#but I got the urge to fully render it out lol

[scales-n-art]

#FeltCuteWillNotDeleteLater

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[angry-geese]

The Weight - Sukuna x Reader

Warnings: smut//not osha compliant. arranged marriage au. blood/cannibalism mention. biting/size kink. unprotected sex, creampies. afab reader

synopsis: an arranged marriage au where the reader chooses sukuna instead of one of the men from her village

word count: 10.3k

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts since probably last february and I finally got around to finishing it lol

jjk masterlist

As mid-afternoon turns to dusk, you realize you have nothing to show for your hours in these woods. You know, reasonably, you should cut your losses for the day, and return home. In a little over an hour, it’ll be dark, and navigating these woods will become a challenge. But winter has come and gone with a vengeance, leaving food stores low. The thought of fresh meat is too much for you to quit now.

Fresh tracks mark the once-smooth creek bed. Deer. At least three. They’ve bedded down here, as evident by the smell, and flattened patches of grass. For several meters, the tracks nearly overlap themselves, before heading off in separate directions. It's been years since you’ve traveled this deep into the woods, and those few times were accompanied by your father, or uncle. Your solitude has you jumping at every rustle of a leaf, and snapped twig. It's when the woods fall silent that you need to worry. That means a predator is near. As long as you can hear bugs, or birds, you'll be okay.

Further ahead—maybe twenty yards—is a buck that stopped to drink from the creek. 

You knock an arrow, lining the broadhead up with your target. Something feels wrong. The string feels too taut. It slips from your fingers prematurely. The arrow hits just behind the front shoulder, and—in theory—should puncture the heart. A shot like that—in theory—should drop an animal like this where it stands. Today it doesn't. The buck takes off running.

Between the footprints, and little droplets of blood, a clear trail is left behind. When you do finally come upon your prey, the crickets have fallen silent. The buck lays on its side in the grass, chest heaving. You ready your knife to put the poor thing out of its misery when something—someone—emerges from the treeline on the opposite side of the clearing. 

Your body is moving before you can fully process the situation. You flatten yourself out on the ground, hiding under the cover of some bushes. If the man does see you, then he makes no note of it. He draws closer, stopping to kneel beside the buck. It’s too dark to make out his face. Something about him has the hair on the back of your neck on end. He hauls the carcass up onto his shoulder, turning to return in the direction in which he came. 

The absurdness of it all has you frozen. You blink several times as if to make sure this isn't your mind playing tricks on you. Once reality sets in, you’re back on your feet, chasing after him.

“That's mine!” You say, hoping the volume of your voice is enough to scare off the thief. It isn't.

What you first assume to be another trick of the lighting becomes a horrifying reality as you notice the true size of the man. The man—being, or whatever he is—towers over you, completely dwarfing you in size. Mild annoyance is all that is visible on his face as he turns to you. From the deer, he rips out your arrow, tossing it at your feet. The broadhead has snapped off, as well as the shaft is bent. If you so desire, you suppose you could repair it. Not that you have any wish to. Sometimes it is simply better to cut your losses.

But you have more pressing things to deal with right now.

“And just what do you plan to accomplish, little lamb?” He asks. “A deer like this can weigh as much as a grown man. Do you plan to carry this back all by yourself?”

It’ll be tiring, but not impossible. Gutting and dressing it here would remove a lot of unnecessary weight, but would render plenty of valuable meat and organs useless. All that extra meat and skin could be used better elsewhere…

You are overcome with the urge to run, yet his gaze has your feet firmly planted on the ground. Your eyes fall to a small red splotch on his kimono—a blood stain. It can't be from the deer, it's far too old. It’s not until your knees knock together that you realize you’re trembling.

The action of him moving closer causes a cry of panic to leave you, unintentionally calling out for your father. 

“What—who are you?!” You ask as you scramble backwards. 

“I am Ryoumen Sukuna, the King of Curses, my dear,” he says. “Now, shall we get this back to your home?”

Fear threatens to overcome you. Even if you could draw an arrow in time, you doubt it would truly hurt him. Yet, in spite of your fear, you know he has no plans to harm you. Once you’re in sight of the village, he sets the deer down, and gestures for you to take the lead.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask. You’re certain the look on your face suggests you still expect him to eat you. 

“Why do you ask?” He says. “Maybe I wanted the location of your home. It seems there are plenty of sacrifices here for me.”

“Wait a minute!” You say, eyes widening with fear. A mix of panic and guilt consumes you. “You can't-”

A look resembling amusement crosses his face. “I mean no harm to your village,” Sukuna says, “but in five years, I will return to claim what is mine.”

The strange man would vanish upon reaching the outskirts of your village, and in the nearly five years that follow, you would not once traverse so deep into the woods. On several occasions, you would try to retrace your steps, but would never once come across that clearing. When you would bring it up to your father, or any of the other village elders, your concerns would be brushed off, or outright ignored. Years would pass and slowly, achingly slowly, you would forget about the man in the woods entirely.

The coming spring brings your twenty-eighth birthday, and the looming threat of being an “older” unmarried woman.

If you had any say in the matter, you wouldn't get married at all. Plenty of older women exist, happily unmarried, yet your mother insists that you must find a husband. Any attempts to convince her that you’re fine with the way things are, fail. Once it became clear you weren't going to seek a husband on your own, your mother took upon the task of finding a suitor for you. Over the course of several months, meetings were arranged with various men, and with each rejected one, your mother grew more desperate to find the perfect match. 

Your mother insists you're cursed. Your father thinks you’re simply unlucky. When you asked how marriage was supposed to fix that curse, she had no answer for you.

In the months prior to your birthday, your mother proposed a deal to you: meet with another man—the son of a wealthy merchant. That if this meeting went well, even if you didn't marry him, she would stop pestering you about getting married. Tired of her pestering, you relented, and agreed to meet him. And as the days draw closer, you only feel dread towards him. 

The outcome of tonight has already been decided by you: failure. Whether your mother knows this or not is hard to tell. Judging her tense nature, you suspect she knows your plans.

“I was already married at your age,” she says, tightening your obi, “I used to have a dress just like this.”

“The difference is, you knew him already,” you say, “and I am meeting a stranger.”

“I am simply doing what I think is best for you,” she says. “This is your chance to get out of this village—to live a better life! Don't you want that?”

Her eyes meet yours in one last pleading glance. It makes you wonder; did she have such a conversation with her mother? Did your grandmother go through such trouble to match her to your father? Or did this come easier to her, than it did to you?

You suppose he’s handsome. The silks he wears are clearly expensive, with threads like woven gold. His features are sharp—what one could describe as noble, but you find him truly dull. But he is scrawny—squishy, with hands that show he has never worked a day in his life. The little conversation he makes is dreadfully boring. His father is an older man, with a graying beard, and sagging eyes. His mother is considerably younger, dressed in blue, with a small scar on her chin. Her silky black hair falls down her back. The little conversation you do have is short, but polite. The typical small talk you would have with a stranger.

Your mother does her best to talk you up. She’s gotten pretty good at that over the past few years. Your father interjects here and there, but it's your mother that does the majority of the talking. 

“She’s strong. A talented hunter. Good with a knife.” Your father says. This time, you’re paying attention when he speaks.

Your potential father-in-law seems unimpressed with your father’s attempts to talk you up. Perhaps if you were a son, this conversation would go differently. If you were a son, your mother wouldn't be so stressed about you being married before 30. Your growing irritation mounts when you set down your cutlery, turning to look the old man in his eyes.

“And what about him?” You ask, motioning to his son. “Look at him—how is he supposed to give me a strong child?”

The energy in the room seems to shift entirely. Your father nearly chokes on his wine, but his eyes are firmly trained on your mother. She glares daggers at you, gripping her spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“What?” You ask. “I am the one getting married. Don't I get a say in this?”

Are you trying to screw this up? Your mother’s face seems to ask.

“A good father controls his daughter,” the man says, “especially one with such a sharp tongue.”

“I can serve this village, or I can control my daughter, but I cannot do both,” your father says, “she’s not a child anymore, she can make her own choices.”

That earns a small smirk from you. Leave it to him to stand up for you.

“That is exactly why this is so grievous,” the man says, “my son will not marry an old maid with an attitude problem!”

“And I will not have in-laws as insufferable as you!” You bring your knife down on the table, narrowly missing his fingers. This little outburst of yours at dinner will certainly have consequences. Your mother’s wrath is only the beginning.

They don't leave in nearly as big of a hurry as you’d expect from a man who was just threatened with a knife, but they do hurry out, making certain not to look back.

“Maybe we should have offered to let them stay,” says your father, “it’s not safe to be out on the road after dark.”

“We’re lucky to not have them send guards after us for that,” your mother says, and for once, you agree with her. “Threatening a man like that is a new low, even for you.”

After such a disastrous dinner, you’re not particularly eager to go find your parents. You linger towards the outskirts of your village for as long as daylight allows you to. Once it grows too dark to stay out, you begin the trek back to your home, praying your parents—or at least your mother—have simply gone to bed. Maybe your father will forgive such a night, but your mother certainly won't. Over the past year you’ve done enough to earn her ire, this will not help your case.

Sitting outside is your mother, her eyes trained on a dying fire. Although she doesn't acknowledge you, you know she’s noticed you. Part of you wonders if you should speak first. Would that even improve your situation, or simply make it worse?

“You win.” She says. 

“What?” You ask.

“You win. I told you I’d stop after this, remember?” She asks. “Besides, I stopped liking him after that comment he made about your father.”

You still don't believe it's over. No tone of accusation clings to her voice, yet you can't help being suspicious.

“I don't get it.” You say.

“I just want what's best for you.” She says. “I want you to live a long and happy life. Are you really content to spend the rest of your life in this village? Stuck taking care of your brother and father?”

“That sounds like the preferable outcome,” you say, “compared to having in-laws I can't stand.”

“Where does he get off calling you an old maid anyway?” She says.

A small smile crosses your lips. This is about the best she'll get, and she knows this, a grin crossing her own face. A moment that should be one of triumph—at least for you—seems to be more sorrowful. The older you grow, the further apart you drift from her, and with that comes a strange, aching loneliness. You long for a time in your youth; the days when she would play dolls with you in-between house chores. You miss the tiny clothes she’d sew for them. The furniture made of timber scraps she’d hand paint. Oh how long has it been since she last braided your hair? Or brushed it? Or helped you wash it? 

Did she have these same feelings about her own mother? Or was it easy for her? Does she too mourn those moments you used to share?

You don't remember her always looking this old. That’s not to say she isn't beautiful still—age does not nullify beauty. But she looks tired now. The dark circles under her eyes are more prominent than ever. The skin around her eyes crinkles when she laughs, or smiles. Her hair is littered with grays—like little silver threads. She looks like you.

From within the nearly pitch-black woods comes a scream; not that of an animal, but of man. When the scream rings out again, it’s much easier to understand. It’s a cry for help.

Emerging out of the treeline, and following the main road is a man, half hunched over and clutching his stomach. He makes it several yards into the village before collapsing. Enough blood pours from the wound on his side that you can smell it. A metallic taste lingers in the air, stuck to the back of your throat. Blood. 

