#sorcerer!reader

[eibysi]

── ⟡ ˙ chapter: ⊹ ONE

PAIRING: S. Gojo / Reader WORD COUNT: 3,939 previous ― next ┆ series m.list

You are a Special Grade sorcerer, and you hate your own Innate Technique.

Not because it is weak.

Not because it fails you—it never does.

You hate it because it works too well.

Your technique does not discriminate. Your cursed energy does not pause to ask questions. It doesn’t care who deserves to die.

One touch—that is all it takes; your fingers brush against skin—curse or human—and life simply… stops. There's no struggle, no lingering screams that could echo in your mind, haunting you, no dramatic collapse or writhing on the ground in pain.

The thing you touch just crumbles, like a statue made of ash. Its cursed energy unravels beneath your fingertips. Bones powder. Flesh withers.

Curses implode inward, their malformed bodies folding like rotting flowers before disintegrating into black dust that scatters in the air; it smells like burnt rot, iron, wet mould.

Humans are worse, because their bodies don’t dissolve.

They succumb to gravity, their faces frozen, eyes wide, glassy, but dead—nothing behind them. Their bodies slump like puppets with their strings cut, muscles losing tension all at once.

The last emotion on their face becomes permanent.

With curses, your mind can pretend nothing happened. With humans, the evidence of your actions lingers, forcing you to see it, to torture yourself for doing something so vile as taking a human life.

Your technique is clean. Efficient. Absolutely terrifying.

Most sorcerers spend years fighting, bleeding, clawing their way through missions they might not survive.

You don’t.

You walk up. You touch. It ends.

In theory, it should make your life easier.

Special Grade missions arrive like clockwork. You complete them faster than most Grade 1 teams combined. The higher-ups praise your efficiency, but their calculating eyes watch like hawks, and you know what they really see when they look at you.

Not a person—a weapon. A weapon that leaves no mess. A weapon that can walk into a nest of Special Grade curses and come out untouched.

It wasn’t always like this.

You didn’t used to wake up thinking about every move, every little thing you did. You had life. Friends. Fun.

When you were younger, just a student training to become a sorcerer, your technique was manageable.

Dangerous, yes. But manageable.

Back then, a single touch only knocked your target unconscious; their nervous system collapsed under the surge of your cursed energy.

It made missions easy. You’d tap a curse—it would drop, and you’d finish the job with cursed tools.

Then it changed.

Innate Techniques can evolve. Everyone knows that. But yours didn’t just evolve. It mutated.

The first time it happened, the curse you touched didn’t collapse unconscious. It died. Its body convulsed for half a second before decaying into chunks of gray sludge, steaming on the ground like melting tar.

You remember staring at your shaking hands because your nails turned black.

When you got back to school, you spent hours scrubbing the color away, trying to peel it off like old nail polish. It never came off. You might have continued to ravage at your hands and nails if you hadn’t gotten chemical burns from trying every liquid that shouldn’t have touched your skin.

You trained after that. Obsessively. Hours upon hours of cursed energy control exercises. You tried everything the teachers suggested. Anything your mind could conceive, even if it was stupid or obviously impossible.

Nothing worked.

Your technique was absolute.

Once your skin makes contact with a living target, the process triggers automatically. There is no pulling back. No stopping it. No undoing it.

Then came the mission that changed everything.

It was only the second one since your technique had evolved.

It was supposed to be simple. An abandoned building crawling with low-grade curses. You moved through the halls like a ghost, bare hands brushing against grotesque limbs and twisted faces.

Each touch ended them. Each one dissolved. Quick and quiet—until one of the many doors lining the hallway opened.

A civilian, some maintenance worker who wasn’t supposed to be there.

He stumbled into the hallway clutching a toolbox, his flashlight shaking in his hand as he looked around in panic.

You turned the corner at the same moment he did. Behind him, something moved.

A curse. Massive. Its maw split open behind the man’s back.

He didn’t see it.

But you did.

You reacted on instinct.

Your hand shot forward. Your fingers wrapped around his arm to yank him back—to save him, to put him out of harm’s way. But in your misjudgment, it only put him in your way.

Your skin touched his.

You still remember the way his expression changed: confusion. Pain. Then a strange emptiness, like someone had blown out a candle behind his eyes. The light in his gaze gone.

The life drained from him so quickly that there wasn’t even time for a scream. Your cursed energy devoured everything that made him alive before you could even think to pull away.

His body hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud.

You just stood there, staring. Your hand still reaching toward him. Your fingers still warm from the contact.

After that day, something inside you broke.

You stopped trying to live like a normal person. You stopped trying to make friends. You stopped letting anyone get close enough to touch you, because you were dangerous. Because it was easier, simpler, safer to isolate yourself than to pretend you could play with fire.

You would be bound to screw up. One mistake, one second of carelessness, and someone else would die. You didn’t want more blood on your hands than you already had.

Your life became routine.

Wake up. Train. Go on a mission. Come home. Sleep.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Day after day after day.

The higher-ups stopped pretending to treat you like a student even before you graduated.

They spoke about you in quiet meetings behind closed doors. You heard the rumors anyway. They debated killing you. Some argued that your technique was too dangerous. Others argued you were too valuable to lose.

In the end, value won.

They told you to be grateful you were still alive after killing a civilian.

It didn’t matter to them that it was an accident. That you had been trying to save him. All that mattered was the result: a dead non-sorcerer, and your hands that had done it.

So you owed them obedience.

They deployed you like a Special Grade curse-extermination unit. You were sent where things were worst, where casualties were expected, where it wouldn’t matter if you ended up as one of them. Where a weapon like you could clean up the mess quickly.

And you let them treat you like that, like you were expendable. It was easier than fighting them. Easier than pretending you could have a normal life.

Sometimes you feel like a hollow shell wearing human skin.

A body that walks, a mind that moves mindlessly through routine. A voice that answers only when spoken to. A pair of hands wrapped in gloves.

Always careful. Always aware.

When you walk through crowded streets, your arms stay folded tight against your body. When someone gets too close, your stomach twists with quiet panic.

You think constantly about where your hands are. If you have gloves on. What they might touch. Who they might kill.

Power like yours should make you feel unstoppable.

Instead, it makes you feel alone.

… ... ...

You have lived and worked in Kyoto your entire life. Yet when the order came that you were being transferred to Tokyo, you didn’t question it.

You didn’t question orders anymore—not from the people who decided whether you were useful enough to keep breathing.

The message was formal and short. A relocation notice stamped by the administration of Kyoto Jujutsu High and countersigned by the elders:

Transfer to Tokyo Jujutsu High. Effective immediately.

No explanation. Not even a request for confirmation. Just an instruction printed on thick paper that you were expected to follow.

You packed that night. It took less than an hour—a detail that might have been funny if it weren’t so pathetic: your entire life fit into two bags and one cardboard box.

The train ride to Tokyo was long enough for most people to feel sentimental. You didn’t.

You watched the landscape blur past the window, expression blank, gloved hands folded neatly in your lap.

Kyoto disappeared behind you without ceremony. No goodbyes were said. No one left there to miss you. No one would probably even notice you were gone.

The transfer made sense anyway, even if no one bothered to explain it to you.

Most of your missions had been in Tokyo for the past year. Curse activity had exploded—clusters of high-grade manifestations appearing faster than they could be eliminated. The higher-ups needed their most efficient, obedient weapon closer to the problem.

Why waste hours making you travel back and forth when that same time could be spent assigning you more work?

Tokyo was louder. Bigger. Dirtier. Busier in every way.

Cursed energy seeped through the city like rot through damp wood. You felt it the moment you stepped off the train—the thick, greasy pressure of negative emotions clinging to the air: anger, fear, loneliness, resentment—all feeding the curses lurking in the shadows.

For a moment, you almost smiled. Work would never run out here.

Besides the location, nothing else has changed. Your routine stayed exactly the same—only the workload increased.

On rare free days, you trained. Alone, of course. Combat drills, endurance exercises, weapon practice—even though your technique rendered most tools irrelevant.

You trained because if you stopped moving, stopped exhausting your body until your muscles burned and your lungs ached, your mind would start wandering.

And wandering meant remembering. Remembering meant regret. Regret meant pain.

Sometimes, in rare moments of strange optimism, if you woke more rested than usual, you tried to work on your technique again.

You stood in empty training halls, staring at your hands. You tried to control the cursed energy circulating beneath your skin. Tried to imagine shutting it down, containing it—not letting it act on its own, not letting fear spread through you.

You tried to convince yourself that maybe—just maybe—you had missed something all those years ago.

Every time, the result was the same. Failure.

Despite having enough money to buy a place of your own, you moved into the dorms at Tokyo Jujutsu High, just as you had in Kyoto.

People thought it strange—a Special Grade sorcerer choosing to live in a student dormitory. But you liked the noise: quiet hallways filled with footsteps, voices echoing from common rooms, doors opening and closing, students arguing, teachers reprimanding, the faint smell of instant ramen drifting through the vents late at night.

You never joined the noise. Never stepped into the rooms where people were. Never sat with anyone during meals. Even the conversations you had were short and strictly professional: mission briefings, reports, occasional clipped responses to greetings.

You stayed at the edge of everything.

But watching people exist—hearing the messy, normal chaos of other lives—kept something inside you from completely collapsing.

Living in the dorms meant you were at least around other people. Even if you refused to touch them. Even if you never really spoke. Even if they instinctively stepped away when they noticed you approaching with a blank expression.

If you lived alone, it would be worse.

Days might pass where the only things you see are curses and your reflection in the mirror. You would go weeks without hearing another human voice. The silence would swallow you whole, eating at your mind and sanity.

So you stayed in the dorms. In the quiet margins of other people’s lives, where you could see them, but where they didn’t really pay attention to you.

You only leave campus when a mission requires it—or on the rare days when the silence of your own life becomes unbearable.

When the dorm room walls feel too close. When the air in your lungs feels heavy. When the thought of another day alone with your own thoughts makes something deep in your chest twist too tightly.

Most of the time, though, you stay.

You rarely leave the grounds of school—it’s the safest place for someone like you. Monitored. Controlled. Full of people who know exactly who you are—people who keep their distance without you having to push them away.

Outside the school walls, the world is full of fragile, soft things. Things that can die far too easily beneath your hands.

Since most days your routine never changes—training halls, mission briefings, empty courtyards after sunset when the students have already gone back inside—you know you are bound to run into Gojo Satoru, no matter how much you try to avoid him.

Like anyone even vaguely familiar with the world of sorcerers, you knew who he was long before you ever saw him in person.

The strongest sorcerer alive.

The man born with both the Six Eyes and Limitless.

A walking disaster the higher-ups simultaneously relied on and feared.

But knowing of him and actually interacting with him were two very different things.

When you lived in Kyoto, there had never been a reason for your paths to cross. Even after transferring to Tokyo, you didn’t see him much at first. He was a teacher—busy with his students, missions, politics, and whatever other chaos he liked to stir up in his free time.

Sometimes you caught glimpses of him across the courtyard.

White hair bright against the sunlight. Blindfold tight around his eyes. His tall frame slouched lazily against a railing while he talked.

Sometimes you heard his voice.

More than once he spent an early morning knocking on Kugisaki’s door—who happened to live on the same dorm floor as you—because she had overslept.

Your plan for dealing with him was simple: ignore him like everyone else, and hopefully he would do the same.

That plan lasted about a week because being the new Special Grade on campus meant attention, whether you wanted it or not.

Students whispered when you passed. Other sorcerers watched your gloved hands with thinly veiled curiosity.

Some looked afraid.

Others looked impressed.

Most just stared.

You were used to that.

Curiosity was easy to ignore.

What you weren’t prepared for was Gojo’s curiosity. Unlike everyone else, he didn’t just watch. He dared to approach you.

At first, it was subtle.

You’d be crossing the courtyard and suddenly he would appear beside you.

“Morning.”

That was it, Just a casual greeting. Then he would walk away before you could respond.

The first time you thought it was a coincidence, maybe he mistook you for someone else. The second time, you were suspicious. By the fifth time, it was clear he was doing it on purpose.

He treated you the way someone might approach a feral animal: slowly and patiently, testing boundaries.

He would stop you in passing to greet you. Never forcing a conversation you clearly didn’t want to have. Never lingering long enough to make you uncomfortable.

Just a small, polite acknowledgment of your existence.

Then he would leave.

Again.

And again.

And again.

In the beginning, you ignored him completely, but Gojo was annoyingly persistent, and, eventually, you realised something: the moment you responded—even with something as small as a quiet “hi”—he would leave you alone for the rest of the day.

So you started doing exactly that.

Offering him a single word.

You never stopped walking. You rarely looked at him. Your mouth would open just enough to answer.

He would hum in satisfaction, grin at you, and disappear.

It felt less like casual, passing conversation and more like he was training you to tolerate his presence.

... ... ...

The first real conversation you have with him happens near the cursed tool storage shed.

You’ve borrowed a few weapons earlier for training, and now you’re returning them. The morning air is cool, the gravel path quiet beneath your steps.

Halfway down the path, Gojo appears as if he’s been there the whole time and simply chose the moment to become visible.

He falls into step beside you.

You don’t look at him.

By now you’ve learned that acknowledging him too much only encourages him.

But this time, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he watches you with that unsettling focus of his. Even with the sunglasses hiding his eyes, you feel it; it makes you feel like you're standing under a spotlight.

“You know,” he says, voice light, hands tucked lazily into his pockets, “I’ve been wondering something.”

You don’t respond.

The door to the tool shed creaks as you push it open and step inside. The smell of oil, rust, and old cursed energy fills the small room.

“What?”

Gojo leans against the doorway.

He isn’t wearing his uniform today—just dark jeans and a loose shirt, sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

He probably has a day off, which explains why he’s using the morning to bother you.

“You think your technique would work on me?”

Of all the things you expect him to ask, that isn’t one of them.

“I don’t see why not,” you say, sliding the blade into place. “If you lowered Infinity, that is. It requires skin-to-skin contact.”

Most people react the same way after hearing that: they immediately step back. Their bodies instinctively put distance between you and them, because the horrifying realization always lands the same way.

You could kill them by accident.

Something as simple as holding hands would be lethal.

Gojo doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Only someone like him could hear a statement like you will die and treat it as a challenge, rather than a threat.

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “I know that.”

You turn to face him fully now, though you don’t move toward the door he’s blocking.

He pushes his sunglasses up, revealing a glimpse of bright blue behind the lenses. His expression is too amused, his grin too sharp for your liking.

“But what if I leave Infinity on?” he continues. “Technically, you wouldn’t be able to touch me at all.”

You stare at him for a moment. Then you nod once.

“Yes.”

You don’t elaborate. You don’t argue. You already know where this conversation is heading, and you absolutely are not going to participate in whatever stupid experiment he’s clearly imagining.

Gojo tilts his head, studying you carefully, his gaze pinning you to the floor.

“You’re not curious?” he asks.

“No.”

You definitely are not going to consent to testing that theory.

Because what if it fails?

What if you actually kill him?

It would be kind of funny, in a twisted way, but you are not ready to be sentenced to death—no matter how little you value your own life—just because an overgrown idiot decided to gamble with his.

“Find someone else to gamble with,” you say, hoping he’ll drop it and leave you alone.

To your surprise, he steps aside.

“Wow,” Gojo sighs. “You’re no fun.”

He shifts out of the doorway, leaving the exit clear.

For a second, you just stare at him—suspicious, waiting for the catch. He only waves you off lazily, like he’s already lost interest.

You don’t wait for him to change his mind.

You step outside immediately, warm sunlight hitting your face.

You take one step. Two. You don’t get to take a third.

Suddenly fingers clamp around your wrist like a vice. The grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough to stop you cold.

Your entire body jolts as if someone dumped a bucket of ice water straight down your spine.

You twist around instantly, eyes wide.

You haven’t felt fear in a long time. Your emotions have been dulled for years now—like the edge of a knife worn smooth from too much use. But suddenly that dull blade sharpens.

Fear floods your chest, spreading outward in a hot, suffocating wave—someone is touching you.

Your body tenses, muscles coiling tight. Your free hand curls into a fist as your gaze snaps down to your wrist, then back up.

“Let me go, Gojo,” you hiss.

Your voice comes out low and sharp enough that most people would step back.

He doesn’t.

“No.”

His thumb slides slowly along the inside of your wrist in a lazy stroke, deliberate enough that you feel every millimeter.

Your stomach drops.

“Come on,” he drawls, giving your arm a small tug as if trying to pull you closer. “Relax.”

You don’t.

Your shoulders lock even tighter.

“Just one itty-bitty little touch.”

“I’m serious,” you snap.

Your composure is already cracking, and you hate that he can see it.

“This isn’t a joke.”

“I won’t be mad if you off me,” he grins, teeth flashing like he isn’t asking something completely insane, like he isn’t casually inviting you to kill the strongest sorcerer alive.

When he still refuses to let go, panic spikes hard in your chest.

You yank your arm back with all your strength.

Your body thrashes, twisting your shoulder, trying to rip your wrist free—but Gojo’s grip doesn’t budge—the movement pulls your muscles painfully tight, a sharp ache shooting up your arm.

You’re in full panic now.

Heart hammering.

Breathing too fast.

You try to get away while also keeping track of your limbs, terrified that in the chaos, you might accidentally touch him somewhere.

You don’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s too late.

Your glove slips off.

You feel it before you see it—the cool wind brushing against your bare skin.

Your head jerks down.

The black sheen of your fingernails glints faintly in the sunlight.

Then Gojo flips your hand over.

His index finger presses into the center of your palm. Your skin dents around it as he drags the finger upward until it reaches the tip of your index finger.

Your chest locks so tightly it feels like your body forgets how to breathe. Air burns in your lungs. Your vision blurs.

You’re too emotionally distressed to notice something strange.

