bone welcome me in, welcome me in Are you in pain like I am?"

Pairing(s): Ascended!AstarionxReader

Warning(s): Gore, blood, cruelty, cursing, death/murder, mentions of using oneself unwillingly, abuse. Its ascended astarion, prepare for the worst. (Will be updated as more parts are released)

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | ...

Status: on hold

Note(s):

For the sake of the plot- Astarion will not automatically be damned from the start. In this world, Astarion becomes lost to the ascension overtime until he becomes the ascended vampire we know him to be in the game. Another note that should be highlighted is that this story will be told from the first person perspective since it benefits the story more than any other perspective.

You will also notice various things being different from the game. For example, Karlach will be able to stay in the ‘human’ world and she fixed her heart. (I love my girl, I’m not sending her back), Szaars palace has a different layout cause the one in the game was stupid. There will be more that you will notice in the future so beware. You notice many things that were not included in the game but it I ensure that it is on purpose and isn't just there randomly. It should also be noted that when I post, I post the raw draft before I go back and edit the story. I do this so I am able to post consistently without having readers wait. I will go back and edit once I am able so if you notice spelling mistakes, I apologize.

Soulless Soul

Spawn!AstarionxAbsolute!VampyreReader

 Synopsis: There he stands, eyes downcast and shoulders caving in on himself. He does not look weary as he was pricked and prodded to fit the standards of his master. He has no idea why he is here- lined up amongst his siblings in the dining hall. His back aches, scars he knows that have not healed properly catching onto the rough fabric of his shirt. He watched the floor, he knew better not to meet the eyes of the predators that lurked before. He doesn’t even look up when the hem of an emerald green dress stands before him.

“This one. I want this one.” 

He does not allow himself the privilege of hope to blossom in his chest at those words. 

Theme Song: Soulless Creatures - Aurora

All the pieces of my body's gone Look at me now and tell me how I feel inside Every pieces that I lost, I have loved

Warning(s):  mentions of sexual trauma, Physical assault, gore, death, panic attacks, cursing, (more will be added as the story progresses if needed)

Note(s): Redacted in case of spoilers. I will upload notes with the first chapter

Part(s): TBA

Short Stories (Drabbles?)

Waiting...

[yoonkinii]

Omg you did amazing with the fic literally all my scattered ideas into words and became a masterpiece it’s so good!!!

WAAAHH thank you so much 😭 im so sorry if astarion is a tad out of character. In my head,,,he’s in love with her 🙏🏼 BUT im so glad you liked it :D

[yoonkinii]

Waiting...

Based on Fluffleboo's post Warning(s): death, mentions of death, hopelessness, murder, kidnapping, grief, depressive episodes, panic attacks, throwing up, mention of attempted su!c!de. Masterlist I hope I did a good job with her idea.

Note: I did change some of the events that take place but this idea and writing was heavily based on Fluffleboo (@fluffleboo) and their brain from coming up with this. Thank you for allowing me to use your idea and to create something with it. 

Reader is female (sorry I have not mastered being able to write with no gender yet), no use of Y/N, reader is of the elf lineage (makes astarion being gone for 200 year and the reader not being dead or super old make sense) 

I should also make it known that the reader and astarion didn’t live in Baldur’s Gate at the beginning, it wouldn’t make sense if I didn’t change it so lets pretend they just lived in another major city. 

LOTS of flashbacks, I’m sorry if it gets confusing but I wanted to write it in a way where there’s backstory to everything. If you need any clarification, let me know and I’ll do my best to explain it. It sort of gives context before having a flashback tied in with the context before it leads up to the main point with no more flashbacks.

Astarion has Green eyes Pre-Vampyr Spawn. Astarion is a little OOC cause teehee. 

I did include parts of the song “Will you fall in love with me again” in here, don’t be surprised if you see them. 

She remembers the night he vanished - the way the stars burned bright, oblivious to the absence that would soon consume her. She had woken to an empty bed, the sheets cold where he should have been. At first, there was no panic, only reason. He had told her he would be late, something about unrest in the streets, disputes over the new laws he passed. 

So she simply sighed, turned over, and let sleep reclaim her. 

It wasn’t until the next evening, when the sun hung high and the space beside her remained untouched, that the panic finally set in. 

“You’re staring again.”

His voice was smooth, warm like the golden light slipping through the curtains, casting his skin in a soft glow. He sat against the headboard, silver-framed reading glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, a stack of parchment resting in his hands. 

She shifted beneath the sheets, the fabric rustling as she propped herself up on her forearms. The blanket sliding down, baring the curve of her back to the morning air. 

“Can’t help it,” she murmured, tilting her head with a smile. “You’re absolutely enchanting.”

He snorted, amusement flickering across his face as he glanced at her over the rim of his glasses. “Enchanting?” he echos, setting the papers aside on the dark wooden table beside the bed.

She moved with him, closing the space between them, her body molding against his as if drawn by an unseen force. A sigh left her lips as she rested her cheek against his shoulder, letting herself sink into the warmth of him, of the moment. 

She hummed. “Of course. You practically glow in the sun - like a feline.” 

A sudden pinch at her hip makes her squeal, laughter bubbling from her throat as she tries pushing him away, her hands pressed against his chest. He only tightened his hold, pulling her even closer, silencing her giggles with a kiss that stole the breath straight from her lungs. 

Their lips hovered, teasing, their words nothing more than whispers against the soft curve of each other’s mouths. 

“Are you calling me an enchanting feline?”

Her fingers found his hair ,carding through the silken strands, untangling the knots sleep had left behind. His eyes, green as polished emeralds, gazed at her like she had hung the stars themselves. 

“Of course not,” she said, voice softer now, reverent. She let her fingers trail down, curling at the nape of his neck. 

“You’re my enchanting husband.”

“Your husband is dead.” 

The words were distant, muffled, as if spoken through water. They echoed in her mind, looping over and over, a cruel, inescapable refrain. 