You’re the first to run over, followed shortly behind by your mother. The injured, shambling figure collapses upon the road. It’s only as you draw closer that you recognize him, albeit barely: the man from dinner. His clothes at one point in time were yellow in color, but are now stained a deep brown in color from a mix of dirt and blood.

“We need a doctor over here!” Mother cries out, her voice echoing against the wall of trees.

Someone must hear, because eventually a group of men burst out of a nearby house. They make quick work of rolling him onto his back, granting you a better look at his wounds. Three long slashes across his stomach. From your mother comes a gasp, followed by her clamping her hand over her mouth. The young man succumbs to his wounds before anyone is able to help him. He’s lost too much blood. People don't come back from that.

“Was he stabbed?” One man asks.

“Looks like knife marks,” comments another.

“Not a knife,” the oldest of the three says, “claws.”

“Do you think a mountain lion got to him?” You ask.

The oldest of the men shakes his head. “Cats like that don't get this close to towns. They avoid people if they can. A bear, maybe; if he got in between a mother and cub. But even that seems unlikely…”

This is why you don't go into the woods after dark. This is why you lock your doors and close your shutters tight when the sun sets. Bad things lurk out there, but they are not bears, nor are they mountain lions.

Something about the height of a person bursts from the treeline. Atop the legs of a chicken is a head only humanesque in the way corpses are. Sunken eyes sit atop a shriveled nose, and cracked lips. Its skin seems to be hanging off bone. Still, it takes you a moment to register that it’s fear you feel. Your palms prickle with sweat, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The urge to flee is nearly unbearable.

More of these creatures emerge from the direction of the nearly-set sun. They appear to come in all sorts of horrid shapes, and sizes, the smallest being no larger than a bird, and the largest about the size of a cow. Fear threatens to overcome you entirely. At least twenty of the creatures leave the treeline, although you suspect more remain hidden within it. The temperature must drop by ten degrees. It’s as if all the moisture has been sucked from the air. Those who dared leave their homes to look at the source of the commotion have now retreated, locking their doors behind them. 

The collar of your dress jerks backwards as your mother struggles to drag you back towards the house. “Get your father!” She says. “Hurry!” 

“What about you?!” You ask.

“Just get your father,” she says.

And you do so, running as fast as your feet will take you. The chilly night air renders your fingertips numb, and your face burning. He’s asleep in his chair, and wakes with a gasp as you shake him, motioning frantically to the door. The words that leave you are incoherent, but he must understand your panic. He retrieves his sword, telling you to lock the door behind him. You don't listen. You never listen, you can hear your mother say now. A sudden burst of light draws your attention—a nearby house has caught fire. Those strange, horrid creatures swarm around it like flies. Several neighbors have exited their houses, and begun throwing buckets of water upon the blaze, but the fire is too strong.

And from the treeline emerges that man from the woods all those years ago. 

In five years time, he has not aged a day. His cruelly sharp features appear the same within the flicker of the firelight. They fall before him on their hands and knees, heads bowed in fear. You only realize you’re shaking when you move closer to the window, peeking out through the crack in the shutters. 

The King of Curses, he called himself, all those years ago.

His mouth moves as if he's speaking, but you can only make out about half of what he says. The ringing in your ears is too loud to make sense of much.

“My offerings lessen, my shrine lies defiled,” he says, “and you humans sit here complacent. I gave you five years to make amends and this is what you do with it?”

You know, logically, that your father is going to die. He is no match for the creatures, let alone that strange man. You must do something. Even if it is beyond logic, or reason, you would not forgive yourself if you did not act.

“Then what is it you require of us?” Asks father, his hands trembling slightly. You can tell it’s more than just the dancing light of the fire. He is truly frightened.

“An offering,” says the King of Curses. “A sacrifice.”

“We have nothing to offer,” says father, “the river has run dry of fish—our crops have withered! We have nothing to offer, we’re starving regardless!”

The King of Curses eyes drift to your hiding place, before landing back on your father. “You said it yourself.” He says. “You’ll starve regardless. What difference does it make that you should give up one of your own? Won't there only be less mouths to feed?”

Your arrows rattle loudly as you pull one from your quiver, knocking it. From this angle, and sitting half crouched on the ground, you can't bring it to a full draw. Not only does that mess with your aim, but alter the power of the shot too. That can be accounted for. You adjust your angle to be a little higher—right above his head. When you release the string, the arrow gives way with a thunk! The shot is dead on; your arrow whistling towards the demon king’s head. He brings his spear up, knocking it aside. Several heads whip back towards you, their faces contorted in a mix of anger, and fear. 

You’re not quite sure who grabs you first—it must be more than one person. Several sets of hands are upon you, dragging you from the house. Any attempts to fight it fail on your part, there are simply too many people to kick off. They drop you in the dirt beside your father. You don't dare look at him. You know his eyes are filled with fear. 

“We’ll—we’ll put it to a vote,” says one of the elders. “All those in favor of sending this woman as an offering…”

Two other elders raise their hands. Then several of the men. Then, reluctantly, the mother of a neighboring family. Even more hands pop up after that. Although maybe a minute passes, it feels like hours. At least a dozen sets of eyes are on you.

“Out of all of you,” the demon king says, eyes following across the crowd that’s now gathered, “she was the only one of you to fight back, yet you punish such an action?”

Silence is the only response the crowd can conjure up. A groan so loud that the ground rumbles beneath it rings out as the house gives way, collapsing in on itself in a rain of ash and embers.

“Wait!” Your father cries out, “let me go in her place!”

Several more incomprehensible sentence fragments leave him. He pleads and pleads to no avail. The last view you get of your village is of the spirits retreating back into the woods.

It must be hours before your state of shock wears off. Dawn breaks bleak and gray over the horizon. The temple he brings you lies in ruin. You must be one of the first people to set foot in here in years. A cracked foundation gives way to walls overtaken by vines. Dust and ash layers the ground, and every surface imaginable.

Sukuna must not expect you to try to run. Nothing is done to prevent you from escaping. There are no doors to lock. No ropes or cages. The only real barrier of escape is the trek home through miles of woods. Should you wait until sunrise, the trip won't be impossible. It is the fear of what remains for you that prevents you from returning.

Would there even be anything to go back to? Is it even worth it after what they did? They did not hesitate as they offered you as a sacrifice. Whatever happens to them… they have it coming.

Such thoughts do little to comfort you. If anything, they make you feel worse. What little strength you have left goes into stopping the tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. You manage. Barely.

Unable to find it within you to do anything else, you sit. Only a thin, woven mat separates you and the hard floor. Footsteps draw closer down the hall, the noise only amplified by the high ceilings of the temple.

Uraume. That’s what Sukuna called them. A strange being that looks human, but appears to be more than such. They enter the room, a shock a white hair visible before the rest of them is. They wear the kimono of an unmarried woman, in vibrant shades of orange, blues, and pinks woven in the pattern of flowers. Hooked around one arm is a pail of water. Under the other arm is a roll of cloth. Contained within the cloth is a mix of hygiene supplies; a sponge, comb, various vials of oils and creams. 

Uraume treats you like one would treat a frightened animal. They kneel on the ground before you, leaving about the distance of a foot. When you don't flinch, or shy away, they move closer.

“You’re covered in ash,” they say, “let me help.”

With the sponge, they dab away the bits of dirt and ash that have caked to your skin. Human contact like this should, in theory, be intimate, but in this situation it feels like anything but that. Uraume’s touch feels cold, and clinical. With them comes a strange, uncanny feeling, like you are not looking into the eyes of a human, but of a corpse. The reason behind their kindness is a mystery to you. It feels wrong to question them, but you can't help but think there is something sinister behind their actions. Their casualness suggests this isn't the first time they’ve done this. That thought does nothing to comfort you, so you quickly push it aside.

Next, they move on to your neck, then down to the exposed bits of your chest, and shoulders. 

“Such a beautiful dress,” they comment. You reply weakly, saying it belonged to your mother. Their response to that is little more than a hum.

They take your hands, scrubbing the dirt from under your nails with a small brush. After that, a comb is worked through your hair, taking great care to not pull on any knots that have formed. Once they can work their hands through your hair with no resistance, they stop.

Uraume leans back to examine their work, deeming you presentable. Gathering what they brought with them, they make their way towards the door, turning back once to say: “I’ll bring something to eat.”

The events of the night have left you without an appetite. You probably should eat something. It’ll be important to keep your energy up. The little adrenaline left within you has you jumping at any small noise, or shadow. Sleep feels like an impossibility right now.

About ten minutes pass before Uraume returns carrying a platter. Tea, pickled vegetables, a hunk of bread, a bowl of some kind of stew. It smells quite good, but you merely pick at it. Like your hesitation to sleep, you can hardly eat. Uraume sits with you, picking at their own food, but never finishing it. A million questions race through your mind, although you can barely bring yourself to ask them.

Would they even answer you? Or does this have a more sinister plan behind it?

Finally, you find enough of your voice to ask: “Where is…?”

“I’ve prepared a bath for master Sukuna,” they say, “he’ll be joining us shortly.”

Your attention turns back to the bowl in your hands, which soon slips through your fingers, breaking upon the floor. What little appetite you had is soured entirely. This is it. You’re nearly certain you’re going to die here.

Your attempt to clean up the mess is stopped by Uraume. They insist upon cleaning it themselves, taking great care not to cut their hands on the shards.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask, shocked at how small your voice sounds.

“Master Sukuna likes to play with his food before he eats it,” they say.

Uraume leaves shortly after, taking the leftover dishes with them. You remain seated, eyes moving between the two exits of the room. One takes you to the entrance of the temple; you’re not certain where the other leads. The first is almost guaranteed to be guarded, though. Trying to run now is a bad idea. But when will you get another chance?

You will not sit idly by as death draws closer. Like the previous night, you feel as if you must do something. It was your own foolish actions that got you into this mess, says a small voice in the back of your head.

Trapped under your heel is a small pottery shard, left over from the shattered bowl. It’s small enough to conceal in your palm. Sharp. Better for stabbing than it is slashing, but it will be good enough at either. Once Sukuna returns, you’ll get your chance.

The rush of adrenaline has started to wear off now, rendering your arms weak, and your legs shaky. If you were to sit down now, you’re certain it would be a while before you get back up. It is the body fighting itself; fight or flight mode mixing with exhaustion. If you do not stop and rest, your body will give out on you eventually.

So you stand there and pace, clutching your shard of pottery close. Maybe thirty minutes pass in the time it takes Sukuna to enter, but it feels like hours. Adrenaline turns into fatigue.

Tears burn at your eyes again, but you’re able to blink them back. A mix of shock and betrayal has left you nothing short of exhausted. Sukuna’s towering stature only helps to make you feel like a lamb about to be devoured by a wolf.

“I trust Uraume has been of assistance,” Sukuna says. 

Unsure of how to respond, you simply nod.

“What now?” You ask. “Is this the part where you’re supposed to eat me?”

