#//it is something that can be more subtly explored though

[journey-of-daydreams]

Invitation to Nowhere [Rewrite & Reader] [Platonic]

After a "kind" "invitation" to a picnic from Rewrite, he becomes more interested in your mental state than you'd like.

Type: Oneshot Genre: Mild Horror Content Warnings: Hunger Mention Stage: Early 1 Ring Notes: Rewrite is referred to as "Sonic" in this, as Reader is not fully aware of their identity yet. This is also early in Reader's and Rewrite's relationship, so their interactions are mostly negative. (sorry to those looking for fluff)

You're exploring the stretches of Green Hill. It seems your surroundings change every so often, and so you've taken it upon yourself to explore daily. You hope that in doing so, you would find an escape, or a weapon, anything to protect or aid yourself in any way.

As you're walking next to a small pond, you hear it: Faintly, in the distance, an unfortunately familiar squealing: The sound of Sonic running. You stop dead in your tracks and swivel your ears around, trying to catch the source of the noise.

It's getting louder. He's approaching.

Fear starts to rise in your chest as you look around, trying to spot him before he catches you off-guard again. Sure enough, you see him and his wide smile, making a bee line for you.

You take a deep breath and brace yourself. There's no point in running.

He catches up to you and stops like he just hit a brick wall, losing all momentum in an instance. He pulls his signature "finger-wagging" pose that you've grown to hate.

"Hi, friend! Are you ready?" He beams enthusiastically.

"...Uh- For what?" You question warily.

"Great!" He shoots a thumbs up at you. "Let's go!"

Before you can react, he grabs you by the shoulders and lifts you up over his head. You shriek involuntarily. "Wait! Wait!"

He doesn't wait. In fact, he zooms off into the forest, carrying you over his head like a squirming cat. Trees, ferns, rocks and greenery whiz past you. The forest gets darker, and darker. The sky slowly fades from sight. You have to stop squirming just so you don't get hit by a wayward rock.

Suddenly, he stops on a dime, and the abrupt halt knocks the wind out of you. He gently places you down and gives you a pat on the head.

Slightly dazed, it takes you a moment to process the... unusual sight ahead of you.

In the middle of the dark forest sits a campfire and your two friends; Miles and Ekiduna. Miles looks up at the two of you as you approach, shifting uncomfortably at the sight of Sonic. Ekiduna is scarfing down on what appears to be a boiled egg, not looking up at you two. They sit on top of a red checkered picnic blanket, plates scattered around them. Far too many plates for just 4 people, in fact.

You glance at Sonic, who was standing with his hands on his hips. Proudly looking at the scene he set up, you assume, though it's very difficult to read his expression thanks to his permanently smiling face.

Locking eyes with you, he gives you a tilt of the head and pulls a frying pan out of nowhere. "Waffles?"

"Uh- Sure." You decide it's best to go along with whatever the hell is going on.

With a nod, Sonic chucks the frying pan at the campfire. It jitters around before magically re-orienting itself into an upright position. He plops down in front of the fire, back turned to you, and puts a yellow, circular blob into the frying pan. It instantly simmers as smoke rises out of it.

You decide to take a seat next to Miles.

"Hello," He quietly says as you sit.

"Hi." You give him a smile back. You turn to Ekiduna, who nods as his "hello" at you.

"Nice to see you again. Despite the, uh... Unfortunate way you were brought here." Ekiduna subtly gestures at Sonic.

You huff a tiny laugh. "It's fine." You would joke about it, but you don't dare say anything negative about Sonic within earshot of him. You don't have nearly the same bravery as Ekiduna does, talking against Sonic right in front of him.

Oddly, though, Sonic seems to ignore the 3 of you when he's in the middle of something, as if too preoccupied to care. You and Ekiduna have learned to take these opportunities to chat and move about... Though, you won't pretend Sonic can't still hear you. Surely, he must be able to.

You turn your attention back to the "waffle" cooking on the fire. Sonic was starting to sway his leg impatiently. Still, you notice the yellow blob slowly flattens out... Slowly, a faint, familiar grid-like pattern starts to form.

Of course it does.

You turn to Miles, who was staring at a random square on the picnic blanket. You would talk to him, but the poor thing is always too scared... And, to be honest, doesn't seem entirely... Lucid. He doesn't seem to register that this is just a digital world, and never talks about the outside world. You honestly wonder if he's just an NPC, but you don't think it would be polite to ask someone that.

Ekiduna, on the other hand, is a survivor like you. Long ago, he was brought into this game too. The two of you have found solace in talking to one another, about your past lives, and what's going on... and have whispered in the darkest of nights about potential ways to escape. In his time here, he hadn't yet found one. He hopes that you're able to help him, and you've been trying your best.

A small ding! that plays from the campfire brings you out of your thoughts. Sonic proceeds to grab the waffle—or, two waffles stacked together, as you just noticed—and his arm detaches from his shoulder and floats over to place it on your plate.

"...Thank you." You say politely.

"No problem!" He chirps enthusiastically.

You notice Ekiduna reaching for one of the waffles, and you shoot him a soft glare, bemused he's just... Trying to take it, right in front of you, without asking. Before you can say anything, Sonic slaps his hand away.

"Hey!" Ekiduna flinches back.

"Nuh-uh! You had your share!" Sonic insisted, wagging a finger disapprovingly.

"You gave me a single egg-" Ekiduna starts to protest, but is shut up when Sonic jumps closer to him, looming over him. Miles flinches and stares at the two, expecting something to go down.

Ekiduna leans back, eyes agape. "Ok. Fine." He crosses his arms, sulking. Sonic relents and backs away, seemingly pleased.

You feel bad, honestly. Everyone here is capable of feeling hunger, tiredness; You're pretty sure Ekiduna is hungry, if he's trying this. You wouldn't mind sharing, but... Shouldn't risk it in front of Sonic. You'll share later, when Sonic isn't looking.

Sonic lets out two harsh, electronic clicking sounds meant to resemble tongue clicks. "Rude Ekiduna. Stealing! At a time like this? How could you?"

Ekiduna rolls his eyes.

"Bye-Bye. To Green Hills you go!"

"Wh- Huh?" His eyes widen. Suddenly, Sonic grabs Ekiduna by the collar of his cloak, and Ekiduna yells in defiance, only for his voice to be cut off by both of them disappearing into thin air. Miles lets out an alarmed noise, stands up, and runs from the scene.

Oh shit. You thought it was resolved. Is Ekiduna going to be ok? You stand up, ready to take action. Maybe you should-

Yet, as quickly as he left, Sonic reappears with a *pop*.

"Hi, friend!" He waves enthusiastically and sits back down as if nothing happened. He's either ignoring or doesn't notice your stare of shock.

"...What did you do with him?" You nervously question, voice wavering.

"Relaaaaax." Sonic's hand twitches back and forth, as if it's meant to be a dismissive wave of the hand. "He's gone back to the starting zone."

"G-Gone back?" You question what that means. You know where the starting zone is, but-

"Gone back to the starting zone." He repeats with the exact same tone, akin to a record replaying.

"Did... Did you hurt him?"

"Nope!" He starts fiddling around with the plates, moving them around without real purpose. You're not sure why.

You watch him skeptically, not believing he wouldn't have harmed Ekiduna for his resistance. "...Really?"

He stops his plate shuffling and looks at you with his usual smile. "You're asking a lo-ot of questions." His voice glitches out, but his tone of voice is as playful as ever. You can tell that's a warning to stop.

"...Okay. Awesome." You try to calm your heavily beating heart.

"So cool!" He gives you a tone-deaf thumbs up. You shake your head in bewilderment and squeeze your temple with your fingers, trying to decide what to do.

It's... probably best to just sit back down. You know going along with Sonic's nonsense is a good way to appease him and keep him from retaliating. Later, you would go check on Ekiduna and Miles.

So, against every ounce of your being telling you to get out of there... You sit back down, avoiding Sonic's gaze. As you sit, you feel his eyes boring into you, unsettling you. You can't tell what he's thinking. Maybe he didn't expect you to stay. 

You decide to stare at your waffles to avoid his gaze. You hadn't even taken a bite out of them this whole time. Though, honestly, you don't think you wanted to.

What's wrong with them?

You pick the plate up to take a closer look at it. They look fine. You sniff it, and-

The scent of real, toasted waffles hits you.

You can't help the sad smile that comes on your face. It smells like home, you realize. It's not often you feel sensations that remind you of the real world. You're not sure why you can feel these kinds of sensations in a digital world... Sight, smell, touch. But you can. And truth be told, it haunts you. Reminds you of what you lost.

"What's with the glumdrum, bud?" Sonic abruptly asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. You turn to him, and- He's laying on his side on the grass, his head propped up on his hand. Okay.

It takes you a second to realize you didn't hear him move, and, he's actually closer to you than he was before. Great, so he can move silently. Another reason to be wary of him.

"It's... nothing. I'm thinking." You say dismissively.

"You don't like waffles?" He continues to inquire with a head tilt, his hand glitching off his wrist for a split second.

"Wh- No, it's not that, I just..." Your words fall apart on themselves, knowing he wouldn't take any protest of yours seriously anyways. He wouldn't let you go just because you say you miss your home, he'd probably just laugh at your misery.

"We can play a game instead!" He suddenly jumps up with emphasis, excited by his own suggestion.

"Nono, that's- No, thanks." You rush to reject the offer. Any game of his is more deadly than fun, and frankly, you're not in the mood.

"Awwwww." He slumps and gives an over-dramatic, sad bow of the head that almost feels genuine. It's an odd, pouting look you've never seen on him before. It's off-putting, especially since he could easily drag you into a game against your will if he was this upset about it.

You're... Honestly taken aback by this behavior, his sudden questioning and interest in you. Just what was he trying to do?

You can't find the words, and you look back down at your food. Yet, Sonic doesn't move. In fact, he doesn't stop staring at you. Every second that passes becomes more and more uncomfortable.

"...W-What?" You ask, somewhat hesitant to break the silence.

"I made you the cool waffles and you're still so boring. What gives?"

You scoff, a bit confused by his wording. "You were trying to cheer me up?"

"No," He states bluntly. His inflection suggests he was going to say more, and you wait... But he doesn't speak again.

"...Well, sorry my sadness isn't entertaining, I guess." You mutter bitterly.

"Hmmmm..." He hums over-dramatically, tapping his finger to his chin in a 'thinking' pose. "You're lost, aren't you?"

You squint at him in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"You can't find your way home." He sits in front of you in a crisscross position, his eyes never moving from you. Your expression drops and you look back down at your plate. You didn't think him of all people would be questioning you about this.

"I know. I've seen it happen many times." He closes his eyes and tilts his head up as if reminiscing.

"You don't know anything about me." You retort before you can stop yourself.

"Yes I do." He simply asserts, though you don't believe him. Before you can argue, he continues.

"A lot of souls get lost in this place. You're not the first, and not the last." He says in a low, muted and out of place tone. You give him a discomforted look, surprised by his sudden shift. He's looking directly into your eyes again.

So you've hurt a lot of people then, you think bitterly. You didn't know this, actually: How many people got stuck here. You were under the impression it was just you, Ekiduna and Miles... Just how many people have died here?

"Why do you all run to find the same place that no longer exists? Sinking yourselves further and further into the abyss."

"Why are you telling me this?" You question softly.

"Maybe, if you stop running," He slowly reaches a hand towards you, "-the place you're looking for would find you?" And points at your heart, emphasizing the 'you' as he speaks. You lean away so he doesn't touch you.

You don't say anything. You can't. You simply stare at him. He stares back, his empty smile unchanging and his pose unmoving.

"...

I don't understand."

"Oh well!" He offhandedly shrugs, his tone of voice and posture snaps back to cheerful. All of his previous solemnity vanishing in an instant. He grabs a whole rotisserie chicken that you don't remember seeing before and puts it on a random plate. "Let's dig in, shall we?"

...You're not sure what to say. This whole experience was... bewildering.

You find it hard to eat the rest of the day.

[nothosword]

Woof, now that's a thinker. What isn't Fergus here to study? More years spent meandering as a mercenary than he can count on his fingers, and the guy has nothing to show for it. He thought to finally make something of his life, now that he's in the final stretch for his thirties. But to answer his question...

Why doesn't he actually start with what he isn't studying?

"Nothin' to do with swords or horseback riding, that's for sure." He slackens on their dance during his explanation, giving Mark the opportunity to regurgitate his lessons back at him. Things continue like this for a while, with the blonde's wide-swaying motions dying down into ripples in a pond. "and I'd prefer to skip history, if I can. That class bores me half to sleep..."

He realizes he's sounding picky, and so he shoots his brow further up his head. "Government's fun, though. I keep an open book, but it'd be nice to be something better than a sellsword." If, by some miracle, he finds a way to quell his bursts of anger. Fergus can't imagine holding any kind of professional job where he talks with his knuckles before his mouth.

He plugs his stream of rambling and sets his feet flat against the grass. They could pick up their dance at any moment, but Fergus wants to ask something first:

"Why, you got any recommendations?"

✢⁎. nova in the night

[piroulinewafers]

𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: colonel not-so-boyfriend-yet gets dragged through a kbeauty store by his childhood friend and realizes that watching her swatch lip tints is way more dangerous than any sort of mission he's been on.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: caleb x fem! reader

the city was noisier than caleb remembered—streetcars rolling by with that grating mechanical whine, shop signs buzzing faintly under the midday sun, the idle chatter of shoppers drifting through open-air cafés and storefronts. he should’ve been overwhelmed. too bright, too many voices, too much movement for someone fresh off the vacuum-quiet corridors of a farspace fleet cruiser.

but he wasn’t watching the city. he was watching her.

she walked half a step ahead of him, tugging him through the crowded sidewalk with the easy confidence of someone who knew where every cute corner shop and discount sticker was hidden. her cardigan had slipped off, revealing her bare shoulder beneath the tank top she wore. she paused in front of a storefront that glowed soft pink through frosted glass and turned to him, her expression hopeful.

“can we go in, gege?” he didn’t respond.

“it’s just a quick stop,” she said, already reaching for the door. she already knew his answer.

caleb lifted the strap of her frilly pink tote a little higher on his shoulder, the my melody charm bouncing cheerfully against his brass-plated rank pin. He didn’t say a word. just nodded and followed her in.

the inside was a pastel wonderland—shelves lined with color-correcting primers and bunny-shaped hand creams, rows of lip tints in neat, candy-colored arrangements. she made a beeline for the display near the center, already reaching for a tester with the kind of care he usually reserved for handling orbital detonation triggers or his gun.

caleb leaned his weight subtly against the edge of the display as she reached for tester after tester, and he let his eyes wander—not across the room, but to the tiny tubes scattered across her palm. 

he watched her quietly, one gloved hand resting on the edge of the display as the other held the soft bag by its tiny satin handles. her fingers—smudged faintly with colour from earlier swatches—curved delicately as she unscrewed a rose-toned lip tint. it was a warm, dusky shade, with just enough red in it to remind him of how her cheeks looked when she got worked up over one of his teases.

she swatched it gently across the inside of her wrist, brows pinching in focus, then dabbed a bit with her fingertip and patted it onto her lower lip. the motion was unhurried, thoughtful—like she was trying to be precise, even though she probably didn’t realize how her bottom lip jutted out slightly in concentration. caleb couldn’t look away.

she was everything.

she always gravitated to the same shades, though she liked to pretend she was exploring something new. bare grape, custard mauve, peony ballet… he knew them all. not because she told him—though she sometimes muttered the names under her breath like they were secrets—but because he remembered. 

he noticed. and now, watching her dab a warm rosey tone onto the curve of her lip with the tip of her pinky, he added this one to the mental list, too. he’d never forget it. just like he couldn’t forget the way she glowed under the soft store lights, like her whole world had been made of pastels and perfume and she’d still managed to drag him into it, heart and all.

the plush cardigan, the soft pout, the cinnamon-sweet scent that lingered in the air around her—every part of her was stitched into his life in a way he didn’t know how to unpick. she had always been there. and now, more than ever, he wanted to stay in her orbit.

he beckoned her closer, voice low. “come here.”

she blinked up at him, hesitant, swiping at her lip like she thought she’d smudged it. “what?”

“just testing something,” caleb said, his tone deceptively serious. “i need to know the wear-power. longevity. field test, if you will.”

she narrowed her eyes, instantly suspicious. “what sort of field test?”

he tapped the side of his cheek, expression maddeningly neutral. “riiiiight here.”

her mouth parted in the tiniest gasp, colour flooding her cheeks. “y-you’re joking.”

“i’m in full uniform, baby apple,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “i never joke.”

she stood there frozen for a second, cheeks burning, then made an exasperated little noise in her throat. 

“you're the worst,” she muttered again—then very quickly, very lightly, leaned in and pressed the barest kiss to his cheek.

he didn’t move. didn’t flinch. but his entire heart stuttered in his chest like someone had cut the oxygen flow. it wasn’t even that she’d done it. it was how she’d done it. shy. soft. sweet. and still pouting, like he’d tricked her into surrendering some part of herself she wasn’t ready to admit was his.

“you’re blushing,” she whispered accusingly, looking anywhere but his face. and she was right, a faint, peachy flush had settled upon his faintly freckled cheeks. 

“so are you,” he said simply.

she whirled around and stomped toward the register, flustered, clutching the little box of lip tint like a weapon. he followed with a lazy pace, letting her get ahead. but the moment she reached into her pocket and tugged out her wallet, he acted.

a subtle flick of his fingers. a twist of the air pressure. the wallet slipped right out of her grasp and tumbled to the floor.

she blinked down at it, startled. “huh?”

“oops,” he said, already handing his credit card to the cashier.

“caleb—hey, no. please, you’re not—don’t you dare pay for—”

“it’s already done,” he said, not even turning to look at her as the scanner beeped and the receipt printed, credit card glinting mockingly between his fingers.

“besides, i’m the one doing the field test. consider it... part of my data collection, yeah? you were always so interested in this sorta stuff when you were younger.” 

she let out a strangled huff, crouching to grab her wallet with a muttered curse and refusing to look at him for the next minute straight.

he watched her pout all the way to the exit, still red in the ears, still flustered, still clinging to the tiny pink bag now tucked snugly under his arm. she was ridiculous. completely unreasonable. 

entirely his.

and caleb didn’t need a fleet of soldiers or the quiet stars of the vast space to tell him: 

this was home.

reblogs and interactions are v appreciated ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

[orphicmusings]

nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby

summary: the aftermath of what happened in skyhaven with pre-relationship sylus. hurt/comfort, exploring mc’s trauma.

A simultaneous sigh blooms from both of your lungs as the last wanderer crumbles into oblivion. The dust of its essence floated up to the polluted night sky of the N109 zone, painting artificial stars for the pair of victors below. Sylus lifts his gaze to you after he scrapes what’s left of the aftermath from his fingernails. He looks infuriatingly unaffected. You, however…

“You look like shit.” He remarks playfully, his eyes softening as he holds out his hand to help you up. You, like he anticipates, softly slap it away and get up on wobbly legs. “Fuck off.” You retort, still trying to catch your breath, and he simply smiles- striding next to you and subtly offering you his weight to lean on. You tried stubbornly standing on your own, but found yourself surrendering to his quiet help as you walked back to his bike.

“I’m not letting you ride back to Linkon like this.” He huffed, handing you his spare helmet, the one that is practically yours at this point. “Spend the night at the base.” Coming from him, it sounded more of a purring command than a gentle suggestion. “Get some beauty sleep.”

You had felt your muscles tense and your heart clenched as you were rapidly reminded of the last time you stayed over someone else’s place. The sound of doors locking, the pills, the confusion, the breathing man that you still mourned. Before you could refuse, though, a traitorous yawn escaped your throat. You knew he was right, that you were in no shape to travel home, and it’s not like he could exactly traipse into Linkon at the moment to accompany you. Besides, you’ve been fighting alongside him for a while now, and while he has little weaknesses, you’re willing to exploit them if need be. “Alright.” You breathe your surrender as you put the helmet on, bracing yourself for his driving skills.

Luke and Kieran greet you at the door like eager puppies. What happened, boss? Boss lady? Did ya kill something? How many? How bloody? Any guts?

Sylus held out a commanding hand and answered for you, thankfully. “Don’t ambush the poor girl, she’s beat up.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “I’m not beat up-”

“Come.” He holds his arm out for you, and you defeatedly take it, blindly following wherever he deigns to go.

“My head…” You groaned at the harsh overhead kitchen light being flicked on, rubbing your temples. “Does the big bad mob boss happen to have ibuprofen?”

“I’m not headache proof, believe it or not.” He exhaled a small chuckle. “Sit down.” He ushered you to the sofa across from the kitchen table. You obliged, but not because he told you to, of course. You were achey, dirty and exhausted. He held a glass of water in one hand and two pills in the other, and you hesitated slightly as you let him give them to you. Turning the pills over in your fingers with a squint of your eyes, you looked for the label etched into the chalky red circles to identify that it was, in fact, ibuprofen.

Sylus noticed. Of course he noticed, he always does. “What?” He tilts his head, confused, but his tone still holds a hint of safe and familiar teasing. “You think I’m slipping you something?”

Swallowing back those nagging memories again along with the medicine, you force a chuckle. “Can never be sure with a lawless scoundrel like you, can I?”

He grinned, one of those rare smiles of his, toothy and reaching for his ruby eyes. “I may be a lawless scoundrel, sweetheart, but I’m not a monster.”

Not a monster, because a monster would do that.

Your best friend in the whole world would do that.

A deep breath left you, ready to be rid of this conversation topic. “Can I take a shower?”

His wide grin melted down to his signature smug smirk once again. “In which wing?”

Sylus’s living situation was fucking ridiculous. Four bathrooms with showers, three of them with tubs. For, what, three people? You shake your head in disbelief as he leads you to a guest room. Just as lavish as the rest of the place, the first thing that stares back at you is the neatly made king sized bed. A leather futon sits across it, right next to an enormous closet. Before you can gawk at any other evidence of luxury in the room, he shuts the door behind you. Your gaze instinctively flies to the knob, the phantom click still ringing in your ears. Your shoulders hunch, posture stilling as you find yourself waiting for it— but the door remains unlocked. If Sylus noticed, he gave you the grace of ignoring it and deciding he teased you enough for now. He opens the closet, unhooking a hanger from inside, draping a plush back bathrobe from it. “This should fit you.” You ran your hands along the fluffy material, unable to stop touching it. “And could I wash my clothes after-“

“I will.” He assures you with an interruption. “Leave them outside the door. I’ll find something laying around for you to change into so you don’t have to wait for them to dry.” You nodded, not expecting this level of consideration from him. It brings an irritating, fond heat to your cheeks. “Right. Thank you.”

“Just being a good host.” He smirks, opening the bathroom door. The bathroom was, of course, also fucking ridiculous. Dark marble walls, spotless black tile floors. A black Japanese bathtub next to the spacious shower stall. Woody, spicy potpourri wafted through the air from a bowl on the sink. He moves to shut the door, and you turn. “Um…” Swallow. “Is it okay to keep the door unlocked?” He frowned in confusion, and you quickly added, “It’s the steam. Too much in an enclosed space, I get a headache and I already have one, so I-“

“Okay.” He simply agrees, leaving you no room to over-explain and lie further. You’re almost taken aback with the ease he’s treating you with, but if you think about it, he’s always just accepted. He may question once or twice, but always nods his head without judgment.

You showered all of the blood and grime off your skin, but the reminder of Skyhaven clung under your fingernails no matter how much you scrubbed. It was something you had been pushing away from the forefront of your mind for weeks, almost a month now.

