Hello! Welcome to my blog. You can call me Kay or K. I really don’t care. I post my writing on here and sometimes post things that aren’t things I’ve written. But not really. Please make sure to read my BYF/DNI and my Rules/Writing Information post. It contains important information about this blog.
I hope that you enjoy your stay! <3
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BYF/DNI (I mention it in here but I also want to put it here: this blog will have dark content/I read dark content/follow dark content blogs and if all that makes you uncomfortable, you can block me/not follow me.)
synopsis: you haven’t seen flins in almost a week. when he’s unexpectedly taken a week off his duties, you want answers why—the answers come in…a rather interesting form. or: flins is not human, and his non human form happens to come with a rather interesting condition
word count. ❤︎ 10k words—i am speechless. truly no words
before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; established relationship ; fae go into ruts bc i said so ; flins has fae like features like pointy ears and wings ; he is in rut and not the right state of mind so ig slight dubcon ; dry humping + flins cumming in his pants ; flins has sensitive wings ; vaginal fingering ; mating press ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; slight breeding kink and talks of having babies ; slight size kink ; implied multiple rounds after ; not proof read pls it’s almost 7 am i wrote this in less than 24 hours cut me some slack i beg
commentary. ❤︎ uh yeah. anyway *jazz hands* flins fae rut. ALSO THANK YOU ARABELLA AKA USER PHAINANON FOR UR DELISHUS BRAIN FOR THE RUT CHARACTERISTICS
Kyryll is off duty for a week—this is what his superiors tell you when you visit the office of the division he is under, anyway.
That is suspiciously odd—he is never off duty. Ever. Kyryll never gets sick, he never gets particularly badly injured, he never takes a personal day, and he never, ever, under any circumstances, takes longer than a day to contact you, regardless of how busy the wild hunt may have him. Something is wrong, and you’re worried, and you will figure it out. He needs you, probably—he has that annoying habit of trying to handle everything all on his own, even if it isn’t always the brightest idea.
So you open the door to his humble little home at the bottom of the lighthouse and let yourself in. Kyryll does not ever mind. Kyryll is soft and open and gentle with you, and he does not mind if you enter his home—
“What are you doing here?” a breathless, almost pained voice all but hisses. Kyryll. His voice is never this distressed—it takes you a moment to get over the shock enough to properly turn and meet his eyes.
He looks…distinctly inhuman. Not just inhuman, but also not himself. Apart from the pointed ears and the glow in his eyes and those bright, iridescent wings (you’ll focus on that later, you decide), Kyryll is also not wearing a shirt with his hair hanging in a loose bun to keep it out of his face. He looks hot and sweaty and flushed—so unlike that typical collected, well-dressed, and polished man that you know who always runs a little cold.
“I was looking for you?” You blink at him as you answer like it’s obvious, “You missed work.”
“Yes. That was an intentional decision,” he says, closing his eyes and gritting his jaw. He turns away from you, as if the sight of you physically makes him sick. You’re a little offended. “You should not have come here.”
“What? I have not seen or heard from you in almost a week! How do you think it makes me feel when I have to hear from your superiors, of all people, that you’ve taken a personal leave from—”
He exhales, the sound thin and weary. “Yes,” he says at last, each word carefully measured, “I took leave—for a reason.”
You blink at him, frowning. “And that reason would be?”
He closes his eyes, his jaw flexing as though he’s counting to ten in his head. “A personal one,” he replies evenly, though there’s a faint tremor in the calm of his voice. “When I am ready to return, I will do so. Until then, I would be grateful if you allowed me some solitude.”
“Solitude?” you echo, incredulous. “Kyryll, that’s not how this works. You don’t just vanish without a word and call it solitude. You didn’t reach out, you missed work for nearly a week—I was worried.”
“I am aware,” he says quietly, gaze lowering. “And for that, I apologize. It was never my intent to worry you.”
“Then what was your intent?” you demand, stepping closer as you cross your arms. “Because you can’t just disappear and expect me to act like that’s normal.”
A muscle in his cheek twitches. He’s clearly fighting something internal, trying desperately not to let it show. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, careful. Pleading, even. “I know what this looks like to you. I know it seems as though I am shutting you out. But please—believe that it is not from malice or indifference. I simply cannot…be as I should, not right now.”
You hesitate, your irritation giving way to confusion. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he groans, “that there are parts of me I would rather you never see. And those parts are…difficult to keep hidden at present.”
You stare at him. You blink once, then twice, then you stare some more. “I have no idea what you’re implying, but your solution is to just lock yourself away and say nothing? That is ridiculous.”
He sighs, the sound faintly exasperated. “It is not ideal. But it is safer—for you, and for me.”
“Are you in danger? What is going on? Is something after you? Is it the wild hunt? Maybe we can—”
“You need to leave,” he cuts you off. “Please.”
That part makes you pause. He adds that last part with a broken, croaky little voice—like he’s begging, and it’s so bordering on pure desperation, you almost feel scared. What could possibly have happened in less than a week’s time to make him plead not to see you? To skip work? To…to look so different and not human?
Because he isn’t like you. Kyryll is not human, you realize. Concern for the man you are courting has caused you to overlook that very obvious fact for a moment, but reality has dragged you back to its awful truth and slapped the cold, hard facts into your shaky little sweaty palms and said: Look, the man you think you love is not who you think he is.
You stare at him, the question caught somewhere between your throat and your lungs. What is he, exactly? His face looks the same—still that sharp-boned, beautiful thing you adore so much—but now, under the dim light of his living room, there’s something wrong. Perhaps not wrong, exactly. Just...unfamiliar. His skin seems to shimmer faintly, and his eyes almost illuminate the dark around him, and his ears—his ears are just a touch too pointed when he turns his head.
“Kyryll,” you breathe, “what’s happening to you?”
He exhales, a sound that almost feels laced with dread. “Nothing is happening to me—I am exactly as I am intended to be. Some traits that humans would consider abnormal are…well, they are not so rare amongst non-humans.”
You furrow your brows. “You mean to tell me you’re the latter?”
What a silly question, your mind hisses, what else would those features imply?
He hesitates, eyes closing as though it hurts to confess. “You have heard before, perhaps, that Snezhnaya was once a realm of the fae,” he says softly. “A race that is no longer of any importance, but one that does exist. I am proof enough of that, simply by standing before you.”
“And when were you going to tell me that?” you ask, your voice trembling just slightly. You wonder what that sinking feeling in your chest is—fear, perhaps? Are you scared of him? Scared of what he is, or what he isn’t? Scared that he is something else entirely, something beyond you?
No, you think faintly. Human or not, Kyryll would never hurt you. He would never let harm come your way—certainly not from himself. The ache that blooms inside you is not fear at all, but something heavier, deeper, more hurtful: the knowledge that Kyryll does not trust you. That he cannot bring himself to believe you would see him for what he truly is and still love him—that your eyes would see the what of him before the who.
“My light, it was never my intention to deceive you,” he says, pleading now. “I simply wished for more time—to cherish you as you are before the truth might…alter things between us.”
“Alter things how, exactly?” you frown. “Alter things because I’d leave? You think I can’t be trusted—is that it?”
“No.” He smiles sadly—a fragile little smile that still does something painful to your heart, easing and tightening it all at once. “No, it was never that I doubted your trust,” he murmurs. “Only whether I deserved it, once my nature was known. For that, I must apologize. I should not have hidden it from you. You are far too precious a person to entangle yourself with someone like me.”
“Oh, be quiet, you fool,” you huff, stepping closer to him. You press your palm to his cheek, and he leans into the touch with a soft, startled breath. “Self-pity will not earn you any leniency. Do not lie to me again. Understand?”
“Fae cannot lie,” he smiles faintly, eyes fluttering shut as your thumb brushes his skin. “Should we attempt it, we sicken. Very gravely, in fact.”
“Ah,” you nod with mock solemnity, “so you’re simply skilled in manipulation. How comforting.”
He laughs, just barely—a sound that fades too quickly as he pulls back, though not far enough to escape your curiosity. Your hand drifts upward, fingers brushing the sharp point of his ear. He flinches.
“Now…is perhaps not the best moment to be touching—”
“You also have wings?” you interrupt in awe, gently maneuvering him to turn around. He stiffens as your finger traces delicately up his spine from the small of his back. “Can you fly?”
“No,” he says shakily, “they would not support my weight. They are not a particularly useful trait of the fae—merely an aesthetic one, if anything.”
“Very aesthetical indeed,” you giggle.
“That is not a real word,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. His breath hitches when your finger drifts to the place where the fragile wing meets his warm skin. His skin is never warm. Kyryll runs rather cold—you complain about it often when you curl against his side. (It never stops you from cuddling him, of course, but the complaints never cease, either.)
“Hm, still clinging to your extensive knowledge of words, are you?” You roll your eyes.
You gently rub along that small network of veins where translucent skin fades into flesh, where the shimmer of his wings dissolves against the pale slope of his back. The base of each wing seems impossibly fragile—paper-thin, like spun glass, yet alive and keenly receptive to your touch. They rise from just below his shoulder blades, delicate membranes threaded with faint iridescence, catching the light in colors that shift like oil on water. You stare in awe at that narrow strip of skin between wing and back. It’s softer, almost silken, and the sensation is strange—cool, like morning dew, yet trembling with a pulse beneath your fingertips, as though burning from beneath.
The wings flutter instinctively the more your touch wanders, a tremor rippling through the transparent folds and making him flinch—a sharp breath pulled through his teeth.
“Does that hurt?” you ask, pausing in concern.
He shakes his head, though his voice is strained when he answers. “No. They are just…sensitive.”
“I see,” you breathe in fascination.
They are sensitive—you can feel it under your fingertips. His skin there runs cold, but the pulse beneath it beats hot and fast, trembling through the thin lattice of veins. The wings twitch involuntarily, like they’re trying to fold in on themselves to escape your touch, or maybe reach for it—you cannot quite tell. When you trace your thumb along the joint where the wing anchors to his spine again, his breath catches once more, rougher this time. The friction of your touch draws a low sound from him, half-strained, half-pleasured. The wings shiver—and then so does he.
“Kyryll?” you ask softly.
He only lets out a sharp inhale in response.
“Are you…” You falter. How do you even phrase it? How do you ask your boyfriend—who has only just shared with you his origins as something not human—the burning question at the back of your mind? There is clearly something in his system, something woven into his bloodline, his very DNA, the framework of who he is, that makes him so…pent up. (That is the only phrase you can think of.) “Is…is there something happening with you? Biologically, at least?”
He goes still at your words. The question hangs between you with thick enough tension in the air that you feel like it physically separates you, and for a moment, he seems unable to breathe. When he finally does, it’s shallow—careful.
“I—” His voice breaks, then steadies, smooth and practiced as though he’s forcing it into place. “That is…a delicate subject.”
You take a small step back. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I just—”
“I know.” His hand reaches and grabs yours, thumb brushing softly over your knuckles before promptly letting go. His eyes flick to yours—bright, sharp, and mesmerizing in the low light. You wonder how you never caught on before that he could not be human. “I did not intend for you to see me in such a state. It is a rather shameful condition—one might say it is…seasonal, or perhaps instinctive. A remnant of older blood. It makes my body…less easily governed.”
He swallows hard, turning his face away. The fine tremor in his wings betrays the effort it takes to keep control.
You reach out before thinking, fingers hovering over his arm. “Hey,” you say quietly, “you don’t have to be ashamed. I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His laugh is soft, almost bitter. “You should be. There are things in me, desires in me, that are not…proper. Not human. When such old instincts rise, I am ruled by them more than I care to admit.”
He finally meets your gaze again, and something raw flickers there—fear, want, and the painful effort of restraint. The air between you tightens. Something shifts. Something that pulls you towards him just as fiercely as he wants to push you away. You ache to close that gap he wants so badly to put between you—a naive and optimistic thought process, perhaps. Kyryll knows himself and his state of mind better than you do.