That earns a laugh from him, although it’s strange sounding, as if the very action is foreign to him.

“Many decades ago, the people of your village—among others—would hold a festival during harvest season,” he says, “it was meant as a sign of peace. An offering in return to not raze their homes,

“The people of your village have grown laze, and complacent. They have forgotten their place as humans, and needed to be reminded of it. You are simply another offering. Something to tide me over.”

Sukuna draws close enough for you to feel his breath across the back of your neck. You shudder. Adrenaline courses through you once again.

This is it, you think, you are going to die. 

In one last attempt to preserve your dignity, you aim for his jugular, and swing the shard of pottery towards it. A hand wraps around your wrist before it can make contact. A second set of arms are trapping you against his body before you can even register it. His breath is warm against your cheek, teeth inhumanly sharp in the dim light.

“You are entertainment.” He says. 

That same set of sharp teeth drag up your neck. Some sick sense of pleasure runs up your spine at the feeling: being a little lamb in the jaws of a predator. It would take so little effort from him to render you lifeless that it’s almost comical. Adrenaline turns to delirium in your mind. 

What happens if he finally grows bored of you? It’s not a matter of “if” in this case, it’s a matter of “when”. You have an idea of what will happen once he does.

You don't hear him leave, so much as you notice his lack of presence.

Sukuna is gone for most of the following day. In that time, you explore much of the temple in an attempt to gain your bearings. It’s sparsely furnished, and dilapidated for the most part, but there are some signs of life. On a lower level of the temple is a bedroom, where the bed alone is as big as a room in your home. Must be Sukuna’s. Another, smaller room appears to be Uraume’s quarters. A small kitchen branches off the hallway not far from this. 

The later half of the day is spent trying to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Thick woods surround the structure, spreading out for what must be miles. To the North is a creek. If you followed it, you might possibly meet up with the river by your village. Whether you could do so before nightfall is another question entirely. Finding yourself stuck in unfamiliar woods past dark may prove to be a death sentence.

Even if you could go back, would you want to? Their lack of hesitation towards sacrificing you still rings clear in your mind.

Sleep seems to be the best way to pass the time. There isn't much else to do around here. In the hours before dusk, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, and into the woods that surround the temple. You justify it by saying that fresh air will do you good, not that anyone asks you. The only person around to do so would be Uraume, though you don't see much of them.

Heavy fog settles upon the trees, causing the day to take on a quiet, sleepy nature. Little cream-colored mushrooms pop up through the layer of moss and dead leaves that blanket the forest floor. Carved out over years of use is a dirt path, barely wide enough for a person to walk through. Following it for about ten minutes brings you to a pond. At one end, the start of a small creek leads downhill. Little fish are visible just under the surface. Leaving your socks and shoes at the shore, you wade out into the water. It’s cool, but not chilly. The mud feels soft underneath your feet. Being outside helps settle your nerves a bit. Outright terror is replaced with uneasiness now. While not entirely better, it’s an improvement to your previous mood.

From the treeline opposite of the path you took, a figure enters the clearing. Sukuna. Adrenaline spikes through your body at the sight of him. Your pulse quickens, and fear prickles in your palms. Every cell of your being is telling you to run.

Sukuna motions with his hand for you to follow him. It is not an offer, so much as it’s a command. Following a short walk on a stoney path, you find yourself overlooking a rock cliff-face, and a small wood hut. Scattered about are several steaming pools, which bubble up from the ground, layering upon the cliff-face like stairs.

Sukuna undressed at the wood hut, leaving his clothes hanging upon the rafters. Your gaze remains firmly on the ground. You should not be seeing him like this. This feels far too intimate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long, but can't help it. The sight of his back alone is hard to tear your eyes away from; the muscles, the tattoos, the curve of his spine. There is a strange, supernatural beauty to him. You eye him with caution, yet curiosity. 

Why has he brought you here? What does he want? Is this simply a ritual before he eats you?

Certainly, if you were to scream, no one would be nearby to hear you. 

It strikes you just how easily his teeth could tear through your jugular. How his sharp nails could shred your flesh to ribbons. Sukuna is far faster and stronger than you, outrunning him is not an option.

Following his lead, you undress, and leave your clothes folded neatly upon a rock. Next comes the task of taking down your hair, and combing through it with your fingers, finding it still knot-free from the events of the previous night. Only then do you approach the largest of the three pools, and wade into it. At its deepest, it's a little above your waist. You could walk all the way across and never once have your feet leave the ground.

You settle upon a rock towards the edge, half submerged in the pool. The hot water feels nice upon your sore muscles. Your eyes trail ribbons of steam as they curl off the water. A wave of self consciousness rolls over you. You sink further into the water, crossing your arms in front of your chest. It’s up to your chin now. Sometime during this, it starts raining. The droplets leave little ripples across the surface of the water. Fall brings the smell of damp earth, and decaying leaves with it. Something that should be comforting only makes your stomach turn.

“You look frightened, little lamb,” Sukuna says.

Is it so obvious? 

“I still don't believe this isn't some attempt to eat me.” You ask, though you’re not certain you want the answer.

“Had I wanted to eat you, I would have had Uraume make preparations.” He says.

You still don't believe him. How many people met their fate at his hands before you? There is no reason why you would be lucky—why you would escape your fate.

“Then what is it you want from me?” You ask.

His expression softens, shoulders lowering with a sigh. The space between his eyebrows is not so harshly creased anymore. 

“I am not like the typical curses you have met,” Sukuna says, “I require your permission.” 

“Permission for what?” You shrink back as he draws closer, stopping mere inches from you. He’d tower over the tallest man, let alone someone like you.

A kiss. Hungry, and overbearing, but a kiss nonetheless. Sukuna has to lean down, and you have to crane your neck up to complete the action. His movements feel stiff, clinical, as if he hasn't done this many times before. The action causes warmth to bloom in your chest, and spread out to your limbs. The hands that cup your face are nearly large enough to encompass it entirely. He tastes like wine, and something vaguely metallic. The thought that it might be blood crosses your mind for only a moment. You’d much rather think about other things. 

“Will you devote yourself to me, completely and entirely?” He asks.

Funny, you think, had a human man asked you the same thing, you would have laughed in his face. Yet you find yourself bewitched by the King of Curses. Curious, and cautious all the same. This is not a feeling of love. It is something else entirely. You are a sacrifice, you remind yourself, this is the fate of a sacrifice.

“I devote myself to no man,” you say, “I don't see how you'd be any different.”

He hums in amusement, circling around you in the water. He stops behind you, slightly to your right. Sharp teeth graze across your shoulder. Large hands trace their way up your hips, then your body, coming to rest just below your breasts. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the strange pressure that has built up. Your heart rate picks up in pace. Sukuna must be able to sense this. A low laugh leaves him as he pulls away.

“Well then,” he says, “do I have your permission to continue?”

Continue what? You wish to ask. As if against your mind’s wishes, your head moves in a nod. “Yes,” you say.

You can only imagine the look on his face as you have your back to him. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth radiate off his body. Is he pleased? Amused? Smug that all it took was a kiss to make you let your guard down? 

Hands that should be calloused and rough are quite gentle with their touch. One comes to rest upon your hip, before trailing down to the space between your thighs. Seconds in and your knees seem to give out, your body supported only by him. One finger presses into you, then a second. You sigh at the intrusion. There’s little resistance as he presses into you. You’re too wet. Sukuna’s fingers are much larger than your own, though the stretch you feel is pleasant, not painful. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, drawing a low laugh from him. You can feel it rumble within his chest, which your back is pressed flush to.

Being so close to another being feels odd. The only intimacy you know is a platonic one. A familial one. This is different. Stronger. More intense. He finds the spot that makes you squirm and abuses it, toying with you like prey. It must be a game to him, you think, like cat and mouse. With one of your hands over your mouth, you try to muffle the lewd noises that spill from you. It’s a losing battle. All sorts of pleased sounding noises—from both you and him—echo through the clearing. Secretly, you’re glad this place is so remote. Should someone hear the lewd noises you’re making, you wouldn't recover from the embarrassment. He brings you just to the edge, but refuses to let you cross over. Frustration turns to desperation as you grind against him, chasing your own release. Sukuna doesn't appear opposed to your actions. He lets you work yourself up to—and through—your own release, the noises you make growing gradually more obscene until they come to a head in the form of an orgasm.

You remain in the water for a while afterwards. The layer of fog overhead makes the day take on a lazy, sleepy nature. His hands comb through your hair as you lay against his chest. Such a moment feels uncharacteristically tender for him. While you expect them to be sharp, his nails feel nice against your skin. The mouth on his stomach resembles a smirk, although the expression on his face is flat. Unreadable. A slight pang of disappointment shoots through you. You know it’s unreasonable of you to expect humanity from someone inherently inhuman. He does not—he can not—process things the way you do. Humans must appear so small and fragile to him.

You’re uncertain of how much time passes as you lay there, your limbs tangled with his. It doesn't feel like long enough. No time would feel long enough. You crave the touch of another being whether you want to admit that or not.

“It’s getting late,” he comments. Without another word, you watch as Sukuna dresses himself, and leaves.

You follow him as quickly as you can. You’re not quite fast enough, arriving back at the temple long after him. Dusk follows soon after. 

You find no sign of the King of Curses upon your return. Finding yourself with not much of an appetite, you head straight to bed. Uraume stops by once to offer tea, but you decline, insisting you’re tired, and just wish to sleep. Whether or not they believe you, you can't tell. That’s about the extent of every conversation you have; polite, but short.

Sukuna must not need to sleep. Not in the same way you do. You dress down into your underclothes, leaving the rest folded neatly upon a chair. They’re not dirty, just slightly wrinkled from the events of today. You crawl into the bed much larger than you, and attempt to sleep. When he crawls into the bed beside you, you do nothing to protest.

As time passes, you grow used to his presence. Falling into a routine takes mere days. In that time, you don't see much of Sukuna, or Uraume. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re not certain what you’d say to either of them. You figure it best not to question what Sukuna gets up to in his free time. If the events at your village are anything similar, you figure it best to pay them no mind.

The longer you spend here, the more curious you find yourself. At least twice you find your way back to the hot springs. Familiarizing yourself with the surrounding woods has you growing more confident when navigating it. Animal tracks and trails reveal themselves, bringing more life to the woods. 

Fall turns to winter. Rain gives way to snow, bringing in a bitter stormfront. It’s hard to tell how many days pass as the storm hits, rendering the three of you confined to the temple. Sukuna doesn't appear bothered at all by the cold, but you spend many bleak nights huddled by a fire. Sukuna approaches you on one of these nights; perhaps the bleakest and darkest one before the storm finally breaks. Your inability to leave the temple has you ready to claw out of your own skin. Never were you one to stay in one place very long. 

Days have passed and you haven't spoken much to one another. Not since the day at the hot springs. You find yourself especially longing for them on a day like this, where the cold makes your joints ache, and your lips cracked. Winter is among your least favorite of the seasons. A hot and sticky summer day was always preferred over a day like this. Sukuna must sense it. He finds you curled by the fire, wrapped in an assortment of quilts and fabrics. You can't tell if it’s morning, or evening. Snow has rendered midday as dark as dusk. 