It’s not what you think it is, you remind yourself as you clench your fist, watching the hot water droplets roll off your knuckles. It’s Caleb. He was trying to protect me…

“No, we’re not doing this right now!” You mumbled aloud to yourself. Think, think, think of something else. You abruptly turned the valve to the wall, the water turning freezing cold. Your breathing seemed to slow down with the ice hitting your veins, and by the time you caught two chills, you stepped out and toweled off. The robe felt nice against your damp skin, the fuzz of it all absorbing the water droplets quickly. Opening the door, you see the clothes Sylus left for you in a neat pile: two items. A black satin button down with an “S” monogrammed into the breast pocket with golden embroidery, and grey basketball shorts. A dry snort found its way out of your nose. What a look.

You swam in them, of course, but in a cozy way. You folded the waistband of the shorts until they would aptly rest on your hips, and you didn’t mind the way the shirt’s sleeves hung past your fingers. The shirt smelled like him. Like his stupidly nice cologne, the familiar scent of spices and leather on the collar.

You let your exhausted body drive you to sleep.

The door is locked.

The eyes you used to seek comfort in refuse to soften.

You blindly take his sleeping pills.

The door is locked.

He pins you down on the sofa, next to a photo of the two of you in a frighteningly similar position, play-fighting and laughing.

He threatens to wrap a collar around your throat.

Your pleas fall on deaf ears.

The man in front of you is breathing, but he is long dead.

The door is locked.

Your heart drops you awake, out of breath and eyes watery.

You are not in your bed.

Where are you?

You push the covers off you before you could even remember, rushing to swing the door open. The force of the mahogany hitting the wall got the attention of your gracious host.

“Sweetie…” A deep voice rumbled up your spine. Sylus.

You’re with Sylus.

The pet name lacked all the familiar playful condescension, more of a brace, a concerned approach to a wild, wounded animal. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer at first, your clouded mind still assessing the situation. Your shoulders relax a fraction as you register your surroundings, Sylus’s base. You spent the night here after a hunt. You’re with Sylus, you want to be here, and the door was unlocked. Your grip on the doorknob loosens. Sylus slowly comes out from behind you and into your field of vision. “Sit.” He ushers you back into the room, sitting on the bed and patting the silk sheets. You slowly obey, perching on the bed with your knees hugged to your chest. A gentle expression paints his face, something you could’ve sworn you’ve never seen before. “I’m going to ask again.” He urges softly, slowly, the brisk command his tone usually carried melted away.

You can lie to anyone in your life. You could have said it was a bug in your blankets. A noise, he thought of an intruder. Even a nightmare about something else. You can lie to anyone in your life, except for the man in front of you who looks worried for the first time you’ve seen it. You can lie to anyone in your life, except for the man who seems to know your very soul despite only knowing you for a handful of months.

You don’t even try, clenching your fists so tight you’re sure your fingernails would draw blood out of the meat of your palm.

“I can’t tell you…” You murmured, holding back the flood. “Because if I do, it becomes real.”

He frowned, his head tilting to the side slightly. He pushed a soft smile out of the corner of his mouth. “I won’t tell reality if you won’t, sweetheart.”

You exhaled out of your nose shortly, an amused puff of air followed by a sniffle. “No, I’m…it’s serious.”

“I know.” He sat back on his elbows, blanketing the atmosphere with a sense of leisure and ease. That was something you had to admit he was good at. “I’ve noticed.”

You turn to him. “What?”

“You checked the pills I gave you.” He started. “I thought that was a one off, maybe you being extra careful, but then you announced you were gonna shower with the door unlocked-“

You scoffed shakily. “Okay, I didn’t announce-“

“The point is…” He interrupted. “You’ve been…off tonight.”

You don’t know how to answer. You know that at this point, if you open your mouth, the tears will start free falling.

“You don’t have to explain.” Fuck him for always reading your mind. “But you just need to tell me you’re alright. No guest feels unsafe under this roof.”

“It’s not you.” You assure shakily, resting your chin on your knees. “It’s…a long story.”

He nodded, accepting again. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Um…” You suck in a breath through your nose. Here we go. The tube of toothpaste is squeezed. Your voice is slow, measured as you continue. “Remember about three weeks ago I went to Skyhaven?”

You began to unload. From the top. He knew of the explosion, the one you wrongfully blamed him for. The reminder of that moment brings a flash of mortified heat to your cheeks, expecting him to bring it up. You pause for it, the tease, the coy ‘Yes, kitten, I’m so bad,’ but it doesn’t come. His eyes just pave a delicate path down your face, waiting for you to continue. You watch them widen slightly when you tell him your childhood best friend survived, and that you found him up there. Your words shake and choke in your throat when you get to the next part, tears pricking the back of your eyes. You squeeze them shut, and feel a feather-light weight on your hand; his covering yours. A soft affirmation, a silent I’ve got you. The action is so tender, it pushes even more tears to your waterline. You purse your trembling lips at the gentleness of it all, the opposite of the force you two exuded over one another when you first met. You shoot him point blank in the chest, and he holds your hand like it’s precious gold.

“Sweetie…” He looks at you as if the sight of your face twisted in tears makes him violently ache. “Don’t cry.”

Which of course, makes you cry more. He closes the distance between you within a second, pulling you into his side. “I’m trying not to.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He whispers gently, rubbing his thumb over your bare shoulder, the collar of his shirt hanging off of you. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

It takes a few minutes to gather the words, because how exactly do you say, I think my best friend held me hostage in his home and slipped me pills but I think it’s not really him based on zero evidence?

His thumb stopped its soothing rhythm. “He what?”

You cringe and stammer. You feel caught, for some irrational reason. “I-I know what it sounds like, but-”

“No.” He shook his head, his tone still soft but firm. “No, you don’t have to protect him.” He has to bite back the snarl in his voice, fight to keep his words gentle. “Not after he does this…” He wipes a tear from your cheek, his fingers lingering on the skin for a moment. “Not after he does this to you.” His voice shakes alongside yours, for different reasons. “You don’t need to tell me anything more, but you don’t protect him, either.”

You look up at him, drawing in a deep breath. It makes you realize that’s exactly what you’ve been doing all this time, refusing to acknowledge it. While he was ruining you, you were protecting his memory. At the same time, though, what you know about the professor and Caleb’s abnormal behavior flipping like a switch makes you doubt it was fully him that did this to you. Even if it wasn’t, it doesn’t mean it didn’t affect you so deeply that you’re crying into the arms of the person you’d least expect. You watch his fists clench. “He didn’t…” A hesitation. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”

You vehemently shake your head and you could hear a small breath of relief. “It wasn’t like that.” You go to explain again, to defend him, but stop yourself. “It was so scary.” He breathes a deep sigh, tightening his arms around you.

“I know.” He whispers. “I know, sweet girl, but you were brave.”

You scoff tearfully. “No I wasn’t.”

“You’re here.” He pointed out, brushing his hand through your hair. “Not there. I know your prowess firsthand.”

A pathetic half-laugh exits your chest, followed by more sobs. He holds you even tighter as you cling to his grounding familiarity. He does that for as long as you need it, waiting patiently as he assures you you did the right thing, that you’re safe with him, that he could walk into Linkon and take you home right now, bounty be damned; whatever it is you need to hear.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers into your hair. Your head is atop his chest, laying down now. Your eyes are closed, and he can tell you’ve cried yourself to sleep. “Always have. Always will.”

When your breaths turn steady, he moves slightly to get his phone from his pocket. One hand on your back, the other on the keyboard, he types a message to Luke and Kieran.

Farspace Fleet Colonel. Lives in Skyhaven. Name’s caleb. Need any and all information there is to know ASAP.

Another message.

Boss Lady will not let you hurt him, as much as I am dreaming the different ways I could make him hurt right now. Do not go after him. Just watch.

Two pairs of thumbs up from the twins follow the message, not needing any further instruction or explanation. He locks his phone and leans his head against the pillow, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead. It’s quiet now, the only sound surrounding him are your soft breaths and Mephisto’s caws into the night as he suddenly takes a trip up north.

[logicpng]

so, i have some thoughts. i feel like the game doesn't explore doey much, so i'm gonna take that as an opportunity to stretch him a lil.

in short, i see him as neither one whole nor 3 kids in a trench coat, but something in the middle of the two: a grown up who never really got to experience a proper childhood, the 3 originals in a blend with each other.

the time between creation and game events likely is enough for them to learn how to cooperate (up until. yknow). collectively or individually though, goddamn they need therapy

[ Description in ALT, text transcribed under cut ]

1st image:

point at head with teeth peeking: teeth may show more subtly, particularly when mischevious

point at hat: hat always at an angle

point at hand: stubby hands omg <3

point at neck: neck constantly bent in some fashion

Generally friendly and curious, may be more closed off and bitter if kevin is more dominant.

Collectively an adult due to passage of time and gaining experience, but still retains some more childish traits due to isolation from outside world and trauma, both collective and individual (holy shit do they need therapy).

Parts operate more or less seamlessly, but depending on situation some may show more or less of their traits.

When stressed, cooperation between parts may break down.

2nd image:

Kevin

present strongest when angry, most of anger processing goes through him.

not actually angry/cranky all of the time though, just a bit more gruff/edgy compared to the other two. tends to show teeth when talking.

over the years learned to control his rage better, can redirect it into being a bit of a troll w/ the others

understandably, safe haven's destruction made him revert and lose all restraint, resulting in lashing out, mixed with extreme emotions from others.

Jack

loved doey strongest before conversion (rip), as such expressions tend to default to his

learned to cope with constantly fighting for survival by cracking jokes and being more optimistic

present strongest when happy, may speak more childishly when in distress or comfortable

reverts into reliving trauma of death and family loss with safe haven's destruction

Matt

present strongest when focused on the leader role, strikes a balance between kevin and jack

through time learned to focus more on necessary action rather than allowing to succumb to past guilt

definitely still very stressed out from responsibility, especially after poppy leaving, learned not to show it through cooperation with kevin and jack

safe haven's destruction just plunges him straight into a guilt spiral

Note pointing at bottom notes for each: safe haven's destruction is a massively traumatic event for them, resulting in the three regressing into child selves from distress, mixed in with emotions from individual traumatic memories

[boobav]

There was always something unspoken between you and Viktor.

After the attack, you were certain you'd never get the chance to explore it. Find the words, hidden as they were, bring them together into something satisfactory. With smoke in your throat and blood on your tongue, you'd seen Viktor in the rubble, barely comprehended the mumble of Jayce's voice through ringing ears.

You thought then that the words would never be spoken. The sentence never brought to fruition, whatever that may mean. A ripe fruit left to rot.

And, now, with Viktor alive, weary against your headboard and awfully silent, you think again that the words are a lost cause.

"Can I see?" Is all you ask.

He raises a hand, sinewy purple accented by pure gold, and lets his robe fall loose to pool around his hips.

There's no sensuality in the way you examine him. The way you eye every curve in the dim candlelight, every meeting of gold and purple, the shade failing to find a name in your mind. The way you shuffle forwards, almost unconsciously, the way his hand finds yours when you come to straddle him. The touch is hesitant, fearful, almost. He looks to you for assurance as though weaving his fingers through yours could somehow offend.

Your free hand finds his collarbone, his chest, sinks down to his torso with a terribly gentle touch.

"Does it hurt?"

"I don't think so."

His voice, the sweet tone you've grown so accustomed to, remains intact. Changed, in a way, by a humming undertone. A simmering of something powerful present even in voice. Your hand finds his face, the pale skin beneath your palm, and the sound he makes is quiet. A mix of confusion and pleasure. Your thumb runs over his cheek, your fingers knead through his hair.

He's afraid, or something close to that. The sensation you bring to him seems to closely match the definition of fear, the uncertainty of it all. He slips his hand from yours, lets it rest instead on the curve of your waist. On skin covered by cloth. He feels it safer that way. He seems, now, to feel everything acutely at once, and yet, to feel nothing in its entirety. Apathy and passion pressed together into an amalgam of unknowns.

Your touch seems to be the only certain reality. Your quiet questions. Your deep breaths, your steady heart. He raises his hand to feel it in your chest. Encased in bone and flesh, your life, so terribly delicate against him.

The words sit heavy on your tongue. You feel almost like this is your last chance to speak, like the Viktor visiting you now is a shadow. No more quiet afternoons in the laboratory. No more shared lunches and exchanged laughs. Simplicity shattered, for better or for worse. He feels the same. You see it in his eyes, in the way his lips part, in the way his brow furrows so subtly.

"I should've said it sooner," you say, faces close, both equally enraptured by the intricacies of expression, "I care about you a lot. I should've..."

His kiss is gentle. It fills you with warmth, makes your chest feel as though it were stuffed with flowers and ginger. When you part, you watch the colours of his eyes swirl, mumble honeyed words against his lips.

It's selfish, you know. Thanking the powers that be that his life was spared, however changed it may be, however against persistence he may seem.

His face falls to the crook of your neck. You hold him like an idol, a prized possession thought lost.

And you hope, so deeply it burns, that he too can feel warmth in his chest. His hands wrap around you, the stream of something you can't begin to comprehend running through the skin, and you pray solely that he can still feel the way you do.

That the words can still find meaning in his mind.

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

With his romance with Lavellan, Solas learned a horrific truth—that him simply as a humble man was enough to be lovable. He had been plied out of the Fade by Mythal because of her need for him, and out of devotion, he became something more and dreadful for himself, for her. And she never reciprocated that devotion with the same intensity. He spent millennia fighting for her as a thing he detested—a man of war and death, a being whose mortal body imbued him with innate qualities and emotions that would further twist his Wisdom nature. He was producing the very poisons that would normally corrupt a spirit by virtue of [Being a Person]. The external influences now harbored inside him.

But Lavellan showed him. That being you are, the one that wished to ponder and reminisce of spirits, who valued liberty and freedom and knowledge and the wry observation? That was enough. That was always enough. But he can’t accept it, because millennia of being Fen Harel, being devoted to Mythal and her cause.. to sunder it from himself would feel like a magnificent loss. He has been that for so long, is there anything yet truly left of the Wisdom spirit that once was?

Not only that, but given corporeality, Solas is compelled by the operant [If I can, I must]. He CAN do something about the Veil, so he will. If he doesn’t, then he is forsaking the memory of those he destroyed with his choice. He is forsaking his own principles. To do nothing in the face of injustice and cruelty is a sin he cannot bear.

He comes to the Inquisition as a “humble apostate”, both as disguise and because in his de-powered state he is of little greater use (if he had greater power I’m certain he would have nudged the Inquisition toward their goals). This is a costume he is wearing, or so he tells himself. He exists to advise, to suggest, to subtly direct toward more peaceful and humanitarian and spirit-friendly directives. He operates as something reminiscent of his former [Wisdom] spirit state.

And Lavellan grows to love it, to appreciate it. She grows to appreciate [Solas as Wisdom]. That part of him, the part of him that he has put aside for thousands upon thousands of years, though his nature craves to return to it. Without his ability to be Fen’Harel, it is pretty much all he has. And oh, this mayfly mortal born of a “forsaken ignorant people”, she is drawn to him, seeing him as a [man], seeing him at his (comparatively) weakest, most ineffectual state and finding it pleasing. Desirable. [Enough].

Enough. He is enough as Solas, simply Solas. But if it is enough for Lavellan, why was it not enough for Mythal? No, no, there was a reason. There was a war. War requires more of people. It requires limits to be broken and terrible mantles to be donned.

But Lavellan is fighting an existential war against Corypheus. And she does not demand more of him. She values what little he is able to provide—guidance, insight, his magic. It is [Enough].

We Solavellans have dissected and discussed at length about the nature of the relationship being one built on deceit, the moral and ethical quandary of love cultivated under a false identity. Veilguard has confirmed the existential struggle and quiet agony that Solas experienced by transitioning into [Being]. While Lavellan should of course had been informed of his ‘true identity’ before falling in love with him, an argument could still be made that Fen’Harel is not his true identity but a long-worn mask that he wishes he could ditch. The man Lavellan fell in love with is who he should be, who he wants to be. Far more underpowered than he’s comfortable with, sure, but the personality for certain. Just a person giving advice, discussing at length about topics he enioys, exploring memories and ruminating over them, smirking over small verbal sleights of hand and sly tricks, engaging in philosophical debates. All of that is already there, that is who he is in peacetime. The man has known war and conflict for so long that he has mentally split Solas and Fen’Harel as two people, because he needed to, but they are the same. Solas who wields the martial prowess of Fen’Harel. Fen’Harel who possesses the wry levity and artistic sentimentality of Solas. SOLAS YOU ARE BOTH AND MORE THAN THESE TWO HALVES.

[consultingfujoshi]

some thoughts wrt the two established "romances" in severance so far (burt/irving and helly/mark) inspired by @figmentof who pointed out how irving had to find out mark and helly kissed from the corporate video in s2 e1 and how he must have felt seeing his co-workers' love affair like portrayed like that, and how it ties into the queer narrative at play here which uses workplace dynamics and policies as very clear analogues for real-life prejudice against queer couples. I mean, just look at this:

it's not just documented, but celebrated. used as propaganda for how the conditions on the severance floor have improved. proof that the severed workers are happy. and how even though he is unaware of the sociopolitical meaning of all this, lumon is very not-subtly telling him that what he had with burt is inherently lower and less valuable than this.

irving doesn't even know homophobia exists and yet he is still affected by it, it still seeps into every corner of the way his and burt's romance progresses. burt is positioned as an unacceptable love interest from the jump. irv is actively discouraged at every turn from pursuing it. their friendship is viewed with disgust and apprehension from their coworkers. burt working in a different department that's hated by MDR. dylan himself not being homophobic in the sense he opposes their relationship because they're both men but his attempts to keep them apart still has a parallel sort of prejudice behind it and still ultimately has the same effect as if it WERE driven by homophobia. irving is made to feel perverse for wanting contact with burt. he's told this is for his own good.

and then, just as they manage to overcome that immediate resistance from their peers and escape to a place where they can explore this blossoming romance on their own terms, burt retires. for all it matters to irv, he's dead. and then irving is given the option to live the rest of his life with grief that will never heal, or kill himself too, because there is no reality where they get to be together. that's just the way things are. of course they wouldn't get to be together. he was unreasonable and childish for ever hoping that could happen. this is just the way it goes for innies. he's told to get ahold of himself and not make a scene.

but the thing is, the standards are not the same for all. a heterosexual romance gets upheld as the shining example of success and fulfilment for the severed employees, whilst a homosexual romance is ridiculed and invalidated, and written off as something that was simply never meant to be. and even more importantly to irving, a heterosexual romance is APPROVED OF by lumon, and by extension, by kier. irv held back from allowing himself to even call his and burt's relationship a romance, because his god had told him it was wrong, he followed the handbook, thinking this was what kier wanted, and then finding out after suffering the worst heartbreak imaginable because of it, that this WASN'T EVEN TRUE. it's simply just that someone like HIM doesn't get to have something like this. his love is not the kind of love god wants. he does not approve of irv's love. cynical and manipulative though that approval may be (even within the context of the corporate video, the helly/mark romance is only being celebrated to further the narrative that lumon care for their workers, but the point still remains that it was THEIR romance specifically used to suit this end), when your entire life has been in pursuit of that approval, it must be devastating to learn it was never on the cards for you.

he and burt even used the fact kier met and fell in love with his wife in the same circumstances as them to justify this to each other - and they were RIGHT, god does approve of falling in love with your coworkers - this simply just doesn't apply to them specifically. and if irving needed any more proof that he no longer has a place at lumon, that he's better off not existing at all than existing with this pain that cannot be remedied, pain that won't even be acknowledged for what it is, a symptom of a sickness which plagues the entire severance system, pain that he is simply expected to choke down and get over - this is that proof.

and that's the POINT. they're TELLING us that this is unjust, and there's a double standard. they're using the ways the innies experience romance and the difference in lumon's reaction (lumon being the collective of all the management we've seen, lumon as a singular entity) to burt/irving vs helly/mark to comment on how queer people are not afforded the same level of respect or validation IN REAL LIFE, for their attachments, their love, their pain, their suffering. it is NOT just incidental that irving's romance is with a man. it would not WORK if his love interest was a woman. the POINT is that they are both men and how that puts them at a disadvantage, even if they aren't aware of the prejudices of the outside world, even if they don't TECHNICALLY apply on the severance floor, there are very clear analogues which still end up oppressing them in equivalent ways that they would be suffering if this were a normal workplace in the outside world.

it genuinely sickens me to my stomach that even in a world so divorced from reality and the sensibilities of regular society, a queer couple is still made to suffer and feel inferior in a way that perfectly mirrors their real-life counterparts. how they will never, EVER be allowed to exist in a world where their love could thrive freely and uninhibited - they never get to taste the joy our world has to offer people like them, but they are still somehow subjected to all the pain it has to offer them regardless. it's such horrifically devastating writing. it makes my skin crawl. I can't stop thinking about it

[lyvhie]

hi!! I read your nct dream x reader who's shy during sex and as a haechan bias UGH. I busted. /j but fr, I need to see more on meanie haechan x shy reader, any thoughts?? :3

on my terms | lee donghyuck

lee haechan x fem!reader (18+ mdni) ꒰ summary ꒱ haechan likes to have fun with you. ꒰ a/n ꒱ HIIIII ANON!! ok, so, um, i'm also totally in love (obsessed) with haechan and, haha, this was supposed to be super short, but i kinda got a little carried away oops! BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOY!! ꒰ cw ꒱ smut, fingering, mirror sex, praise, edging, pet names (baby, pretty girl, love, good girl).

haechan would have the time of his life with a shy girlfriend, teasing you would be his favorite pastime. a simple kiss, whether in public or private, would be enough to make you crumble, burying your face in his chest as if that could somehow make you invisible, sex wouldn't be any different.

what he enjoyed most, though, was the process of getting you there. he'd spend the entire day building anticipation, teasing you at every opportunity. his kisses would linger just a little longer, his tongue brushing against yours with a tenderness that felt almost deliberate, as though he were savoring you. his hands would explore your body in the same slow, calculated way, teasing the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath it to let his fingertips graze your warm skin, sending shivers through you. then, they'd trail down your thighs, lingering close enough to your core to drive you wild, but soon withdrawing it.

just that, and he already had you in the palm of his hand. it wouldn't take long before you found yourself subtly grinding against his thigh while cuddling, trying to play it off as innocent but failing miserably. you wanted him to notice your desires, yet you were far too embarrassed to openly admit it. of course, he was fully aware of what you were doing, he always was. after all, he'd orchestrated the entire situation. but he loved to pretend he was engrossed in the boring movie playing on the screen, just to see how long you'd last before finally breaking and telling him what you wanted.

occasionally, he'd shift his leg ever so slightly, pretending it was just to get comfortable, but it would send a jolt through you, making your breath hitch. he'd smirk to himself, knowing exactly what he was doing.

finally, when you couldn't stand it anymore, you'd whisper his name, your voice shaky and almost inaudible. "hyuck...” he'd hum in response, his gaze still fixed on the screen as though he hadn't noticed the way your hands gripped his shirt or the way your breath grew uneven. "what is it, baby?" his tone was casual, teasing, as if he didn't have you squirming in his lap.

you'd hesitate, biting your lip, unsure of how to put your thoughts into words. he'd shift his attention to you, finally locking eyes with you. "do you need something, pretty?" his voice low and dripping with amusement as his hands rested lightly on your hips, fingers teasingly brushing your skin. "or were you just planning to keep using my thigh like that?"

his words would make you freeze, your face now fully buried in his chest to hide yourself. his hand would tilt your chin up gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. “c'mon," he'd coax, his lips brushing yours in the softest tease. "you've been so bold all night... don't get shy on me now.”

you knew he wouldn't give you what you wanted unless you said it out loud, but the thought of voicing your need felt impossible. still, a small part of you hoped he'd have mercy this time and let you off the hook. "fine, baby," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, his tone mockingly sweet. "since you won't tell me, you can keep using me like you were. but don't expect me to help."

his words sent a jolt through you, and you instinctively clutched at his shirt, your grip tight as you leaned closer. "n-no, hyuck, please!" you blurted out, your voice trembling.