You don’t actually feel his skin.

There’s no warmth. Only a cool, distant sensation—like holding your hand just above the surface of water, feeling the movement without ever getting wet.

“Hmm,” Gojo hums.

He pulls his finger back, waiting a few seconds. Nothing happens. So he presses his palm against yours.

Flat.

Full contact.

His hand is larger than yours, engulfing your palm as he threads his fingers between yours, forcing your fingertips to graze him at multiple points.

Your knees nearly give out. The world tilts violently. Black spots flicker at the edges of your vision.

If his other hand wasn’t still wrapped around your wrist, grounding you, you’re fairly certain you would collapse right there.

Because this is wrong.

Everything about this is wrong.

Someone is touching you.

And they are still alive.

You stare down at your joined hands, as your mind refuses to process the image.

Gojo’s palm resting against yours. His long fingers stretching across your smaller hand. Your black nails stark against his pale skin. Except… not quite because there is still that invisible barrier between you.

You can feel it now if you focus—a thin, endless space.

The sight feels surreal and foreign. It’s like watching someone else’s memory.

You honestly can’t remember the last time another person touched you. Years, probably. Maybe longer.

The image feels wrong in a way you can’t fully explain: your hand. someone else’s hand. fingers intertwined.

“See,” Gojo says, voice softer now, quieter than before. “Not even a Special Grade sorcerer like you can kill me that easily.”

[aventurineswife]

In keeping with Amphoreus’s classical mythology vibes: can we get headcanons for Dan Heng, Phainon, and Castorice with a sorcerer/sorceress!Reader? Like, in general, Reader is a reasonable person, incredibly pleasant and hospitable, even — but if someone was dumb enough to seriously piss them off, Reader might just turn them into a guinea pig or a sprig of mint (like that one time some snobby researcher from the Garden of Life insulted them, and got turned into a dandelion for it). 💀

The Art of Restraint

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Castorice x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Sorcerer!Reader, Humor, Magic/Spellcasting, Fluff, Angst (light), Power Dynamics, Camaraderie, Lighthearted Revenge.

Warnings: Mild Violence (Transforming people into inanimate objects or plants, though it’s more comedic than harmful), Mild Dark Humor, Mentions of Death, Mild Mentions of Abuse/Insulting Behavior, Mild Language, Complex Power Dynamics.

Dan Heng is cautious by nature, and when he first meets you, he keeps a respectful distance. He’s heard stories of sorcerers and their power, and while he’s not afraid, he’s certainly wary. But after traveling with you for some time, he realizes you’re one of the most level-headed and kind people he’s ever met.

He admires your intellect and meticulous approach to magic. You remind him of a scholar more than a mystic—studious, analytical, and measured. He often listens in quiet fascination when you talk about the ancient laws of sorcery, the flow of energies, or the myths behind different spells.

He once made an offhand comment about disliking mint tea, and you, ever the playful one, asked if he had some deep-seated trauma involving an unfortunate sorcerer’s wrath. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer, which only made you more curious.

The first time he saw you turn someone into a plant, he nearly dropped his spear. Some overly arrogant researcher from the Garden of Life had been sneering at you, calling your magic "a parlor trick compared to true botanical science." With a serene smile, you flicked your fingers—and poof, he was a dandelion.

Dan Heng sighed. "Was that really necessary?" he asked, though there was no real judgment in his tone.

"He’ll turn back in a few hours," you assured him. "And maybe he’ll be a little more polite next time."

Over time, Dan Heng grows to trust you deeply. He appreciates your sense of justice—you never use your powers recklessly, only when absolutely necessary (or when someone’s behavior is so insufferable that even he considers it justified).

If you ever tease him about turning him into a dragon/reptile so he can match his past self, he just gives you a flat look. You swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

He’s not much for words, but he does find subtle ways to express his affection—bringing you rare books on ancient magical traditions, making sure you have the finest quality ink and parchment for your spellwork, and standing silently by your side whenever you need backup.

If he ever did get truly angry at someone for harming you, he wouldn’t hesitate to strike. But he’s also completely at peace knowing that, if it came down to it, you could handle things yourself… possibly by turning the threat into a rather unfortunate beetle.

Phainon is delighted to meet you. He has nothing but admiration for sorcerers and scholars, and he finds your magic incredibly cool.

"Oh, you’re a sorcerer? That’s amazing! I’ve read about the ancient schools of magic from Aedes Elysiae, but I’ve never actually worked alongside one before!" He asks about your magic constantly, eager to learn about everything from incantations to alchemical concoctions.

Unlike others who might be wary of your abilities, Phainon has no fear whatsoever. If anything, he enjoys watching you cast spells. He thinks magic is an art, and you are its finest artist.

The first time he sees you turn someone into a plant, he bursts into laughter. Some arrogant noble had insulted you, sneering about "uncivilized sorcery" while flaunting their wealth. You smiled, whispered an incantation, and in an instant—poof. A rather unimpressive sprig of thyme now occupied the noble’s seat.

"You turned them into a herb?" Phainon wheezed. "That’s incredible. Oh, please tell me this is reversible."

"Of course," you chuckled. "Eventually."

Phainon has an endless sense of humor about your power. If someone annoys him, he’ll dramatically throw himself at your feet and beg, "Please, my dearest sorcerer, make them a turnip. I implore you."

You have to remind him that, no, you’re not going to hex every person who mildly inconveniences him.

That said, when things get serious, Phainon deeply respects your power. He knows that magic like yours isn’t just about showmanship—it’s about wisdom, responsibility, and the will to protect. If you ever lose control or doubt yourself, he’s there to remind you of your strength and purpose.

If he ever sees someone trying to intimidate or harm you, his usual cheerful demeanor vanishes. He stands at your side, hand on his claymore, exuding an unshakable confidence that tells your enemies they’re severely outmatched.

He likes to joke that if you ever got tired of vanquishing Titans, you could make a fortune turning criminals into decorative houseplants. "Imagine it: ‘Sorcerer’s Justice—Transformations While You Wait!’ It’d be a hit."

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but laugh.

Castorice is fascinated by you. As someone who communes with death and the divine, she sees sorcery as a sibling discipline to her own craft. Magic, after all, is just another means of understanding the mysteries of the world.

She appreciates your sense of reason and restraint—after all, power must be wielded wisely. When she sees how pleasant and diplomatic you are, she feels a kinship with you; like her, you possess strength but do not flaunt it.

The first time she witnesses you turn someone into a dandelion, she simply hums in approval. "A fitting fate," she murmurs. "There are worse things than being scattered by the wind."

Unlike Phainon, who finds your transformations hilarious, Castorice finds them poetic. She even starts a collection of pressed flowers and leaves from the unfortunate souls who cross you. ("This one was particularly rude," she muses, tucking a preserved violet into her journal.)

Despite her quiet, ethereal nature, she enjoys your company. The two of you often spend time in silence, working side by side—she preparing rites and funerary charms, you transcribing spells and crafting new incantations.

You’re one of the few people who can read her moods easily. While others find her difficult to read, you notice the subtle shifts in her aura, the tiny hesitations in her voice.

She’s endlessly intrigued by your magic. "The gods gifted you with power," she says one evening, her lavender eyes watching you closely. "Do you ever wonder what price they will demand in return?"

If anyone threatens you, Castorice is merciless. Not in the way Phainon or Dan Heng would be—she doesn’t shout or draw her weapon. Instead, she steps forward with the eerie grace of a specter, her scythe glinting under the moonlight. "You should leave," she whispers, voice like a funeral prayer. "Before they decide what to do with you."

She never asks you to use your powers for petty revenge, but if she ever sees you hesitate to defend yourself, she will remind you in no uncertain terms: "Your power is not a crime. Do not let the unworthy make you feel otherwise."

Over time, the two of you develop a quiet but profound bond—two people standing between the mortal and the divine, wielding power with wisdom, bound by an unspoken understanding.

[kenzenwrites]

The Void Curse One Shot

Hey ya'll i wrote this instead of doing homework. It's honestly just straight up Sukuna thirst. fem!reader x Sukuna. It's a oneshot from a story I'm making and I don't know if I'll ever post the whole thing tbh. Anyway, Sukuna and you are teaming up to fight a big baddie and basically you're a bada** sorcerer who doesn't take sh*t from anyone, even him. So slay. I kinda plop you in the thick of things. you can use temporal manipulation as your technique, so you're basically a time wizard.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only, references to past arguments, sparring, OOC Sukuna, major possessiveness, dacryphilia, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), p in v, marathon sex, mating press, fingering (f receiving), slight handjob, doggy style, prone bone, a lot of similes.

Let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 9,107

You and Sukuna didn’t speak the rest of the morning. The bunker wore your combined silence like a bruise.

By noon, you had sorted the black char of the bathhouse into notes and diagrams, pinned a threadbare map to the wall, and brewed tea strong enough to solder a spine. Sukuna haunted the edges of the rooms, a storm testing doors, never quite crossing a threshold. He hadn’t knocked on your bedroom door. He hadn’t left. Both were admissions.

When the kettle clicked, you set a cup on the table without looking at him. “If you want me to stop ‘tearing time open,’” you said, the quote a precise cut, “then you should learn what it takes to keep from snapping it. Training. My domain.”

His eyes slivered. A scoff curled at his mouth, familiar armor, still dented. “You want to teach me,” he said, like the words themselves were provocation. “In your house.” He didn’t mean the bunker.

“On neutral ground,” you corrected. “Where I can set guardrails. Where you can… see.”

“See what?” He wanted you to say it. Me. Want me. Choose me.

“How it feels,” you said, “when I hold a moment still so you can cut through the right one.”

A pause. Enough for the room to notice the kind of mercy embedded in the phrase hold a moment still for you.

He took the tea and didn’t drink it. “And if I break your guardrails?”

“Then you’ll learn why I have them.” Your gaze lifted and met him. No tremor. Only the calm you wore like a blade, honed by the fight you two shared in last night, not dulled. “But not here.” You nodded to the floor, meaning the bunker, the thin walls, the listening ears of students. “There.”

His pulse thumped against his tongue. He set the cup down without tasting it. “Open it.”

You inhaled, exhaled, and then… did.

The domain bloomed around you both like a room remembering itself. The bunker fell away in folds, paper screens of reality sliding back, until the space brightened into a white-edged dusk, a spacious hall with no visible walls. The floor was smooth, dark, reflective; lights hung like distant stars at shoulder height, each one pulsing faintly, suspended in place. When they moved, the stars trembled, and the reflections beneath their feet showed not quite what was happening, but what could happen a second from now, a second ago: ghosts of motion, shimmering extras.

“Welcome,” you said, voice steady but softer in here, as if the air were tuned to it. “Ground rules.”

Sukuna watched his breath fog briefly, then vanish. The room had temperature without cold, heat without burn. “Rules,” he echoed, amusement low. He rolled his shoulders, the ink across them flexing like a threat.

“One,” you said, holding up a finger. “No lethal intent. If you aim to kill, the domain will lock. We’ll be statues until it decides we’ve learned our lesson.”

“Threat or promise?” He tilted his head; the extra eyes blinked slowly.

“Two,” you continued. “No domains within domains.”

He made a small, disappointing sound.

“Three,” you said, and the star-lights sharpened. “You listen when I say stop.”

That was the one that set his pulse off-pattern. He took a step closer without meaning to. “And if I don’t?”

Your gaze didn’t move off his face. “Then the room will.”

They stood inside each other’s gravity, the suspended lights quivering like heartbeats on strings. He could smell the tea still. He could hear the shape of your breath. The dream flickered across his mouth like a curse he couldn’t speak aloud.

“Show me, then,” he said, voice roughened by too many answers he refused to give. “Teach me your tricks.”

You didn’t say they’re not tricks. You lifted your hand, fingers splayed, and the nearest five lights dimmed and brightened in sequence. “These are pivots,” you said. “They are pausing points I can push against. If I choose one-” you reached toward a light, and it steadied under your palm “-we stand in that second as long as I can hold it.”

“For how long,” he asked, circling you, “before it costs you.”

You didn’t look at him to answer; you watched the light. “Longer than before. Less than you’d believe.”

He smiled without humor. “I believe I hate it.”

“Then you’ll learn to hate it usefully.”

He moved first, because of course he did, closing the distance, testing the floor with a long, uncoiling stride. The domain accepted his weight, the reflection under him lagging half a heartbeat as if the glass wanted to warn future-him he was coming. You slid to meet him, no flinch, hands empty. The first exchange was simple: a feinted strike from him (a hand, not claws), a sidestep from you, small enough to be rude. His fingers brushed your sleeves, caught nothing.

“Again,” you said.

He obliged. Faster now. A real reach, he swept a hand for your wrist, the other for your shoulder, to lock and pivot. You let him have the shoulder, twisted under the wrist, set your palm lightly to his sternum and pressed. Not strength. Placement. The pressure of a second made denser.

The star to their left brightened; the room tightened, held, and his momentum bled off like water through cloth.

He snarled, exhilarated despite himself. “You’re cheating.”

“I’m teaching you not to waste force on the wrong second.”

He changed angles, impatient; you shifted; the air held, released, clutched again as you touched a light without looking at it. It was like sparring on a staircase only you could see, every step a chosen moment. His instincts, trained on size, speed, ruthlessness, pressed, adapted, pressed harder. He found himself grinning with his teeth. He found himself hating that he liked the shape of your control.

“Again,” you said, and he heard the heat under it now, the carryover from the night before, that thin place where discipline had burned away.

He surged. You pivoted. Both of you collided.

Not clean, not pretty, but real, which meant elbows and breath and the swearing intimacy of two people who’d run out of polite distance. He caught your forearm; you caught his wrist; you both locked and turned and he used his weight without mercy. You slid with it, bent, and then stopped it- pinned a second under his feet until his balance lied to him. He recovered with a laugh that had too much want in it.

“Stop liking it,” he growled at himself.

“Stop pretending you don’t,” you shot back, and only when the words left your mouth did you realize you’d said them aloud.

You both froze for a sliver of a second- not because the rule demanded it, but because truth had just put a hand on the back of your necks.

Sukuna moved first, because he would rather hit a wall than stand still inside that touch. He feinted high, went low, caught the back of your knee and swept. You went down with controlled grace, rolled, and he followed, not giving you space, like tide on a rock. Your palm flashed to a star; time thickened; his hand hit the floor an inch from your shoulder with a thud that should have cracked stone and didn’t.

He hovered over you on one hand, the other braced, the angle of his body a cage without pressure. His hair fell forward, beckoning a hand to brush it away from his forehead. The ink at his jaw looked darker here, as if the room liked him marked.

“Yield,” he said, hoarse.

“No,” you said, breath steady, eyes brighter. Your hand slid off the star; the room’s hold loosened. “Stop asking for words you haven’t earned.”

He smiled like a sinner at a sermon.

He shifted his weight to pin your wrist- not pain, not even force, just an undeniable geometry that said I could. You flexed against it, testing; he felt the tremor in your forearm and hated that it turned into heat in his throat. He lowered himself half an inch, enough that the breath between you had to choose whose mouth it belonged to.

“This is where you fold,” he murmured. Command and confession.

“This is where you listen,” you said, and pulled- not time, not yet: his attention. The light over his shoulder brightened. The reflection under them showed a possible version of the next second where you shoved him hard enough to break the moment.

He laughed under his breath. “Do it.”

You did.

The second shattered like glass. He rocked; you rolled; you came up in the same beat, facing, closer than before. His hand found your hip, palm spanning heat and fabric; your fingers took his wrist and then his jaw, pushing his face away even as you stepped into him. The star-lights pulsed in a stupid, honest rhythm- two quick, one long- as if the room had decided it would like to be a heart.

“Again,” he rasped.

“Again,” you said, and it wasn’t about sparring anymore and both of you knew it.

You both circled, not stepping back so much as giving the room time to keep up. He lunged; you cut; he trapped; you slipped; he pressed you into a column that hadn’t been there a breath ago, forearm braced beside your head, his body a wall. The column vibrated like a tuning fork struck by a name he hadn’t said aloud.

“Say it,” he demanded, low, ruined. “Say you’re mine.”

“Not yet,” you breathed- exactly as in the dream, and he rocked like the world had decided to conduct current through his bones.

He dropped his head, mouth near your ear, heat threatening to turn the rule about no domains into a dare. “I hate your rules,” he said. “I hate your not yet.”

“Then fight me for the yes,” you said, and shoved off the column and into him so hard your chests slammed. His breath left on a sound he didn’t let become a groan.

He crashed you to the floor because there was nowhere else to put what was happening. The domain softened the impact, greedy for their noise. You tried to twist out; he caught your thigh; you caught his shoulder; he pinned your wrists one-handed and you- stopped. Not because you couldn’t break it- you could- but because the stopping itself said I choose this more loudly than any yes he could force.

He went very, very still.

It scared him, that stillness. He looked down and didn’t disguise how he was looking. Your hair had fallen over your cheek; soot still marked a line at your temple from the bathhouse. You should have looked wrecked. You looked like a decision.

“Last night,” he said, the words rough, unwilling, true, “wasn’t fiction.”

Your heartbeat tripped against his wrist. “I know.”

“I wanted to kill you this morning,” he said, and his mouth twitched like it was smiling at a private sin. “Because I couldn’t.”

“I yelled at you,” you said, a smaller sin, said like a larger one. “Because I didn’t know how else to-” you cut it off, shook your head, swallowed.

He leaned closer until your mouths were a breath apart. “You want to keep yelling,” he asked, “or do you want me to shut you up and be useful for once.”

Your laugh was a single, shocked exhale.

He didn’t wait for your response. Instead, he kissed you.