You know you should get up, and toss more wood onto the fire. Should you let it die any further, it’s unlikely you’ll get it started again. Sukuna joins you in the room, sitting on the mat to your left. Finding yourself searching for warmth, you move closer to him. It’s an unconscious action at first. Once you recognize it, you can't find the willpower within you to stop.

You offer the edge of the blanket to him, basking in his warmth as the quilt is wrapped around both of you. One of his hands comes to rest upon your knee. Your gaze is trained on his face, while his remains on the dying fire. 

“I don't suppose you do this to every sacrifice you get,” you say, not expecting an answer.

The corners of his lips twitch into something that resembles a smile. Much life his laugh, his smile is stiff, and rather foreign feeling. Like he hasn't done such a thing in centuries.

“You are different from the sacrifices I have received in the past.” He says. 

You get the impression he is still figuring out what to do with you. Such a thought doesn't inspire confidence on your part, though you assume your situation could be worse. 

You're nearly in his lap now. The hand on your knee soon moves upwards onto your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he palms himself through his clothes. Some sick part of you wishes to taunt him. To tease him in the same way he has done to you. You part your legs just enough to encourage him. There must be something wrong with you, you think, no normal woman would enjoy the company of the King of Curses.

This is not your typical virgin sacrifice. It is little more than that. Pleasure for the sake of pleasure. To fuck without the intent to procreate.

“I always assumed you wouldn’t have these… urges.” You say.

“Many things lost their potency,” he says. “Food was never enough to satiate, drink was never enough to quench thirst. Sex has remained the same. Primal pleasure never loses its potency.”

So he was human. At least at one point in time…

“Like I said,” he hums, “I am not like the typical curses you have met. I require your permission.”

“You have it,” you say. 

Oh how dearly you wish to recreate the event at the hot springs. To feel the same build-up of emotions, and the following release. Such mindless pleasure has remained in your head, unable to be stifled by your own hands.

Off comes your kimono, guided down your shoulders by his hand. Your nipples stiffen when exposed to the open air. It is not the cold that has you shivering, but the expectation of what’s to come. His size, and calloused hands suggest his touch would be harsh, but you find to be the opposite. Sharp nails graze down your sides as he moves to kneel before you. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him.

His own clothes are left among the growing pile on the floor. He pumps his stiffening cock in his hand, the head of which weeps across his palm. A different kind of heat blooms in your stomach.

 Sharp teeth graze across your jaw, down your neck, before eventually nipping at your shoulder. A sting both painful and pleasurable radiates from the bite. Blood beads from the two points where he managed to break the skin, quickly lapped away by him. Part of your brain is telling you to push him away. The other part is telling you to expose your neck further. You’re not certain which to listen to as you lay under him, caged within his arms. Your breaths grow ragged, turning into quiet moans as his knee nudges your legs apart. This is different from the day at the hot springs. Sukuna is seeking something more—he is seeking his own pleasure this time.

A hand finds its way into your hair, gently tugging at it. Guided by his hand, you expose your neck further to him. He laps at the droplets of blood that form, sucking dark marks into the skin of your neck. Pain and pleasure overlap in your mind. Your thighs are a mess of your own slick, and the precum that leaks from the heads of his two cocks. It’s almost comical how you work yourself up in knots at only the slightest provocation by him.

You taste yourself on him as he kisses you. The bleeding from your neck has mostly stopped now. What remains will barely leave a scar. His lips trail down your neck, through the valley between your breasts, and down your stomach, before eventually stopping just shy of your cunt. The look of him alone has you growing as wet as a virgin; his hair disheveled from your hands running through it, the muscles in his shoulders appear more prominent now. His arms hook around your thighs, although he doesn't need to bother holding your legs open. You’d do it without prompt by him. Eager for your own release, and worked up into a soaked mess, you’d do anything to please him.

You shouldn't be enjoying it as much as you are. You know you should be afraid. It would take no effort from him at all to tear through your femoral artery, and let you bleed out. You would be helpless in the matter anyway; you’re nothing more than a little lamb trapped under a big bad wolf.

The feeling of his tongue is strange. With him on his knees, bowed in what resembles worship, has your stomach in knots. The lewdness of it all has you more worked up than anything else. A strange, pleasurable tension builds within you. He is not toying with you this time, but working you over. When you do finally cum, you cum hard, riding out your high on his face. The noises he’s making suggest he’s enjoying this almost more than you do.

He must be painfully hard now. The head of his cock is an angry shade of red, and leaking precum. Using his hand to guide him, the head of his cock presses into you. You’re too wet from his previous actions to notice much of a stretch. What little pain there is crosses over with pleasure in your mind. He groans as he sheathes himself within you fully. His expression softens just enough for you to take in the features of his face. He’s quite handsome now that you’re close enough to appreciate his looks. It makes you wonder what his life as a human was like. Was he royalty, or a commoner? What was his job? Did he ever have family?

You won't get an answer out of him no matter how hard you try. This is the most human the king of curses will ever appear. 

His thrusts are slow at first. Lazy. More like grinding, not proper fucking. With as sensitive as you still are, this doesn't make much of a difference. You’re still a writhing, moaning mess beneath him. Judging by the noises he’s making, he’s not far from cumming himself. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and that seems to only encourage him. The muscles in his arms and shoulders gradually grow more tense before he shudders, then visibly relaxes. A warm sensation in your cunt follows soon after; he’s cum inside of you.

You lay like that for a while: limbs entwined, bodies curled around each other. He lets himself soften inside of you until the desire to pull out hits. You can tell your hips will be sore in the morning—whenever it decides to come. What little of his seed spills out of you is forced back in by his fingers. You assume it ties into his possessive nature. It must be a way of marking you as his. The fire has long since died out, though you find the warmth from his body adequate enough. 

“I don't think I can walk,” you lie, “carry me?”

Sukuna feigns annoyance, but relents, carrying you to the bed too large for any human. You quickly find your way under the covers. He finds himself in the space beside you. Fatigue hits you soon after, yet you find yourself unable to sleep.

“You were human once?” You ask.

The mood in the room seems to shift entirely. Sukuna is not one for conversation. You expected no different from a man like him. He looks at you with mild annoyance, as if deciding on his answer.

“I was. Once.” He says.

Your fingers trace across the tattoos on his wrist. “Do you miss it?” You ask. “Being human, I mean.”

“I am far stronger now than I was when I was a human.” He says. “I no longer need to eat, nor drink. I have the gift of eternal life so long as I am smart with my actions. I do not miss the fragility that comes with humanity.”

His words almost irritate you. So much more exists to humanity than what he says, from little things like sharing a summer even with a friend, tearing into ripe persimmons. Spending an evening hunched over a stew pot helping your mother. Kisses shared between a lover in the woods, or out in the fields. Stories exchanged by firelight. Intricately woven fabrics and paintings that might as well be indistinguishable from real life. So many beautiful things exist within humanity. Maybe he’s been away from it so long he’s forgotten the extent of it.

Would the King of Curses even admit he’s lonely? Or would he be too prideful to admit such a thing?

“You're sad. Why?” He questions.

“Was just thinking about my mother. That's all.” You say. “She wanted me to get married before I…”

You’re mad at her. More mad than you’ve been at anyone in your life. Yet you wish for nothing more than her comfort in this moment. A wound exists that time won't heal. Anger is not productive in fixing it. Anger only makes it worse.

This time, you are the one to initiate the kiss. You wish for it to distract you, but it only amplifies the ache in your chest.

“If you were to lose what little fight you had left in you, then this would no longer be fun,” he says.

You grow used to the ever-present shadow that is Sukuna, talking to the space beside you as if he is there because hell, sometimes he is. He is more than a mere man. He exists on a level different from you or anyone else. Your existence at this temple feels less like confinement and more like living. 

“Will you join me?” He asks one day by the river. 

The two of you sit upon the riverbank, watching as the water swirls below you. Spring snowmelt, combined with a recent storm, has stirred up the river bottom, turning the water murky. What was meant to be a fishing trip has proved unsuccessful.

“I would be lying if I said I haven't grown used to your presence.” He says.

“Don't be getting soft on me,” you say, half joking.

The most emotion you get out of him is an amused sounding huff. 

“I want you to join me,” he says, “not in life as human, but in eternity as a curse.”

“I will,” you say. 

No thought is needed for your answer, nor is there any hesitation on your part. Sukuna simply nods. That is what love is to him. Devotion. Worship. Throwing away your humanity means nothing if humanity is so quick to reject you. 

Gifts begin appearing around the temple after that. Priceless jewelry, and expensive dresses. Hair pins and cosmetics. Seasons pass in what feels like no time at all. Before you know it, your third fall here is quickly approaching. Winter comes and goes—uncharacteristically bitter this year. Spring brings a sense of rebirth. The ground thaws slowly, and plant life is in full bloom. Animal life returns to the surrounding woods, showing signs in every trail around the temple.

A hunting trip brings you further out into the woods than you’ve traveled before. You don't realize you’re nearing a human settlement until you’ve stumbled upon it.

The village has changed drastically in the time you were gone, so much so that you almost don't recognize it. A full blown mill has sprouted up along the river. At least twice as many houses stand now. Years ago this street was little more than a dirt path. Sometime over the years it has been paved over with river stones. Children play in the streets. Men walk home with pails of fish slung over their shoulders. These strangers notice you and pause, returning to their homes quickly. 

Your house remains mostly the same. Age has not been kind to it. One corner of the roof sags, and the wood trim has grown bleached with time. The path up to the front steps is overgrown. Sitting outside, hunched over a wash bin, is your mother.

Her hair is mostly gray now. Wrinkles mark her skin, and her joints are knobby, but you would still consider her beautiful. The face of the woman she once was is still there. The clothes she wears are of rich fabrics, suggesting your family has not hurt for money. Her sturdy figure suggests they never lacked food either.

When she sees you, her eyes grow wet with tears. And it’s as if the weight of the world has lifted off your shoulders. You want to be angry at her. You want to unload years of anger upon her. You want her to feel just a fraction of the fear you've felt. But you can't bring yourself to do it. The look in her eyes tells you she’s felt all the emotions you have.

Her movements are laced with hesitation, as if she’s deciding whether or not you're real. One of her wrinkled hands takes yours. 

“I love you,” she says, “and I am so sorry.”

“I know,” you say.

She invites you in for tea, setting the table up with the nice dishware—the kind she only uses for guests. The interior of the house hasn't changed much. Your room is eerily the same, as if it hasn't been touched since the day you left. Your father’s boots, and hunting coat remain by the door, although they look as if they haven't been moved in years. Makes sense, you think, hunting is a task that grows difficult as you get older. There comes a time in every hunter’s life where they grow old, and it becomes their turn to stay home and tend the fire.

“Where's…?” You never get the chance to finish your question, the solemn look on your mother’s face is enough of an answer.

“He passed,” she says, pausing to think, “two springs ago now? Maybe three.”