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Your husband is dead. 

She falls apart in the parlor room of her house. 

She collapses in the parlor, the weight of those words tearing her apart at the seams. 

She searched - Gods, she searched. Every alleyway, every dim-lit tavern, every shadowed corner of the city. She scoured the streets until her boots split at the seams, until her hands were caked in filth, until grief hollowed her cheeks and darkened her eyes. She pleaded with the Flaming Fist, her voice raw from desperation, begging them to look harder, to do more. 

Weeks dragged into months. And then, one day, they stopped looking. 

Bile rose in her throat, spilling onto the floor in a sickening splatter as she doubled over on the couch. The room spun, too loud, too quiet, too dull. Through blurred vision, she barely registered the subtle grimaces behind the thin veil of sympathy. 

Hands settled on her, cradling her like a wounded thing, whispering empty comforts. Hollow reassurances that everything would be alright. But how could anything be alright when everything was lost? 

The words didn’t feel real. They were an ill-fitting mask over an unbearable truth, easier to swallow than the vast, gaping unknown. Bandits. Wild Beasts. A moment of misfortune that stole him away. But there was nothing. No body. No proof. Just a verdict, wrapped in empty condolences. 

The home they had built together became a mausoleum, haunted by laughter that no longer filled its halls. Days blurred together, each one as lifeless as the last. Friends told her to grieve, to let go, to move on. 

But how could she, when there was no grave to mourn over?

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. 

The hearth bathed the room in golden light, its warmth chasing away the lingering chill of the night. The fire crackled and popped, filling the silence with its steady rhythm, its flickering glow bright enough for her to make out the inked words on the pages of her book. 

She nestled deeper into the maroon velvet of the chaise lounge, the fabric soft against her skin. A cotton blanket draped over her frame, cocooning her in comfort. It was a quiet night, peaceful. Or at least, it had been.

The ornate wooden doors of the manor opened with a soft creak, followed by the unmistakable sound of his groan echoing through the halls - frustrated, tired. The noise grew louder as he made his way toward her, his presence a storm rolling in to disturb the calm.

She didn’t look up when he rounded the couch, didn’t shift her attention from the book in her hands even as his briefcase hit the floor with a muted thud. 

“How was work, my love? She asked, voice lilting with amusement. 

Rather than answer immediately, he slotted himself between her legs, resting his head against her lower stomach with a dramatic sigh. His groan vibrated against her skin, and she couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. One hand fell from her book, fingers threading lazily through his hair. 

“I take it that it went well?”

He scoffed, shifting just enough that she could feel the eye rolls that accompanied it. 

“Oh, of course,” he drawled, “If you consider imbeciles squabbling over meaningless matters without reaching a single useful conclusion, then yes - today was absolutely splendid.”

Her shoulders bounces in silent laughter as she flipped the page. Before she could read another word, the book was plucked from her hands, stolen in one swift motion. She barely had time to protest before he spoke again. 

“Let’s go somewhere.”

She arched a brow as he propped his chin on her stomach, gazing up at her. Absentmindedly, her fingers trailed from his hair to cradle his cheek, thumb sweeping gently across his cheekbone. 

“And where exactly would we go?” 

He sighed as if the answer should have been obvious. “Anywhere.” His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a soft pout. Looking up at her through his lashes, he murmured, “Let’s just leave. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere it’s just us. I want uninterrupted time with you, away from- “ he groaned again, “gods-damned idiots.”

She hummed, feigning contemplation, “Anywhere?”

His eyes brightened, brimming with something she was sure she mirrored back at him. Love. He looked like a child promised a long-awaited treat, excitement shimmering in his gaze. 

“Anywhere,” he confirmed, nodding eagerly. 

She exhaled a quiet laugh. “I suppose we can- when we get the chance.” 

His grin was instant, sharp and boyish, his joy utterly unrestrained. Before she could say more, he pushed himself up, leaning in just enough to steal a kiss- brief but lingering, leaving her chasing the ghost of it as he pulled away. 

“It’s settled, then. I’ll handle things at work, and once it’s all arranged, we’ll go.”

Tilting her head, she watched him, bemused by the way he practically glowed with anticipation. “You make it sound as if this trip is going to be enchanting.”

He dropped to his knees before her, fingers curling around her hands with reverence, as if she were something fragile, something sacred. Her heart stuttered, warmth rushing to her cheeks. 

“Oh, it will be,” he murmured, lips curving into something sly. “As enchanting as a feline.”

She huffed an incredulous laugh, ready to tease him, only for the words to die in her throat as he lifted her hand to his lips. His mouth pressed softly against her knuckles - against the delicate band of silver circling her finger. 

His voice was barely more than a whisper, a vow spoken against her skin. 

“For you, I would do anything. Any chance I got.”

But they never got their chance. 

The carriage swayed with the uneven rhythm of the dirt road, jostling her body with every dip and rise. She barely noticed. Her fingers twisting her wedding band absently, rolling the cool metal over her skin again and again as she gazed out the window. The forest stretched endlessly beyond the glass, its foreign trees casting long shadows in the fading light. 

She had left everything behind. Sold everything she owned in pursuit of a ghost. The acceptance others spoke of never came, nor did the quiet surrender that grief was meant to bring. How could she believe he was gone when there was no proof? No body, no grave - only silence. Her heart had never settled. Her future had become a weight, a chore she carried rather than a path she walked with purpose. 

So she had set out, wordlessly, determined to reclaim what had been stolen from her.

Two hundred years.

Two hundred years of searching, of chasing whispers across the vast expanse of Faerûn. She scoured city after city, hired investigators, pleaded with mercenaries, begged the gods themselves. Each inquiry ended the same.

“Sorry. We couldn’t find anything about your husband.”

Again and again, the words repeated until they were carved in her bones, hollowing her out with every rejection. Slowly, hope had withered. And with it, her very soul. 