Not polite, real. The kind of kiss that takes a fight by the throat and teaches it a different rhythm. His mouth hit yours sure, hot, his hand leaving your wrist to frame your jaw because the angle mattered, because seeing your eyes close while he took your mouth mattered. You made a sound, small, involuntary, that went through his spine like a blade dipped in lightning. He groaned into you, pressed down until the room’s lights trembled like glassware on a table in a passing train.

Your hands were free; you put them on his face and then in his hair and then at his shoulders, pulling, not patient. He chased everything you asked for without letting you ask twice. He kissed like a man who had always preferred violence because it was easier than pleading and had just learned that begging could be done with lips and tongue and heat without ever saying please.

He tore his mouth away a fraction. “Say my name.”

You did. It tasted better here than in the dream, because this room had gravity and consequences. He took your mouth again, deeper, rougher, until there was nothing left of the fight in it but strength.

“Look at me,” he ordered between kisses, because he needed your eyes on his hunger like he needed the sound of your breath.

You did. “You’re infuriating,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Say you’re mine,” he demanded, already moving to your jaw, your throat, the place where he’d almost bitten in the red room.

“Not yet,” you said- barely. “Show me.”

He swore softly, low, pleased, furious. “I’ll show you,” he promised, and pushed your wrists above your head again- gentle, checked, then firmer when you nodded. His other hand slid down, learning, asking, taking- all of it within the careful law of your domain, all of it with enough roughness to be his and enough consent to be theirs.

The lights drew closer as if the room wanted to see. Reflections below them lagged: one second behind, one ahead, their shadows kissing before their mouths did, their bodies already arching where their real selves were just beginning to move.

He huffed a laugh into your throat and kissed the spot like he was staking the claim, then returned to your mouth to negotiate terms. The negotiation looked, sounded, felt like heat- and the kind of surrender that doesn’t bow so much as choose to stop bracing.

“You’re not a weapon,” he ground out between kisses, new truth scalding. “You’re-”

“Don’t name it,” you warned, breathless. “Show it.”

He did. The spar dissolved into a press of bodies, into the slide of palms and the thunk of a shoulder meeting the floor, into small bitten-off noises and half-laughed insults that both of you understood as the opposite. When he lifted his head, you pulled him back down. When you arched, he matched. The domain warmed around you as if the temperature were a vote.

Somewhere in it, he went quiet with words and loud with breath. Somewhere in it, you let the last of not yet drop away in the way your hands stopped testing and started taking.

He broke for air, forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, grinning a little like fools who’d outrun something with teeth.

“Training,” he said, and the word was almost tender, which made him scowl to balance it. “We’re terrible at it.”

You smiled in a way that made his chest feel like it had been rebuilt without permission. “Then we’ll keep practicing.”

“Say it,” he tried, out of habit.

“Soon,” you said- and then you didn’t let him ask again; you pulled him into another kiss that made soon feel like a rope you’d tied around his ribs.

He rolled with you, put his back to the floor and dragged you over him, hands braced on your hips like a man finally admitting he intended to live. The lights dipped low, gathering them into a smaller world.

You kissed him harder, and the domain’s stars went steady, as if this were the second you had both decided to stay in.

The rest was heat, and closeness, and the kind of care that looks like possession because it refuses to let go. Your jacket began to melt into piles of fabric, torn from his eagerness. His hands gentled when you guided them. Yours tightened when he growled into your throat, both of you paused, breathing one breath, when want threatened to outrun the rules, and then moved together through the opening you’d made.

When you tipped from sparring into something unabashedly not, he didn’t ask again. He showed. And when you answered, it wasn’t with a word but with the press of your mouth and the exacting, generous way you let him hold every second without breaking it.

The domain dimmed to the pulse you both created.

-*-

You were already past the point of no return. The domain felt it and drew the lights in, a loose constellation tightening around you as if the room wanted to learn the rhythm of your bodies. The floor kept your weight like a promise. Your reflections caught up, then lagged again, as if the glass wanted to watch twice.

Sukuna’s mouth was on yours from the first breath- hot, claiming, sure. You answered like a match dragged across stone, striking again and again until the air between you burned. He swallowed the small sound you made and chased it with another kiss, rougher, a line he kept crossing and remapping because the shape of your consent was a thing he wanted to memorize by feel.

“Look at me,” he rasped against your lips. His hand slid to your jaw, thumb catching the hinge where your pulse beat sweet nothings, just for him. Only for him. “Eyes on me.”

You gave him what he asked for. The steady, fearless gaze that undid him more than anything else.

His voice, a low menacing omen in any other situation, dragged over gravel. “Watch me.”

His hands traveled- jaw to throat to shoulder- mapping with intent. He did not paw; he placed each touch like a claim he fully intended to defend. Fingers spread at the base of your throat, felt the jump there, slid lower to the edge of the fabric of your shirt and tugged, testing. Your breath pitched. You didn’t stop him, so he kept going, palms flattening over warm skin, heat meeting heat, the rough scratch of his calluses turning into the kind of friction that made you arch because you wanted more of exactly that.

“Here,” he said, discovering a hard nipple beneath his fingers that made you exhale on a broken thread. He pressed his mouth there, over the thin material, wetting it quickly, and felt your hand come into his hair, fingers tightening with a quiet, devastating trust.

He made a low sound that wasn’t a word. His second set of eyes slid half-closed; the first pair burned.

He pulled back a fraction to look at you properly. Soot still haunted one cheek; the line of your mouth was swollen from his attention; your hair had come loose around your face in a way that made something obscene and tender tangle in his chest. “Mine,” he said, softer now, like a vow he was sick of resisting. “Mine.”

Your answer was to lift his shirt. No hesitation. Fingers at the hem, palms skimming up, learning him: the heat, the hard plane of his stomach, the slow tug of breath under your hands as you pushed the fabric higher. He raised his arms and let you take it off like you were stripping off armor he pretended he didn’t need. The tattoos across his chest and shoulders caught the domain’s light; the room seemed to approve, drawing nearer, warmth blooming as if recognizing a design it liked.

Your hands returned to bare skin. He hissed when your fingers curled at his sides, blunt nails dragging lightly; it was such a small thing, it made him dizzy with want. You leaned in and put your mouth to his throat, and he had to shut his eyes for a heartbeat, or he would’ve begged for more.

“You taste like earth,” you murmured there, lips brushing the pulse that had sprinted since the bathhouse. “You taste so good.”

He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped- raw, aroused, feral. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You’ll live,” you said, and bit him lightly because you could, and because the way his breath tore on a grunt when you did was something you wanted to hear again and again.

He took the hint. His mouth found the line of your jaw, the corner of your lips, the place just below your ear where your composure thinned. He kissed like a man who had decided to stay alive for something. His hands slid lower, found the shape of your waist, the curve of your hips, the heat where the fabric of your pants began was becoming an obstacle. He palmed you there through clothes first, pressing, testing pressure. The way you tipped toward him was a better answer than any yes.

“Tell me if I overstep,” he said, rough with wanting and restraint.

“You’ll know,” you said, and guided one of his hands under the hem of your shirt.

Skin. Heat. His breath hitched like he’d been struck. He looked at you once, a question that had never passed his mouth before. You nodded, and he swallowed it like the first drop of water after days of thirst. His palm slid up over your stomach, the flex and give of living muscle under his hand making him half-drunk. He mapped higher, slower, learning what made you inhale sharply and what made you sigh, lingering where your body asked him to linger.

“Good,” he said into your throat, voice gone hoarse and warm with praise. “Good girl.” He felt you shiver and smiled against your skin, pleased and possessive in equal measure. “You like that.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you managed, and he laughed into your collarbone like a man who’d just found a door he didn’t intend to let close.

He took his time with your mouth again, because the sound you made when he kissed you deeply might have been the thing he wanted most in the world. His hands traveled greedy routes- under your shirt, cupping your breasts, around to the small of your back. He gathered the fabric and pushed it up, and when you lifted your arms to help him, he felt the tiny tremor in your biceps from holding back and almost groaned at the trust implied in that small admission. He took the shirt off and tossed it somewhere the domain would keep safe and returned to you like a tide returning to the shore.

“Mine,” he said again, lower, more certain, mouth moving down to taste the new skin he’d bared. He kissed slow, learning with his tongue and the edge of his teeth where you were softest, where you gasped, where you whispered his name like it was something you were deciding to keep. His mouth, his tongue, his lips on you felt like dying and going to heaven.

He began to suckle at your breast, his left hand coming up to cup the other tightly, not wanting to miss out on the delectable treat in front of him. Saliva began to pool and drip, his mouth popped off, leaving a wet, raised, pink nipple behind. He groaned and quickly moved to the other side.

“You taste good, too,” he offered, his voice laced with addiction. “Like plum blossoms.”

“Sukuna,” you breathed, and added, quieter, “yes.”

He stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he made a sound that might have been a thank you spoken in a language too old for the room to translate, and his hands slid lower.

He didn’t rush. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He traced the line of your hip with his thumb, drew circles that became a rhythm, then shifted his weight and let his mouth and teeth occupy you while his hand slipped beneath the waist of your pants. Heat met his palm in a way that made his control lurch. He clenched his jaw and watched your face while he explored- light touches at first, barely-there passes that had you chasing him without moving, then firmer, more exact. He stayed just this side of too much because he liked the way your breath broke when he found the line between the two.

“Look at me,” he said again, because he wanted your eyes when he did this. You gave them. He watched them go wide as he ran the tip of his fingers through your slick, watched the moment your body arched into his hand, watched you bite back a sound and then let it out, watched you choose not to be silent as the thick digit of his middle finger slipped into you, his index finger rubbing firm circles over your wet clit.

“Mine,” he growled. “Now say what you want.”

“You,” you said, shameless when it mattered. “More.”

His smile went wicked and grateful at once. “That’s right.” He obeyed, adjusting pressure and pace until the shape of your sounds told him he’d found the path he wanted them both on. He kissed you again because he couldn’t not, because he wanted to taste the sound while he pulled it out of you, because he wanted to be the air you used to say his name as a second finger entered you alongside the first.

Your hands were not idle. Somewhere in the heat, you had dragged him closer, exploring him with the kind of deliberate curiosity that made his sanity untrustworthy. You pushed your hand under the waistband of his pants, fingers hot against his skin, palming his thick, hard length. He swore, low and helpless, and the room pulsed like it approved. You stroked slowly, testing how he broke, and he let you, because the control he’d kept like a knife was turning into something else in your hands- willingness.

He was hard and throbbing in your grip. You didn’t want to reason through the logistics of fitting him inside you, but you clenched anyway at the thought. A slow stream of precum was greeting the slide of your hand, making it slicker, hotter.

“Careful,” he warned, voice shredded by pleasure. “Any more of that and I’m not responsible for my actions.”

“Good,” you said, and the pleased cruelty in it made him kiss you with his teeth.

He recovered, because his pride demanded he do more than come apart in your grip immediately. He pinned your wrists with a hand behind your back, gently, a question. You rolled your wrists once, then stilled, not because you had to but because you liked what it did to his breath to feel you hold still under his hand.

He bent to your throat and spoke there. “I’m going to take this slow,” he said. It was both a promise and a threat. “And then I’m not.”

“Yes,” you whispered, the sound melting into a gasp when his mouth moved lower and his hand returned to its work with more focus. He drew patterns on your skin with his lips and tongue, let his teeth mark gently and then soothe, praised you under his breath in broken little fragments he might have been ashamed of anywhere but here. “That’s it. Good. Give it to me.” He didn’t mean to surrender. He meant the sound. He meant your truth. He meant the way your body moves for me when you stop arguing with yourself.

Your mouth found his jaw again, nibbling and tipping his face up. You kissed him hard, and the way you started to move against his hand- seeking, confident- made his restraint vibrate with strain.

He freed one of your wrists and dragged your hand down his chest, across his stomach, lower- guiding you to hold him the way you liked being held. When you did, he swore again, and his head fell backward. “Yes,” he said, breathless, undone. “Like that.”

The domain made itself smaller around you: the lights sank toward the floor; the reflective surface dimmed to a warm gloss that threw back only heat and motion. It was as if the room wanted to put its hands over your shoulders and listen with its whole body.

With a final groan into your mouth, your remaining clothes began to disappear. Fabric gathered in his hands and was slid off. He bared skin until you didn’t have any clothing left to hide behind and covered as much of it as possible with his mouth and hands. You did the same, unmaking him with efficient touches and patience that had finally decided to burn.

He put his palm flat over your heart as he pulled you underneath him and felt it thrum against his skin. It was obscene and holy, and it was the first time he’d understood that obedience could be a kind of worship without weakness in it. His hand over your heart spread to hold you down, as his other hand travelled down your thigh, pulling your leg up at the knee to open for him.

“Tell me when you cum,” he said, lost and found in the same breath. “Tell me when.”

“Yes,” you promised, and tried to tug his mouth back to yours like a tether. But he refused to come. Instead, his mouth travelled down, down, down, a trail of fire as his tongue licked a trail to your slick pussy. The first kiss was immediately followed by a groan as he lapped at your clit. And that’s when he decided he didn’t need air anymore. All he needed was your taste on his tongue.

His tongue flattened and licked you, starting at the base of your hole, coming up until he reached the top of your clit, like licking melted ice cream off a cone. Another moan as he settled in to devour what he considered his now.

Your voice had left you. Gone were any inhibitions you had as Sukuna worshipped you with fervor, bringing his hand back to your opening and driving two thick fingers back into you, curling up to hit a sweet spot you’ve never been able to reach on your own. He mercilessly denied you any reprieve as his mouth attached to your clit and his fingers danced inside you with harsh taps.

He knew what he was doing. He knew the way a storm knew when to break- the air changed, the pressure shifted, your breath hitched and turned into a sound he wanted to live inside. He stayed exactly where he was, exactly how you needed, until you went tight and hot under his hand. “I’m- oh God- I think I’m going to, already, I- “you shook against his mouth with a quiet, ruining release that made him say your name like a man dying.

He didn’t stop kissing you. He didn’t stop telling you good, good. He rode the aftershocks with you, slowing his hand, easing you down until your breath returned to something like rhythm. Then he lifted his head and looked at you, open in a way he’d never let anyone see. “Mine,” he said again, but it was softer now, a vow with no edges. “Please.”

The please shocked them both. But what defenses did he have left, with the taste of your pussy forever etched into his being? He swallowed it and kissed you again.

“I can say please, too,” you whispered against his lips.

He stopped, stilled like a predator does before he goes in for a kill. He didn’t know how badly he wanted to hear you say it before now, but now that you’ve put it out there, he knows he must have it.

“Tell me.”

“Please, Sukuna, fuck me, please.”

You traced his ink with your tongue. He swore and pushed his head back, eyes closing because looking made it worse, better, unbearable. Your hands went everywhere you wanted; he followed, greedy and grateful. You teased him with the same precision he’d used on you- mirroring pressure and pace until he was cursing in a language the domain didn’t know.

He was going to fuck you. He was going to do it right fucking now. He was going to be inside you.

He gripped both of your legs and brought them up to your chest then in a mating press, because he needed to. Not to dominate- no- but because he wanted you entirely beneath him so he could see every moment of this. The world narrowed to your mouth, your hands, the sounds you made when he moved over you exactly the way you’d been craving. He slid a hand down, under, gripping your ass tightly.

His other hand came up to grip the base of his shaft, and he brought the tip to slide up through your dripping lips, his precum and your slick mixing together in the most intoxicating potion he’s ever encountered. He does this once more- twice- three times before your hips start gyrating up to meet his thrusts.

“Tell me yes,” he said, the last request he had left.

“Yes,” you said, unguarded. “Yes.”

He moved- and the domain seemed to bow its head.

The tip of his thick cock entered you first, your back arched to meet him, and his hand slammed down on your tummy. “Stay still,” he growled, “Don’t move yet.” His jaw formed a hard line as he felt the first press of himself inside you.

Your words had deserted you as your lips parted to try and accept his weighty shaft. Your tight grip finally giving way, allowing him to sink in just the slightest bit.

A groan leaving him, “You’re so tight here.”

A small retreat, and then he’s feeding his cock back into you, “We’ll fix that, angel, don’t worry.” Your moan was the only response you could muster.

His breath tore up from somewhere he’d never shared, the harsh sounds tucked into his praise as he told you over and over how good, how perfect, how his you were, as his thrusts began to reach deeper and deeper.

His control was fraying with each new pound into your pretty pussy. The sounds of wetness, his and yours, echoing around you both as your hands came up to grip his chest, trying to breathe around him inside you.

“How does it feel? How does it feel to be filled by me?”

You answered not with words but by taking him deeper, by pulling him down when he would have tried to be careful, by meeting him with a hunger that matched his own.

He talked because he had to. The words fell out of him between clenched teeth, low and rough and honest in ways that would have shocked him yesterday. “Mine. Look at me. That’s it. Take it- good- don’t look away. Say my name. Again. Again. Angel. Perfect. Mine.”

Each word punctuated by his member roughly pushing inside you until, finally, finally, he bottomed out.

You didn’t say mine back. You said yes and Sukuna and more, and when his hands trembled where they framed your face, you covered them with your own and held them steady.

He found a rhythm that felt like something you’d been building since Shibuya, since the kiss you didn’t finish, since the fight that should have broken them and didn’t. The domain’s lights pulsed to their pace. The reflections beneath you showed echoes of themselves a heartbeat ahead, already there.

He wasn’t moving fast, just deep and hard. As much as you might have wanted him to hurry, your nails scraping down his arms, your hips trying to move faster, he wouldn’t be rushed. He kept going. Knew the end for you both was inevitable, but he was fucked if he didn’t take the time now to show you what you can expect from being his.

Slowly, driving you both up that mountain, until eventually even he was having trouble not absolutely pounding down into your addicting cunt. His pace increased. His breathing grew ragged as he felt the pulses of your pussy intensify around him, clenching around him tightly, close to milking his release from him, whether he wanted to or not.