Believing you would never see them again, you grieved your parents long ago.This particular grief is like an old wound to you.

“The village looks prosperous,” you comment. A bitter tone clings to your voice.

“Yes,” she says, “the past years have been kind to us. I suppose we have you to thank for that?”

She sits across from you, her eyes still wet with tears. It feels like you are holding a conversation with a stranger. Your mother regards you with a certain weariness she only reserves for strangers. Maybe it would hurt more if you had more room within you for grief.

“He never stopped looking for you, you know,” she says, setting a cup of tea in front of you. “Even after the village held a funeral for you. He never wanted to believe it. Until the day he died, he was out in the woods thinking he could bring you home.”

“I was under the impression I wasn't wanted here.” You say.

“You know that’s not true,” she says. “What happened that night was a result of fear. The elders did what they thought would preserve the safety of everyone.”

“Except for me.” You say.

Fear. Right. To them, you were simply a sacrifice. You drain the last of your tea, standing from the table. Your mother stands as if to stop you, but freezes before she can.

“Does he treat you well?” She asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Better than any human man?”

“Yes,” you answer, although you can tell she doesn't believe it. 

“Do you love him?” She asks. “Does he love you?”

“I suppose so.” You say. “As much as he is capable of loving something.”

“But do you love him?” She asks again.

“As much as I am capable of doing so, yes.” You answer.

It is not the answer she wants, but the one that is the truth. With her hands folded in her lap, she nods solemnly.

That following night you leave your village not as a human, but as a curse. 

Enough time would pass that the story of a young sacrifice would be forgotten by its people; what would remain, is a tale of a love so infamous that it survived centuries.

[cirusthecitrus]

I posted 4,782 times in 2022

That's 2,498 more posts than 2021!

43 posts created (1%)

4,739 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@edge-lorde

@average-monster

@chiqita

@ankle-beez

@argayology

I tagged 986 of my posts in 2022

#horde prime - 62 posts

#spy x family - 55 posts

#amphibia spoilers - 52 posts

#spop - 36 posts

#ramblings - 31 posts

#shera - 30 posts

#kur twins tag - 26 posts

#ask memes - 26 posts

#spacebats - 22 posts

#spop au - 21 posts

Longest Tag: 83 characters

#Энтрапта такая: 'тебя когда пиздили в последний раз? никогда? значит начнут нахуй!'

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Bury me on a flower field

But don't cover my withered eyelids

So that at least something will sprout out of them

Since a happy person has not grown out of me

[Дарья Виардо - Ангел похоронитель]

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

Had a sudden urge to draw the third page for that one entrapdak fam comic I did a while ago :))))

I know explaining your own art is cringe and pretentious but I want to scream about this page so bad so please don't mind my silly commentary ><

Forgot to add, but here Anillis also calls Hordak "Poppy!". The very first thing baby Prime did when he saw Hordak was to give him a name (or rather a nickname)

Сomparing Hordak's eyes with poppy flowers, Anillis literally shows acceptance and appreciation for his imperfections, the very "defect" his (Prime's) future self will despise so much

Literally everything about the song and it's lyrics makes me wanna go feral gpfohpfphp (but it's so hard to translate i hate it here might've missed translation error too :/)

Hordak looking so lost, and vulnerable and younger and so full of HOPE-

I'm still unsure whether or not everything holo-Anillis did and said was pre-recorded so this part is up to interpretation

Either way, it's still not Prime who talks to Hordak and gives him the flower and smiles at him with joy and excitement. Prime is dead

AND THE FLOWER IS NOT REAL

also NOT a fun fact: In spacebats' culture a term "Flower eyes" was sometimes used when reffering to someone who is dead (and the fact that Anillis is pointing at his eye aka at himself HELP)

As well as they symbolize remembrance and eternal sleep(death) poppy flowers are also associated with sleep in general. In that case, could this image of Anillis be a hint that neither Hordak nor Kadroh are fully "awake" yet and still need to open their eyes to some things about themselves, their past and their dead tyrant brother? I dunno c:

Again, I'm so completely normal about this comic and this AU like-

65 notes - Posted August 29, 2022

#4

Kur twins' outfit desgins

Sooo I finally sat down and decided on final designs for Anillis (young Prime) and his brother Hec-Tor!

These are their regular day-to-day looks (how they'll appear in my Horde Prime's origin story, or Kur twins au, how I'm going to call it from now on)

Despite very lazy simple rendering ( i wanted to focus on it more at first, but then the file crushed a few times so i gave up lol) I still can say these drawings are quite detailed, so tap/click to stare at them in higher quality c:

See the full post

95 notes - Posted February 15, 2022

#3

And if the bridges have been burnt

You'll find another way

Even a broken clock

Is right twice a day

When there are no words left

When screams turn into whispers

We will realize

That it was all just a painful experience

[Ploho - Горький Опыт]

See the full post

133 notes - Posted April 28, 2022

#2

Oh wow can't believe Crystal Castles are such big spacebats fans that they dedicated a huge chunk of their discography to Hordak and his brothers🙏😔/j

200 notes - Posted October 31, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

An interesting Hordak/Entrapta parallel i can't stop thinking about

At a certain point in their lives both of them 1) were exiled and basically sent to die by someone who was important to them and whom they fully trusted (a friend/family/god) 2) got stuck in a strange place, isolated from the rest of the world/universe, all alone (lol speaking of trauma bonds...)

Two very similar and yet very different situations. And here’s the fun part: the main difference between Entrapta and Hordak’s stories is the opposite ways in which they react to their opposite circumstances, cope with and adapt to new changes

See the full post

223 notes - Posted September 3, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[4328fox]

Sweatshirt-Related Blues

summary: Alternatively, Yuri thinks about the routine that's setting in his life when it comes to dating Flynn.

notes: This was a drabble I did a month ago trying to work through my handful of writing ideas. I wasn't initially going to post it, especially not the second chapter, but I still feel relatively proud of both, so here they are. I mostly wanted to poke at Yuri (modern au setting) about thoughts he would likely deny of every having passed through his mind.

2k words. link to AO3

both chapters are also on the read more below!

SIDE A

Another calm afternoon goes by. Yuri continues typing on his computer as he strings his thoughts along, thoughts among the lines of I don’t get why you just don’t note these stuff down, while some from Brave Vesperia lament their loss in some scavenger-hunting video game. Yuri played a bit of it himself, but took to just watching Karol, Rita, Estelle and Patty mess around. He chuckles when he reads Rita’s clearly annoyed reply, and types up a quick one of his own. And then Estelle asks, isn’t it five in the afternoon now? Yuri sneaks a quick glance at the time on the monitor.

“Shit. I’m gonna be late.”

Yuri almost jumps out of the chair to get ready, but as he gets up, he decides to shoot a quick goodbye to his friends. Have fun lol, is how he finishes up the message, before he rushes back to his bed, where Repede has been resting.

“Come on, buddy, we can’t keep Flynn waiting.” Though Yuri very well recognizes that the fault will fall on him more than on his sleeping companion. He discards the sleep wear he put back on after running some morning errands, and grabs the clothes he dropped over the bed. Some bermuda shorts and a sweatshirt that is too light for the drizzling weather. At the very least, he feels good wearing those, so why pick a new outfit? Flynn’s definitely going to comment that I’d get cold. As if that really bothered Yuri to begin with.

He does a quick pat over his pocket, for his wallet. There. And he slides his phone comfortably into the other one. Repede just then has awoken fully, attentive to Yuri’s haste.

“Okay, let’s go.” He tries to comb a hand through his hair, but he instantly gets stuck on a painful knot. Yuri hisses a bit. “Or maybe in a minute.”

After a quick brushing session, Yuri slid his sneakers on and left the apartment, with Repede in tow. That’s when he gets a text. He opens it up, and as suspected, it’s from Flynn. Asking him if Yuri’s late again. That’s all routine.

The time they have together ends up amazing. To think they could make a competition out of bowling. As a result, Flynn paid for both their meals at the local restaurant. They spent longer than expected just chatting and eating, cooling down from earlier. They’d been sitting across one another on the table, exchanging the occasional grins between one another. And Yuri continuously stole glances from Flynn as they talked to one another, without being self-conscious of it like he used to be. That’s one perk in finally getting together. Their feelings are laid out on the table, there is no need to dance around excuses.

Flynn checks the wristwatch on his free hand, and Yuri just then realises he was entirely too focused on the hand itself. Their eyes meet.

“Yuri, it’s getting a bit late. Should we go?”

Yuri sips the remainder of his milkshake as he thinks. “Yeah. We can. I don’t have anything to be up in the morning for, though.”

“I have something from 10 in the morning.”

They both stand up, ready to head out. Yuri reaches for Flynn’s hand, taking it tentatively. It’s warm and slightly rough to the touch, but Yuri knows it’s as rough as his own. Flynn squeezes his hand and looks at Yuri to smile.

“I take it that you enjoyed tonight?”

“Hell yeah,” Yuri replies, “I beat you at bowling, I got free food. I think I got it pretty well.”

“I see that our date was just another contest to you.”

“Not my fault you lost.”

They continue bickering all the way to Yuri’s apartment. Flynn goes up the elevator with him, all the way to the entrance to Yuri’s apartment. This is routine, as dates with Flynn have been. Usually the outings would come and go, and one would escort the other and go home. They would hold hands. They kissed a few times.

“I’ll text you later.” Flynn says, quieter than his usual. He sounds so soft, it makes Yuri think that the sudden pounding in his heart is louder.

But he tries to keep it cool. “What, you don’t want to sleepover? Like the usual?”

“I didn’t bring any spare clothes with me. Or cleaning utilities. And I have classes.” Flynn laughs sheepishly. He takes both of Yuri’s hands in his own, but only for a brief moment.

“Aren’t the ones you’re taking in particular online? You just login in from my desktop and you’d be set.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, though I do hold to my lack of spare clothes.”

“Fine, fine.” Yuri rolls his eyes as they continue smiling. Yuri feels like they’re both the dazed fools from some picture-perfect storybook.

And then they look at each other. Yuri watches how Flynn suddenly grows nervous, swallowing a bit. It makes Yuri want to be just a bit selfish… To place one kiss on Flynn’s neck, where he knows it would tickle, to feel Flynn chuckle because Yuri for a fact knows that neither of them are very well-versed in being openly affectionate at all.

He leans in, hand lifting to cup Flynn’s face. The gentle press of their lips reminds Yuri of the static he would feel back when he dreamt of kissing Flynn, back when he was clueless of how bad he got it. And just like in his dreams, the kiss lasts for seconds, before one or both of them inevitably pull away. Yuri feels Flynn’s hand over his own.

But what if this were different from the dreams? What if Yuri pressed their lips again, chasing the feeling of Flynn being close? They’ve only ever had these short and sweet kisses, the types to make any hopeless romantic jealous. Yuri never thought he would be here like this, but there is always an exception when it comes to Flynn.