“oh? are you this desperate, my love?” he murmured, his voice dripping with the same mock affection as his hand cupped your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. you felt a pang of embarrassment at the way he worded it. “just tell me what you want, and i’ll give it to you, hm?” he coaxed, his tone soft, almost soothing, yet laced with that familiar teasing edge that always left you reeling.

his proximity, his touch, his voice—it was all too much, and yet not enough. a small pout curled on your lips as you looked at him with wide, pleading eyes, but it did nothing to unsettle him, despite the way it made his heart race.

you parted your trembling lips, finally gathering the courage to voice your need. "i... i want you," you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut as the words left your mouth. they weren't explicit, nor were they clear, but they were the most you could manage in that moment.

donghyuck couldn't help but grin at the sight. god, you were so adorable. "see? was that so hard?" he teased, leaning in to place a soft kiss on your lips. the simple gesture did wonders to ease your nerves, reassuring you that he was pleased with your request and didn't expect more. his hands moved to your thighs, gently tracing the inner side until his fingers brushed against your clothed center, causing you to gasp. "if my babe wants me so badly, who am i to say no?”

and just when you thought things would turn tender, that he might finally give you what you craved, you were met with a cruel twist, exactly as haechan liked.

"look at this," he cooed into your ear, his tone dripping with mockery. "you're such a mess, love."

he wasn't wrong. your reflection in the mirror said it all—disheveled hair, tear-streaked cheeks, and trembling body laid bare in his control. behind you, his chest pressed firmly against your back as his fingers slid torturously slow along the slick, swollen slit of your cunt. his hand glistened with your arousal, a damning evidence of how much you wanted him, even as your weak moans turned into frustrated whimpers.

his fingers teased your entrance but never dipped inside, never gave you the satisfaction you so desperately craved. your legs shook from the strain of being spread so widely, the position leaving you completely exposed to both him and the mirror. every movement, every reaction, was laid bare for his hungry eyes. and still, all he did was edge you, over and over again, driving you to the brink before cruelly pulling back.

your head fell back against his shoulder, seeking some reprieve, but his hand quickly found your chin, gripping it firmly and guiding your gaze back to the mirror. "eyes here," he commanded, his voice low and sharp as his dark eyes met yours in the reflection. "you keep looking away, that's why i can't make you feel good, princess," a shiver ran through you as his lips brushed against your neck, nibbling softly before soothing the spot with a tender kiss. "if you keep your eyes here," he murmured, his voice almost sweet, "i promise i'll let you finish, hm? do we have a deal?”

you nodded desperately, your eyes wide and pleading as they stayed locked on the mirror, his grin widened, his satisfaction evident. it was almost humiliating-there you were, utterly bare before him, your body trembling with need, while he remained fully clothed, looking effortlessly composed. you felt so exposed, so vulnerable, more than you ever thought possible.

"that's it, baby," he cooed, his voice dripping with approval as his hand trailed down your body. his fingers found your folds, parting them slowly, deliberately, to showcase your dripping, swollen cunt in the reflection. "look at this," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “so beautiful, and all of it just for me, my love."

he kept you spread open, his other arm wrapped around your waist to keep you steady as a single finger traced up your slick slit, gathering your arousal. the soft glide sent a tremor through your body, a broken moan falling from your lips.

"you see that?" he teased, his gaze flickering between your reflection and the mess between your legs. "this perfect little pussy is calling for me, listen to these lewd sounds,” he hummed in approval.

you might've wanted to crawl out of your skin from the vulnerability of it all if it weren't for the intoxicating pleasure he was finally granting you. after craving him the entire day, every small touch he gave your core felt like salvation. haechan's satisfied smile deepened when you kept your gaze fixed on the mirror, obediently following his instructions. it seemed you'd earned a reward.

“mhm, keep looking, love," he murmured, his teeth grazing your earlobe before he slid a single finger inside you. the intrusion, after being deprived for so long, made you gasp sharply, a loud, unrestrained moan escaping your lips. his brows lifted slightly in surprise at the sound, and then his grin turned wicked. "oh, would you look at that," he teased, his tone dripping with delight. "what a beautiful sound you just made, pretty girl.”

his lips pressed to your neck, trailing soft kisses along your skin as he felt his cock stir in his pants. usually, it took him more effort to coax you out of your shy reluctance to let your moans escape freely. despite always telling you how much he loved hearing you, how lovely and utterly sinful those sounds were, it still took time. but right now? right now, you couldn't hold back if you tried.

he groaned softly as he felt the tight grip of your walls clench around his finger, proof of just how much you'd been aching for him. "so eager," he cooed, easing a second finger inside. the stretch had your back arching slightly, your hands gripping his thighs to steady yourself as he began to pump in and out of you with a steady, deliberate pace.

the slick sounds of your arousal filled the room, mixing with your soft cries of pleasure, and the sight in the mirror was almost too much to handle. his fingers worked you expertly, the angle perfect, and you couldn't tear your eyes away from the way he used your body.

"there you go," he praised, his voice low and husky. "see how good you look taking me? keep watching, princess," and to your own surprise, you found yourself liking it, relishing the way he made you feel both vulnerable and desired, the heat between you building into something unbearable and addictive.

his free hand slid upward, cupping your breast with a firm grip. he kneaded the soft flesh, his fingers finding your hardened nipple and pinching it sharply, sending a jolt of pleasure coursing through your body. your eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, and your head fell back onto his shoulder, baring your neck to him. it was an open invitation, one he didn't hesitate to accept, pressing hot kisses and gentle bites against your exposed skin, leaving faint marks.

he could feel how your breathing hitched, hear the soft whimpers that grew louder with each passing second, and notice the slight tremble in your thighs as you grew more desperate. your moans became high-pitched, barely restrained, and he knew you were close.

his thumb found your clit, rubbing it in tight, quick circles as his fingers plunged into you faster and deeper. the dual stimulation was too much, driving you to the edge you'd been teetering on for what felt like forever.

“you're gonna cum already, baby?" he purred, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. "y-yes," you mewled, your voice breathy and trembling. "f-feels so good, hyuck."

your head felt like it was floating in the clouds, every nerve in your body alight with sensation as his relentless pace pushed you closer and closer to release. his grip on you tightened, anchoring you to him as he guided you toward the inevitable.

"that's my girl," he praised, his tone dripping with approval. "come on, love. let go for me. i want to feel you."

it was so good, too good. the pleasure was overwhelming, and you could feel the knot in your core tightening, ready to snap and finally give you the release you'd been chasing. Your body trembled, your breath caught, and just as the wave of ecstasy began to crest, he slowed. his fingers stilled, pulling back ever so slightly, leaving you teetering agonizingly on the edge.

a broken, frustrated cry escaped your lips, filling the room. he chuckled softly, the sound dark and full of amusement, as he nipped at your ear. "n-no, no, no, hyuck, please," you cried out, your voice trembling with desperation. your hips bucked instinctively, seeking the friction he'd just stolen away, but he was quicker.

“ah, ah," he tsked, removing his hand just enough to deliver a sharp, teasing slap to your soaked cunt, the sting making you gasp. "don't be greedy," he scolded gently, though the smirk on his lips betrayed how much he enjoyed your reaction.

your thighs quivered as you tried to press them together, the lingering ache of denied pleasure making you feel helpless. his other hand gripped your jaw, tilting your face up so you could see the glint of mischief in his eyes through the mirror. "you'll get what you want," he promised, his voice low and teasing. "but on my terms, love. be patient.”

tears of frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you nodded weakly, your need for him overpowering any resistance. his fingers returned to your entrance, moving slower this time, deliberately building the tension back up. "good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “now, let's see if you can behave.”

↝ taglist: @yizhrt, @sinisxtea, @peterm4rker.

[directdogman]

A few words about the upcoming Olandy route!

First of all, want to quickly apologize for the relative quietness on my part as of late. I'm still in the middle of an international move right now and I'm officially on the final bureaucratic stage before I can physically pack up and complete the move. I've gotten quotes from moving companies, found a good service for Salvage's transport (which was a challenge in of itself) and now I'm just waiting for the final legal paperwork to process. Combined with my recent stint in hospital (my heart did something zany) and preparing for an upcoming merch campaign whose launch month was decided at the start of the year, you may see why I'm behind my own schedule. I can however confirm that work is still on-going... just slower than I'd like. However, I've taken this partial hiatus in production to think over the route and make sure it'll be as conceptually solid as I can make it.

One concern I'd like to address because I've seen it mentioned a few times is the fear that the route may veer into fan service territory in terms of characterization/scene content and I'm hoping I can put those fans at ease. I understand these concerns. The very concept of an Olandy route does seem kind of rife for this sort of thing. The thing is though, the idea for an Olandy route was a cut concept from DT's basegame, when I thinking of ways to double up characters in order to have more three-way dialogue scenes.

Obviously, given that a whole route was cut from the game, this idea ended up in the same nether-sphere as the other potential route ideas, like the Fusco route. But, this was an idea that I considered long before the Olandy ship gained popularity and that's why I was eager to tease the idea after release. I get many requests for routes with characters like Harry, Peter, which would undeniably sell well, but that I'd really have to headscratch to think of a way to make work. My point is, I'm only interested in ideas that I'm confident in.

Would Randy and Oliver completely work as partners? There's points for and against it. Do they have a strong/unique dynamic? Definitely. Randy is someone who looks to others for comfort/confidence and he's not good at dealing with things alone or without guidance. Oliver is confident in himself and very much a pack animal, who loves receiving validation/affection and feeling useful. This roughly explains why they veer towards each other even without considering stuff like romantic/behavioural compatibility.

As for the route itself, my main goal with their dynamic is to give an honest exploration of each character and to show a side of each not seen in their route, while also staying consistent to who they both are. It's important to note that this isn't just a Randy-Oliver route, but very much a Randy-Oliver-Gingi route. You shouldn't worry that the route will be sappier or more romantically heavy than the other routes as I'm actually including an option to play the route completely platonically and both options won't be too dissimilar outside of certain dialogue lines from both characters.

The key thing here is that I'm writing the route just like any other DT route and my main focus is having fun scenes where the characters talk about themselves in order to compare and contrast the differences/similarities between each character within the trio. There are scenes where Oliver is serious and confides in Gingi. There are scenes where we see Randy's insecurity/cowardice paint him in a bad light.

The DLC will also not replace either of their routes, and will instead aim to emphasis traits + backstory each character has that's kind of implied subtly in each of their routes, but not specifically outlined, to give you a more well-rounded view of each character. So, my goal is certainly not to flanderize, but quite the opposite. I want to give a deeper view on each character that's consistent with previous characterization, by further explaining why each character is the way they are and providing more context to stuff mentioned in Randy/Oliver's main routes. Oh, and advancing Gingi's character further, akin to in Roger's route.

(And before you ask, yes, I do have a similar plan for Karen later on, but I have a very specific idea of where it makes sense to put it as it's a much more involved project than a simple DLC. It will definitely take longer to pull off. But, her day will come.)

So, yeah! Obviously Roger's route took care to display the datables in their cameos with the nuance they have in the basegame. From Randy's impurity (willingness to be part of a con), Oliver potentially freaking Gingi out and being unsure of himself upon meeting it, Karen cracking a spontaneous joke (and it not landing), etc. It's important to me that I don't flanderize these characters or reduce them to their outermost traits.

I'm still not 100% confident in the route draft, but that's a given. I never am. But, I can say, I'm really excited for people to see the character stuff I have in mind for Randy, Oliver + Gingi, particularly what's revealed about both in the heart to heart in the good ending. You have a rough idea of what to expect from the route as per previous routes and while this one won't be nearly as large as Roger's route, I still wanna make it the best experience it can be for you all. Thank you! :)

[lqfiles]

✰ dating lee mark.

a companion for life.

dating mark comes with an unspoken loyalty towards you. mark would root for you no matter, even if you aren’t aware that he is. he’d do everything in his capacity to make sure that life goes your way, because mark wants to see you thrive and be happy. whether it be opportunities or any other events in your life, mark would attempt to help you out in whatever way he can. doing research on work fields that you’re interested in during his free time and coincidentally bringing up how there is a job near your place that you could apply for. or, you could complain to mark on the phone how it had started being burdensome to get up in the mornings and prepare your stuff, and wake up the next day to a small note and a lunch box on your kitchen counter that mark had placed there for you, encouraging words written on them. if no one is on your side, you know that at least mark is.

attempting a new lifestyle (just for you).

mark is someone who has a set routine in life, a schedule that he follows daily. he’s a person who knows what he does and doesn’t like, but with you, he doesn’t think a little change can hurt. mark would rarely have the time to go out and enjoy the outside world. you on the other hand, love to explore, which is how mark finds himself getting dragged by the hand as you show him your favourite places. mark, who is scared of heights, but would let you lead him to the top of a building because you like the view up there. he knows he doesn’t enjoy the taste of ketchup, yet he’d keep quiet and let you feed him the french fries drizzled in it. mark who’s world revolves around his work and work ethic doesn’t think he’d mind making space for your world in his own.

nonchalant jealousy.

anyone can point out when mark is jealous. it would start with prolonged stares towards you, a hidden confusion in his eyes as he flashes you a small smile from across the room. walking over towards you before interrupting whatever conversation you were having with the person across you. inching closely towards you, before draping an arm around you shoulder, introducing himself towards the stranger. tugging you away with an excuse along the words of ‘having to show you something’. a nervous laughter as he’d ask you “is that your friend? i’ve never seen him.” by now it’s hard for you to hold back your laughter and you’d have to assure mark that nothing was going on. you can hear the sigh of relief under his breath before another more playful chuckle leaves him. yes, mark was jealous, he’d never admit it though.

how he asked you out.

mark most likely wouldn’t even realise at first that he is crushing on you, only when one of his friends points out how he is not-so-subtly glancing at you every minute with the suggestion that perhaps he might have a thing for you, would it click in his head that “damn, i do have a crush on you”. mark would try to impress you a lot and flatter you without directly telling you that he likes you. by doing so, he’d observe your reactions and slowly build up the courage to ask you out on a date. he’d take you out to the fanciest restaurant he could find and treat you with more gifts afterwards, whatever your eyes land on, he’d immediately ask if you wanted it. the date would end with him driving you back home, asking you if you enjoyed the date. he’d confess right then and there that he’d love to go on a second date if you’d like it too. fortunately for him, you’re crushing on him just as much as he is on you!

kisses.

kissing mark feels like having your breath taken away from you as his kisses always have an underlying passion to it. he’d cave in softly at first, testing the waters and getting the both of you comfortable. his hand would rest under your chin as he’d tug you to himself. the kiss grows more passionate after a while, proximity closing between you two. you’d think the room was burning with the warmth that travels through your body as mark deepens the kiss, his arms around your body by now pressing you against him. his kisses taste like sweet love and desperate lust. you’d think its because mark hasn’t seen you for a while, but instead its because he just can’t help himself when it comes to you. mark’s love for you shows through the heated kiss shared between you two that feels like it lasts the whole night, and quite frankly, neither of would want the intimate moment to end anytime soon.

[notafunkiller]

Bucky Barnes is the best super soldier

How it was subtly emphasized in The Falcon and The Winter Soldier:

He always holds back

With the Flag Smashers and even with John Walker. We could see the difference in the last 3 episodes. Sebastian Stan did an incredible job making it clear in a subtle way.

I want to mention that famous "Stay there" scene, and how it was visible Bucky was not punching as hard as he can in the fight with John.)

This is the thing about Bucky, he isn't after the kill, he just does his part. He doesn't try to show off his skills or that he is a good guy. He doesn't try to play the victim role, either. In the scene where Zemo fake-activates the Winter Soldier in Madripoor, he just makes a point. He's obviously not even trying hard.

If he wanted those in the club dead, they would be. But his self control was wow. Sebastian acted so well, his exes said everything.

*And to be honest, even when he was TWS, he could have killed everyone, but he didn't. He could have killed all of the Avengers in Civil War is they were his mission, but they weren't. This is how Natasha survived when she met him, too. It depended on what kind of mission he had (if he wasn't allowed to be seen, then the witnesses would die too, but otherwise? He didn't bother).

2. His skills

People tend to forget how smart and good at making strategies Bucky is. He's been fighting (even though he hates fighting and never wanted to be in the army) for years before he was even captured by Hydra. And this is the reason why government still want him, after all. They can use his strategies as a leader (*cough* Thunderbolts *cough*).

In the last episodes of TFATWS, we could see how he outsmarted everyone. Karli was so terrified of him.

3. Karli Morgenthau

And talking about Karli, the phone call was interesting:

She asked him if he's not tired of fighting for the wrong side, and then told him she's fighting for something bigger than herself.

"And with all the bodies you've collected, have you ever been able to say the same?"

The first thing I wanna point out is how everyone talks about the deaths Bucky caused when he was controlled by Hydra, but everyone ignores the fact that all the Avengers killed far more, but since we consider them the good side, we just don't care.

Clint, Tony, Steve, Wanda etc. They all cause(d) far more deaths than "two dozen" (known assassinations - to quote Natasha), and neither was controlled. The double standards are something else, especially for Clint. (One of the reasons why Tony was on the other side in CW was because of his guilt, after all.)

The second point is how Bucky's answer says a lot more than we might realize at first:

"You don't think I ever fought for something bigger than myself? That's all I ever tried to do, and I failed twice."

Even as TWS, Bucky had to be convinced he is on the right side, that what they do is to save the world, to give "the world the freedom it deserves".

Even brainwashed and put to sleep all the time, he had to be lied to. Bucky as TWS was a victim too. He is not a victim only because he didn't have memories or control, but also because they lied to him and used him as a toy. That milk scene is so loud. (And I am gonna talk about it in a different post). He had no rights, no choices. He was used to being tortured.

[And I wish they explored it more. We deserved and deserve a WS film - maybe with him in Romania getting back his memories, writing in his journal etc.]

"You think your cause justifies all this death, but in the end, the nightmares won't go away. You're gonna remember all the ones you killed. Trust me. Don't do this. Don't go down this path."

Despite being on opposite sides, Bucky still said this to Karli, trying to help her, to make her see the big picture, sharing how he felt and feels.

He is on "the right side". He is a hero, and Bucky being thanked by that man for saving everyone's life was touching.

4. Baron Zemo

You can see how smart, strong, and rational Bucky is when he decides to break Zemo out of jail (his plan was amazing too), risking so much (his relationship with Wakanda people and his own freedom) to get his help for the mess. He puts the cause above his own (huge) trauma. And this makes that moment in Madripoor even more disgusting (he is treated as an object, as a toy):

Zemo: Tell us what you know about the super-soldier serum. And I give you him, along with the code words to control him, of course. He will do anything you want.

The way he keeps his composure, reacts and manages the situation... absolutely incredible!

This conversation also says a lot:

Zemo: The desire to become a superhuman cannot be separated from supremacist ideals. Anyone with that serum is inherently on that path.

Bucky: Maybe you're wrong, Zemo. The serum never corrupted Steve.

Zemo: Touché. But there has never been another Steve Rogers, has there?

Bucky positions himself below Steve, who's considered a good hero, a good person... like no other. But Steve never had to go through what Bucky did: from being kidnapped like that, to being tested on, to falling off the train, to being tortured, and used, and brainwashed for decades, and put to sleep when he was not needed and having n "keepers".

Also, interesting how all Steve wanted was to fight (for a good cause, but still)... and fighting still means violence, meanwhile Bucky never wanted to fight, not even before becoming TWS, in the army (and yet he is still great at fighting. And he is deadly, even when he holds back.). All he wanted was peace.

Despite not getting the "perfect serum", despite being brainwashed, put to sleep, and forced to fight for decades, he is still himself. He never gave in to the dark side for real. He fought in his own way. The first thing he did when he woke up was to choke the Hydra guy with a whole new arm!

Bucky is so underrated: from his intelligence and fighting skills, to how human he is. Being flawed, keeping his sassiness and charm from the 40s, but getting more mature and carrying his past on his shoulders... he's so relatable and real. And every day, he shows Zemo he is wrong.

The show he makes in his final scene with Zemo is absolutely fantastic. He doesn't just prove the point he isn't defined by the serum and Hydra (AND not even by Steve, thanks to Sam. His speech made him realize the important thing about himself: that he decides who he is, not others - even those who know him before becoming TWS- "And this might be a surprise, but it doesn't matter what Steve thought. You gotta stop looking to other people to tell you who you are." parallel to "Steve believed in you. He trusted you. He gave you that shield for a reason. That shield, that is… that is everything he stood for. That is his legacy. He gave you that shield, and you threw it away like it was nothing. [...] So maybe he was wrong about you. And if he was wrong about you, then he was wrong about me."), but also that he is superior.

When Zemo tells him that he decided to let him alive (probably so he can kill Karli) and basically calls him a killing machine: "programmed to kill", Bucky plays the role, lets Zemo talk him into killing Karli, and then Bucky watches him waiting for his own death.

[Also, Bucky's line: Imagine my relief is hilarious.]

The acting was incredible: the shock on Zemo's face and the amusement and somehow relief on Bucky's after he pulls the trigger and lets the bullets fall... He proved him he's THE standard of the super soldier. Because despite everything he went through, he is the best.

Zemo telling him to cross his name off felt like a fresh start (+ telling Nakajima the truth).

5. John Walker

John, on the other hand, is lucky Bucky is an understanding person. He gets what is like... the pressure, the environment, the loss, and even tries to help.

Bucky: Don't go down that road. Believe me, it doesn't end well.

John: I'm not like you!

Of course he is not like Bucky, because Bucky has control. He is not killing to get revenge in a cynical way.

"That serum doesn't exactly have a great track record."

John kept judging Bucky every time they spoke, somehow placing himself above this "broken" man.

"This is all really easy for you, isn't it? All that serum runnin' through your veins. Barnes, your partner needs backup in there. Do you really want his blood on your hands?"

This is so wrong on every single level, especially because Bucky didn't choose to take the serum, and he always had his friends' back. He's loyal and ready to sacrifice himself.

The "funny" part about this is John ending up taking the last super soldier serum vial. All the judgement, the disgust, the patronizing tone, just to do that. Plus, of course, to kill someone with the shield.

(John proves Zemo's point about super soldiers, and Bucky does the opposite.)

And what is it easy for Bucky anyway?

He's under government conditions (so CACW coded), he has a vibranium arm that I bet the government would try to take after he dies (HOPEFULLY WHEN HE'S 200 YEARS OLD IN HIS BED, as Sebastian wants too) if he isn't in Wakanda, he is haunted by nightmares (which also can mean he is still Hydra's TWS in another universe as we found out from Strange), and he has to learn how to live for real. He's smart, charismatic, has values and principles, and he's incredible.

We need to see his version of TWS going after everyone Hydra helped. TWS is him, a part of him, and doing that on his terms, having control over it would help him heal.

[hgfictionwriter]

Discovery: Part Six

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: With another revelation behind you, Jessie and you continue your exploration of one another and learn even more about each other.

Warnings: G!P content. Smut. A lot of smut. Penetrative sex, risky sex, breeding/preg kink, possessive sex and language, final lingering themes of rejection.

A/N: I've been absolutely blown away by the interest in this fic. Thank you so much everyone - I hope it's met your expectations. If not - message me, maybe something can be done. And again, thank you to @hoe4sports for the original prompt. Rest of the series is here.