“I’m going to cum again.” You found your voice, and suddenly it became very important to you that you tell him. “I don’t- Sukuna, I can’t- I can’t stop, I’m going to cum!”

He needed to see you cum again so badly. Needed that clenching he felt around his fingers happening around his cock. His fingers travelled down to your clit, rubbing hard circles as he decided to make more demands of you.

“Look at me when you cum. Now,” he said, voice ragged. “With me.”

You nodded and let go. Let go to fall more deeply into him; he felt it everywhere, felt you tighten around him, felt the heat climb and climb until the only thing left was to fall. His hand came up to hold your chin in an iron grasp, forcing you to face him as you both unraveled.

As he came closer to that edge, his pace became unbearably quick, shoving you off the edge as he felt you start to tighten and pulse around him, hot and soft, and melting him from the inside out.

“Fuck yes! Fuck, shit- yes, that’s right, make me cum in you, angel. That’s- that’s prefect, you’re perfect.” He buried his face in your neck and gave in with a sound that would have terrified anyone who didn’t know what it meant.

You took him with you, clutching him in, closer, breath breaking into a cry he swallowed greedily, like a man starved for you for a century and finally, finally fed.

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t clean. It was yours.

When it was over, he stayed inside the moment like a man who’d learned from you how to hold time still. He didn’t pull away. He pressed his forehead to yours and tried to catch a breath that didn’t feel like it would cut him in half.

-*-

The two of you didn’t move for a long minute. The domain held its breath with you, lights dimmed to a warm pulse, the floor humming faintly like a drum under skin. Sukuna’s weight was still on you, he was still inside you, half propped on his forearms, his mouth resting at the hinge of your neck. He wasn’t gentle by nature, but something about this first time had left him cautious and reverent, as if the second he let go he might shatter the very thing he’d finally gotten to hold.

“Don’t do that,” he muttered, voice wrecked- too honest. “Don’t make me soft.”

You turned your head just enough to brush your lips over his temple. “I didn’t,” you whispered. “You did.”

He huffed a laugh that sounded like surrender refusing to be named. “I thought I wouldn’t be able to stop,” he said, the words rough against your skin. “Wanting you. If we did this.”

“Then don’t,” you said, simple as a blade set on a table. “Want me.”

Silence bit down. He lifted his head, eyes burning like banked coals given air. Something in his control snapped- not into danger, but into need that had finally decided to speak without a mask.

“I want you again,” he said, not a request.

“Yes,” you breathed, immediate.

He rolled away only to pull you with him, already moving, already remapping the room to his body’s urgency. The domain responded: stars slid lower, the floor warmed under your knees. He pressed you forward, guiding, claiming, a hand at the small of your back, the other braced firm at your hip. “Hands,” he ordered, voice gone deeper, darker. “Down.”

You went, palms to the floor, back arched, hair falling over your shoulder in a dark spill. He took a breath and knelt behind you, the ink on his arms curving with the flex of muscle as he gripped. He looked down and every line in his face sharpened- want, hunger, something close to awe punched through with a streak of cruelty he couldn’t quite sand off.

“Mine,” he said yet again, low and absolute.

“Yours,” you answered without hesitation.

He closed his eyes at that, just for a heartbeat, and then he came forward and took, not gently this time. The sound that ripped out of both of you when he did would have frightened a saner house. He set a rhythm like a verdict- harder, deeper, a pace that made the stars pulse in time. His hands clamped at your hips, then skimmed up your ribs, then slid back down, gripping hard enough to make you gasp.

“Tell how it feels,” he ground out, breath hitching, voice frayed.

“The best,” you cried, the word breaking into air. “Yes, so good, Sukuna-”

“Louder.” He dragged you back to meet each thrust, the slap of skin on skin a drumbeat under his command. “I want to hear you. Let the walls learn it. Who do you belong to?”

“You,” you gasped. “Yours-God-yes-”

He groaned like praise and possession had become the same thing in his mouth. “That’s right.” His fingers dug in. “Harder?”

“Harder,” you begged, and he obeyed without hesitation, pace shifting, angle shifting, relentless. You took it- took him- with the kind of trust that made his chest ache, pushing back into each motion like you’d decided to meet him where he lived.

The domain narrowed, bringing the stars so close they looked like candles set around a bed. Reflection turned to heat-shadow, catching flashes of you both that were a heartbeat ahead- his hand sliding into your hair, your head tipping back in a line of surrender, the slow arch of your spine as pleasure hit and hit again.

He found the rhythm that made your voice go bright and helpless and held it mercilessly. “Faster?” he bit out.

“Faster,” you choked, and he laughed, sharp and ragged, delighted by your shamelessness. He gave it to you- speed that bordered on savage, control so tight it felt like a wire pulled out of his own muscles and wrapped around them both. He was verbal because he had to be; the words fell like commands and vows at once. “Look at me. Finally got it how you’ve been begging for it, huh?” He fisted a hand in your hair, not cruel, angling you just enough that when you glanced back, he could see your eyes. “Don’t look away. That’s it—good—good girl.”

The praise did something to you. He felt it. You made a sound-sharp, breaking-and your whole body went hotter under his hands.

“More,” you gasped. “Please—”

He snarled, animal and grateful. “Ask me like that again.”

“Please.” You were shaking now, caught between bracing and letting go. “Sukuna-please-”

He bent over you and put his mouth to your shoulder, teeth scraping; his hand slid from your hip to find the place that tipped you over the edge, pressure exact and ruthless, in rhythm with his body. You broke in his hands- noisy, unashamed, the sound hitting him like a punch, tearing a hoarse curse out of him. He didn’t stop. He kept going through it, kept drawing it out, because the dark pleasure of knowing he was the one doing this to you was a hunger with its own teeth. He groaned into your skin, words dissolving. “Yes- give it to me- there- there- that’s it-”

Your voice pitched higher, beautiful and wrecked, and then- unexpectedly- you sobbed, a bright burst of sound that wasn’t pain, wasn’t fear, wasn’t anything but too much.

He froze for a sliver of a second, shock slamming into his spine- then realized what it was. Overwhelmed. Overstimulated. Tears on your cheekbones shining in starlight. He felt you still moving under him, still pressing back, still saying yes and more even as tears tracked into your hair.

His vision went dark at the edges with pleasure so deep it scared him. He thrust again, harder, and watched another tear fall. A low, broken laugh tore out of him. “Oh, angel,” he rasped, the endearment rough as a bruise. “Look what I’m doing to you.”

“Don’t stop,” you cried, desperate. “Don’t you dare stop.”

That undid him. He fitted his hand over the back of your neck and pressed, not to hold you down- but to hold you together. “I won’t,” he promised, and the promise felt like a chain he wanted willingly. “You’re mine. You asked for this- say it- say you pussy’s mine.”

“My pussy’s yours,” you sobbed, voice cracking on the words. “All of me- yours- Sukuna-”

He swore like a prayer and drove into you harder, faster, brutal with precision, never losing the rhythm that kept you right where he wanted you. The room shook- lights quivering, floor humming, reflection blurring to heat. He watched your hands clutch the floor, watched your back flex, watched the wet shine on your cheekbone and felt a dark, possessive joy like a storm hitting land.

“Look at me,” he demanded again, and when you turned he kissed the corner of your mouth, tasted salt, groaned against it. “Beautiful,” he said, lost. “Perfect. Mine. Say it again.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “Yours- yes- oh God- harder-”

He gave you everything you asked for. His breath went wild; his hands trembled with the effort not to lose the edge. “Say my name.”

“Sukuna,” you cried, and his control shattered and reforged in the same breath. He slammed you both closer to the end, voice breaking on pure need. “With me,” he growled. “Now- give it to me, angel- now-”

You did. You came apart with a cry that would have been a scream if he hadn’t caught it with his mouth, swallowing the sound like a man desperate to keep what he’d made. He followed on the next heartbeat, a rough, helpless groan torn out of him, his body locking, shaking, burying himself in the moment like he could live there forever.

He didn’t pull away. He stayed inside it. Inside you.

You break together- and he doesn’t stop.

Sukuna’s body locks, shudders, and then keeps moving through the peak like momentum itself is starving. “Take it,” he growls into the damp curve of your shoulder. “Take all of it.” You cry out- pleasure too bright, nerves singing- fingers clawing for purchase on the slick floor as he drives through the aftershocks. Your whole body tightens around him and then trembles, breath stuttering.

“Please-” you gasp, and it’s not a plea to end; it’s a plea to survive more.

“I know,” he snarls, voice broken open, pace ruthless. “You can take it. You can take me.” He swears when your answering sob turns into his name, hands sliding to your hips to haul you back into every merciless stroke. “That’s it. Yes. Yes. Look how pretty you are when I fuck my cum back into you, baby.”

The domain leans in- stars dropping lower, the floor heating under skin, reflections blurred down to heat and motion. It’s too much and exactly enough.

He rakes a hand over the back of your neck and pulls you down as he goes with you, chest to your back, covering you. The press is absolute: his ribs caging your lungs, his mouth at your ear, his weight pinning your hips, the drag and push of him relentless. You feel consumed; he feels anchored. You both gasp in the same broken rhythm. Your body tries to lessen the onslaught of feeling Sukuna is forcing on you but scooting away, but he doesn’t allow it.

“Down,” he orders against the shell of your ear, breath searing. “Don’t run from me.”

“I’m not,” you pant, tears slicking your lashes, cheek pressed to your forearm, but you are. You try to push back into him, try to take it like he demands of you. “I’m here. Yours.”

He curses, vicious and grateful. “Good girl.” His hand slides over your splayed fingers, lacing them to the floor, holding you there while he moves. “Louder. Let me hear it. Say my name.”

“Sukuna-” you choke, and he groans like the word fits him better than oxygen.

He’s rough- unyielding, pace like a verdict- but he’s not careless. One arm hooks under you to lift you just enough; the other cradles your jaw, tilting your face so he can take your mouth from the side. He swallows your broken sounds and gives back his own, praise spilling out between raked breaths and gravel-thick commands.

“Look at you,” he hisses, eyes fever-bright, each thrust punching the air from both of you. “So beautiful it hurts. Do you hear me? Impossible girl.” He mouths at the hinge of your jaw, teeth scraping, then gentles, and the contrast makes you sob. “Strong. Smarter than anyone in the room. Mine anyway.”

“Yours-” you gasp, wrecked and sure.

He laughs- a rough, stunned sound that crumbles into a groan when you push back greedily. “That’s right. Don’t hide from me. Give me every sound.” His pace snaps harder, faster. The stars shiver; the floor hums under you like a drumhead. “Say it. Say yes.”

“Yes!” It rips out of you, raw. “Harder- please-”

He gives it to you. He gives all of it- hips snapping, hand tight in your hair, teeth at your neck, whispering filth and worship in the same ruined tone.

“Faster?” he grits.

“Faster- oh God-” Your voice breaks, body caught on that cliff’s edge where pleasure turns liquid and blinding. You try to curl from it; he pins you carefully and keeps going, and the helpless noise that tears out of you makes his control snarl and bow.

“Good,” he praises, relentlessly. “Take it. That’s it- there- there. Don’t hold back.” He kisses the wet at the corner of your eye as if it belongs to him, and something in him goes dark and incandescent at the same time. “Cry for me. Let me hear you.”

You do- sound bright and aching, overwhelming-tears slicking hot across your skin, not pain, not fear, just too much. He feels you shake, hears that thin, shattered breath, and his jaw flexes as a bruise-colored pleasure blooms low and heavy: I did this. I’m the one making you feel like this.

“Angel,” he rasps, voice tearing. “Look what I’m doing to you. Look how you take me.” He presses them flatter, chest locked to her back, their bodies so tightly fit there’s no air where they meet. “You’re perfect. Say it’s mine. Say you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you sob into the floor- no hesitation, no pride left to hide behind. “I’m yours- Sukuna- don’t stop-”

He answers with a sound that’s half curse, half prayer, pace turning brutal with precision. He threads your fingers, crushes your hands to the floor beside your head, and mutters into your hair, no space between words and thrusts:

“Strong. God, you’re strong. So damn clever. I hate it. I love it. You save us and then make me crazy. Mine anyway. Beautiful- do you hear me? I said beautiful. Don’t argue. Take me. Take it.”

You can’t argue- your breath won’t let you. You can only nod small and frantic, can only push back and meet him, can only give him every sound he demands, every yes, he asks for, until the world narrows to his voice in your ear and the unstoppable rhythm, he’s driving you with.

He feels you tighten- feels that trembling gather like a storm head. “Now,” he orders, voice shredded. “With me. Give it to me.”

You break first- crying out as if something inside you has been opened and light is pouring through. He keeps moving through it, drawing it out, praising you like a man at the altar of a god he finally respects. “Yes- good- mine- don’t you dare hide- let me hear you-”

He follows a breath later, a rough, helpless sound ripped out of him, every muscle locking, every ragged inhale punching his mouth open. He shakes over you, stays inside the moment like he’s learned how to hold seconds still with his body the way you do with your hands.

He doesn’t stop right away. He can’t. He pushes through the pulse, deeper, slower now but no less intent, chasing every last flicker from you. Only when you’re a trembling sigh in his hands and he’s shaking with spent effort does he slow and still, panting against the back of your neck.

For a long heartbeat, neither of you moves. Only your breath. Only your hearts.

Then he eases back a fraction, one hand still laced with yours, the other smoothing your hair out of your face in slow, reverent strokes. “Too good for me,” he murmurs, voice raw. “Too strong. Too clever. Mine anyway.” A kiss to the crown of your head, shockingly soft after the way he’s used his mouth. “You hear me?”

“I hear you,” you whisper, voice wrecked and warm. “Yours.”

He exhales like a man spared.

Carefully, he draws himself out of that closeness. You feel the slip and the loss, the last shuddering pull of him leaving you, and then the immediate, inescapable heat of them-mingled, warm- finding its way down the inside of your thighs. The domain doesn’t look; it simply glows, as if understanding even this is its business to hold.

Sukuna goes very still.

He stares, hand still braced over your knuckles, watching the evidence of everything you’ve just done spill out and mark you. Something ragged and possessive drags through his chest. He swallows hard and lowers his mouth to your shoulder, speaking against skin he’s already kissed a dozen times tonight.

“Look at that,” he growls, voice almost hoarse with awe and hunger. “Look at what we made. My mark on you. Our heat- running because I put it there.” His tone trembles on the edge of a groan. “It makes me want to never stop.”

You exhale, shaky, turned molten by the confession more than the act.

He presses his forehead to the back of your neck, fingers lacing tighter with yours, the last of his anger burned down to embers that only know how to warm. He breathes you in- salt, heat, plum blossoms, them.

“Mine,” he says one more time, not as a threat, not as demand. As a promise.

“Yours,” you answer, and the word sounds like always.

The domain lifts its stars a little higher, softens the floor beneath you, tucks the night close around your bodies and your breath. He stays draped over you, both your hands tangled, until the room’s hum becomes a lullaby.

And if his mouth curves against your skin, and if his voice falls to a whisper that sounds suspiciously like reverence- well, that’s between the two of you and the dark.

[gabithefanwriter]

Ohh i read your caleb x oc fanfic and i like ur writing so i’ve been wanting to request if that’s ok :)) Hmm how about a caleb x sorcerer! non binary reader. Reader is cocky and dramatic so they didnt get along at first but they got closer and reader ended up falling for him. Instead of shying away, reader boldly flirts with him

So, you and me? Dinner tonight?

I absolutely love this idea. It’s so cute and while I can’t flirt irl I did look into many flirts and websites on how to flirt. However, I wasn't told what race exactly so reader is human. I do not really use second person in my writing (sorry T-T)! (if there's anything you don't like just send it in my inbox/dms and I'll edit this in the future!)

Also thank you for liking my Caleb Widogast x oc smut. I am head over heels for this man!

This is not proofread I am so sorry ;-;

Caleb Widogast x Sorcerer! Gn! Reader

***

It all started when they were at the carnival.

Y/n had just met with Jester and Fjord in the carnival itself, hanging around them primarily.

Until the toad situation happened, and Toya was taken.

Y/n watches as the goblin, Nott, goes apeshit at the bars of the prison cell. 

Meanwhile, they just huff a sigh and drape themselves dramatically over one of the emptier spaces of the prison bench, scoffing exaggeratedly. “Ugh, we’re doomed. Cursed to be in here, for all eternity!”

They open their eyes, looking at Caleb, who has his eyes narrowed at them, mumbling something in Zemnian, something they faintly understand. “Tch, sorcerers and their dramatic behinds.”

“Oh?” Y/n raises an eyebrow. “And who’s got your panties all in a twist, hm? You that fond of magic casters such as myself?” They ask with a smirk, feeling satisfied and pretty, casting a bit of dancing lights as a show off.

But Caleb was not amused. At all. “You mean you want me to be impressed at the fact you’ve been sitting on your ass the entire time being given magic and being well fed from a silver spoon? Oh, absolutely. Especially since people like you never even tried to work for a day in their lives.” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Wha-?” Y/n is stunned momentarily, before regaining themselves with a cocky grin. “Aw, dirty wizard all up and jealous because he had to study magic instead of being blessed by it?”

“Why would I be jealous? After all, I at least know how to study and learn more spells.”

“You saying I can’t, pretty boy?”

“I’m saying you’re limited.” Caleb retorts with a glare. Y/n’s eyes widen, before they chuckle. “And what about you? Wizards like yourself learn the spells, but at least I can empower mine.”

Seeing Caleb’s muscle in his jaw tick, Fjord speaks up. “We need to keep cool, level heads. We need to work together to get out of here.”

Everyone turns to face Fjord.

*******

Nott has run off somewhere.

Mollymauk is charging ahead against the devil toad, as Beau smirks, clearly amused. “This group is fucking wild.”