Then, when she had nothing left - when she had stood at the edge of a balcony, staring down the yawning abyss below - she overheard the murmured conversation of tenants beneath her. A city saved. Heroes who had risen from the darkness to pull Baldur’s Gate back from the brink. 

It was a city she had never searched, one she had long dismissed as too distant, too unlikely. But hope, weak and flickering, ignited once more. If he wasn’t there, then perhaps these so-called heroes could help. 

She had stepped away from the ledge and set out that very night. 

“We’re here, My lady.”

The driver’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. She barely acknowledged him as she stepped from the carriage, pressing the fee into his hands without a word. He thanked her, but she was already walking.

Before her stood the great gates of Baldur’s Gate, scarred by battle, the remnants of war still etched into the stone. And beyond them - a sight unlike any other. 

Fae, humans, tieflings, githyanki, orcs, halflings, dragonborn, dwarfs, drow - so many walking the streets, their lives intertwining in a way that made the city feel more alive than any she had visited before. But beneath the movement, beneath the rebuilding, there was a quiet grief that settled over the people like dust. She recognized it well. 

No one spared her a second glance. Not for her sullen expression, not for the way her clothes hung from her frame, weathered by wind and rain. The rich burgundy fabric of her gown had dulled with time, its once - soft texture long since roughened by travel. But she had never cared for the stares, nor the whispered opinions of those who thought a woman should not cross the realm in such impractical clothing. 

Her dress had been tailored for survival - sturdy linen layers beneath flowing skirts allowed for swift movement, hidden slits cut along the sides ensuring she could run, ride, fight if she needed to. A wide leather belt cinched her waist, pouches filled with coin, letters, maps, herbs, and the one thing she never parted with. 

A single, tattered parchment. 

Her fingers brushed over it through the fabric. She never unfolded it anymore - couldn’t bear to. Time had stolen most of the image, leaving only the faintest remnants behind. But his face remained. Always. Smiling down at her blurred form, forever untouched by the years that had worn her down to nothing.

A deep-hooded cloak, midnight blue and heaving with the weight of travel, draped over her shoulders, shielding her from both the elements and prying eyes. Her boots, laced to her knees, were scuffed but strong, having carried her across cobblestones, through forests, over mountains. The only ornament she still wore was the one that mattered most. 

Her wedding ring. 

Cheers and applause rang through the streets, drawing her attention. A crowd had gathered in the square, their voices an excited hum of anticipation. She approached on instinct, weaving through the bodies, catching snippets of conversation.

The heroes of Baldur’s Gate. 

Then, with a flourish, the massive linen covering the crowded monument was pulled away. 

A statue stood beneath it, towering over the gathered crowd, the figures carved in stone were unfamiliar - strangers cast in heroism. But then her eyes caught a familiar curl, a detail so small yet unmistakable. 

The world shifted. 

Her breath came short, uneven, a trembling exhale past her lips as her hands fumbled for her belt. Her fingers found the parchment, carefully unfolding the delicate edges, barely breathing as she held it up beside the statue. 

Her vision blurred, darting between the image in her hands and the face carved in stone. 

It was him.

“Wow! That drawing looks great! Where did you get that?”

She jolted, nearly dropping the parchment at the sudden voice. Her head snapped to the side, meeting the keen, amused gaze of a tiefling woman, 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced her voice to work, though it came out broken, trembling. “You…You know this man?”

She clutched the image close to her chest, as if afraid it would be taken from her.

The tiefling grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Who doesn’t? That’s Astarion!”

A sob tore from her throat before she could stop it. 

The tiefling’s expression shifted from amusement to alarm as she stumbled back slightly, uncertain how to react. Awkwardly, she patted her shoulder, offering hesitant comfort. 

But nothing else mattered. 

It was him

It was Astarion. 

“Doesn’t this whole ordeal seem rather…unnecessary?”

Astarion’s voice dripped with amused skepticism as he stood beside her in the grand wedding hall, his arms loosely at his side. His wife-to-be arched a brow, tilting her head to look up at him, arms crossed over the intricate bodice of her gown. 

“Are you telling me that wanting a painting of this moment is pointless?”

Astarion blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His lips parted, the sharp edges of his teeth flashing as he realized his misstep. 

“No!” The word shot out of him in haste. “I just don’t see the appeal. Why capture us in paint when you can gaze upon my magnificence whenever you please?”

He puffed his chest with theatrical pride, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. 

She clicked her tongue, rolling her eyes as she playfully smacked his chest. “I want a painting to remember this day, Astarion. It’s not as though I can wear a gown like this every day.”

His gaze flickered to the silent painter, whose brush moved in steady strokes across parchment, capturing their every detail. Then, inevitably, his eyes found her again. 

She was radiant. 

The gown she wore was a masterpiece of moonlight and devotion, woven from dreams and stitched with quiet reverence. Soft ivory fabric rippled with her every movement, delicate yet unyielding - much like the woman who wore it. Silver embroidery curled along the bodice like ivy climbing an ancient trellis, glimmering under the light, a quiet tribute to the stars beneath which they had once whispered their vows. 

The sheer sleeves draped over her arms like mist rolling over the sea, tapering into fitted cuffs embroidered with ancient runes of love and protection. The skirt cascaded around her in layered waves, each panel split to allow freedom - because she was never one to be caged, not even by tradition. And beneath it all, the faintest glimpse of deep red silk peeked through every step, a secret only the wind and her beloved would see. 

Astarion’s arms slipped around her waist, drawing her closer. She turned easily in his hold, gazing up at him with an expectant look - waiting for him to redeem himself. 

His fingers trailed along the line of her spine, his voice lowering to a teasing murmur. “I wouldn’t be opposed to you wearing this every day.”

She hummed in mock consideration, her hands smoothing over his shoulders, tracing the fine fabric of his own wedding attire. “Really? And would you wear this every day?”