"So...condoms," you finally said.

"Yeah...," Jessie replied slowly as she looked up at you, worry plain on her face. "I'm sorry," she added in a low voice.

You frowned in return. "What for?"

"Um," Jessie's gaze flicked away momentarily before returning to meet yours. "For making things even more difficult." Your face screwed up further.

"There's nothing to apologize for," you assured her as you removed one of her hands from your hips and brought it up to your lips to kiss. "I mean, that would be the equivalent of you telling me I need to apologize for having periods or ovaries," you finished with a faint smirk. Jessie was slow to respond, but eventually allowed a half smile to form on her face.

"I suppose that's true," she finally conceded.

You released her hand, Jessie letting it fall to your thigh and caressing you idly there as you held your chin in thought. Before she could inquire, you swung your leg over her and got off the bed to rummage in the back of your nightstand drawer.

Jessie's brow furrowed in curiosity as she watched you. She was about to inquire when you spoke abruptly, surprising her.

"Oh my God! I knew I there must've been some reason I kept this," you said as you suddenly revealed a condom to her. "My ex used them on her strap," you explained. "I guess it's probably about a year old?"

"Oh," Jessie replied as she reached out for it. "Well, that works." She had to laugh internally. Here you were looking thrilled and here she was trying not to imagine you with some ex getting pounded into the mattress.

"So, you still want to keep going?" She asked one more time.

"Yeah," you answered as if she'd asked something ridiculous. "Do you?"

Jessie gave a light laugh as she glanced down at her still-swollen cock. "Yeah, I'd say I'm still good to go."

You chuckled in approval and she smirked as she brought the package up to her mouth and tore off the top with her teeth. You climbed onto the bed and knelt next to her as she slid the condom over the tip of her cock and rolled it down.

Once it was in place, she looked to you. "So, uh, do you want to be on top again? Then you can, you know, set the pace and such, if you want..."

While she felt confident not even 10 minutes ago, the weight of what you two were about to do was suddenly back upon her. If her sudden uncertainty irked you, you didn't show it.

"Sure," you said, unbothered, as you straddled her once more.

Jessie held her cock for you and you reached down to grasp it as well. She let go right away.

"Oh, yeah, go ahead," she said as she pulled her hand back and rest it on your thigh. You smiled at her and adjusted your position above her.

Jessie bit back a moan as the tip of her cock, though sheathed, pressed against your wet and luscious folds before you settled her at your entrance. She could feel the immense heat through the condom already and exhaled steadily through her nose. Her eyes were locked on how you held her length, poised at your entrance before you started to slowly sink down.

She exhaled through her mouth subtly as she felt you start to stretch around the head of her cock. The way your hot core wrapped around her already felt astounding, combined with the visual of her member ever so slowly slipping inside of you had her blood pumping.

You were tight - so tight - she wanted to groan, to toss her head back, but instead she settled with simply squeezing your thigh and tightening her jaw.

You paused, just the tip of Jessie inside of you at this point. She looked up at you.

"Are you okay? Is this alright?" She asked.

"Yeah," you said in a breathy voice and offered her a smile. "You're just...," your eyes flit away sheepishly, "bigger, than what I normally play with."

"Oh," Jessie said, her face starting to burn hot immediately.

"I also don't typically do much in the way of penetration," you added.

"Oh, well, we don't have to," she offered right away - though the thought of pulling out and ending this now was the last thing she wanted. "Or, you know, take your time - take all the time you need. Is there anything I can do?"

"Jess," you chided mildly through a soft laugh. "I want this. I really do. I'm just taking a moment to adjust. But believe me, I'm jealous of the view you have right now. I'd love to see you sinking inside of me."

"Ffff," Jessie nearly cursed, her hands kneading your thighs once more and you smiled triumphantly at her reaction.

She was going to say something, but you sunk down further onto her. Again, Jessie fought the urge to react to how blissful it felt to feel your walls swallow her, soft and oh so warm, fluttering around her as you breathed and moved. This time, your mouth fell open and your eyes shut as she filled you up and it was did nothing but encourage her.

You hadn't sunk down all the way, but you lifted yourself back up until just her tip was inside of your tight entrance. The movement, your tunnel gripping her and trying to keep her inside of you as you lifted yourself, felt beyond incredible.

This time when you sunk down, you did so quicker and sunk down further - almost to the hilt, but not quite. Jessie exhaled through her lips as she moved her hands to your hips.

You rose up once more, again, taking all of Jessie's concentration to not get lost in the feeling before you sank down - all the way this time, bottoming out and resting on her hips.

"Oh shit," you breathed, your hands gripping her forearms. She was about to ask if you were okay when you rose up and sank down again. "Oh my gosh, you are stretching me out. It's good," you added quickly, holding out a hand in defense, anticipating her line of questions with a laugh. "It's," you gave a cock of your head, "really good." You came to in a way and looked at her. "Are you okay? I didn't even ask."

"Oh. I'm good," she said, trying not to laugh. As if she'd be anything but good.

"Okay," you chuckled as you raised an eyebrow, teasing. "Well. How about we get you to something better than 'good'."

"I don't think you need to worry about that," she told you and any further thoughts ceased as you leaned forward, placing your hands on her shoulders and allowing your hips to move forward enough that she nearly slipped out before you dropped your hips once more.

"Oh, and I should say, same as before," you said softly, "if I'm doing anything you don't like or if there's something else you want me to do, just say so."

Jessie shook her head, slow to pull her eyes away from how your hips were moving. She cleared her throat and looked you in the eyes. "I love everything you're doing. And same - tell me if you don't like anything or want something else."

You nodded rapidly, but didn't seem that focused on her words. Your eyes were now closed again as you rolled your hips against hers.

Soon, your tentative movements were long gone and you were steadily riding her cock, rocking up and down, your mouth agape and eyes closed as you moaned now and then, your head falling back and your breasts swaying. Jessie reached up and grasped both of your breasts in her palms, massaging them and gently pinching your nipples. You moaned further, your hands coming up to hers and encouraging her to knead them even harder.

In time, Jessie found herself subconsciously flexing her hips to meet yours as you fell back to her. The heady moan you released the first time she did it encouraged her and she grasped your hips and continued to meet your gyrations.

"Oh fuck, that's so good, Jess," you praised as she pumped up into you. She bit back a smile at how the sound of your skin on hers started to fill the room. She could hear how wet you were; though it was never a question as she slid in and out of you with ease despite how you gripped every inch of her.

Jessie's stamina was usually one of her strong suits. However, no matter what, given how long it'd been since she'd been with someone, tonight was going to be a challenge. Never mind the fact that she was in love with you, you loved her back, and despite what she'd been expecting this morning, here you were on top of her, making love to her and you looked at her with warmth and want.

Despite the reprieve your earlier blowjob had given her, she wasn't going to last long. She had to make sure you came.

She reached inward with one hand to rest her thumb on your clit and began to circle it gently. Your jaw dropped further and you let a small cry, opening your eyes briefly to look at her with a look somewhere between disbelieving and appreciative.

"Oh my God," you panted. "You're making me feel so good. And God you feel so good inside of me."

Jessie exhaled heavily again as she tried to remain focused. Your walls were flexing around her even tighter than before and it was driving her crazy.

"Mm," you grunted, biting your lower lip as you bounced up and down on her, "I think I'm going to cum soon."

Jessie continued to play with your clit, but nodded rapidly.

"Me too."

You moaned deep in your throat. "That's so hot," you said as you leaned down to capture Jessie's lips with your own. The shift in position made it difficult for her to reach your clit, but you didn't seem fazed at all as you kissed her hungrily, moaning into it. You rode her harder and Jessie had to break off the kiss, gritting her teeth harshly as she did everything she could to stave off her climax.

"Go ahead," you whispered into her ear. "Fuck me harder. And cum for me. I want you to." You gasped in her ear as you continued to ride her and it nearly sent her over the edge.

Jessie exhaled audibly as she gripped your hips tightly. She was so close. Where she was simply meeting your thrusts before, she now held you in place and began to slam her hips up into you, causing cries of pleasure to fall from your lips and she felt you tense up and begin to pulse around her cock.

"Oh fuck, Jess," you said, your voice shuddering as you came, your back arching into her as she continue to pump into you from below. She wrapped her arms around the small of your back and rut into you with enough force that the headboard of the bed began to bang against the wall. Renewed cries from you echoes off the walls and Jessie's vision began to narrow.

A few thrusts in, a blinding heat went through her and all the tension and pleasure she'd held back came over her. A muffled moan came out of her as she began spurting jets of cum into the condom, her hips pushed flush against your heat as she held herself in place as her cock twitched inside of you.

When she finally was drained, her body fell back to the mattress, sinking in and you collapsed on top of her. She held you in her arms and you both breathed heavily, Jessie only belatedly realizing the sheen of sweat on both your bodies.

As she regained her senses, she slowly ran her fingers lightly up and down the curve of your back as you lay spent on top of her. Jessie softened inside of you and at one point you shifted and she felt herself pop out of you. You chuckled and kissed her collarbone.

"Holy fuck," you breathed. "That was amazing."

Jessie chuckled. "You did all the work."

You snickered. "Well, the hottest part was the very end. Holy Christ. That was," you lifted yourself up, bracing yourself on her shoulders as you looked down at her with a crooked grin. "unexpected. But amazing."

"I thought you asked me to." Jessie began to blush.

"I did! And it...exceeded expectations. Let's put it that way," you said as you leaned down once more began to kiss her. She grinned into the kiss initially, but soon it deepened and both your hands and hers began to wander once more.

You began to subtly rock your body against hers as you kissed her sensually and she felt herself began to grow hard yet again.

"Shit," she muttered into the kiss, now distracted by the wasted condom on her hardening cock. "Hold on."

You made room for her as she got up and disposed of the condom. She was partially hard when she returned and she caught the gleam in your eye.

"You wouldn't happen to have another condom in your drawer, would you?" She asked.

You shook your head and Jessie hung hers in disappointment before mustering up a smile for you.

"Well, I'm grateful we got to do anything at all," she said. "I'm happy to do...other things for you. Or if you're done, that's totally fine too."

She watched you intently and saw the wheels in your head turning.

"But what if I want to continue?" You asked as you pulled her back down onto you in a kiss, which she readily met. "What if I want you inside me again?"

Jessie felt herself twitch at your words, her kiss stalling as a wave of arousal went through her. She smiled with a disbelieving shake of her head before kissing you again.

"That's pretty risky, isn't it?" She said, though her hands and yours were beginning to wander once more. She felt you shrug.

"The timing isn't that horrible for me right now. I know there's no such thing as an actual 'safe' time, but it's not the worst. And I can go get Plan B in the morning."

Jessie's mind rattled as you gave your proposition. This was a lot. She would've never entertained the thought with other girls.

"I love you, and I've wanted you for so long now. And I know we just had sex, but...all that's done is make me want you more."

She should say 'no'.

"I can come with you in the morning," she said instead. Another pulse went through her as you moaned softly into the kiss.

"Is that a 'yes'?" You asked as you rolled your hips up into her. She shifted, rubbing her hardening cock between the top of your pussy lips and across your clit. You mewled, head collapsing back into the pillow and she took the opportunity to kiss your neck. You gasped and began running your fingers through her hair, pulling her tighter to you.

"That's a 'yes'," she confirmed as she drew her hips back and rubbed her cock across your clit once more.

She pulled back to look at you and kissed your lips slowly. She spoke in earnest. "I trust you." You kissed her deeply, both hands cupping her face now.

"I trust you, too."

Jessie couldn't believe how all of this was unfolding. It was all too good to be true.

She continued to tease your clit with her cock, relishing the way you writhed beneath her and the way your hands caressed her body, hungry and searching. She eventually reached down to feel you and a shiver shot through her as her fingers were met with a pool of wetness at your entrance.

"God, baby, you're so wet," she said in reverie.

"Jess," you said as she kissed your neck while she held herself above you.

"Yeah?" She asked, stilling her movement, your lips hugging her cock as it rest on your clit.

"This is probably not the time, but, you've opened up so much today. So I can't help but think I should be open too."

She frowned as she lifted her head up to look at you.

"I-," you paused. Your cheeks were red; Jessie assumed from arousal and exertion, but she wasn't sure. "I think...," you trailed off. You exhaled and restarted, holding her gaze. "I think I have a bit of a kink."

That was not what she was expecting.

"O-oh," she said. She waited a couple of seconds for you to carry on, but you didn't. "What kind of kink?"

You inhaled deeply, eyes darting away this time.

"Um. Probably seems a bit counter-intuitive since I've only been with girls for years, but...um. Okay-" you looked back at her "-when you told me you had a cock. I mean, I was of course grateful that you were honest with me and you felt safe telling me. But...it's also. Really hot. Like, maybe you can tell," you laughed, "by the fact that I'm on my back, legs spread for you, but I think it's really sexy. And, um, the fact that you can get me pregnant - not that I want to get pregnant right now," you added adamantly, "makes it even sexier." Your cheeks were bright pink now. "I'm not trying to scare you, I swear. Like, the thought that you can get me pregnant, is outrageously hot to me."

Jessie was about to speak, but you went on in a rush.

"Again, I really don't want to get pregnant right now. So please don't think that's where this is going. I very much know that's a joint decision, much, much further into a relationship. That's why I say it's...well, a kink. The idea is turning me on - so much. I don't want it to be a reality, but the idea, the thought of it, the vision of it, it's making me very wet."

Though Jessie's mind was struggling to keep up, her cock standing tall and strong, aching for more said enough. She'd never really allowed herself to indulge in those thoughts, but what you just described made her throb.

"I'm really sorry if-"

She cut off your apology with a hard kiss as she rolled her hips against your clit once more, eliciting a low moan from you as you wrapped your arms around her shoulders.

She didn't say anything further, instead she reached down, positioning her rock hard cock at your dripping entrance and gently moving her hips to push inside you, an even easier task than before with how aroused you were.

Your fingers dug into her shoulders as you moaned and Jessie's back arched up into your touch as your warmth hugged her tightly, that first sensation of slipping in sending goosebumps across her skin.

"Oh fuck, Jess," you breathed. "God, you feel so fucking good in me. I love the way you fill me up."

Jessie swallowed a deep moan and drew back her hips before she slid home once more, her stroke firm, but gentle. Your hands clawed at her back already and she felt a frenzy starting to build inside of her.

She began to build a steady pace, pumping into you and angling her hips to make sure to hit your g-spot.

"Oh my God," you panted as you spread your legs wider for her, and she suppressed a primal growl at the gesture.

Your fingers began running through her hair, digging into her crown now and then as your pleasure mounted.

"Jess," you breathed. "I want to hear you. Please," you pleaded as one leg wrapped around her waist and your other heel dug into the mattress as you continued to writhe beneath her.

Tension sat in her shoulders as she processed your request. Your fingers dug into her crown again and she allowed a faint moan to escape her throat.

"Mm, yes, just like that," you said as you massaged her scalp and opened yourself up even further; she latched onto your neck and began kissing and sucking on the sensitive skin there as she continued to pump in and out of you.

"Oh God, Jess. You fuck me so good," you praised and Jessie grunted in approval of your words, her pace quickening and beginning to suck harder on your neck.

You panted, your hands still caressing her as you spoke, "You can mark me if you want."

At this, Jessie finally let out a growl. She widened her stance, using her thighs to push your legs further apart, one hand tightening your leg around her waist and holding you as she started to bounce her hips off of yours. The sound of her strong thrusts, amplified by her bare cock slipping in and out of your soaking pussy filled her ears and caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise.

She latched onto your neck and sucked hard to enough to leave a mark. You gasped and she groaned into the kiss.

"Be careful with what you say," Jessie found herself confessing. "If you tell me you're mine, I don't know if I'll be able to let go."

"Oh fuck," you moaned as your brought your fingers to her back and dug your nails in. "It should be me warning you. If you make me yours I'm going to make you do it again and again."

"Oh shit, Y/N," Jessie panted as she began to thrust into you with greater fervour. She pulled her head back enough to examine her work, sure enough there was a bruise forming where she'd just kissed you. She grinned wickedly. "I'm gonna make you mine. Make sure everyone knows you're taken."

You whimpered under her and she grit her teeth with a groan as your dragged your nails across her skin.

"Fuck. Make me yours, Jess. Please," you begged and she began marking up your chest.

The way you moved beneath her, the sounds you were making, the words you were speaking, the it felt to be buried inside of you, it was driving her wild in a way that was entirely new to her. Your earlier words rang in her head and left her wanting more.

"All I can think about is cumming inside of you," she said as she returned to your mouth and bit your lower lip. "The thought of you taking my cum is so sexy."

"Oh Jesus," you panted as you clutched her to you. "I can feel myself dripping onto the bed. I've never been so turned on. I want your cum so bad. I want to feel you cumming inside of me. Makes me yours in a whole other way."

Jessie groaned in your ear and began to really roll her hips, her knees and feet digging into the bed for leverage as she began to pump into you forcefully enough that the bed began to shift and bang against the wall again.

"I'm gonna make you mine," she panted. "I want my cum deep inside of you. Spilling out of you. And fuck, maybe one day it'll take."

"Oh God. Jess, I'm going to cum," you said as you covered your face with your hands, helpless to do anything else as she not only fucked you, but talked you towards your orgasm.

Jessie continued to thrust into you, pressing your body into the mattress with every stroke. Your heat felt like bliss around her and she felt you tightening around her.

"I'm gonna cum," she warned you.

"Please baby," you gasped as you wrapped your legs tightly around her waist. "Cum inside me."

Sweat was beading on her forehead as that tightness between her legs mounted ever more. You cried her name and began to convulse around her, your nails now scratching up her back. She grunted as she thrust into you deeply and coated the inside of your core with ropes of hot cum. She groaned as she poured herself into you, digging her feet into the mattress as she buried herself as deep into you as she could.

You might high and desperate in her ear and she let out a few more guttural moans as she drained herself inside of you.

"Oh my God," you finally panted after Jessie fell slack on top of you, shifting to the side slightly to not put her entire weight on you.

Jessie's mind and body was still in a daze and it was several more seconds before she finally became aware of you idly stroking her hair.

"Are you okay?" She asked, as she lifted herself to look at you.

"Um," you chuckled lightly, bringing a hand up to rub your face, "I'm, um, a little concerned that that is the only kind of sex I'm going to want from now on."

Jessie exhaled into a laugh as she kissed your neck, already pulling another soft moan out of you.

"Shit, me too," she chuckled. "So you liked it?" She asked as her eyebrows rose in question.

You gave her a disbelieving look. "Are you serious? I have never orgasmed like that in my life. Oh my gosh. But I guess you wouldn't know that. I'm sure if you check the sheets you'll see evidence of how much I enjoyed it."

Maybe you were being facetious, but Jessie couldn't help herself and she pulled herself up onto her knees and looked down. Her cock drew out of you to the tip and her jaw dropped at the sight of her length coated in sticky, white cum from both of you and, sure enough, cum dripping down your cheeks onto the soaked sheets.

"Holy fuck, babe," she said as she shifted your legs outward just to even better appreciate the view. "Fuck, it's going to make me hard again."

Her jaw fell further as you reached out and began to stroke her length between your fingers, rubbing your cum all along her.

"That wouldn't be so bad," you teased. Jessie's chest rumbled as she gave you a look of warning.

"Jesus," she breathed as she felt herself hardening yet again and she pushed herself slowly back inside of you, adoring the way your lips wrapped around her and how a ring of cum formed at her base. She looked up when you moaned to see your head falling back into the pillows once more.

"Oh, baby," she said once more as she took in the sight before her. "You look so gorgeous with your legs spread for me."

"Oh God," you said as you dug your head further back into the pillow and ran your fingers through your own hair, shifting restlessly beneath her.

Her thrusts, though slow, still sounded wet and messy. You looked down your body at her devilishly.

"I can hear how much cum you pumped inside of me."

"Mmm," Jessie groaned as she sunk into you, pausing as she held herself deep inside. "How do you know exactly what I want to hear?"

You placed a hand on the back of her neck and pulled her in for a kiss. "I think we're a good match for a reason." She moaned into the kiss and began to pump into you with stronger movements.

"God, I can't tell you how full you make me feel," you gasped as you broke off the kiss, guiding her lips back down to your neck.

"And you feel so fucking good around me. I can barely think," she said.

"Mm, well," you trailed a finger down her spine, sending a shiver through her, "this pussy is all yours. I want you to claim it."

Another primal rush coursed through Jessie's veins at your words. It felt like her skin was prickling - pins and needles - like she was itching to let go and find release. She grunted as she grabbed your legs and pushed them forward, pressing you further into the mattress and resting your ankles on her shoulders. You let out a cry of pleasure as she began to move into you with swift, strong thrusts that left the mattress creaking below you.

Jessie grinned as you whimpered and moaned with every stroke, your nails clawing at her flexed biceps.

"Oh fuck, that's so good, Jess. Oh God, don't stop," you begged.

"Your neighbours are going to know this pussy is mine, too," she declared. "They're going to blush anytime they see you because all they'll picture is you calling out my name."

You released another shuddering moan and Jessie continued to work you over, letting out months of pent up frustrations and leaning into untapped, dormant instincts as she made sure that even if you wanted to move on, no one else would compare.

She continued to pump into you, headboard now certainly leaving dents in your wall before you eventually pushed lightly against her shoulders.

"I have to move," you told her gently and she pulled back right away.

"Sorry," she said and you immediately cut her off.

"Do not be sorry. I'm fucking dripping wet. I just need to shift. How about...," you trailed off and pushed her back a bit again to give you room to climb up onto your hands and knees, presenting your cum-filled pussy for her.

"Holy fuck, you're a vision," she said as she ran her fingers through your folds, adoring the sound and look. You peeked over your shoulder at her with a grin.

Jessie stroked herself a couple of times as she settled in behind you.

"God, you are incredible," she breathed as she took her time watching how your entrance stretched out around her head to accommodate her. She exhaled, her mouth in an 'o' as she watched her cock disappear inside of you.

"Oh fuck, baby," you moaned as you immediately dropped from your hands to your forearms. Your back arched deliciously in front of Jessie and she immediately ran her palms along from your ass to your shoulders and drawing a needy mewl from you. "Fuck me, Jess."

You didn't need to ask twice. She drew her hips back, purposefully withdrawing from you altogether and smiling as you groaned in disappointment before she slipped back in and to the hilt; her bottoming out punctuated by a high moan from you.

She started off slow and steady, teasing you to some degree before she picked up her pace and was soon thrusting in and out of you more rapidly.

Her hands settled on your waist to balance herself as she fucked you, but eventually she shifted one hand down to rest on the lower part of your stomach.

"Jess," you moaned as you reached a hand back to lace your fingers together on your stomach.

An image flashed through her mind of you round and heavy with her baby and she blinked it away for now. That could be something she indulged in far more later. Still, she pressed her fingers into your stomach, caressing you and you moaned deeply, pushing your hips back into hers.

She moved her hand down further and began rubbing your clit. It wasn't long before your legs began to quiver.

This time you gave no notice and you began to spasm and clench around her as you buried your face into the bed, your scream muffled by the mattress.

With your tunnel gripping and massaging her the way it was, it only took a few seconds for her to cum with you. She groaned and her left hand dug into your hip as she pushed herself inside of you, climbing further over you to get as deep as possible as she spilled her seed into your waiting heat once more. She could feel herself pulsing inside of you and she let her head fall back, eyes blinking up at the ceiling as pleasure overtook her entire body.

"Fuck," she panted as she slowly rut into you a couple more times as the final spurts of cum drained from her cock into your waiting pussy.