He has lived through it. For hundreds of years, evidently, and you have only known him for so long. He is perhaps, wisely so, protecting you from a part of himself that requires protection against. But you don’t find his warnings—nor his pleas for that matter—to stay away from him until this passes worth listening to. You won’t. You can’t bring yourself to.
He looks unwell—he looks pained and in suffering and alone in this small, little home of his where nothing is there to ease his troubles, no one is there to ease his burdens or his aches. You take one look at that soft, rosy flush on his cheeks, the dampness of his clammy skin, the somehow even darker circles beneath his honeyed eyes, and you cannot fight the instinct in your heart that longs to take care of him however he needs it. The instinct that just as easily governs over your body against your will as Kyryll’s governs over his.
Love, perhaps, is what your heart would call it. Foolishness, on the other hand, is what your mind would say.
“It hardly happens,” he whispers, keeping his face turned insistently away from you, “once every decade or so, there are urges…and they are not very pure in nature. I am ashamed to admit I am unable to keep from harboring improper thoughts about you, my dear. It would be in your best interest to leave before I am incapable of controlling myself any longer.”
“Forgive me for being so candid,” you say with a small grin, amusement threading through your voice, “but we’ve been intimate before, you silly thing. What exactly are you trying to protect me from—sex? Kyryll, we’ve done that plenty of—”
“No.” His voice cuts through yours, low and sharp, carrying a kind of desperation that stills you. “This is hardly comparable.” He turns toward you finally, and even though his expression is composed, his eyes are not. They are hungry and wild, and his pupils almost dilate at the sight of you. His wings twitch behind him, restless. “This is not a desire one can reason with,” he continues quietly. “It is old. It does not recognize affection or care—only need. And I would sooner burn myself hollow than make an object of you.”
For a moment, you weigh his words. You can see how much effort it costs him to hold himself still, to speak in measured tones instead of instinct. So much care and respect are woven into that tense, agonized distance he keeps between you both as he wills himself to stand still. And you decide that you want none of it.
You do not care about his self-imposed moral limits and boundaries. He needs you—and by the Gods, you are going to give him what he needs.
“Kyryll,” you say firmly, the earlier humor gone from your voice. “You could have told me sooner.”
He closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. “And ruin the illusion that I am civilized?”
You shake your head, stepping closer despite his warning. “You never needed illusions with me. I am the first person you should be able to turn to when you need something—when you need someone to take care of you.”
“You cannot take care of me in this form,” he clicks his teeth, patience slowly wearing thin. (He is certainly not in his right mind after all, you deduce—your Kyryll is never impatient with you. Not his usual self, at least.)
“I can,” you say stubbornly, “and I will because there is no way I am leaving you like this to suffer—so if you must use me for your own pleasure, then I think that is exactly what I will have you do because I want it of my own will. See? It is fine now, so come here and—”
“You are playing dangerous games,” his voice is deeper, lower, almost a throaty sound that vibrates in a way you’ve never heard from his usual rich, smooth, almost velvety voice. “Humans are not meant to withstand this level of…depravity that becomes my nature—”
“You are infuriatingly stubborn,” you roll your eyes.
You step closer, moving to wrap your arms around his neck. He catches your wrists before you can press yourself closer against him. His grip is gentle, but his hand trembles as he holds yours. His pupils are blown wide, the faint iridescence of his eyes flickering like they are something alive, something of a soul of their own. “Do not tempt me,” he breathes. “You do not understand what you are inviting.”
“I think I do,” you say softly. “You’re suffering, and I won’t stand by and watch it.”
He shakes his head, his voice dropping to a low, strained murmur. “It is not the kind of suffering you can easily mend. The endurance of a fae and that of a human are…not measured in the same way.”
“I’ve never been afraid of a little imbalance,” you counter, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I like a good challenge.” For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. The air between you holds still—tense, waiting.
And then he caves.
His hand rises to your jaw, tentative at first, as though he’s still convincing himself he shouldn’t. But the moment his skin meets yours, all restraint shatters. You’re pulled in for a kiss just as fervently as you lean in for one. Neither of you can say for certain who leans in first—who reaches for the other first. You don’t think you’d ever truly know.
His breath his hot against your mouth, and it comes out in nothing but heavy, short puffs of air that he all but gasps for. For all his stamina as a fae that he claims to have, he seems almost out of breath from just a little kissing. Your hands wander along his back, gently rubbing against the delicate portion between skin and wings as he lets out a surprised groan of pleasure at the feeling. You giggle into his mouth as he flinches in shock from the touch.
“You weren’t lying,” you murmur into his lips, “they really are sensitive, aren't they?”
“Amused, are we?” he huffs into your mouth.
“Maybe a little,” you admit cheekily. He only grunts in response—Kyryll in a rut is a Kyryll with very few words that he can articulate, you realize.
You feel the bulge of his cock against your thigh as he flips you around to press you against the wall, caging you with his tall, strong body as his hands desperately cup your jaw and angle your face up, kissing you with more hunger than before. It’s hot, his erection—you can feel that sheer warmth of it through the fabric and layers of clothes, and it’s thick and twitching through his pants in a way you’ve never felt him before, as though he’s already responding to absolutely nothing from how starved he really is for anything.
You move your thigh up, pressing it between his legs to slot perfectly against his crotch. He all but whimpers at the feeling—shuddering against you before his lips break away from yours and his face buries into your neck.
“D-don’t stop,” he pleads, “more. I need…more.”
“I know,” you soothe, gently tugging the hair tie that keeps his long strands in that low bun until it frees his hair and lets it fall down his back. Your fingers stroke through them, delicately raking your nails along his scalp as you murmur, “I know, baby. You need more. Got it.”
He shivers at the pet name, and you smile fondly. You would have preferred to relieve him of such a clear ache with more gratifying methods, but Kyryll does not allow himself to detach from you long enough for you to even reach for the waistband of his pants and use your hand. Your thigh is as good as he allows you to pleasure him with the way he’s pressed so close to your personal space. You feel him grind against it with his own pace, meeting your movements halfway as he chases the friction against his hardened cock.
When your fingers move back to his back, tracing the sensitive little networks of veins along the base of his wings, he groans into your neck, biting into your skin hard enough that it stings just a little.
“Does it feel good when I touch here?” You press gently into the base of his wing for emphasis.
He lets out a soft, breathless, almost whiny sound as he nods shakily. “Y-yes,” he swallows thickly, “very…very good.”
“How cute,” you giggle. “You are so cute.”
“M’close,” he gasps, “so…so, so close.”
“Already?” you blink in shock–you’ve really only hardly begun, “but we—”
You don’t even get to finish your thoughts before the sound of his voice, gravelly and thick with pleasure, cuts you off.
“F-fuck, I…I’m s-sorry,” he slurs his words incoherently, “‘m…c-cumming—”
You feel the familiar rush of warmth as he spills into his pants. (Kyryll has only cum in his pants once before—one night after he had a glass of wine too many, and you’d dragged your aching core against his own throbbing sensation between his legs as you shifted on his lap between kisses. It was cute then—seeing the adorable pinkness on his cheeks as he’d stuttered an apology. You enjoyed the slightly damp feeling of his release against your leg.)
But this time…it’s a little different. He absolutely soils his own clothes as much as yours. You can tell that much just seconds into his orgasm—the sheer amount of his seed that seeps through the fabric of his pants and dampens yours has you shocked. It’s…a lot. More than normal. More than you thought possible. Clearly not a very human amount, considering he is…well, very much not human. But you try your best to keep the steady rhythm of your thigh grinding against his crotch since he has stopped moving himself in favor of stilling—his body is taut and stiff as he shudders through every wave of his high, gasping into your neck and letting out choked moans against your skin.
“S-sorry,” he rasps, “I did not…I had not meant to tarnish your c-clothes with—ngh—”
He cuts his own sentence off with a low grunt as another thick, warm rope of cum spills from the head of his swollen cock. You shake your head in response to his apology—he does not need to apologize, you tell him softly—before gently rubbing his back as he rides out the last final waves of his orgasm. (It’s a long wave of pleasure—you’ve witnessed Kyryll fall apart quite a few times before. You like to consider your intimate life a display of healthy passion. It’s never lasted like this before, though—you don’t think you would forget it if you’d witnessed that sort of…well, spectacle seems not the kindest word for it. But it’s certainly a sight, that much is undoubtedly true. You decide not to comment on it for the sake of his feelings, however—you do not wish to embarrass him any further.)
“It’s okay,” you smile into his temple as you kiss it, “I don’t mind. Clothes can be washed, you know, silly.”
He pants into your neck, catching his breath for a brief moment before he reluctantly peels himself away from you. His face is even more flushed—his skin is practically glowing, and his wings seem even brighter as they droop into his back almost self-consciously. He doesn’t dare meet your eyes, as if his moment of self-indulgence is too shameful a scene for him to make peace with. You can practically hear his thoughts without him saying them—humping against your leg like that is the least dignified thing a man could do to the woman he cares for. Utterly unrefined and uncouth, and lacking in respect.
You sigh, reaching to cup his cheek. “Hey,” you whisper gently, “don’t worry too much. Do you feel better now?”
He looks at you miserably. It’s only then does your gaze wander a little lower…and you realize that he is still hard. Very, very, very hard—in fact, you don’t think it ever stopped despite the way he clearly came undone just a moment ago.
“Oh,” you breathe.
“…As you can see,” he says shakily, “this is not a problem that will resolve itself any time soon. Not even with your best efforts, I’m afraid.”
“So you need a few more rounds,” you shrug. He looks utterly horrified by your phrasing, which only makes you grin a little before you reach out to poke the tip of his nose affectionately. “I think I can handle that, baby—”
“No.” His voice sharpens, though there’s still that tremor of restraint beneath it. “You have already done far more than I deserve, my light. I will tend to the rest on my own. You should go—for your own sake, if not for mine. Though it pains me to watch you leave, it is the wisest course until I have recovered from this…condition of mine.”
“I’m not leaving,” you frown, your tone firm and unyielding.
He exhales, long and weary. “You are impossibly stubborn. Funny that you would have accused me of being just that, not too long ago.”
“I’m not!” you protest. “Look at you—you look like you’re in pain.”
“If you would kindly refrain from voicing such mortifying observations aloud,” he says with a tired sigh, “it would preserve what fragile shred of dignity I still possess, my dearest.”
You roll your eyes fondly.
You and Kyryll are an oddly functioning couple. You only just started calling him by his first name a few weeks ago. Before that, he was simply Flins. Mister Flins, before that, when he was just a ratnik who had saved you from a creature of the wild hunt.
Do be careful when you wander at night, Miss, he had said politely.
And then he had been off on his way. You run into him time and time and time and time again after that. It’s an odd way the world works, you like to think—how you can meet someone so often after one encounter when just days before, you’d never been aware of their existence. How they can bleed into everything you know so suddenly, like they’d been there this entire time, even when you’d known nothing of them for so long. Your usual places, your usual routes and paths, your usual stops. All of them have been the same for long enough that you wonder if perhaps they have merged with your cells and become part of who you are.
The one thing that was never there before was him. And then, as if the Gods had willed it, he was. Always, in every corner, it was Mister Flins.
How funny of a way the world works that things are thrust into your small bubble against your will, invading the tiny space of what you know and becoming one with all the things you hold dear.
Mister Flins at the market buying spices at the same time as you. Mister Flins walking down the same path as you are as he makes his way to his superior’s office. Mister Flins in the area to fix some broken part of his lamp. Mister Flins and a drink he asks to grab with you when you both happen to be free. Flins after that—he asks you kindly to drop the Mister. Flins and a nice dinner that he offers the bill for instantly. Flins at your place of work to escort you home in the evening—it’s dark out, you know, Miss. Flins in your kitchen as you make lunch while he’s in the area. Flins and that coat of his that he likes to drape over your couch when he’s here to stay for a while. Flins when you wake up in the morning, and he’s still there, tangled in the sheets with you. Flins who asks you to call him Kyryll, if you would accept—it’s only fair that two people who are courting use their proper names.