Both his hands are now on Flynn’s face, stroking his cheeks with thumbs. The kiss is slow, yet it quickly renders them breathless. They bump noses, they don’t really know where to put their hands, it’s not a smooth sail. But it was never meant to be elegant to begin with, given they’re in some old apartment complex corridor. Yuri feels Flynn kiss with the same amount of reluctance out of inexperience, but the very fact he’s wrapping his arms around Yuri’s back makes Yuri’s heart swell.

They part, but they’re still holding one another. Yuri, expecting to see the same face and the same blue eyes he loves, finds that it’s Flynn who's buried his face in Yuri’s neck. It makes Yuri feel adrenaline rush instantly, his cheeks feeling fuzzy and pulling at the corners of his mouth. It takes another second or two for him to realise that his boyfriend isn’t trying to kiss his neck, like he expected, but is instead just hiding his face.

Yuri finds it incredibly endearing. He should have expected this. He hugs back, not as tightly, but his hands rub Flynn’s back. “It’s gonna get cold for real if you stay out here any longer.”

Muffled through Yuri’s sweatshirt, Flynn says: “Your fault if I go out and get a cold.”

“You’re the one wearing a polo like you’re a divorced dad.” He slowly breaks off the hug, because he still wants to give Flynn a quick look over. Not entirely because their kiss just now woke thoughts in Yuri that he is desperately trying to keep dormant.

“Now it’s “divorced dad”? I would appreciate it if you stuck with one name when it came to my fashion sense.”

“It’s all atrocious is what it is.” Yuri grins, crossing his arms as soon as Flynn steps out of hugging range.

“And yet you still date me.”

“You’re lucky I like you, yeah. Now go home, if you cherish your special shower gel more than video game night.”

“I wouldn’t want to wound your pride after the amount of gloating you did over bowling.” Flynn chuckles at the thought, before his smile settles to something softer. “Goodnight, Yuri.”

It takes Yuri a beat to remember he’s supposed to go inside his apartment. “Yeah. Night.”

He fishes out the keys from his shorts’ pockets and unlocks his door in a swift move. After a quick wave from them both, Flynn turns his back to leave, while Yuri (and Repede, who was waiting diligently), are within the comfort of their home. Yuri sighs, a bit breathless, as he drops his keys and wallet to the side.

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

SIDE B

Yuri daydreams more, as of late. When he and Flynn spend time together, the urge to be closer lingers on his mind. How much closer can he get to Flynn anyway? They go on dates somewhat regularly, they chat, they hang out with their friends. There’s sleepovers where they play video games to an ungodly hour, days where Yuri sits Flynn down just to help him recite whatever he was meant to study for a test.

And then there’s affection. Words of endearment, lingered in small doses of insult toward one another, there’s the occasional hand-holding, and there’s standing close at times. And then there’s Flynn’s different ways of showing his love, the tight embraces, the kisses…

Yuri wants more. And it’s such a selfish and such a strong urge forming itself in his brain and not leaving. Now that they’ve been dating for closer to a year, Yuri lays after dates in his bed, agonizing over himself. What more is there to want? Isn’t this calm in the sea much better than chaos contained within the waves? Yuri is lucky enough that their feelings ended up being mutual, because he never even imagined he would get this far with Flynn.

But that is a vice of itself, Yuri thinks, because it makes him dream. The deeper kisses he and Flynn shared in rare instances could not satisfy all urges, the parts of Yuri he would much rather purge out of existence.

Yuri wishes Flynn were here. That they were embracing over Yuri’s bed, that they were kissing. He’d probably been the one to push Flynn toward the bed, he realises. He’s the enabler in many ways, even if it’s something deemed so selfish. Yuri turns to lay on his side at the thought. Bodies pressed closer, warm feelings contained between them. Yuri thinks about Flynn’s hands, and how they would move to pull Yuri closer, while the gentle touch would leave him longing for some sappy words, some sappy expressions of love.

They’ve yet to settle comfortably in love declarations too. Yuri implies it with words, actions, never using the word itself. Flynn is a bit better about this, though he is just as skittish. If nothing else, he is much better at expressing his affection just through his choice of words than Yuri is. It isn’t that Yuri would mind saying the three words, because he imagines them escaping between him and Flynn, between hushed kissing. But he has yet to find the strength to say them. Yuri can only hope that he is at least able to express them.

He wants to make Flynn feel the same things Yuri is feeling now. He wants to move his hands, his lips, to lay over Flynn, to cup his face and to kiss him harder, until they both are breathless, laughing tired, basking in each other’s comfort. He doesn’t want one of them to have to go home after a date, he doesn’t want them to end on sweet kisses only. He wants them to spend the night, less as best friends still navigating their relationship, but closer to lovers who have been waiting for too long...

The moment Yuri realises he’s gotten too lost in his thoughts, he sits up, almost abruptly. His heart beats hard, it’s all he can hear in the darkness of the night. In the wake of it all, Yuri isn’t sure he is able to accept how he gets about this stuff.

He shuffles his hand through the night stand, until he picks up his phone. A little past 1am. Yuri supposes it’s fair. There aren't any text-related notifications, but he still opens the app for his group chats. Still no notification he happened to miss. Yuri taps the chat with Flynn, the latest message being some reply from Flynn over a meme Yuri sent. It says he’s online, so he’s probably studying.

Yuri begins typing, and he can feel his heart pound through his hands, making them feel weirdly clammy. Yuri pays little attention to it, but to think that he would feel like this… To be honest, it’s nice. That Yuri isn’t immune to something like the fluttering feelings of dating meant that all his thoughts that he can’t say out loud are normal.

He stares at his message for Flynn. He swallows, and he reads through it again. His thumb hovers over the send button. But he presses backspace.

i wish you stayed the night. i love you.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

harder than a bullet could hit you

fandom: roswell new mexico

whumpee: kyle valenti

uhh idk what this is really but im rewatching the series and im always gonna be upset that there’s zero aftermath of kyle getting shot!!! like just bc you have a vest does not mean ur magically okay (especially emotionally !) so yeah heres this, the title is from river by bishop briggs. (@deepwoundsandfadedscars i know this isnt the fic i said i would write but i thought id tag you, lmk if it sucks lol)

He wasn’t expecting to see Kyle Valenti here-at least, not sitting in a chair in the hospital reception area, staring blankly ahead, looking off in a way Alex thinks looks very odd on him. 

“Hey, Valenti,” he says, walking to the front desk. He sighs. “I’m here for Jesse Manes? They said he was in some sort of coma.”

The woman behind the desk nods, gives him a room number, and pats his arm in a sorry-about-your-dad kind of way that would be nice if it were anyone else’s dad. He smiles tightly, and heads off to find the room.

He doesn’t realize until he’s standing in the doorway that Kyle hadn’t said hello back to him, which shouldn’t be a big deal...he’d give it more thought, maybe, but right now, here is Jesse fucking Manes, in a coma and for once rendered completely harmless. It’s what he deserves, Alex thinks. Better than what he deserves, really. But what had happened? His father was certainly not the type of person to slip quietly into a coma. 

He leans against the doorframe, staring daggers at the unconscious form on the bed. His father had the nerve to come back from Niger (probably because of a certain incident which Alex would rather not think about at the moment) and then promptly fall into a coma before Alex could even threaten him with...something, anything to keep him away. 

He stews in his thoughts for several minutes before someone taps his shoulder. He jumps slightly, spinning quickly around. 

A nurse smiles apologetically at him. “Sorry about that,” he says. “Alex Manes, right?”

Alex nods. “Do you know what happened to him?” he asks, gesturing into his father’s room.

“Not exactly,” the nurse says. “Dr. Valenti brought him in maybe half an hour ago, said they were working on a project together and he just collapsed.”

Alex nods again, and thanks the nurse, who tells him that as soon as they know more, Alex will be the first to know. Alex doesn’t bother to tell him that he really couldn’t care less. 

He makes his way back to the hospital reception, thinking less of his father and more of Kyle. Questions like, Why is he still here? and Did they get into a fight? swirl around in his head as he emerges back into the room. 

Kyle is still there, still staring off into nothing, a blank look on his face. Hesitantly, Alex approaches him. “Hey,” he says, tapping Kyle lightly on the shoulder. “You good? I heard you brought my father in.”

Kyle doesn’t say anything, just takes a sharp breath in, then winces. Alex frowns. “Kyle,” he says, more insistently. “Did something happen?”

And Kyle runs. Shoots up from his chair and bolts out the hospital doors. Alex stumbles backward in surprise, staring ahead out the doors for a second in disbelief. Something is wrong, he thinks, and he’s just about to follow Kyle outside when there’s yet another tap on his shoulder.

He whirls around. “What,” he says, sounding more irritated than he had intended to. 

It’s the same nurse from before, who gives him that same apologetic grin. “Sorry again,” he says. “I just thought I’d let you know we’re going to be moving your dad to a new room tonight, if you want to come and visit him again.”

“Yeah,” Alex says distractedly, craning his neck to see if he can spot Kyle somewhere outside. He accepts the card the nurse gives him with his father’s new room number on it and says a terse goodbye. He doubts he’ll be doing much visiting.

Alex heads outside, hoping to catch Kyle, if he’s still here. Something is most definitely wrong with him, and considering everything they’ve been involved in lately, he’s sure it’s going to end up involving him too, at some point. Better to learn about it now than later, he reasons. Plus, he can’t shake the feeling that this has something to do with his father, which is never a good feeling to have.

He’s in luck-he’s no sooner left the hospital reception area than he sees Kyle-or rather, the back of Kyle. He’s hunched over a trash can, clearly having just been sick, and Alex sees his hands shaking where they grip the edges of the can. He stands there for a second, unsure of what to do. 

Kyle abruptly pushes himself away from the trash can, walking backwards until his back presses against a pillar. He sinks to the ground and runs a hand down his face. Alex clears his throat, and finally, Kyle looks at him.

“Hi,” he says, his voice scratchy. He lets out a shuddery exhale, and Alex, without particularly thinking, sinks down slowly next to him. 

This close, he can feel that Kyle is shaking, and it scares him a little. Kyle is steady and strong, and this is extremely unlike him. He tries his question again-“what’s wrong?”-but Kyle just shakes his head. 

Alex sighs, unsure of what to do. He can’t just leave Kyle here-he’s in no condition to drive, and he doesn’t seem like he has any intention of moving, anyway. But can Alex just...make him leave? They aren’t that close, not yet, not anymore...but Kyle is, if not a friend exactly, then an ally, and you don’t leave an ally behind. Especially if he may be in some serious trouble. (With Jesse Manes involved, it’s always serious trouble). 

Alex stands up, pushing against the pillar for balance. Once he’s on his feet, he extends a hand to Kyle, who looks at it, then at him, blankly. 

“Come on,” Alex says. “I won’t ask what happened,” not right now, anyway, he thinks, “but you can’t just stay here and I’m not gonna let you drive like this.”

Kyle nods, finally, takes a deep breath which he aborts halfway through, and takes Alex’s hand. 

They drive in silence for a while, Alex absentmindedly tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, fighting the urge to turn the radio on, so there’s at least something. Beside him, Kyle is uncharacteristically quiet, hands in his lap, staring out the window like he wants to melt the buildings of Roswell with his brain.