You collapsed beneath her, her falling to the mattress with you and remaining sheathed inside of your warmth.

Neither of you spoke for what felt like several minutes, though Jessie laid the odd kiss on your shoulder as you both recovered. Finally, she lifted herself off of you, withdrawing as she did so. You groaned in disappointment.

"I liked having you in me and on top of me," you complained.

Jessie was entirely distracted by the cum that overflowed out of you and onto the sheets instead.

"God, I wish you could see this," she said.

You rolled over and reached down. Jessie's cock twitched as she watched you dip your fingers inside of you before pulling out, a thick string of cum bridging from your entrance to your fingers. Your jaw dropped and your eyes flicked up to her.

"Wow," is all you managed to say at first as you examined the cum on your fingers, spreading your digits and seeing the cum stretch between them. "You really did a number on me," you teased and she couldn't help but blush lightly.

You wrapped your mouth around your fingers and sucked her cum off of them. Jessie wore a lopsided grin as she watched you in awe.

"I'm going to be thinking of this night for a very long time," you chuckled as you relaxed into the bed and Jessie came up to lay next to you. You cuddled into her and she kissed the top of your head.

"Oh my God. If the quality of sex alone could get a girl pregnant, fuck, I'm a goner for sure," you told her.

Jessie chuckled. "Well, let's get you that Plan B sooner rather than later, then."

"Seriously," you laughed. "So much for us taking it slow."

As you rest in Jessie's arms, her mind raced to reconcile everything that had just occurred. It was even better than anything she'd dreamt of. You sighed contentedly and snuggled your head further into her shoulder.

She was nearly overwhelmed with emotion as she held you. She'd made girls cum before, numerous times; they'd made her cum, too. But having someone she loved, and someone who loved her, sleeping in her arms after the fact is something that was new to her. Something she'd wanted for so long, but felt easier to dismiss and forget about than to risk being disappointed and hurt.

Yet, here you were in her arms. She squeezed you and kissed your head once more. She didn't want to fall asleep. She wanted this moment to last.

-----

She had no idea what time it was when she fell asleep, but her sleep was both great and restless. It felt astounding to fall asleep with you, but despite everything, she woke up several times, some lingering vigilance preventing her from fully relaxing.

She knew this reaction wasn't logical with you. Everything you'd just shared today and been building over the past few months should assure her otherwise, but she was used to waking up to a cold bed, a girl making an excuse to leave, or even being handed her clothes with an impersonal goodbye.

She woke once as you shifted and got out of bed. Her heart immediately raced as she quietly watched you leave the room. She heard you in the bathroom and you came back a few minutes later and climbed back in next to her.

"Are you alright?" Jessie asked.

"Oh, sorry, babe. I didn't mean to wake you," you whispered as you cuddled into her. "I'm fine. Are you okay?"

Jessie calmed immediately as she felt your warm skin upon hers. "I'm okay."

You sighed quietly and kissed her shoulder. "I love you," you said as you settled in further and quickly fell asleep once more. Jessie was soon to follow.

-----

When she woke next, the sun filtered into the bedroom and illuminated her surroundings. She glanced over to see you in bed next to her still fast asleep.

She exhaled quietly, giving herself permission to remain relaxed and calm. Still, a faint spark of apprehension threatened to burn brighter in her chest. She couldn't shake this old feeling that she was going to be asked to leave. It didn't make any sense; there was no reason for her to expect you to do that, but she couldn't fully snuff out the worry.

When you stirred from your sleep a while later, you immediately smiled upon seeing her and kissed her arm.

"Morning, baby," you greeted.

"Good morning," Jessie smiled.

You asked her how she slept, how she was feeling and Jessie did her best, still, eventually you frowned lightly at her.

"Are you okay?" You asked. "You seem a bit...off."

"I'm okay," she tried to reassure you. You rose up onto your elbow and continued.

"Well, I can understand if you have a lot on your mind. We," you chuckled slightly, a wry smirk on your face, "covered a lot of ground last night. It's okay if you're, I don't know, having second thoughts or concerned. And don't worry - I'm going to the pharmacy as soon as I drag myself out of bed."

Jessie's M.O. was to just clam up and deflect. But, as she looked at you watching her with love and concern, she didn't want to this time. She couldn't.

"I don't know," she started shyly. "I guess, I don't know, some stupid part of me is still expecting to be kicked out. Like, okay, you got what you wanted and now I'm not needed. I know what we have is so much more than that and you're not like that at all, but I guess I can't fully block it out."

Your mouth fell into a frown and you cupped her cheek to kiss her.

"That is not the case at all, baby. I hate that you've been discarded like that. You never deserved to be treated that way," you said softly. "I want you to stay. Very much so."

Jessie managed a smile for you and you kissed her sweetly once more.

"And thank you for telling me. I really appreciate you being open," you added.

She cracked a smirk. "Well, if I want you to keep me, I've gotta communicate a bit better. Make it a little easier for you to stick around."

You shook your head at her with the most adoring look.

"I’m not going anywhere.”

Tag requests: @multifandomlesbianic @marvelwomen-simp @kathleenmikaelson

[kpoplustzone]

Blurred Lines: Therapy and Temptation - chapter 2

This is going to be a very long series with a lot of Idols and actresses from the Korean industry. This is instantly updated for the Diamond Tier and only the first 3 chapters for the other tiers. 

https://ko-fi.com/epiclude/tiers

Dr. Kang rose to greet her, a polite smile on his face, though inwardly his psychologist's mind was already observing every detail of her presence. Incredibly beautiful, he thought, taking in her delicate features, the way her dark hair framed her face, and the almost ethereal aura that surrounded her despite her attempt at a low-key appearance. That dress… simple yet so effective in highlighting her natural elegance.

“Ms. Myoui, please have a seat,” he said, his voice calm and welcoming, gesturing towards a comfortable armchair in his consultation room.

Mina offered a small, shy smile in return, her eyes briefly meeting his before glancing around the softly lit, tastefully decorated room. “Thank you, Dr. Kang.” Her voice was soft and slightly reserved, carrying a hint of the gentle vulnerability that sometimes peeked through her usually composed idol persona.

As they settled into a friendly, casual conversation, Dr. Kang focused on putting her at ease, asking her about her day and the usual introductory questions. However, beneath his professional exterior, his mind was racing, already sensing the subtle undercurrents of her anxieties and longings. Her skin has a flawless quality, even up close. And those eyes… they hold so much despite her quiet demeanor.

Mina had been wearing a long, cream-colored wool coat. As she settled into the armchair, she gracefully shrugged it off, draping it over the side of the chair. This movement subtly revealed more of her figure in the black knit dress. The fabric now more clearly outlined her slender waist and the gentle flare of her hips. Dr. Kang’s gaze, seemingly focused on her face as he continued their casual conversation about her recent activities, registered the way the dress hugged her upper body, hinting at the gentle curve of her breasts.

Effortlessly elegant, even in something so simple, he mused internally. The way the knit stretches… You can see the toned muscles beneath. Years of rigorous training, no doubt. He noted the clean lines of the dress and how it accentuated her long neck and delicate wrists. And yet, there’s an underlying sensuality to it. The way it skims her thighs… it invites the imagination. He maintained eye contact, a practiced professional smile on his face, but his mind was already exploring the possibilities, the potential that lay dormant beneath the surface of this seemingly reserved idol. She has no idea the effect she’s having, the desires that are already beginning to stir within me just from this simple conversation and the way she carries herself. He subtly adjusted his position, a barely perceptible movement, as his own body reacted to the image of Mina’s unknowingly alluring presence in his consultation room.

Dr. Kang nodded understandingly. “That makes perfect sense, Mina-ssi. Building a comfortable and trusting space is crucial in these situations. Let’s focus on getting to know each other a bit better first, then we can delve deeper into the specific pressures you’re facing. Think of me as a confidant, someone completely outside the whirlwind of your public life.” He offered her a reassuring smile.

Mina visibly relaxed, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips this time. “That sounds… nice, Dr. Kang. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like I could just talk without worrying about how every word will be interpreted.”

For the next part of their session, the conversation flowed more freely. Mina spoke about the challenges of being a K-pop idol – the rigorous training schedules, the constant travel, the pressure to always present a perfect image. She mentioned the loneliness she sometimes felt despite being surrounded by fans and her group members. Dr. Kang listened attentively, occasionally offering insightful questions and validating her feelings.

As the session continued, Dr. Kang’s voice lowered, becoming a smooth, seductive caress. “Mina-ssi, you possess an incredible sensuality, a vibrant energy just waiting to be fully awakened. Allow yourself to focus on the sensations you’re feeling right now. That warmth… isn’t it starting to feel deliciously… heavy? A pleasant throbbing deep inside?” His eyes held hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.

Mina shifted in the plush armchair, a noticeable flush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck. The warmth she had felt earlier was now undeniably hot, focused intensely between her legs. A slick wetness had begun to form, clinging to her panties, a sensation that both confused and undeniably thrilled her. What is happening to me? she thought, her heart pounding against her ribs. She pressed her thighs together, a futile attempt to contain the growing heat and the insistent pulsing.

Dr. Kang leaned forward slightly, his gaze dropping for a fleeting, suggestive moment to her crossed legs before returning to her eyes. “That pressure you feel… that’s your body acknowledging its desires, Mina-ssi. The need for release… for exquisite pleasure.” His voice was a low, hypnotic murmur that seemed to bypass her conscious thoughts and directly target her most primal instincts. “Don’t try to suppress it. Instead, allow yourself to explore it, to luxuriate in the feeling of your body awakening in this way.”

Mina’s breath became shallow and rapid. She could feel her nipples hardening beneath her dress, and the wetness between her thighs intensified, a growing ache spreading through her pelvis. She squeezed her legs tighter, her knuckles turning white as her hands gripped the armrests of the chair. Her gaze flickered down to her lap, then back to Dr. Kang, a mixture of confusion and undeniable lust swirling within her eyes.

Dr. Kang observed her reactions with a subtle, knowing smile. She’s so close to the surface. Just a few more carefully chosen words… “Imagine, Mina-ssi, the feeling of that tension melting away… replaced by wave after wave of pure sensation. Your body knows what it wants. All you have to do is listen to it.” His voice was a silken promise, his eyes holding hers captive, drawing her deeper into the hypnotic suggestion. The session was far from over; in fact, it felt like it was only just beginning, shifting into a realm far beyond the boundaries of traditional therapy.

Mina’s breath hitched, and she could feel a throbbing ache intensifying between her legs. The insistent pulsing Dr. Kang had mentioned felt undeniable now, a raw, primal need taking root within her. Unconsciously, her hands tightened their grip on the armrests, her knuckles white.

Beneath the soft knit of her dress, her nipples had become hard and sensitive, pressing against the fabric with a distinct sharpness. She could almost feel them tingling, aching for a touch she hadn't anticipated feeling in this setting. A slick warmth spread further down, and the wetness between her thighs was becoming increasingly noticeable. She could feel it pooling, a heavy, almost embarrassing sensation that she couldn't seem to control.

Her gaze flickered down to her lap again, a dark stain now faintly visible on the inner thighs of her dress. A wave of heat washed over her face, a mixture of shame and undeniable arousal. She pressed her thighs together even harder, a desperate attempt to conceal the growing evidence of her body’s reaction.

Dr. Kang's eyes, though seemingly still focused on her face with professional concern, registered the subtle shift in her posture, the flushed skin, and the almost imperceptible tightening of her grip. Excellent, he thought, a subtle thrill coursing through him. The control is slipping. Her body is betraying her carefully constructed composure. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Allow yourself to feel it, Mina-ssi. That incredible heat… that insistent wetness… It’s your body telling you what it truly desires.”

“Dr. Kang,” Mina said, her voice slightly trembling, her cheeks flushed, “would you… Excuse me for a moment? I just need to… freshen up.” She stood up a little too quickly, her crossed legs feeling tight and uncomfortable with the insistent wetness.

Dr. Kang offered a gentle nod, a knowing glint in his eyes that Mina thankfully didn’t seem to fully register in her state of heightened awareness. He watched as she hurried towards the small restroom tucked away in a corner of his office, her movements a little jerky, a stark contrast to her usual graceful demeanor.

Once inside the privacy of the bathroom, Mina leaned heavily against the cool tiles of the wall, her breath coming in rapid gasps. The air in the small space felt thick and heavy, mirroring the sensations pulsing through her body. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to slow her racing heart. What in the world is happening to me?

She couldn’t deny the intense heat radiating from her core. It was a deep, insistent throbbing that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. With a shaky hand, she reached down, her fingers finding the undeniable dampness through her dress. A soft moan escaped her lips as she realized just how wet she had become. It was more than just damp; it was a soaking wetness that spoke volumes about her body’s involuntary reaction to Dr. Kang’s words.

Driven by an irresistible urge, she slipped her fingers beneath the fabric of her dress and touched herself. The slickness was immediate and pronounced. A jolt of pure pleasure shot through her at the slightest contact, making her legs tremble. Waves of sensation washed over her, each touch more electrifying than the last. She rubbed gently, feeling the swollen lips of her vulva throbbing in response, her breath catching in her throat.

With a sudden thought, she reached behind and quickly unclipped her bra, the release offering a moment of physical ease, though the insistent ache below remained. Her fingers returned to her soaked panties. They were clinging to her, the fabric heavy with her arousal. With a decisive move, she pulled them down, the wet material cold against her heated skin. She quickly folded them, the dampness seeping onto her hands, and tucked them into a small compartment in her bag, a secret testament to the unexpected turn her therapy session had taken.

Even without the direct touch, the throbbing between her legs wouldn’t subside. She pressed her thighs together tightly, a frustrated groan escaping her lips. This was unlike anything she had experienced before, especially in such a clinical setting.

Her mind flashed back to instances where male idols or even staff members had made suggestive comments in passing. Usually, she would brush them off with a polite smile or a witty retort, feeling nothing more than mild annoyance or perhaps a fleeting sense of discomfort. So why now? Why was Dr. Kang’s calm, measured tone, his seemingly innocuous suggestions, having such a profound and intensely physical effect on her? She couldn’t understand it. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside her, unleashing a torrent of lust that she had no control over. The realization was both alarming and undeniably, secretly, exciting. She knew she couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever. Taking a deep breath, trying to compose herself, she adjusted her dress, the feeling of being bare underneath only adding to the strange mix of nervousness and anticipation as she prepared to return to Dr. Kang’s office.

As Mina returned to the consultation room, a subtle change in her demeanor was evident. Though she tried to appear composed, there was a heightened awareness about her movements, a slight stiffness in her posture. As she settled back into the armchair, the soft material of her dress shifted, and for a fleeting, tantalizing moment, Dr. Kang caught a glimpse. The subtle parting of the fabric, combined with the way she unconsciously angled her thighs after her hurried bathroom visit, revealed a hint of the swollen, slick lips of her vulva, still glistening with moisture. His gaze flickered upwards, and he noticed the unmistakable outline of her nipples, now hard and prominent against the thin knit of her dress.

Unbelievable, he thought, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him. Mina. The Mina. Dreamed about by millions of men across the globe. And here she sits, right in front of me, her pussy soaking wet because of my words. The blatant display, even if unintentional, sent a jolt of desire straight to his groin. He could feel his cock hardening beneath his trousers, a thick, insistent pressure that he subtly shifted in his seat to conceal.

He knew pushing her further in this session might be too much, too soon. The confusion and burgeoning lust in her eyes were potent, but he needed to maintain a semblance of control, to ensure she returned for future sessions. Instead, he decided to solidify the connection he had established, to make him the source of these intense new feelings.

His voice softened again, taking on that hypnotic quality. “Mina-ssi, I want you to remember this session. Remember the way you feel right now. That warmth… that heightened sensitivity… that undeniable pull of your desires.” He held her gaze, his eyes conveying a knowing intensity. “Whenever you think of our conversation today, whenever my voice comes to mind, I want you to remember these sensations. This feeling of… awakening. Let it be a pleasant reminder of your inner desires, a secret connection just between us.” He watched as her eyes glazed over slightly, her breath becoming a little heavier. The suggestion is taking root, he thought with a quiet satisfaction. She will associate me with this arousal. Every thought of mine will bring her back to this feeling of wanting. The session was coming to its natural end, but the seeds of obsession had been sown, and Dr. Kang knew, with a thrilling certainty, that his experiment with Mina was only just beginning.

As Mina walked out of Dr. Kang’s office, a lightness had settled over her that she hadn't felt in months. The overwhelming pressure and anxiety seemed to have lifted, replaced by a strange sense of excitement and anticipation. She felt genuinely happy, a buoyant positivity bubbling up within her.

Her manager, a perpetually stressed woman named Sarah, was waiting for her just outside the clinic. Sarah immediately noticed Mina's brighter demeanor. “Mina! You look… good. How did it go?”

Mina beamed, a genuine smile lighting up her face. “It was… amazing, Sarah unnie! Dr. Kang is incredible. I feel so much better, so much lighter. He understood everything I was going through.” As she spoke, she subtly adjusted her coat, a secret thrill running through her as she remembered the fact that underneath her perfectly normal exterior, she was completely naked beneath her dress. The memory of the intense sensations Dr. Kang had evoked still lingered, a secret warmth spreading through her.

Sarah looked relieved. “That’s wonderful, Mina. We’ll book another appointment.”

“Yes!” Mina exclaimed, a little too enthusiastically perhaps, but she couldn't contain her excitement. “I think I should see him every week. I feel like this is going to help me.” The thought of seeing Dr. Kang again, of experiencing that strange and exhilarating awakening of her senses, sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. This was more than just therapy; it was something entirely new and intensely intriguing. And Mina, despite the lingering confusion, found herself eagerly looking forward to their next encounter.

[admiringlove]

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. dumbledore, in his usual cryptic fashion, subtly nudges you and gojo toward a rather unconventional solution, leading to a daring trip to the ministry under elaborate disguises. there, amidst secrets better left undisturbed, you uncover truths that should have never been hidden in the first place—though, thankfully, the day isn’t entirely swallowed by impending doom, thanks to an unexpected moment of warmth with dobby.

➵ warnings. abusive family; neglectful family; panic attacks; mentions of vomit; mentions of blood; espionage; mentions of grooming; mentions of death; etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; etc.

➵ word count. 14.9k.

➵ author's note. big thanks to @gojofile for proofreading, loml. taglist now closed. ty for reading!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

"What took you so long?"

His voice comes from somewhere in the dark, even before you make it down the ladder. A low, easy drawl—almost indifferent, except it isn’t. Not really. You can hear it beneath the words, the undercurrent of something just slightly off, something waiting.

Your boots hit the stone floor with a dull thud, breath still uneven as you straighten, eyes adjusting to the dimness. The air here is thick, stale, but not unbearable. It smells like damp earth, like dust settled too long on forgotten stone, like something old, something secret.

"Nothing," you say, too quickly.

Gojo doesn’t press, but he makes a sound—a quiet, inquisitive hum—as he slips his wand out from the folds of his coat. A flick, a muttered incantation, and the passageway flickers to life, torches along the walls sputtering into a dull orange glow. The light doesn’t do much to make the place any more welcoming. The tunnel stretches long and empty ahead of you, its walls slick with condensation, shadows stretching unnaturally against the uneven stone. It reminds you of Hogwarts’ dungeons—cold, cavernous, like something meant to keep people out.

A shiver prickles up your spine, though the temperature here isn’t particularly freezing. If anything, it’s strangely temperate, a quiet, almost undisturbed kind of chill.

Gojo steps forward, and without thinking, you follow. You don’t know why it’s easier to fall into step beside him than it is to stop and think. Maybe because he moves like he’s been here a thousand times before, like he’s done this enough for it to be muscle memory, like it’s nothing at all.

"You know," he starts, voice echoing faintly in the narrow space, "in third year, my mother didn’t bother signing my Hogsmeade permission form."

The way he says it is almost offhanded, a careless remark, like a fact about the weather. But something about it makes your brow furrow slightly.

"That’s… not nice," you murmur, tilting your head, watching him from the corner of your eye.

Gojo only shrugs, hands tucked into his coat pockets, stride easy, unhurried. "I was fine. Sneaked in a few times with my cloak. Wasn’t too hard."

You blink, glancing at him properly now. "I remember seeing you, though," you say, hesitant, as if trying to recall something just barely out of reach. "You were there, weren’t you?"

"Sometimes," he admits. "But then I left my cloak at home during the winter holidays."

A beat.

You glance at him again. "Then what?"

Gojo exhales, a short, amused sound. "Then I got to spend my first weekend back ruefully watching Shoko and Suguru leave without me, like a complete loser," he says, tilting his head as if recalling the scene with some kind of detached fondness. "Used to sit near the staircase on the third floor a lot. And there’s that statue there, you know—the old witch with the one eye." He pauses, eyes flicking toward you briefly before looking ahead again. "You tap it with your wand, say ‘Dissendium,’ and it opens right up. Leads straight to Honeydukes’ cellar. Funny, isn’t it? How no one ever really explores the sheer mysteriousness of our school?"

There’s something vaguely smug in the way he says it. You roll your eyes, though there’s no real heat to it. "Losers, the entire lot of us, right?" you say dryly.

"Exactly," he says, flashing you a grin. The tunnel seems to stretch endlessly ahead, the faint glow of the torches casting long, wavering shadows against the damp walls. The air is heavier down here, close, but not unpleasantly so. You wonder how many times he’s done this, how many times he’s walked this passage alone, how many times he’s disappeared through some secret part of the castle no one ever thought to question.

"And that’s how I found it," he continues after a pause, glancing at you with something bright in his expression, something just slightly triumphant. "The One-Eyed Witch Passageway."

You hum, low and thoughtful, the sound barely carrying over the quiet shuffle of your footsteps against the uneven stone. The air is still, thick with the scent of earth and something old.

"Makes our job a hell of a lot easier," you murmur. Gojo laughs, the sound light, easy, threaded through with something unreadable. "It does, doesn’t it?"

But then, a pause. A barely-there hesitation, quick but noticeable, just long enough for you to catch it.

"How was your date with that Zen’in bastard?"

Your brows knit together, a slow, irritated furrow, even before you turn to glance at him. "First of all," you say sharply, "he’s not a bastard."

Gojo tilts his head, entirely unbothered, the dim glow of the torches catching in his white lashes, his mouth already curving in amusement.

"And second of all," you continue, "none of your business."

"Oh, come on," he groans, dragging out the syllables like a petulant child. "I told you about how my first kiss was, didn’t I?"

There’s something deliberately casual in the way he says it, something practiced. You don’t buy it for a second.

"Once," you say flatly, eyeing him with suspicion.

Gojo shrugs, loose and nonchalant, as if it doesn’t matter at all. As if it never did. "I don’t even remember it anymore," he adds, like an afterthought.

Your eyes narrow. "A senior kissing you when you’re in third year isn’t your first kiss," you say, voice suddenly quieter, weightier, sinking beneath the easy flow of conversation like a stone dropping into still water.

Gojo doesn’t look at you right away.

The tunnel seems darker now, the shadows stretching longer, the air thicker.

"It’s called grooming," you finish.

He shrugs, easy and careless, as if brushing off dust. "At least I got bragging rights."

You make a face, gagging lightly. "You’re insufferable."

Gojo clicks his tongue, shaking his head with the exaggerated disappointment of someone appraising a particularly dull painting. "And you’re a bore," he counters. "She was beautiful, I’ll have you know. Be happy I’m a gentleman and not giving you details."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "I already know the details, you twat."

His head tilts slightly at that, like he’s waiting for you to elaborate.

"You gave me her figure details in inches, Gojo," you remind him, voice flat, unimpressed. "It was disgustingly pathetic how you knew her hips were thirty-nine inches wide."