His coat was a study in elegance, the deep midnight hie reminiscent of a sky on the cusp of twilight. Tailored to perfection, it framed him effortlessly, the silver embroidery tracing the high collar and cuffs like constellations mapping the heavens. It was a quiet nod to the night he had first whispered his love to her beneath the stars. Beneath the coat, a dark crimson waistcoat clung to his form, the color rich yet subtle - like aged wine, like the bloom of roses, like the depth of passion he could never quite put into words. His trousers, dark as shadow, were tucked into polished leather boots, completing the look as man both regal and untamed. 

Astarion looked skyward in feigned contemplation, biting the inside of this cheek. “Even though I do look devastatingly grand,” he admitted, “I suppose it would be a terrible inconvenience for everyday wear.”

She laughed, and the sound sent a ripple of warmth through him. It was music - an immortal melody he would never tire of. 

His grin widened as he pulled her impossibly closer, reveling in the mirth between them, in the love that bound them tighter than any vow ever could.

The painter, silent and steady, allowed himself the barest of smiles as he etched the moment onto parchment - a portrait not of nobility or grandeur, but of devotion, of adoration, of a love that would endure beyond the confines of time.  

She had spent the entire day tearing through the city, asking - no, begging - for someone, anyone to tell her where she could find Astarion. But no one knew. No one even seemed certain where the other so-called heroes of Baldur’s Gate were, or if they still lingered within the city walls. 

Her heart felt heavy as if it were a stone in her chest. There was no way this was a coincidence where a man that looked just like him happened to be the hero of Baldur’s Gate. Questions flooded her mind, swallowing her head whole. Where had he been this whole time? Did he simply just leave her? Why did he never reach out to her? Was he alright? 

With every unanswered question, her heart sank deeper, heavy as a tone lodged in her chest. It couldn’t be coincidence - there was no way. A man who looked exactly like him, standing among the city’s saviors, bearing the name she had whispered a thousand times in her loneliness? It had to be him. It had to be. 

By the time night had fallen, the bustling streets had emptied, lanterns flickering along the roads in a warm glow that did little to ease the cold settling within her. The city, once alive with energy, had quieted, its liveliness slipping into shadows. And she - she felt just as empty. 

She wandered without direction, cursing the gods for filling her with hope only to rip it away once more. 

A harsh breath shuddered through her, and she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until she saw stars, willing the rising grief back down her throat. She needed to stop. Needed to find a place to rest. Needed- 

“I had heard a woman was looking for me all day…but to think she was so persistent she’d still be out this late into the night.”

Her entire body went rigid. The voice came from behind her, smooth, familiar, yet laced with something…different. 

Slowly, she turned, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and lips. 

And there he was, standing before him, but it wasn’t him all the same. 

The night clung to him like an old lover, and he had dressed to match its embrace - sharp, elegant, and just dangerous enough to make it thrilling.

His coat, deep as the void between stars, fit his frame as though sculpture for him alone. The high collar framed his jawline, silver embroidery curling along the lapels and cuffs, catching in the dim glow of the lanterns. He had never cared for unnecessary fastenings, and it seemed like he still did not - the coat remained open, revealing a waistcoat of deep crimson silk, rich and smooth as spilled wine. Beneath it, his shirt was a whisper of pale linen, barely fastened at the collar, as though formality had never quite suited him. 

His sleeves were fitted, stopping just as his wrists, where rings of silver and blackened iron gleamed against his pale fingers. His trousers, dark as shadow, moved with him, fluid and effortless, allowing both grace and lethality in equal measure. They tucked neatly into polished leather boots, laced tight to his knees. 

He was still beautiful. Still striking. Still- 

Her gaze dropped to his hands.

She stopped breathing

Among the trinkets and rings, among the trophies of a life she did not know, sat a single band of silver. 

Her wedding ring. The one she had placed on his finger all those years ago. 

She swallowed hard, her voice barely more than a whisper against the night.

“Is it you?”

His ears twitched at the sound of her voice, his jaw tightening as he met her gaze, recognition flashing in his eyes. A single, sharp breath left him as he bit down hard on his lips, willing the emotions away. 

She took a step forward, hesitant but unable to stop herself. He was different now - so painfully different. His skin was pale, too pale. His eyes, once warm, were now an unnatural shade of crimson. And at his throat, the scar of two puncture wounds sat like cruel reminders of something stolen..

Yet she kept walking. Closer. Closer, until only a breath separated them, until all she had to do was lift her hand and- 

“You look different,” she murmured, her voice softer than she meant it to be. 

Astarion inhaled sharply. 

He fought the instinct to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and never let go. Fought the urge to grasp onto the one thing that had ever made him feel human. The woman who had saved him time and time again without ever knowing. 

His memories had been fragmented, buried beneath time and centuries of torment. But her - her touch, her voice, her scent, like the first breath of spring - he had never truly forgotten. Not even when everything else had slipped through his fingers like sand.

Yet now, standing before him, she looked…broken. Her clothes were tattered, her body worn with the weight of grief he knew all too well. She had searched for him. For two hundred years, she had searched. 

And what had he done?

He had let her believe he was gone.

Her hand lifted. Slowly, cautiously. He hesitated, uncertain - until, finally, he let her take it. 

The moment her fingers curled around his, she flinched.

His stomach churned.

She hadn’t expected his touch to be so cold. And gods, how that realization twisted something deep inside him.

He wanted to run. Run from his guilt, his sins, the weight of what he had become. But he had promised himself - when he finally killed his tormentor, when he freed himself - that he would stop running. 

Even if it killed him. 

“You eyes are tired,” she murmured, searching his face. “Your frame lighter. Your smile torn.”

A lump formed in his throat. 

He could hear her heartbeat, rapid and uneven, like a caged hummingbird. 

Then came the question. Soft. Fragile. 

“Is it really you, my love?

His breath hitched. His voice - gods, his voice, usually so smooth, so full of confidence - shook as he answered. 