How long of a way you have come—from calling him Mister and hoping if you might ever run into him again, to whispering Kyryll like it’s a prayer and letting yourself into his home as you please. How far of a way you still have to go—he is still too embarrassed to be open with the physical desire that consumes him so wholly despite being intimate with you so many times before.
You wonder if a decade from now, Kyryll will warn you in advance that he will experience this same thing once more. If this time, instead of hiding from you, he might ask you to help him, take care of him. If he’ll trust you and put aside his composure and be fragile in your hands, so that you can carefully curl your hand and cup him in there, keeping him tucked into your hold, protected from the world.
You sigh, shaking your head in fondness before you gently murmur, “If you would just shove aside your pride for a moment and understand that I do not find shame in your nature, then perhaps we might both have an enjoyable time. I don’t dislike being intimate with you, you know—it isn’t as though it’s a chore for me.”
He swallows, mulling over your words before his shoulders ease. A loose, breathless chuckle slips past his lips. “You are remarkably eager to bed me, my love.”
“Don’t be so smug,” you scoff, stepping toward him as your arms curl around his neck.
He hums, burying his face into the juncture between your neck and shoulder and inhaling deeply, breathing in the scent of you. You can still feel the throbbing length tucked away in his tight pants—but you let him set his own pace for how he wants to do this. This is about him, you remind yourself, him and his…whatever this fever is called that has consumed him and turned him into a sexual-haze induced version of himself with mythical features you did not think people of this world could possess.
You hesitate, voice gentle. “So…is this basically…like a rut or something?”
Kyryll stills, then exhales slowly against your skin. His laugh is quiet, resigned—the sound of a man who has given up on maintaining dignity. “If you insist on using such a barbaric term, then yes,” he murmurs, voice low and rueful. “It is something akin to that.”
“Ah,” you nod, trying not to grin. “Good to know.”
He lifts his head, eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “I can feel you laughing at me.”
“I would never,” you lie, smiling sweetly. Silence lingers for a beat before your curiosity wins out. “But wait—how come I never see your features like this? The ears, the wings…” your gaze drifts downward and back up again, “I’ve seen you naked plenty before, and those wings definitely weren’t there then.”
A soft sigh escapes him as he closes his eyes, the faintest trace of embarrassment lacing his tone. “I can usually hide them,” he admits quietly. “Most of my kind evolved to conceal the traits that set us apart. The wings, the ears—I have learned to keep them hidden away to pass unnoticed among humans.” His wings twitch faintly behind him, betraying his irritation. “But in this state…” his voice roughens slightly, “I cannot maintain that restraint. They emerge on their own.”
You hum thoughtfully. “So your wings come out when you’re horny.”
He groans, shoulders slumping. “You do have an unmatched talent for vulgar phrasing, my light.”
“I like to think it’s one of my more endearing qualities,” you grin, brushing a fingertip along the curve of his ear until he shivers. “Don’t you?”
He gives you a look—half exasperation, half resigned fondness. “Endearing is one word for it,” he murmurs dryly. “There are others I might choose.”
“Charming? Irresistible? The light of your lonely, dark little life?” you suggest, all innocent eyes.
“Insufferable,” he says immediately.
You press a hand to your chest in mock offense. “You wound me. Truly, so mean.”
“You’ll recover.” His lips twitch, betraying amusement. “You always do.”
You grin wider, leaning closer so your noses almost brush. “Only because I am so fond of you. The things I endure in order to love you are what some might consider horrors, you know.”
“I’ve watched you survive far worse than my teasing,” he replies, arching a brow. You hum thoughtfully.
“True,” you whisper as you bite back a grin, “so surely, I can handle you when you are not entirely yourself.”
He exhales, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh—soft, endeared. “Incorrigible,” he murmurs, though the word loses its bite when you rise on your toes and press your lips to his.
The kiss starts tentative, almost cautious. You test the waters, and he trembles faintly against you, as though afraid he might hurt you just by touching. But when you tilt your head and draw him closer by the back of his neck, that restraint begins to crack. His hands find your waist, firm yet so achingly soft the way that Kyryll always is, and he kisses you again—deeper this time. Harder. Like he means it. The kind of kiss that steals the breath right out of your lungs as he inhales it for himself.
You feel his heartbeat where your palms rest against his bare chest, and the faint shiver of his wings brushing against your hands as they travel from his sternum to his back. When you part for air, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath uneven, the tips of his pointy, adorable little ears flushed a faint shade of rose.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, his voice hoarse with longing.
“Positive,” you breathe, brushing your thumb over his lower lip. He presses a kiss to the pad of your finger before nodding.
“You’ll try to stop me if it’s too much? Perhaps we should keep something heavy nearby so you may hit me if I do not listen to reason—I will certainly survive the blow and—”
“I am not hitting your head, Kyryll,” you gape, “and I’m not backing out, either. Now fuck me—I want you.”
“Must you say it just like that?” he asks tiredly.
You giggle, nodding as you murmur, “How else will I prove my enthusiasm to feel you?”
That seems to undo him completely. He looks at you for a moment—good and long and hard before he kisses you again. This time, it’s with the kind of fervor that feels almost desperate now, stumbling a little as you both move in a tangle of limbs through the quiet rooms of his home. His hand stays at the small of your back, guiding you blindly toward the bedroom, though his mouth never leaves yours for long.
The journey there is clumsy and impatient—you nearly trip over a low stool in your rush, and he catches you with a low laugh that melts against your lips. His wings flutter, brushing against furniture, fragile things trembling with the same tension that threads through his entire body. He moans into your mouth every few moments, unable to keep his usual composure and bite back the sounds. You like this version of Kyryll—the version that makes his pleasure a loudly known fact rather than a politely kept secret.
By the time your knees hit the edge of his bed, he’s panting harshly, worked back up to impatience for release as his body burns with tension.
“This is your last chance to leave while you easily can, you know,” he says lowly—his voice thick, hoarse, and edged with something that no longer sounds entirely human. Each word rasps as though dragged through gravel, deeper and rougher than before, echoing faintly in his chest before reaching you. The sound sends a shiver down your spine—not from fear, but from the strange, thrilling feeling of want piercing through your spine.
You meet his gaze steadily. “I’m not backing out,” you say, your voice so firm and sure.
He closes his eyes, jaw tightening as though your words physically pull at the fraying thread of his control. “You do not understand what you invite, my light.”
“I don’t want to understand,” you whisper, reaching for him, “I just want you.”
His breath stutters at the touch. For a moment, he seems frozen, torn between his care for you and his instinct of desire. Then—as if his biology finally wins over—whatever fragile barrier he’s built around himself shatters. The sound that escapes him is low, almost feral, but still unmistakably him.
“I told you,” he says gruffly, “I will not be guided by my affections. Yet you insist so firmly to see a version of me that only fucks you with instinct alone—is that what you truly want? A man as depraved and senseless as this? What little regard for your fragile, human body,” he chuckles.
His mouth claims yours before you can reply—hard and bruising and all teeth, filled with a relentless urgency. You gasp, arching into his touch as his large, impatient hands tug you closer by your clothes. (So this is what he meant, you think—Kyryll is utterly lacking in his typical gentleness. No—in fact, his gentleness is completely gone.)
Your clothes are torn off in a swift motion. He does not bother disrobing you, does not bother taking his time to admire you, or tease you, or simply just bask in the moment of being so intimately close to you. Instead, he grabs the fabric with a rough hand, pulls with more force than you’ve ever seen from him, and tears the fabric without remorse. You gasp at the sight of it being completely irreparable.
“Kyryll!” you hiss, “soiling clothes is one thing, but destroying them is an entirely separate—”
“Enough,” he cuts in, voice low and edged. “They were in my way. I will not waste time with trivial barriers.”
You shiver at the sound of such a rough tone in his voice. Long gone is the delicate, well-mannered, and well-spoken man you know—long gone is his patience and sweetness and lingering precision in everything he does.
His hands squeeze at your hips in appreciation as he marvels at the sight of your curves and bare skin. “Mmh, and to think I was going to deny myself such a splendid gift—where such patience had graced me, even I myself cannot tell. No matter—I will make the most of such a wonderful blessing.”
You’re dripping—his words alone, his sheer desire to use you alone, have made the ache between your legs worsen, and the pool of slick collecting there does the same. It coats your inner thighs, and when he roughly spreads your legs apart, humming at the sigh of your bare cunt, you whimper.
“What a sight,” he groans, “I cannot wait until I am buried in the warmth of such a beautiful, perfect cunt.”
He is much less hesitant to use filthier words, too, you realize. And less focused on you and your pleasure as his fingers sink past the velvety walls of your pussy, curling deep into that spongy, sensitive spot that makes you mewl. Nothing about this is gentle. Nothing about it is thoughtful and giving and filled with adoration like Kyryll always is when he beds you. Nothing about it puts your pleasure above all else and does it for the sole purpose of making you feel good and feel his devotion.
No. Instead, Kyryll fucks his fingers into you because he needs you prepped and ready to take his cock. He also wants to feel the warmth of your walls flutter around his fingers because his mind is in a filthy haze. You can tell because the way he groans as his fingers pump into you, scissoring and stretching you open, has nothing to do with the way you gasp and twitch from pleasure, but everything to do with the wet, squelching sound he hears and that shiny, messy essence that he sees coating his fingers.
“So warm,” he moans, “how long before I can sink the entirety of my cock into such a perfectly awaiting pussy, I wonder.”
“K-Kyryll, please—”
“Say that again,” he demands, “say my name like that again. Say it.”
“Kyryll,” you sob brokenly. His fingertips are so cruel, slamming and curling into that sensitive spot so rough and fast, so impatient to get you gushing around him so that you are ready to take his cock with ease. “M’go-gonna…gonna cum—fuck!”
“There it is, my dove,” he smiles, pleased. “I knew you would do well—after all, you always give me just what I want, don’t you? It’s what you know best, isn’t it? Such a good, obedient human.”
Your orgasm doesn’t last long—it’s not like the usual sort of high Kyryll coaxes out of you. It’s not soft and prolonged and doesn’t make you slip into a hazy, blissful state that makes you feel like you’re floating. Instead, it all but makes you black out, a wave of pleasure that absolutely wrecks you and shocks your body right to its core. It’s impatient and fast, and when you come down from the split second of pure white-hot pleasure, he is already there, studying your fluttering walls and humming in approval.
“I think you are sufficiently ready, don’t you think, my dear?” he all but growls.
You watch deliriously as he unzips his pants, quickly shrugging them and his boxers off in a swift movement and freeing his cock—and oh. You have seen his cock. You have taken his cock down your throat and deep in your walls, and you’ve felt the weight of it in your hand. You are not a stranger to the sight of Kyryll’s cock, but you are a stranger to his version of it—the version of it that has thicker veins that are practically glowing along the side of his length. The version of it that has messy, runny, iridescent pre cum leaking from the tip and coating his pink, flushed cockhead. The version of it that looks even bigger and thicker, and longer than you remember it.
You gasp at the sheer sight of it, instinctively pressing your thighs together in…in what? You do not even know. In fear? In excitement? In need of relief at the sheer excitement it sends through your aching core, or in need of a break before you’ve even begun from the sheer size of it that will surely break you.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, “oh my god, it…it’s not going to fit,” you shake your head. “K-Kyryll, you’ll…you’ll break me.”
“Will I?” he chuckles, slightly mocking as he leans down and presses a flurry of kisses along your jaw, sucking and biting at your skin before he makes his way to your neck and inhales the scent of you once more. It occurs to you then that perhaps the scent of you has only been driving him more mad this whole time—that with the way he’s taken every opportunity to sniff at your skin, he must be absolutely overwhelmed by the scent of you. “I specifically remember you saying you would not mind doing this with me and that it was not a chore. Why the sudden change of heart?”
“L-look at the…the size of…of it!” you stutter, “that is not what it usually is!”
“We will easily make it fit, my dove,” he hums, “not to worry. There is no doubt that this pretty cunt will open up nice and slowly for me—after all, she is a good, good girl, isn’t she?”