His grin is slow, all teeth, entirely unapologetic. "Ah," he muses. "Good times."

“Ew,” you murmur under your breath as you and Gojo near the staircase at the end of the tunnel, your voice barely more than a whisper against the stone walls. The air here is thick, cool, carrying the scent of the damp earth. The flickering torchlights do little to soften the eerie stillness, the way shadows stretch long and lean against the uneven surfaces.

“Third floor, then?” you ask, your voice steady despite the unease settling in your ribs. “Near the courtyard?”

“Yes,” Gojo nods, already a step ahead of you. His voice is quieter now, more measured. “I suggest we go through the dungeons once we’re out. Just to be safe. Everyone’s at Hogsmeade anyway, except for the first and second years.”

You hum in agreement, keeping your steps light as you follow him up the spiral stairs. Dust swirls in the dim light as your boots press into the old stone, the air growing warmer the higher you climb. You blink, suddenly remembering something.

“Did you get a chance to look over my questions on that sheet?”

Gojo makes a small sound in the back of his throat, something between hesitation and acknowledgment. “Uh, yes,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual confidence slipping for just a second. He glances over his shoulder at you. “Wait a minute. Let’s not talk about this here.”

You nod, tucking the thought away for later.

He reaches for the concealed exit, pushing it open with practiced ease. And then, you slam into his back. Hard.

“Satoru, what the hell is your—” you start, irritation lacing your voice, but then you see it.

Oh.

Oh.

Professor Dumbledore stands before you, waiting, as if he has been expecting the two of you all along. His presence fills the corridor, not just because of his stature, but because of something else, something harder to name—an awareness, a knowing. His long robes, a shade of deep, muted grey, shimmer faintly under the torchlight, the silver embroidery along the hem and cuffs glinting with each subtle movement. His half-moon spectacles catch the dim glow, reflecting it, making his eyes—already so bright—twinkle with something unreadable.

A mischievous smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gojo. Ms. [L/N],” he greets, voice warm, amused. The kind of amusement that feels layered, veiled, never quite revealing its source.

You swallow, stepping out fully from the passageway as the entrance seals behind you, the statue shifting back into place with a low, echoing groan. Your hands curl into your sleeves, an old habit, as you bow your head slightly. You don’t know why. The chill creeping up your spine tells you it’s better not to hold his gaze for too long.

“Worry not, Ms. [L/N], I won’t reprimand you,” Dumbledore says, his voice lilting as if this is all part of some long, elaborate joke only he is in on. And then, his attention shifts.

To Gojo. There’s a subtle change in the air. It is not unkind, but it is heavier, more deliberate.

“I received a letter from your father this morning,” Dumbledore continues, watching him carefully. “He wanted to know when your Auror applications will be going through. He says he wants them submitted a year early.”

You see it immediately—the way Gojo’s jaw tightens, the way his fingers curl into his palms. His skin, already pale, turns ghostly white before it flushes red at his knuckles, his nails pressing hard into his own skin.

It is silent. Painfully so.

Then, finally, Gojo exhales, measured and slow, like he’s forcing the tension out of himself before it can consume him.

“Sir,” he starts, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “I was hoping… if you could, that is… potentially delay my applications until next year.”

Dumbledore studies him for a moment, as if seeing through to something neither you nor Gojo can quite name.

“You don’t wish to graduate early, like your father expects,” the Headmaster states, rather than asks.

Gojo says nothing. Dumbledore nods, just once, slow and deliberate. “I’ll take care of it. Worry not.”

There is a pause. And then another shift—something quieter, something you almost miss. Dumbledore is watching you now.

You feel it before you look up. The weight of his gaze, light as a feather, sharp as a blade. And when you finally meet his eyes, something about the way he regards you makes your stomach twist. Not in fear. Not exactly.

But in anticipation.

“You know, Ms. [L/N],” he says, and his voice is light, but his words are anything but, “on the weekends, the Ministry does not keep the Head of the Auror’s Office in unless required for an emergency.”

You blink. “Sorry, sir?”

He does not answer. Not in the way you expect. Instead, he tilts his head, smiling in that knowing, infuriating way of his. “That’s almost always on-field, however, so I think you’ll be okay.”

Your brows furrow. You open your mouth to ask him what he means, but he speaks again before you can.

“I think four turns should do it, in the evening,” he muses, as if commenting on the weather. “Remember this, will you?”

And then, without another word, he turns on his heel and begins walking away, his robes billowing softly behind him. Just before he disappears around the corner, he winks.

You stand there, frozen, watching the empty space he leaves behind. Then, almost in sync, you and Gojo turn to look at each other.

Your brows pull together. “What?” you whisper, almost comically.

Gojo exhales, his entire frame unwinding slightly, as if he has been holding his breath. “My father…” he starts, voice quiet, unreadable. Then he lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “My father is the Head of the Auror’s Office.”

Your breath catches. Your stomach twists again.

“What?” you breathe, eyes widening. “But why did he tell me that?”

Neither of you have an answer. But something tells you that Dumbledore does.

The Room of Requirement molds itself around you the moment you step inside, the walls shifting, stretching, expanding into the space you need. The air is thick with the scent of parchment and candle wax, the quiet hum of magic lingering between the bookshelves and long wooden tables.

You waste no time. Stripping off your coat, you toss it onto the nearest armchair, fingers already tugging at the seams of your gloves before peeling them off. The moment they hit the table, you're moving again, weaving through the furniture with urgency, barely noticing the way Gojo lingers behind, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

"Alright," you exhale, steadying yourself as you press your palms against the longtable, eyes sweeping over the scattered notes, the books with their pages pinned open, the ink-stained parchments covered in hurried annotations. The evidence of your restlessness. "Let’s do this one by one. Dumbledore obviously knows something. He always does. But he wants us to figure it out ourselves, like some kind of twisted scavenger hunt."

"He gives me the heebie-jeebies," Gojo mutters, stepping further into the room, his hands buried in the pockets of his robes. "I get that he’s a legend, but I swear he’s worse than a ghost—always lurking, always knowing. He’s creepier than Moaning Myrtle, and that’s saying something."

"Myrtle’s actually kind when you get her to talk," you murmur absently, still scanning the mess of research before you, thoughts running ahead of you.

"She’s a banshee," Gojo deadpans, plopping himself down onto one of the chairs, his legs sprawled out in front of him. "And I don’t want you to refute that statement."

You roll your eyes, reaching for a drawer and pulling out a marker. Gojo watches the movement, his gaze flicking between you and the board, but whatever he’s thinking, he keeps to himself. The cap clicks off with a sharp sound, and you press the tip to parchment, circling names, scrawling notes in the margins.

A few names stand out. A few, Gojo disregards. He taps the table twice with the end of his index finger, a silent cue. "Let’s start with your questions. Hit me."

You fold your arms over your chest, the weight of his gaze heavier than usual. But you shake it off, letting focus take over.

"Question one: There are stories of ancient wizards who dabbled in dark magic but weren’t necessarily evil. What if we’ve just rewritten history to suit whoever was in power at the time?" You tap the parchment, narrowing your eyes at a particular passage. "So many Slytherin families, specifically purebloods, are made to look bad in these records."

"Suguru isn’t a pureblood," Gojo points out, brows knitting together. "He’s a half-blood."

"And the Ministry isn’t exactly a beacon of truth," you counter, voice sharpening. "In one of the books I skimmed through, it mentioned how the Ministry actively stopped Newt Scamander from dealing with the Obscurus in New York. That was in the twenties. Whether it's here or in America, they play by the rules they make, and those rules aren’t always for the greater good."

"We should go to the Ministry," Gojo muses, tilting his head back against the chair. "Dumbledore meant it too. I know it."

"Not yet." Your voice is firm, cutting through any room for argument. "I need to figure some things out first."

You flip through the parchment, finger tracing the ink-stained words before you press on. "Professor Fig told me blood magic was practiced for centuries. Even necromancy. But then, out of nowhere, sometime in the 1600s, it was outlawed. No reason given. Just erased from sanctioned magic. Why?"

Gojo exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "That doesn’t concern us. Blood magic isn’t being performed anymore. Trust me."

You arch a brow. "And you know this how?"

"There are… physical restrictions that come with it," he explains, slower this time, choosing his words carefully. "Suguru wouldn’t be able to withstand them. If he were performing anything remotely close to blood magic, he’d be either too frail to stand or dead. And he’s neither. Besides, at this point, only the Kamo family is officially documented for using blood magic."

"So it’s familial?" You pause, a thought creeping in. "That means you must have something too, yeah?"

He grins, insufferable as ever. "I’m one of the strongest wizards of our generation. But I can’t tell you what my techniques are just yet."

Asshole.

You resist the urge to throw the marker at him and turn back to the board instead, scanning the names again. "Alright. Next question. Grindelwald. It’s said that he created his own spells. Is that… possible? The history books only mention ‘forbidden spells’ in vague terms, nothing specific. If he was so dangerous, why isn’t there a single documented incantation of his?"

Gojo’s smirk fades, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Oh, there are records. Just not ones you can access." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "There are twenty-two spells he created, at least according to Ministry records. But they’re locked away in the restricted archives. Only higher-ups and select researchers can access them. And even then, only under extreme circumstances."

Your fingers tighten around the marker. "So the Ministry knows, but they don’t want anyone else to?"

"Pretty much," he shrugs. "But Grindelwald’s magic wasn’t about being ‘dark’ in the traditional sense. He was more political than anything—trying to make wizards the dominant race. This was all before World War II, mind you. I don’t think Suguru has anything to do with him."

You sigh, dragging the marker across the board to cross out Grindelwald’s name. But then, something clicks.

"Oh!" You turn abruptly, eyes wide. "I forgot to write this down earlier because I wasn’t sure about it. It was only mentioned in the footnotes of this ancient book I borrowed from the restricted section. Fig gave me a letter of approval, so Pince let me take it."

Gojo’s expression shifts. A flicker of something unreadable—gone before you can place it.

"Sukuna." You exhale the name, testing it on your tongue. "Sukuna Ryomen. I’ve never heard of him before. But from what I read, his entire existence revolved around one thing—killing the strongest wizards."

Gojo stills. His entire body goes rigid, his breath halting for just a fraction too long.

"Fucking hell." The words leave his lips, barely above a whisper.

You blink. "What? What is it? Does the name mean something to you?"

Gojo pushes himself up from the chair, striding toward the board, eyes dark with something bordering on disbelief. His fingers curl into his palm before flexing again, his breath coming sharper.

"Sukuna isn’t just an average dark wizard," he murmurs, almost to himself. "When he died, he didn’t just vanish. He sealed himself. Not in a body. Not in a ghost. But as something else entirely."

Your heart hammers. "What do you mean?"

Gojo turns, looking at you now. Fully. "You know about Horcruxes?"

"Only vaguely," you admit, feeling the weight of something shifting in the air.

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at the roots. "A Horcrux is an object where a dark wizard hides a fragment of their soul to become immortal. Sukuna… he didn’t make just one. Even making one is said to be one of the most difficult tasks known in the wizarding world. He made twenty."

The breath leaves your lungs.

"And no one alive is supposed to know that," Gojo mutters. "Except for a handful of people. I only know because I used to snoop through my father’s work as a kid."

A chill creeps up your spine. This—this is bigger than you thought.

“Do you think Geto… Suguru, is…” The words falter on your tongue, as if naming the thought will make it real. You look at Gojo, eyes wide, searching his face for any trace of certainty, any flicker of assurance that this is ridiculous, unfounded, impossible. But none comes. Your voice drops to something barely above a whisper. “Do you think he’s trying to contact or—”

Gojo exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. His fingers twitch against the edge of the table. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t even know how he’d come to know about him.” His voice is quiet but taut, the syllables clipped, deliberate. “Nobody knows about him.”

He pauses, glances at the board, then at you. His gaze lingers, as if weighing whether to continue. And then, as though some invisible dam breaks, he scoffs, a short, bitter laugh. “There was a time I used to think about Sukuna a lot. About how someone so deranged was never killed, never thrown into Azkaban. How none of the so-called greatest wizards of their time ever thought to just put him in a cell, like they did with Grindelwald. Y’know, after that New York thing you were talking about.”

“Maybe he was too strong,” you say, and you barely register the words as they leave your lips, spoken like an afterthought, like something not meant to be heard at all.

Gojo is watching you now. Not just looking, but watching—observing, assessing, dissecting the thought that just slipped from you so easily. His silence is heavy, but you press forward, leaning against the desk, exhaling steadily. “We should try to explore this angle, you know.”

“There is no angle.” His voice is firmer now, more clipped. “It can’t fucking be Sukuna. Suguru has no way of knowing who Sukuna even is.”

“What if he does, Satoru?” You tilt your head, sinking into the nearest chair. The weight of this conversation is suddenly unbearable. Your fingers press against the bridge of your nose, rubbing slow circles, willing away the dull ache behind your eyes. “What if he found out? He’s practicing dark magic, isn’t he? What if this is all leading to something bigger?”

Gojo exhales sharply, his irritation manifesting in the way his jaw tenses, the way his hands curl into loose fists against the table. “You do realize you’re just shooting guesses in the dark, right?” His voice is different now, lower, edged with something like anger, but not quite. Something closer to frustration, closer to something deeply personal. His nostrils flare. “Don’t speak about Suguru like that. I won’t stand for it.”

“I’m not slandering him, I’m giving you a possible explanation—”

“Okay, how about we go to the Ministry then?” Gojo straightens, a challenge in his stance, in the sharpness of his words. “Check out the official records? There should be something about Sukuna, right?”

You stare at him, then shake your head, willing your heartbeat to slow. “Tell me more about him first. Before we go running into the Ministry.” A pause. “And don’t pretend it’s not dangerous for you to step foot in that place. We both know it is.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Gojo mutters, running a hand through his hair, dragging his fingers through the white strands in frustration. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before he turns to the board, his back facing you. His silhouette is stark against the dim candlelight, broad and tense, and when he finally turns to face you again, his eyes are unreadable. He exhales, rubbing his temple. “I shouldn’t tell you any of this. If anything, it puts your life at risk.”

“Tell me anyway.” Your voice is steady. You tilt your head, watching him. “We’re in it now. The both of us. I’d rather my life be in just as much danger as yours is.”

Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, and something flickers in his expression—unreadable, soft and fleeting before it vanishes behind a carefully placed mask of indifference. He sighs.

“Sukuna’s soul was split into twenty pieces.” The words are measured, weighted, as though each one carries something more than just meaning. “Because his body was too powerful to fully destroy. Or die.”

Something shifts in the air between you, something uneasy, something that makes the space feel smaller than it is. You swallow, listening.

“There’s an old text,” Gojo continues, rolling his shoulders back, but his voice is quieter now, like the words themselves have the power to summon something dark, something long buried. “It suggests that if one wizard absorbs enough of his Horcruxes, they could become his vessel. A host for his spirit.”

A pause. 

“I only know this because I was a curious child. And because I had a habit of sneaking into places I shouldn’t be.” His voice is flat, but there’s something beneath it, something carefully restrained. “And because when my father found me reading those papers, he threw me down the stairs.”

You blink. “I’m sorry—what?”

Gojo exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Focus on the important part, Fawkes.”

“The 'important part'?” Your voice rises, incredulous. “You can’t just tell me your father threw you down the stairs like it’s some passing detail, Satoru.” You stand now, hands bracing against the desk, staring at him. “That’s not normal, and we both know it after I fixed your gash last time!”

“I know it’s not normal, but for Merlin’s sake, can we—” Gojo exhales, pressing his fingers against his temple. Then, suddenly, his shoulders drop. The frustration fades, replaced by something else. Something almost… tired. He takes a slow step toward you, then another, until there’s only a foot of space between you. His voice is softer when he speaks next. “I’ll tell you all of it. Yeah? Just… after this is over.”

You hold his gaze. He is too close now, but you don’t move away. His eyes are still unreadable, but they hold something different now—something quiet, something unspoken.

“You cleaned me up once,” he murmurs. “I might need you to do it again.”

The words hang between you, suspended in the dim light. Your breath catches, just slightly.

You swallow, nodding once. “A-alright.”

"Anyway," he says, after a moment, turning slightly, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. "We should—well, we should go to the Ministry like Dumbledore hinted. Not because you think Suguru has something to do with Sukuna, let's make that clear. But we can't just go like this."

There’s something in his voice, a sharpness beneath the casual tone, a weight to the words that makes your stomach tighten.

"What do you mean?" you ask, tilting your head.

Gojo exhales through his nose, pacing once before looking at you with something unreadable in his expression. Then, with a sudden decisiveness, he moves—shrugging on his coat, fastening the buttons with quick, practiced fingers. "Meet me by the Wooden Bridge in an hour."

You blink. "What?"

"And," he cuts in, already moving toward the door, "wear something dark. A black longcoat, if you have one. Nothing bright. No color."

Your brows furrow. "Why are you giving me fashion advice?"

A grin flickers across his face, something boyish and almost fond, but there’s an edge beneath it, a little wry. "Just do as I say." He steps backward through the door, the dim light catching in his silver hair. "This might just be the best espionage trip of our lives."

And with that, he's gone. The door swings shut behind him, leaving only the faintest trace of his presence in the air. You stand there for a moment, your pulse in your throat, staring at the space where he had just been.

Then, with a sigh, you grab your coat.

Dusk settles over the castle grounds like ink bleeding into paper, the last vestiges of light stretching thin against the horizon. The air is crisp, damp with the promise of nightfall, and the wind hums low through the wooden beams of the bridge. Below, the Black Lake glimmers in the fading light, a dark mirror swallowing the sky whole.

You stand at the edge, fingers curled over the railing, the cold seeping into your gloves. There’s something about the quiet that feels heavier than usual, pressing at your ribs, wrapping itself around your spine like a premonition. You tell yourself it’s just the wind.

Then, footsteps. Fast, deliberate.

You turn just as Gojo barrels toward you, his coat billowing behind him, hair a mess of silver and shadow. He’s breathless when he reaches you, but not from exertion—you know him too well. This is adrenaline. This is thrill biting at his heels, curling in his chest.

He catches your arm, his grip firm but not rough, and tugs. "Come along," he says, voice lower than usual, urgent. "We need to get a little farther in case anyone sees us."

You don't move just yet. "What exactly are we doing?" you ask, searching his face.

Gojo grins, and it’s that boyish, wicked thing—too sharp for something so pretty. The kind of smile that makes you brace yourself. "Time-Turner," he says, casually, like he’s talking about the weather. "You have one. We’re using it."

Your stomach drops. "I'm sorry, what?" The words come out strangled, an octave too high. "Right. Of course, Dumbledore said—"

"Four turns," he says simply, holding up four fingers before dropping his hand. "Then we Disapparate to London. Ministry of Magic."

You gape at him. "And they’re just going to let us in? Let us waltz through their bloody archives because you’re the son of the Head Auror and a pureblood?"

"No," he says, and this time his grin is something else entirely—mischief carved in moonlight, the gleam of a dagger hidden in silk.

It’s then that you notice what he’s wearing. You take a step back, looking him over. The white dress shirt, crisp beneath a waistcoat that fits just right. The tie, dark and neatly knotted. The glint of a pocket watch chain disappearing into the fabric. A briefcase, small but distinct, clutched in his free hand.

You blink. The words slip out then, half incredulous, half fascinated. "What in Merlin’s name are you wearing? Bloody hell, don't tell me we're—"

Gojo barks a laugh. "You’re quick," he muses, stepping closer, and you catch the faintest scent of cedarwood and parchment. He dips a hand into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a small glass vial filled with something murky, something viscous. "Polyjuice Potion."

Your breath leaves you in a whisper. "You’re brilliant."

He smirks. "Flattery won’t get me into your bed, Fawkes."

You roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder. "I’m surprised you even know how to Disapparate."

He winks. "I know a lot of things," he says, pressing the vial into your palm. His fingers brush yours, warm against the cold. "Here. Drink up. It'll make you look like my mum."

The wind howls through the bridge, biting at your skin. You swallow hard. Somewhere in the distance, the castle looms, but there’s no turning back now.

You grab the bottle. And you uncork it immediately, before downing the contents into your mouth.

The taste is vile. Thick and acrid, like spoiled milk curdled with copper, and it coats your tongue so thoroughly that you nearly gag on instinct. You swallow hard, forcing it down, willing it to stay down, and the moment it settles in your stomach, it begins.

It is not an instant transformation, but a slow, creeping shift, like ink spreading through water.

Your bones feel like they are stretching, skin pulling taut, reshaping itself over a frame that does not belong to you. Your hands tremble as they lengthen, the fingers too foreign, too unfamiliar. Something coils in your chest, slithering into the crevices of your ribs, a sensation of wrongness sinking into every cell of your being. It makes you nauseous, makes your head swim.

When you blink, Gojo isn’t Gojo anymore.

Well, he is, but he’s taller. Not by much, but enough to feel the difference when he looks at you. His eyes, no longer searing, electric blue, are duller now—gray, washed out, hollow in a way that makes your stomach turn. His hair, still white, is combed back neatly, stiff with gel, a too-perfect contrast to the man you know. It unsettles you.

Your breath stutters as you reach for your own hair. The strands slipping between your fingers are impossibly dark, a black so deep it swallows light. The sight of it sends something skittering through your veins—discomfort, unease, a whisper of something deeper that you refuse to name.

Gojo watches you, his expression unreadable, though you swear there is something caught in his breath, something unspoken hanging in the air between you. Then, as quickly as it lingers, it is gone.

"Okay," he says briskly, shaking off whatever had crept in. "Come here."

He moves in closer, so close that for a moment, you forget where you are. The heat of him is startling in the cold, the way his breath fans against your skin. He doesn’t touch you, not yet—his pale eyes flick down, catching the delicate gold chain around your throat. His fingers reach for it, grazing against the hollow of your collarbone before curling around the Time-Turner, pulling it toward him as if testing the weight of it between his fingers.

"Four turns," he murmurs, glancing back up at you. The space between you narrows, almost nonexistent now, but his voice is measured, deliberate. "That should be enough."

You swallow. His knuckles are against your chest now, and for a fraction of a second, his thumb brushes the side of your throat before he shifts, looping one arm around your waist—not to pull you in, not quite, but enough to steady you. "Don’t let go," he says, quieter now, something softer in his voice.

Then, without waiting for an answer, he twists the Time-Turner.

The world lurches.

A pull you've experienced way too many times before, a violent snap, and then—motion. Everything bends, warps, unspools. Time collapses inward, the fabric of it twisting, folding, rewinding. The air is thick, viscous, pressing in on you like water. A dizzying flicker of colors and shadows, moments folding over themselves, the sensation of falling in all directions at once. Your breath catches, your fingers grasp at whatever they can—his wrist, the sleeve of his coat, his waist, you don't know. The only thing you know for certain is that he is solid, unmoving, the only anchor in this storm of shifting time.

Then, as quickly as it starts, it stops. Your feet slam against the ground. The world steadies.

Gojo exhales sharply, blinking, shaking out his hands as if trying to rid himself of the sensation. His grip on you doesn’t loosen right away. You’re both breathless, rattled, as if something in you was just wrenched apart and put back together again.

Then he releases you, stepping back just enough to look at you properly.

"Alright," he says again, but slower this time, his voice a little hoarser than before. "Now, let's go."

You barely have time to process the words before his fingers wrap around your arm, and then, the sensation is immediate.

It is as if something has hooked itself behind your navel, yanking you forward, through, beyond. The world compresses, tightens, squeezes the air from your lungs until you are nothing but motion, spiraling through a space that does not exist. Your stomach twists, flips inside out, and just as suddenly as it begins, it stops.