“I am not the man you fell in love with. I am not the man you once adorned. I am not your kind and gentle husband. And I am not the love you knew before.”

He turned away from her. He couldn’t beat to see the pain in her face, the way her hope cracked like glass beneath his words. 

Shame clawed through him. Not just for the past she did not yet know, but for the time he had wasted, for never trying to find her. He had been free for months now, and not once had he tried. Perhaps, deep down, he had feared what he would find. Feared what his absence had done to her. 

A hand touched his cheek, warm against the cold.

His eyes fluttered shut. Instinctively, he leaned into her palm, the way he had so many times before. 

When he opened them again, she was smiling. Soft. Loving. 

Tears brimmed at her lashes.

“I still think you look rather enchanting,” she whispered.

A shaky scoff left him, something akin to a laugh. “As enchanting as a feline?”

She let out a broken laugh of her own, inhaling sharply. “That’s…weird. That’s something only my husband would say.”

He didn’t think. He just moved, pulling her against him, arms tightening as though she might vanish if he let go. 

She sobbed into his chest, body shaking with the force of it. He buried his face in her hair, and for the second time in centuries, he let himself cry willingly. 

She pulled back just enough to cradle his face in her hands, thumbs wiping away his silent tears. 

“I will fall in love with you over and over again,” she swore, her voice trembling. “I don’t care how, where, or when. No matter how long it’s been, you’re mine. Please…” she choked on her own breath. “Don’t tell me you’re not the same person. You’ll always be my husband. And gods, Astarion, I have been waiting for so long.”

His lips parted, but no words came. 

So he held her again. 

He had so much to tell her. So much she needed to know.

But for now, he would hold her. 

Because after waiting for two hundred years…

She had finally found him. 

[yoonkinii]

List of Astarion's Terms of Endearment

This is for the fanfic writers haha. Tell me if I'm missing any so can add it in!

Darling (his most used)

My love, love

My sweet

“You sweet, generous thing”, “you sweet little thing”

Lover

My dear, a dear, dear

Beautiful

Cheeky little pup

My little treat ("-with their cheeks all flushed")

Sweetie

Pet

You wicked little thing (affectionate)

"You're a sweetheart", "you sweetheart"

Delectable little pet (not directed towards Tav but it easily could be)

My friend (yay, we're his friend)

My favorite traveling companion (not a pet name but it's nice to be his favorite)

My leaking blood-bag (technically you refer to yourself as that first and he calls you his one after, but it counts)

You little scoundrel

Edit: Thank you everyone in the comments for adding the Dark Urge ones!

Bhaal-babe (I'm dead, this silly pun I swear)

My sweet, bloodthirsty friend

My precious little Bhaal-babe

My conflicted villain

My dagger-happy friend

Bonus: Ascended Yandere Astarion

My pet, pet

Little love

Precious thing

My treasure

My consort, My Dark Consort

My favorite spawn

Insolent little- (the Dev's notes say that the full line is "you insolent little brat" which, um...)

Insolent little pup (the line was in EA, although I’m not entirely sure if it’s Ascended Astarion. Full line: “you are an insolent little pup, aren’t you?”)

"You ingrate" (When you try to break up with him. It's not really a pet name, but-)

"Property I cherish, but still my property" (his thoughts)

[yoonkinii]

[yoonkinii]

Haven’t played bg3 in a phat minute…got in today and played dress up for an hour in character creation and didn’t even play.

Might as well share what I made here at least

They have no names 😔 I was just playing dress up

[yoonkinii]

List of Astarion's Terms of Endearment

This is for the fanfic writers haha. Tell me if I'm missing any so can add it in!

Darling (his most used)

My love, love

My sweet

“You sweet, generous thing”, “you sweet little thing”

Lover

My dear, a dear, dear

Beautiful

Cheeky little pup

My little treat ("-with their cheeks all flushed")

Sweetie

Pet

You wicked little thing (affectionate)

"You're a sweetheart", "you sweetheart"

Delectable little pet (not directed towards Tav but it easily could be)

My friend (yay, we're his friend)

My favorite traveling companion (not a pet name but it's nice to be his favorite)

My leaking blood-bag (technically you refer to yourself as that first and he calls you his one after, but it counts)

You little scoundrel

Edit: Thank you everyone in the comments for adding the Dark Urge ones!

Bhaal-babe (I'm dead, this silly pun I swear)

My sweet, bloodthirsty friend

My precious little Bhaal-babe

My conflicted villain

My dagger-happy friend

Bonus: Ascended Yandere Astarion

My pet, pet

Little love

Precious thing

My treasure

My consort, My Dark Consort

My favorite spawn

Insolent little- (the Dev's notes say that the full line is "you insolent little brat" which, um...)

Insolent little pup (the line was in EA, although I’m not entirely sure if it’s Ascended Astarion. Full line: “you are an insolent little pup, aren’t you?”)

"You ingrate" (When you try to break up with him. It's not really a pet name, but-)

"Property I cherish, but still my property" (his thoughts)

[yoonkinii]

Finally out of school but I haven’t had any time to write 😭 I am so sorry everyone, I promise I will get back to writing soon. For now, I’m probably going to transfers some works I have on Ao3 (I don’t use Ao3 a whole lot) and put them here. It’s a Miguel O’Hara work and I miss writing about my big spider man.