It’s weird.

And then, as Alex makes the turn onto the road that leads to the cabin, Kyle...well, he doesn’t say anything, but he makes a noise, anyway, one which sounds panicked and afraid.

Alex glances over at his passenger, who is now trying frantically to remove his shirt, but his hands are shaking too much to undo the buttons. He reaches a hand out, moving Kyle’s hands away from his shirt. 

“You’re fine,” he says, keeping his voice quiet and calm. “It’s okay.” He doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know what’s got Kyle like this, but he’s growing more and more sure that it has something to do with Jesse Manes.

His vague words of reassurance do the job, mercifully, and Kyle’s hands return to his lap. Alex can practically feel the stress rolling off of him, and he hates it, without really knowing why. He drives a little faster.

Eventually, they make it to Alex’s cabin. Kyle practically falls out of the car, and Alex has to nearly drag him up to the door. Once they get inside, Alex shrugs out of his jacket and hangs up his keys, directing Kyle to sit on the couch but giving him a second to get comfortable. He grabs two glasses of water from the kitchen and returns to the living room, where Kyle is once again trying-and failing-to remove his shirt.

Alex sets down the glasses on the table and sits next to Kyle on the couch. “You need some help there?” he asks, trying to keep the mood light. 

Kyle looks at him, his expression pleading and anything but light. “Alex, please, I can’t…” He fumbles with a button, cursing as his hands refuse to steady enough to keep a hold on it.

“Yeah, I got it,” Alex says gently, unbuttoning Kyle’s shirt. He stops when he feels a familiar material underneath.

“What...Kyle, this is a bulletproof vest…” he stops talking for a minute as the pieces rapidly connect in his mind. “He shot you,” he says finally, hating the fact that he believes this so easily. Shooting civilians...not like this would be the first time his father’s hurt someone he cares about. He shakes himself out of that line of thinking in time to hear Kyle’s whispered, “yeah, he shot me...I was gonna buy a gun, Alex, but I-I couldn’t, I-”

He’s on the verge of hyperventilating, Alex notices. He hesitantly reaches out a hand, places it across the stiff fabric of the vest. “It’s okay, Kyle,” he says, taking a deep breath in the hopes that the doctor will copy it. “Just breathe, okay?”

Kyle takes a breath, wincing. “It hurts,” he mutters. “Like...like someone hit me with a baseball bat. Or, like, a truck.”

Alex nods sympathetically, reaching to undo the straps of the vest. “That pain will most likely be the worst of it. People don’t usually break ribs or anything, not with this kind of vest, and my father’s kind of gun. You’ll probably have a nice bruise for a couple weeks, though.”

Kyle gives him a shaky smile as Alex slides the vest off. “Now who’s the doctor?” he jokes, and Alex half smiles back, glad that Kyle seems to be doing a little better. His smile turns to a grimace as he observes the damage his father has inflicted. Kyle looks down at himself, at the dark bruise forming over his heart. 

“I would have died,” he whispers, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe it. 

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. There’s no point in sugarcoating it-he is fully aware of what his father is capable of, and he’s sorry that Kyle had to learn those capabilities like this, but it’s the truth.

Kyle nods slowly, then looks around. “I can go,” he says at last, not sounding particularly attached to the idea.

Not that Alex would let him, not like this. He tells him as much: “Kyle, there is no way I am going to let you leave when you’ve just been shot, and by my father, no less.”

A thought occurs to him then, and it scares him with how much he hopes it’s not true-maybe Kyle does want to leave, because Jesse Manes shot him, Alex’s father shot him, and-

“You’re sure I won’t be a bother?” Kyle asks, jolting Alex out of that particular line of thinking. He looks so genuinely unsure, like he doesn’t believe Alex wants him to stay, needs him to stay-he needs some kind of stability right now, honestly, and while he never would’ve thought that would come in the form of Kyle Valenti, he’s not going to complain. 

“Of course you won’t, Kyle,” and then, because he has to be sure, “as long as you’re okay staying with the son of your would-be murderer.”

“Hey,” Kyle says, his voice stronger than it had been a second before. “Don’t say that-I mean, you can say the part about him almost murdering me, but it’s not like you chose to be his son. You didn’t make him shoot me. Nothing he does is your fault.” He smiles again, like that will negate the seriousness in his voice. There’s something like fondness on his face, and his hands have stopped shaking, Alex realizes. He doesn’t really know what to do with that, so he simply says, “yeah.” It feels nice to hear that, he manages to admit to himself. He gives Kyle a genuine smile and moves to stand up.

“Where are you going?” Kyle asks, reaching out a hand to stop him.

“I’m gonna grab you some painkillers, maybe get a snack. You want anything?”

Kyle shakes his head, and Alex heads off to gather his items, listening to the sounds of the long-awaited storm rolling in. All the more reason to keep Kyle here, he thinks. 

He heads back to the living room, passing Kyle a bottle of ibuprofen and a hot mug of tea. He watches as Kyle takes the medicine (more pills than Alex would usually take, but Kyle’s a doctor, so Alex trusts that he knows what he’s doing) and wraps his hands around the steaming mug. He shivers a little, and Alex, without thinking, tugs a blanket off the back of the couch and carefully drapes it around Kyle’s shoulders. 

Kyle startles a little at the contact before relaxing into the warmth of the blanket with a light sigh. He stares into his mug of tea pensively for a few moments before he says, “thanks, Alex. For all of this.”

Alex nods, shifting to prop his legs up on the table. “Thanks for stopping my father.”

Kyle shifts uncomfortably. “He’s gonna wake up eventually,” he says. “I didn’t really think about that, I didn’t think-”

“Stop,” Alex cuts him off gently with a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, he’s out of the picture, and that’s good enough.”

“Okay,” Kyle agrees, leaning back against the couch. He looks exhausted, and rightfully so. Alex reaches for the remote, turning on the TV, as outside the first drops of rain begin to fall. 

“What’re we watching?” Kyle asks, setting down his relatively-untouched mug of tea and curling deeper into the blanket.

“Star Wars, Episode Four,” Alex says, grabbing a second blanket from under the table to drape across his legs. 

“Four? What about the first three?” Kyle asks, sounding legitimately concerned.

“It’s not like that,” Alex replies with a laugh. “This is the first one.”

“What-”

“Shh! It’s starting.”

Kyle raises his right hand in mock surrender. A deep rumble of thunder booms overhead, and he unconsciously leans into Alex, who scoffs slightly but allows it, carefully shifting himself to avoid jostling Kyle’s injury. It’s not quiet, not with the storm raging overhead, but it is peaceful. In the morning, it will not be. In the morning, the damage from tonight’s storm will become apparent, and they will have to begin repairing it, as best as they can. But for now, for just a moment, all is well. 

yeah so here was this brought about by my rewatch,,,,it may suck idk but i simply Had To Write It yknow?

[dramaqueeenamby]

4AM: ALT Scene

The following are two portions scenes that got cut from 4AM (14). It stops abruptly, because, well, I scraped it lol. But some of you asked for it, so here it is. lol

---

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

 #1

“I don’t know why she refuses to tell me the truth,” Bashira sighed as she walked through the halls of the palace. “Does she fear that I will judge her? She can’t. We have been friends far too long for such a thought to even cross her mind.”

“Perhaps she is telling the truth, Bashira.” T’Challa suggested, listening to his wife rant about her best friend’s alleged “deception.” “Why are you so confident that she isn’t?”

“Because I know her, T’Challa.” She stressed. “I know how secretive she was about her relationship with Thom. She would not have been so willing to testify if it was simply just “facets of our relationship.” 

——-

#2

When the two arrived outside, they found a line of Dora’s awaiting their king and general.

“Just in time,” Shuri leaned on the heels of her feet as the two women caught sight of the jet.

T’Challa’s jet.

“Oh. Stand right here,” Shuri instructed, moving her sister-in-law a few more inches away from her.

Bashira frowned. “Why?”

Shuri smiled. “You’ll see.”

Bashira was still confused but remained quiet as she watched the jet lower to the ground, the thumping of her heart against her rib cage causing the Queen to grasp the sides of her dress in a nervous habit.

Bashira’s mouth formed into a wide yet bashful smile as the ramp lowered and T’Challa emerged, his entire body covered in his Panther suit.

His eyes immediately locked on her, and it was as though she felt the warmth radiating from him as he and Okoye made their way closer to the royal pair.

“Welcome home, General.” Ayo was the first to speak as Bashira fought the burning urge to pull T’Challa’s lips down to hers. His eyes on her, on her midsection, however, stopped her from doing so.

She could tell that he was shocked and rightfully so.

Shuri watched the husband and wife with a knowing smirk before she proposed a question to Okoye. “Did he freeze?” T’Challa’s eyes broke as he looked between his personal guard and his sibling. “When he saw her?”

Okoye did not attempt to contain her smile. “Like an antelope in headlights.”

Shuri snickered, T’Challa looked partially mortified, and Bashira finally realized why Shuri had moved her over as she realized she was in the direct path of the window on the jet.

A window that T’Challa was no doubt looking out of as they landed, his eyes falling on his pregnant wife.

As realization dawned in, heat rose to her cheeks as she thought of how strong an effect she must have on her husband in order to render him frozen.

“Are you finished?” T’Challa said to Okoye with a small smirk as the general hit her staff on the ground, walking away as the rest of the Dora’s followed suit.

“So surprised my little sister came to see me for my long-awaited return,” T’Challa smirked, angling his body toward Shuri and clasping his hands behind his back.

“You wish,” she scoffed. “I’m here for the EMP beads. I’ve developed a new update.”

“Update?” T’Challa turned up his nose as Bashira rolled her eyes. He could be so arrogant at times. “No. It worked perfectly.”

“How many times do I have to teach you? Just because something works doesn’t mean that it cannot be improved.” Shuri spoke as though her statement should have already been obvious.

“You are teaching me?” T’Challa said with obvious amusement as he reached her the beads. “What do you know?”

Shuri snatched them from him and turned to leave while muttering. “More than you.”

Bashira went to say something when she felt her body being yanked away, looking up to see her husband staring down at her with a warm smile. Her hands naturally fell on his chest as she leaned her forehead against the cool material of his suit.

“Oh? Tell me then, sister, what exactly is the sex of our child?”

“T’Challa,” Bashira smacked him on his chest only to turn around and see Shuri flipping the middle finger as she walked off.

“Shuri!”

“Sorry, sister!” The teenager apologized as she shook her head.

“Bashira….” She turned her eyes back on her husband as his hand went to gently cup the side of her face.

“T’Challa,” she lightly mocked. “Welcome home, Kumkani.”

His eyes softened as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “You look-” His gaze dropped on her stomach, prompting her to roll her eyes.

“Big?” She cut him off and smiled softly when he looked at her with slight irritation. “Yes. Well, this is what happens when you have a child with the infamous Black Panther. You risk advanced pregnancies?”

“Advanced?” He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Apparently,” she brought his hand to her stomach, fully aware of how his smile seemed to only deepen at the contact with her stomach. “Our son is already taking after his father. Or, rather, his father’s…..gifts.”