You stumble. The bile rises instantly.

Gojo doesn’t pause. He grips your wrist and pulls you forward, through the crush of London’s morning streets, weaving effortlessly between pedestrians who pay you no mind. The sun is pale overhead, the air thick with the scent of damp pavement and petrol, and it takes all of your willpower to keep yourself from doubling over right there on the sidewalk.

"You alright?" Gojo asks, sparing you a glance, though he doesn’t slow.

You swallow hard, pressing a hand to your mouth. "I’m trying very hard not to vomit on your very expensive-looking shoes."

His mouth twitches. "Do your best. These are the only ones that fit."

The joke barely registers. You’re still reeling, still pulling yourself back into your own body when he steers you toward a grand stone building—HM Treasury. You’ve seen it before, but only from a distance. To the rest of the world, it is nothing more than a government building, its facade unassuming, its history unremarkable. But you know better.

The Ministry of Magic sits beneath it, hidden from Muggle eyes.

Your heart pounds.

Gojo leads you through the entrance, past marble columns and security desks where wizards blend seamlessly with their non-magical counterparts, their disguises impeccable. An elevator stands at the far end of the hall, and he pushes you into it without ceremony, offering the elevator boy a murmured word—something low, something clipped—but you can’t make it out.

You are still concentrating on breathing. The walls of the elevator seem too close, the floor shifting beneath your feet as it descends, deeper and deeper, into the earth. The sensation is dizzying, claustrophobic, and your throat burns with the effort of keeping everything where it belongs. You cough once, then twice, swallowing down the last remnants of nausea.

Gojo stands beside you, arms crossed, his face eerily neutral. Too neutral.

Then, with a sharp chime, the doors slide open. And there it is.

The Ministry of Magic sprawls out before you, vast and pulsing with life. The floors gleam beneath the glow of floating lanterns, and the walls stretch impossibly high, lined with enchanted windows that flicker between storm and sunshine. Wizards bustle through the halls, robes billowing as they move with purpose, their conversations a murmur of layered voices. The air is thick with ink and parchment, with the faint hum of magic woven into every stone.

For a brief moment, the entire place stills. Not in motion, but in focus.

The weight of a hundred gazes flickers toward you, sharp and fleeting. Recognition, curiosity, hesitation—all of it flashing across the faces of those who know who Gojo’s father is. Who know, perhaps, the woman beside him.

Then, as quickly as it comes, it is gone. The moment passes, and the Ministry moves again, indifferent, uncaring. You let out a slow breath. "Shit," you murmur.

Gojo’s smirk is barely there, but you catch it before he turns away. "Welcome to the Ministry," he says.

The Atrium stretches out before you, grand and gleaming, its polished floors reflecting the golden gates that guard the farthest elevator. The ceiling, impossibly high, is charmed to shimmer with a soft, otherworldly glow, casting long shadows that stretch and curl around the pillars. Wizards move in careful, calculated strides, their robes swishing as they pass, their murmured conversations lost beneath the distant hum of enchanted parchment shuffling through the air.

Gojo walks beside you, arm in arm, his posture impeccable, his expression unreadable. His hand, warm and steady, rests lightly over yours, as if it has always belonged there. A mere prop, an illusion of familiarity. Yet, the weight of it grounds you, keeps you tethered to this carefully crafted deception.

The elevator looms ahead, its gilded doors casting fractured reflections of the two of you as you step inside. It is empty.

A deliberate emptiness. No one follows. No one dares.

The moment the gates slide shut, Gojo hums softly, an idle, almost absentminded sound as he adjusts his grip on his briefcase. His fingers graze over the metal clasp, slow, deliberate. You can feel it—the shift, the careful way he molds himself into a shape that is not his own. When he speaks, his voice is lower, clipped, perfectly measured.

"Level Nine, please, Gregory."

The attendant, a thin, sallow-faced man, inclines his head immediately. "Yes, of course, Mr. Gojo, sir."

No hesitation. No second glance.

The elevator descends, the air thick with something unspoken, something heavier than just the enclosed space. Gojo is silent beside you, and you study him, study the way he moves, the way he exists within this borrowed identity. His fingers drift to his pocket, slipping out the watch. He checks it, movements languid, precise, before snapping it shut with a quiet click and tucking it away again.

You watch him. You cannot see him. You cannot see Gojo Satoru in the man beside you.

The realization unsettles you more than it should.

"Have a nice day, sir," Gregory says when the doors slide open, bowing his head slightly.

Gojo does not speak. He only nods, a simple, dismissive gesture, before stepping out, guiding you along with him.

The corridor ahead is dark.

Not dimly lit—dark.

An unnatural kind of darkness, thick and all-consuming, pressing in from all sides. The floor beneath your feet is slick, obsidian-like, divided by thin, pale lines that stretch endlessly forward, the only indication of where the ground begins and ends. If not for them, you might believe you were standing in nothingness itself.

Your grip tightens around Gojo’s arm, and he glances down at you. His gaze softens—just for a moment, just enough for you to catch it before he speaks.

"Department of Mysteries," he murmurs. His voice is quieter here, as if speaking too loudly might wake something lurking in the dark. "Every prophecy, every classified record, every secret the Ministry has buried… It’s all here."

You swallow, trying to ignore the way your pulse thrums against your ribs.

"People are killed here, too," he adds, almost absently, his eyes scanning the corridor.

"Oh." The word barely escapes your lips, and it is nothing more than a breath, a wisp of sound swallowed whole by the darkness.

Gojo hesitates. Just slightly. Just enough for you to notice. He looks left, then right. The careful surety in his steps falters. Your heart pounds louder.

"Are you…" You trail off, watching the slight furrow in his brow, the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly against your sleeve. "Are you lost?"

"Not lost," he mutters, still glancing between the paths ahead. "Just… not sure which way it is."

You exhale sharply. "That’s called being lost, dimwit."

Before he can respond, a voice cuts through the corridor, shattering whatever fragile cocoon of secrecy the two of you had woven around yourselves.

"Mrs. Gojo? I thought you were home today."

Your spine stiffens instantly, fingers twitching against Gojo’s sleeve. Slowly, carefully, you turn.

A woman stands a few feet away, walking toward you with the poised ease of someone who does not question your presence, does not suspect. Not yet.

She is young—not as young as you or Satoru, but young enough to still hold that quiet eagerness in her gaze. Late twenties, perhaps. Dark hair neatly tied back, a crisp white blouse tucked into an ironed skirt. She wears glasses, thick-framed and pastel pink, an odd contrast to the clinical formality of the rest of her attire. They suit her, oddly enough.

You try to speak, but your throat is tight. When the words finally come, they are stilted, uneven. "Y-yes, supposedly."

Your voice cracks. You clear it, forcing yourself to stand a little straighter. "I apologize. My throat is a bit sore."

The woman shakes her head, unfazed. "It’s alright," she says, adjusting her glasses. "I was hoping you’d look through my paper soon. The one I wrote. I sent a copy with my owl—"

Gojo interrupts her. Smoothly. Effortlessly.

"Dear," he says, turning to you with the air of a man who has done this a thousand times before, "I’m sorry to do this, but we really are in the middle of something urgent."

His hand finds the small of your back, his fingers curling there as if they have always rested in that space. As if they have memorized the way your body fits against his. It is a performance, and he plays it with the ease of someone who knows exactly how to make the world believe him.

"My darling is assisting me on a case," he continues, his voice calm, commanding. "I’m afraid we can’t stay to chat."

The woman stiffens, stepping back immediately. "So sorry, sir."

"I’ll see your paper soon," you add quickly, softer now, careful to maintain whatever illusion of familiarity she expects. Her eyes brighten, her lips curling into a small, pleased smile. You regret the words as soon as they leave you. She is far too delighted, far too expectant. You have just given her something you cannot give.

Gojo does not acknowledge it.

Instead, he turns his gaze toward you again, and you recognize the shift—the careful tilt of his head, the slight lift of his brow. He is setting the stage.

"Where are the archives, my dear?" he asks, voice deliberate. You know what he is doing.

And so does she. The woman is quick to interject, stepping forward again. "That way, sir. First entryway to your left."

Gojo inclines his head in acknowledgment, a satisfied glint in his gaze. "Thank you."

Then, without another word, he pulls you along.

You chance a glance over your shoulder. The woman is still watching, her expression unreadable. When she catches your eye, she waves, polite, expectant. You nod, just slightly, before disappearing into the darkness.

For a few minutes, the two of you walk in silence, the sound of your footfalls swallowed by the suffocating hush of the Department of Mysteries. The walls stretch high, black brick stacked upon black brick, endless shelves crammed with books and vials and ancient, dust-covered artifacts. There is no natural light here, only the weak glow of enchanted lanterns hanging from the ceiling, their golden flicker casting long, shifting shadows that distort as you pass beneath them. The air is heavy, thick with something old, forgotten, waiting. The corridors stretch in every direction, each turn identical to the last, a labyrinth designed to trap those who don’t belong. And yet, Gojo moves with purpose.

He walks ahead of you, his father’s long coat billowing at his ankles, his shoulders squared, his pace brisk and assured. There is no hesitation in his steps, no second-guessing. It’s unnerving, how he carries himself in this place, how he navigates the endless maze like he has walked these corridors before.

"You know where you're going?" you ask, voice hushed, brows furrowing. It doesn’t make sense—he shouldn’t know. But he does. You can tell. You can see it in the way he moves, in the way his fingers barely graze the books that jut out unevenly from the walls, in the way his head tilts slightly, listening for something only he can hear.

He doesn’t stop, only glances back at you with something like amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. "Remember when I said I have a knack for snooping?"

He smiles, soft and easy, but on his father’s face, it looks wrong. Unsettling. Like a mask stretched over the wrong bones. But then he exhales, a quiet, measured sound, and murmurs, "I have a Pensieve at home. You know, the thing you use to look at other people’s memories."

"Whose memories did you look at?" Your voice is quieter now, more careful. "Your mother?"

He hums, neither confirming nor denying, but you already know the answer. "My mother is the Head of the Research department in the Ministry," he says eventually, tone softer now, almost thoughtful. Then, when he notices your expression, he sighs. "Don’t give me that look—yes, that one. It feels like my mother is looking at me in disappointment."

"Technically," you murmur, "she is. Can't believe you never told me something that important."

He huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. "Anyway, I extracted some of her memories while she was sleeping."

There is no guilt in his voice when he says it. No shame. Just the calm, matter-of-fact tone of someone who has long accepted that certain lines will always be crossed. He tilts his head, thoughtful. "She worked on something regarding Sukuna years ago when my father required it, so it was buried deep. Hard to find. But I found one or two." There’s a glint of triumph in his eye now, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "So we can, technically, find our way to her old research."

Your breath catches, just for a second, before you mutter, "You're bloody brilliant." A pause. "Insufferable, but brilliant."

He clutches his chest in mock offense. "I don’t appreciate the insufferable part of that comment," he says, "But I’ll take it, darling."

You groan, feigning pain as you start pressing a hand to your chest to ward off nausea. "Oh, god."

He chuckles, quiet, almost genuine. But then, he stops. It takes you a second to realize why. He’s staring at you, his brows drawing together in something close to alarm. But it’s not you he’s looking at—it’s your hair.

"Shit," he breathes. "We're changing back."

Your stomach plummets.

Panic grips you, quick and unrelenting, and your breath stumbles, your chest tightening, filling too much, your limbs growing heavy with the weight of something you can’t control. Your fingers tremble at your sides. You blink rapidly, feeling the shift—bones reshaping themselves, skin warming, hair changing, pooling into its natural color. You feel it happen, but you can’t stop it.

He moves before you can react.

A hand around your wrist, firm, steady, pulling you towards the nearest shelf. The press of his body against yours, the heavy fabric of his father’s coat between you. He smells clean, crisp—something sharp, like winter air, something sweet, like honey. His grip tightens, anchoring you, steadying you. "We're here," he murmurs, low and careful. "Don’t worry. We're inside. We can Disapparate out. It's illegal, yes, but they won't know it was us."

"But they saw us come in—" 

"They won’t know it was us." His voice is calm, but insistent. Your cries calm under the tone of his voice, as you try to breathe. "They won’t know it was two kids from Hogwarts impersonating two of the most important people at the Ministry of Magic."

His eyes change first. The dull, washed-out gray of his father’s gaze sharpens back into that impossible blue, that staggering, summer-sky brilliance. His cheekbones fill out, his jawline softens, the deep hollows under his eyes lift slightly. You watch it all happen in real time, like something unraveling, undoing itself.

You nod, swallowing down the remnants of panic. "Okay. Yes. We’re fine."

"We’re fine," he echoes, quieter now. His hands fall away from you, slow, reluctant. He looks past you, and you follow his gaze.

"Alright," he murmurs. "It’s just... through those doors."

He glances toward the shelves, his gaze landing on the double doors tucked into the shadows. They are deep blue, so dark they could be black, their surfaces smooth and cold-looking, as if the very material resists light. Wood or metal, you cannot tell. The air around them hums with something just beyond perception, something that makes the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. When Gojo takes a step forward, you follow without thinking, as if drawn in by the same invisible current.

He reaches for the doors, his fingers barely brushing the handles before hesitating. You both know better than to rush—Ministry doors, especially ones in the Archives, are not to be trusted. The moment stretches, silent and heavy, before he finally presses his palm against the surface and pushes. The doors give way with a near-soundless shift, swinging inward, revealing the yawning darkness beyond. You step through together, breath held, waiting for something to snap, for a hex to ignite the air, for something unseen to wrap around your ankles and pull you under.

But nothing comes.

Instead, the darkness swallows you whole.

The corridor outside was dim, but this—this is suffocating. The blackness is thick, pressing in at the edges of your vision, and for a moment, you feel like you've stepped into something alive, something that might close its mouth around you and never let go. Then, slowly, the room begins to take shape. The first thing you see is the glow.

It is in the center of the room. Soft at first, then impossibly bright, an eerie silver light spilling from a single, shallow stone basin. A Pensieve. Its glow reaches out, licking at the towering shelves lining the circular walls, illuminating their contents in thin, wavering light. Books—tomes so thick and ancient they look more like relics than texts—stand in orderly rows, their spines cracked and weathered. But it is not the books that pull at you. It is the shelves of glass vials, dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, each one filled with swirling memories suspended in liquid silver. A breath catches in your throat.

“Are Pensieves supposed to glow like that?” your voice barely rises above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the unnatural light.

Gojo’s frown deepens. “No,” he says, his voice low, careful. “This wasn’t in the memory.” His eyes dart around the room, gaze flickering over the shelves, over the countless memories sealed away in glass. “This room was supposed to have records. Archives on dark wizards.”

You turn to him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“It’s been changed.” There’s something raw in his voice, something tight in the way he says it. “I was stupid to think it would be the same after all these years.”

“No, wait.” You reach for his arm before he can retreat into that dangerous space in his mind, the one where he shuts everything out. Your grip tightens as your eyes settle on the glass cases surrounding the Pensieve. Rows upon rows of memories, cataloged and stored. Vials lined neatly in place. The room is wrong, but the purpose remains the same. Information is here, waiting to be found. “Come with me.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move, only watches you, uncertain. Then he exhales, nods once, and follows.

The closer you get to the shelves, the more you notice the details. The labels on the vials, each one scrawled in a hand you don’t recognize. Some date back decades. Others, centuries. You skim the shelves, fingers ghosting over the glass, scanning names and dates, heart thrumming in your chest.

Then you see it.

“Look.” You reach upward, pointing to a vial perched near the top. It looks newer than the others. Unsettlingly recent.

Gojo steps closer, rising onto the balls of his feet to retrieve it. The glass is cool in his palm, the memory inside swirling restlessly as if aware it is being watched. His jaw tightens. “It’s from last week.”

You swallow. “What do you think?”

“We’re here anyway, aren’t we?” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Might as well.”

But you hesitate. Something in your chest constricts. “Wait,” you say, watching him carefully. “We don’t even know whose memory this is.”

His grip on the vial tightens slightly. “My mother’s the only one who spends this much time in the Archives. It has to be hers.”

“Or someone else’s.” Your voice is firmer now. Your mind is already moving ahead of you, calculating, predicting. If it isn’t his mother’s, it could be someone dangerous. Someone who might not want their memories seen. You reach forward and take the vial from his hand. “I’ll do it.”

He blinks. “What?” His expression shifts, his posture straightening, eyes narrowing. “Absolutely not.”

“Shut up,” you say, rolling the vial between your fingers. “You and I both know that if there’s something in here—something important—you won’t tell me everything.” You don’t phrase it like a question. You already know the answer. He will keep secrets. He always does. “So I’ll do it for us. Both of us.”

His mouth parts slightly, but he says nothing. You take it as permission.

Before he can stop you, you unstopper the vial and tip its contents into the Pensieve. The silver liquid spills and twists into its depths, and as the glow intensifies, you step forward.

His voice is tight. “Fawkes—”

“I know what I’m doing, Satoru,” you say, glancing back at him one last time before turning to face the swirling light. “I’ll tell you everything I find. I promise.”

The promise lingers between you, unspoken things coiling beneath it. You swallow, forcing down the weight of it, and then, you plunge your head into the water.

When you open your eyes, the darkness remains. It is thick, pressing in at the edges, refusing to recede even as you blink, as if light itself has no place here. The air is dense, heavy with something unseen, something remembered only in fragments. A presence lingers. You are not alone.

Ahead of you, a woman walks. Her figure is long, draped in a suit that is precise, expensive, tailored to fit the exact dimensions of her power. A long black coat flows behind her, weightless, unbothered by the movements of the air. She is tall—taller than you by an inch, maybe two. But it is not her height that makes her imposing. It is the way she moves. Each step is deliberate, unhurried. A woman who has never known the need to rush.

It is only when she turns slightly, just enough for the dim light to catch the strands of her hair, that you know for certain.

Gojo’s mother.

Her hair is darker than the void you’ve stepped into, so black it seems to swallow the faintest glow. It absorbs rather than reflects, as if made of something beyond human, beyond earthly. It is a kind of darkness that does not allow itself to be seen—it simply exists.

You follow her, though the memory resists you. The edges of it blur, flickering in and out like an old film reel. There is something fractured about it, something incomplete. As if even as she bottled this memory, she had not wanted to hold onto it fully.

You recognize the walls around you now, even through the haze. The archives. The same halls you had infiltrated not long ago, walking through them as if you belonged. But here, now, in the past, they are different. The same walls, the same sterile air, but the feeling is heavier. The moment is thick with something unsaid.

She steps out of the hallway and approaches a desk. The woman seated there—you recognize her from before, the one with the forgettable name. She glances up, hesitates, and then asks something. A question about research, perhaps, though the words slip from memory as soon as they are spoken.

Gojo’s mother does not answer. She does not pause. She does not acknowledge anything outside the path she has already decided for herself. A dismissal, barely a breath, and she moves forward.

The elevator doors slide open. She steps in. You follow, slipping inside just before they shut.

And then, for the first time, you are beside her.

She is standing still, facing forward, the way all people do in elevators. And yet, she does not look like anyone you have ever seen. She is impossible.

Her face is sharp, unreadable. Her eyes, when you dare to glance up at them, are endless. The same color as Gojo’s, but not the same at all. His eyes are full of something reckless, something alive, something dangerous. Hers are cold. Deep. The kind of ocean one does not swim in but drowns.

The elevator stops. She steps forward without hesitation, walking through you as if you are nothing, as if you do not exist.

And you run after her.

The space outside the elevator is unlike the rest of the Ministry. Here, the sterility fades. Color bleeds into the walls, accents of something warmer, something lived-in. A hallway lined with framed documents, quiet conversations murmuring behind closed doors. It is almost ordinary. Almost.

She does not stop to take any of it in.

People scatter as she passes, moving out of her way before she has to ask. Someone hands her a file. Another whispers something, a confirmation, a verification. She does not break stride. She flips the file open, scanning it with an expression so impassive that it may as well have been carved from stone. Her mouth tightens, only slightly, before she speaks.

“I want to meet this woman,” she says.

And then she is moving again, pushing open the door before her.

You expect a meeting room. A cold, lifeless space. Instead, you find something else entirely.

It is an office. Her office. And it is beautiful.

Mahogany shelves line the walls, filled with books that are worn from use rather than neglect. The desk is dark wood, heavy, ornate, carved by hands that understood the weight of the things that would rest upon it. Ivory accents run through the room, small and deliberate, a careful contrast against the dark. There are plants, impossibly green, their leaves stretching towards the light that filters in through the single high window. It is unexpected. It is not at all what you thought it would be.

And yet, none of it holds your attention for long.

Because she is not alone.

A woman sits across from her.

She is old. So old that the word itself feels insufficient. Her skin is pale, stretched too thin, the color of parchment left too long in the sun. She is brittle, you think, the kind of frail that suggests a single wrong movement might shatter her entirely. Her hair is silver, frayed, tangled into something that does not care for vanity. Her breath is uneven. She does not fidget, does not tremble, but she is not still in the way Gojo’s mother is. Her stillness is something different. Something waiting.

And then she looks at you.

No—through you. Past you. Or maybe into you.

It is a gaze that does not belong to someone of this world.

Her eyes are hollow and endless, the remnants of something that once saw more than human eyes were meant to. There is a flicker, a recognition that does not make sense, a knowing that does not belong to this moment. You feel it. A thing surfacing. A memory, lost and found all at once.

And then, without looking away, Gojo's mother speaks.

“Tell me what you know.”

Her voice is cracked, but steady. A whisper woven from something ancient. Something fragile. She steps forward. Her hands drop the file onto the desk. A sharp sound against the polished wood.

“Tell it to me,” she says. Her voice is quiet, but absolute. “In as much detail as you possibly can.”

A pause. A breath. And then, “Seer.”

You gasp, the sound sharp, swallowed instantly by the thick, stifling air of the room. It is too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in, that weighs on your skin like wet wool. A silence that is not truly empty, but filled with something waiting. Watching. It coils around your throat, settles in the hollow of your chest, latches onto your ribs and refuses to let go. Seers are rare—so rare that they might as well not exist. True Seers, that is. And if this woman is one, if she is truly about to speak, then whatever spills from her lips will be more than knowledge. Her words will be law. Unstoppable. Absolute.

You step forward.

The memory shifts around you, edges curling in like parchment held too close to an open flame. The air warps, thickens, unsteady, like it might come apart at the seams. It feels like standing inside a living thing, a great beast breathing slow and shallow, waiting for the moment it will decide to wake. The light overhead flickers. The oil lamps on the walls dim, their glow eaten away by the shadows pooling in the corners of the office.

It is dark. But you see her, still.

Gojo's mother stands at the desk, straight-backed, utterly still, only the slight rise and fall of her chest betraying life beneath her skin. Her suit is pressed and sharp, her long black coat hanging open at her sides. She looks every bit the authority she holds, power stitched into the very way she breathes, the way people in the hallway had scattered before her like birds startled from a wire.

She is not afraid.

But the way she looks at the old woman across from her, the way her fingers press against the file on the desk, just barely—not enough to be called hesitation, but enough for you to see it—makes something twist inside you.

The Seer draws in a slow breath, her lips parting slightly. You can feel the shift in the air. It is almost unbearable, the tension, the sheer weight of the moment stretching so tight you fear it might snap.

But she does not speak.

“I mustn’t, Mirai,” she rasps at last, and her voice is like brittle paper, like old wood splitting beneath too much pressure. “I can’t.”

Your pulse stutters. Not because of her words, but because of the way Gojo’s mother reacts to her own name.

She straightens—not much, just a fraction—but enough that you notice the sharp inhale through her nose, the way the line of her jaw sets just a little tighter. She is unreadable. Utterly, terrifyingly still. But the weight of her presence alone is enough to strangle the last of the air from the room.