Y/n stays closer to Caleb, knowing that they themselves are better when behind and not in the front lines.

Casting a simple ray of frost at the devil toad, Y/n gets flung across the cave, letting out a loud yelp.

They groan as they force themself to their elbows, when they notice that Caleb is about to be hit.

“CALEB!”

They cast, as a reaction, a magical, glowing shield that protects the incoming attack on Caleb.

His eyes widen, and he sees Y/n, before running off as the shield won’t hold for long.

But that got the toad to aim for Y/n.

Usually, they do well with their magic and cantrips, casting over and over again, protecting themselves.

They yelp as they begin to run, before being caught.

They scream.

Mollymauk, Fjord and Beau try to save them, but they are too far.

Before Y/n becomes frog food, a large fireball burns through the devil toad, and they scream again, arms flailing at the free fall, before a mage hand catches them, bringing them to Caleb’s feet.

“Are you alright?” He asks, eyes still on the toad as his fingers still produce an ashen gray gas.

“Yeah…” they cling onto him, stepping behind him as they limp a little. “I’m fine…”

Wobbling a bit, Caleb reaches out to catch them, keeping them stable. “Keep steady, ja?”

Y/n looks into Caleb’s eyes and smirks, eyes sparkling. “Yeah, when am I not, babe?”

Caleb pulls back, a little flustered but surprised nonetheless at the straightforwardness. “Let’s…continue with the rest, ja?”

“HEY LOVEBIRDS! SOME HELP WOULD BE NICE!” Beau yells across the cave, and both sorcerer and wizard sigh, preparing to cast their spells once again.

*****

After the fight with the toad, agreeing to team up, and burning Toya’s body, the group return for Caleb’s amulet, only to fight one of Trent Ikithon’s spies, Owelia.

Needless to say, Y/n feels worried. Fjord is badly wounded when they finally reach the shack outside of the town. 

Jester, Nott and Mollymauk all surround Fjord, while Beau and Caleb interrogate Owelia. Y/n stays in the room with Fjord, throwing a lookout for Beau and Caleb. By sending out Jester and Mollymauk, Nott and Y/n stay with Fjord.

“You’ve been throwing an affectionate gaze at my boy, aren’t you?” Nott asks accusatory.

Y/n lifts their head, before nodding. “Yeah, I like him. He’s nice. I’m prolly gonna ask him out when we get into town. Prolly gonna ask him to dinner. Why?”

“Because…he’s my boy. But..I want him happy. Will you make him happy?!” Nott furrows her brows and narrows her eyes threateningly. 

Y/n chuckles, before nodding their head. “Sure thing, Nott. I’m gonna show him the best encounter of his life.”

Nott nods in approval.

Hours pass, and Y/n speaks up. “The tieflings should’ve been back by now. What’s taking so long?”

They hear a commotion, before both goblin and human run out, seeing Beau, Mollymauk and Jester all being held in a Hold Person spell.

“I-”

Y/n feels their heart sink, as Nott manages to decipher what the trio was saying. “Caleb!”

Y/n runs first, lungs burning, that metallic tang in their mouth, the dryness, the trembling, the shakiness of their legs.

“Hey Fireball! We’re coming!” Y/n pants for air, sprinting to Caleb, just as he lets out a final shriek and engulfs Owelia and the tree in flames, running just in time to see the raw fire and sheer power of the wizard, and they stop in their tracks.

Y’n’s eyes tremble, their pupils reflecting the fiery pillar before them, and in front of the fire…

Reaching out towards the dancing flames, having let loose his emotions, going absolutely numb after his maniacal mental breakdown…

He, who is reaching out towards that very fire…

“CALEB!” Nott’s voice snaps him out of it.

Caleb jolts, only turning to see Y/n, their form right in front of them, before collapsing to the ground, knocked out completely.

“Hey- hey Fireball… it’s ok…we got you…GACK- you’re quite heavy, Fireball…” Y/n groans, holding Caleb in their lap as Nott sprints over. “I’ve got you…”

Y/n lets out a shaky breath, before casting a mage hand to carry Caleb back to the shack.

*******

When Caleb awakens the next day, he wakes up to the feeling of soft hands. Hands that know not a day of labour.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty. Missed your sorry, sleepy butt,” Y/n says softly with that annoyingly cocky grin. “It’s about time you woke up.”

They run their fingers through his hair, and Caleb groans, slowly blushing but grinning up at them. “Careful, I might start to think you care.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you…” Y/n retorts with a grin, obviously flirting back with them. 

Caleb grins, reaching up to hold their hand, when he realized his forearm bandages were changed. 

“...I know you’re a Volstrucker…” Y/n mumbles. “I made sure no one else figured it out. I was alone when changing them. They’re all waiting outside.”

Caleb looks up at them, his heart sinking, before he reaches out to cup their cheek. Y/n grins, leaning into their touch. “Can’t help but touch me, huh?”

Caleb glares, playfully cursing them out. “Attention-seeker.”

“Your attention is the only one I want,” Y/n says with a cheeky grin. Caleb chuckles with a blush again.

Throughout his entire speech to the rest of the crew, Y/n was with him, supporting him the entire time. 

*****

In the nearest town they visit, they decide to take a day to look around. Meanwhile, Y/n spots a restaurant, and smirks. They turn to Caleb. “Tonight, you’re busy.”

“What-?”

“Dinner, you and me. I wanna try that restaurant with you.” Y/n states simply, pointing to an exotic restaurant. 

Caleb stutters, before Y/n smirks. “Come oooon… I’m asking you out on a date with me. So, you, me, dinner, tonight?”

Caleb gets even more flustered, before Y/n tilts their head, a smile on their lips. “Come on, I wanna see pretty boy eat with me. Wanna see what my pretty Fireball wizard likes to eat and drink. What do you say?”

“P-pretty boy?” Caleb raises an eyebrow, before Y/n nods. “Yeah, you’re my pretty boy, aren’t you?”

Caleb smiles, before reaching out to hold their hand. “Sounds like a lovely idea to me, darling, hm?”

*****

“This place is fit for nobility,” Caleb says softly under his breath, and Y/n chuckles. “Yeah, it is fit for you, too. Given you’re dashing enough to be considered noble.”

“Nein, even after telling you my story-” Caleb begins.

“Yes, even then. You’re stunning. Handsome. And honestly? I can’t believe I didn’t take it seriously. That I didn’t take you seriously.”

“You didn’t?” Caleb asks, furrowing his brows, before Y/n nods with a smile. “Kinda like how you hated me, hm? But I doubt we’ll be ‘hating’ each other any longer.” They slowly lift their foot up along Caleb’s calf, watching his cheeks turn red as they order their food, whilst Caleb stutters something barely coherent.

Their dinner? Y/n takes the time to relish in their food and drink, while constantly teasing Caleb, and Caleb is trying hard not to choke on his food.

By the end of their dinner, with a bit of persuading from Y/n to lower the price, they pay up and go to their room, smiling at each other, before Y/n whispers against Caleb’s lips. “Wanna join me in my room?”

“I don’t see why not…especially not after that stunt…” Caleb mumbles against their lips, before they kiss.

It’s a short, brief peck, but then Y/n yanks a dazed out Caleb into their bedroom, shutting the door efficiently after them. Even going as far as locking it.

[cringe--is--dead]

The Old There Before

(Pre!Nanami x Reader)

The room felt bigger with no one else present. Yaga had apologized for needing to leave so suddenly, and you barely had time to wave him off before he was out of the room, leaving you to nothing but the empty classroom and echo of cicadas from outside. The lights above felt too bright as you wandered around the room slowly; suddenly your packed backpack felt almost silly, pens and pencils, empty notebooks. Still, maybe you'd be able to find something for you to do. There were a few bookshelves against the walls, and it looked like it was filled with textbooks. Your fingers skimmed across the titles, before settling on one: Cursed Energy Theory. Seemed educational enough to waste time on.

After grabbing it and walking back to your seat, you set your station up. Taking a few notes wouldn't hurt, and maybe you'd be getting ahead of class material. Not that you knew entirely what the education at jujutsu high would entail. Opening to the first chapter you began reading, slow and steady as you made your way through the chapter, jotting down interesting notes or dates you felt were necessary. By the time you'd finished the first chapter you'd have three pages of notes done, and a cramped hand. The clock above the door read it was half past ten, and there was no sign of Yaga returning. With a sigh, you put your pen down, stretching your arms above your head with a hum. The school was rather large, and the classrooms reflected that.

It made it even more apparent that you were the only first year. The thought sent a pang of loneliness through you, a sting in your chest you tried to push away. Each other year had more than one student, however small the size was, and you were the only one in your year. Part of you wished, just for a moment, that you'd never discovered your technique, and that your family hadn't all but jumped to send you to this world. You knew of curses and techniques from when you were little, your family's clan may have been small, but they still had ties to this world. You had prayed every night to whoever was listening you could be a normal girl, but your prayers went ignored.

A loud slam of the door made you jump, a shriek falling from you as you nearly toppled out of your seat, eyes wide as you turned to the entrance. You knew it wasn't Yaga coming back, he'd never had entered a room like that. You blinked, staring at the white haired man standing in the doorway, staring down at you through round sunglasses on his face. It took you a moment to process who it was, Gojo Satoru. He was a third year, and of course, one of the biggest names in the jujutsu world. You swallowed hard as he walked in, a grin plastered on his face as he made his way to your desk, leaning over and getting far too close for comfort.

"So you're our only first-year this year, huh?" Though it was posed like a question you got the feeling he wasn't asking.

"Uh, yeah?" You nodded, hands twisting in your lap as you took note of the two others who followed in behind him.

"Satoru, get out of her face," The other guy spoke, sighing as he pulled on Gojo's shoulder to straighten him up, "I'm sorry about him, his lack of knowledge when it comes to boundaries astonishes us all."

"Hey!" Gojo spun around to his friend, faux offense on his face.

The last one entered the room, a girl, with what looked like an unlit cigarette between her lips. She smiled at you, taking a seat in the chair next to yours, "You'll get used to him, unfortunately."

You managed to muster a smile, your nerves felt like they were on fire with anxiety pooling in your stomach. If she noticed, she didn't draw attention to it, "I'm Shoko Ieiri."

You gave her your name, feeling less confident as her eyes widened as she heard your family name, "Takizawa, huh?"

"Yes," Your palms felt sweatier than before, and you tried subtly brushing them off on your skirt, Gojo and his friend had stopped bickering to turn your way now.

"You have the time technique, right?" The black haired one was the first to bring it up, and you nodded.

"Yes, uh, khrono pulse." You felt like the name made your technique seem cooler than it was, and you understood why; it was an old technique that rarely popped up in your family's history, most of those who did develop a technique similar got saddled with the sync sense or second wind. Useful but not as rare within your bloodline. Somehow you ended up with khrono pulse, the only child to your workaholic parents who pushed you to be the best you could be with this ability.

"What's that?" Gojo didn't look the least bit curious as he asked, pulling a chair to sit in front of you, seated backwards on it.

Despite being reprimanded minutes ago, he scooted forward once more, and you leaned back in your seat to try and create some distance. Shoko sighed from her seat, chin resting on her fist, "Geto, reel your dog in."

Geto lightly smacked Gojo in the head, frowning at him as his friend whined dramatically, though pushed his seat back a few inches. "Stop making her uncomfortable, this is why none of the second years like you."

"I'll have you know the second years adore me. I'm their favorite upperclassman."

Neither Shoko or Geto seemed to believe that, if their synchronized eye rolls were anything to go off of. "Shove off it, I'm actually curious, what's your technique?"

Despite Gojo's disinterest earlier, he also turned to look at you, and suddenly you found yourself with full attention from three of your upperclassmen. No pressure or anything. Though it was an easy enough question, you did like your technique, it was as useful as it was interesting.

"When I expand my domain, I can control people's timing in a way. It only works if they're using their own technique, as I control the timing of their technique more than them. But I can speed it up or slow it down. If I'm really concentrated I can slow it down so it's nearly stopped, but that type of control only lasts for a few seconds. I can't stop time or anything, and I don't make it go faster either, I just kind of control people's... tempos, I guess." You shrugged, picking at your nails as your confidence wavered, "The more techniques I affect the weaker the affect is, and if I push myself too far I sometimes end up passing out."

You kept the other draw back to yourself; too much usage was known to drain life from you. It wouldn't shorten your life per say, not that sorcerer's lived long lives anyways, but it aged you slightly faster. Other user's in your family have quite literally lost color in their life; their eyes would drain until they were nearly pitch black, their hair would thin and gray in their twenty's. With the hopes of not sounding vain this was your biggest fear when using your technique.

"Oh, that's pretty cool," Shoko sounded sincere when she complimented you, eyes ever so slightly wider, "That would be awesome to have help me in the clinic."

"It would also be pretty useful out fighting curses," The second compliment sent your way had your cheeks flushing, though you were currently the sole holder of the technique, your family thought you were too weak, so compliments were a rarity, "You know whose technique that would go great with?"

Before Shoko could respond or you could ask who, Gojo was throwing his arms in the air, a wide, almost chaotic smile on his face, "With our buzzkill Nanami!"

"Don't call him a buzzkill."

"And this is why he can't stand you."

Shoko and Geto's complaints mixed in together as they responded to Gojo, but you felt curious, the name was familiar but only vaguely so. "Nanami?"

Gojo nodded, ignoring the other two he, once more, crowded into your space, "He's one of your upperclassmen too. A second year, one of two! He's also a buzzkill who hates anything fun and is nothing like our precious Haibara."

"Now you're just being mean for the sake of being mean," Shoko rolled the unlit cigarette around, huffing with a roll of her eyes, "Nanami's not that bad."

Gojo tilted his head to look at her, voice deadpan, "You're right, he's the epitome of joyful and fun."

Despite the ridiculousness of whatever this conversation was you couldn't help but laugh at their banter. The three turned to you, and you tried hiding your laughter behind your hand, slightly embarrassed at being caught.

"Don't let Satoru scare you, Nanami's not bad. You'll meet him soon enough, odds are he and Haibara will be your go to's if you have questions since they're one year older than you."

"Or you could just come directly to us," Gojo pointed to himself rather proudly, "I'm stronger than Nanami, and far more fun to be around."

Shoko lightly kicked the leg of his chair, though her attention stayed on you, "Realistically you'll probably be paired with them for a lot of missions, we weren't kidding when we said your technique would be a great asset to Nanami's."

"Can you imbue your ability into your own fighting?" Geto's question caught you slightly off guard; how could you forget that you'd also be out there fighting?

Still, easy enough answer. You shrugged, "I can only make an already cursed tool work faster or slower depending on what I'm trying to do, I can't curse the tool or weapon myself."

"We'll have options for you, no need to worry," Geto's smile was reassuring, and you wondered for a moment how two people as calm as he and Shoko dealt with Gojo on a day-to-day basis.

"What the hell are you three doing in here?" You all jumped at the booming question, turning to see Yata standing in the doorway, arms crossed as he glared at the older three, though seemingly more at Gojo than the others.

"We were just welcoming our little first-year!"

Geto stood quickly, arms folded behind his back, sending a small smile the teachers' way, "We were just introducing ourselves, we'll be getting back."

They bid you a quick goodbye before exiting the classroom, Gojo stating he guessed "Nanami wasn't the only buzzkill", before the classroom door shut behind them. Once they were out Yata sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I do apologize, I hadn't meant to leave as long as they had, nor did I give those three permission to come harass you."

"Oh, it's okay!" You tried waving his apology off, "They were nice."

"Yes, well, they can be," Yata sighed, motioning for you to stand up, "Grab your stuff, might as well take you to meet the second years. We're going to head outside for some basic combat training."

[strdsts]

overly scared but dipping my toes in writing for jujutsu kaisen, let’s see how this goes 😀

[id-rather-be-an-outsider]

Lapse in Memory

Megumi Fushiguro x Cursed!Reader

summary: y/n is cursed to forget for the rest of her life, but Megumi does his best to support her despite the futility of his efforts.

word count: 2,016

a/n: is this something I wrote bc I have my own issues w memory and find myself upset by how often I forget things? yes <3 I’m really proud of myself! hope I can keep this posting consistency up!

tw: she/her reader, injury resulting in memory loss, angst

masterlist

It all happened so quickly. Yuuji died, and the school sat in limbo, until a new student, y/n, arrived. Megumi, Nobara and y/n were sent on a mission together, and Megumi could tell right away that something was wrong — the same kind of wrong as before. They were in way over their heads. Why?

Megumi thought their target was Yuuji. If he was, then why would the elders still try to send students, especially when one of the students had no connection to the incident before, to their deaths? He decided their focus was to group up and escape — this curse was trying to isolate them, and Nobara was having a hard time.

Just as Megumi was going to shout for them to regroup, y/n hurtled toward Nobara, slicing the limb off of the curse that Nobara hadn’t noticed. Nobara and y/n shared a look of relief, but when Nobara’s face shifted as she started to call out to y/n, the newest addition to Jujutsu High was struck in the head by the curse, knocking her out cold.

Summoning all of his shikigami at once for protection, Megumi swooped in, grabbing y/n’s unconscious body before her head hit the ground, and peeling out of there with Nobara in tow.

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Now, he’s sitting at y/n’s bedside with Nobara, waiting for her to wake up. Her eyes barely crack open and Nobara sobs out, “Y/n! Don’t ever do that to me again, I can’t lose you yet! You just got here!” Pulling her frail body into a tight hug.

“Kugisaki! Calm down, she’s still injured.” Megumi chastises, and Nobara sheepishly lets go of their friend, muttering an apology and something about only being worried. “Y/n.” Megumi says, “How are you feeling? Do you remember what happened?”