Again, I’m so sorry for the lack of updates with the Sukuna AU. I hope what I release in the mean time will keep you entertained. And if you are looking for something to read, my likes are basically my bookmarks and you can scroll through it. (Don’t judge what’s there)

[yoonkinii]

stop complaining about writers writing what they fucking want. maybe they would write more of the stuff you want if you acc appreciated them!! look at your profile. do you reblog them? cause i dont see any fics reblogged! do you send nice anons? hmmm! no you just sit down and complain!! do you like? are you following? are you commenting? nope!!!

so stfu🤩

[yoonkinii]

Echos of Desire

Pairing(s): Choso Kamo x Reader

FantasyAU!, Guardian!Choso, Royalty!Reader

Part 1

Synopsis: Choso is one of the few to possess abilities that transcend human limits. His family was taken away from him and he was given to serve the king. He was trained in nothing else but to kill and follow orders. He was a man made weapon. His name whispered in fear- the kingdom's boogeyman. He hates it though. Hates how his freedom was ripped from his hands. Hates how his ‘gift’ is more like a curse. He is offered a deal he can’t deny- transport the princess to safety in a neighboring kingdom. The only problem is, she’s the daughter of the man that took everything from him and she is being hunted down by unknown forces. 

-

Warning(s): character death, self loathe, burning alive, mentions of abuse, mention of death, blood. (if I am missing any. Please let me know)

Note(s): as I deal with college finals, I have not been able to write for my Sukuna AU. I felt bad and had the first part sitting in my files so I chose to share it. You will notice that in this story, there are mentions of abilities and skills that are in JJK but are changed to suit the story plot.

No one talks about how the stench of burning flesh can be so unnervingly similar to roasted meat. The thought alone churns Choso’s stomach as his face is ground into the dirt, his tear-blurred eyes forced open to witness his home devoured by flames. Every crackling ember, every surge of heat feels like an accusation. He doesn’t look away though, though the sight tears at his soul. He deserves this torment- it’s his fault.

He should have fled the moment the cursed mark marred his face, carving a jagged path across the bridge of his nose and spreading like a sinister brand. They warned him to leave, told him what would happen, but he stayed. Why? Because he was selfish. Because he clung to a fragile hope, a desperate dream that he could stay with his mother and brother a little longer. 

Now their screams haunt him, slicing through the crackling fire. The agony in their voices etches itself into his very being, a scar that will never heal. His fault. All his fault.  

The grip on his head tightens, rough fingers yanking his hair until he’s forced to look up. Through the haze of pain and tears, Choso meets the gaze of the man who orchestrated his ruin, the king’s general, Lu. 

Lu is a vision of ruthless efficiency, his reputation as blood-soaked as the battlefield itself. His silver eyes, cold and unnatural, pierce through Choso like a blade. His grizzled features speak of age, but nothing about him suggests weakness. Even the streaks of gray in his slicked -back hair only add to the aura of relenting brutality. The deadliest man in the realm, staring down at him like a predator savoring its prey. 

Choso meets the general’s eyes, unable to stop his quivering lips and the sobs that shakes his shoulders. The general tuts his lips, suddenly releasing Choso. Choso falls limply into the dirt, curling in on himself as he cries and cries. He cries until it hurts, until the general says something to another and walks away, until he dry heaves out cries, until the flames die down and all that remains is the ash in the air. 

Choso’s lips tremble as sobs wrack his body. He can’t stop them, no matter how much he wishes to. The general clicks his tongue in disdain before abruptly letting go, letting Choso crumple to the ground like a discarded rag. 

Curled into himself, Choso cries until his chest burns, until his voice is reduced to raw, aching gasps. He cries as the general mutters orders to someone unseen and strides away, as the inferno that consumed his life finally dies down, leaving nothing but as and ruin in its wake. 

“Come on, kid.”

The voice, female and startling gentle, cuts through the oppressive silence. Choso’s bloodshot eyes flutter open, squirting against the harsh brilliance of the rising sun. 

Before him stood a woman whose weather face seemed to carry the weight of a thousand stores. Her sharp brown eyes, set beneath furrowed brows, scrutinized Choso with an intensity that made him feel as if she could see through to his very soul. Her tan skin, toughened by years of hardship and streaked with crisscrossing scars on her face and knuckles, was framed by well-worn leather armor. Her dark, untamed hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, though rebellious strands curled free, softening her otherwise severe appearance. 

“You’ve cried enough. It won’t bring them back. All you can do now is move forward,” she said, her voice roughened by years of barking commands and enduring countless battles. It carried a measured tone, steady as a ship braving stormy seas. Though she appeared to be the same age as his mother, her demeanor was anything but nurturing - her presence was as unyielding as iron. 

“Follow.”

She didn’t glance back to see if he obeyed, confident that he would. Her boots crunched against the dirt path as she strode toward the dense forest ahead. The sound of Choso stumbling to his feet confirmed her certainty. Without protest, he trailed behind, his tattered clothing clinging to his thin frame, his bare feet scraping against the rough ground - another mark of this abrupt, harrowing awakening that murdered his family. 

For a while, the only sounds were the soft rustling of leaves and the distant melody of early morning birds. Then Choso broke the silence, his voice barely rising above a whisper. 

“Who are you? Where are we going?

She didn’t pause or turn, but her keen ears caught the words. “My friends call me Shara, but you will call me ‘ma’am’. We’re going to a palace that will shape you into what you were meant to become.”

Her answered stirred unease in Choso, but he hesitated to press further. Something about her presence made him reluctant to question her. Still, curiosity gnawed at him, and after a few moments, he couldn’t stop the strained words from slipping out. 

“What am I?”

His voice trembled, raw from the grief and cries that had hollowed him out. 

Shara finally glanced over her shoulder, her scarred face unreadable. “A weapon.”

“Are you listening, Kid?”

“I’m always listening ma’am,” Choso replied, his voice steady but low. 

Shara scoffed, leaning back into the creaking wooden seat of the carriage. Choso shifted uncomfortably. It was his first time riding in one, and the enclosed space made him uneasy. He couldn’t keep an eye on his surroundings or listen for the out-of-place sounds that might signal danger. 

“Sure you are,” Shara mused, her tone laced with skepticism. She was more than just his mentor - she was the one who had taken him in after the fire razed his life to ash when he was ten. Albeit, she was most likely instructed to take him in. Thirteen years had passed since then, but the scars of that night still clung to him like a second skin. They didn’t fade; they lingered, shadowing him in waking hours and haunting him in dreams. 