“Tell it to me,” she says. Her voice is even. Cold, but steady. “Or I will make sure there is no proof you ever existed.”

Something passes over the old woman’s face. Not quite fear. Something quieter. More tired. Her fingers tremble against the fabric of her dress, curling weakly before falling still.

For a moment, she does nothing. Then, slowly, she exhales.

“There is a prophecy.”

A chill sweeps down your spine.

The words are spoken so plainly, so simply, that it takes a moment for them to sink into your skin. But the second they do, the room feels smaller, as if the walls are pressing in, as if the air has grown thicker, harder to pull into your lungs.

The woman at the desk does not react. She does not move. But you do.

Your hands brace against the desk, knuckles white. You cannot look away, cannot breathe properly. Your heart is hammering in your chest, but you do not dare make a sound.

“Tell it to me,” she repeats.

There is a change in her voice. Subtle. But it is there. A shift so slight that no one else might have noticed, but you do. A thread of something not quite unshaken. A barely-there slip in the steel of her words.

The Seer’s gaze drops to her lap. She is quiet for so long you begin to wonder if she has lost herself again, if she has retreated into the fog of whatever place her mind resides in.

But then, she speaks.

“It will begin again,” she murmurs. “The war that was buried, the name that was feared. A name forgotten only by those foolish enough to believe it could be silenced forever.”

A slow exhale. The shift of fabric as the woman standing at the desk—Mirai—settles, barely, almost imperceptibly.

“The Dark Lord waits,” the Seer continues, her voice no longer quite hers. It slips into something older, something distant. “Scattered in twenty pieces, his whispers buried in stone and bone and blood. But the first has been found. A hand unknowing, closest to your son, holds what should have never surfaced, a heart still torn between shadow and light. He does not yet know what he carries, what it will demand of him, what it will make him become. But he will.”

Something in Mirai changes. Not in a way you can see—not yet—but you feel it. A quiet stillness, a shift in the air around her. The way her fingers press slightly against the desk, her nails barely digging into the wood.

Then, at last, she speaks. “What do you mean by ‘your son’? Is it my son?”

The Seer does not stop.

“Your son will know of it soon,” she says. “He will stand at the precipice, and he will try. He will try to save what has already begun to unravel. He will try to turn him back before he is too far gone. But the choice is not his to make.”

The room cracks. Not physically. But it feels like something has. The tension splinters, breaking wide open, and suddenly Mirai is moving before you can register it.

The chair scrapes against the floor. Her hands slam onto the desk.

She leans in. And her face, once so impassive, so eerily calm, is burning. Her nostrils flare, her shoulders squared, her glare searing into the old woman as if she could force the prophecy back into silence, as if she could take the words and bury them before they have a chance to root themselves into reality.

But the Seer does not flinch. She does not react at all. She simply breathes out, slow and steady, as if she has already seen this before.

“This war can be stalled,” she says, “but not undone. In a decade, it will come. The halls will burn. The towers will fall. And the old name, the one not spoken, will rise again, wearing the faces of the dead.”

The memory shudders. A slow, unnatural ripple, like the air itself is gasping, like the walls have begun to exhale. Then, without warning, it splits apart.

The wooden panels of the office tremble, thin fractures crawling up their surface, splitting like ice under pressure. The lamps flicker once, twice—then die, swallowed by the growing dark. The ground beneath you is no longer solid; it pulses, shifts, wavers between existence and something else entirely. A slow, sickening pull coils around your ribs, as if the world itself is unspooling thread by thread.

“No,” you whisper. It barely carries over the thick, suffocating silence.

Then the desk collapses inward, disappearing into nothingness. The chair follows. The Seer does not scream when she vanishes. She simply ceases to be. It rattles you.

Your breath catches. A sharp, painful inhale that never reaches your lungs.

“No,” you say again, louder this time, desperate now, scrambling forward even as the floor beneath you begins to break apart like shattered glass, splintering at your feet. The void swallows everything in its path—books, shelves, papers floating momentarily in the air before they, too, are claimed by the abyss yawning below.

You try to move, but your legs don’t feel real. Your fingers reach out, desperate, aching, grasping at nothing but air. The world is slipping through your hands.

“No, no, no, no,” you choke, reaching for the old woman, for the place where she once was. The void has taken half the room now. The walls are no longer walls. They are ribbons of white, unraveling, curling, dissolving into the nothingness that waits just beyond. The prophecy still rings in your ears. Your son will know of it soon.

“I need to know more,” you gasp. Your voice is raw, frantic, the words tumbling out as you reach for something, anything—something solid, real. “Wait, please—I need to know more!”

The darkness does not listen. It is faster now, tearing through the floor beneath you, and then you are falling.

A weightless, terrible sensation. Your stomach lurching, your arms flailing. The air is rushing past your ears, deafening, roaring, a howling void that swallows every sound but your own strangled scream. Your body twists, your vision blurs—everything is wrong, everything is slipping away.

And then, there are hands on you. Warm. Solid. Your eyes snap open.

You gasp, sucking in air so fast it burns. Your chest heaves, but your lungs—your lungs won’t work, they won’t expand, won’t take in enough, and the pressure is unbearable, crushing, as if something has its hands wrapped around your ribs and is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. The world is still spinning. Still dark.

"Fawkes." A voice.

You can’t focus. Can’t breathe.

"Fawkes, I’m so sorry, but we’ve got to go," Gojo says, his voice urgent, panting lightly as he shakes you. "Breathe, please. Breathe."

But you can’t.

Your hands clutch at him, fingers twisting into the fabric of his robes, grounding yourself in the only thing still here, still real. You can still hear it—faint and slipping away—the prophecy, the Seer’s voice, the war that is coming.

Gojo’s grip tightens.

"Come on," he urges, voice softer now, but no less desperate. "Breathe."

You cup his face, your fingers trembling against the sharp lines of his jaw, your breath still uneven, still shuddering, still not enough. His skin is warm beneath your palms, solid, real, but it is not enough to ground you, not enough to stop the panic climbing up your throat. The memory, the prophecy, everything still clings to you, curling its fingers into the edges of your mind, refusing to let go.

“Satoru,” Your voice cracks. You shake your head, gasping, swallowing down the terror threatening to consume you whole. “I can’t. You can’t. You're not safe, something’s coming, and—”

His hands tighten around your arms, anchoring you to him. His eyes—brilliant, searing, endless—watch you carefully, tracing every flicker of fear in your expression, but he says nothing. Just nods. Once. Twice. Vigorously.

And then, footsteps.

The sound is distant at first, muffled by thick wooden walls, but it is growing louder, closer, steady, purposeful. Someone is coming.

Your breath stutters.

Gojo’s gaze flickers to the deep blue doors. You can hear it in his silence, the way his body tenses—he’s calculating, thinking, planning. Your fingers tighten in his robes, knuckles white.

“Fuck’s sake,” you choke out, voice barely above a whisper. “This cannot be happening.”

Your heart is hammering, your pulse a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs. You can feel his heartbeat too, steady but quick beneath your touch. He isn’t afraid. He never is. But you?

“Satoru,” you gasp, your words tumbling out too fast, too panicked. “What do we—”

But he moves before you can finish. His arms lock around you in an instant, and then—

A hook behind your navel. A violent yank. Again. You feel like screaming.

The world is gone. Or maybe you are.

Everything crushes inward, impossibly tight, impossibly fast, the pressure suffocating, wringing the breath from your lungs as the air folds in on itself. Your body is not your own; you are nothing but motion, spiraling through a space that does not exist, stretched too thin and compressed all at once. There is no sound, no breath, no thought—only the unbearable weight of being nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Your stomach twists violently. Again.

Impact.

The world slams back into place so suddenly that your body does not know how to catch up. You are moving before you realize it, stumbling backward, legs giving out beneath you. The nausea rises in a sickening wave, bile burning at the back of your throat.

There's softness, then. A bed.

You don’t know when you collapse onto it, but you are there now, hands clenching at the sheets, lungs heaving as you force down the overwhelming dizziness still clawing at you. The room is spinning. Or maybe you are.

Gojo is already moving. Already there. His hands press against your shoulders, firm, grounding.

“Wait here,” he says, breathless but certain. “I’ll get you water. And perhaps a bucket.”

You barely process his words, still too caught between then and now, between what was and what is.

He exhales sharply, shakes you—gently, but enough to make you look at him. His face is too close, his eyes too sharp, too searching. His hands are steady on you, unyielding.

“You’re safe,” he says, quieter this time. A declaration. A promise. His grip tightens, just for a second. “Yes? You’re safe. Breathe.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You aren’t sure it would be true.

“I’m getting you water,” he says again, as if repeating it will make it real. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Dobby? Get me a glass of water, please?” Gojo’s voice cuts through the stillness, loud. A sharp contrast to the way your own breath comes in uneven and shallow gasps. He is already standing, glancing toward the door, his presence too solid for the space you are in. Your fingers tighten in the sheets beneath you, still trembling, still trying to catch up with everything that has just happened.

Your heart is racing. You force yourself to look around, to make sense of where you are.

The room is unfamiliar, but it doesn't feel that way.

Soft blue walls surround you, the kind of blue that belongs to open skies and endless horizons, the kind that should make you feel free but only makes you feel impossibly small. The air is still, warm, carrying the faint scent of something clean, something comforting—linen and citrus and something you can’t quite name.

And then you see it.

A tall, polished cabinet against the far wall, its glass doors gleaming in the dim light. Inside, gold glints in neat rows—Quidditch trophies, awards, accolades, too many to count. And next to them, stacked high on the shelves, books—worn, dog-eared, well-loved. Not just schoolbooks, but novels, too. Fiction. Poetry. Some you recognize, some you don’t.

Then, the photographs.

Frames are scattered across the walls, the shelves, the nightstand beside the bed. A younger Gojo grins back at you from behind the glass, his arm slung around Geto’s shoulders. Another frame holds the two of them again, but this time, Shoko is there too, laughing, mid-motion, her head thrown back.

Your breath catches, then. You see it. The entire group.

It’s another photo from Hogsmeade, from years ago. The first time you had all gone together, when things were simple, when things were whole. You remember that day. You remember the warmth of it, the laughter, the way the snow had clung to your robes, the way Gojo had stolen your butterbeer and refused to give it back until you hexed him into a snowbank.

It is the kind of memory that should feel distant, blurred at the edges with time. But standing here, looking at it, it feels closer than ever.

Too close. Your throat tightens.

And then Gojo is there again, crouching in front of you, his hands firm on your shoulders, steadying you, grounding you. His touch is careful, not hesitant, just sure. Like he has done this before. Like he has steadied you before.

“You’re safe,” he says, voice quieter now, more certain. “You’re at my house. We’re still in London.”

London.

You swallow hard, nodding quickly, too quickly. You force yourself to meet his gaze, and for a moment, you think you see something there—concern, maybe, but it's unspoken. Before you can place it, the door creaks open.

A small figure scurries in, and your breath hitches.

The House Elf is tiny, barely reaching Gojo’s waist, his ears too large for his head, his eyes impossibly big, impossibly round. He's kind of adorable as he carries a tray with careful hands, the glass of water balanced perfectly on top.

“Dobby did not know Master Satoru was to come home today,” the Elf says, his voice quick and light. “Or Dobby would have prepared Master Satoru’s favorite snacks—oh.” His gaze flickers to you. “Master Satoru has brought a guest.”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his hair before reaching for the glass. He picks it up with easy familiarity, then turns back to you, pressing it into your hands.

“Here,” he says. “Drink this.”

You don’t realize how parched you are until the cool glass touches your skin. You wrap your fingers around it, still unsteady, still unsure, but you drink.

Gojo turns back to Dobby.

“Dobby, this is [Y/N].” He glances at you once before looking back at the Elf. “She’s my friend.”

Dobby hesitates at the threshold, his large, round eyes darting between you and Gojo, his spindly fingers curling at his sides. His ears twitch, flattening slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he is allowed to step closer.

You manage a small, unsteady smile. “H-Hello.”

The Elf blinks. Then, with a quick, precise nod, he bows his head. “Hello,” he says softly. His voice is high-pitched, almost musical, but there is something careful in the way he speaks. “Are you alright? Would you like something to eat?”

You shake your head, glancing at Gojo beside you. The dizziness is fading now, but the weight of what just happened still sits thick in your chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. The room no longer spins, but your limbs feel unsteady, your stomach churning from the disapparation.

“My stomach feels like it’s being turned inside out,” you murmur, pressing a hand to your ribs. “I hate disapparation.”

“I got used to it after a while.” Gojo tries to smile, but it’s a pale, uncertain thing, barely there before it vanishes. Then, turning to Dobby, his expression sharpens. “Dobby, where are my parents?”

The Elf shifts on his feet, ears twitching again. “Master went to the Ministry of Magic,” he says quickly. “There was an alarm. People who looked exactly like Master Satoru’s parents were spotted at the Ministry. Both of them left in a hurry. They looked very worried. Very nervous.” He hesitates, his voice growing small. “It made Dobby scared.”

A chill creeps down your spine.

“So they know,” you whisper. “They know.”

You don’t even realize you’ve said it out loud until Gojo exhales, low and sharp.

“We’re so fucked,” you finish.

Dobby’s ears perk up at that, and his large eyes widen as he looks between you both. “Was it the two of you?”

Gojo stiffens. “Dobby—”

“If Master Gojo asks, I can’t refuse—”

“You mustn’t tell him,” Gojo interrupts, turning to face the Elf fully now. His voice is quiet, urgent. “You can’t.”

Dobby wrings his hands, shifting nervously. “But Master Gojo is my master.”

“And so am I,” Satoru presses. His voice is a whisper now, low, pleading. “Please. You can’t.”

You reach for him without thinking, your fingers brushing over his shoulder. He’s tense, his muscles drawn tight beneath your palm. You turn back to the Elf, your voice softer but just as steady.

“Dobby,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze. “Think of it as hiding the truth. You’re not lying. You’re just helping us.”

Dobby fidgets, his long fingers twisting together, his small frame visibly trembling with the weight of the decision. The silence stretches, thick and uncertain.

Then, a nod. It’s small, hesitant, but it’s a nod.

The tension in your chest eases just slightly, and you exhale, long and slow.

“See?” you manage, offering the Elf a weary smile. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Dobby nods, his enormous eyes flitting between you and Gojo, his long fingers wringing together. “Dobby should make Master Satoru something to eat. Master Satoru mustn’t leave home without food.”

“Dobby, it’s really alright—”

“Dobby won’t take no for an answer, Master Satoru,” the elf insists, shaking his head with a quiet sort of finality. Then, turning to you, his expression softens into something almost warm. “I will pack something for Miss [Y/N] as well. She must eat later, or she will still feel sick.”

You don’t argue. There’s no use. You know better than to fight against the unwavering resolve of a house-elf. Instead, you offer him a small, tired smile, watching as he scurries toward the door, his little feet making no noise against the floor.

The moment he’s gone, Gojo moves. Swift and deliberate, he steps to the door, pressing it shut until it clicks into place. He lingers there for a moment, his hand still resting on the wood, his shoulders drawn tight. When he turns back to you, there’s something unreadable in his face.

“We have some time,” he says, glancing toward the clock mounted on the far wall. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge beneath it, a tension coiled so tightly it might snap at any second. “Tell me what you saw.”

Your fingers twist at the hem of your coat, fumbling over the fabric, the nerves settling deep in your stomach. “It’s a lot. I can’t—”

“Take your time,” he says, stepping toward you, his voice lowering. He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee barely brushing against yours. “But you’re telling me all of it. You promised. It’s why I let you do it, anyway.”

You sigh, shaky and uneven. The memory is still raw in your mind, lingering like the afterimage of something you weren’t meant to see. The weight of it presses down on you, but Gojo is close, so close, and when you lift your eyes, he’s already watching you. His face is inches from yours, his gaze piercing, expectant.

You nod. You accept it.

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, caught in the stillness. You focus on the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the feel of solid ground beneath your feet, as if grounding yourself will somehow make this easier. And then, finally, you speak.

“The memory wasn’t stable,” you begin, voice quieter than you mean for it to be. “I could tell from the very start. It was your mother’s memory.”

Gojo’s brow furrows slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it wasn’t stable,” you repeat. “Something was off. There was fog around the edges of it, like… like the memory itself was resisting me. Like she wasn’t ready for it. Like she didn’t want it to be real.”

He hums, thoughtful, before nodding for you to continue.

You swallow. “I followed her to her office. There was an old woman there with her. Really, really old. As old as Dumbledore, maybe even older. And she was a Seer.”

Gojo’s interest sharpens instantly. His head tilts, his ears practically perking up. “That’s surprising. Seers are rare. Real ones, anyway. Go on.”

“There was a prophecy.” The words feel heavy on your tongue, like saying them out loud makes them more real, more dangerous. Your hands curl into fists, pressing into your lap. “About everything that’s supposed to happen. I-I don’t know if I can—”

“You have to,” Gojo interrupts, his voice firm, cutting through your hesitation like a blade.

For a second, your spine stiffens, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. But then, slowly, he reaches out, pressing a warm hand over yours. The tension eases, just a little.

“You have to tell me,” he says again, quieter now, his grip steady, grounding. “We have to stop it.”

You exhale. Then, slowly, you begin.

“It will begin again. The war that was buried. The name that was feared.” Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “A name forgotten only by those foolish enough to believe it could be silenced forever.”

Gojo pulls away. He stands abruptly, his hand slipping from yours, his back going rigid.

“Sukuna. You were right. It's true,” he breathes.

You nod, your throat tightening. “The Dark Lord waits, scattered in twenty pieces, his whispers buried in stone and bone and blood. But the first has been found. A hand unknowing, closest to your son, holds what should have never surfaced. A heart still torn between shadow and light.”

The air in the room shifts, thickens. Gojo doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. His entire body has gone eerily still, and for a moment, it’s as if he’s frozen in time.

Your pulse pounds as you force yourself to say it.

“He does not yet know what he carries, what it will demand of him, what it will make him become.” You swallow. “But he will.”

Gojo turns then, sharply, his gaze locking onto yours. There’s something wild in his expression—something bordering on horror.

“Suguru,” he murmurs.

Your breath shudders. You nod. “There’s more.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt. You take another breath, steadying yourself before you continue.

“Your son will know of it soon. He will stand at the precipice, and he will try. He will try to save what has already begun to unravel. He will try to turn him back before he is too far gone.” Your voice drops lower. “But the choice is not his to make.”

The words linger. You know they do.

“This war can be stalled,” you continue, softer now, “but not undone. In a decade, it will come. The halls will burn. The towers will fall. And the old name, the one not spoken, will rise again, wearing the faces of the dead.”

Silence.

Gojo blinks at you, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhales. A quiet, breathless sound.

“Holy fuck.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Now you know.”

Gojo drags a hand down his face, rubbing at the space where stubble would be if he ever let it grow. “There’s going to be a war.” The weight of it settles into his voice. “And I’m going to be at the center of it.”

“Looks like it,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, laughing softly—except it’s not real laughter, not really. Just disbelief, hollow and dry. He looks at you again, eyes sharp, assessing. “But we can stop Suguru.”

You nod, gripping onto that one certainty, that one sliver of hope. “Somehow. It’s possible. That’s all we need to know, right?”

Gojo stares at you for a long moment, then exhales, nodding once.

“That’s all we need to know.”

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[connorsui]

unspoken affection

Sukuna x reader

Synopsis: In a rare moment of vulnerability, Sukuna allows you to explore the markings on his body

Genre/Warnings: Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Soft moments. Implied sexual tension, mentions of Sukuna's intimidating nature, light teasing.

Note: I want to color his tats

The moonlight barely filters through the room, casting long shadows across Sukuna's muscular form. He lays still, eyes closed, a faint smirk on his lips as your fingers glide over the dark, jagged markings on his skin, tracing each one with an intimacy you've grown familiar with. His breaths are slow and deliberate, though you know he’s awake. He always is. Despite the quiet arrogance that lingers in his aura, the way he pretends to sleep is his subtle way of allowing these tender moments between you to happen.

Your fingers drift along the length of his back, over his broad shoulders, and down the well-defined muscles of his hips, testing your limits and feeling the heat of his body beneath your touch. The marks that cover him pulse with faint energy, a reminder of his formidable power. But here, in this room, under your hand, he is just Sukuna—your Sukuna, though he would never admit it.

His lips quirk slightly when he feels you hesitate, your fingertips hovering near the lowest of the marks, the ones that dip beneath the edge of the sheets. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to feel the heat rising in your cheeks, knowing all too well how easily he can fluster you with nothing but a smug, well-timed comment.

"Still plenty more marks below my hips, if you're interested," his voice, rich and deep, rumbles through the silence, laced with that insufferable arrogance. You swallow, heat rushing to your face, but you press on, unwilling to let him win so easily this time.

Instead of biting back, you lean in closer, your lips brushing the markings along his chest, moving with a deliberate slowness that draws a low, approving hum from him. He shifts, rolling onto his back, four arms spreading lazily across the bed as if inviting you to explore further. His crimson eyes finally open, four of them watching you intently, the gleam of amusement and something deeper lurking behind them.

"You’re quite the bold one tonight," he mutters, the corners of his mouth curving upward as you press a soft kiss to the center of his forehead, right between the small crown of black markings.

But this time, you don’t let his teasing get to you. Instead, you allow your lips to move lower, down the planes of his shoulders and along the corded muscles of his arms, planting gentle kisses onto the skin he pretends is invulnerable. You know better. You've seen it in the way he never pulls away, how he subtly leans into your touch, like he's soaking up the affection he refuses to ask for.

A low chuckle escapes him, but his taunts have softened, replaced by the steady, rhythmic hum of his breathing, as if the sensation of your lips against his skin is enough to quiet even the King of Curses.

You smile against his skin, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment wash over you. For all his bluster and arrogance, beneath the weight of his ancient power and the cruel smirk that never seems to fade, there’s a man who lets you in. One who lies still beneath your touch, his monstrous form revealing small, fleeting moments of vulnerability that are yours alone to witness.

“Are you just going to sit there, or do you plan to finish?” His voice cuts through the silence again, though it lacks its usual bite.

You chuckle softly, pressing a kiss to the dark, jagged mark on his collarbone. “I didn’t know you were so impatient, Sukuna.”

He growls, but there’s no real anger behind it. "You're pushing your luck, woman."

His four hands find their way to your waist, tugging you closer until you're practically draped over him, face pressed to his chest. It's a rare gesture from him, one he covers with arrogance, but you've come to learn the truth behind his seemingly petulant acts. He may not admit it outright, but this—your warmth, your closeness—is what he craves more than anything.

"You could stay like this all day," you tease, your voice muffled against his chest, your fingers tracing patterns along the marks that wind over his skin.

A low hum vibrates through his body, and he shifts, one of his arms snaking up to cradle the back of your head. "If you're so eager to remain in bed, I won't stop you."

You snicker, but it dies down into a soft sigh as you nestle further into him. His warmth surrounds you, the strange comfort of his presence pulling you deeper into the cocoon you've created. He may not say it, but you know—this, too, is how he shows he cares. Even if he would never dare utter the words.

As your hand rests over one of his, you press a soft kiss to his cheek, surprising him into a rare moment of silence. His gaze locks on yours, and for a heartbeat, neither of you speaks.

Sukuna’s eyes flicker with something unspoken, a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the curse, and though his smirk quickly returns, the warmth in his eyes remains.

"Careful," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, "I might get used to this."

You smile, shifting just enough to press your forehead against his. "Maybe that’s the point.”

I want to show this man what this throat can do