He traces a thumb over your clit as he says that—and when you whine, jolting from the touch, he chuckles in a sick, almost twisted form of amusement. Without warning, he grabs a leg, hooking it over his shoulder as his hand squeezes the meat of your thigh and groans.
“You were made for my taking,” he says, staring at your body as though he’s in a heavy trance. His eyes are wide and dilated, unfocused and almost wild as he rakes them over every section of bare skin he can. “I am going to take great pleasure in feeling the tight warmth of you wrapped around me—what a wonderful fate life has granted me, indeed.”
With that, he leans down to hover over you, and the knee tossed over his shoulder bends and practically meets your chest as he closes the gap and kisses you roughly. The thick, blunt head of his cock meets the entrance of your cunt, pushing past the folds slowly, carefully for a moment that you almost think that this is your Kyryll—the Kyryll that you know and love.
But then, with a rough snap of his hips, he’s pressed a good amount of his length into you, stretching you with a burning girth that makes you cry out in a sharp mewl. “T-too much, baby,” you sob, “w-wait—”
“You can take it, my dear,” he insists, kissing away the tears with chapped, warm lips that feel nothing like the usual soft and cool ones you’re used to. You hardly recognize the man who is taking you, and yet…and yet, you cannot help but fall in love even deeper with him in this state. Every fiber of your existence should scream to run, but instead, they long to be intertwined with him. Threaded into the very fibers of his own existence, living tangled and one with him.
He’s right. You can take him—and you do. He snaps his hips one more time and buries the rest of himself into you, completely down to the hilt and completely filling you up until you feel almost certain that you can feel him in your throat and lungs.
“S-so big,” you gasp, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him as your walls flutter around the intrusion of his thick, swollen cock. He groans, wings fluttering behind him impatiently as he waits for you to give the signal that you’re ready for him to move—he still has enough sense in his system for that much kindness. “S-so full, baby—m’so full.”
“Yes,” he says hoarsely, “what a sweet, precious girl, you are—taking me so well. Such a darling light I have that takes me so well and doesn’t complain. I simply adore you, my dove.”
You mewl at the praise, clawing at his back with your nails as you pull him closer—and impatiently, with a jolt of your hips, you plead, “M-move! Move, please…need to feel you so bad.”
Your hands rub along his back—and without the same careful, gentle precision as before, you rub at the base of his wings, too. Friction at the delicate, sensitive, almost painful nerve-endings at his wings that respond to your touch by twitching harshly. He lets out a gasp, jolting with a low, drawn-out moan that is obscenely loud. Obscene. Kyryll is never much of an obscene sight even in the throes of pleasure, but you suppose such a frenzied, desperate state of mind would make him prioritize his composure last.
“F-fuck—I told you, those are sensitive,” he hisses, “you…you cannot simply just touch and feel them as you please unless you want to—”
You lean up and bite at his earlobe, effectively cutting him off as his breath gets caught in his throat. You hear the hitch before you whisper into the shell of his pointed ear, “Kyryll, just fuck me already. What in the Gods' names are you waiting for?”
That makes something in him snap. Something carnal and hungry and desperate and…so far gone in his desires, it almost feels animalistic. His hips snap, harsh and fast, and nudge his cock deeper and deeper past your folds, pressing effortlessly against that sensitive, delicate spot in the back of your walls. Your Kyryll usually knows where that spot is; he usually aims his thrusts to kiss that spot with the blunt head of his cock purposely.
This Kyryll doesn’t try. He doesn’t even think to find your pleasure points, drilling his aching length and chasing the warm friction of the tight walls that surround him without a thought. It just so happens that naturally so, with the sheer size and girth of him, with the perfect curve of cock, he manages to find that spot anyway.
“Fuck,” he groans, “ngh—you are so…so soft. So exquisite and warm and so fucking tight.”
Your legs wrap around his hips, bracing yourself for every forceful, heavy snap of his hips. It’s fast and rough and impatient. It’s everything your Kyryll is not. It’s hungry and mad and vulgar. There’s a filthy squelching sound that mixes in with both of your pleasured sounds—a wet, filthy one that comes from skin slapping on skin and the way his cock slips in and out of your dripping cunt.
“I’ll fill you up,” he says lowly, “there is a perfect little womb right here,” his large hand presses against your belly, applying light pressure against it as he thrusts into you, making you wail. “And I intend to make good use of it. I will fill this womb up with my seed over and over again—until it takes. However many times I must, I will. Until you are swollen with a child that will have both the bloodline of a fae and a delicate little human.”
“P-please—”
“Is that what you want?” He coos, “to have a child you can bear with half of me and you? Perhaps my eyes? Your smile? Is that what my darling little human wants?”
“Y-yes,” you sob, “yes, yes—please!”
“Then far be it from me to deny such a precious request,” he hums.
You moan into his mouth as he kisses you roughly. A messy dance of tongue and teeth and hot breath that you exchange between heavy panting. One hand tangles in his hair and tugs, and the other alternates between scratching into his back and rubbing over those delicate nerves at the base of his wings. You feel him jolt every time you trace them—feel him let out a tiny whimper into your mouth when your thumb catches over a particularly delicate membrane that makes his whole body shudder.
“Oh,” he groans roughly, “I’m…I’m c-close—so…so tight. It’s never…it’s never felt like this before.”
For a fleeting moment, you wonder what he means by that—he’s fucked you plenty of times before. Plenty of times, he’s felt the slick tightness of your cunt and the warm walls that wrap around him invitingly. Then…then it occurs to you that perhaps…perhaps this is the first time Kyryll has ever fucked somebody at all during a rut. Perhaps he has never had the company of another while he locks himself away in his home.
Perhaps, all these years, he’s had nothing but the frustrating company of his own hand against his cock, a limited and lonely form of relief for that awful, throbbing ache between his legs. You imagine it—the sight of him sprawled on his bed, bare and sweaty and painfully erect. The sight of his fist stroking his cock and squeezing at the base while he bites the palm of his hand and chokes on sounds he tries to suppress. The sight of him spilling into his hand and feeling the tremors of his pleasure all alone with no one to whisper sweet nothings to him as he comes down from the high.
What a lonely, awful way it must have been to ease his aches. What a lonely, awful fate he was so willingly to resign himself to again before you had wormed your way into his home and demanded an explanation from him. A part of you knows he had done it mainly out of fear—fear of hurting you and losing control. Fear of slipping too far in his desires and taking it further than he would ever dream of, and causing you harm.
But another part of you wonders if Kyryll is just too used to being alone. If his mind and body are accustomed to being alone during something like this, that even when his body craves the heat and closeness of someone else, even when his mind has envisioned you in less than proper ways, like he’s said himself, he is too ingrained in the habit of being alone. Being far, far away from others and handling things alone. Being far, far away from you when he thinks himself to be a burden who does not deserve your closeness or your care or your intimacy.
And you don’t like it. You don’t want his mind to think that way on default and put space between you when all you want is to be nestled into his skin and make home in his ribcage. You’re safest there—he would protect you with his bones and shatter them first before anything would harm you. You know that.
And you want to take care of him. See the less than human parts and make them feel welcome in this big, large world where there is room for both of you to exist with your differences.
“Have you ever fucked someone like this, Kyryll?” You whisper, “When your body is flushed and warm like this? Has anyone touched these cute little wings of yours as you fucked your load into them? Held you as you come undone? That’s what you deserve, don’t you think?”
Filthy. That’s how you make him feel. That’s how he makes you feel, too. Even when you are being sweet, you are both downright, purely filthy.
“No,” he rasps, “fuck—no, I haven’t. I’ve never…n-never had someone before you for…for this.”
“So I’m your first proper rut, is that it?” You manage to giggle even through his ruthless, heavy thrusts. Even as he bullies his cock into your folds as deep as it’ll go, you find a way to tease and mock him.
(And he likes it. There is, undeniably, a part of him that excites when you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t feel him twitch inside of your cunt like that.)
“Yes,” he groans loudly, dizzy with pleasure as you squeeze around him, “yes…my first…first proper one.”
His hips stutter for a moment as he says the words—like he’s mulling them over and pondering on the implications of them before suddenly, your other leg is thrown over his shoulder and you cannot help but squeal in shock from the force of his body maneuvering yours. He folds you in half, and your knees are almost pressed to your chest.
He rolls his hips in quick, impatient thrusts—sloppy in rhythm and no longer as deliberate as they once were in pace. He’s close. This Kyryll is so, so different from your Kyryll, but he’s still the same. You recognize the patterns as they come. That slack jaw and those eyes that flutter shut and roll to the back of his head. The deep, heavy breaths and the low, raspy grunts. The familiar way his pace becomes messy and less rhythmic as he tries to grind into you and chase the friction. And finally, the small, little twitch his cock does before he spills into you. It’s warm—so fucking warm and thick, and it fills you up from just a few ropes.
“M’c-cumming,” he says hoarsely, so fragile and broken as pleasure bleeds through his veins and shoots along his nerves. “So…so good, love—you always feel so good.”
Just like the first time he came in his pants right against your legs, he spills more seed than you ever imagined possible. It paints your walls white, and he does a careful job of fucking the load into you as it spills, never stilling for a second. You can feel it leaking from your folds—there’s a mess of his cum and your slick leaking past your folds and coating your inner thighs, dripping along your skin.
He watches, mesmerized.
And when a particularly sharp thrust lands, you follow him as you fall off the edge and go hurtling into your own pleasure. It’s dizzying. He’s never stretched you like this—you’ve never felt veins this thick rub against your walls and drag along with such sickening friction. When you cum, you cum hard—harder than you ever have on his cock. You squeeze around him, milking him of the last of his thick ropes of cum and making sure he gives you everything he can.
“Kyryll,” you gasp—you chant it a few more times as you ride out the final waves of your high, unable to form anything else but the thought of his name. “Oh,” you breathe, “fuck.”
He slumps over you as he finishes, catching his breath in the crook of your neck. His wings tremble faintly before folding closed, and for a long moment, the only sound is his heavy breathing and the faint hum of his heartbeat against your chest.
When he finally speaks, his voice is still rough, still deep and throaty. “I did warn you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “I told you I lose myself in this state. You insisted on testing me.”
You hum, utterly unbothered, fingers lazily combing through his damp hair. “Lose yourself? That was you losing control? I must say, I expected something a little more…dramatic.”
He lifts his head, giving you a look equal parts disbelief and exhaustion. “You have the audacity to critique my performance?”
“I’m just saying,” you tease, grinning, “for all that talk about feral instincts and uncontrollable urges, you were still very polite about it. You even romantically asked to start a family with me.”
A huff of laughter escapes him despite himself. “You mock me even now?”
“Only because it’s easy,” you grin, kissing his cheek. “All that talk, and you’re already out of breath.”
A low, breathless hum escapes him. “No need to worry,” he murmurs, voice rougher than usual—and you feel the familiar twitch of his cock. Still hard and still swollen inside you. “We still have a long way to go before my desires are satisfied. I hope you’re prepared.”
You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, eyes widening a fraction. “Oh…how long?”
Kyryll smirks—that infuriating, elegant smirk that makes you weak-kneed. “Well,” he begins, voice dipping, “I did say that fae have a lot of stamina.”
“Well…” you murmur, looking at him with defiant eyes. “I still think I can handle that.”
He groans, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, “We shall see,” he rasps, “because I am not finished with you yet.”
A/N: The way I'm obsessed with this man isn't healthy. Fell in love when I saw him for the first time and haven't recovered since then. Hoping he's playable in the future! Thoroughly enjoy him as a character.
Pairing: Yandere!Sunday x Reader
Summary: Sunday doubts your honesty and proceeds with doing a trial on you.
CW: Unhealthy relationship, psychological distress, use of religion to manipulate, and briefly mentioned obsessive behaviors. Overall, not great relationship. Also, spoilers for 2.1 if you haven't completed it!