Y/n’s bright eyes are now fully open, but her brows are furrowed in confusion. “Who are you guys?” She looks around the room. “Where am I? Why am I dressed up like a patient in a hospital? This doesn’t look like a hospital…”

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It was a curse. That’s what they told Megumi and Nobara. Their new friend suffered psychological damage from a curse born out of humanity’s fear of memory loss, and forgot everything about her new life at Jujutsu High. Her memories from before seemed fine when she was evaluated.

Megumi and Nobara sat together, brainstorming ideas. “Is there a way to cure it? Like if we killed the curse, or something?” Nobara asked.

Megumi bit his lip. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t work that way with people who lose limbs to curses, so it probably is the same here.”

“Hmph.” Nobara sighed, crossing her arms in annoyance. Then, her eyes sparkled. “Why don’t we fill her in? It’s not like she’s forgotten a lot, we just need to give her a refresher course!”

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And that’s why the two of them are now in front of her bed side, a PowerPoint projected onto the walls of y/n’s dorm. “In summary, if you ever forget something, ask one of us for a refresher, or come back to this PowerPoint! We can store it on a flash drive for you!”

Y/n applauds. “That was a great presentation! I can see why I was friends with you guys before. You’re really nice.” She says, beaming at the two of them.

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Then Yuuji was revealed to be alive, and him and y/n got along swimmingly. But Megumi noticed some things. Every now and then, y/n would forget words for basic things, and would have to describe what it was she was forgetting the word for. Every now and then, she’s forget that Yuuji had died, or would forget that she’d gotten injured. Her forgetfulness seemed to be quite the plague.

Once, Yuuji farted, and when y/n heard how loud it was, she made a gagging noice. “That’s disgusting, Yuuji.” She lifted her shirt up to cover her nose, waving her hand in the air to ward off the fart smell. Five seconds later, she dropped her shirt collar, watching TV. Then, she sniffed the air. “Hey, did you fart?” Yuuji and Megumi shared a look of concern in the moment, but when y/n quickly remembered her previous comment, her and Yuuji both burst out in laughter. Maybe it was funny to them. Megumi wasn’t so sure.

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A year later, it happened again. They were second-years, and when y/n came down for breakfast one morning, she nervously walked up to Megumi. “Hi, um, I’m sorry to bother you. My name’s y/n. Can you please tell me where I am or direct me to whoever is in charge here? I don’t know what happened to me, but I’d like to go home.”

Again, they said it was the curse. Upon further inspection and based on testimony from Megumi, they were able to confirm the curse on y/n was a recurrent one. How often? They couldn’t tell. Not yet.

Nobara never thought they’d use the PowerPoint again, but they did, after refreshing it to keep up with all the memories of the entire year together.

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Y/n falls fast for Megumi after that happens. Nobara teases Megumi about it a lot, but he can tell she’s just happy for him. Happy for y/n, too.

The couple makes lots of new memories, and as they creep up on a year together, y/n comes to Megumi’s dorm one night, sniffling, tears streaking her face. Megumi gets up, hugging her and closing the door behind her before pulling her into his bed so they can cuddle.

Quietly, y/n confesses. “I don’t want to forget you, Megumi. I don’t want to forget that I love you.”

“It’s okay. I’ll remind you.”

“What if I don’t love you this time around?”

“Then I’ll love you until you love me, but I don’t think that’ll happen anyway. We confessed to each other last time, a few months before you forgot.”

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It was confirmed yesterday. Y/n was cursed to forget everything in her life, and revert to the person she was before coming to Jujutsu High. When Megumi told Nobara the news, she cried, and said she couldn’t come see y/n anymore, because it hurt too much. Megumi couldn’t blame her, but he thought it wasn’t fair to y/n. It’s not like she asked to forget.

When he sits next to her on the couch, she pauses her reading to say, “You know, to put a positive spin on all of this, the good thing about forgetting stuff, is every time I forget, I get to experience them for the first time all over again. I know it makes some people sad, but it makes me happy.”

“Like what?” Megumi asks her.

She smiles at him. “Like falling in love with you. I’m sure I’ve done that a million times over.”

Megumi blushes, but he returns the smile. “Yea, I guess you have. Putting it that way does make it seem better.”

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Four times in a row now, y/n’s forgotten at the end of every six months, and her day-to-day forgetfulness has gotten worse every time. “Megumi, I’m— I’m forgetting something really important right now, and I— and I just—“ Y/n’s eyes are red as tears spill down her cheeks. “I hate being such a burden like this. Nobody else has to have people remember things for them! It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s not a burden.” Megumi says gently, taking her hand and flipping the remote around so it points the correct way.

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Two years after graduating from Jujutsu High, Megumi got an apartment for himself and y/n. Yuuji had asked him, “Are you really holding out hope? I don’t think she’s ever gonna get any better.”

Megumi lashed out at him, saying, “Does it look like I fucking care if she gets any better? She could lose her goddamn mind for all I care, that’s it gonna stop me from loving her.”

“Dude, I wasn’t saying that, I was just—“ Yuuji had sighed in frustration, standing up from their table at the cafe. “You know what, I’m gonna go. I get that you care about her, but you should care about yourself, too. You are psychologically self-harming by choosing to place yourself in a situation that only breaks your heart, over and over again. If you need me, you know where to find me. Say hi to y/n for me.”

Megumi didn’t reach out to Yuuji, and didn’t say hi to y/n for him. He thought that he didn’t deserve the favor. He also thought that maybe he overreacted to Yuuji’s concern, but he wasn’t ready to admit that to anyone other than himself.

At dinner that night, y/n asked, “Hey, baby? Can you do me a favor?”

“Yea, what?” Megumi looked at her lovingly, patiently.

Slowly, y/n focused on each word of what she wanted to ask. “The next time I forget everything… maybe just don’t do the PowerPoint. I don’t really need to know much beyond who’s my friend and who’s not.”

“Okay… but why, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I just… knowing that there’s so much I forgot made me feel… ashamed of myself. If this is… how I’ve felt every single time, I don’t know that I want to be reminded that I’ve missed out on so much.”

It was like a knife to his chest, but he contained himself until after dinner, when y/n said her head hurt and went to sleep early. That was the sign that she would wake up the next day not knowing anything.

When Megumi was sure she was asleep, he kissed her forehead, stepped out onto the deck, and double-checked that the sliding glass door was fully closed before breaking down, crying his heart out, snot dripping from his nose. Yuuji was right, but Megumi still didn’t want to call him.

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“Who are you?” Y/n asks while they’re on a picnic together.

Megumi frowns. She didn’t complain about a headache last night, so she shouldn’t have forgotten yet. “I’m your boyfriend, Megumi, and you’re cursed to lose your memory over and over again.”

“Have we… always been dating?”

“Pretty much, yea.”

“Why are you dating someone who forgets you all the time?”

“Because I love you.” He says, handing her a cracker with a yummy mixture of smoked salmon and cream cheese on top.

She jokes, “I must love you too, to be lucky enough to go on a date like this together.” She wears that familiar smile that always shines brighter than the sun, before taking a bite and closing her eyes. “Mmm, I love this. That’s something I haven’t forgotten.”

Megumi says, “I would hope so, considering we’ve lived together for three years already.” He stuffs his face with a similar cracker, his grin not quite mirroring hers with the smoked salmon stuck to his teeth.

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Six years later, Megumi had finally patched things up with Yuuji, and Nobara had come to visit again because Megumi had been desperate to try anything that would help y/n. When Nobara realized how bad it was, she ended up visiting anyways, even thought it was pointless. Every three months had turned into two, into one, into every three weeks, two weeks, one week, every six days, five, four, three, two, one…

Megumi realized he preferred it when she was asleep, because at least she wasn’t forgetting him every fifteen minutes then. Eventually, it became every five minutes, and eventually, it became every few moments.

“Who are you?” Y/n asked him.

“I’m your boyfriend, Megumi, but you can’t remember that because you’re cursed.”

“Oh, okay.” A few seconds of silence passed as the TV droned on in the background. Megumi played the reruns of her favorite show, hoping it would trigger something.

Megumi was grateful y/n couldn’t see the other side of his face. A tear dripped down onto his cheek as she asked again, “Who are you?”

taglist: if you’d like to be ok my JJK general taglist or my Megumi taglist comment below!

[dearlawdimasimp]

As universes collides

Pairings: Moon Knight system(Marc/Steven/Jake) x sorcerer!Reader x Khonshu

Word count: holee shit its 9k words people💀

Warnings: grammar, cussing, !SPOILERS FOR MoM!, possibly inaccurate depictions of DID(please tell me in the comments if i did so that i can edit this), possibly wrong Spanish words used(again please correct me in the comments), possibly ooc marvel characters, NOT BETA READ, lengthy fic(if i missed any please let me know!!) edit: I saw a post saying that it is very harmful to actual systems to portray any DID character to have separate bodies, i am so sorry i have meant no harm, this fic contains the Moon Knight system having separate bodies, again my deepest apologies.

Summary: Hey, just re-read your stories with Sorcerer!Reader with the Moon Bois and Khonshu, I absolutely love them! So I saw you were looking for ideas, and I remembered an idea I had a while back when MoM came out regarding this exact same pairing. If you’re willing to write it that is.

So regarding Wanda’s attack on Kamar-taj, the reader is called to defend the temple. The reader prepares to leave, and while trying to explain what’s happening to the boys, mentions the Scarlet Witch. Now, lets assume Khonshu knows a little about the Scarlet Witch and her chaos magic. So when the reader tells them that they're going to be defending the temple against her, he tells her not to go, in fear that they will die. The reader of course declines his request, and Marc/Steven/Jake get into an argument with the reader about going (“the world and the multiverse are in danger” blah blah blah “you shouldn’t have to risk your life” blah blah blah “there’s a child’s life on the line” blah blah blah- you get it). Long story short, the reader ends up going after the argument (or however you want it to end up). In the end, the reader (hopefully) survives, whether it surviving in the rubble, or traveling with Strange and America through the multiverse. And they reunite with Marc/Steven/Jake and Khonshu.

Let me know what you think about this and if you’re willing to write it. Hopefully it gave you some inspiration!

A/N: hi hello sorry for the long wait but the fic is finally here!! hope you guys love this and i hope this meets @jupitersmoon167 and everybody else's expectations😥 i used dear jupiter's idea and added my own twist to it! hope you guys love this just as much as i do🤧💞if things aren't exactly the same with the movie, im so sorry-i wrote this based on what i remembered💞GIFS USED NOT MINE

Something shifted. 

A shiver ran through your spine, through your whole body.

You inhale sharply, brows furrowing at the uneasy feeling.

"You felt it too, dearest?"

Asked your human sized moon god beside you, who's wearing a white polo rolled up to his elbow and white slacks, his arm laying across your now tense shoulder. You feel him gently squeeze you, coaxing you to relax your tight muscles.

You are currently in the Moon boys' flat, watching a movie to relax since today was a time where you and all of the system have their day off on the same day, with all three of them co-existing with you and a human sized Khonshu. 

They are currently in separate bodies, thanks to a spell that allowed them to be out of the headspace for a period of time, all wearing comfy home clothes, and are now looking at you too. Worry, curiosity, and confusion met your troubled gaze. 

"We– we felt it too…Like, something.. something bad." 

Steven, who's wearing his blue sweatshirt and gray pjs, voices out his and his alters' thoughts, Marc– who's wearing his blue t-shirt and pants– nods once and looks at Jake–who's wearing his white long sleeves and black pjs– who also nods, eyes full of thoughts as he keeps his firm yet gentle gaze on you, confirming Steven's statement.

You look up to Khonshu, who stood up from his seat on the couch and looked out the window. 

"Should.. should we be worried–"

His question dies on his tongue as a portal opens in the middle of your room. You're quick to your feet and change into your sorcerer robes as you walk in front of the moon knight system and towards the opening portal, knowing who might be behind it.. and their purpose.

The trio stood up as they watched an Asian man walk through the sparkling circle. Jake quickly puts himself in front of his alters, ready to protect in case anyone thinks of hurting them. 

"We need your help, Master," Wong utters your name breathlessly, "I'm sorry for interrupting your day off but, the Scarlet Witch, is planning to attack Kamar-taj and we are in dire need of every single sorcerer to protect it." The portal closes behind him.

Before you are able to utter a single word, Khonshu repeats, 

"The Scarlet Witch?" 

A thunderous boom echoing in the room, his tone all but gentle, and crosses the room to stand by your side, now looming down on you and Wong as he returns to his godly size, his clothes now shifted back to gauzed wrappings. 

"The wielder of Chaos Magic?"

You tilt your head up to him, "You know them?" You glance at the Sorcerer Supreme, who was not a single bit intimidated by the god's presence (you figured he wouldn't be as this man might've seen worse than a tall, bird skull headed god so it wasn't a surprise to you), who nods to answer Khonshu's question. 

The god's head moves to you as he looks at you, his thoughts undecipherable to you. His body language was rigid, which could either mean he doesn't trust the sorcerer in front of you or something else entirely different. 

You look back to his hollowed sockets as you wait for his answer. 

He bobs his head and kneels in one knee to be on your eye level, "I know little but I know enough. You are not going to face her, little sorcerer."

Ah, so it was something else entirely different.

Even though his tone suggests no room for argument, you huff at his demands in disbelief. 

"Khonshu, the Sorcerer Supreme needs every single sorcerer to be present, which means that this Scarlet Witch is very dangerous and is a danger to our wo–"

"Which should give you more reason not to go! It is unsafe! They are dangerous, like you've said. Let the others handle it!"

You were about to argue back but a question pops up into your head, you turn to Wong, "Wait– why is this.. quote unquote Scarlet Witch attacking the Kamar-taj in the first place?"

You hear the god sigh beside you and mumble, "You do not need that information–"

"A child that has the power to traverse across universes is in the temple and the Scarlet Witch intends to take her power all to herself." Wong answers, his eyes pleading to you as he spoke.

Your eyebrows shot up in worry, "No–" a British voice spoke behind you in slight tremor.

The sorcerer supreme puts his hand on your shoulder.

"Please, pick your choice wisely. We'll be waiting for you."

You place your hand above his and nod, he gives you a tight smile as he removes his hand. He glances at the trio behind you and bids them goodbye with a bow of his head, as well as to the Egyptian moon god. He opens a portal and enters it, with an expecting glance of his shoulder the bright orange circle closes with a sharp hush. 

A heavy silence falls in the flat.

A click of a tongue breaks it and Marc speaks, "Right, no. The bird is right. No way in hell you are going to K- Kamar- Kamar.. tash–"

You heard Khonshu huff at the name Marc had called him and rise from his kneeling position.

"Kamar-Taj." "Kamar-Taj" Steven and Khonshu correct him. 

"Yes, that- thank you Steven, Khonshu-"

"Marc, a child's life is in danger!" You say his name in exasperation as you step one foot to the front, "Our universe and other universes are in danger! I can't just let this witch do–"

"Mi muñeca, por favor," Jake intervenes, his face covered by his hand as he pinches the bridge of his nose, "There are cientos de otros magos, lots of other sorcerers, around the world, ¿sî?" He drops his hand with a sigh.

You nod, "Yes! But–"

"Then you, our amado hechicero, don't need to be there." The mustached Latino reaches out to your hand and grasps it, squeezing it lightly as his eyes desperately look around your face and cups it with his other hand, heavy it lays on your cheek as he whispers, "Por favor, mi amor."

"Please, love. Think about it." Steven speaks up behind Jake, worry also etched on his face as he approaches the two of you. "If Khonshu, a god who doesn't think twice in committing violence, does not want you to fight then I'd also have to say no on this one. We can't risk losing you, darling.." His voice cracks a little, the thought of not being able to see you again is possibly plaguing his mind. 

Tears well up on your eyes as you glance back and forth between Jake and Steven then to Marc, whose eyes are all but soft as he had already made up his decision.

You sigh and lean to Jake's hand that is on your cheek, you take it from your face and kiss his palm. You turn to your Stevie and offer your hand to him, to which he hastily holds, and gently pull him to you. He lets you. Jake removes his hand from your cheek to let Steven wrap his arms around you, he's muttering pleas in your ear as you plant a long kiss on his temple.

"So you're not going, sweetheart?"

You look up to your other boyfriend who is now looking a little relieved and hopeful, slowly approaching you three with a hopeful gaze. You glance up to your godly lover, who's been silently waiting as he watches you interact with your human boyfriends, leaning against a bookshelf with arms crossed.

You turn your gaze to Marc, who's looking at you expectantly, you give a last kiss on Steven's cheek before letting go of the Brit and approached the American. You smile tearfully as you hold his face with your palm, his stubble rough under your skin. Standing on your tip-toes, you kiss his cheek gingerly. 

Jake, coming to an understanding of your whole motive, mutters hoarsely, "No.."

The other people in the room seemed to understand what you were trying to do and they all simultaneously spoke out their disagreement.

"No, baby– Come on!" "Absolutely not!" "Darling, please no."

You lower yourself back on the floor and look up to Marc, his brows are raised in the middle as he grasps your wrist as he tries to keep you in place.

"I'm sorry." You whisper, to him and to all of your lovers, a lone tear escaping your eyes as you caress his cheekbones with your thumbs. 

Khonshu briskly walks towards you, planning to stop your plans but you were quick. 

You close your eyes and let the flow of magic surrounding the flat disappear. 

Marc's hands left your wrists and his stubbled jaw sliding away from your palms, you opened your eyes to see him stumbling back and away from you, the surge of magic when his alters returned back to their headspace possibly left him disoriented. 

You feel a cool breeze go down past your shoulder. Looking over you see Khonshu, he's back to his ghost-like state, unable to interact with anything surrounding him.

He looks up at you, you feel his and Marc's(and possibly the rest of the system's) burning glare drilling into your skull.

You hold back a sob. 

"This is for all of you, my loves. Please, I hope you understand." 