[bubble-tea-bunny]

center of the labyrinth 

[loki laufeyson x reader]

author’s note: got an idea that seemed to fit loki the best. hope you guys like it. also i’ll be writing a part 2 to that kylo ren story, but when i get home, since i need a lot of focus for that one lol

word count: 2,194

No one has ever seen your face.

And you seem perfectly fine with that. It only makes sense that you should, given you’re the one who organizes the masquerade balls in the first place. They’re quite the talk of the nine realms. Everyone must be admitted with a mask, which is to remain on for the duration of the evening. It’s the air of mystery that appeals to so many: there is no guestbook, so it’s never quite certain who’s in attendance each gala. One could be seeing the same exact people, or a whole new set from fete to fete. When standing against a wall of the enormous hall, looking out towards the floor, it is a sea of masks, a blur of unknowns and uncertainties.

You’re somewhere in there, but no one can know for sure which one might be you. There has been a person here and there that claims they’ve spoken to the princess herself, but descriptions of you and what you could look like are all over the place, and there seems to be an agreement after a long bout of this that perhaps someone has genuinely talked to you, or perhaps they didn’t, but the fact of the matter is on one would quite know 100%, and the matter should be left alone, because it’s clear you have no intention of revealing yourself. This leads to speculations that it’s possible you actually aren’t in that ballroom with all the guests, having organized this party for so long that it’s set up and prepared for by those who work in the castle without need for instruction, which leaves you free to do other things, should you so desire.

Loki isn’t partial to one side of the camp versus the other on this matter. If he tried to flip a coin in an attempt to come up with a definitive answer, it would land on its side. And that in and of itself is answer enough: there are no conclusions to be drawn. It almost wouldn’t seem right to try to deduce which one is you specifically, not when the point of the masks is anonymity, even for the elusive lady. You’re the added layer of mystery all on your own, and it’s strange there are those so intent on wanting to solve you. What happened to the appeal of secrecy?

Still, he gets curious, just like all the rest. And when he attends these masquerades, he’ll float along the large floor, blue eyes scanning the crowd and wondering to himself who you might be. It’s more of a game than anything, and it’s one he doesn’t mind having no solution for. Occasionally he will spot Thor: he doesn’t attend as consistently, but whenever he does, it’s not exactly difficult to figure out which one is him. Maybe it’s the long blonde hair. Or it could even be the hearty guffaws and toothy grins so textbook for the god of thunder. Loki, on the other hand, stays silent for most of the evening. There are the intermittent conversations with any who might pull him aside, small talk of the happenings in their respective realms. Most of it is tedious and unexciting, and during these moments, Loki’s eyes begin to stray rather quickly, sliding away from the one before him and looking out towards the throng of other attendees. He’s not sure if the person he’s speaking with is offended or even notices, but if they are, they don’t say anything.

Sometimes he sees horns peak out from among the flurry of guests, attached to someone’s mask, serving as a sort of beacon because they are the only horns in the ballroom and it’s not often one chooses a mask so unusually daring. They draw his attention instantaneously, but with a blink, the horns are gone, and now he’s questioning if he’s seeing things because he has seen the same set of horns four galas in a row, moving along the floor in a crowd just full enough that Loki can’t find who the horns connect to, yet they always seem to disappear the moment he blinks. Is his mind fighting him on this? Is he wanting to find a princess who may or may not actually be there? He’d always considered himself indifferent to the issue. Have other people experienced this… hallucination? He’s not sure he can even call it a hallucination, because he believes that whenever he spots those black horns, they are as real as they can get. He’s the god of mischief, and he can sense a trick when he sees one. This is no trick.

“Brother? Are you all right?”

Thor’s question of concern causes Loki to tear his eyes away from the attendees in the center of the hall. Tonight, Thor dons a lion mask a shade of gold to match his hair, and through the eyeholes are blue eyes watching Loki closely, prepared to jump on any lie he might tell and get him to tell the truth, much like a lion catching its prey.

“I’m fine,” Loki responds.

Thor tilts his head and his eyes narrow in suspicion, but Loki’s own remain cool and collected. Lying is nothing new. But Thor knows his brother, and even though he picks up on the lie pretty quickly, he doesn’t say anything about it immediately, trying to figure out what might put Loki so on edge. This masquerade is hardly the place for it—it’s all drinks and dance and mirth, further proven by the loud music from the orchestra and the laughter which reaches his ears. Then he perks up when he knows the reason—not thinks, knows. Because Thor knows his brother. “Looking for the princess, are you?” He can’t help the cheeky smile that finds its way to his lips at the question.

Loki rolls his eyes more out of habit than anything, because it is basically a conditioned response whenever Thor teases him in some way. He means to show that he’s not amused at all, but Thor is never deterred. “I’m not looking for the princess.” There’s no sense in carrying on the lie anymore, but he’s not willing to admit Thor is right.

Thor only laughs, then moves from standing in front of Loki to standing next to him, so they can both face the numerous guests before them. “I think… she’s that one. Just there.” He lifts a hand to point at a woman by the wall, not talking to anyone, only nursing a flute of champagne and observing the crowd, much like they are.

She wears a black cat mask accented with silver lace. There are no horns. “That’s not her.” The words are out of Loki’s mouth quickly.

Thor raises a brow in surprise at his brother’s response, fully assured and spoken with zero hesitation. “Okay then. Who do you think she is?”

Loki looks over the crowd again, looking almost desperately now for those set of horns. Because surely they belong to you. It is the most confident he’s felt about anything. And the moment he admits that to himself, he spots you in the center of the floor in that black mask with its black and shiny horns, speaking to someone in a brown owl mask—which appears to be quite expensive, for it’s made of leather. As if feeling Loki watching you, you look away from the one you’re conversing with and turn your gaze instead to him, and despite the distance your eyes are piercing through the material of his suit and through his skin, going in at his chest and coming out of his back. You have him lanced and at your mercy, and that’s quite the feat to have the power to put a god on his knees.

“Her.” It’s all Loki says before he’s walking towards you, intent to finally talk to you and try to make sense of how you’ve evaded him as well as you have. Thor doesn’t get the chance to respond, but he doesn’t mind. He leaves Loki to his own devices.

You’ve ended your conversation with the one in the owl mask and begin to leave the floor, walking towards the edge, where the exit of the ballroom is. People part as you pass as if they knew right from the start who you were. Loki is following closely, eyes on those horns, feeling as though he’s stalking prey of his own in the silver wolf mask he has on. But as you glance at him once more before ducking around the corner and he loses sight of you, he realizes he’s no match for a minotaur.

He walks faster to catch up, before you take too many turns down the hallways and he can’t find you again. The castle is large and he’s not familiar with it, only really having seen the ballroom. For all he knows he could be in areas where guests aren’t allowed. But he walks past multiple servants, and they pay him no mind. Perhaps it’s because he looks so focused, eyes glued to your back, that they don’t want to stop him.

You’ve come to a stop in another large hall, where upon the walls are multiple paintings. Loki finds you in the center, waiting, eyes on him, and as he walks toward you, slowly, cautiously, as if he might scare you away, his footsteps are loud on the wooden floors and echo. He doesn’t get too close, standing several steps away. And for a time the two of you simply watch each other, waiting to see who would speak first.

It’s Loki who does. “You wanted me to come after you,” he begins. He keeps his volume low because his voice carries well enough in the empty ballroom. “Why?”

You don’t respond, and Loki starts walking again, closer to you, and he’s fighting the urge to lift his hands to show he means no harm, like he’s dealing with a frightened animal. You remain where you are, and when he’s finally before you, he really takes in your features, those dark and inscrutable eyes, the straight line of your lips as you betray no emotion at all. You want Loki to do all the talking, to piece together things by himself.

“You’re the princess, aren’t you?” he asks, slowly removing his mask and holding it at its side. He sees something flittering in those eyes of yours: they seem for the briefest of moments to light up as he puts forth his suspicion, and gets it correct. But you keep silent, waiting to see what he would do next. His fingers twitch with the urge to remove your mask, to see your face, but your stare practically has him rendered immobile, and he can’t do it. Then his eyes drop down to your lips and something has never looked so soft or so inviting. The motion had been obvious, and he meets your gaze again—you don’t seem to disprove or want to back away. He’s a cat that’s caught the mouse and he supposes you’re both in agreement he gets to claim his prize, because it’s not the removal of the mask that’s the prize, for he already knows it’s you, the princess, and you already know that he knows.

So he leans in, eyes sliding closed, and you don’t rush to meet him, nor do you pull back. You stand still, waiting for him, and he’s close, so close, and his breath is hitching in anticipation. Surely your lips feel as soft as they look. He is eager to know for certain.

———

“Okay then. Who do you think she is?”

Loki blinks and looks at Thor, bewildered but trying not to show it. He reaches a hand up to his face and feels the mask still there. Thor is studying him, brow raised as he waits for Loki to give his answer, to point out a woman in the crowd that he believes is the princess whom no one has ever laid their eyes upon. As he drops his hand back down to his side, Loki’s eyes shoot straight to you where you stand in the center of the ballroom with the man in the owl mask, but this time you’re already watching him, and there’s a knowing look in your calm gaze. Loki’s trying to put the pieces to this together, because he thought he had everything figured out, but—

You smirk slightly, almost imperceptible if one weren’t looking for it, but Loki had been concentrating on you so hard that it’s easy for him to pick up on. And this time, when you start to leave the ballroom, Loki goes after you without giving his brother a response. He is hot on your heels, partly shocked at this turn of events but rather impressed at the way you’d caught him off guard. He keeps up much better, the gap between you two not nearly as large, as he follows you to that empty ballroom, where maybe you might actually grace him with some answers. Now he’s not quite sure who the trickster is here.

[rohens]

Hello hello! So I've been drawing for a few months and am just now starting to try colouring some of my doodles... I'm finding it quite difficult tho... especially shading or adding different details like a blush etc on the skin... I really like how you colour, so I wondered, do you perhaps happen to have any tips? 💕

Well thank you! My biggest advice now is to really focus on building a foundation that you can build up upon, in line work first, and then coloring. Because you’re new an emphasis should be placed above all in practice of correctness and repetition, which I’m sure you already know. When you go to color something, try not to focus on making it a master piece, or rendering something fully out, this is something that’s stuck with me hard after hearing it. 

And reference! I know this gets beaten into the ground, but its for good cause. Personally I’d be nothing without youtube, lol. I don’t necessarily agree with using another person’s art (picture) as a reference and trying to recreate it at this stage, for a lot of reasons. A beginner may not pick up on a stylistic choice or a bad habit. I’m going to urge you to practice color theory and boring stuff like shading objects, it goes a long way. 

And if nothing else, watching Istebrak on youtube (she’s an instructor who is helping me shake many bad habits in my recent unposted art), who has critique videos that are also lessons for those watching with relatable, real people art who are at the same stage as you and further. 

Sycra and Ahmed Aldoori on youtube are also great for improving.

This got really long but I hope it helps you!!