You knelt before him. He sat on his office chair with an expectant look on his face. It’s just that you weren’t sure what he wanted. “Now, is there anything that you’re hiding from me?” he asked. The iciness of his voice pierced your heart and you looked down at your hands.
“No,” you answered quietly. A gloved hand gently grabbed your chin and tilted your face to force you to look at him. Brilliant, golden eyes stared back at you. He was dissecting every aspect of you. The perfectly crafted smile on his face hid his disappointment. Sunday was always so meticulous with how he appeared in front of others.
“I’ll give you one final chance,” he said. “Do you have anything to admit?” The weight of his expectations made your lungs feel like they were going to be crushed.
“I don’t,” you answered. His gentle grasp on you tightened slightly. Your heart began to sink. He didn’t believe you. Had you done something wrong? Maybe you had without realizing it? You just couldn’t think of anything.
“I thought that we’d been getting better. It seems that I need to teach you once more what happens if you lie to me,” he said. You shook at the meaning of his words. “Remember, my dove. Honesty makes the Great One happy and lies only mark the soul for damnation.” His mantra lived within your mind. You’d become incapable of lying to others even outside of your relationship with him. You didn’t want to upset the Great One. More importantly, you didn’t want to upset Sunday.
“Oh, Triple-Faced Soul, please sear their tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that they will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.” The world around you seemed to warp as you felt the intense pressure from the Harmony in your mind. It’d been a very long time since Sunday had used this method to get you to confess something. At first, you tried to fight against it, but you soon saw what could happen to a person if they weren’t honest. So, you gave him what he craved: absolute control. Everything you did must be able to be watched by him. Even movement in the waking world. Eventually, there had been little reason to ever use it on you as you did all that he ordered of you. “Let us begin the questioning, my dove. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” It didn’t matter if you were or weren’t. The countless voices of the Harmony were already wrapping around your mind like a suffocating hug. You sometimes wondered how much a human body could sustain this sort of thing. You’d had the consecration done very few times. But you couldn’t help but wonder if that had left some permanent mark on you.
“First question: who did you speak to in the Golden Hour near the Clockie Statue?” One aspect of being with Sunday was knowing that he’d scrutinize every detail of what you did. Even the smallest thing could be seen as potentially insulting the Great One’s image.
“A guest that was visiting the Golden Hour for the first time,” you answered. The guest had a confused expression when he approached you.
“What did he ask you?” asked Sunday. The sequence of questions always started innocently. It was to delve deeper into your mind. By the time he reached the thing he actually wanted to ask, your mind was already being unspun by the Harmony.
“What the best sights were in the Golden Hour. I offered some places such as Dr. Edward’s and some shops that I knew were popular,” you answered. He’d gone on his merry way once you’d pointed the right direction for things.
“What is your favorite sight to see in all of Penacony?” His voice was much sterner with you during questionings. Even when the question wasn’t anything deep.
“Dream’s Edge. I like the shooting stars,” you said confidently. He nodded as if he already knew the answer to that. In all likelihood, he did. Everything about you was neatly written down and maintained somewhere within his archives. That was all you knew, though. Where and how he maintained them was unknown.
Your head was starting to hurt. “A Bloodhound told me that he saw you speaking with a woman at Dream’s Edge,” he said. “He told me that the woman was telling you that she felt as if something was missing in her life. What was your response?”
“That she should check in with a dream nurse when she wakes up,” you said. Her panicked state had made you panic a bit. You hadn’t seen someone who was suffering from such a severe case of missing memories like her in a while. You hadn’t had enough courage to go back to Dream’s Edge alone.
“Why did you spend a whole night in the Moment of Blue Hour?” Through the excruciating headache, you’d started to wonder why he was only asking about the people you were speaking to. Was he investigating something? What could it be?
“...An old lady. She wanted company as she waited for her lover to return. She said that he promised to return from war and that she’d been waiting for him since then…I couldn’t leave her alone.” The emptiness in her eyes reminded you of other visitors who desperately sought out their lost ones in the realm of dreams. It seemed that the old lady might have to wait longer.
“She seems to know how to keep promises. Next question: who are you most loyal to?” he asked. Did the question even have to be asked?
“I’m most loyal to you, Sunday.” No one else had such power to swing you between life and death so carefully.
“When I asked you if you were hiding anything from me, were you honest with your answer?” The sound of the Harmony’s voices had gotten progressively louder. You dug your fingernails into the palms of your hands. The pain was the only thing keeping you steady as you drowned in thousands of voices. Meanwhile, your beloved merely looked down at you.
“..........I was.” It was getting more difficult to respond. The weight was collapsing on you. Even if you were being honest, you wouldn’t feel free until liberated from its power.
“My dove, did you know that every single person who you’ve spoken to recently wound up dead in the dream?” he asked. Your eyebrows furrowed. What was he talking about?
“No.” People come and go. How could you keep track of what others did post your interactions with them?
“The final question: can you swear to me that you haven’t been working with the killer?” he asked.
“.................I swear.” You knew that the killer had been filling his mind recently. But how could you have anything to do with that? You rarely even interacted with people. Was that why he was interrogating you? Couldn’t he corroborate with his servants to see that you hadn’t done anything against him? Why couldn’t he just put his faith into you?
You were on the edge of tears. The power that he had placed on you made you feel as if you were burning up against the cool of his glove. Their united voices had started to sink into your psyche. How much more? Through his usage of the consecration, he knew whether you were lying or not. He had to know that you were being honest.
Sunday smiled at you and it felt like a light at the end of the tunnel. “You’ve done well, my dove. You haven’t uttered a single lie,” he said. “The Great One has chosen to show you mercy once more for being such an honest person.” He let go of your face. You could feel the power leaving your body as you laid your head on his lap. The exhaustion was something else. Your head swam with too many things at once.
His hand gently patted your head as a method of calming you down. The shaking of your body gradually stopped through his touch. “I have one final question,” he said. Another test. Something easy to do when the other party was still vulnerable.
“What is it?” you asked quietly.
“Do you love me, (Y/N)?” A simple question. He was your lover. A man who held a lot of power in all of Penacony. The one who had promised you a beautiful dream as long as you followed him. Even though you feared the use of the consecration, if you were honest, he’d save you from it. Just as he had always done so. It only further proved his point, didn’t it? As long as you did as he said, Sunday wouldn’t bring real harm to you.
“Yes.” He was the one who could condemn you to the eternal abyss of damnation and the only one who could save you from it. He was your judge and your savior all in one.
A/N: You know, it's always Tartaglia hours in my mind. It's like I always end up going back to writing about him lol. I hope y'all enjoy.
Pairing: Possessive!Childe x Reader
Summary: You struggle with your job and the shadow that looms over you - your boss.
CW: Unhealthy relationships, power imbalance (boss and subordinate)
You paced in the freezing cold with a frown. Snezhnaya’s weather never changed, in fact, it felt worse these days. You could feel your fingertips going numb, even through the gloves, as you crossed your arms to try and make some warmth. The coat that you were wearing wasn’t good enough to withstand the cold of the day. You had to ask for a new one, but the thought made you hesitate. The less you spoke to your boss, the better. It meant not giving into his whims. You could already see the glimmer in his eyes at the thought of you asking him for something.
Your boss. Your frown got worse as you thought more about him. Childe, 11th of the Harbingers, was the headache that never left you. Of course, you did your best to make your boss happy. A happy Childe was the only version of him you ever wanted to see. Anything that could make him angry or upset was dealt with immediately. But keeping him happy was at your expense. Rather than oversee the new recruits himself, he’d left you in charge and kept being in far off lands. So, you were shipped back to Snezhnaya rapidly on his whims. “I hate having to send you off, but you get it, right?” Certainly.
Then, Signora died. You knew that he was in Snezhnaya. There was no way that he wouldn’t be. But where was he? The funeral had come and gone and all that you’d gotten was a letter. A stupid piece of paper that you’d burned in anger after reading its contents. He was in a hurry to ship off the new recruits.
“Captain?” asked someone. Your pacing slowed down as you turned to look at the recruits. They’d all been quicker with their training today. The one speaking to you, Ilya, was the most promising member of the small group. Though, the whole group had improved greatly over these few weeks.
“Yes, Ilya?” you asked softly. You kept telling yourself to be gentle with them. You’d be the last kindness they had before being sent all over the world to cruel hands. Plus, it’d be wrong to take your anger out on them. Childe was your reason for anger, not them.
“We finished our training like you asked. Is there anything else you want us to do?” he asked. You shook your head at them and gave them a strained smile. The weight of their future tormented you.
Every single one of these recruits before you were younger than you. They didn’t know what it was like. They didn’t know the true horrors that awaited them. It was always like this, no matter how much you tried to not get attached. It was like having a new part of your heart ripped out as they were sent off to their deaths. Perhaps it was ridiculous to care. Part of being in the Fatui meant not caring about others too much because you run the risk of getting hurt. All of you were mere bodies that the Harbingers could move around like pawns. But you couldn’t separate yourself from them. You remembered every single person that had been trained by you. You remembered them because you knew that the rest of the Fatui, the Harbingers, and even the Tsaritsa wouldn’t remember them.
It wouldn’t be long before someone in this new group died and were replaced with someone else. It wouldn’t be long for them to be separated from each other. It wouldn’t be long before you were assigned another group to train. A puff of air formed as you took a shaky breath. As you prepared to answer, a pair of arms wrapped tightly around you. Your brain stopped thinking for a moment. You were so keenly aware of the recruits looking at the person that was caging you in.
You looked up and felt your heart stop. Dark, sapphire eyes looked back down at you. It was that look. The one he always got when he had you right where he wanted you. You were his cherished prey. A chorus of cheerful greetings filled the air. You remained frozen in your spot. He’d made no mention of personally visiting the group before sending them off. You could only assume that he was purposefully trying to agitate you. There was never any freedom from him, was there?
“Look at how well behaved these recruits are, (Y/N). Why am I yet to hear your voice?” he asked. Behind the cheery tone, you could hear the underlying disappointment. Your stomach plummeted.
“Master Childe! I-I’m just surprised is all,” you whispered. The smile returned to his face. He turned his attention to the group.
“All of you are free to go back to camp. When you get there, someone will give you details on your next mission.”
“Yes, sir!” said the group as they hurried back to camp. As you watched them disappear in the snow, you bit your lip. You’d told yourself that you were going to be strong. You couldn’t cry. Especially not in front of him. It’d upset him to see you cry for others when you refused to be emotional with him. You couldn’t afford any misunderstandings.
“You’re shaking,” he said. “Are you that happy to see me?” You didn’t know how to respond. The emotions were overwhelming.
“Always am, Master Childe,” you answered. You hoped that your smile didn’t seem forced to him.
“I’m happy to hear that. You don’t know how difficult these last few weeks have been. Not being able to touch you in any way has been awful. I’ve been counting down the days for when I could see you again,” he said. His grip on you tightened more. It wasn’t like you could even escape him. No matter where you went, the shadow of Childe loomed over your existence. At its core, there was no hope for you. You were bound to this job. “You know, I’m so proud of you. You trained them in record time.” You knew that he had to have been watching them for some time. Perhaps the whole training run. He would ask for details if he wasn’t aware.
“Just wanted them to be the best for you, Master Childe.” You didn’t have the strength to fight against him. In gentler terms, you were a mere plaything to him. In reality, he felt like he owned you. Your own movements within the Fatui were restricted because the world knew what you were to him. You knew that the trainees only respected you because of the man that was eternally attached to you. Your title might as well be: Captain (Y/N), Harbinger Childe’s Pet. He orders you to do something and you do it.
But you had to maintain it. Maintain it for the smiles that waited back home for you. Your family couldn’t survive without you providing for them. “I expect nothing else,” he said as he nuzzled your face. “Since you’re done with these recruits, I can take you on my new mission.”
“Yes, Master Childe,” you said. You secretly wondered how much more you could take of any of this. The nature of training people just to send them off to their deaths, the constant moving around with no stability, and the suffocation of the man who held you.
But it was expected of you to be able to handle all of this, so you would.