You look back and forth to Marc and Khonshu, who's regaining his balance and the latter desperately trying to get a hold of you as he yells for you to stop, even though he knows with this form he won't be able to do so he still continues to reach out to your form.

You open a portal to the temple, with a sharp intake of breath you quickly enter it. Tears continue to fall down your cheek, a smile that doesn't hold any joy pulls your lips as you croak out, "I'll see you around, my boys. This isn't a goodbye."

You immediately let the portal close before any of them crossed it. The last thing you saw was Marc, with Jake and Steven possibly co-fronting with him, hastily running to the orange circle as Khonshu fell on his knees, seemingly defeated.

I promise.

~🌑~

Falling through different realities, with one of them being a world that is made up of paint, as you try to keep a powerful kid away from a power hungry witch in a star shaped portal was definitely not on your bucket list. 

But here you are, thrown into a new world where everything is unfamiliar and very green.

"You two… saved me.." Chavez says between her breaths as you and Strange try to regain yours.

"I hope so.." The cloaked man groans as he stands up, while you cover your mouth and run to the nearest corner as you feel bile shot up to your throat, spilling the food you had earlier this morning. 

You hear America sheepishly apologize, "It's a normal reaction..! Just.. let it all out.."

You give her a thumbs up, your guts continue to spill out. 

You hear the teen ask if the other sorcerer have had experience with multiversal travelling, the man in question smugly answers that they have, making you scoff at his lie as you wipe your mouth with your sleeve.

You were about to tell Chavez the truth but Stephen's upset stomach beat you to it.

"You were saying, Strange?" You jest as you walk towards the duo, groaning at the after taste on your tongue after that spill fest. 

"Shut up–" 

You hum low in your throat as you look around you, tuning out Stephen's vomiting noises because if you won't you might vomit again so instead you survey your surroundings properly.

"What is this place? A utopic version of our universe??"

You let the question hang in the air as you walk over to the ledge, looking down at the busy streets with wonder and curiosity.

"It seems so.." America answers behind you.

~🌒~

"They go on red?" Asks the baffled former Sorcerer Supreme beside the teen.

"Amazing observation." You quip as you wearily look around, Jake and Marc's tendency to look for any signs of danger once in an unfamiliar setting rubbing off on you.

With yours and Stephen's sling ring lost, and with Chavez struggling to control her power, you were left with finding help in this universe's Stephen and you. Since apparently there is only one Chavez in the multiverse.

"Rule number one of multiversal travel. You don't know anything."

Stephen huffs at your comment and waits for the traffic light to turn green, and crosses the street, you follow alongside him.

"Right, so what's rule number two–"

You feel the hairs on your nape stand up, someone is watching you. You look around with furrowed brows, trying to pinpoint where and who it's coming from.

But Strange's tug on your elbow made you stop your hunt, "Where is she?" the sorcerer worriedly asks and you could only stare at him in confusion, blinking your eyes, you were about to answer his question with another question but then you realize who he's talking about.

You look around you and find that the girl you two are supposed to protect is missing beside you. Your breathing quickens as the worst possible scenarios run through your mind until a hand lays on your shoulder. 

You turn to see the girl herself with a food on hand, you roughly exhale through your mouth as you rub your face with your hand.

"Rule number two, find food. Preferably pizza. Pizza balls!"

Pizza.. balls? What? You stare the rolled up pizza on the red bowl, huh, never thought that would be a thing. But then again, everyone in this world is wearing clothes in varying shades of black and white only so you really should have expected less (not like you don't like the color, it's just.. a little unsettling considering the colorful stores and surroundings, and it's new to you).

"How'd you pay for that?" 

"It's free–" 

You catch up beside the girl, "Free? There's free food here?"

"Well, food's free in most universes actually." She states with a shrug, "It's more of how you guys pay for it."

Your lips form an 'o' as you nod, taking in the interesting information, "That's cool."

"Yea–" 

"Hey! You didn't pay for that!"

You three stop in your tracks and face the old man, who seems to be the seller of the pizza rolls. 

"Crap.." Muttered the teen, "Maybe it's not free here.." 

You gave the teen an exasperated look, while she returns it with an innocent one as she munches on the unpaid food.

"Relax, Mr. "Papap", she's just a kid-"

"Relax yourself there, Doctor Strange." Snides the old man with a slight chuckle as if mocking the sorcerer while he reaches for the cloak of Levitation. "Where'd you get this cape from anyway–"

"It's not a cape-"

"It's a cloak actually," you sigh and step up to the old man. "How about you let him go-"

"Huh, feels authentic–" Mr. "Papa"? Papap? comments as he examines the fabric.

"I'll pay for it, okay, just, let my friend go–" You were reaching for your wallet when you felt his hand grasp your robes tightly.

A rush of harsh wind suddenly sweeps the sidewalk you are on, forcing the man holding you to release your clothes to cover his face from the sudden gust. 

You shiver at the breeze. It felt familiar…

"You two are thieves! You two took this from the Strange museum, didn't cha?"

"Strange Museum?"

"You two are takers!" The man snatches the mustard from his stand, "Why don't you take some of thi-"

Needless to say, that man is going to continuously beat himself up for the next three weeks. 

"What happened to Rule number one, hm?" You tease the girl as you lightly bump your shoulder to hers, while resuming your trek to find this world's Dr. Strange. 

America could only roll her eyes at your jest as she silently chuckled while Stephen chortled under his breath.

~🌓~

Lucky for you, you don't drink tea. 

Unluckily for you, you were bribed with a cold chocolate drink. 

Which led to you and your party of three encased in a strong glass– carbonated glass, was it? You weren't really listening.

You have opted on focusing on your breathing instead, enclosed spaces and you are not exactly besties.

America, seeming to have noticed your struggle, tries to get Stephen and Christine's attention. But you call out to her, stopping her actions, "It's– it's okay kid. Let them have their moment. I'll be fine."

Your voice wobbles as you swallow your saliva. Inhale, exhale.

Anything else seems to be muddled as you keep your focus on your breathing.

Inhale, exhale.

A hiss of the opening of your sealed doors interrupts your meditation short. You look around only to see… are those ultron bots?! Behind the sorcerer that poisoned you. 

You scowl at him as you are pulled out of the glass cage. You struggled on their grip and ready to strike but Stephen held your arm, stopping you from whatever you were planning to do.

You look up to him, his brows low in worry as he asks, "Are you okay?" 

Knowing you were on the verge of a panic attack just a minute ago, there should be no point in lying, but you are in an enemy's hold. So you nod your head, looking away from the concerned greyish-green eyes and let the bots tug you away from the blue-robbed sorcerer.

You cast a glance at America, "We'll be back, don't worry." You comfort her as much as you can.

The teen could do nothing but nod, pressing her palms flat on the glass as she watches you and Stephen being dragged away from the holding room, hope and dread flashing on her face.

~🌔~

Okay, don't mess with the silent guy then.

You blink away the images presented in your mind, cautiously bouncing your gaze from member to member of this.. Illuminati council. 

Confusion draws your brows taut, "Okay– so if this is all about him then why the fuck am I here?"

"Etiquette, huh?"

You glare at Stephen, his low-blow of a jest referencing your comments to his sassy answers to the council earlier.

"This is not all about him," The bald man on the high-tech wheelchair roughly says your name, "as we've stated a while ago, if you were listening–"

Oh yeah, you totally weren't.

"The more you spend time in our universe, the more you endanger your and our home."

Your eyebrows twitch up in understanding.

"But, it is also because you, my dear, have also made a significant impact on this universe. Namely, communication to other worldly beings in this universe."

A new set of events is once again transferred and played in your mind, while you and Stephen watch it play out like a movie. 

"Your version of yourself here had a beautiful union with the God of the Moon from the Egyptian Pantheon and his avatar. It paved the way to intergalactic partnerships, both in business as well as, yes, in romantic context."

You watch in awe as you see yourself, dressed in a sparkling, long sleeve, sweetheart neckline, white dress that dragged behind you walked down the aisle. 

With your, no, other you's Moon boys, all in separate bodies wearing white suits that are accented with black in different styles for each of them, and your–their–god in his white suited glory, standing beside the trio in his human size, all watching you with happy tears(except the bird skull headed being, but hey, who knows, maybe the pigeon is crying buckets of unseeable tears.)

The scene calls your tears to resurface once more–could today be any more emotional!!– as you remember how you left your Marc, Steven, Jake and Khonshu in your own universe.

The scene shifts again, this time, different corporations, businesses and weddings play out like pages being flipped quickly. Moments of those events cramped in a single minute before it halts.

Another prestigious event that called for a union between realms. The species that is uniting with this universe's human council is unfamiliar to you. They were, well, otherworldly in nature with their varrying skin color palette and average size. 

"All was going well, until–" 

A loud bang! rang throughout the area, startling you and your sorcerer friend who's been quiet the whole time. 

You look around amidst the running and panicking crowd, who was shot? Why did someone shoot? What-

Questions that ran through your mind disperse by your loud gasp. You see yourself being cradled in the arms of other you's spouse while their godly lover made an unprecedented red solar eclipse, commanding the winds to havoc the place as he roars in rage. 

Your other self being cradled by the Moon Knight system, whose head is blown to bits.

"– a horrible accident happened."

Tears now freely stream down your cheeks as you kneel in place. 

Seeing how your lovers both human and god, weep and mourn for you. How they grasped your coffin so tightly and snapped at the pallbearers trying to do their job, squeezes your heart. You never ever ever want to see them in pain. Especially if you're the one inflicting it.

A grating noise low on your throat goes past your trembling lips as you try to inhale air back into your system, your hand immediately flying up to not let another sound escape from your mouth. 

You didn't know when you had stopped breathing but your lack of oxygen has made you a heaving mess on the gray tiled floor.

"Stop. Stop! Come on, this is hurting them!!"

The movie fades away like uncovering a treasure that was buried deep under the sand, dusting away the illusion to reveal the reality. 

"Breathe for me," You hear a baritone voice say your name above you as you feel yourself being wrapped around one's arms and something on the top of your head.

You take deep breaths but every time you an ugly sob squeaks out your throat. 

"It's okay. They're well in our universe. They're probably waiting for your return and you will return to them safely."

As the baritone voiced fella keeps on comforting you, another voice speaks up, 

"This led to lots of series of events, mainly, our Khonshu, Marc, Steven and Jake, hunting down who shot our very own version of you." A feminine yet firm voice.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Another female voice speaks, this time British in accent,

"And, their hunt wasn't entirely… reasonable. They killed every single person who they suspected, even when they were not guilty. This forced us to take action and…"

Breathe in…

Swallowing, you slowly leave Stephen's comforting embrace, who you've just realized is the baritoned fella.

"And what?" You breathe out through your trembling lips as you peered at the Illuminati people through the blur of your tears. 

"We have to imprison them to ensure the safety of the people." 

You glance over to the far left, the man sitting there has answered your question in a hushed manner but still loud enough for you to hear.

"This–" Breathe in, breathe out. "This did not answer my question a while ago. Why am I here?!" 

"Because they've escaped the moment you two arrived."

Your glare softens, before morphing into something horrified as you come into a realization. 

"You've made me a bait." You whisper to the air, hastily standing up to your feet–

"It is for everyone's–"

Sound alarms blast through the speakers, the building shakes and vibrates as something, or someone breaks into the facility. 

The weight of everything comes back to you, like a splash of a cold bucket of water.

Wanda. Scarlet Witch. The kid!!

You watch the live footage of the former avenger tearing through the army of robots that tried to hold her back from reaching the core of the facility, either dismantling them or blasting them into nothing. 

The orders of Captain Carter fell on deaf ears as you kept your eyes on the static feed, somehow everything seemed to be silent and you could only hear your breathing, even as the facility alarm blairs around the room

Breathe in… Breathe out.

A call of your name and Stephen's made you turn your attention back to the present.

"When you escape this chamber, you must find America Chavez, and you, my dear." The professor gestures to you, "You must find your spouses, bring them to where you would deem them to be safe and… away from taking more innocent lives."

"For short, sealing them behind bars." You rasp out, bitterness leaves your dry lips as you blankly stare at the bald man in a wheelchair.

"If you'd like." Was his only statement, disregarding the Sorcerer Supreme protests and your perplexed glare as he wheels himself out of the room, leaving you, Stephen Strange and Mordo in the room.

You walk to the door, Ignoring Mordo's warnings. You press your palms flat on its surface.

You glance down at your cuffs. If only you were not bound you could blast this fucker open and be on your pursuit in finding your– well, your other self's but also technically your– lovers. 

You groan in defeat as you knock your forehead on the barrier with a small thump. With a sigh you glance back to the two, who's in a heated argument. About what, you know nothing of. 

Your eyes scan the room, maybe there's another way out. 

A loud cry interrupts your thinking session–it was getting nowhere anyways–as Mordo jumps from the elevated slab with a sword in hand. You look down to Stephen, who only winked at your way–the sly bastard–before blocking the pissed sorcerer's attack with his cuffs. 

Oh.

You let them spar, watching on the sidelines as you wait for the perfect time to interfere.

When Stephen gets knocked back to the wall, you take the chance and run towards Mordo, using your momentum you slam him to the wall and knock your head to his, effectively breaking his nose.

You hiss at the pain starting to form on your forehead. A swing from your opponent's sword nearly cuts your face off but you were quick to back away and block the other slash of Mordo's sword with your cuffs, copying Dr. Strange's previous moves just a few moments ago, successfully breaking you free from your restraints. 

Mordo realizes this and he looks up at you wide eyed, 

"Checkmate, bitch."

~🌕~

Running down the halls of this blandly painted place as you try to find your way back to America, you hear Stephen call out to you. 

"What!?" You breathlessly questioned the sorcerer who's catching up behind you.

"Shouldn't you be finding your–well other you's–spouse..?" He stops your running as he holds your elbow. 

The same draft that disturbed the sidewalk awhile ago permeates the empty hallway.

"I don't need to. I was only trying to find you a way out before I go." You said softly to the baritoned man. 

"Go. Find America. I'll catch up to you– Don't worry about me." You cut off his unsaid concerned question. 

"I'm in safe hands." You smiled up at Stephen and tapped the back of his hand that held you, "I'll be there before you know it."

He nods and gives a last scan around the hallway and you, before sprinting to find the teen.

The wind, seeming to be stronger now than before, pushes you to the hallway opposite to where Strange ran into. Abiding to its request you scurry down the hallway. You were suddenly pushed behind a pillar, expecting impact, you yelped and covered your face with both of your arms.

But the pain didn't come. 

Instead, you were met with a soft embrace. 

Startled at the stranger's boldness, you tried to push them away from you but a familiar, yet raspy, voice made you freeze.

"Hey, it's okay baby. It's okay, it's me, it's us."

You look up and see the face of your human lovers, only that.. it wasn't them. They looked… malnourished.. Familiar dark eyes who looked like they haven't had a moment to have a small nap glances back to you, his stubble now grown into a full beard peppered with white hairs as well as his curls, now long and is hastily pulled into a half ponytail. He's wearing a greyish white long sleeve and pants, right..they escaped from prison at your arrival.

"You.. you do know I'm not–" 

"Yes, love, we know but–" Steven's soft and tearful gaze holds yours, his hands clambers up to your face as he took a sharp breath in, "–we," He swallows "–we couldn't waste the chance to see you again, darling–" His croaky voice is cut off by a sob and pulls you to a crushing hug. 

You let him hug you like there's no tomorrow, wrapping your arms around his neck, you turn your head and plant a longing kiss on his temple. 

The action made the man's knees give out, a heart-wrenching sob loud on your ears as you let him pull you down with him.

Curses and prayers in Spanish break the atmosphere, you let out a wet chuckle, missing your own moon boys as you hold their other version in your arms.

"Nuestro querido hechicero, te echamos mucho de menos." The Latino's trembling voice and vice grip on your robes had you in tears–again–now too. 

You sniffle, you look around the room and notice that you all are in some kind of an abandoned chamber of the building. You didn't examine much more of it as you closed your eyes, letting you and them have their moment. 

Another rush of wind blows your form, you open your eyes to see Khonshu, standing behind his avatar in his godly gauzed glory. 

"Khon.." 

"Beloved.."

The god falls to his knees and he places his hand on the side of your face. 

"Why are you here? Did our other version fail to do their job? To protect you from all harm?"

The god growled as he asked, you can hear the wrappings on his other hand grow taut and splinter as he grips his staff tightly. The man gingerly pulls you away from him but keeps his hands on your sides, letting the rough hand of the god slide away from your face.

You chuckle, lacking any mirth, as you look between the two, "More like I succeeded in being an asshole." You scrunch your nose as you sniffle, rubbing it with the knuckle of your forefinger and glance down to your lap. 

"I… may or may not have removed a spell–spells–that helps them to communicate with me properly. I uh.. removed it at the last second so that they'd be… stupefied of the situation.. and give me time to… leave them.." 

You quietly explained to them, holding your gaze down on your fingers as you played with it, rubbing and squeezing each phalange to distract yourself from your current predicament. 

His hands left your side as he places it on top of yours, stopping you, and engulfs it with his large, calloused ones.

"You've always liked to put yourself in front of danger, sweetheart." 

Marc croakily comments, you can hear his smile through his worn out voice. You laugh a little, remembering your Marc's same use of phrase when you came home with cuts and bruises. 

"Which sadly led us to this predicament.." Khonshu adds with a mournful sigh, moving to your side and also places his inhumanly large hands below yours, cupping it and squeezing gingerly. 

That made you look up, Marc meets your thoughtful yet confused gaze. 

"What do you mean?" You inquire, tilting your head slightly to the side in curiosity.

This salt and pepper look that time has given them, is making things inside you do flips but obviously now's not the time to ogle.

"You save me–us–from that blast, darling."