Most nights, he woke drenched in sweat, the bitter taste of ask still fresh on his tongue. On the nights he didn’t sleep, he trained relentlessly - pushing his body to exhaustion, carving discipline into his muscles until it became second nature. Until it felt as permanent as the sins etched onto his soul. 

“Repeat what I just said,” Shara commanded, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. 

Choso tore his gaze from the window and met her unyielding stare. She hadn’t changed much over the years. Her gaze was as sharp as the day he’d first seen her, her voice as firm and unwavering. The only visible differences were the silver streaks threading through her dark hair and the faint lines creasing her weathered face. 

“I am to escort the princess to the kingdom of Vatish via a route prepared by the king’s advisors,” Choso recited with precision. “Upon delivering her safely, my services to the crown will be terminated - permanently.” 

“You understand what that means?” Shara’s eyes narrowed, her finger tapping rhythmically against her bicep as she studied him. 

“It means after this, I’ll no longer be bound to the crown,” he replied, his voice calm but weighted with finality.

She hummed softly, a sound of approval as she nodded. “Do you accept?” 

“Did I ever have a choice?”

“Good.”

The carriage fell into silence once more. Choso turned his attention back to the window, watching the tree blur past in a haze of green and brown. He supposed he should relax, maybe even enjoy the ride - but he couldn’t, years of relentless training had hardened him beyond comfort. His body, forged into a weapon, was always tense, always braced for battle. Relaxation was a luxury he no longer remembered how to afford. 

“Didn’t I tell you to cut your hair?” Shara’s voice sliced through the quiet like a blade. 

“I did,” he replied, not bothering to look away from the passing landscape. 

“Oh, really? What’d you cut  it with? Your teeth? It’s still long?”

Absentmindedly, Choso’s fingers drifted to his hair. The black locks fell to his nape, and a few rebellious strands often slipped into his vision. He couldn’t deny it got in the way sometimes, but the thought of cutting it shorter rarely crossed his mind. 

“It grew,” he muttered.

Shara’s laughter rolled through the carriage, deep and loud, like a crash of distant thunder. When it subsided, she let out a sigh and leaned slightly to peer out the same window as Choso. 

“You’re lucky the king is merciful enough not to kill you for looking like some wild animal.”

“Truly merciful,” Choso replied without thinking, his tone dripping with sarcasm. A scornful look twisted his face as the words left his lips.

The carriage slowed to a halt before a sweeping staircase of polished stone, flanked by guards who stood like statues, their gazes as sharp as their weapons. Choso felt the weight of their eyes, trained and unyielding, tracking his every move as he stepped out. His black fighting leathers, thick enough to ward off the biting wind yet supple enough not to hinder his movement, creaked softled with the effort. It was a rare sight to see him in anything else, even during the fleeting moments when he attempted to sleep.  

The hair on Choso's neck stood on end at the eyes trailing after him. One glance casted at Shara showed that she was not bothered by the eyes, if she was then she didn’t show. Shara and Choso were met with a castle attendant, a wordless exchange happening between his mentor and the attendant before they were led through the castle.  

The hair on the back of his neck prickled under the scrutiny. A quick glance at Shara revealed her usual calm demeanor, unshaken by the piercing stares. If she felt the tension, she gave no indication. Without a word, a castle attendant approached, exchanging a subtle nod with Shara before motioning for them to follow. 

As they were led into the castle, Choso’s gaze flitted restlessly. He cataloged everything - the twists and turns of the corridors, the placement of each window, the number of doors lining the walls. Years ago, such a task would have overwhelmed him, but not it was instinctual, each detail committed to memory with ease. 

The castle’s interior was stark yet imposing. Ornate stone walls rose on either side, their austerity broken only by the blood-red carpets that stretched across the floor. THe absence of frivolous decor gave the space an air of cold efficiency, every inch designed to intimidate rather than comfort. 

Ahead, two massive, intricately carved wooden doors creaked open by guards, revealing the castle’s main hall. Choso’s footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstone floor as his eyes took in the towering stone walls, adorned with heavy tapestries. Each one depicted the kingdom’s bloody history - scenes of conquest, kneeling enemies, and wars won through sheer brutality.  He looked away, the oppressive imagery stirring unease in his chest. 

The soaring ceiling drew his gaze upward, a masterpiece of vaulted arches painted with frescoes. Even here, the scenes spoke of violence: victorious kings, battlefields littered with the fallen, and rivers of crimson streaking the skies. Shafts of golden light poured in through high, arched windows, softening the grim narrative etched into the hall.

At the far end, a dais of white marble steps elevated the throne - a striking symbol of the kingdom’s might. Forged of deep mahogany, the throne’s high back was carved with the kingdom’s crests, its armrest shaped into snarling lions frozen mid-roar. The maroon velvet cushioning glinted faintly in the light, as though even the throne itself basked in authority. 

A crimson carpet with golden thread stretched the length of the hall, guiding the eye to the footsteps of the foot of the throne. Guards stood rigid along the walls, their halberds gripped so tightly their knuckles shone white. The air was thick with tension, a palpable miz of nerves and uncertainty as Shara and Choso took their place before the throne. 

The heavy silence deepened as another set of guards entered the room. Unlike those stationed along the walls, these men moved with a hardened precision that sent a chill through Choso’s veins. Their faces, lined and unyielding, spoke of brutal training and unrelenting discipline. THey took their places, three on either side of the throne, their presence amplifying the oppressive atmosphere. 

Choso’s stomach churned as he watched the man he despised most stride into the room. 

As the king entered, a profound silence blanketed the room. The air grew heavy, suffused with the weight of authority and history, as though the stones themselves acknowledge his power. Each of his measured steps reverberated through the vast chamber, a reminder of dominance etched into every corner. Ascending the dais with unhurried grace, the king seated himself on the throne, and the room seemed to collectively hold its breath, awaiting his command.