A/N: Have y'all heard 'Paranoia' yet? It's very good! I've been keeping it on repeat. Since the release of the song, I decided to post something LoL related. The motivation came back quite rapidly. I hope that y'all enjoy.
Pairing: Shieda Kayn x Reader
Summary: Kayn has grown sick and tired of having to protect you, Zed's child, and denies enjoying his job as a bodyguard.
CW: None
You walked through the path, ignoring the bodies that laid on it. Kayn didn’t fail to see the small smile on your face as he lowered his weapon. None of them had put up enough of a fight. “You seem to enjoy this,” he said. You remained quiet as you turned to look at him. That permanent smile was something that he wanted to wipe off your face. But he supposed that Zed’s orders hadn’t included that. It was just “get (Y/N) to the location safely and back.”
“It’s an easy job.” Sure, it was. It would be easy if he had sent anyone but you. You were a bane to his existence at every turn. Kayn couldn’t simply do as he pleased with you at his side. Yoru safety took priority over everything else.
“What do you mean?” you innocently asked him. His eyes trailed down to the dagger that hung from your hip. It wasn’t purely decoration. His Master hadn’t randomly gifted you a dagger. He knew that you could use it and that you could use it well. Yet, you always left it hanging by your side whenever Kayn traveled with you.
“You pretend to be weak,” he said. “(Y/N) is a weakling,” muttered Rhaast. Kayn’s eye twitched. Now wasn’t the time for the weapon to choose and talk. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Rhaast being a nuisance.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said calmly as you turned around to keep walking. Kayn picked up the pace to walk next to you. “I don’t fight, Kayn. You do. It’s really as simple as that. Do you really want little ol’ me getting hurt when I can barely swing a dagger? What would my father say?” Your words made his jaw clench. You loved playing the ‘father’ card with him.
“I’m sure that you’d never let something get that far,” he answered. In a real situation that called for it, he believed that you could do some damage with the dagger.
“You’re right, I suppose,” you said. He felt an ounce of satisfaction to hear you admit that you were smarter than you let on. “But I guess that I’d just ask you to deal with it since I never go anywhere without you trailing behind me.” The satisfaction died as quickly as it came and your smile was as wide as ever.
“What if I left you on your own when you went on missions?” he asked. He wondered if you ever considered how easy it would be to just abandon you. If you knew how he could just slip into the shadows and leave you to fend for yourself. He’d considered it more heavily today considering how you’d been pushing his buttons all day. You hadn’t lifted a single finger at all. Even as you nearly got hurt, you’d simply stepped to the side and let him create all the carnage. You were entirely at his mercy at all times because of the act you put on. The smile on your face faded and once more, his satisfaction returned. You slowed down a little as you thought.
“Oh, then I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere,” you answered. Kayn would never admit it, but the answer filled him with gratification. You were reliant on him. You needed him to be able to travel and do things on ‘your own’. Without him, Zed would never let you leave. You then shrugged and the smile returned. “For a while, at least. I suppose I’d have to ask Father to find someone else to guard me.” Though you said it so sweetly, he knew that your words were honest to an extent. You were willing to do anything to annoy him.
“You wouldn’t,” he said. You looked at him. The malice in your smile was new. He could see the idea becoming more real by the minute.
“Who says, Kayn? I’m sure that if I said that I needed a new bodyguard, a whole line would form of other men that have been waiting for the day that you choose to leave this post and replace you,” you taunted. He could already see the line of men just waiting to pounce on the chance of spending time with you. He was aware that so many of them were counting on the day that he’d given up on escorting you. The thought was revolting. “Besides, I don’t know why you act like you don’t enjoy this.”
“You’re annoying, (Y/N).” He hated that you were right. He did enjoy it to a degree. Every time that the two of you went anywhere, there was a high chance that you’d encounter some form of danger that let him swing his weapon around. You gave him free reign in that matter and look at him, complaining about it.
“There’s no need to hide, Kayn. I know that you love my helplessness in battle. You love being able to swing around that talking weapon of yours,” you said.
“I don’t enjoy it,” he said. He had to salvage some degree of dignity.
“Too bad,” you said. “You’ve always been my favorite bodyguard. But if you truly hate this job so much, I’ll ask Father to find someone new to travel with me.” Kayn stopped walking, but you kept going. Your audacity knew no bounds to the extent of feeling so sure to threaten him with something like that. To prevent you from walking away, Kayn grabbed your arm and pulled you towards him. Both of your faces were so close that your noses could touch.
“Do you really think your threats scare me?” he asked. “You need me more than you think. Anyone else would leave you in constant danger. I’m the only bodyguard worth having.” He got more frustrated. Did you not realize what he was capable of? He was better than the others. Zed would never give the job to anyone else. You seemed so pleased with his words that he realized that he’d fallen into your trap.
“So you do admit to enjoying this job,” you said. He abruptly let go of you. “I always knew you did, Kayn.”
You kept walking ahead and left him behind as he mulled over your words. How was it that you always got the upperhand over him?“Maybe if you worried less about your favorite,” said Rhaast. “We’d get more done.”
A/N: I wrote this like last week and in light of anything dropping tonight, I decided to post this. Not even sure I've processed anything that's happened in the manga recently, but I hope you enjoy! To make note, I don't blatantly drop big things in this (just light threads) but the last bit is post being boxed.
Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Reader
Summary: Four times Gojo asks something of you and the one time you ask something of him.
CW: Nothing in particular because I didn't want to make this one sad tbh.
I.
Your phone rang as you walked through a store with Shoko. It was the first real break either of you had in a while. “Are you busy?” asked the voice over the phone.
“Very busy,” you answered as you shifted a shopping bag to your other arm. Shoko looked at you and you smiled at her. As if she could telepathically understand who you were speaking to, she shook her head. Gojo hadn’t been around for some days, but you also didn’t want to abandon Shoko.
“Whyyy?” he whined. “It’s an emergency!”
“Call emergency services,” you said.
“But you’re the only person who can solve it,” he argued.
“What is it that you even need?” you asked him. You looked at the dresses that Shoko was pulling out and comparing. With every option, you would nod or shake your head.
“Wanna see you is all,” he said. Endearing, even if annoying.
“You can see me when I’m done with Ieiri today,” you said. “Until then, you can hang tight, right?”
“Not sure I’ll survive long enough,” he said.
“I promise I’ll give you all my time when I get back, okay?” you said.
“Fine,” he said. “But I get to pick what we do, okay?”
“It’s gonna be one of those cheesy movies, isn’t it?” you asked. You could already envision his smile at your question.
“100 percent,” he answered before hanging up.
II.
“(Y/N),” said Gojo over the phone. You stared at the clock in confusion. It was early in the morning.
“Hm? What do you need so early in the morning?” you mumbled. Your mind was half-awake as the other half fought to remain asleep.
“I need you to help me out,” he said. “I need to get Megumi and Tsumiki to school, but I also have to do a mission…” You recognized the names as the two kids that he’d adopted recently. You hadn’t met them just yet since they’d been adjusting to Gojo and you hadn’t wanted to overwhelm them too much with too many new people.
“Do you think it’s fine if I meet them?” you asked. You’d sat up on your bed and begun to move to get ready.
“I’d love it if you did,” he answered. “And I’d appreciate your help…you’re the only person I can trust.” He sounded tired.
“Okay,” you said as you pulled clothes out of your closet. “Send me the address and head over there after I get ready.”
“Thank you, I owe you,” he said.
“Don’t sweat it,” you said. “I’m happy to help.”
III.
"What is it?" you asked him. Your cup of coffee had gone cold ages ago. You'd barely taken a sip from it when Gojo waltzed into your classroom and just sat down without saying a word.
It was odd to see him so serious but the small frown on his face indicated that something was wrong. "There's a mole in our midst," he answered. Your eyebrows furrowed. Mole?
"Huh?" you said.
"Everything that's happened was too precise…like someone within our ranks has been leaking it," he said. You couldn't deny that.
"Any ideas?" you asked. You had no names. All of the students that you and Gojo shared were trustworthy. None of them seemed to be acting strange nor had you gotten suspicious or anything.
"Not yet. I'm gonna tell Utahime to be more cautious, though. What happened can't happen again. We got caught off guard. What if it'd been worse?" he asked. You didn't want to think about it. Yuji'd nearly been killed and the injuries that some of them had sustained weren't great.
Things were turning upside down so quickly. "I'll keep an eye out," you said. "I'm guessing that wasn't all you wanted to say?"
"I'm gonna head out and investigate some stuff. You willing to keep the fort down while I'm gone?" he said.
"Absolutely," you answered. You'd probably have to move around the upperclassmen to later in the day to fit in the underclassmen. Manageable. A bit annoying but manageable.
He got up and stretched before beginning to walk out. "Thanks, always know I can count on you," he said. "Oh, by the way, my phone will always be on in case you need anything."
"Take care of yourself!" you said as he waved goodbye.
IV.
“Satoru, you better take care of yourself,” you said angrily as you looked your husband in the eyes. Even leaning down, he was still so tall.
“You gonna miss me?” he teased.
“So much,” you answered. “That’s why you better take care of yourself, okay?” The two of you were splitting up to cover more ground. The sudden situation had taken a turn that none of you were expecting. But importantly, you had to find the students.
“Promise to call me if anything happens,” he said.
“I should be saying that to you!” you said.
“One more thing, if something were to happen to me, don’t act rashly,” said Gojo.
“You say that as if you know something, Satoru,” you said softly. You didn’t like to think of a possibility where he would get hurt.
“I don’t. But I also don’t want you getting hurt. If something were to happen to you…” You smiled at him.
“Nothing will. Just as you’ll be okay. We’ll meet back up once this is over and it’ll all be okay,” you reassured him. You turned to start heading off to find the others.
“Just promise me that you’ll take care of yourself,” he called out. You turned around and raised your thumbs up.
“I promise it,” you said. He smiled and disappeared.
V.
“Satoru,” you said. You didn’t know if you wanted to cry or smile at seeing him again. Your husband in the flesh in front of you again. His arms around you were real. His warmth was real. The tears that you’d pushed down while he’d been trapped away surfaced up.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t be the reason you ever cry.”
“I’m just happy, Satoru,” you said. “I’m so happy that you’re right here…”
“You’re okay? You weren’t hurt too badly or anything?” he said as he pulled away. His eyes scanned your body quickly as if trying to find any injury.
“I’m fine now,” you said. “But Satoru, are you going to fight?” He nodded. There couldn’t be more time for the two of you right now.
“Promise me that you’ll come back, yeah?” you said.
“I will,” he said.
“I know,” you said. “So, go win.” He kissed your forehead before leaving you to go fight.
A/N: I’m back! I’ve been writing more, but it takes a while to edit and post. Anyways, been on that Jojo brainrot arc recently, but there’s other things coming.
Pairing: Jotaro Kujo x Reader
Summary: Jotaro’s moving out and you think about the things that should be said, but aren’t.
CW: Angst/Not happy
You blankly watched as the final boxes were moved out of the house. The tears on your face had long since dried up. All that remained was that sensation of having wiped them away too hard and now your under eyes ached. Your eyes drifted over the figure of your former husband and to the wall that was bare.
The only thing that still remained on it were three images. An image of you and Jolyne during her 6th birthday where the frosting had made its way onto both of your faces. The other image was of Jolyne at an aquarium with Joseph and Suzi. The final one was Jolyne at the park with Holly. All the photographs with Jotaro had been taken down. Not that there were many to begin with. You just weren’t sure if it hurt more to not be able to see him in photographs anymore or if taking them down did.
You kept your hands tightly clasped as you sat on the couch. Otherwise, you’d find yourself pulling at the string that Jotaro had given up trying to sew in ages ago. The stains of coffee were hidden by pillows from when Jotaro would juggle Jolyne and his cup together.
The only sounds in the house were the door opening and boxes being pulled out. Jolyne had already been sent off to school after she’d said goodbye to him. Perhaps it was for the best that she was elsewhere. It seemed that she hadn’t wanted to see her father leave again. She’d already seen it enough times.