Oh….oh

We were supposed to be the target, and.. well.. I think you know the rest…"

Steven casts his puffy eyes down, possibly reminiscing the moment you–their you–died. 

You reach out to his face, his beard tickling your palms as you thumb his cheekbones. "Hey–" Your sentence halts at the shaking of the building. 

Snapping you back to what you're supposed to be doing, you glance back and forth between them as you swallow. 

Marc– wait, that gaze–Jake nods and Khonshu releases your hand. They stand up from their position, "You must go now, beloved. I may have been able to stop time for a minute, any longer could have caused an incursion."

He did what– Incusrs–oh shit.

"Okay, amazing–the stopping time thing I mean–" you grunt as you let them pull you up from the floor, "–uncool to the incursion part." You sniffle again as you dust your knees off. 

You hear the Latino's distinct chortle making you smirk, your bad humor never fails to make them laugh, even in a different universe, good to know. You smile at that. Another shake disturbs the moment. 

You groan internally. 

You look around the room as you try to find the exit, but Jake beats you to it. He grasps your hand, his black and white tactical suit–the very same your own Jake uses–engulfs his form as he pulls you and runs to the wall across the room. 

You close your eyes bracing for impact, "You don't trust us, ¿mí amor?" Jake's modulated teasing coaxes you to open them and see that you are now on an entirely different side of the building, possibly its underside as it looks like you're in a tunnel. 

"You can teleport?!" 

"Why, can't your Moon Knight not?" The tactical gear shifts into a three-piece suit, the muffled posh accent asks, curiosity shining through his moonlit eyes.

"No!"

You hear him laugh as he pulls you, again, to run down the leaking tunnel. You hear multiple footsteps behind you, looking over your shoulder you see familiar faces.

"Wait– Steven!" You call out to the avatar and stopped in your tracks, "America!! Stephen!! Christine!!" You greeted them with a wide smile, relieved to find them alive. They greeted you back but in a horrified and hurried manner.

"Don't stop running! She's tailing right behind them!!"

True to Khonshu's words, you see the Scarlet Witch limping just behind them. You hear the familiar sound of clothes shifting before you are once again pulled to run, this time by Marc. 

The trio catches up to you. You were about to cast a spell but you were hurled to Moon Knight's shoulder, a squeak leaves past your mouth at the sudden move. "Marc!!" You say as you lightly hit his caped back.

"Sorry sweetheart, can't risk it!!" He says as he runs past the trio.

"I hate you–" "No, you don't." "Yeah, no, I don't."

"I'm sorry to break your guys' moment but who is this?!" Christine asks between breaths while running beside Stephen–the sorcerer–behind Marc.

"The Moon Knight!!" America answers her before you could, excitedly if you may add.

"You've got yourself a multiversal fan, Marc."

"I'll sign their shirt later."

As Christine closes the last barrier, you all catch your breath. Marc finally puts you down, his mask unfurling from his face to show his worried gaze. He cups your cheek in both hands, you lay your on top of his.

A silent agreement was made. 

"Please, be careful out there." You whisper as you lean to his weary hand. 

"We will."

"Keep this look, I love it on you." You smirk and kiss their palm, noting that the other two are co-fronting as their suits are clashing together, making a beautiful mix of ceremonial, tactical, and prim and proper.

"Noted." They cheekily replied, Jake's signature smirk morphing with Marc's low voice and Steven's shy eyes.

You look over to the moon god, huffing you sprint to his form and hug his torso, missing your moon god. You feel him return the hug, and a warm surge of magic flows through you. 

You escape his embrace as you look up to him with wide eyes. 

"A small blessing to protect you from that witch's magic."

You gaped at him, your god wasn't able to do so because you didn't give him a chance. You hug him again, mumbling thank you's to his stomach. 

"You know we could use that blessing as well." Stephen chides, you chuckle at your friend's comment. 

"I'm afraid only those who worship me can receive my blessing, Stephen Strange."

The Egyptian god lets you go. You hear the sorcerer scoff in disbelief at the god's response. 

You glance back and forth between your Moon Knight and his god. 

"Go. Now, please."

They nodded and disappeared from your very eyes. You gulp and face the closed off end of the tunnel. Waiting for the inevitable. 

But a white-suited fella with glowing eyes materializes in front of you and steals a kiss on your cheek with a hurried, "Goodbye love! Our autograph will have to be moved on a later date," and disappears once again.

Gods you don't deserve these men.

Your fawning over for your lovers is cut short as a shrill voice echoes across the tunnel.

Since when did this became a fucking horror movie?!

~🌖~

You landed gracefully on your feet as you hopped off from the door after Christine, standing back up, your eyes wandered around the interior of the place. 

"This is the gap junction, the place between universes." 

You hum at the red head's words, distracted at the colorful space and floating rubbles, before you lock your gaze at the shining blue book. 

"The book of Vishanti." You mumble in adoration.

You approach the stand as Stephen walks up the stairs. You hold your breath as he grasps it in his hand, expecting a trap to drop itself on your party. 

As Stephen dislodges the book from its holder, and no traps emerging, you sigh in relief, chuckling as you glance back to the teen and Christine, victory seems to be on your side now.

Something caught your eye behind the teen but you brushed it off.

Once your brain caught up to what you saw you did a double take, yet it was too late.

"AMERICA–"

You really shouldn't have jinxed it. 

America shrieks as she grasps her hair, being pulled back by the Scarlet Witch.

You jump in front of Christine as you shoot a fiery beam at the rogue magic wielder, Stephen doing the same.

You see her struggle from both of you's attacks. Good.

But she pushed through. Damnit.

You grunt as you feel yourself being physically pushed back by the intensity of the clash between eldritch and chaos magic. 

The red chaos magic pulses and pulses until it reaches you, breaking yours and Stephen's spell and flinging you both, You groan as your back hits the floor.

A sizzle of something burning made you snap your head up to its source. 

The book of Vishanti.. it's.. gone.. Eaten by the red fiery flames.

Your only hope in defeating the Scarlet Witch. Gone. Reduced to ashes.

You look up at Strange as you sit up, despair in both your eyes as it meets. A gasp tears from your throat as you feel something burning wrap itself around your form, red mist lifting you up from the ground, alongside Christine and Stephen. 

A guttural growl vibrates low on your throat as you try to escape her grasp, even if you knew it was futile.

But, you fell on your butt as you wiggled out of the witch's grasp. You flinched at the contact but quickly recovered as you stood up. 

Panting, you look at her and your arms in shock. Shimmering white lines appeared in places where the chaos magic touched you.

Khonshu's Blessing!

You prayed to your god as you thanked him before blasting Maximoff off America. 

Your face twisting to something sinister, she was able to block your attack but it distracted her enough to drop your colleague and friends. Summoning a whip on your other hand, you flick it and let it wrap around America's form and tug her to you.

"It's okay kid! I got you!"

The witch is faster though. She was able to have her hold again on the teen and it has now become a human tug of war.

The former Sorcerer Supreme casts a stronger spell. 

It was her turn to be pushed back by the forces of your magic. 

Yours and Stephen's eldritch magic now winning against her chaos magic. Your yellow beams become brighter as you walk forward, summoning more ropes in on your other hand to grasp America and pull her to you. The red mist becomes shorter as it fights against yours, and weaker around America's form as you tug her to safety.

You hear Wanda scream on top of her lungs and her chaos magic explodes and wrecks the place. Pushing you off your balance and effectively severs your focus as you're hurled back to a pillar.

Your head hits the concrete slab, black covers your vision.

~🌗~

Cold. Very fucking cold is the first thing that you noticed as you came back to consciousness.

You woke up with a gasp. A pulsing pain on your skull made you moan silently in pain. 

The cold hard thing on your face slowly registers in your brain that you are laying face down and front on the ground.

Blinking and shaking your head, you take your time in pushing yourself up from the freezing concrete, you hope Khonshu's blessing has protected your brain from concussion.

"Dreamwalking, you hypocrite!!"

You took a sharp intake of breath through your clenched teeth in hearing Maximoff's voice. Right, shit. You've thought it has ended when you passed out. 

Grunting, you stumble up to your feet and face the ongoing fight. Scarlet Witch fighting… who or what the hell is that?!

Nevermind that, if that…thing is fighting against her then it or they might be on your side. 

You see America being held up by the chaos magic on top of a slab– "America!!" 

Making various hand signs, you cast a spell to break her free from its grasp. Magical circular runes appear before you, you pull your arm back and watch as the orange sparkling circles separate in bands and the red mist disperse from the teen's wrists and ankles.

You twist your wrists and push your hands to the front, softening her landing on the slab as it becomes foam in nature momentarily by your spell. 

Dropping your stance, you run to her side and place your hand on her forehead, scanning her form up and down you ask worriedly, "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Please tell me you're okay–"

"I'm fine." America pants as she looks down on the slab–now very soft and squishy to touch–as you pull her up and off it.

The sharp wailing from the ongoing fight  in front of the–you just noticed–Darkhold Castle made both of your heads turn. 

What looks to be dementors circle themselves around Maximoff. Wong standing on the front edge of the place–since when did he get here?– and a zombie looking sorcerer holding her hand out to where the Scarlet Witch is struggling in keeping the dementor things away from her.

You swear you've seen that zombie somewhere.

You two watch as the zombie ally uses the dementors as a cage and brings them over to Wong. He casts a spell to keep them locked in, he's struggling to keep it there. 

"Stay here." You ordered the teen and squeezed her bicep lightly before running to assist Wong.

You do the same hand gestures Wong used and strengthened the magic capsule. 

"Nice of you to join the party." 

Comments Wong with a grunt, you chuckle tightly as you try to keep your hand steady. 

"You know I wouldn't miss it for the world–"

The witch is still able to reach her arm out of the magical cage you and Wong have put her in. 

Wong notices this and yells to the zombie ally "She's still breaking free!!" 

"Hold her!!" Yelled the zombie back.

"Strange!!" 

The zombie is.. Strange?? Well that explains why he looks oddly fucking familiar– 

"Take America's power–" 

"No!" You intervene, looking back and forth between the Asian man and the corpse in aggravation. "There must be an–"

The spell you and Wong are using is breaking–

"There's no other way!!" The sorcerer supreme pants, despair painted all over his face as he glances at you then back to Stephen.

You hiss as your muscles strains in keeping the spell up.

"No. This is the only way." You hear Stephen rasp. 

The witch breaks free and her force once again flings you across the room, this time you were ready to use a spell to stop yourself from hitting the wall and lunged yourself back to her. 

Not expecting the attack, she wasn't able to counter and you were able to tackle her to the ground. 

She groans as her back hits the ground, you roll to the side and prepare to cast another spell. 

Before you could, she hits you with her red mist square on the torso and pushed you back to the stairs. Whatever spell she used didn't affect you, you could see the confusion in her eyes as she looked down on her glowing hands then back to you.

"Thank you Khonshu–"

She flings another spell, what you thought towards you and so you raised your forearm and formed a shield, but hearing a hoarse pained yelp beside you, you were wrong. 

You drop your shield and see your zombie friend's arm being toasted to ash. 

As you are about to use your magic on Maximoff, America beats you to it as her fist meets the other female's face, punching her square on the jaw. 

Blue tinted magic erupted from that punch and multiple star-shaped portals formed behind the witch.

"YES!! AMERICA FUCKING KICK HER ASS!!"

You couldn't help but cheer for the teen. You hear a gritty chuckle behind you, you look over to your half-fried zombie friend.

"I have a lot of questions.."

"Save them for later." He replies as he tries to sit up. You walk over to his side and help him with that. 

"Might forget it." You whine, pulling him up to the stairs. 

"Then don't forget it."

"Even in death you're still sassy as fuck." You grumble as you scrunch your nose. "You smell!" You lightly push his rotting arm with your palm.

"I don't exactly think dead people have hygiene." He rolled his misty sunken eyes and turned his attention back to the fight.

He sees the teen about to approach the raging witch, "Don't!"

The teen stops and turns to him and you.

"Not yet."

America nods, she looks up at you and you give her a small unsure yet reassuring smile.

You watch as Wanda drops to her knees, as her other version approaches her and gingerly cups her face. Her other version says something to her that you couldn't hear.

America pushes the portal away from the Scarlet Witch and closes it. Leaving her kneeling on the snow-covered ground. 

She suddenly rose from her feet and brought herself on the slab. 

The castle, unstable from the fight, shakes violently. You stable yourself on the hexagonal–back to its original hardened state–slab. 

America runs to you and Stephen, "What now?" She asks, panting as she looks between you and the animated corpse beside you. 

"Get out of here." Stephen rasps out an order, "All three of you–" 

"What about you?!" You ask, clueless of Stephen's predicament. 

"We'll find him, don't worry. Come on!" The teen takes your hand and brings you to the front, you look back to Stephen then to Wanda. 

"Hey." You called out to the girl in maroon, feeling as if you had to have something to say to her even though you have nothing in mind.

The teen stops in her tracks, Wanda looks at you with glossy eyes, you rack your brain whatever you wanted to say to her and settle on, "Do the right thing, please."

She casts her eyes down and nods. America tugs you again and you two cross the blue portal, Wong already waiting for you on the other side.

The last thing you saw was Wanda raising her glowing hands before the portal closed.

Exhaling deeply you turn to the teen and the sorcerer supreme beside you. 

America latches her arms around your neck, making you stumble back a few steps from the sudden hug attack. You chuckle and return the embrace, rocking her side to side. 

"Thank you."

"I didn't even do much, kid." You tell her as she pulls herself off, "Stephen is the one that you should thank." You give her a small smile, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

"You still saved me and it means a lot to me."

She gratefully grins at you, eyes shimmering in childish joy before hugging you again. 

You bite your lip as you try not to cry, this kid is so sweet. 

You glance at Wong, he only watches you both with a tired smile on his face. You wanted to offer your hand and bring him in for a group hug but the man isn't exactly a hugger.

You look around the place, you're back in Kamar-taj. The temple is crumbling and surrounded by its debris. 

"Well this needs one hell of a repair."

Your comment earns a groan and small giggle.

~🌘~

After taking Stephen back to your universe–only then you knew that he was dreamwalking–repair work and burying the brave sorcerers took place. You helped around a bit while anxiously thinking of your boys back in London.

Possibly sensing your anxiety, the former sorcerer supreme approaches you after you move a debris out of the way. 

"Here." He takes your wrist and places a sling ring on your open palm.

"Wha–" You look up to him in confusion. It's good to see his not rotting face.

"Go home. We'll take it from here." Stephen smiles down at you and pats your bicep. He was about to walk away but you stopped him with a hug, expressing your gratitude through actions. Unlike the current sorcerer supreme, this man might act like he is not a hugger when in reality it's obviously the exact opposite.

"Okay, no need for that." He groans above you, you only chuckle, you feel him return the hug eventually and you grin widely.

"You're a softie, admit it." 

"Shut up and just go." He gently pries you off him, you let him push you away, unwrapping your arms from his torso.

"Good to see you alive and fresh, Stephen." 

"Don't make me take back the sling ring."

~🌑~

Taking a deep breath you open a portal right outside the door of the boys' flat. You nibble your lower lip. You feel your heart hammer inside your chest, the portal closing behind you after you enter it. 

"okay, okay, okay–" You whisper, bracing yourself as you raise your fist, ready to rap on the door but it swung open before your knuckle met the wood.

You lock eyes with red, puffy ones. Seeing their glossy eyes, you remember the Earth-838's moon knight system and their pain. 

You gulp, unsure of who's fronting at the moment you greet them with a soft and timid, "Hey.." as you drop your hand beside you and pinch the skin of your middle finger with the nail of your thumb.

"I'm so–" You were pulled inside the room before you could continue and arms wrapped around you. Tears gather in your eyes as the feeling of safety and home hits your senses. Sniffling you wrap your own around his and grip the fabric of his blue sweater tightly, burying your face on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry." You croak out to his shirt, inhaling through your mouth, you sob and repeat the phrase over and over again. You hate seeing them hurt and being the one who inflicted it, but you had a job to do. One that would not only save the world but most importantly them.

"I had to–" "We know sweetheart, we know, we're sorry too."

Gasping for air, you feel yourself being pulled down by gravity, your knees having given out on you as the fatigue from running, casting spells, running again and crying crashes on you like a boulder was dropped on you. He lets you bring them down with you on the floor.

"Dearest," Khonshu calls your name, soft and hurt. You look up from your human boyfriend's shoulder and see your godly sitting on his calves, trying to grasp your hand.

As it phased through, you pull yourself away slightly from the moon knight system's embrace and cast the spells you had used earlier. 

Marc's fellow alters materialize in the room with you and Khonshu can once again interact with the mortal plane.

You were immediately tackled with hugs, both human and god,

"Please, don't do that again." Steven mutters on your neck. 

"I won't, I promise I won't." In a trembling whisper, you swore with your life.

"God–why do you like to put yourself in front of danger." Marc grumbles on your chest. You chuckle, remembering the many times he had said the same thing, as well as 838Marc.

"I myself have no clue, Spector." The bird god murmurs above as he places his beak on top of your head.

"I don't think he's talking to you, bird." Steven deadpans as he nuzzles on your neck.

Jake chuckles, his mustache tickling the other side of your neck as he had made himself home there, and remarks, "I don't think our hombre will ever realize that."

The rest of you laugh aside from the god above you as he grumbles cusses in an ancient language.

~🌙~

AHHHJSHHSHS THANK YOU FOR READING THISJAHHSHSHS

Hope you guys enjoyed that, bc i enjoyed writing this freakishly long fic 🤧💞💞

if anyone has suggestions, feel free to leave them in the comments i accept constructive criticsm!💞💕

Taglist: @m4nd0l0r @rosaren2498 @rosequinn121 @missdragon-1 @johnny-simpfinger(Oscar Isaac gif owner)