But it was not the king who spoke first. 

Shara, ever swift, dropped to one knee, her movement fluid and precise. Choso followed a heartbeat later, lowering his head as her voice rang out with unwavering conviction.

“All praise the mighty sun of the kingdom.” 

The guards responded in perfect synchronization, slamming the butts of their halberds against the marble floor. The sharp, rhythmic sound echoed twice, its force reverberating  through Choso’s chest. They froze in that posture, returning to their statue-like stance. 

Each passing second gnawed at Choso, his chest tightening with suppressed annoyance. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply, Shara’s lessons repeating like a mantra in his mind: Diminish it. Emotions are humanity’s worst weakness. You do not feel. You are not human.

He wasn’t human- not anymore. He was a tool, forged for the kingdom’s will, his humanity burned away alongside his home, his family, and his hope. 

“You may rise,” the king’s voice finally broke the silence, deep, and commanding. 

Choso and Shara stood, Shara’s posture unwavering, while Choso’s eyes shifted to the man seated on the throne. His lips pressed into a thin line as he studied the king. The monarch’s lips curved into a knowing smile, faint wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, a picture of composed authority. 

“It’s good to see you, Shara. You’ve been away for quite some time,” the king said, his tone smooth yet laced with an undercurrent of power.

Shara inclined her head, her voice noticeably softer than the one she reserved for her scolding of Choso. “Indeed, my king. Training your soldiers is no small task.”

Soldiers. The word grated against Choso’s nerves, though he willed himself to remain motionless. Not people, not citizens - just soldiers. Children torn from their families, molded into weapons through the harsh hands of death and submission. His jaw tightened, but his gaze remained fixed on the wall behind the king, a single act of restraint in a room heavy with unspoken tension. 

Then, something white caught his attention. 

Standing beside the king was a figure, still as stone but  coiled like a predator ready to strike. Arms rested at his sides, but his posture betrayed his readiness. What struck Choso most were the bandages covering the man’s eyes, pristine and stark against his skin. Choso felt his brow furrow, confusion threading through his thoughts. Why was he blindfolded? How could a man seemingly devoid of sight carry such as air of awareness?

The figure’s lips curved into a smirk, almost as if he could sense - no, see - Choso’s inquisitive gaze. Embarrassed by his own curiosity. Choso quickly averted his eyes, fixing them once more on the wall, though the image of the smirking man lingered in his mind. 

The king hums at Shara’s response, a casual nod indicating her answer sufficed - for now. Choso’s stomach tightened as the monarch’s sharp gaze shifted to him, scrutinizing every inch as though peeling back his lawyers for weakness or deceit. A single wave of the king’s hand broke the tension. 

“This is him? Your best soldier?”

“Yes, my king,” Shara replied confidently, her hand settling on Choso’s shoulder like a claim of ownership. “His drive is unmatched. His skills surpass even my most seasoned warriors.”

The king’s eyes narrowed, probing Choso for signs of falsehood in Shara’s words. The room hung in silence until a faint smile tugged at the corner of the king’s mouth, more a predator’s curl than an expression of approval. 

“That so?” he drawled. “Do tell - what is his gift?”

Choso exchanged a brief glance with Shara. Her silent nod was the only encouragement he needed before she stepped back, relinquishing the stage. Without a word, Choso moved with practiced ease, his hand darting to his forearm to unsheathe a dagger hidden within his leather sleeve. 

The blade was slender, unassuming, crafted for precision rather than carnage. Its edge glinted under the light as Choso drew it across his palm. A sharp sting bloomed, but he didn’t flinch. The first dorp of crimson appeared, and with it, a subtle shift began. 

The mark on his face - a single line running across the bridge of his nose - morphed, elongating and multiplying. Two lines extended from his brows, curving down to the corners of his mouth, their pointed tips adding an air of menace. The original line grew thinner and sharper, dividing his features like an ominous sigil. 

All eyes in the room fixed on the blood pooling in his palm. Yet, before it could drip to the floor, it stopped, hovering midair as if caught by invisible threads. With a flick of his wrist, the liquid twisted and contorted, bubbling before stretching into a blade of solid crimson. 

The weapon shifted again, reshaping into a halberd, its deadly edges gleaming. The halberd dissolved, reforming as an arrow, then fractured into countless droplets that spiraled upwards like a violent rainstorm suspended in time. The blood hovered, then shifted once more, transforming into countless razor-sharp needles. 

Without hesitation, Choso releases them.

The room tensed as the needles descended, slicing through the air with lethal precision - only to dissipate a hair’s breadth from the onlookers. The blood lost its form, splattering harmlessly onto the marble floor in crimson pools. Despite the harmless finale, unease rippled through the guards. They shifted on their feet, knuckles whitening in their weapons. 

The king leaned forward slightly, his grin widening. He regarded Choso as though he were a rare and fascinating beast, the amusement in his expression tainted by something darker. Choso finally met the gaze of the man who had unraveled his life, and for a fleeting moment during his display, he considered letting the blades find their mark. Just for a moment. 

But that feeling passed, and the blood was reduced to harmless stains on the polished floor. 

From the corner of his eye, Choso caught the smirk of the white-haired figure standing near the throne. Though his eyes were obscured by pristine bandages, the man’s grin felt as though it pierced directly through Choso’s defenses. Choso forced himself to look away, his gaze landing on Shara. 

Her expression was not one of pride in him, but her creation - a jewel she had honed, shaped, and perfected. 

“My, my,” the king mused, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. He clapped slowly, the sound echoing mockingly in the chamber. “Where has someone like you been hiding all this time? And how considerate of you not to paint the room red - it would’ve been…unfortunate for you.”

The threat was as clear as the gleam in his cold eyes. Choso stiffened but said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line as the king’s attention shifted back to Shara, who now stood proudly at his side, her posture rigid and expectant. 

“He’s perfect.”

-

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