Words clawed at your throat, but you remained quiet. You told yourself to understand his perspective. You had to. Otherwise, you knew that you would lose your mind trying to convince him that he was wrong. Enough time had already been wasted on that before and all you’d end up with was a headache and an empty bed.
Jotaro Kujo was incapable of not being stubborn.
— — —
The water in the electric kettle bubbled loudly. He sat across from you in the kitchen. You weren’t sure who was more tired, you or him. Drop off with Jolyne had been hectic considering that it was his first time home in months. She hadn’t wanted to say goodbye just yet and you’d had to negotiate dessert before dinner as a compromise to get her out of the house on time.
“Here,” he said. The first words that he’d offered to you all morning. He placed an envelope on top of the table and slid it to you. You didn’t really need to tear it open to know what was inside. But you still pulled the envelope towards yourself and opened it.
Jotaro had reached his own end with everything.
You gnawed at the inside of your cheek. You could pinpoint what had been his breaking point. No wonder he’d returned so suddenly after months of no contact. Too many close calls with Jolyne and you being in danger. The most recent incident still could be felt in your arm at the moment.
Couldn’t he have a conversation with you? No. In his mind, the most obvious answer was to take himself out of the equation if he had so many enemies to the point that you and Jolyne were in frequent danger.
“I don’t want to make this difficult for us,” he said. “So, let’s make this easy.”
You didn’t have it in you to fight anymore. He’d been so absent from Jolyne’s life that you were basically the only parent present enough in her life. Teacher-parent meetings? Just you. Award shows? Just you. Sometimes, if they could, Joseph and Suzi would come down. Holidays? Just you. She’s sick and needs to be picked up? Only you would answer the call.
Besides, you knew that he wouldn’t change his mind.
It’d always been like this. He’d make a conclusion and you’d follow it. As much as you agreed with him on certain aspects related to divorcing, there was still the emotional aspect. The part of your own heart feeling like it was being torn.
“Alright,” you quietly said.
You’d give in because you always did.
— — —
You leaned on the threshold of his office. What once was his office. The aquarium you and Jolyne had gotten him for his birthday was gone. All the photographs and images of his own investigations were gone. How would you fill up the gap of his absence? What would you do with this space? Renovate it? Make it something new? Keep it empty? All the possibilities and none of them were what you wanted.
What you wanted was Jotaro to stay with you and Jolyne. You wanted him to put effort into being a present father. You wanted him to not leave. You wanted to be a happy family with him and Jolyne. But none of that was possible.
“I’ve packed everything,” he said behind you. You looked up to see the towering man.
“I’ll walk with you to the door,” you said. He merely nodded and walked ahead of you. Your legs felt like jelly as you walked. You passed the kitchen and tried not to think about how there’d only be one big cup and one small cup on the counter at all times now. Or how your bedroom’s bed would be too big now. How there was too much closet space now that everything of his was gone. How the entrance would be missing a pair of shoes forever.
The two of you stood at the entrance of the house. The dolphin charm on his coat, the one that you’d found with Jolyne to give him to celebrate his doctorate, was tilted. But it’d be too much to fix it, no? That wasn’t your place anymore.
“I-I guess this is goodbye,” you awkwardly said. You were at a strange distance. Too close for strangers but not close enough for lovers.
“Take care of yourself and Jolyne,” he said. You looked at him. You’d always loved his eyes. But the ones that looked back at you were so tired. Jotaro Kujo was so many things. Even though you were upset, you could still see just how much he took on. The savior of everyone. But who could save him if he continued to push all of you away?
“You take care of yourself too,” you said quietly. “Don’t take on more than you can handle and remember to take breaks, okay?” He only grunted in response and moved to open the door. You watched his hand reach for the knob. The moment that he opened it, it would all become real. You wouldn’t see him. There would be no more waiting for him to come back. There would be no one in your bed anymore. There would be no fish tank constantly running. There would be no random calls to check in. There’d be nothing more than what once was.
Rather than open the door, he turned around one more time. You felt yourself being pulled towards him and a chaste kiss on your forehead. One of his oldest habits and with such proximity, the tears that you’d been pushing down broke out. For a single moment, neither of you moved.
Finally, he let go of you without saying anything else and left through the door.
The final phrase that the two of you wanted to say hung in the air. Where it would remain with everything else that neither of you had said.
A/N: I’ve returned. Out of all the P4 characters, Rohan actually became one of my absolute favs very quickly. I hope that y’all enjoy.
Pairing: Rohan Kishibe x Reader
Summary: Reader finally asks Rohan the single question they'd been avoiding.
CW: Angst/Not a happy story, brief mentions/descriptions of sex as manipulation tactic, unhealthy relationship.
I.
You shivered slightly as a cold breeze blew through the porch. It wasn’t the best place for confrontation but you refused to take a step indoors. You looked up at your boyfriend. His face held the same expression: boredom. You were going to finally ask him the question that had hung over the two of you since the beginning.
One that you already knew the answer to.
“Rohan, do you love me?”
II.
You loved Rohan.
You really did. You loved him so much that it actually hurt sometimes. If he ever needed anything from you, you’d drop everything to give it to him. You made sure to take care of him while he worked. No meals were forgotten and you took care of the house in general. If he wished for you to be his model on occasion, you’d do it and not once utter a complaint, even if you were in an awkward position. You just wanted to please him.
You were a constant in his life. He could rely on you with no doubts as to whether or not you’ll accomplish what he asks of you. He wanted his furniture moved around for some artistic inspiration? You’d move it for him. He wanted a complicated meal? Sure. You did it because you genuinely loved him. You had loved him for so long that the sheer joy when he finally agreed to go on a date with you was inexplicable.
You were happy with him.
Rather, you were happy about it at the time.
In truth, the doubt crept around into you early on. It sunk its claws into your heart and refused to let go. Rohan’s feelings for you weren’t obvious. At all. It hurt to love him because everything you did was expected. It was a sign of absolute obedience to him. It was expected that you’d be there for him whenever. You’d canceled going out with friends, missed out on things you wanted to do, and received next to nothing. Questions about going on dates or doing something, anything, slowly died out of your thoughts. He didn’t want to do anything with you. The expectations that you had for him slowly wilted away as you realized that you seemingly came last in the list of importance for him. If you were in trouble, he wouldn’t drop everything to save you in the same way that you would for him. He’d even told you that bluntly when you’d only jokingly asked him. You went the extra mile and he refused to even take a step.
Perhaps one of the more painful parts was realizing that everyone saw how he treated you. Your shared friends had seen how cold he acted with you. There was no public or private affection. You two were just together. That was it. The words of concern from others flitted into one ear and went out the other. You forced them out of your head. But they were right.
Even with the lack of appreciation, you couldn’t bring yourself to separate from him. Something about him kept you around. It was like he was a magnet that you couldn’t detach yourself from. Every time that you convinced yourself to leave or someone finally got through to you, you were pulled back in by him.
He’d pull you into him and it would be the absolutely rare times that he did pretend to feel something for you. You say pretend because it’s only the moments where you’ve argued with him because you wanted him to do more or you’d leave. Those moments where he would play along in the fantasy that you sometimes made up. A fantasy where he did love you and that you actually meant something to him. A fantasy where you told yourself that the kisses trailing up and along your body were not just an attempt on his part to satiate your concerns. As if he truly wanted to demonstrate that you meant something to him. Where you could tell yourself that his saccharine words were honest and not just trying to sweeten up your mood to agree with him.
Not too long after those moments, he’d return to his usual self because you’d fall back into his desires. You’d drop the matter until you’d circle back to it. The fantasy would always end as quickly as it began. Something that made you emotional on so many occasions because sometimes, you had believed that the two of you were making some form of progress. Where he promised to improve and you had believed him only to go back to square one and the two of you moved backwards once again.
“I love you,” you’d say. He’d merely hum in response if he even felt like acknowledging you. The words had been spoken by you so many times that you doubted that it held any meaning to him. You figured that it just reconfirmed your obedience to him whenever you said it. He’d never once uttered the phrase back to you. You’d held out so long and expected him to say it at some point. But nothing. Ever. All the hints that you dropped on the matter were ignored entirely by him. Ignored purposefully because he was far smarter than he frequently let on.
It drove a deeper wedge into your relationship. The doubt was suffocating you more and more.
“You’re valuable enough,” he once said. That was the closest you’d ever gotten to any form of appreciation. But the sweetness was tainted with the bitterness of being entangled with him in bed as he said it. How could you know if it was honest? He was never honest during these moments. It wasn’t anything truly meaningful in the grand scheme of things.
Recently, though, the doubt was becoming insufferable. You couldn’t keep going on. No amount of lies could keep you satiated anymore.
Perhaps, it was about time that you got tired of his actions. You just didn’t know how to leave him. What could truly drive you away?
You knew the answer to that.
It was a simple question. It was just one that you’d been avoiding the entirety of your relationship.
You knew what he would likely answer too. He’d probably evade the question or he’d probably be blunt about it. Out of the two, you desired for him to be blunt.
The two of you knew what he felt deep down. You just wanted to hear him admit it. You needed to hear him admit it. You just needed it. You needed him to say it out loud. You wanted him to slice through your heart one last time so that you could tear yourself off.
III.
You stared at him blankly. Any sign of expectation could lead to a lie. You needed Rohan’s honesty. His face had set into one of discontent. But you didn’t care anymore. Maybe he had realized that you were asking for honesty for once. Whatever the truth may be.
“No, I don’t.”
The curtness of it stung. But you took a deep breath. Just what you needed to hear him say. You smiled for the first time in a long while and he seemed surprised.
A/N: I wrote this so long ago and then only edited it recently. Recently got back into JJBA since I’m rewatching it. Anyways, I hope that y’all enjoy.
Pairing: Joseph Joestar x Reader
Summary: Joseph Joestar, your fiancé, swore that he would come back to you no matter as he goes off on his own journey.
CW: None
You fiddled with the ring on your hand. A promise of the future that was to come with Joseph. You’d started fiddling with the ring ever since he had proposed. Joseph had a way of making your blood pressure rise so much that you feared that one day, he’d be the death of you. It seemed that he did things without fully thinking them through as to whether or not they could actually work. You shakily looked up at your fiancé as he spoke about his goal of going to Mexico to learn more about Speedwagon’s situation. As if everything he had just said wasn’t the most bizarre thing ever.
“Mexico, huh?” you quietly said. Internally, all the potential things that could go wrong were spinning in your head. Joseph could get hurt or lost or die or who knows what. There were endless possibilities and none of them made you happy. Besides, he’d be so far away.
A reassuring smile graced his face and you knew that he had figured out all your concerns. He always read you like a book. “I know you’re worried, (Y/N). But I swear to you that I’ll come back to you. I won’t die on you, okay?” he said gently. Joseph rarely made promises. Ever. If he ever did make a promise, you knew that it was something important.
“You swear it?” you asked cautiously. He nodded. Joseph lied sometimes, but about mundane things. Like that one time that he swore up and down that he hadn’t eaten that slice of cake you had badly wanted while he had the frosting on his cheek. But you also knew that he wasn’t one to treat your concerns lightly. If he swore to come back, he would.
As you thought, his arms tightly wrapped around you. “You think too much, you know?” You burst into tears as he held you. Being in his arms made your fears worse because what if this was the last time that he held you? He was certain of himself. Too certain. You couldn’t stop yourself from worrying that he wouldn’t come back to you and that he would die. You couldn’t hold back the spiraling thoughts that he could encounter something far worse than Straizo. Something in your heart told you that there was something far worse out there. What if Joseph never returned? You didn’t know what you would do if anything ever happened to him.
You pulled back a little and looked him in the eyes. “Y-you better come back to me, Jojo! If you don’t…I’ll never forgive you,” you said through tears.
He laughed. He quickly kissed your forehead before he fully pulled away from you. His absence was greatly felt as you missed the warmth. “I’ll be back. Don’t worry your pretty little head too much,” he cheerily said. He always seemed to shrug off big things as if they were little. As if he could always conquer everything. Truthfully, as much as you stressed out about him, you did believe in Joseph. Irrationally so.
Even as your legs shook as he bid Erina goodbye, you chose to believe in him. Joseph would come back to you.
He always did.
— —
Waiting for any sign of him would prove to be a test of patience. Every time a telegram would arrive at the Joestar residence, you would nearly fall over to get it and read it. Only to find out that it’s something unrelated to Joseph. When the first telegram of his arrived, you had nearly tripped over your feet trying to reach Erina. “Erina,” you happily said through tears. “Jojo’s okay! He even found Speedwagon! He’s okay!” The old lady’s tears mirrored yours as the two of you read over the telegram. You memorized every word in the telegram and read it in his voice. The very end of the telegram sent his love to the two of you. Your heart felt like it mended a little as you read it over and over again.
The following telegram was more of a surprise. “Erina,” you said as you walked into the residence. “Smokey!” Your eyes were focused on the telegram that confused you. You barely looked up to see the two people you had called as you thought. “Apparently, Jojo and Speedwagon have gone off to Italy…with no information as to why,” you said. The telegram, evidently written by Speedwagon as he signed it off, had barely any details. You handed it over to Erina and looked at Smokey in confusion. “What do they have to do in Italy?” you wondered.
“Well, whatever it is, I am sure that it is important,” said Erina quietly. The feelings that you all shared hung in the air without being said. Erina quietly grabbed both yours and Smokey’s hands and brought them to her. “We must remain hopeful. We must.” The two of you nodded with her. For her sake, you swallowed your own fears.
The following telegram, multiple days later was one from Joseph. “Everyone!” alerted Smokey as he waved the telegram around. “Jojo sent a telegram! He’s doing great!” He handed the telegram over to you and Erina as the two of you read over it. You felt tears in your eyes as he told all of you that he was okay. He was okay. That’s what mattered the most to you.
The next telegram was more confusing than the one that Speedwagon first sent. “Smokey. Speedwagon wants you to join him in Italy,” you said as you walked into the dining room. The telegram had been something late at night and very sudden. Speedwagon had hastily written it based on how quick and short it was. You handed it over to Smokey and shrugged. “I don’t know why.”
“That’s odd,” said Smokey. “But…if Mr. Speedwagon is asking me to go, then I’ll go.” You bit your lip and fiddled around with your ring. Joseph had sent nothing to you and Speedwagon had specified that you were to stay with Erina. Was the situation that serious? You didn’t know. You just had to hope that if Smokey was going, that things were getting resolved in some way.
— —
The news of his death had shattered you. You’d done your best to keep yourself together for Erina’s sake as you knew that it was much harder on her. But you’d spent every single night since the news hit in shambles. You’d fall asleep sobbing and wake up empty. Every night was lonelier than the last. The ring on your finger, his final gift to you, weighed heavily on your hand.
You numbly looked at the gravestone in front of you. Joseph Joestar. It didn’t feel real. It truly didn’t. You quietly sobbed as the Priest spoke. His words were meaningless to you as you knew that something had died inside of you. No one could replace it. All dreams of a future had slipped entirely from your grasp and were buried into the ground alongside the one man you loved. A piece of you had died with Joseph.
In the midst of mourning, you felt a set of arms wrap around you tightly. “(Y/N), why is everyone crying? Who are we mourning?” asked a familiar voice. You froze before slowly turning your head upwards. A shadow towered over you and part of you wondered if you had finally lost it. Maybe the lack of sleep and too much crying was getting to you. The towering shadow was none other than Joseph Joestar. “JOJO?!” you loudly exclaimed as he let go of you and held his left ear.
“You don’t have to scream,” he said as he laughed. He looked at everyone’s surprised faces and he frowned. “Why do all of you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
“You’re not dead?” you asked him as you got close to him. Your hand reached out to grip his arm. He was real. Your hand didn’t go through him. Joseph was alive. More tears sprung forth as you realized that he was alive.
“Dead? Why would I be dea-” His eyes trailed over to the gravestone and he frowned. “Suzi Q! Don’t tell me that you forgot to send the telegram!” You looked over his shoulder and saw a blonde woman appearing from the car. She giggled nervously.
“I-I might’ve…” she said. You looked at Joseph and the frown on his face had gotten worse. You lightly pulled his arm to get his attention. He turned back to you and his face softened.
“It seems that we know why you all thought I was dead,” he said. You flung your arms around him and clung onto him tightly. His arms wrapped around you tightly. You had missed the feeling.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again!” you sobbed into his shoulder. “I thought you were dead!”
“I did promise you that I wouldn’t die, didn’t I?” he said. “The world would have to try harder to separate me from you.” You lifted your head to look at him. Even through tears, you could still see his brilliant smile.
A/N: I was supposed to post this during Cyno’s banner....but I took forever and now it’s here. I hope that y’all enjoy!
Pairing: Cyno x Reader
Summary: Reader, a student in the Akademiya, has grown bored with studies and started seeking out different ways to get caught by the General Mahamatra. Culminating in the latest chase.
CW: None
The sun blazed down on you as you ran through the desert. If you didn’t know the desert as well as you did, you would’ve probably already been lost in the sands like countless other people. While you couldn’t hear footsteps just yet, you were keenly aware that you were being followed. Well, less followed and more like you were being hunted. You just didn’t know from what direction he would appear. It was always a surprise.
When you finally did hear footsteps fast approaching, you turned around and tripped. You stumbled into the sand with a mouthful of it and the burns of the grains slicing through your skin as you rolled down a small hill. You looked up with a frown and saw him sliding down, with zero issue, and a frown on his face. The one hunting you down. For a brief moment, you thought that he looked so beautiful in the sunlight.
His polearm immediately stopped at your throat. You made no effort to move. You knew how fast he was with it and you weren’t trying to test his limits today to that extreme. At least, for right now. “Found you,” he said. Shivers went down your spine due to his tone. You supposed that your more recent actions had been a problem.
“I must be lucky to receive a personal visit from the General Mahamatra himself,” you said. Faux innocence was laced in your voice. You knew why Cyno had chased you down. Feeling bored in your academic year, you had decided to start doing more elaborate things. What better way to relieve your boredom than to try and get the attention of Cyno? You smiled up at him. How much punishment would you be receiving today?
“Don’t play innocent. You know what you’ve done,” he said. You pouted at him.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” you said. It’s not like you had planned out and meticulously laid out a paper trail through various different people that would ultimately lead back to you. It seemed that your biggest project so far had finally paid off.
“You purposefully left that trail for me to find,” he said. It wasn’t a question and there was no hesitation in his words. He’d unraveled the long thread you had left for him.
“Is it so wrong to want to get your attention?” you asked. His polearm pressed a bit closer to your skin and you flinched from it slightly. You doubted that he would actually use it on you, but you were already pushing your luck. You just couldn’t help it. There was something about the way that his eyebrows furrowed when he was angry and how his eyes flashed when you so much as moved a little. You never told anyone else, but you really enjoyed riling him up. It was the only fun you had at the Akademiya. You’d received so many verbal warnings from him, threats of expulsion, and other things over rule breaking. But it was worth it to witness him in this state. You wanted to push him over the edge.
“You waste your time and most importantly, you waste mine,” he said.
“If it was such a waste of time, why did you come looking for me? Couldn’t you have sent any ol’ matra?” you asked him. Part of you, a more irrational part, believed that he did want to waste his time with you. There was truly little reason to have gotten involved in the smaller punishments you had received over time when a matra could’ve been the one to carry them out. Instead, he had always been the one to do it.
“It’s my duty,” he answered. Duty. It was always his response to everything. But that’s what you liked about him. He was dedicated. Dedicated enough to follow false leads and reach conclusions that all led back to you because he felt that he had to do it.
“What’s my punishment this time?” you asked. You tried sounding uninterested. You didn’t want to let him know how much of a rush all of this gave you.
“I’ll inform you when we get back. But it’ll include time wasted, resources wasted, forgery of documentation, and involving innocent parties in your little stunts,” he answered. “But first, are you alright? You seemed to have fallen hard.” He pulled his polearm away from you and you strangely missed the close contact.
“I think I’m fine,” you answered as you shakily got up and shook some sand off. The stinging pain of the sand that had rolled with you flooded back and the taste of sand in your mouth wasn’t pleasant. But it was worth it. He nodded as you finished swiping away at your clothes. He held out a water flask and you took it and swished water around to spit out the sand in your mouth.
“Thank you,” you said as you handed it back. You looked at him uneasily. He hadn’t specified what he would do to punish you and you weren’t sure what the Akademiya would want done in response to your actions. How far was too far?
“Are you ready?” he asked. You nodded and he turned around. He knew that you wouldn’t try to run off from him with his back turned. Though, you would be lying if you said that you hadn’t considered running away just to see what he’d do. But for now, you had decided to just quietly follow him and accept whatever punishment you got. Instead, you would just focus on what to do after the punishment. “You better not be thinking of more ways to cause problems,” he said suddenly.
You nearly stumbled again at his words. Could he read minds? “Of course not,” you nervously said. You certainly didn’t have an idea in mind.
-Trapped (Yandere!Shieda Kayn x F!Reader): Kayn has you pressed up against a wall and you can no longer keep running away from him.
-The Book and a Cocktail (Sett x Reader) [MILD NSFW]: A day at the beach, you want to finish a novel, but things keep interrupting you.
-Unwilling (Yandere!Viego x Reader): In life, your job as a dancer was overwhelmed by Viego’s desire to have you to himself. It seemed that he never wanted to let you go...
-Company (Aphelios x Reader): You bring Aphelios some food and ramble a bit. Meanwhile, he’s thinking about some things.
-Always (Akali x Reader): Before Akali sets off, the two of you share some parting words.
-Work Together (Ezreal x Reader): You’re sent to do a mission with Ezreal but things go wrong.
-Future (Yandere!Viktor x Reader): In the confines of his study, you listen to Viktor's new idea and worry about its implications.
-Favorite (Shieda Kayn x Reader): Kayn has grown sick and tired of having to protect you, Zed's child, and denies enjoying his job as a bodyguard.
-Take Care (Childe x F!Reader): (Y/N) stops Childe as he is heading to leave for Liyue because she wants to tell him something.
-Forfeit (Kaeya x AFAB! Reader) [NSFW]: You remember that you have to leave because you have things to do. Except you can’t leave unless you forfeit in the little competition between you and Kaeya.
-Poem (Kaeya x Reader): Kaeya convinces you to write a poem during the Windblume Festival. You refuse to show it to him after hearing his ‘poem’ and avoid him for the rest of the day until you were unable to.
-Confession (Kaeya x Reader): Kaeya finally tells you what you’ve been wanting to hear for a while.
-The Truth (Diluc x Reader): You have figured out that Diluc is the Darknight Hero. Now you have to confront him about it.
-Help (Xiao x Reader): You’re fighting remnants of an old god and things go wrong. Who to call?
-The Wind Leads Back to You (Kazuha x Reader): Kazuha may be far away from you, but the two of you are always connected through something in the world.
-Worry (Childe x Reader): While you mend an injury of Childe’s, he worries about the relationship the two of you have together.
-A Photograph’s Value (Albedo x Reader): Photographs could essentially freeze something in time. Even once hundreds of years pass, the image in a photograph is still the same.
-Caught (Cyno x Reader): Reader, a student in the Akademiya, has grown bored with studies and started seeking out different ways to get caught by the General Mahamatra. Culminating in the latest chase.
-Fireworks (Thoma x Reader): Thoma takes you, a Kamisato Clan member, to see the fireworks in person for the first time.
-The Feeling Is...(Raiden Ei x Reader): While watching Ei practice, you thought about how to define your feelings for her.
-Happy Day (Diluc x Reader): Diluc waits for you to return to his office with a surprise.
-Expectations (Possessive!Childe x Reader): You struggle with your job and the shadow that looms over you - your boss.
